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marleyybluu · 8 months

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Piercings

Spooky x f!reader

Word count: 925

Warnings: Spooky being a cute daddy, talks of piercings, brief description of a child's ear being pierced, tears from both baby and dad (lol), fluff, Spooky gets a lil freaky at the end. (had to), allusions to smut. reader is not race-coded, reader speaks/understands Spanish

(not my gif. hes so fucking hot.)

“Spooky, baby, come on she’s six months. It’s easier to do it now, they say the pain won’t last as long.” You pouted at your husband. You’d been talking about piercings and earrings since you found out you were having a girl. Spooky hated it. Said you could just give her your moms old ass clip-ons and call it a day but you were not about to do your daughter like that. Plus you maaay have jumped the gun and bought lots of studs and little hoops for her.

Your husband scowled at you as he held the child in question in one hand and pushed the stroller with the other. “Pleeeease.” You begged. He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine,” He complied. “But I’m gonna be so pissed at you if something bad happens.” You rolled your eyes, you were sure she’d be fine. “She won’t even cry.”

“Have you seen her get a needle at the doctors? Yes she will.” He argued. But it was too late he already said yes and so you led them over to Claire’s. You browsed around until the piercer was done with her current client. Spooky smiled as his daughter’s tiny hands reached for the bow he was holding. “You already have too many bebita…. But what’s one more? Right?”

Spoiled.

While they were distracted you conversed with the piercer who assured you that the pain would be quick, she’d cry for a few seconds but she’d be completely fine after. “Yeah, try and tell my husband that. He might fight us both.” You joked. She laughed and shrugged. “All the dads are like that,” She leaned in to whisper. “Sometimes they cry more than the kids.”

Oh, you’d pay to see that.

“Just let me finish sanitizing every thing and I’ll get to you guys.”

“Alright, thanks.”

You wandered to find your little family, your daughter snug as a bug in her fathers big arms. You poked her side and she squirmed flashing you a toothless smile. “Are you ready, mi amor? We’re gonna make you look extra pretty.”

Spooky groaned. “Say Mommy I’ll always be pretty and that this idea is estúpido.” You flicked him on the back of his bald head."

"Stop teaching my child bad words."

He mocked you and flipped you off, you grabbed his finger, about to twist it off if you could but the piercer had called you guys over. You firmly planted your hand on his back and pushed him to the chair, he sat and glared at you. "Okay, so you'll sit her on your lap, one arm over her torso... like this..." She arranged his arm for him, "And hand... here." His large hand engulfing your child's head, she turned her small head to you and smiled again. "Are you ready?" You asked in your baby voice which always got her excited.

The piercer picked up her piercing gun, you cringed starting to remember what that felt like when you got your nose pierced so long ago. She gently picked up the small lobe of your daughter's ear and let it hang between the end of the earring that was jammed inside the white gun and the hole it would come through. You heard one quick click and your baby's smile turned into a frown, her tiny lip quivered and she blinked out a few tears. Her calm before the storm. Her head was turned away from you and the same thing happened, a fast click, and soon a wailing baby.

Your heart sank, maybe it was a bad idea. Your eyes met Spooky's, in them held sorrow for his baby and disdain towards you-- they were glossy and slowly reddening from his own incoming tears, he rested her head in his chest and bounced her up and down with a comforting pat on her back.

"Ohhh, mi bonita flor, I'm sorry. We're not talking to mommy anymore." He cooed kissing the top of her head. Your jaw dropped. "Oh, come oooon, Spooky."

No response. Just a look that could kill. You half-smiled. "I love you. Thank you."

He sucked his teeth and walked out of the store with your bawling baby.

-- --

The silent treatment continued when you got home, even after your daughter calmed down and forgot the whole ordeal. You held her in your arms as she slept peacefully, milk drunk as usual. Her ruby earrings sparkled as they complimented her skin tone and face shape, you smiled drawing faint circles on her arm. You felt those warm brown eyes boring into the back of your skull.

"Still mad?" You mumbled turning toward him. "Yes." He huffed. You nodded your head at your baby. "Look how fucking cute she is. Just say I was right."

Spooky leaned over to get a better look at her, her small nose twitching in her sleep. He swooned resting his hand on her little leg. "Qué bonito. Ella es hermosa." (How cute. She is beautiful.)

"Exactly." You looked down at her. "Always knew we'd make some cute ass babies."

He delivered a soft kiss to your neck, his teeth nibbling at your skin and you could feel his smile against it. "Speaking of," He kissed the back of your ear. "When we gon' start trying for another."

You gasped as he pinched your thigh with his free hand. "Oscar Diaz!"

"I got my own milf walking around, you think I can control myself?" You playfully rolled and carefully eased off the couch so as not to wake your baby. "Let me put her in her crib."

"Yes!"

something quick cus i'm high asf and I've been seeing a lot of men crying when their daughters get their ears pierced and idk I just imagined spooky lmao couldn't think of a title but if yall come up with one and i like it I'll use it

if you liked this fic feel free to like this fic, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

Peace and love see you in the next one✌🏾

🏷: @darqchilddaydreamz @realhotgurlshit @skyesthebomb

#oscar diaz #spooky #spooky x reader #oscar diaz x fem!reader #spooky fanfic #spooky fanfiction #on my block fanfic #on my block #on my block fanfiction #marleywrites #marleysfanfictions #fluff

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thesoftboiledegg · 5 months

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"Mort: Ragnarick" was pure fun, but a different kind of fun than "Rickfending Your Mort" and "Rise of the Numbericons: The Movie."

"Rickfending Your Mort" was a laid-back clip show that gave the viewer a break after the insanity of "Unmortricken"--a smart decision but not one with a lot of substance. "Rise of the Numbericons: The Movie" has been controversial. I thought it was entertaining, but it would've worked better as a YouTube short.

If "Unmortricken" represented lore episodes at their best, "Mort: Ragnarick" was the best of classic Rick and Morty adventures: a wildly imaginative plot, goofy satire, fantasy science and Rick and Morty working together as a duo, reminding us how much they need each other.

Rick's the driving force behind these adventures, but without Morty, he's just a miserable old man trying to distract himself. Morty's the heart and voice of reason. He also gives Rick something to live for. Without him, Beth, Jerry or Summer, why do anything?

Rick pretends to live for science, but "science" just caused decades of grief and isolation. His family isn't a concept; it's an entity that loves him back.

Bigfoot, an evil pope, Pokeballs, Valhalla, clone bodies, infinite energy sources, zombie Summer, Rick screaming "PO-O-O-O-OPE!": only Rick and Morty could combine all those concepts into one cohesive episode. I never thought "Wow, that took me out of the story." The Pokeball came close, but the end credits scene tied it all together.

Jerry's scene was a standout, too. Chris Parnell's reading of "Nana!" was genuinely sweet. It seems like Jerry's becoming a (mostly) willing participant in Rick's schemes instead of a helpless guinea pig. Is Rick learning that releasing his iron grip on his family makes them more attached to him, not less?

I also loved it when the Vikings called Rick a witch. He loves crystals, plays with magic, has two crows as familiars: damn right, he is!

You have to suspend your disbelief a couple of times, mainly when Bigfoot attacks Rick in the kitchen (he crushed Rick earlier like it was nothing, but now Rick walks away with a few scratches?) Still, the little character moments overshadow these flaws.

Judging by old posts that I've seen floating around, I think Rick and Morty's relationship is finally becoming what fans wanted it to be in seasons 1-3. Rick's still mean, but he's less dominant and more of Morty's mischievous co-conspirator. An alien mobster freaking out in "The Jerrick Trap" because of Rick's "touch my grandson and die" policy is straight out of fanon.

Rick's more physically gentle, and Morty responds in kind. He grabs and supports him when Bigfoot attacks him at home and touches his arm during their weird, overdramatic Bigfoot send-off. His pained cry of "Rick!" when Bigfoot nearly crushes him is heart-wrenching. Operation Phoenix is back online, but Morty's tired of watching him die!

Season five is when Rick started showing emotions on his face besides that cold, pissed-off glare--we all know the one--and in season seven, it's accelerated to Rick crying in front of others. He matches Morty's feelings instead of pretending that he's above human emotions.

Needless to say, dudebros have been flooding Adult Swim's Instagram comments and Twitter replies with "Rick and Morty is shit now!" "Rick's too nice!" "Rick and Morty has gone woke!" Justin Roiland's firing gave them more fuel, but they started even while he was still on the payroll.

Their favorite line is "Rick isn't Rick anymore!" And they're right. Rick's not the asshole from seasons 1-2 who had a couple of redeeming qualities. He's not the monster that he was in season three and parts of season four. He's not the defeated man in season five who started to realize that he's hurting people but still wanted Morty to look after him like a child.

Season six is when he started to grow up--not a lot, but enough that he began taking on adult responsibilities instead of thinking he's a teenage boy who sees another teenager as his peer. I wish we saw more therapy appointments, but while they're mostly off-screen, we're definitely seeing the effects.

This doesn't make Rick a great person or atone for what he's done. Some of his crimes are beyond atonement, and not just the obvious ones like blowing up planets. This is a universe where everyone has a body count and events that should've destroyed Earth have no effect on civilization. Death and destruction don't mean that much.

His worst crimes are the personal ones: destroying Morty's psyche in "The Vat of Acid Episode," treating his family like garbage for most of season three. You can't atone for that. You can't apologize for that.

However, I don't only judge characters by their past. I judge them by their capacity to change.

Walter White is a brilliant character, but he's not a personal favorite because his arc is a slow descent into hell. Rick's slowly climbing out of his crater, and while it doesn't erase the past, it's still happening. For me, that's more satisfying than watching a monster become a bigger monster.

Of course, he's still not above cosplaying as Odin while wearing a golden crown that literally says "GOD." But the former "no girls allowed" alpha male has become a dedicated therapy patient who's also a thirst object that would make bros cry about double standards. Sure, Rick, you're a god, now put on that weird half-shirt and prance around a little.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #review #mort: ragnarick #season seven

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morganbritton132 · 1 year

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Idk why this popped into my brain but it occurred to me that Eddie was probably on those celebrity editions of game shows. Celebrity Jeopardy, Celebrity Who Wants to be a Millionaire, etc…

And it just made me laugh so hard. The idea of Eddie Munson with Regis. Of calling Steve as a phone a friend for a basketball question and Steve being like Eddie I don’t know everything about basketball. But the answer is Larry Bird.

Just TikTok finding clips of Eddie yelling “suck it, Dan Cortese!” after obliterating them all at final jeopardy.

This fills me with so much joy! I love it so much.

Eddie does not go on Celebrity Who Wants to be a Millionaire by choice. He pissed off the band’s manager just enough that they signed him up for it without his knowledge, and he’s not doing it. He got the letter in the mail and it’s not happening.

Eddie ‘Six Years of High School’ Munson is not going on national television and making himself look like an idiot when he doesn’t even get to be in on the joke. No way.

“Dick move, man,” Gareth shrugs after Eddie put his foot down. “Even if you fuck the first question, they’re still gonna donate to your charity of choice. And like, maybe this is just the amount of money needed to cure cancer. Or epilepsy.”

“…You fucking suck, Gareth.”

“Yeah, I do!”

Eddie begrudgingly shows up and goes through the whole rigmarole to get mic’ed up, just ready to make a fool out of himself and call it a day. It turns out that he knows a lot more than he thought he did because he breezes through the first round of questions.

He knows enough about history, music, and the arts just from planning his D&D campaigns and reading about things he likes. He’s surprised by how much surface knowledge he’s gained from listening to the kids logic their way through their science and math homework, but sports are a bust.

He gets lucky on a few questions, but ends up using his Phone a Friend to call his partner, Steve. Steve and Eddie spend the first fifteen seconds arguing about how Eddie shouldn’t have wasted his phone a friend on Steve because he doesn’t know anything. And then once he hears the question, he’s like, “Larry Bird” and hangs up.

Eddie doesn’t win a millionaire dollars for his charity, but he wins quite a bit.

Afterwards when he’s still so hyped up about not being dumb, Steve’s just like ???? “Ed, you were never dumb. You just had trouble taking tests and none of your teachers accommodated your very obvious ADHD. You’ve always been brilliant.”

“Now everybody knows it.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Yeah, they do.”

Eddie signs up for Celebrity Jeopardy himself.

One of the first things that Steve and Wayne bonded over was a love for Jeopardy. Wayne has watched Jeopardy before he left for work for as long as Eddie has known him, and Steve was more than happy to sit with him when it was on. They both continued to watched even after Steve and Eddie moved to Chicago and sometimes they’d call each other if Final Jeopardy was “crazy.”

The band wasn’t touring as much as they used too and they’re all pretty much working on their own projects at this point. Steve’s finishing up his master’s degree while teaching full time and doesn’t really have a lot of time for him. Eddie is in between projects and creatively tapped out, and worst of all, he’s bored.

So when his manager passively mentions Celebrity Jeopardy, Eddie tells him to sign him up for it. When they accept his application, the only people he tells about it are Dustin and Nancy.

He only tells them because he wants their help studying for it because he wants to win this time. So, they study and it sucks. If Eddie ever sees another world famous Nancy Wheeler flashcard again, he’ll tear off his arm. He hates every second of their study sessions.

Eddie makes it through the quarterfinals and then he makes it to the semi-finals (knocking out Dan Cortese). He doesn’t win the tournament because he bets big on a Daily Double and gets it wrong, but he’s fairly close to the lead after Final Jeopardy.

It’s not bad for a guy that failed his senior year three times.

The fun part comes when it airs. He painstakingly sets up their camcorder so Steve won’t notice it before the show starts. The video he gets has a good five minutes of Steve fussing with a blanket up until they say ‘Eddie Munson.’

Steve looks up and then looks at Eddie, and then back at the tv, “Wha- what? Is that – that’s you! You’re on Jeopardy! Eddie, you’re on – oh my god, we’ve got to call Wayne.”

Before Steve can even do that, their phone is ringing and Steve answers it like, “HE DIDN’T TELL ME EITHER!” while Eddie is laughing his ass off.

When Eddie posts a TikTok about it like, ‘LOL remember when I was on Jeopardy?’ it includes this moment. It also includes footage from the semi-finales where Steve is just pacing the living room and repeatedly telling Eddie to just tell him if he won or not. Steve cheers like he’s at a football game when Eddie wins.

It’s just as tense when the video cuts to Steve watching the finale. Steve knows the answer to the daily double that Eddie gets wrong and is like, ‘This is why they should do Jeopardy Couples, we’d win so hard.’ Steve’s not even disappointed that Eddie lost, keeping the same enthusiasm through the show and then is like, “I’m married to a Jeopardy contestant. I’m so telling Janet about this at the staff meeting tomorrow.”

#Eddie is this universe’s version of ‘What ARE frogs *x-files music*#He’d constantly baffle Alex Trebek with stories that are just weird enough not to shatter his NDA into pieces on national television #also all his final jeopardy answers are What Is (Right Answer) Love U baby!#eddie munson tiktok saga #steve harrington #eddie munson

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corn-fanfiction · 6 months

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Saviour Complex (Pt 1)

Summary: you are a witness in the Jigsaw case, and Mark Hoffman has been assigned to protect you. Neither of you are pleased.

RATED: M

Pairing: Mark Hoffman x Reader

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, Mark Hoffman, acab, power imbalance, slight age difference, reader is so normal, foul language

Sighs. Groans. Morning coffee and crusty eyes. Day in, day out. Chasing his own shadow, winning awards. Mark Hoffman didn't start a narcissist but holy hell if it doesn't suit him.

This is a morning of mornings. The FBI is hot on Strahm’s trail that leads six feet underground. They've eased out from the local Jigsaw case. The only one with any real clue is Hoffman. And no one at the FBI wants to go near him.

And why would they? Their golden boy agent is the Jigsaw apprentice who went ballistic and killed his boss and his ex-partner. The only one to have walked away from this case is Hoffman. As far as they're concerned, he's jinxed, or worse.

So yeah, Hoffman's king of the fucking castle. Everyone either wants to shake his hand or hide in their closets. He doesn't really care which. On top of all that, his work as Jigsaw keeps him from getting bored at work. There's a monotony to being a hometown hero with no one to chase.

This morning, Hoffman makes it past the water cooler before Betty, the secretary pokes her head around the corner.

“Mark? Chief wants to see you.”

Mark finds himself genuinely surprised. For the most part, no one really communicates anything to him other than “go here” and “do this” and it's always in an email.

Mark grabs a water for the walk and enters the Chief's office without knocking. He's at his desk, white hair balding and frayed. He's a man on the verge of constant breakdown.

“Mark!”

He notices Hoffman and perks up, pressing some papers aside.

“Chief. Betty said you needed to see me.”

There's a chair available but Mark doesn't take it. Something about standing tall and composed over your boss who's on his last leg… It's like a drug.

Chief's face falls. “Yeah, uh, about that, Mark…”

Mark does his best to keep his composure but Chief is starting to piss him off.

“What is it, Chief?”

“Mark…I gotta pull you off the Jigsaw case.”

Mark had to fight to keep from crushing the styrofoam cup in his hand.

“I- what the hell for?”

“It doesn't come from me, Hoffman. It's the FBI.”

“Fucking hell-”

“They want you to cool off. Right now they're running ragged and paranoid. They think you might be a liability.”

“It was their fucking boy that went off the rails!”

Chief spreads his hands. “Mark, it's not me. And it's only temporary. Let them settle down and in a month’s time they'll be over it.”

Keep it cool. Keep it cool.

“So what'll it be in the meantime? Meter maid?”

Chief chuckles nervously.

“Security detail.”

“Secur- you're joking.”

“It's easy, Mark. Protective custody. Feds think she might be involved with the Jigsaw case somehow and she's local.” Chief leans over to whisper this next part, “This is my way of keeping you close to things. Understand?”

Mark nods thoughtfully. This could be good. If not good then at least not a hindrance. Whoever this girl is, he doesn't know about her. That can be useful.

“Fine. You got a case file for me?”

“Yeah, but I'd take it with you. She's waiting in your office.”

You've been waiting thirty minutes and you have half a mind to split. You've combed through his bookshelf at least twice now, even pulling a book or two to read the spine, get bored, and replace it.

It's the photos that interest you the most, though. He's accepting an award in one. One’s a newspaper clipping about how he saved a little girl from the Jigsaw killer. Everyone at the restaurant thought it was so vile that a child, a little girl, would end up in one of those death traps. And it was. But you were the only one who thought it didn't quite match up with what Jigsaw had previously done. Everyone knows at this point that Jigsaw only takes people who need to learn a lesson. What lesson could a nine-year-old have to learn from a reverse bear trap?

Another photo has the detective with a young woman. He's younger in the picture as well. They're in front of a river and he looks…happy. Not that you know the man, but just looking at the other photo…it's miles different. Parts are still the same: thick brown hair, strong face, broad shoulders. A handsome man to be sure, but looking at the photos…a devastated one, too.

You turn swiftly on your heels when you hear the office door open. The man himself enters with a cup in one hand and a file (your file, you assume) in the other.

You half expect him to do the stop-and-stare moment, but he spares you a single glance before closing the door, brushing past you, and sitting in the corner of his desk. He sips from his cup. Opens the file.

“You must be y/n.”

“I must be,” you say with a bite. His eyes actually widen at that and you sigh. “Sorry. That came out much bitchier than I intended. You must be Detective Hoffman.”

“I must be.”

“Huh. Cute,” you chuckle at his retort. And for a man who seems so composed, he shifts ever so slightly at your response. “So. Guess we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together.”

“Try not to sound too excited,” he quips, and your face sours; you make no attempt to hide it.

“Forgive me, but if you ask me, and no one did, this is a waste of time and resources.”

“Waste of time?” he flips open your case file and his eyes widen. “You saw the Jigsaw killer?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

“No, I didn’t.”

“That’s not what your witness statement says.”

“I said that I got a glimpse of them, and maybe not even that. Look, I was on my way home when I passed that packaging plant- the one you were in? I heard some weird sounds, saw someone, and reported it. Now I’m starting to wish I hadn’t said a fucking thing.”

He watches you. His eyes, which were something akin to mirthful, have now darkened.

“How much of him did you see?”

Jesus Christ, the man doesn’t get it.

“I. Didn’t. See him. I got his build. That’s it. And now, all of a sudden, I’m in protective custody weeks later. How does that make sense?”

Detective Hoffman places your folder on the desk beside him and goes around to sit in his seat.

“It makes plenty of sense. They’re worried Jigsaw might come after you.”

“That doesn’t make sense, either. Jigsaw only goes after fucked up people, and I hope to fucking god that I’ve never done anything that would land me in one of those traps. I don’t do anything. I’m a waitress. I don’t have friends, I don’t leave my apartment. I don’t do anything.”

He watches you carefully during your tirade. Your voice bridges on hysteria the more you talk and you tell yourself to reel it in. This guy is a smug bastard from what you can tell. The last thing you need is an excuse for him to write you off as crazy.

Unless that’ll get the cops off your back.

Finally, Hoffman sighs and sips his coffee. “Well, it isn’t up to either of us, is it?”

You huff and cross your arms. Your eyes drift to the newspaper clipping.

“Why’d you get benched?”

Hoffman stiffens a little. It would’ve been imperceptible if you weren’t clocking this man’s every move and facial twitch, dissecting every word.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been on the Jigsaw case for years. I looked you up. You saved that little girl after surviving a trap. So, why would they bench their star player?”

Once again, he is silent as he observes you. His stare is starting to weird you out.

“Like I said. Not up to me.”

Walls up. Files locked. No chance in hell you’re getting close enough to figure this one out, so you decide to let it go for now.

“Fine,” you sit in a chair. “So, what now? Are you my live-in bodyguard? You follow me to work?”

“I babysit, yeah.”

You scoff. “Real nice.”

“Like I said.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first five times. Fuck.”

You stand and pace the floor.

“This doesn't have to be painful. I'll just keep my distance and you'll do whatever it is you do. We don't even have to talk to each other. Deal?”

You chew on your lips. You think of your small apartment, you waitressing gig, your sleepy Sundays reading at home. You're gonna be pissed if you have to leave any of that behind. You seethe.

“Fine.”

#mark hoffman x reader #mark hoffman #saw fanfic

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mister-ious · 7 months

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i was watching the russian terminator channel and it got me thinking.. What if Ghost did this?

He doesn’t even know how this happened. Filming a YouTube video about how to use a tourniquet? How to manoeuvre an assault rifle? What type of knobhead would even be curious about this?

... Well, if they're curious about it they would've gone and signed up to the military, no? Why would they watch a video online?

Price waffled on. Something about 'getting people to join the military', something about 'sharing experiences', whatever bullshit reason he listened to during whatever meeting he had about this.. YouTube channel..

Ghost was even more perturbed that he had to be in the first few videos. Out of everyone else, it was him. Why and how has this been allowed? Couldn't Soap have done this? Gaz? No—they were informed about this channel before Ghost and they've decided to concoct a plan. A plan to make their lieutenant teach and tell a bunch of internet rando's about the military.

Soap and Gaz were nowhere to be found when Price were looking for them to film, hiding in the dark corners of base (literally just ducking, looking away, and running whenever they spot Price).

Ghost was absolutely miffed when they didn’t get to find other volunteers to replace him. In front of the camera on a tripod he quietly sighs and grunts, psyching himself up to be the introduction of the video, adjusting his clip-on mic. He claps, the noise muffled slightly by his gloves.

“Okay..” He starts gruffly, spotting Soap’s head sticking out of a bush from his peripherals, glaring at the mohawk. “Welcome to this video. I’m here to show you we operate..” he turns around to point at the guns behind him, “Our weapons.”

It was a lineup of the usual rifles . Some pistols and shotguns—snipers are for the next video they said.

Anyway, Ghost continued on with the video, explaining and presenting apathetically, with some of the rookies holding the guns the way that he told them to. He further glosses over the routine protocols that come with handling guns.

The video ends quite abruptly. Immediately cutting the camera recording after he’d shown the last gun. Ghost doesn’t say the ‘goodbyeandthanksforwatchingthevideolikeandsubscribe!’ farewell. Maybe it was for the best.

A week passes. Six hundred thousand views. Thirty thousand likes.

@celebrityslefttoe: this video has awakened something inside of me

@sochi_22: I’m no better than a man ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

@rarecursor: 8:07 (a clip of him adjusting one of the soldiers’ hold on the gun) I VOLUNTEER. I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE.

@matsurijun: yall need to Go Outside

@prickly9685: where do i sign up 😋?

@WilliamHughes787: Great video! Very interesting!

@amiable4744: sir yes sirr.. enlisting now..

“Ghost. Look at this.” Soap grins, handing Ghost the iPad.

“… Jesus Christ.” Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he furrows his brows, groaning.

Soap lets out a deep and full cackle, nudging Ghost’s shoulder. “See? T’was a great idea to let ye do the video!”

To be fair, he looked absolutely delectable in the video. He wore a fitted long sleeve camo shirt, hugging his muscles very nicely, paired with camo cargo pants that he made look like skinny jeans. He wore a normal black balaclava, showing off his hazel eyes and his eyebrows were always creased downwards, with this slightly pissed off look.

Because of this positive reaction from the algorithm, Ghost kept appearing in future videos and even filmed a Q&A!

Continuation

#youtuber ghost LOLLL #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw x reader #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley headcanons #ghost headcanons #soap mactavish headcanons

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daisyblog · 1 year

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What Makes You Beautiful

When We Were Young Masterlist Summary: The band are shooting their music video for WMYB and Louis gets jealous when Harry sings to YN.

Today the band were shooting the music video for their first single, 'What Makes You Beautiful', in Malibu. YN and the five boys sat in the orange camper van, talking to the camera that was filming the behind-the-scenes. YN sat beside Zayn, in front of Louis, as Harry began to explain that the band were on set to shoot their first music video, Louis begins to poke at YN's cheek from behind her. She turns around to face the older boy and sends him a playful glare causing Niall and Liam to share a knowing look at Louis' attempt to get YN's attention.

"I'm about to attempt to drive..this lovely vehicle" Louis explains to the camera as he stands looking at the van. The clip shows YN sitting in the front passenger seat next to Louis, with a nervous look painted on her face. At one point YN is pretending to sing to the camera and Louis grabs her chin with his hand and pretends to sing to her, making the pair laugh. The six of them are running around the beach, messing around, laughing and joking with eachother.

Louis' whole demeanour changes, when John the director suggests instead of Harry singing his part to the camera, he sings it to YN. The four other boys look at each other nervously, waiting for Louis's reaction, knowing he had a bit of a crush on the Brighton girl.

"But..I..I think the fans would prefer it..if Harry was singing into the camera..you know like he was singing to them" Louis tried to argue.

"Yeh I agree with Louis" Harry argued.

"No we've already decided" the director stated, before giving Harry and YN instructions to stand facing each other. Harry sent Louis an apologetic look, to which the Yorkshire boy gently smiled at him to let him know he didn't blame him.

"Okay..YN you're going to act a little shy..and Harry you're going to sing your part and lean closer to YN..to make it look a bit more intimate"

Baby you light up my world like nobody else The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed But when you smile at the ground it ain’t hard to tell

Despite feeling his stomach drop at the scene in front of him as Harry brought his face closer to YN's as he sang, Louis couldn't help but stare and wish that it was him instead.

"That's a wrap for today...thank you everyone"

As the band sat in the black van, travelling back to their hotel from the set. Louis and YN were sat in the back of the van, whilst the four others were spread out in front of them.

Startling him from his stare out of the window, YN turned to him "Hey..you okay?"

"Yeh..m'fine" Louis mumbled.

"Sure..you seem upset" YN asked with a worried look on her face.

Louis smiled, that's one thing he loved about YN, she always knew when he wasn't himself "Yeh m'okay love"

He noticed YN seemed nervous, hesitation in her voice "Do..would...do you wanna have another film night tonight?"

Louis tried to hide his smile, so in true Louis style he teased her instead "Is this your way of trying to cuddle me again?"

"Uh..um..uh"

"I'm jokin' love...I'd love to have another film night.." Louis smiled at YN, before adding "..and I wouldn't mind a cuddle"

Shocking Louis, she lifted his hand and wrapped it around her frame before laying her head just below his shoulder. Louis didn't realise he was smiling to himself until he glanced up and caught Harry's gaze and a smirk on his face. As Harry teased his best mate by making a heart shape with his fingers, Louis stuck up his middle finger mouthing 'piss off', before he rested his head on top of YN's.

Tag List: (let me know if you would like to be added) @peterholland04

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agendabymooner · 10 months

Text

9 to 5 || f1 drivers (3)

(SPIN OFF OF COLOUR ME YOUR COLOUR (WIP) and RUSH)

Summary: Lorelei Hester ‘Lester’ Alessandro is a bassist first and Daniel Ricciardo’s partner second. But it seems like another role is added to her resume as she begins her weekend in Baku as Toto Wolff’s children’s babysitter.

Chapter summary: How to kick-off the race weekend, the Wolff-pack style. OR Toto would really rather talk racing and business with his littles over Christian Horner or whoever might piss him off into next day.

Content warning: family-centric content, TOTO BEING THE BEST DAD EVER?, tooth-rotting fluff, wholesome content where Toto isn't that evil

Note: I DID IT! I also was writing a Max Verstappen thing but I'm not going to post it just yet (or will I). Might f around and post a CMYC chapter later. Enjoy xx

masterlist

iii. the most toto coded children

“How about this?” “No! No flowers, Papa.”

“You drive a hard bargain, engel,” Toto sighed as he combed his daughter’s hair back and held it in one place. He looked down at her in the mirror, “Well, can you please show Papa the clip that you want then?”

The 3-turning-4 years old girl, Tia Wolff, nodded eagerly as she leaned forward, only to be stopped by the slight tug that she felt when Toto kept her hair in place. “Careful,” he warned her, his soft tone an evident that he had a rare side that nobody could see but his family. He really didn’t want to end their trip early by having her fall over the stool that she could barely reach.

The girl presented him the gold barrette in her hand, her chubby fingers holding onto the small bee glued to the clip. Taking it from her hand, Toto felt it snap when he placed it on her gathered hair as he said, “Danke, Engel.”

“Danke, Papa,” she mumbled as she tilted her to the side and looked at the mirror. She was a critique of her father’s work of art, one that he valued more than anything. Toto would honestly listen to her more than he would with Christian Horner. At least no matter how harsh she was, he knew that she meant well. That, and because she’s more like Toto than she will ever be Christian Horner. No one would understand Toto more than his mini me.

“So?” Toto stood behind her while her little figure sat on the stool of their hotel vanity. He waited for her to respond. He couldn’t even complain about the time; throughout the years of raising his kids with Tilly taught him a lot about waiting and being patient.

Besides, he couldn’t resist making an exemption for his kids when it comes to his schedule and work. Sometimes he could just say “To hell with that” and let the cars run themselves– just so he could spend his time with his family.

The golden bee, clipped in a certain part of Tia’s hair, glimmered under the ceiling light when she tilted her head to the right and she gasped, “OH! It’s shining. Danke, Papa!”

“Only the best for the princess,” Toto grinned as he leaned down and kissed the top of Tia’s head, leaving Tia to giggle and protest, “Papa! Messy hair!”

“Soren,” his Austrian accent rang out at the vanity of the bedroom, his eyes watching as his eldest entered the room with a questioning gaze. He asked, “Are you ready to go? Or is there anything that you need Papa’s help with?”

“No, Papa, I am okay,” Soren smiled up at his father. He then gestured at his clothes, “I have a belt! I have put it on like how Mama did it.”

“I can see it, schatz, well done,” Toto nodded in approval, as if he was talking to a businessman. But a little businessman, perhaps, and Toto would make more deals with him and talk business with him more than he would with any other people at the races.

The taller figure reached for the comb and gave it to Soren, “Come on, fix your hair. No one can know that you just got out of bed.”

“I didn’t get out of bed! I have been up since… six!” Soren frowned the best that he could, but a grin in Toto’s face told him that his father was just teasing. The boy turned to where he could see his sister’s reflection and stared at his own as he combed his unruly blonde hair. Satisfied with his appearance he then exclaimed, “Voila! Je te ressemble maintenant, papa!” I look like you now, Papa!

If anyone would ask, Soren would look more like his father had it been for the blonde hair that he carried from Tilly’s genetics. Soren had the dark eyes that everyone who worked at the Mercedes-AMG headquarters feared to look at and his features could pass off as an ID in case Toto had forgotten to bring his. As of this point, Soren might as well be the owner of the company.

Toto’s heart swelled in pride whenever their other relatives told him that the kids were so much like him and Tilly. Really, anyone could compliment the children and he would be swooning over them. As if he wanted to reward them for simply existing.

Not that he and Tilly would spoil them and get them everything they wanted.

“You are very handsome, Soren,” said Toto and beamed, “and Tia is the prettiest girl.”

“Hm? What about Mama?” Tia’s eyes flickered at her father’s standing figure. “Me and Mama are the prettiest!”

Toto sighed dramatically, “Yes, yes, you are right. I am sorry. But Mama is a pretty woman. You are a pretty girl.”

“Am not a girl! Am big! I’m a woman!” Tia protested, her scowl impersonating her Aunt Sylvie’s grumpy expression. Or his. Toto wasn’t sure; nobody carried that expression more than himself and his sister-in-law.

“I hope you don’t reach that stage just yet,” Toto muttered to himself (he really prayed she wouldn't grow up that fast) before he said, “Come on, littles. We have to go to work. Papa needs to get the cars running.”

With wide eyes and excited gasps, Soren and Tia ran out of the bedroom with squeals escaping their mouths and slipped on their backpacks. Hearing the words ‘cars’ and ‘running’ could instantly boost his children’s spirits and dash off to where the cars would be.

Toto watched the bedroom door silently, listening as his carbon copies talked animatedly about seeing their Uncle Bono and Roscoe and how they’d like to spend time with Uncle Fernando and “Lance Stoll.”

Yeah, they certainly are Tilly’s children.

Toto and Tilly knew from the beginning that their children were extremely loved by the drivers and would sometimes hover over them if they were given the chance.

It reminded Toto so much of the times when the drivers used to approach Tilly when she began making her presence known to the grid. But at least this time Toto didn’t have to be jealous about having them stolen by those men.

In the very beginning and the end, Toto won. He married Tilly and even had her children. They didn’t.

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forasecondtherewedwon · 22 hours

Text

seven degrees east - chapter six

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: E Chapter: 6 / ? Word Count: 5048

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four | five

It had started with a shove, John’s flat palm meeting Curt’s chest, warm through his shirt.

No, it had started with one, two, three drinks (and counting?), John aware he was in the wrong mindset to be drinking, but slinging them down his throat anyhow.

Well, no, it had started several days ago, on a night that had engaged all John’s senses. Smell: chemicals, cleaning products, a mopped tile floor. Sound: a cascading splash. Touch: the surprisingly sharp edges of a plastic toilet seat. Taste: bile, sour, coating his tongue. Sight: the one his mind’s eye had insisted on rewinding and replaying, rewinding and replaying, like a VHS tape. Gale and Curt in that classroom. The eagerness of Gale’s body language in particular. The two of them, kissing, kissing, kissing in John’s head as he bent it over the bowl and heaved.

Fast forward and there was John grinning after the shove, smug like he’d already won—ironic, when he felt like the loss of Gale had been the most agonizing of his life. He cocked his head to the side, tough guy, taunting Curt with his body the way he believed he’d been taunted by Curt’s, all tangled up in his best friend’s. People were turning, people were looking. The look on Curt’s face was reluctant, but John didn’t like that. What he liked was how Curt’s body had gone tense. Yes, he thought. He danced forward and tapped Curt’s chest with just his fingertips this time, then danced back.

Curt was still restraining himself, smiling over clenched teeth, so John said, “Hit me.”

“Why?” Curt asked, like John’s demand was exhausting.

John’s eyes glittered with rage and alcohol.

“You fuckin’ know why,” he said, quieter. The coming fight? Sure, he was alright with that being for the assembling audience, but the point of it was for he and Curt alone.

Curt didn’t move, and John wasn’t proud of himself then; he began to berate his erstwhile friend, to insult him. It made him feel like shit to say the things he said, but like the vomit he’d spewed into that toilet, the words just kept coming up. He had a feeling his body might not stop until he got them all out, and he had no idea how many were in there, all jammed up in his esophagus, all packed tight around his heart.

Apparently, they could be halted by an outside force: Curt’s fist connected with his jaw.

There was the zing of pain, then, confusingly, the sound of knuckles making contact seemed to come to John afterwards. He blinked, disoriented, and was slightly humiliated to find himself hunched over, cupping his face. He glanced up at Curt—who looked torn between pale remorse and a pissed-off flush over the dickish things John had just been saying—and grinned through the ache. He groaned loudly as he straightened up.

“Again,” he said. “Bitch.”

Again, time fell out of order. John would’ve sworn he’d felt the crack that stingingly clipped his cheekbone before he watched Curt’s shoulder drop to throw the hit.

The crowd went wooooah as John staggered back. He touched his face for blood, but found none when he examined his fingertips. His skin felt hot though. His eyes met Curt’s once more. Now it was Curt who appeared to be in pain. The anger had flown from his face like a helium balloon from a child’s careless fist. Perversely, John began trying to soothe him.

“It’s ok, Curt, I don’t even feel it,” he promised. What he did feel was rain. It was beginning to come, a faint patter that dotted his face and pinged off the patio table.

Curt didn’t seem to know what to do, but John did. Now, he could fight back. He could take two hits like two shots of tequila, chased with a wince but not the end of the night. He stepped towards Curt. However he was behaving, John was smart enough to know not to take his eyes off his opponent—especially one he’d seen in action in the past, though never against him. That was the reason why he didn’t notice someone shouldering the other spectators aside. Abruptly, there was a warm hand on his chest, and John turned with a little confusion and a lot of annoyance. His emotions spiderwebbed like cracked glass when he saw it was Gale’s hand on him. So possessive all of a sudden. It made John laugh. It wasn’t a nice sound.

“Fuck off,” he said lightly.

But Gale grabbed his shirt and half spun him away from Curt. It worked because John hadn’t been expecting it. Oh, now Gale wanted to touch him? Now Gale wanted somebody else to play rough with? Didn’t he have Curt for that?

“You fucking fuck off,” Gale uttered under his breath, face startlingly close to John’s. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Settling something,” John said shortly. He pushed Gale away, but Gale’s grip was strong, tugging his shirt.

“You’re smarter than this.”

“I said, fuck off.” John wrenched Gale’s hand free and turned away from him. Curt was still standing there, and with his chin, John urged him forward. This time, he raised his fists too.

But Gale got in the way, got in between.

“Christ, John,” he snapped. “Fight the right person if you wanna fight so bad!”

This stalled John. He looked between Curt and Gale a few times before sticking with Gale.

“What?”

“You’re not mad at Curt—”

John released a derisive laugh.

“—you’re mad at me,” Gale finished. “So take it out on me.”

John attempted to sidestep him to get to his target—the rain was falling harder, the grass was getting slick underfoot—but Gale matched him, as if they were dancing. His hand was back on John’s chest. It kept the middle of his t-shirt dry.

“Don’t hit Curt,” Gale said steadily. “Hit me.”

“I don’t want to hit you,” John said, just above a whisper.

Gale matched his volume when he replied, “Yes you do.”

He didn’t though, and felt angry all over again at Gale if Gale didn’t know that. He never wanted to hurt Gale, never Gale. Or maybe he did, but not with his fists. John didn’t think that was cruel enough for what Gale had so thoughtlessly done to him.

“It was once, John. It was once.” Gale’s voice was soft and insistent, his eyes working hard to hold John’s, who tried over and over to glance away and sneer, to signal that this was all bullshit, beneath him. He pretended he’d barely heard so that he wouldn’t have to actually listen and understand.

John turned away from them both. As he walked away, Bubbles appeared at his side, offering to get ice for the side of his face that was probably red, was probably already bruising. John just shook his head and pounded up the back stairs into the house, ignoring Bubbles’ heavy sigh.

—

He’d missed the whole thing. That was what Nash would learn later—not at the party, not on the ride back to campus, but outside the dorms the next day, when he would corner Bubbles and ask what the hell had happened. (Specifically, why did John’s face look like that?) By the time John had started egging Curt on, Nash had been long gone. Gone from the backyard, gone from earshot, gone, frankly, from that plane of reality. Where he’d gone was Helen’s room, and even later, once he’d been filled in, he would be happy with his choice.

After inhabiting the dorm with the boys, Helen’s living space was a revelation to Nash. Granted, as roommates went, Rosie was tidy, and his prized record collection and player weren’t exactly clutter. But Helen’s bedroom was an explosion of femininity. If there were a feminist way to have that thought, then that was the way Nash was having it. Like an eclipse, the serious covers of Helen’s second-wave feminist texts dominated her bookshelves and bedside table, but a more traditionally girly aesthetic played around the edges of Fear of Flying and Our Bodies, Ourselves. He saw a Blondie poster. He saw a jewellery box. He saw a pair of perfume bottles that to his eye resembled magical elixirs, and which almost immediately became unimportant as he gathered Helen in his arms and smelled the scent on her neck.

He didn’t kiss her, not quite, not yet. He thought she probably wanted him to (because of the way he’d spoken to her outside, because of the way she’d slipped her hand into his and given it an urgent tug), and it wasn’t the shrine to the feminist movement that was holding him back. No, Nash thought that was pretty incredible, and that a woman who knew her rights and respected her body (and, equally, respected her rights and knew her body) was to be worshipped, not feared. What held him off was a feeling of connection he didn’t think he could explain in words. Oh, Nash had seen it before. He’d seen it between Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze, Winona Ryder and Ethan Hawke. But never in his own life. When Helen spoke, he only wanted to listen. When he leaned towards Helen, she leaned in too. There was something, Nash thought, to how she made him feel confident and bashful at the same time. There was certainly something to his hand on her back, just then, and her hands sliding over his shoulders before she hooked her wrists at the nape of his neck.

“If you want me to kiss you,” he said, smiling because he couldn’t help it, “just say so.”

Helen smiled back knowingly. Her face came closer, nose almost skimming his.

“Maybe I want to be the one to kiss you.”

“I think I could handle that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I could not feel less threatened by the idea of you taking the lead,” Nash swore.

“And instead you feel…?” Helen’s eyebrows rose with amusement as she awaited his response.

It came quickly (quicker than Nash was hoping to as things progressed): “Turned on.”

Her laugh was sudden, clear, and genuine. It made him beam, his eyes roaming her face to absorb the beauty of how hers squinted shut in delight, how her head fell back. Everything he was feeling wedged in his throat, but it wasn’t painful, and he didn’t mind when Helen trapped it there by pressing her mouth against his.

Heat surged up in Nash, and maybe he could hear voices rising from the backyard now, but they were faint, muffled by Helen’s bedroom window—which was closed, like her door. A house full of people and they were a world away. Characters like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn had to climb over their picket fences and push away from their familiar riverbanks to find adventure. Not Nash. A Twainian impishness guided the quick kisses he gave back to Helen, traded like Magic: The Gathering cards. It was playful, how he moved from kissing her mouth to kissing her face, how her lips found his jaw, then ran lower, making him shiver as she sucked his neck. His shirt came off first, and by the time they had swayed and shuffled their way over to her twin bed, he was brushing the skirt up her thighs as he sat back and she climbed onto his lap.

Helen rubbed him through denim before undoing his jeans. Nash was overwhelmed by how good it was—not just her touch, but the breathy yeses that seemed to vent his pleasure from her mouth.

“You’re unreal,” he said.

Helen smiled.

“What do you mean?”

Her hand was inside his boxers now, tucked away like a secret. She stroked him and he kept his eyes on hers as he moaned. He watched her cheeks turn the colour of the empty raspberry bin he’d seen—to his disappointment—at the grocery store yesterday: a dark pink stain.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Nash babbled. He couldn’t quit staring at her, astride him. There were freckles on her thighs, just above her knees, that told a story of sitting outside in the sun. “‘We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep,’” he offered in hopeless, lovestruck explanation.

“The Scarlet Letter,” Helen said, and then she kissed him deeply and let him hold her close to roll her onto her back.

She slipped off her underwear, but then he was too impatient to wait for the removal of her skirt, which had buttons. He ate her out with the skirt flipped up like an umbrella inverted in a stiff breeze. Her groans were low and caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. When he lightened his licks to make her chase him, Helen simply grabbed the back of his head to make him, in turn, stop teasing her. Nash smiled between her legs.

An orgasm later, they flipped for who got to provide the condom. Heads (appropriately): Nash. Tails: Helen. This, they decided, would be the most equitable method.

Nash was so excited he fumbled the flip and the coin rolled away under Helen’s bed. They laughed and got on with things. They didn’t really need a coin to tell them they were equals; he never treated her like she was anything less. Naked between her baby-blue sheets, Nash was more than happy to take the condom he was handed.

—

John could hear the sounds coming from behind the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall and hoped one of his friends was lucky enough to be responsible for half of them. He was willing to give his blessing because, whoever was in there, he knew it wasn’t Curt and Gale.

He wasn’t listening on purpose—god no. He’d come to use the upstairs bathroom instead of waiting for the one downstairs. On the way up, John had passed Crosby on the steps. He hadn’t tried to give Crosby any particular look, but Crosby’s face had flushed with something that might have been guilt or shame or just enjoyment. John’s gaze had shifted to Sandra, who was coming down after Crosby, but her face gave absolutely nothing away. Quickly, John had decided he didn’t want to know, he didn’t fucking want to know. He didn’t want to be a guy who knew things—or, especially, saw things—anymore.

“Croz,” he’d said.

“John.”

Seeing Crosby with Sandra, no matter what it meant, had turned John abruptly morose. He was alone at a party. He had shunned Bubbles, lost track of Nash, goaded Curt into hitting him, and Gale… Gale was a hazy, angry fog John wasn’t ready to feel his way into. The night was sunk, as far as he was concerned, so he’d elected to play to his strengths until it was time to leave: he would get very, very drunk.

“Can I get my keys?” John had requested, sticking out his palm.

Crosby had studied him while pretending not to. John had rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to drive. I just want some fuckin’ peace and quiet.”

He did not look at Sandra. He didn’t know her, but he didn’t need her to know that he planned to lift a bottle of something clear from the kitchen and go drink it alone in his jeep. Thankfully, Crosby had obliged without voicing a guess at John’s likely movements.

John used the bathroom (these girls had nice-smelling soap) and wended his way back downstairs. Alcohol acquired, he went towards the front door. He didn’t remember about Rosie and Liss until he was close enough to see out the door’s window that they were still sitting on the front step, sheltered from the rain and staring into one another’s eyes. John swallowed, feeling a pressure in his sinuses he attributed to the change in weather.

After retreating, he discovered a door from the house into the garage. He went in and shut the door behind him. When he turned, he discovered he was not alone.

She had pale blonde hair, and at first, John thought she was standing in the rain. The garage door was open, the damp seeping across the concrete pad, the stranger, the woman, positioned like a sentinel between indoors and out. Because she had her back to him and the violence of the rainstorm had just increased—seemingly right as John stepped into the garage (would the boys from the backyard go into the house now, would they wonder where he was?)—he realized she mustn’t have known he was there until he was next to her. She flinched, but barely, and then her stare was cool.

“Another social butterfly,” he said sarcastically, smiling to show he meant no harm, and that he included himself in that particular club.

“Maybe that’s it,” she allowed. “Maybe my wings are too wet to fly inside.”

She appraised him then, taking in the vodka. They’d each taken a slug from the mouth of the bottle before they bothered with names.

“Paulina,” she told him.

“Bucky.” He didn’t want to hear this beautiful, guarded woman say “John.”

“A strange name.”

He shrugged, then asked, “Bride or groom?”

Paulina frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Sorry,” John said. “Whose guest are you at this thing? Who do you know inside?”

“Ah. All three of the girls, but Sandra most. Maybe you don’t have as many friends here as I do?” She pointed at the parts of his face that were sore.

He huffed a laugh.

“Nah, a friend did this, believe it or not.” It was the simplest explanation. “How do you know Sandra?”

Paulina watched him warily, but said, “We are both graduate students in the School of Politics, she in International Security, I in International Relations. I came here from Poland to study, as I’m sure you can hear.”

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t exactly sound local either.”

She raised the bottle to toast that, and they both took another swallow. John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He liked how she watched him.

“So,” he said, “International Relations.” His tone was not flirtation-free.

“That’s right.”

“What about domestic relations? You got a boyfriend?”

“Why, do you want to sleep with me?” Paulina asked bluntly.

John laughed and grinned.

“I’d kinda like the answer to my question before I answer yours,” he said.

“I did,” she replied at last. “But now he’s dead.”

“He’s dead?” Bucky repeated, aghast and uncertain he’d heard her right. He had to wait until Paulina’d had another drink to hear her response.

“To me,” she clarified. “What about you? Someone here? Back in America maybe?”

John smiled tightly and said, “Unattached.”

“Not as dramatic as me,” Paulina noted.

“No.”

“Or lying.”

“Yeah,” John allowed, taking the bottle back. “Possibly lying. To myself.”

“That’s moronic,” she pronounced as he drank. “Now you answer my question: do you want to sleep with me?”

John swallowed.

“Sleep? No. I’d like to fuck you though, if you’d be interested in that.”

Paulina returned the look he then gave her with a level one of her own. Despite his words, John lost his nerve a little in the face of her frankness and lifted the vodka again to his lips for cover, but she caught his wrist and guided his hand back down. Suddenly, they were making out—heated, hungry—and the nearest raindrops shone in the garage light while the rest could only be heard falling in the dark, making it look as though the rain fell only around them. But no one looked, no one saw, and Paulina’s hands were on John’s chest, and John’s hands were on Paulina’s back, his index finger hooked around the mouth of the bottle.

She wore a top the colour of a dove in the shade, an impervious urban grey, with a low, square neckline and cap sleeves. John pulled one of those little sleeves off her shoulder, then kissed the skin he’d revealed. She didn’t smell like anything much, but the scent of rain invaded, turning the air around them earthy and herbaceous.

“You know,” he told the crook where Paulina’s shoulder met her neck. “I was just supposed to be passing through.”

“On your way to…?”

“My jeep. It’s parked right there.” He straightened and pointed it out to her, there at the curb. The Wrangler sat beyond the reach of the porchlight, under the shade of the night and the majestic beech tree that grew on the front lawn. Its windows were dark. Too dark to see inside.

“You know my answer to your question,” John reminded her, spreading his arms. Take me or leave me. Help me or hurt me, I think I can still take it.

“Alright,” Paulina decided. “I’m bored of the party, and you seem sweet.”

��What’d I say to give you that impression?”

She smiled and touched a finger to his lips.

“It’s when you stop talking.”

Her eyes were significantly kinder than her words. John almost wanted to ask about the other guy, the ex-boyfriend, but that would leave him more open than he felt he could currently bear. He handed her the vodka, dug the keys he’d retrieved from Crosby from his pocket, and they made a run for the Wrangler along the side of the driveway farthest from the front door, where other parked cars would shield them from view.

Inside the jeep, Paulina was as eager as John. He leaned forward from the back seat to deposit the bottle on the floor by the pedals, then they set about single-mindedly shedding their own clothes and each other’s. John pulled a condom from his wallet—stowed there with miserable intent—and grunted when Paulina sat in his lap and guided him inside her.

Her style (at least with him) was slow and in-control, rolling her hips in a way that reminded him, second by second, how long it’d been since he’d last gotten laid. He just hadn’t been looking. Rather than recalling a single moment when he might’ve decided to give celibacy a shot, John could only remember Gale. Nights with Gale, days with Gale. Gale’s smile he worked so hard to earn. Gale’s fair hair…

At John’s urging, he and Paulina rearranged so they were no longer face to face with her blonde hair swishing with each rise and fall. She was on her hands and knees. He was behind her, hunched below the ceiling, thrusting harder, the windows fogging because they were both panting. The steady, soothing rhythm of rain beat the jeep’s roof. John could forget; he could let himself. It wasn’t hard, he’d been reminded, to find someone and just feel good for a while. Feel like a whole person. Every time he sunk into Paulina, stomach tightening as he snapped his hips forward, John was looking for him, that scattered self of his, that Peter Pan shadow to sew back onto the soles of his feet.

He was getting close, reaching down to fondle Paulina’s breasts, cursing when it made her clench around his cock. Bent as he was, John tipped his face back, breathing hard. His hips seemed to shuttle all on their own now. And then something harder than rain struck the window of the jeep. John thought it was probably a fallen branch—maybe not so smart to park under the big old beech during a storm. Half-dazed with the impending release that was sure to turn him inside out (maybe that would be where he felt complete), he swung his head around to see if the window behind him had been chipped or cracked. It was all fogged up, and he couldn’t tell, so he wiped the sweat from his forehead and the condensation from the window, swirling his palm on the cool plastic. Gale’s face appeared beyond the hazy smear.

John instinctually doubted that it was real. He was hammered, he was about to come, and the face was surrounded by a green glow. It was just the porchlight refracting off the beech tree’s leaves, but John had read The Great Gatsby half a dozen times, so seeing just refracted light was impossible; he saw longing—dangerous, delusional, and yet lifechanging longing. When Gale shifted, John knew he was real. He knew that he too had been seen as Gale peered through the window he had just wiped clear.

It happened so quickly—that the face appeared, that John stilled in shock—but Paulina was close too, and she moved when he didn’t. She flung her hips back against his. He was staring straight at Gale when his eyebrows drew together and his mouth dropped open and he came with a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. With the streaky window between them, it was Gale who appeared soft-edged and insubstantial while John felt solid and grounded; his arms around Paulina’s waist; his knees, toes, and the balls of his feet on the jeep’s cloth seat; his cock, of course, deep inside the woman his body mostly blocked from Gale’s view. It was an epic disaster, and it was a staggering revelation.

Gale stumbled backwards, out of sight, and John, somehow both buzzing and numb, swivelled back to Paulina and slid his hand down between her legs to rub hard at her clit until she came too.

Afterwards, they put their underwear back on and quietly and companionably shared the back seat. Paulina sat and drank a little more, offhandedly mentioning her ex, idly wondering what he was doing just then, wondering if her friends back home had told him when she’d moved away. John laid on his back with his knees bent up, his head on Paulina’s lap. He smoked. He thought about Gale. He was troubled by the fact that he couldn’t remember what expression Gale had worn at the instant of realization. Had Gale looked uncomfortable, embarrassed, upset, fed-up? The moment had come and it had gone, so selfishly, John thought, and it had left him to examine everything he’d unsuccessfully attempted to repress—with simmering silence in their dorm, with alcohol, with the force of Curt’s fist driving into his face. Right then, he felt none of what he’d been carrying around since the night at the Barracks. He felt only a sense of peace. He exhaled.

—

Gale’s mind was full of rats, and all the rats were running. It was pure Pinky and the Brain up there, only Gale didn’t know the scheme and he couldn’t tell the smart rats from the stupid, the evil rats from the benign. He only felt as though his skull were a housing for constant, nonsensical motion.

Externally, he was sitting next to John in the back of the Wrangler. They coasted smoothly along in the dark. Crosby and Bubbles were up front, the latter behind the wheel. Somewhere on the road ahead of them was Curt, driving Rosie’s car. Nash hadn’t bothered responding from behind Helen’s bedroom door, but Rosie had put in a disheveled appearance after emerging from Liss’s room, grinning and tossing Curt the keys. Rosie and Nash would get a ride back to campus the following day. “Lucky sons a’ bitches,” Curt had proclaimed, smile belying his resentful words.

Gale had chosen the back seat on purpose, because he knew something the boys in the front didn’t, and he had chosen this side on purpose too: he sat where John had kneeled. John had said nothing as they’d opened opposite doors, as they’d climbed into the back, as they’d buckled in. He had only (and quickly) asked the boys to unzip their windows in order to circulate the air, probably hoping, Gale knew, that Bubbles and Crosby wouldn’t smell anything besides the stale scent of cigarettes and warm, wet pavement from the rain that continued to lightly fall. It was misting through the windows, and Gale could feel the fine spray if he leaned towards the door.

Occasionally, a car would pass, headed in the other direction, and Gale would see raindrops caught in their headlights. They appeared from nowhere, from blackness, disappeared into the same, but in between, gave the illusion of being miraculously suspended. Shining like crystals on a chandelier.

He'd seen himself in the window first, before he’d realized John was inside. Gale’s eyes had glanced across his own fuzzy reflection. He’d seen himself and thought, Failure. He’d been mad at first, mad that John had unleased whatever the hell that had been in the backyard, sniping at Curt until he’d thrown a punch, then a second one. But once he’d made sure Curt was alright—and he was; alarmed, annoyed, but alright—all Gale had wanted was to find John. He’d flicked the jeep’s window and, not seeing John emerge immediately, had felt defeated that he’d only managed to discover another John-less location. Just his own blurry portrait staring back at him from the thick plastic window. And then: John.

And Gale had left him because he hadn’t been able to stand it, because he’d understood, because running away was the wiser second impulse that had followed his initial one. Which had been to yank open the door. Gale hadn’t acted on it, but he’d had his hand on the handle. He remembered the rain-slicked metal in his grip. He remembered, just as clearly, the feeling that had flooded him when he’d seen that entirely new expression on John’s face. If it was what John had been feeling since the other night, Gale didn’t know how John had shunned him all this time. He didn’t want to avoid him; it was why he hadn’t ridden in Rosie’s car with Curt.

It was after midnight, the interior of the jeep drowsy and full of the sound of the wet road rushing past under their wheels. In the dark, Gale’s fingers crept across the seat and stopped just shy of touching John’s. It was jealousy he had felt. It was a sudden certainty that John was his.

Gale watched with longing as John pressed his cheek to the plastic window and tilted his face to feel the rain.

#my writing #seven degrees east #MotA #Masters of the Air #MotA fic #John 'Bucky' Egan #Bucky x Buck #Curtis Biddick #Gale 'Buck' Cleven #Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne #Herbert Nash #Helen (MotA)#Paulina (MotA)#Harry Crosby #Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal

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cbk1000 · 7 months

Text

Anyway, here's some more of the sequel to the vet fic, because the world is hard and mean, and one overly long fic about two gays driving around the countryside helping sick animals wasn't enough:

The wedding was at Ripley Castle near Harrogate, and featured a cousin with whom Arthur was just close enough not to blow off the ceremony; though he wouldn’t have minded simply popping in for the vows, and the requisite after-vow pleasantries. But he had seen the opportunity to pry Merlin away for a holiday, on an estate large enough to avoid most of his family; and so Saturday they had put their rucksacks, their suits, and themselves, into the car, and were now going at a decent clip down the B6265, though Merlin thought it was codgerly.

“Does Gaius know to put the wet food on top of the dry food for Tessa, and not to mix it all together?”

“Yes, you mentioned it in the instructions we left.”

“And that Mixer can only go into the outdoor pens with George? And if he can’t find Cian, to check under the sofa?”

“Arthur, we are not leaving our infant child for the first time whilst we take our first holiday since we became new dads, we are leaving our four adult cats to be checked in on by a veterinarian who’s been practising about as long as either of us has been alive. I think he can handle feeding a finicky arshole.”

“I’m not sure if I remembered to mention George’s eye drops, though. Will you text Gaius?”

“You wrote six fucking pages on how to care for four cats for two days. You mentioned it.”

“Just text him, you knob.”

“Uncle Gaius,” Merlin sounded out obnoxiously as he typed. “Arthur thinks you are a helpless, blind old useless bat, and would like to reiterate how to feed a cat and administer eye drops.”

Arthur swiped blindly at his head with one hand, whilst the other he left planted on the wheel. “Should I text Morgana too, and have her check in on Gaius checking in on the cats?”

“Piss off.”

“Too bad she was too sick to come; I’d love to see Gwaine mixing it up with your relatives. Nobody would even notice you’re gay if Morgana had brought him.”

“Yes, I’m sure that would have gone well for everyone.”

Then Merlin changed the radio station, and they had a friendly dust-up, most of the remaining drive to Ripley, over the other’s objectively inferior taste in music; so that when they pulled up at The Boar’s Head where they would be staying, Arthur had almost forgot he was inevitably to see his father. Now the courtyard full of Pendragons brought it surging down on him, and he felt suddenly as overwhelmed as if they had converged on instead of glancingly glanced at the car. His whole body tightened; and the dread clash was in his chest, that brutal striving for life which in a fit man at an elevation the same as his native seems to herald the onset of death. He felt in the car in the middle of the day with no threat present but the threat of unpleasantness that he was carrying his doom. It was in his chest, where his breath had shortened, and quickened; all those impulses of the lizard brain which kept the cave dweller from being no more than some leftovers in his loincloth now were telling him that he would need to flee some pensioners in some church wear. His father was nowhere amongst them; but the possibility of him, the infinite possibility of if, was all round the car and beyond the car, where anything might happen to his heart.

And then Merlin said in the same voice he used with the animals, “Tell me five things you can see right now.”

“The steering wheel. My hand on the steering wheel. The door handle. The chip in the windshield. Your knee.”

“Five things you can feel?”

“The steering wheel under my hand. The seat under my legs. The air from the vents. The seat against my back. The steering wheel under my hand.”

“Five things you can hear?”

“Your breathing, your abysmal taste in music, the car engine, faint music outside the car, talking outside the car.”

“Four things you can see?”

And he walked him through the exercise like that, till they had got down to one item for each, and Arthur’s breathing was calmer. He flexed his stiff fingers on the steering wheel.

“It’ll be ok, Arthur. And if it’s not, I’ll headbutt some people, and we’ll leave.”

“Ok.” Arthur wiped his palms on his jeans.

Then they were out of the car, and Merlin said to the few friendly guests who found their arrival more interesting than their breakfast, “Hey; nice to meet you. Merlin. Really sorry, we’ll be down in a few minutes, yeah, I just need the loo really badly. Down from Emberford, yeah,” ushering Arthur through the crowd and into the Inn as deftly as he had ever done anything requiring motor skills. He had got the suits and the rucksacks out of the backseat, and kept himself now with their luggage between Arthur and any intrusives, using his dimples to plough a kind of furrow through to reception, so that everyone in his wake felt that they had been charmed instead of slighted.

In their room he threw down the suits and bags on the bed, and said, “It’s nice. Not very castle-y, though. Do you want me to make you some tea?”

“No. We should probably go back down and mingle for a bit before we need to change.”

“Do you want me to blow you?”

“That’s--” Arthur paused. He did not know what part of ‘go down and mingle’ Merlin had confused for a sex act; but now that he had Arthur’s brain had got just as muddled. He separated out, after a moment, what he wanted to say, from what his penis wanted him to say. “What part of ‘I probably shouldn’t pause long enough for tea’ suggested to you that I thought we had time for sex before going back down to visit with the other wedding guests?”

#merthur #fic #preview #featuring cat dad arthur pendragon

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wandas-luvr · 10 months

Text

you know just how to be cruel

pairing: leigh shaw x fem!reader

summary: leigh comes over in the middle of the night to ask you a favor.

warnings: 18+ minors dni! soft(ish)dom!leigh (she is still her regular amount of mean), idk probably mommy kink undertones because that's how i live now, fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), praise, criminal amounts of teasing, leigh being a rude, condescending bitch but she makes it up to you, leigh being unrightfully possessive (but it's okay bc it's hot), mediocre aftercare bc leigh

you look at the clock on your phone as you hear a loud, repetitive knock at your door. you ignore it, deciding no good could come from suspicious knocking at 3:45 am on a thursday, sighing and turning over, getting sucked back into whatever trashy reality tv show was coming on.

then your phone buzzes. once. twice. three times in the span of a minute. before you even get the chance to pick it up to see who it is, you receive a call. you look at the caller id suspiciously: leigh shaw. you click to answer immediately, having heard the news about her husband just recently, wondering if she was calling after missing your condolences call when you were told.

before you could even get a word out you here her voice on the other end of the line. short and clipped, no room to argue or joke with her.

"i'm outside, let me in, it's cold out."

you get up and walk to the door, eyebrows furrowed, wondering why on earth leigh shaw would show up to your door at this hour, especially after what had happened with matt. upon opening you see leigh, clearly upset, but not appearing to be sad. the only thing you can see in her eyes is anger.

"leigh, what are you..?" you cut yourself off, not wanting to upset her more or make her feel unwelcome, "are you okay?"

she scoffs at you, rolling her eyes and walking straight past you into your home.

"don't do that, you know better."

you sigh, clearly, this would not be a very pleasant night.

"you're right, i'm sorry. i'll ask again, but if you get pissed, remember you're the one who told me to say it. what the fuck are you doing here?"

"better. lose the tone next time though, it's not cute on you. i need you to do me a favor."

you chuckle slightly, trying to lighten the mood or at least diffuse the tension the elephant in the room has been creating since she stepped into your apartment.

"awfully big talk for someone who is very rudely asking me for a favor."

"my husband died a month ago, i don't have to ask your permission to be bitter. and last time i checked, you weren't in charge of me."

you knew exactly what she was talking about. before she had met matt, she asked you to experiment with her, leading you through a series of heartbreaks and letdowns until you couldn't face it anymore and left her. throughout the six months the two of you were "together" she took you on a totally of five dates, showing up late to three of them. you had begun to feel like all she used you for was sex, and you simply couldn't bear it anymore. not when you were aching for her to love you the way she told you she did.

you look away, biting your lip, taking a deep breath to collect yourself. you didn't want to set her off, and she clearly wasn't in the right place to hear that she wasn't in charge of you either.

she walks towards you slowly, lifting your chin to encourage you to look up into her eyes, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

"you know what i'm here for, baby." she smiled, sickeningly sweet, with a condescending scrunch of her eyebrows and nod of her head. "the question is: are you gonna give it to me? hm?"

you freeze, you feel your chest constricting and can hear yourself swallow thickly, as you consider. ethically, you know it's wrong. you know it will only crush you and give leigh the quick distraction shes looking for, nothing more, but you can't help it. everything about her makes you lightheaded and weak in the knees, and you knew she'd take care of you, she always had been so generous.

"leigh...i don't think-"

"shh, baby, that's why it's perfect. you don't need to think with me, remember?" she looks into your eyes, looking for any signs of true unwillingness, before pressing the softest of kisses just behind your ear. you can feel her smile against your skin as your breath hitches, or course she remembered.

"love..?" she trails off, waiting for some sign of a response from you, settling for a simple look into her eyes. "are you gonna let me fuck you? make you feel good just like i used to?"

you bite your lip, nodding, mumbling a quiet "please.."

you watch the grin spread across her face, she knew she had you the moment you opened the door.

"see! i knew you'd remember how much you missed me!" she pushes you back toward your couch, leading you to sit on the arm as she stands between your legs, wrapping you up in a deep, heated kiss. "hmmm, that's my girl."

you almost retort, going to tell her she has no right to call you that, when, as if she could sense it, she tugged on your hair, clearly a preventative warning to watch your mouth.

as a reward for your obedience, you feel her lips start to move downward, drifting to your cheek, then your jaw, down to your neck, clearly leaving bruises in her wake.

she chuckles against your skin, hot breath tickling your neck, when you instinctively tip your head to give her more room. smiling at the way she'd created a pattern of muscle memory in you that would never fade no matter how many years passed.

you feel her hands untangle from your hair and drop to your thighs, before she pulls back to look at you: flushed and breathless before she'd even started with you. she gently rubs her thumbs in place, causing you to squirm towards her, barely stifling an embarrassing whine. you internally cringe as you can see the gears turning in her head, watching her piece together your reactions, before she gasps softly, clearly having figured you out.

"awww, sweetheart, it's been a while hasn't it? no one's touched you in so long, i bet you're just soaked," her hands drift towards your pajamas shorts, her fingers pulling the flimsy material aside to get a pick at your panties. "oh, honey, look at you. you made such a mess for me! oh, i bet you're just aching, aren't you?"

you nod, canting your hips up as you feel her fingertips barely ghosting along the gusset of your panties. she shoots you a look, cowing you immediately, your pleasure had always been on her terms.

she smiles, before clearly growing impatient herself, pulling your panties to the side and lightly running two fingers between your folds. a shiver wracks your body as she gasps at your wetness, playing with it between her fingers cockily. something about her soft smirk would never fail to make you clench around nothing.

you feel her fingers run up your slit as slow as human possible, until they finally reach your clit, your head tipping back and mouth opening the minute her fingers so much as graze it.

"awww," she exclaims through a chuckle, "god, you really were aching for it. that's it, pretty girl, you just shut your eyes and enjoy it. no thinking, just let it feel good, yeah?"

you nod, moaning softly, as her fingers start to circle your clit, just the way she knew you liked. your nails digging into the arm of the sofa underneath you as leigh played you like a fiddle, muttering dirty phrases under her breath endlessly.

"fuck, you look so good. does that feel nice, baby? oh, i bet it does, sweet girl! yeah, you're welcome, honey, i know this is what you needed."

as you pant and moan underneath her leigh decides she's bored of this, wordlessly bending down to her knees in front of you, fingers drifting downward as well to circle your entrance. laughing when she feels how you try to suck her fingers in as you clench around nothing.

"leigh, please, i need you..." you moan out without thinking, desperate to get her to finally fuck you, "i need you so bad, leigh...please? i'll be good."

"hmm, good girl, begging and i haven't even asked you to yet. just fucking perfect for me." she mutters under her breath as she sinks her fingers into you, blowing softly on your clit to watch your hips jump. "there you go, take it for me, baby. you can do it, come on, be a good girl and just take what i give you."

you moan loudly, grip on the sofa tightening as your nails dig into the fabric. legs subconsciously spreading wider for her of their own accord, every movement of your body fine tuned to her liking.

"that's it, baby, tell me how good it feels. i like to hear that i'm doing a good job." she jokes, winking at you when you fake playfully at her before shutting you up with her mouth on your clit.

your eyes squeeze shut, moaning as she sucks your clit into her mouth, alternating with the pace of her fingers sliding in and out of you expertly. she grins against you, knowing she's winding you up in exactly the right way, touching all the right spots and saying all the right things to make you want her that much more.

she speeds up her pace, apparently intent on having you ruin the upholstery on your couch, smirking when she feels the telltale clench of your walls around her fingers.

"shhh, baby, you have to quiet down, okay? we wouldn't want you to wake up the neighbors, right?" she smiles condescendingly before doubling her efforts, intentionally making you louder for her just to watch you flush at the thought and try to quiet back down before repeating the cycle.

within minutes, she has you cumming on her fingers and her tongue, gripping her hair as she insists on cleaning you up just to hear you whine under her as she teases your sensitive clit.

"leigh, i-"

"shhh, baby, she don't have to talk about it. all we need to know is that it made me feel better, and it definitely made you feel better." she grins, pulling you against her and kissing your head softly, allowing you to lay against her as you catch your breath.

#jules writes #char: leigh shaw #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw smut #sorry for your loss

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darklydeliciousdesires · 3 months

Text

London Will Burn - Chapter Ten.

Sorry it's a day late, bambinos! Normal posting schedule will resume as of Friday. I wanted to give everyone the chance to catch up since I posted last week's instalment late, too.

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 4,000

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

Absorbing the shock, it was all Sean could do not to storm over to where Rin and her family were gathered and demand she give him answers. It added up, undoubted was the maths in the equation that the child with eyes that exactly matched his own, who would have been about six, meaning she’d been conceived on that weekend he’d spent with her, was in fact his daughter. It fitted. It explained why she’d vanished.

Why the fuck had she kept it from him?

Why the fuck did she still continue to keep it from him?

He knew why, but his anger got in the way of logic. The only thing to penetrate it was the sudden feeling of a wet nose at his fingertips, followed by a familiar miffed grunt. Looking down, he saw Butch, ball in mouth, ready for it to be thrown once more.

As the rage in him subsided, a myriad of emotions began to swirl, taking the ball and throwing it once more, finally tearing his eyes away from the child, dressed in her school uniform beneath a thick, winter coat. His child. He dropped his head and sped up while walking past where they were congregated, hoping the distance from one side of the path over to the small playground area meant he wouldn’t be seen.

That did not mean, however, that this would be something he’d easily let go of. Rin would feel every ounce of his ire, once she’d actually confirmed to him if the child was definitely his.

Setting off over the grass to meet his dog en route back, he took the ball and clipped Butch back onto his lead, being greeted by a look of indignance that playtime was seemingly over. “I am certain that fucking tooth of yours sticks out even further when you’re pissed off.” he spoke, reaching to scratch his forehead wrinkles. “If I sported a snaggletooth, mine probably would be right now, too.”

He took the long walk back to his car, loading Butch in the rear and clipping his seatbelt fastener onto the back of his harness, the dog lying down with a soft snort. The comfy ride of the Audi Q5 meant he was asleep ten minutes into the journey home, only stirring when half an hour after that, the car pulled up in the parking garage back in Canary Wharf.

For the duration of the drive, he’d mulled over how to handle the sight he’d been presented with at the park, wanting to actually make the right choice for once. Good choices and Sean Wallace didn’t always go hand in hand. In fact, more often than not, his impulsive nature dictated that they were the furthest from good.

“Catherine, I need to speak with you. Would you be free for lunch on Friday?”

Civil, to the point, adult like. He was proud of himself. While waiting on a reply, he took a shower, sorting Butch his food before ordering the usual Thai delicacies to satiate his own hunger.

“I’m busy.”

“Next Monday, perhaps?”

“Busy then, too.”

“Any fucking time before Easter, Catherine?” Trust Sean to not take her rebuffing well.

“Can you not just call me to have this discussion?”

“No. It must be face to face.”

It was while he was mid-way through eating a Thai red curry when she finally replied. “I’ll check my diary when I have a moment and get back to you.”

He waited a week for her to do this alleged diary consulting, hearing nothing. The proverbial bull appeared to need taking by the horns, it would seem.

The gates to Mulford Hall’s private driveway still required a check in with security, but the large, middle-aged man who had sat within the small booth the last time Sean had pulled up beside it was now replace by another. A large, Kenyan other, to be exact.

“And you are?” he rumbled, lifting his chin.

“Sean Wallace, here to see Miss Cavanagh.”

The man reached for the telephone, eyes flitting over Sean. “I’ll be the judge of that.” Pressing a button, he waited, leaning back while letting his fingers skim over the semi-automatic holstered at his hip, dark eyes returning to Sean for a second and narrowing. “Boss, hello. I got a Sean Wallace here to see you.”

There was a pause. “She say you must wait for her call and to go home.”

“Tell her that unless she lets me up, I shall start making noise over the identity of her child’s father. Loud noise.”

Marcus relayed the message with a huff, waiting. “Okay, you may go up.”

He smirked, shifting the car into drive as the gates began to slowly open. “I thought she might say that.” Driving through, he reminded himself over and over to keep calm, that losing his temper was the last thing he should resort to, that no matter how enraged he was, calmness was the more conducive approach.

Pulling into the courtyard, he saw Rin exit the house and stride over to the car. The defiance she carried herself with immediately sent his irritation up by a few notches.

“I think we need to talk,” he began, getting out and shutting the door with a heavy clunk, turning to face her. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“How did you even find out?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes. “Who the hell told you?”

“Nobody, I saw you both in the park just over a week ago. She looked right at me, and it was my eyes I saw. Doing the calculations over her age, and it points a very definite finger to the fact that I’m her father. If I hadn’t, your lack of a poker face and need to discover if you’ve been betrayed just sealed it nicely for me.”

The sneer in his tone set her on edge, Rin wanting nothing more than to punch him in the face for it. For much more, in fact. Her nostrils flared in annoyance, Sean continuing. “Now, why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugged, sniffing. “It was none of your business back then.”

His lips tightened, his shoulders squaring. “I fathered your child, that makes it very much my business.”

“Not when you were set to sell out her mother’s dignity for a business deal. Honestly, do you truly think I wanted a man like that near her at the time? Can you honestly blame me for keeping it from you?”

“Yes, I fucking can, because she’s my fucking daughter and I had a right to see her, to know her!” There went his cool, flying far from any tentative grasp.

Her features twisted, fury beginning to pulse. “You had no right at all, Sean! Not after what you did to me!”

“I had to, Catherine. By the end of that weekend, I didn’t want to, but I had to, because...”

“Because if you hadn’t, you’d have lost the capitol you needed to buy a new location to launder through, and the safe port for the fuck load of heroin that needed an alternative dock to port in. Yeah, I know why you had to. You could have just let me talk to him, you know. I’d have convinced him, but no.” Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. “You fucked me over because you wanted to. Get off on it, did you? Taking advantage of an eighteen-year-old, hmm?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” he spat angrily, cracking his knuckles in agitation. “You were far from naive. You were raised by a man just as cutthroat as the one whom raised me.”

Swallowing down her desire to match his anger, she took a breath, sniffing as she thinned her lips between her teeth. “My heart was.” Pausing, she saw it in his face, the very thing she was looking for, but had no real care over whether she received or not. Remorse. It was a few too many years late in the coming. “I suppose I should thank you really, for the lesson you taught me, one that I will pass onto my daughter when she’s older, too. Never let your emotions be swayed by a man who shows all the hallmarks of such deeply entrenched psychopathy.”

He looked accepting of her assessment, shame seeming to veil him as he looked down upon her, sighing sadly. “I am truly sorry for what I did to you. I am. It was a mistake that I haven’t ever not regretted.” He paused for a moment, in her silence of absorbing his apology. “She’s the reason, isn’t she? The other reason you returned me to my former status, the one you said I didn’t deserve to know, back when I first saw you again three months ago.”

“That’s correct,” she confirmed, “but on my terms. I want my daughter to know her father, but most certainly not the man who I watched you become from afar. God fucking knows, I’m probably bordering on mental myself, but I thought maybe, if I could sort you out in the midst of ironing out the fucking mess you and half the other fuckwits left London in, then maybe the old Sean might return. The Sean you might still be capable of being.”

He felt his chest tighten in an instant, that no matter how badly he’d hurt her, hurt himself, pulled apart the threads of his own life, she still had hope he could redeem himself. “Perhaps if I’d known about her, that might have come sooner. My priorities have always been centred around the health of my family. Surely you knew that?”

“I didn’t know what the fuck I knew about you, after that weekend, and then you turning on me!”

“I told you I didn’t want to.”

“But you did!” Her temper flared beyond her need or desire to control it, her jaw flexing as she ground her back teeth together, her fury literally biting. “You hurt me, Sean! I let you in, more than I ever had with actual boyfriends, and you fucking hurt me worse than anybody ever has! We could have been something, but you just threw it all the fuck away, didn’t you?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned away from her for a second. “I did. There isn’t a day that passes where I don’t regret that, either.”

“Why?” she scoffed, folding her arms. “It got you everything you wanted.”

He reached for her, thumb skimming her cheek. “And lost me something I truly needed.”

She felt her heart quicken, enjoying the comfort of his touch for a mere second before knocking his hand away. “Don’t. No. I’m off the table forever to you. Her? Maybe, if you continue to behave yourself.”

He nodded. “Do I at least get to know her name?”

“Tiger Lily.” Her favourite flower, he remembered. “We just call her Tiger for short mostly. Believe me, it suits her personality.”

He smiled at that, imagining her to be tiny and mighty, much like her mother. “When can I see her, Rin? I want to be there for her, provide for her. I have lost so much in the way of family, and the life I am attempting to rebuild very much has a place for her within it.”

His earnest softness stirred her, hearing his pledge to be involved in his daughter’s life, but not enough that she’d ease up on him. “When I see fit, and not a moment before.”

Indignance at being rebuffed rose within him, but he knew the more he demanded, the further she would dig her heels in. His continued commitment to not making bad choices borne of his impulsive nature had to be applied here, too. “Okay. I shall await you getting in contact, then.”

He turned to his car, Rin beginning to twitch in discomfort, resting her weight from foot to foot a couple of times as she swung her arms down from folded. “Sean?” He turned back, eyebrows slightly raised. “St James Park, 2pm next Sunday. We’ll meet you by the playground. You’re just my friend, though. You shan’t be revealed as her father until I decide.”

His mouth flickered, upturning. “Thank you.”

She had to give him something, she realised, no matter how much the scar tissue from his burns still ached within her chest. Since her reinstating him three months prior, he’d been flawless, utterly faultless in the way he had resurrected both himself and the Wallace Corporation. He deserved something, although as she walked back into the house, she wasn’t sure whether her lenience had been too swiftly delivered.

“I heard most of that from the window.” Her mother’s tone told a thousand more words than she actually spoke.

Rin sighed, moving to the fridge and pouring a vodka, feeling the weight of Sokoro’s hand press supportively to her shoulder. She paused, covering it with her own for a moment, leaning into his wide chest. “You handled it well, boss. I leave you with your mother now, it is not my place to be in a family talk.”

She smiled thinly, the Kenyan giant leaving the kitchen, Rin wishing he’d have stayed. “I take it you’re about to detail that I was wrong for allowing him to see her?”

“I’ll flippin’ say you were!” she began, one of the stools at the island being pulled out rapidly, the legs scraping across the floor. “Pour me a drink, too. I need it after that. You should have stuck to your guns and made him work for it a little harder. Then again you were never very competent in making that man work for anything, were you?”

A better relationship they might have had, but Diane still had her predisposition for making snide remarks. The point she was making was not lost upon Rin at all, who viewed her with incredulity as she turned with the vodka bottle, slamming the fridge shut as she paced to the cupboard containing the glasses. “I had sex with him, mum. Deal with it. I’m not as precious as you over the act of pleasure, and I never have been.”

“You might have avoided this whole fiasco if you were.”

Oh, she just couldn’t help herself. “And if I had, I wouldn’t have Tiger. I wouldn’t trade the outcome of me being careless over contraception for anything. Not even a better outcome. And to Sean’s credit, in the last few months he’s worked his arse off. The Wallace Corporation is in the process of three new builds, two more in the works. We’ve expanded construction to Birmingham and Manchester, too. For twelve weeks, that’s good going.”

“You’re going soft. I knew you would, as soon as you saw him again.”

Her grip upon the Stolichnaya bottle tightened, her lips pursing. “I have not gone soft. I want Tiger to know her father, and so far, he’s done a good job of proving himself to be capable of being just that; her father. Me? As you probably overheard, I am not a part of it. This was always my intention, mum. I want her to know him.”

Diane was nothing if not persistent in her stance. “But so soon? You really should have made him suffer for longer.”

Pouring the drinks, Rin returned the bottle to the fridge, adding ice and pushing a glass across the counter to her mother. “Just because I am allowing him limited access to his daughter does not mean I am softening. It is still my proverbial boot upon his neck, still my line he toes, still my weight he operates beneath. He shan’t ever forget that either.”

Diane sniffed, raising both her eyebrows and glass. “Just as long as he never does, Catherine.” She departed the kitchen, leaving Rin standing there for a second before the weight of it all bore down, flopping onto the shiny, lemon disinfectant-scented marble with a sigh. The next weight she felt was of two warm hands grasping her shoulders, kneading softly.

“Am I being too soft, Sok? Is she right, or is she being a huge shit bag?” She didn’t think her right hand would have moved too far away.

“Hey, hey,” he chided softly, pulling her up to stand straight, “she is still your mother, eh?”

She sighed. “I know, but is she?”

“You know as well as my boss, you are my close friend too, eh?”

She smiled. “I do.”

“And you know I always tell you how it is, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You could have made white man squirm for a little longer, eh, but I understand why you did not. You know how it is to be without a father, and you do not want that for little Tiger. You do this for her, I see. Not for him.”

At least Sokoro understood where she was coming from. “Thank you, for seeing things how they are.”

His eyes narrowed a tiny fraction, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Maybe a little for him, no?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

She avoided his dark eyes, taking a gulp of the chilled, neat vodka. “Definitely not.”

He had the respect to leave it there, but he knew. “Do you want me to come with you to this meet, eh?”

“Yes. Wait in the car for us though, so you’re nearby but not looming over us.”

He nodded. “Understood, boss. Now, my stomach is rumbling, eh! Where is the chef? I would like to be fed now, yes.”

He was getting very used to a life with people to do things for him, her dear Sokoro. Back at home, he happily pitched in to assist (or hamper) Anna, his wife of nine years, a German backpacker who had arrived in Kenya and then never left after meeting him. They lived in a house upon the reserve, Anna’s background in zoology meaning she was a perfect choice to work with the animals there, working her way up to managing the breeding program. She had called only five hours ago to joyfully inform Rin that the four pregnant lionesses had all birthed a healthy litter of cubs the night before.

Stretching her arms out to ease the residual tension of the last twenty minutes, Rin walked to the phone, calling for Roger to come down and begin preparing their dinner. After eating a delicious meal of griddled salmon and vegetables (and chicken for Tiger, who couldn’t stand that particular fish) she saw to bathing and dressing her daughter ready for bed, heading back downstairs to her office.

It had once been her father’s, the space now drastically changed from how it had looked before. She had intended to keep it exactly how it was, but it proved much too painful, to see such reminders of him everywhere. The solid oak and dark red walls had been replaced for pastel green, bird and floral print wallpaper, and white and light oak furniture, giving the space an airy feel.

Her father often liked to intimidate with decoration, the oppressiveness of the office very much in keeping with his personality. She used to coin it the belly of the dragon for good reason.

Taking a seat at her desk, she jiggled the mouse until her computer came out of standby, ready to continue organising her current project. She was arranging a charity dinner in aid of her wildlife reserve, one of those very fancy, three hundred pounds a head affairs in aid of raising money for the African wildlife she now solely presided over, despite no longer living out in Africa.

Of course, with Rin, there was another goal. The funds derived from the night’s hopefully generous contributions from London’s elite would be matched with injections of cash needing to be laundered. It made sense, since the CWR (Cavanagh Wildlife Reserve) was a charity, for all intents and purposes. The deals she was in the process of making with people in South America needed a fund to be run through, her reserve being the chosen destination.

After completing the guest list of a total of two hundred and seventy-three people, she sent the details to the printing firm to send out invitations, knowing most of her associates were such old school types, a well-appointed, neatly printed invitation arriving by post would be more appreciated than the more modern method of an e-invite.

Once done, she poured herself another drink, sitting back and resting her bare feet up on the desk, getting a small pang of annoyance when remembering her mother’s earlier words. “Then again you were never very competent in making that man work for anything, were you?”

“Slut shaming. So very you, mother darling.” Oh, how she’d really, really come down hard on her at the time, Rin remembered, when she’d revealed the news of her pregnancy to her and her father. They both had, Rin not knowing which way to turn, having her usually on side, protective father roaring in utter outrage at how she could be so stupid.

“You fucking open your legs to that scumbag in the first place, and then don’t have any bloody sense to use protection? Fucking hell, Catherine! I thought we raised you with more brains than that, girl, I really did!”

They had, too. In the midst of dealing with the heartbreak of his betrayal, obtaining the morning after pill had been the farthest thing from her mind. So far, in fact, that it wasn’t until her period didn’t arrive that it smacked her square in the chest, what she had forgotten to do in the aftermath of a weekend being shagged ragged by the man of her dreams.

Remembering it, him, the way his skin felt against hers, the heat of their connection, the fact that she hadn’t ever, or since felt a dick as perfect as his, she let herself be transported back to each moment he’d ever been inside her, just for a few seconds. God, the way that man fucked. He was unlike all others, and she hated him for it.

Coming back out from where her daydream had led her, she tried to shake the thoughts of Sean from her mind, but they clung on. Sleeping in his arms, chasing him around the house with a bow and arrow as they’d laughed. She’d never heard him laugh like that, and it made her chest flutter still.

“Bastard.”

Switching off her computer, she tidied her desk, finishing her drink. She’d be up at five in the morning to go for her usual six-mile run, Rin loathing any form of gymnasium-based exercise, but loving to pound her feet to the terrain in order to stay in shape. An early night was definitely in order.

Her childhood bedroom was still her destination, although changed in decoration from pale yellow to a pastel blue, the furniture remaining the same but furnishings a little more befitting of a grown woman. After cleansing her face and brushing her teeth, she crawled beneath the duvet, closing her eyes. Falling into dreams, she was eighteen again, her bed occupied by the man whom she’d tried in vain to cease thinking about, lying with her head on his chest as they’d talked. Well, talked, and...

“You’re going to make it fall off, you know,” he’d told her, eyeing his cock after she’d begun playing with it again.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’d purred, moving to sit astride him, kissing the centre of his chest. “It isn’t going anywhere, other than back inside me. I think I make it very happy.”

The way he’d looked at her, pulling her into a kiss, his gaze had told her strongly that it wasn’t just his cock that she made happy.

Waking with a start, she grumbled with agitation.

“Get out of my head, you fucking twat.”

It had been seven years. If he hadn’t left it by then, then much to her indignation, she had to admit he likely never would.

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