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mygayshortstories · 11 months ago

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Back before the days of the internet, when I was in my mid 20s, this was my first experience at “cottaging” in a public toilet, when I happened across Steve, a gorgeous 18 year-old, just ravenous for sex. But this turned into more than just a 'quick one'.....

Steve the Pipe-Fitter

I had a day off from work and had gone out to Coventry to photograph the Cathedral, only to be met with a ‘no photography’ sign at the door, so I’d spent the rest of the morning taking candid photos of nice young men out in the sun instead. A bit frustrated, I got back to town about 2 o’clock.

Just under the pedestrian ramp leading out of the railway station were the public toilets. I had heard about ‘cottaging’ and knew that this lavatory, being busy and anonymous, was such a place, so whether or not my subconscious was drawing me there today I don’t know but when I actually went down there, it was to pay a genuine call, so I duly paid and went into a cubicle.

The partitions between the cubicles didn’t quite reach the ground, so there was a gap underneath of about 6 inches. After a while, my curiosity got the better of me. Although I had never done it before, I knelt down on the floor and looked underneath. To my naïve surprise, a few cubicles away, a face was looking back in my direction. My reaction was instantaneous; I sat up quickly. However, my reaction had been so swift that I hadn’t had time to see who it was or what he looked like. For some reason though, I couldn’t pluck up enough courage to look again. I just sat there.

A short while later, I saw a young pair of shoes, at the end of jean-clad legs, enter the cubicle next door. I say ‘young’ because the shoes were new and smart, with a brass toe-strip, fashionable at the time. Clearly it was someone fairly young; probably no older than me, at any rate. He seemed to sit down but then do nothing else. I was curious and couldn’t resist the temptation, so I wrote on a piece of toilet paper, “How old?” and slipped it under the partition. The note was quickly taken up and was shortly followed by the sound of a match being struck. At first, I thought he was burning the note in disgust but then I realized that he was using the match to write with.

The note came back; “18” it read. I drew a rather deep breath. Now what?

I returned the note; “I’m 26 – can I wank you off?” I remember thinking at the time that punctuation was probably superfluous under the circumstances and that a fairly basic vocabulary was more apt.

Another match was struck on the other side and the note came back, “Lend me your pen”. I realised that he must have seen my stainless-steel biro when I had slipped the message under the partition and I wasn’t yet ready to risk losing one of my 21st Birthday presents. As I had nothing else to write with, I returned the note saying, “No – you’ll nick it” and indicated that he should continue using a match.

There was now a bit of a delay and I figured I must have blown my chances. At best, he didn’t have any more matches. “And all for the sake of losing a stainless-steel biro!” I thought to myself as I sat there.

However, to my surprise, eventually another note came back giving his approval to my original request, provided that I agreed to “suck him off”. Needless to say, I immediately indicated agreement and told him, “Unlock when ready”. I flushed the toilet and opened the door.

As I emerged from the cubicle, I then thought, “What do I do if he doesn’t unlock the door and just leaves me standing there like an idiot trying to get in?” It was pretty busy outside, with people coming and going, people washing their hands or waiting for a cubicle and some even hanging around at the urinals. They may or may not have known what was going on but I knew I had to risk it and be quick about it. As I turned, I saw his lock click to ‘vacant’ and I pretended to put in a coin and entered the cubicle.

On reflection, my hasty action deserved to lead me into serious trouble but my limited experience knew no better. I don’t know who I really expected to find inside but for a start he hadn’t lied about his age. He was a fraction taller than me, lightly built with short dark hair and wearing blue denim jeans and a black leather bomber-jacket over a plain white ‘T’ shirt. But what struck me so overwhelmingly was his incredibly beautiful face. He had blue-grey eyes and soft boyish features, so clean-shaven that he looked almost as if he had never shaved and never needed to. I could hardly believe my eyes how gorgeous he was.

He also must have been reasonably pleased with me because, instead of just offering me his cock to suck, we both feverishly began undressing each other. We didn’t get far though, before we were both embracing, hugging each other tightly. This first embrace said so much without words and it seemed to last for ages; he pressed his whole body to me, burying his face against my neck, hugging me and kissing my neck. He smelt nice too; he was clearly wearing after-shave or cologne of some kind. Whatever it was, it was doing its job perfectly and I was almost overwhelmed. At best, on entering the cubicle, I had expected - I had hoped – for an ‘ordinary’ young man (like me) who wanted quick, impersonal sex but nothing had prepared me for this situation. He wanted – he deserved – far more than just a quick wank, that much was certain. Looking into those glistening blue-grey eyes, set beneath luxuriant dark eyebrows, I just cradled his face in my hands and gently kissed him on the lips.

At this point, I must have realised the danger we were both in; two men in a public toilet, half undressed and one of us under 21. I felt I had to get him out of there to somewhere safer – and a little more romantic. I whispered into his ear,

“You’re so gorgeous; what on earth are you doing here?”

He merely hugged me all the more tightly and then he kissed me for the first time; not a peck or anything half-hearted but a full-blown, sloppy kiss. Oh heavens! His lips tasted simply delicious! Memories came flooding back of an 18 year-old boy-friend I had a few years back, as I began to melt against him. Again, I whispered to him,

“I can’t bear the thought of you being caught here. Can I take you back to my place? It’s not too far and it’ll be safer there.”

Much to my surprise, he readily agreed, just as we noticed someone spying on us from under the partition with the next cubicle. It was that face again – the one I had seen looking back at me under the partitions - only this time, he was right next door and had already noticed two pairs of feet where there should be only one.

My newly discovered treasure left the cubicle first, flushing the toilet for effect, and I followed after a moment or two. When I emerged at the top of the steps, I thought that I had lost him and that he had run off, but then I caught a glimpse of him disappearing into a telephone kiosk. I still wasn’t sure whether he was trying to avoid me but I briskly walked up to the kiosk and when he saw me, he came out. As we walked away together, he seemed more on edge than I had expected and he was nervously looking around at the people about us.

As we walked on, I managed to ascertain that his name was Steve and that he was, of all things, a pipe-fitter. To this day, I don't know if he was having me on and it was some kind of jok on his part but without warning, he suddenly hustled me in front of a queue and onto a bus. Rather taken by surprise, I fumbled for the fare he had paid and followed him upstairs to where he was sitting, looking intently out of the window. He then told me that we had been followed from the toilet and he pointed to a middle-aged, rather scruffy looking man in the crowd who I remember seeing earlier, loitering in the public toilet. It was ‘The Face’ from under the partitions again!

We stayed on the bus as it went around the City Centre; meanwhile, he sat there, pressing his leg firmly against mine. Even through my jeans, I could feel the warmth of his leg and this tenuous connection of our bodies passed an electric sexuality between us that was getting me highly aroused! The blood was pumping through my cock, tightly crushed inside my briefs, and there was an uncomfortable dampness developing in my groin as pre-cum oozed into my underwear as we sat there, our jean-clad thighs pressed warmly together.

By the time we reached the Town Hall, he seemed to be less nervous. We had lost our follower, so we changed buses and headed to my place. On the way, I tried to make ‘small talk’ and he responded chattily. He had a gorgeous Liverpool accent but said he lived locally. I learned that he had left his parents in Liverpool to find work and that he shared a flat not far from where I now lived, so he didn’t feel that he was heading into totally strange parts. The short walk from the bus seemed to take ages; my heart was beating fast and it was thumping into my throat. I was nervous that we might meet someone I knew; what would I say? But as it happened, we didn’t pass anyone.

He seemed impressed when I showed him into my flat and immediately asked how much it cost. Typical of a Liverpool ‘Lad’, I thought; winningly engaging but always straight to the point. I took his leather bomber-jacket, gave him a Coke and sat down on the couch, patting the seat next to me, indicating for him to sit beside me, which he did. As I put my arm around him, he responded straight away by doing the same and by snuggling up to me affectionately. I stroked his face and again told him how beautiful he was.

“Thank you,” he said with a coy grin. He seemed genuinely flattered.

As I moved to kiss him, he turned toward me and our lips met for the second time in a kiss of such tenderness, quite unlike anything you could imagine from an 18 year-old. His lips were full and his mouth tasted slightly of mint, as our passions roused and our tongues entwined. I began to realise that he may have been 18 but he was no novice. He certainly knew how to kiss, that’s for sure!

Eagerly, he following me into the bedroom, where I drew the curtains and closed the door. In the semi-darkness, we embraced again but this time, unlike in the toilet cubicle, we were safe and secure from prying eyes. Our whole bodies now pressing together, we kissed and hugged. He began to unbutton my shirt as I removed his t-shirt, revealing soft tanned arms and a strong chest delicately peppered with tiny hairs. Again we hugged, but this time our skins touched for the first time and passed bodily warmth between us. Feverishly, I unzipped his flies and unbuckled his belt but by now, we were both so desperate to get into bed that we both just dropped our jeans and almost leapt into bed, still wearing our underpants.

Under the covers, we fell against each other, skin against skin, and I felt the warm hardness of his organ against mine through our underwear. Soon, however, the underwear was gone and we were fully naked, entwined, hugging and kissing in a heat of frantic passion. I could feel his organ, large and full, between our stomachs as I lay on top of him and he began thrusting upwards to me.

Looking back from today’s world of the internet and ‘porn on tap’, it’s difficult to explain but all this excitement simply proved too much for me and his eagerness tipped me over the edge; all my pent-up sexual frustrations rose within me and I came uncontrollably against his stomach and erect cock, hugging and pressing myself to him. As I clung to him, my orgasm enveloped my whole body, as my semen gushed uncontrollably in pulses between us.

I was mortified. While I did not count myself as promiscuous, I had ‘been around the block a few times’, so this sort of thing was not supposed to happen to me and I was embarrassed. I thought I had blown my chances and it was all over. Light-heartedly, I apologized and quickly mopped up the mess, as I didn’t want to disappoint him. But there was no fear of that; he rolled me onto my back and knelt astride me, holding his throbbing penis in my face, foreskin already drawn back in anticipation. Evidently, he hadn’t forgotten our bargain back in the public toilet!

I too had no intention of breaking our ‘contract’, so I eagerly took his throbbing tool in my mouth and began sucking and playing with it. He loved it. We rolled about in a number of positions, with me sucking him and tickling and licking his testicles; and him thoroughly reveling in it. But I had to keep resting my jaw; it was beginning to ache and juices were everywhere; he was a big lad for one so slightly built.

“I’m a good stayer,” he joked, and he certainly was. I wasn’t about to give up either; he was 18, beautiful - and all mine.

But eventually, I felt the tell-tale signs; now on his back again with me crouched between his baby-soft thighs, his organ in my mouth and gripped in my hand, his breathing suddenly changed and he began gasping and shuddering. Don’t you simply love that moment when a young man loses all self-control just before he cums? With a deep, hard gasp, he exploded into my mouth 3 or 4 times, great gushes of salty cum coursing through his organ and filling my mouth.

Some guys (girls too, I suppose) don’t like the taste of a guy’s cum, so they either spit it out or let it dribble back out of their mouth. For me though, the whole experience is a very personal one and while I don’t much like the taste, I feel that swallowing it increases that connection; it creates an even deeper bond between the ‘giver’ and the ‘receiver’. Besides which, having a man’s cum permanently inside me is very satisfying; at least it is for me, at any rate! Consequently, as his throbbing cock subsided, I swallowed all of his slimy, slithery juices. His body then relaxing and exhausted, he breathed heavily.

“Jeez, I needed that!” he said, as we collapsed into each other’s arms, once again hugging and kissing.

At this point, I thought he would want to leave, his passion satisfied; but he hadn’t had enough, it seemed. We continued laying together, caressing and stroking, hugging and kissing, rolling about in loving passion the likes of which I had not felt in a long while. Occasionally, we would rest and just lay still in each other’s arms, softly talking, only to return to the hugging and kissing with renewed vitality. I complimented him on how passionate a lover he was. He liked that.

I said, “You’re not shy either, are you”, and he looked at me, slightly surprised, and replied, “No”, as if it had never occurred to him.

As we still lay entwined, without any warning he then said,

“Well, can I stick it up you then?”

Although the abruptness of his request came as something of a surprise, it was by no means out of character. He was direct and to the point. But I saw this as an opportunity, so in an attempt to persuade him to meet me again, I said I thought maybe we should keep that for another time. He didn’t seem to mind, except that now we began exploring each other’s bottoms.

As I played my finger around his anus, I realised that this was one of his weak spots, as it was mine in fact. He began groaning and he clasped my hand, pressing my finger into him. With the aid of a little lube, I began to finger-fuck him, massaging his prostate while he writhed about, groaning in ecstasy. For a few moments, I had his entire body sensations under my control (again) and I sensed he was going to let go again. I felt tremendous. But he had other ideas still in his mind because he gently pushed me away, grabbing the lube and following my example. Now he was the one who had me under his control and my mind soon changed regarding his request to screw me! He rolled me over and took charge.

I asked him to take it gently – he was only young and I wasn’t sure how desperate he might be. But I need have had no fears. As I lay on my front over a pillow, face to one side and one knee raised, he lubricated his now throbbing organ and my aching anus. He entered me just a little at a time, pausing when I asked, allowing me to relax. He wasn’t particularly well-endowed, as if that mattered, but he was fairly narrow too, so I was able to accommodate him with very little discomfort. However, his cock was quite long and it was terrific to feel his slender organ sliding smoothly in and out, upwards and inwards, rhythmically inside me, as he lay against my back with his arms firmly clasped around me. It was sheer bliss.

Eventually, he began thrusting in earnest, almost withdrawing in between his full, hard thrusts into me. In fact, he slipped out twice and got a bit flustered at nearly losing it – he was obviously getting near to his climax. I calmed him as he entered again easily, softly encouraging him to continue, and he began thrusting again, now desperately. As I felt his rhythm change, he thrust once or twice really hard into me as far as he could go and, reaching his climax, he grasped both my hands on the pillow and buried his face against my neck. I could feel him holding his breath, as he held absolutely still for a second or two; and then I felt his organ pulsing high inside me – 2, 3, 4, 5 times he came into me, my insides warmed by the love fluid flowing into me. Then he let out a gasp and I felt him relax his frantic grip of me, as he just lay there on top of me, his tool still slowly throbbing the last of his orgasm inside me.

Exhausted, his tool slipped out of me as he still lay against my back, sighing and breathing heavily. I sighed too – frankly, I had never had it so good! As we rolled over into each other’s arms once again, I told him so and he was justly flattered. We must have rolled about kissing and embracing for quite some time until he finally asked if I had cum when he screwed me. I told him I hadn’t, although I had been pretty close, and to my utter amazement, he said,

“Right, well it’s your turn then – I’ll do you a blow job” and with the words, “Let me at it!” he climbed over in-between my legs and began passionately sucking my still hard penis and tickling my testicles with his fingers.

Frankly, I was speechless; this 18 year-old fantasy had just had two quite tremendous orgasms in the space and he was still as excited and, what’s more, he was interested in me. I wasn’t expecting any more than I had already experienced but I was ready for anything he was prepared to offer and I was enjoying every precious moment.

He didn’t move up and down on me much; instead, he teased me with his mouth and tongue, second by second, so slowly that as I felt myself drawing towards a climax, it was so gently and slowly done that the tension was almost agonizing in its pleasure. I began shaking what seemed like ages before I came but then I could feel the fluid rising in me, flowing on its inexorable path to the outside world. I clutched at his head, gasping for breath, and came like a small fountain into his mouth, pumping away while he eagerly swallowed every drop I gave him until I was truly spent.

I was still gasping for breath when he collapsed against me again, where he lay for another ten minutes or so until it was time for him to return to his own flat. We had been in bed together for nearly three hours and finally he was leaving. We dressed and tidied up and I asked if I could see him again. To this day, his reply still baffles me.

“What do you think?” he said.

I’ve often wondered at the double meaning in his response but at the time, I took it at face value, gave him my phone number and attempted to express sincere feeling to him as I showed him out to the road and directed him to his bus home.

A beautiful cheery face smiled back at me as I waved to him disappearing down the road. As I returned to my flat and closed the door, I was alone again and felt suddenly empty and yet at the same time rejuvenated. For me, nothing short of a fantasy had come true and it felt all the better for knowing that he had had a bloody good time too! Our afternoon had been filled with such intense passion that I thought, “Surely this was more than just another ‘one night stand’ encounter?” But he never contacted me and I never saw him again. All I have is the memory; the image etched in my mind of that beautiful young man’s face, the warmth of his soft skin against mine and that incredible Thursday afternoon.

If you liked that story, please let me know - even post a comment under “ask me a question”. Or perhaps you’d just like to read another story?

Here’s an index of my other sordid tales, many of them taken from true-life sexual adventures of my own: Erotic Gay Stories Index

#gay short stories #hot gay stories #smut #cute guys #twinks #gay stories #cottaging #public toilets

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justforbooks · 8 months ago

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Richard Serra, who has died aged 85, was a remarkable cultural figure – a sculptor who belonged to the generation of American minimalists, was associated with process art and made experimental films, yet evoked something of an earlier, more heroic age. The critic Robert Hughes described him as “the last abstract expressionist”.

Although this statement stretches the point, Serra’s interest in the processes of sculpture led him to some extravagant gestural acts that belie the severity of his grand public commissions. Weight and Measure, made in the early 1990s for what is now Tate Britain, exemplified his austere side, with its massive steel forms designed to counter the building’s overbearing classicism. However, some of his other works, such as the twisting, “torqued” structures installed at the Guggenheim in Bilbao in 2005, are positively baroque.

Curled around an existing sculpture, Snake, that was commissioned for the museum’s opening in 1997, these steel works, dominated by ellipses and spirals, articulate spaces in which the gallery visitor can wander. They are monumental enough to take on Frank Gehry’s grandiose architecture, but, with their patinated surfaces and curved forms, also have an intimate, sensual quality. Above all, Serra’s sculptures create a remarkable interaction with the public and a strong experience of gradual discovery – hence the installation’s title, The Matter of Time.

His works have proved popular with curators, but are not confined to museums. They have appeared in settings as diverse as the Tuileries garden in Paris, the Federal Plaza in New York, and the Qatari desert, attracting responses from intense admiration to a public inquiry. One of his sculptures, Fulcrum, was put up in 1987 at Broadgate outside Liverpool Street station in London. It manages to combine monumentality with fragility, made of weathered steel plates that appear to support each other precariously.

He was born in San Francisco into a family that provided a foundation for his later career as a sculptor in metal. His father, Tony, who was from Majorca, was a pipe-fitter in a naval shipyard. His mother, Gladys (nee Fineberg), who was the daughter of Jewish immigrants from Odessa, used to introduce her son as “Richard, the artist” and was, later, touchingly enthusiastic when he began to make his way in New York. Serra himself laboured in steel mills during his time as a student and subsequently, in 1979, made a compelling film, Steelmill/Stahlwerk, about German workers in the industry.

Serra began his studies in 1957 at the University of California in Berkeley, graduating from the institution’s Santa Barbara campus with a degree in English literature. He followed this in 1961 with a three-year course in painting at Yale University, New Haven – a period in which he also worked as a teaching assistant and as a proof-reader for Joseph Albers’s book Interaction of Color (1963). At Yale he encountered such luminaries as Philip Guston, Robert Rauschenberg, Ad Reinhardt and Frank Stella, before winning a fellowship that took him to Europe in 1964.

In Paris, Serra was profoundly impressed by the sculpture of Constantin Brâncuși, but in Florence the following year he continued to paint, producing coloured grids in timed conditions controlled by a stopwatch. It was only with his first exhibition, at the Galleria La Salita in Rome in 1966, that he made a definitive move away from painting, filling cages with live and stuffed animals.

After moving to New York in the same year, Serra initially survived by setting himself up as a furniture remover, together with his friends, the composers Philip Glass and Steve Reich. Serra’s artistic development at this time was rapid, moving from experiments with rubber, fibreglass and neon tubing to the metal sculpture for which he became renowned. He soon began his long-term association with the Leo Castelli Gallery in New York, in whose Warehouse annex he was photographed in 1969 throwing molten lead at the wall with a ladle.

In the same year Serra refined this procedure by splashing the metal against a small steel plate stuck into the corner of Jasper Johns’s studio. The “castings” produced when the lead cooled down were rough, expressive forms, but this project also inspired Serra to create more impersonal pieces, in which metal sheets were wedged into the angles of rooms, leaned against each other or pinned to the wall by lead pipes. His emphasis on objective phenomena – mass, gravity and other physical forces – can also be seen in his remarkable experimental films.

In Hand Catching Lead (1968), the hand is in fact the artist’s but it is shown disembodied, trying to grasp rather than cast pieces of falling lead, which it drops or misses altogether. The repetition of this fundamentally pointless act gives the film a serial quality, akin to the celluloid process itself.

Serra’s engagement with the cutting edge also led him to work with the land artists Robert Smithson and Nancy Holt. In 1970 he assisted them with Spiral Jetty at the Great Salt Lake in Utah and, after Smithson’s death in 1973, Serra helped to complete Amarillo Ramp in an artificial lake in Texas. His own site-specific sculptures included Spin Out: For Bob Smithson (1972-73), in the park-like surroundings of the Kröller-Müller Museum at Otterlo in the Netherlands. Here the three converging steel plates interacted with each other and their environment, exemplifying Serra’s aim that “the entire space becomes a manifestation of sculpture”.

The 1970s was a difficult decade in Serra’s life. In 1971 a worker was killed in an accident during the installation of one of Serra’s sculptures outside the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. His five-year marriage to the artist Nancy Graves ended in 1970, and his mother’s suicide in 1977 was followed two years later by the death of his father. However, in that decade he also met his future wife, the art historian Clara Weyergraf, with whom he collaborated on Steelmill/Stahlwerk. Clara was also to play a vital role in shaping his sculpture, as well as giving her name to Clara-Clara, a powerful, curvilinear work that was installed in the Tuileries garden in 1983. The history of this piece exemplifies Serra’s problems in making site-specific art, since it was originally intended to feature in a show at the Pompidou Centre, but at a late stage was deemed to be too heavy.

Clara-Clara’s travails were minor in comparison to the controversies surrounding Tilted Arc, a sculpture 36 metres long, set up at the Federal Plaza in Manhattan in 1981. Condemned for being intrusive, a magnet for graffiti artists and even a security risk, it was eventually removed in 1989, four years after a public hearing in which a majority of witnesses had advocated its preservation.

Despite this setback, Serra’s career continued to flourish. He had two retrospectives, in 1986 and 2007, at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, which also devoted a permanent room to his monumental work Equal (2015), as well as major exhibitions at home and abroad. He showed frequently with his gallery, Gagosian, in London, New York and Paris, most recently in 2021.

In 2001 he received a Golden Lion for lifetime achievement at the Venice Biennale, in 2015 the Légion d’honneur in France and, three years later, the J Paul Getty Medal.

During his latter years, Serra became heavily involved with public projects in Qatar, above all the four steel plates, rising to over 14 metres and spanning more than a kilometre, erected west of Doha in 2014. Known as East-West/West-East, the work engages spectacularly with its surroundings, the gypsum plateaux of the Brouq nature reserve in the Dukhan desert. Serra himself described it as “the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done”.

He is survived by Clara.

🔔 Richard Serra, artist, born 2 November 1938; died 26 March 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #richard serra #in memoriam

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blogfree4u · 1 year ago

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maccreadysbaby · 2 years ago

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Omg I think the single mother idea is adorable!!! What if readers son or daughter keeps getting into trouble with another little kid in their class. So the principal calls both parents in to talk. And BOOM in walks none other than single dad Logan. The parents hit it off after running into each other at the school and around town doing errands. I think it would be cute!!

This is so cute!!!! I love it!! I’m going to write it in head canon format just because it would be a little easier for me :) I took a little liberty with naming the kids, I hope that’s okay! I made them eleven years old because I feel like that’s when kids start to actually get mean lol

sorry this is like really long I apologize :,) I put my heart and soul into it

next part >

THE MOMENT™︎

Y/n L/n thought she would only get married once

she was wrong

Her first husband had been the love of her life, an absolute dream of man. She couldn’t have asked for a better husband or father to their son, McKade.

that was, until he started drinking. they got divorced when McKade was just six years old.

he went back and forth from house to house on the weekends

until her ex husband went off the grid right after their son turned eleven. completely disappeared off the face of the earth

she knew it was hard for McKade, not seeing his father anymore. but she didn’t know it was going to go as far as getting in trouble at school

she wasn’t super surprised when she got a call from the middle school that her son had gotten into a fight with another kid in his class. he’d definitely inherited his fathers unbeatable loud mouth and sour attitude and it was bound to get him into some kind of trouble

she didn’t know what she’d expected when showing up to a meeting with the other boy’s parent, but she definitely hadn’t expected him. he was younger than she thought, and fitter, too. He looked like he could’ve been the kid’s brother instead of father

the principal of the school recommended a sort of backwards approach to the kids’ relationship, insisting that forcing them to spend time together would eventually make them friends

Y/n wasn’t completely on board at first, figuring it might be torturous to make McKade hang out with the kid who’d beat him up, who’s name she learned was Elliot Walker

so, the first order of business was simple: their teacher assigned McKade and Elliot partners on a project. It wouldn’t be too much to handle, right?

she got his father’s phone number (who’s name turned out to be Logan) and they met at the local park to let the boys work on the project at the picnic tables

Y/n was extremely awkward at first, just keeping her eyes trained on the children and listening intently to the sarcastic quips and rude comments they threw back and forth. She hadn’t spoken to Logan a single time until he piped up:

”I think this is working,”

She glanced over at him on the park bench, knitting her eyebrows together

”they’re verbally abusing one another,”

”but not beating each other up,” he shrugged. She shrugged, too.

”guess not,”

after only a little blood was spilt — which happened to be once from Elliot’s nose after McKade punched him — the project seemed to be going smoothly, apart from occasional bickering. They weren’t exactly friends, because they were basically silent unless they were being rude, but it was a start

Logan and y/n stayed silent most of the time, just watching the boys to make sure they didn’t go full out mma on each other. But y/n couldn’t help but be curious about Logan

he seemed young, but obviously old enough to have a kid. And where was his wife? Most men would definitely make their wife take on the child responsibilities. Especially if it involved another mother. She refrained from speaking, though. Mostly because she didn’t want to pry or come off as pushy

the boys finished the project, and naturally, the teacher gave them another one. If they had homework, the teacher insisted they do it together. And surprisingly, by the end of the week, the boys were starting to not hate each other

when it got cold out, Logan and Elliot started coming to Y/n’s house instead of the park. he took note of all the pictures on the walls being devoid of a father

they were both trash at small talk, so they hadn’t really spoken apart from the occasional “yeah that was great thanks bye” and “hi how are you, good how are you”

she was surprised he was so quiet and content with not speaking, but she didn’t really mind

on Friday, while the boys were doing homework in the dining room and she and Logan sat on her sofa, he piped up again:

”so, what do you do?”

she peeled her gaze away from the boys doing homework and met his icy eyes

”I’m a financial advisor,”

he nodded to himself: “you must have a lot of friends.”

y/n laughed: “friends? My clients wish they were dead every time I show up to lecture them on their spending. McKade is my best friend,” she gestured to her son through the doorway. “My only friend, really. My world.”

”mine, too.” He stated, and she gave him a weird look. He quickly corrected: “Elliot, I mean.”

so Logan and Elliot left that night, and the week of socialization was over. And she was grateful

… for about a day, because on Saturday, McKade was asking if he Elliot could come over again

“I thought you didn’t like him,” she teased

“Yeah, but, you know, he’s kinda cool when he isn’t punching me in the gut. Plus, you need some friends too, mom,”

y/n was flabbergasted. “What are you taking about?”

”Elliot’s dad. He’s cool. You never hang out with your friends like us kids do, you should,”

she snickered. “That’s because you’re my best friend, Kade.”

he rolled his eyes. “I’m eleven, and not to be rude, but that’s kinda pathetic. Elliot said his dad needs friends, too.”

y/n was genuinely confused, but also kind of glad he was in good graces with the Walker boy again. She called Logan that evening and they went to the park

”so, my son tells me you need some friends,” he stated from their seat on the park bench. Y/n snickered

”funny, I heard the same about you. Except McKade called me pathetic in the middle of it.”

Logan laughed, a nice, genuine laugh with a bright smile. And that’s when y/n thought, you know, maybe having a friend wouldn’t be so bad. For the sake of their sons, of course ;)

over the next few weeks, Elliot and McKade became inseparable to the point where Y/n saw Logan almost every day. Their pitiful small talk slowly grew into more lengthy conversations and got more personal

Logan let it slip that he was retired military, and after a little bit of excited badgering, told y/n a few stories. In turn she told him some about her past. It wasn’t anything cool, mostly like riding horses on her father’s ranch and getting lost in the woods of Louisiana at night

they we’re getting closer just like their boys were. They took turns hosting sleepovers nearly every weekend, sending pictures of the boys and selfies of them and the kids back and forth until the wee hours of the morning

y/n once got locked out of the house during said sleepover and had to have Logan jimmy the lock — which she totally didn’t think was so cool

he stayed for dinner that night, the four of them at her tiny dining table, chatting it up over a few boxes of pizza like long lost friends

and frankly, she was beginning to consider Logan her best friend. She didn’t know about him, but he was basically the only friend she had at that point, so that made him the best. Right?

y/n found herself getting a bit more excited for the play dates than the actual children. McKade had a stable best friend and everything was going great. He barely asked about his dad anymore, and honestly, Logan had become some sort of bonus father to him the same way Y/n’s best friend’s parents were growing up. It was a dream

that is, until it wasn’t

until y/n got an unnamed phone call from Chicago while the kids were at school, only to hear that her ex-husband was dead

it didn’t hurt like she thought it would. Her heart ached more for McKade than it did for herself. How was she gonna tell him? How was she supposed to do that?

In that moment, she became painfully aware of how alone she really was

that night, she quietly invited Logan and Elliot over for dinner, and after they ate, the boys went to his room to play

character limit 💀

As they were cleaning up, y/n blurted: “McKade’s dad is dead. How am I supposed to tell him that?”

Logan whirled around from her kitchen sink, eyes wide, with a plate still in his hand. “What?”

She felt kind of dumb in the moment, because she’d never brought up her ex with him before. Neither had he. It simply wasn’t a topic up for discussion

”I don’t know, I didn’t get the details. I just know it happened this morning. How am I supposed to tell him?”

Logan’s eyes drifted to the side, focusing on something in the other room. His features went pitifully soft. “I think you just did.”

she turned around just in time to see her son barrel back up the stairs, tailed by Elliot, who was saying something she couldn’t decipher

she immediately ditched dinner cleanup, darting up the stairs after them, to McKade’s room. The door was halfway open and she could already hear the hysterical sobs emanating from inside of it, and the small, comforting voice of Elliot, trying his absolute best. She could tell he was crying, too

she went into the room and was met with McKade, laying on his bed facing the wall, trembling almost violently as his small body was wracked with sobs too big for such a young child. Elliot was sitting beside him, one hand resting on his best friend’s back as the other wiped tears off of his own face

God, she was such an idiot

she heard Logan’s footsteps enter the room behind her, but she didn’t pay any attention to them. Instead she sat on the bed and held her son for what seemed like hours as he coughed and spluttered, trying a few times to speak to no avail. Elliot stayed right by his side the entire time

it was half past two in the morning when McKade finally fell asleep in her arms. Elliot had already fallen asleep about an hour earlier, arms clinging tightly around his best friend’s waist

y/n, trailed by Logan’s soft irises, covered them both up and left the bedroom silently

She didn’t say a word as they padded back downstairs, both in utter shock. And they stayed silent until Logan muttered: “you want us to stay the night?”

and that was when her heart shattered. For her, for her son, for her ex, for everything and anything she’d been keeping inside of her all at once. She sank onto the kitchen floor without warning, silent but hysterical sobs forcing their way out of her small frame with absolutely no mercy

she only felt the least bit of comfort when she heard his knees land on the floor behind her, and felt his arms snake around her from behind, holding her together like some makeshift bubble wrap. His head was resting against her shoulder, the warmth he radiated spreading across her back as he pulled her against his chest

he never said anything. He only held her

and that moment was it. The moment she realized she felt safest in his arms, she felt protected and seen and wanted in his embrace. It felt different than anything she’d ever felt with her ex husband. Like he really was going to be there, always and forever.

And no matter how torn up and distraught she was in that moment, it was the very one that she realized… she was going to marry Logan Walker

and a year and a half later, she did

and they lived happily ever after with their cute sons

:,)

#call of duty logan #logan walker #codg #cod fic #cod #call of duty ghosts #logan walker x reader #cod ghosts

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goddessactuality · 4 days ago

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so so so obsessed w this new girl who just moved in her name is Amanda and she looks like she wears the same wig as amanda bynes shes's a girly girl who works as a pipe fitter and drives an old mustang leaves her car window down in ohio winter weather with her purse on her seat she cooked me a meal for NO reason the first night I met her the other tacky ppl who live around me complained that she was loud and she complained right back she leaves her stuff all over the bathroom I'm team Amanda I love her so much and I'm so sad she's leaving in a week

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anthrofreshtodeath · 2 years ago

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Combine mafia & sugar daddy thx

Remember when Maura thought it would be nice if she and Jane followed in the footsteps of their fathers and Jane was like "but then I'd be a plumber and you'd be a mob boss"?

Jane looked up at the compound home she’d found herself every weekday for the past two months, with her red caddy in her right hand. Well, to be fair, she’d spent more than a handful of weeknights in it, when most of her weekdays were spent in the new construction on the back lot, laying pipe with her flighty, dumbass brother on their father’s crew.

There’d been a few Super Mario jokes from the mouth-breathing muscle men around the property, but Doyle himself had been professional. Business-minded, with a side of I’ll-crack-your-knees-if-you-miss-deadlines and micromanaging.

Yeah - somehow, Frank Rizzoli had procured a long term job on Paddy-fucking-Doyle’s new house, the one for the new wife who was an old flame that stuck by his side through his most recent stint in prison. Jane, at thirty-five with her own controlling stake in the Rizzoli and Sons outfit, despite not being a son, had agreed to help her father out of pity and a little bit of fear, not for herself but for the physical well-being of her father. She didn’t ask questions when he called her up to put her own job on hold for the favor, because she didn’t want to know how her father even struck up enough of a conversation with Doyle to put his name in as a respectable plumber. Not that he wasn’t, not that they weren’t, of course. It was just… the stakes had never been so high.

And yet, when the door opened on Jane, silhouetting her against the bath of light from the entryway, neither had the compensation. The rewards. “Hi,” she drawled, her smile drawn in and crooked like she had some secret she was proud of. She did, she supposed, when she was greeted in kind.

“Hi there,” Maura Doyle, Paddy’s very rich, very gorgeous daughter in charge of the gambling portion of his empire, clasped her hands in front of her hips, in front of the navy blue dress hugging those hips so as to leave nothing to the imagination. She pursed her lips just before she beckoned Jane in with a hand outstretched toward the staircase behind her. “It’s upstairs.”

Jane’s eyes followed the ass they’d been following since she first saw Maura eight weeks prior, showcased in that dress like a fucking work of art. She would have felt out of place in her plaster dusted jeans, Rizzoli and Sons t-shirt, utility belt, and worn Red Wing boots, if Maura hadn’t seen her in it all before.

If Maura hadn’t pulled her into the main house to be fucked on the basis of those clothes alone several times.

“Kinda fortuitous that this bathroom sink craps out on you while we’re all in the middle of a huge job, huh?” Jane snarked when Maura stopped at the top of the stairs, turning to face her. “Don’t really have to worry about going out and bookin’ a plumber.”

“Well, I pay you in other ways,” Maura countered, her visage narrowing and her fingers reaching for Jane’s collar. She let her gaze linger on the pipe fitters in Jane’s caddy just before she led her to a door to their left. “Right over here.”

___

“Your envelope… is already on the counter…downstairs…” Maura panted at her reflection. She stood in front of the mirror of the small bathroom to which she’d lured Jane, and with her palm pressed against the glass, her breasts bounced extra enticingly in time with Jane’s rhythm. It wasn’t fast, untenable, but deep, the hip-bucking of passion consummated after having been deferred. Her dress, too tight to allow Jane’s fingers anywhere near her sex, pooled at her feet with her heels still on, mingling with Jane’s pants in a pile on the floor. Jane’s tools and pipe fittings laid forgotten around them, the open cabinet leading to the guts of the sink contributing to the ambience of the situation. To its sexuality.

Jane kissed her shoulder, used one hand to spread Maura farther apart by the hip and the other to dive knuckle deep into wetness. “Don’t talk about money while I’m in you, Maura. Makes me feel dirty,” growled Jane. She ground her pelvis against Maura’s ass, angled just right against the round of flesh there to get some delightful friction.

“It’s not like I’m paying you for this…” Maura turned her head back as she spoke, and Jane couldn’t resist the kiss her swollen lips begged for. “TJ needs tuition, my love… and I am… an ardent supporter of, oh. Early childhood education.”

“I’m supposed to think you’re doin’ it outta the kindness of your own heart?” Jane teased, with a vicious upstroke and thumb pressure right on Maura’s clit.

“My heart, my vagina, my pocketbook, can’t it be all of the above?” Maura matched Jane blow for blow, arching her spine in dual purpose: to prolong the ascent of her pleasure and to give Jane more resistance to rub on.

“How much does the heart part mean when the boss finds out his daughter’s been bankrolling the plumber’s nephew’s catholic school?” Jane slowed, and contemplated the possible consequences. The outcomes. None of them seemed good.

“Honestly he’d probably be angrier that I’m fucking the plumber,” said Maura. When Jane ceased entirely, Maura kissed her again, reaching down between her own legs to pluck Jane from inside. Softly, sweetly, entwining their fingers before she turned around. Jane stretched out her arms and pressed both hands against the lip of the vanity’s countertop, which encased Maura in a rather pleasant cage: the rigid heat of Jane’s body against her front, the cool bite of the granite on her lower back. “Hey,” she soothed, wrapping her arms around Jane’s shoulders. She leaned against the counter more fully and pulled Jane close to her. Jane acquiesced with a wet, heavy kiss while she palmed Maura’s backside. “What’s wrong? Hmm? Hasn’t this always been how things are between us?”

Jane didn’t want to name her problem out loud, because that would mean naming her desire for Maura beyond just sex. That would mean admitting to the want. The want grew when their legs tangled closer together. “Yeah I guess so,” she grumbled.

“Would you rather me pay you personally? Buy you expensive things?”

“I’d rather you not spend any money at all, Mob princess,” Jane told her, but in the safety of the crook of her neck.

Maura shivered at the breath tickling the space under her ear. “We can discuss that. But I meant what I said. I want your nephew to get the education he deserves, and… I suppose a fund could be arranged.”

Jane stared for a long time, trying to ascertain Maura’s veracity. She frowned until she saw it, and then she pressed her lips to Maura’s to show she believed her. “I can’t ever repay you for all this.”

“Sure you can,” replied Maura saucily. “You can fix this sink after you take me to bed.”

Jane blinked rapidly, dropping her arms to her sides. “Wait. It’s really backed up?”

It was Maura’s turn to be confused. “Yes. Why would I lie?”

“I thought… I thought it was just a ruse to get me up here,” Jane croaked.

“Look at us,” said Maura, eyeing their various states of undress, hers total. “Do you think I would need a ruse to get you here? Have I before? Now I meant what I said, take me to bed - you can finish the job later.”

“O-ok,” Jane agreed, pulling her pants around her waist when Maura extracted herself from their embrace and carried her dress over her shoulder down the hall.

#ask anthrofreshtodeath #otp prompts march 2023

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