#day three: cruise ship

[dontwantthenextcommanderiwantyou]

Yes, Black folks too. Our melanin protects us from the sun but you don't wanna be out in it too long without the added protection of sunscreen.

Just remember if you suffer from melancholy and must run away to the sea for your health that you should also wear sunscreen

[kizzyedgelll]

@pscentral anniversary event: take three ⤿ fantasy & sci-fi

WALL-E (2008) dir. Andrew Stanton

Well, good morning, everybody, and welcome to day 255,642 aboard the Axiom. As always, the weather is a balmy 72 degrees and sunny, and, uh... Oh, I see the ship's log is showing that today is the 700th anniversary of our five year cruise. Well, I'm sure our forefathers would be proud to know that 700 years later we'd be... doing the exact same thing they were doing. So, be sure next mealtime to ask for your free sep-tua-centennial cupcake in a cup. Wow, look at that.

[batshit-auspol]

With the sudden collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, many of the former empire's resources were sold off to the highest bidder, and their $14 billion space shuttle program was no exception.

Seeking to recoup some of that eyewatering spend, in 1998, the "Buran" (Russia's answer to the American Space Shuttle) was offered up for sale on eBay for $10 million.

No serious offers were received - with most people assuming the listing to be a joke, until the New York Post confirmed the sale, with Russian authorities stating they "actually have two" if anyone is interested.

(Pictured: A later auction of a smaller scale Buran in 2005)

Sensing an opportunity, a group of Aussie entrepreneurs including Australia's first astronaut and the lawyer for Prime Minister Paul Keating offer to lease the shuttle from Russia, to put it on display in Australia during the Sydney Olympics.

After gaining permission from the Kremlin for the lease, in 1999 the Russian military briefly stops bombing Chechnya in order to dismantle the Buran, and it is placed on a barge to be shipped to Sydney on the (soon to be infamous for other reasons) Tampa shipping vessel at a cost of $5 million.

Once in Sydney, after a disastrous few months on display where crowds failed to flock to the shuttle exhibition featuring such compelling educational offerings as "activities is to assist in the development of issues of nutrition and hygiene at home" (an actual quote from their website) - the leasing company declared bankruptcy and washed their hands of the space shuttle completely.

The Buran Gift shop where you could buy soviet space ship themed football jerseys, in case you needed one of those

One of four people listed on the lease, described as a business partner of the Prime Minister, also claims he never knew he was a director of the company, which went on to cause a lot more problems.

This whole debacle presented a slight issue for the cash strapped Russian authorities, who had now only been paid $100,000 for the 9 year lease of the shuttle instead of the $600,000 they were owed. Eventually the decision was made to abandon the once $1 billion Soviet pride and joy in a Sydney carpark, where it resided for a year under a small tarpaulin.

Failed attempts to be rid of the shuttle included a 12 day auction hosted by an LA radio station, where listeners were offered the chance to buy the shuttle for $6 million, however all bids turned out to be pranks and the shuttle remained.

Multiple attempts were also made to sell the shuttle to Tom Cruise, with the exacerbated movie star's representatives repeatedly telling the insistent traders that he was not interested in owning a Russian spaceship.

Eventually a Singaporean group dismantled the shuttle and shipped it overseas, however Russian authorities soon reported they once again had been failed to be paid for the lease. Singaporean representatives responded that they definitely had paid for the shuttle, and that they simply couldn't remember when or how much was paid.

Representing the Russian government, Lawyer Suhaila Turani told the Wall Street Journal “I feel sorry for the Russians. They’re good in space, but they’re very naive in business.”

For a time the shuttle was abandoned in the storage yard of event company Pico, with the company owner telling the Wall Street Journal "I just want this thing out of my life" after three years of being stuck with it.

A few years later the shuttle was found by German journalists dismantled in a junkyard, and it was then bought and shipped to Germany to be put on display a museum, so all's well that ends well (except they dropped it from a crane while trying to set it up, but it polished up okay).

[beanarie]

i should call this sentences sunday bc it might be part of a bigger thing but i am le tired. i'm tagging you in my heart, believe

~

Just over twenty four hours later, he brings Evan to the temporary home of the Grant-Nashes. Athena presses pause on nitpicking her children's sad, slow attempt to make lunch (despite the fridge that he knows is packed with enough food to keep the three of them going for a good two weeks) and eyes Tommy.

Evan shrugs and joins the kids, hugging May and squeezing Harry's shoulder before he pulls them into a quiet conversation.

"I'd like you to be a pallbearer," Athena says.

"Oh." Tommy doesn't ask, Are you sure? but it definitely shows in his face because she suddenly looks more determined than tired.

"We need a sixth. And you were there when we met, you know?"

"Was I?" he says. Then it comes to him. "The rooster?"

"The rooster. It was his first week at the 118." Her lips purse into a facsimile of a smile. "I confess, I didn't remember you." He doesn't take it personally. They'd barely interacted in those days. "But after-"

"Evan?"

She shakes her head slightly. "The cruise ship, actually. I asked where Hen and the other knuckleheads found a helicopter pilot willing to fly into a hurricane, and Bobby..." Her whole body goes rigid.

"Sergeant," he says softly.

She tilts her head in mock annoyance. "Call me Athena," she says, her voice husky with unshed tears. "He said, 'Oh, that was Tommy. He was one of mine.'"

One of mine. Jesus.

"You helped give us one extra year together. You helped keep my kids from having to mourn us both. Do this one last thing for him."

"Of course. Athena."

[casssmalefantasy]

somewhere off the coast - paige bueckers x reader!

s: after a championship run, paige finally gets a break—and she wants to spend it exactly where she belongs: beside you, somewhere warm, with the sun on your skin and her hands on you

w: suggestive content, light teasing, drinking mentions, hand on thigh moments, cruise vacation fluff, soft girlfriends energy, flirty + playful tone

word count: 1.1K

author’s note: thank you for the support on my first story! i hope you guys like this one + let’s pretend like the draft isn’t directly after the championship and she has a month break lol.

“you know we leave in three days, right?” you glance at paige over your shoulder, looking at a pair of nike sweatpants on the rack.

“like… seventy-two hours.”

“damn, so dramatic.” paige says as if it’s no big deal.

“says the one who hasn’t packed a single thing.”

paige shrugs like it doesn’t stress you out just hearing it. she leans lazily against the display shelf in the nike store, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a sly little grin tucked under her teeth.

“i’m still waiting on the stuff i ordered,” she says, totally unbothered.

“when did you order it?” i say. clear panic in my voice.

“…yesterday.”

you stare at her.

she lifts her brows. “what?”

“paige.”

“what?? i got expedited shipping!”

you shake your head and laugh because you can’t help it—she’s impossible and she knows it.

“of course you did. meanwhile, my suitcase is zipped and ready.”

“you’re so hot when you’re responsible.”

“someone has to be.”

“this why i keep you around.”

“mm,” you tease, “and not for anything else?”

she grins and pulls you closer by the hand. “okay maybe a few other things.”

before she can kiss you right there in the middle of the aisle, jana walks up with a water bottle in hand, eyeing you both with the most unserious look.

“not y’all flirting in public again.” clear annoyance in her voice.

“hi jana,” you say sweetly. paige throws an arm around you and shrugs. “just reminding my girl how lucky she is.”

“you’re delusional.” jana says while rolling her eyes.

“you’re just mad you’re not coming with us,” paige says, smirking.

“okay but for real—i deserve a cruise too. us sophomores should get perks.”

“hmm you can have the leftover chick-fil-a later.” paige says jokingly.

“i live with you. that’s not a reward, that’s survival.” jana says.

you all laugh—and end up ordering chick-fil-a anyway, because suddenly everyone’s starving. in the car paige says, “i haven’t had this in a minute. i missed it,” and you just laugh at her as if she wasn’t caught eating chick-fil-a two weeks ago.

back at her apartment, the night winds down slow. you both sit on the floor of her room with bags of food and your playlists playing low, her knee resting against yours as she eats fries one by one.

“you’re not bringing your damn ipad on the cruise, right?” you joke.

“you know she comes with me everywhere,” she says with a smirk. you roll your eyes. “this is why we need a vacation.”

she leans back, pulling you with her. “i’m serious. i’ve been dreaming about this.” you smile, and it’s soft now. “me too.”

by the time you fall asleep, her head is on your chest and your fingers are tangled together under the blanket.

~~~

the morning of departure comes early. way too early. but paige still looks good—messy bun, black hoodie, minimal words, but heavy on the sleepy attitude. she leans against the wall while you call the uber, hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

“do you have everything?” you ask, eyes narrowing. “because i’m not listening to you complain about forgetting your dinner outfit.”

she yawns. “i have enough clothes to last a week. maybe. probably.”

“i swear—”

“relax,” she grins, “worst case i just wear yours.”

“yeah as usual.”

“i would. especially your purple cardigan”

you ignore the way your stomach flips at the thought of how good she would look in your clothes.

the uber ride is quiet. early morning silence kind of quiet. you’re scrolling through your phone, her hand lazily resting on your thigh, eyes closed like she’s trying to hold onto sleep. you don’t even mind—this is the softest version of her. tired, warm, still yours.

~~~

getting on the cruise ship is a process: luggage tags, check-in, a long line that paige complains about under her breath, but kisses your shoulder to stay calm. you finally get through security and walk up the ramp, and she stops you right before you cross.

“wait. before we officially board,” she says, reaching into her bag.

“paige—”

“just open this.”

it’s the cruise confirmation. your name and hers. a balcony suite. paid in full. she smiles as you look at it. i never like the thought of paige paying expensive stuff for me, although she reminds me all the time that she wants to.

“you didn’t have to—”

“yes i did,” she says, quiet. “you’ve held it down for me all year. late practices, long road trips, game-day nerves. you were there through all of it. i wanted to do something for us.”

“you won the national championship.”

“yeah, but this—” she taps the page, “this feels like a win too.”

~~~

the cruise is everything. it’s the dirty shirley’s during the day. it’s paige in sunglasses, hair tied up in french braids laughing as you both almost fall off paddle boards. it’s dressed-up dinners and beach excursions, matching necklaces, and a sunset kiss on the deck while the wind tangles in your hair.

some nights are soft—slow dancing on the balcony, her hoodie around your shoulders, talking about what life feels like with less pressure for once.

some nights are not.

like the one after an all white party, when you both come back tipsy and sun-warmed and glowing. she presses you into the bed with her hands on your waist, giggling against your neck, whispering about how hot you looked the whole night.

“you wore that dress on purpose,” she mumbles, lips dragging down your jaw.

“you suggested i should wear it.”

“you knew what it would do to me.”

her hands slip under the fabric and your breath stutters—the same hands that held a trophy a week ago, now worshipping your body like it’s the prize. you kiss her slow. fingers in her hair. her knee between your legs. a soft hum in your throat as she slides down, eyes locked on yours.

~~~

you’re walking back up from the shoreline, slides in hand, the sun starting to dip low behind the palm trees. paige is already posted up near the cabana, drink in one hand, sunglasses on, legs stretched out like she owns the whole damn resort.

she’s in that navy tank top, the one you love, and her arms are on full display — tanned, toned, glinting in the light like she never left the gym. you bite your lip without thinking.

“you’re staring,” she says without looking up.

“no i’m not.”

“yes you are.” she smirks, sips her drink. “i can feel it.”

“maybe you shouldn’t look that good in a tank.”

“maybe you should come here and do something about it.”

~~~

by the last night, you’re sitting on the edge of the ship in matching robes, watching the stars. she reaches for your hand, threads her fingers through yours.

“this was everything,” you whisper.

she smiles, nose pink from the sun. “you are.” and when she kisses you—slow, sure, like you’re her favorite kind of peace—you realize the off-season has never felt more like home.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC xDP Fanfi idea: The End and Beginning

It starts off simple. The Fentons move to a new universe once the AntiEcto-Acts are accepted worldwide. It was a problem when the USA enacted the laws, but convincing the rest of the world to follow suit left a bitter taste in their mouths.

It also made them feel highly useless.

Their youngest was a half-ghost, and after meeting the clone and alternative counterpart of said son, the Fentons family now were half of what the Acts claimed had no soul.

They could fight against the country and escape into the dead of night, but there was nowhere to hide when the whole planet hunted them. Unless you had a portal that could send you far away from the government dogs.

This was good because said dogs had managed to build their own portal. Nothing with Fenton Works tech, but it didn't seem to matter. They had a way into the Infinite Realms and planned on sending bombs through to vanquish the ghosts once and for all.

Clockwork had warned the planet's governing units, appearing in their skies and speaking every language.

"If you do this, then your world will end. Your world is a flip of ours. Without one or the other, everything will be destroyed."

His warning only further fueled their hate, and mods flooded the streets chanting for the bombs to be set off. It was like the whole world had lost their minds.

The Fentons cowered in their homes, trying desperately to get people to listen, but their words fell on deaf ears. Clockwork's reputation puts him in a challenging position. His natural dedication needed to remain neutral in any situation, but his soft spot for Danny made it hard to allow time to run its course.

In the end, he appeared before the Fentons with a message. "You must leave this world in one week. Everything will come to an end."

His warning had the group moving. They reached out to all their friends and extended family. Begging them to flee with them. Only Sam and Tucker arrived at their house on the last day, eyes puffy red, bags packed, and a daunting lack of their parents.

Clockwork sent them a ship. It looked like a glowing cruise ship, with wooden planks creaking and groaning as they climbed aboard. They were to pick a room and take shelter, understanding that once they sealed the door, they could not reopen it until they arrived.

The ship would travel at alarming speeds, protected from their timeline with Clockwork's power, but it would take everything the ghost had to keep them safe.

The final moment came, with the seven people pilling together in the largest room- The VIP balcony cabin. Sam, Tucker, and Danny held each other while sitting in front of the glass windows overlooking the fleeing ghosts- their world was also ending.

Maddie, Jack, Jazz, and Dani were in a pile on the bed, eyes shut tight and hugging each other with all their might. Tears rolled down their faces, but no one called it out. They were all mourning.

Dan stood to the side, arms crossed over his chest and leaning on the door. Despite not saying it out loud, they knew he wanted to guard it in case a ghost figured out the cruise was an escape pod. If a desperate enough ghost attempted to break through the door, their deal with Clockwork would be voided, and Dan would never allow it.

The moment came without warning. Multiple portals ripped open among the green skies. Through them, the Fentons could see cheering humans, treating the bombings like a giant festival. Fireworks, waving banners, music that thumped with glee- it made them all sick.

The first three bombs were set off. The Realms' reaction was just as instant, collapsing into itself as the humans' joys reached new levels of glee- until the holes warped into black holes, swallowing up the portal and the area around it.

One right after the other. Large glowing lights, then swirling darkness yanking everything into a quick, meaningless nothing. The humans were no longer cheering- now they were screaming. They were cowering.

But there was nowhere left to run.

Clockwork appeared in front of the trio, smiling sadly at them as multiple cracks appeared on his being. He mouths a sentence, placing one broken hand on the glass, and then pushes the ship away. At a speed that is more light than movement, the Fentons and their guests rush away, watching with horrified eyes as Clockwork breaks apart completely.

He vanishes into dust that gets absorbed into a black hole. Dan and Danny's noise is gutted, ripped from somewhere deep in their cores.

The cruise crumbles around the pressure of the push. Wooden pieces are shaken off the ship, shattering from the effort to keep itself together, and fall into the void as they watch, unsure of Clockwork's power, which would be enough to withstand the breaking of a timeline. Soon, only their room remains; even that, it starts to show glowing green cracks on the wall.

Dan glares at them, never hating something as much as the sight of them, while his family and kid brother's friends start to sob. Suddenly, everything comes to a stop.

Or rather, a large being made entirely of light, taking the shape of a human man, catches their cabin. They all stumble, thrown from their positions as the glowing white human shape brings them to its large face. It's like looking into a marble statute with no distinctive face, only the barest of outlines that could count as a face.

"You bear Clockwork's mark, but he is not with you," The being says, blinking its large eye into the window. The swirling red of its pupils baths the humans and ghosts as they stare back open jaws. "How curious"

"Who are you!?" Dan demands, stepping away from the door. "How did you survive the destruction of the timeline?!"

The being eye's dim. "Clockwork is dead then. I told him I would welcome him into my realms, but he chose to send his kin instead. What a sentimental fool."

Dan's human features melt away, and his ghost forms burst from an explosion of flames. "Who are you!?"

"Your kind calls me Speed Force." It replies after a movement, sounding slightly amused, "And I grant you sanctuary as a favor to an old lover. Live well."

With a snap of its fingers, the group vanishes into a bright light, appearing in the middle of a blue sky. Gentle clouds float around, spread out like a mist. It a daunting change from the darkness and the screams.

The group gawks at the sight before gravity reaches up to grasp the broken remains of the cruise ship within its claws. It rips from them the sky, sending them into a downward spiral.

Dan's flames are smothered out as he desperately reaches for it "I can't go, ghost!"

"Me either," Dani screams, clinging hard to Maddie.

"Speed Froce took our powers." Danny realizes, clutching Sam and Tucker closer. "Everyone brace for impact!"

They hit the ground hard and flung around like rag dolls as the last of Clockwork's powers desperately tried to shield them. The glowing green cracks quickly spread until they resemble spider webs.

They hit the ground with a loud bang, sliding through a few layers of dirt. The group is flung against the wall, Dan grunting in pain when Sam slams against him from the force.

Ultimately, the wood can't hold itself together, and it shatters just as it crumbles to a stop. They all land with pain and cries against the hard ground, in a pile of limbs and confusion.

"Oh my," A woman says, standing on her porch overlooking the Fentons. Beside her is a wide-eyed man, one steaming mug in his hold. "Pa, I think I need to put more coffee. We have guests."

Above the couple is a wooden sign with faded but beloved letters. It reads Kent Farm.

[coldilikeit]

Yandere Batfam x Camp half-blood (Neglected reader)

DC x Pjo

Part 12

______________________________

Present

"is that a ferry?" I ask, the hippocampus got closer and we saw something that said "Princess Andromeda", and the figurehead is a wooden woman tied to it

Princess Andromeda... Who?

Ah..

The wife of Perseus son of Zeus, she was to be sacrificed to Poseidon but Perseus saved her

How weird of her to have a ship, you personally, certainly won't step foot into the ocean after you were about to be sacrificed to it

A middle aged man scolds his three kids for jumping in the pool and points at a sign, a dog that looks somewhat human that looks like it belongs in the deepest pits of hell is in line for the buffet

You freeze up, is that an empousa?? A monster playing poker with a mortal human?

You look around and see variations of monsters and humans, seemingly happy in the cruise

What is this? Monster human united nations?

Don't get me wrong, you're not racist, it's just that monsters typically eat humans, so it's okay that you find it weird that a snake haired monster with poison blood is gambling with Jeff

(not Medusa, but gorgons)

"Is this a trap? A knockoff Lotus Hotel & Casino?" Percy scoffs

Annabeth holds your hand in a tight grip "Could be... But we don't know what it does, no one eat anything here"

"Lotus Hotel...?" You ask

Percy looks at you "Yeah... It's some magic hotel where time passes really slowly, like so slow, it's different for everyone, I met a guy there from the 70's and when I asked he said he'd only been there for two days, we felt we were only there for a couple of hours but it's actually been five days"

Oh shit.

"is... Is this hotel in Vegas?" You look nervous, Annabeth furrowed her brows "Yes, have you encountered it? It's dangerous and normal people wouldn't know how to get out"

"oh fuck... I may have been, no definitely, I should be older than I am right now, when my family and I were on a mi- vacation, I went inside this hotel, I was only there for like 20 minutes but they claimed I was gone for two years... I- holy shit. I was stuck in a hotel for two years" you exclaim

"how did you not know that was a trap? Have you not read the Odyssey? The lotus island and the lotus eaters?? I thought you were a fan of Greek mythology?" Annabeth asked

You roll your eyes "Well I'm sorry I didn't think a hotel was going to be related to a magical lotus island"

Tyson's face got sad "that scary... How you got out?"

"I don't know... All I remember was a pageant in the hotel, it was an event and- Oh." You stop

______________________________

Past

"Wow... This place is actually kind of nice" you look around the glistening chandeliers and observe the clamoring people

A servant smiles at you, seemingly ignoring your vigilante costume "Would you like a lotus flower? They're complementary"

It won't hurt you to take one right?

So you did.

"hey.. um where's the way out?" You ask

The smile on the servant's face doesn't drop "Miss it's so late out at night, you should return to your room"

"but I don't have a room-" you feel a key card in your pocket, you did have a room

So you go there, you enter the gigantic room, it was like for royalty, the sheets were so silky, the pillows were so soft, you opened the cabinet to find a set of clothes

Your suit is beginning to feel itchy anyways, you take a shower and put on the clothes, you find on the night stand a platinum card

What were you here for again?

You get out of the room, you hear people laughing

"you should go down there young lady! There is a pageant! There is this beautiful maiden, more beautiful compared to the others!" A man says, he was wearing clothing so old fashioned you'd thought he was from the regency era

Well, a pageant sounds fun!

In the hotel ballroom people were staring... Not at the contestants, well, yes the contestants, but one, one special lady

"Good evening LA!" She laughs

How captivating... , you think

She turns and sees you, she stops smiling "(Name)? What? What are you doing here?"

Did she just call you?

Oh gosh she just said your name!

"you're not supposed to be here!" She floats, yup floats and you're shocked, she grabs your hand and she walks you to the entrance of the hotel, the servants who were eager to help everyone was avoiding her gaze and now staying far from you

At the entrance she gestures you get out of the hotel, so you did

A bunch of guys approach you, you don't know who they are

A few minutes pass by

"guys what happened to the mission?" You ask

______________________________

Annabeth: why didn't you know the hotel was magic?

You: idk maybe because in the book it was an island?!

______________________________

@yunloyal @sirenetheblogger @00hellohello00 @spqce-bun @casspen-starlight @eyeless-kun @ghostdoodlen @ratchetprime211 @delias-stuff @sadslasher13 @ellaprime7 @wpdarlingpan @mountvesuvu @chinxinsomnia @nathaly36 @vanessa-boo @bat1212 @ceramic-raven @sweetconnoisseurgardener @dhanyasri @bella-wolf100 @shortnsweetsposts @roseapov @d3sperate-enuf @d3kstar

[rhiannonsknife]

── I JUST WANNA BE A GOOD PASSENGER

— summary: sweetpea book 2&3 spoilers!! you work aboard the cruise ship rhiannon takes to flee the uk.

— warnings: implied canon typical violence. based on the third book. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni.

the woman has been watching you for days.

you first noticed her during a busy afternoon in valencia, three days ago. the deck was packed with passengers, soaking in the sun and sipping overpriced cocktails. you were darting between tables, balancing trays and weaving through conversations in a dozen different languages when you felt it: an itch between your shoulder blades, a weight that told you someone was watching.

you glanced up and spotted her immediately: seated in the corner, a half-empty glass of something expensive in her hand, her head tilted slightly as if to study you. unable to help yourself, you held her gaze for a moment too long, long enough to see her lips curl into the faintest smile, sharp and knowing.

flustered, you ducked your head and focused on clearing plates, trying to shake the feeling that she’d seen right through you.

the next day, in mallorca, she was there again.

you were restocking the bar during the afternoon when you saw her sitting at the counter. she was sipping her drink slowly, her gaze fixed on you like she had nothing better to do. you’d felt heat creeping up your neck as she raised her glass in a silent acknowledgment.

by the time the ship reached marseille, her presence was impossible to ignore.

the stranger seemed to be everywhere: perched on a chair on the upper deck, strolling through the dining room during your shift, lingering at the bar long after most passengers had retired for the night. and always, always watching you.

at first, you chalked it up to curiosity.

passengers often watched the staff with a detached kind of interest, a casual pastime during their endless hours on deck. but this woman was different. her gaze wasn’t idle or distracted; it was sharp, focused, and unrelenting. it followed you as you moved through the room, as if she was waiting for something. something only you could give her.

now, as you work your shift in the lounge, you catch her watching you again.

she’s sitting in her usual corner, her glass held delicately between two fingers, her gaze fixed on you.

it doesn’t help that she’s beautiful. this exact woman -with hair that falls in flawless waves, a silk blouse pressed to an almost eerie sharpness, and an accent that would probably sound sexy if it wasn’t so obviously fake- has been looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing.

it’s unnerving. and, if you’re being honest, a little thrilling.

“excuse me, could you bring me another drink?” she’d asked earlier, flashing you a too-wide smile that made your heart stutter in your chest.

you’d nodded and rushed to fulfill her request, grateful for the excuse to get away from her penetrating stare.

you can’t put your finger on why she unsettles you so much. perhaps it’s because she reminds you of someone. someone from a story on the news, or maybe from a true crime podcast you half-listened to on a rare day off…

the thought doesn’t fully take hold until later, when you’re wiping down a table and catch her watching you again. this time, she doesn’t even bother to look away when your eyes meet. she raises her glass in another mock toast and winks, as if to say, i see you, too.

that’s when it clicks.

rhiannon lewis.

you’d seen her face all over the news just days before boarding the ship: a story about a woman linked to a string of gruesome murders back in the UK.

but it couldn’t be her, could it? rhiannon lewis, whose name is still dominating all english speaking news channels on the cruise, wouldn’t be sipping cocktails on a luxury ship like she’s not the most wanted woman in england, would she? not with her face plastered all over international media.

and yet.

you can’t unsee the resemblance now. the sharpness of her cheekbones, the way she carries herself, and the unsettlingly fake australian accent she’s been using all night.

you tell yourself to let it go. she’s a guest, a passenger. it’s not your job to interrogate her about her past or her identity. you’re here to serve drinks, clean rooms, and, in a best case scenario, collect tips, not solve crime cases.

still, when your shift ends and you’re on your way back to your quarters, your steps falter outside her room. it’s a line you know you shouldn’t cross. using what you’ve picked up from cleaning service schedules to linger here is against every rule, spoken or unspoken.

your shift is over and the night is supposed to end with you back in your cabin, decompressing with a book or a podcast (or, truthfully, with your hand shoved between your thighs and the imaginary voice of a certain someone in your ear…).

your feet carried you here anyway, like on autopilot. like something inside you wanted to see where this might go.

before you can knock, if you would’ve found the courage to knock at all, the door opens.

she’s standing there in a silk robe, her hair loose and shimmering under the dim corridor light. her smile, that exact same, perfect curve of her lips grows wider when she sees you.

“well, well,” she purrs, her accent still awful. “fancy seeing you here. i wasn’t expecting room service at this hour…?”

“i wasn’t-“ you falter, words stumbling under her gaze. “i didn’t mean to-“

she knows. she obviously knows.

“didn’t mean to what?” she interrupts, tilting her head like she’s genuinely curious. “stand outside my door looking like a deer in headlights? or…” she steps aside, gesturing you inside with a slow wave of her hand. “were you planning to come in all along?”

you should leave. there are at least a hundred reasons for you turn around and walk away. rules about professionalism, the nagging suspicion in the back of your mind that this woman isn’t who she claims to be…still, your feet move forward.

she shuts the door behind you, the click of the lock oddly loud in the small space.

“you’ve been staring at me,” she says, leaning against the wall casually. it’s not a question either, she’s stating facts. “not very subtle, are you?”

“i wasn’t staring!” your protest sounds weak even to your own ears, and her smirk widens.

“oh, you absolutely were,” she says, her voice dropping an octave lower smoothly. “i’ve seen that look before, you know…?“

her words send a jolt through you. her accent, on purpose or not, has slipped back into the standard british you’re used to. you step back instinctively, only to find the edge of the bed pressing against the backs of your thighs.

the woman moves closer, closing the distance between you in an instant. “what’s your name?” she asks.

you hesitate, your mind scrambling for a reason to leave. but then her hand brushes against yours, just the ghost of a touch, and every coherent thought slips away from you.

“what’s yours?” you counter.

“hilary,” she says with a sheepish smile, the name rolling off her tongue like she doesn’t even believe it herself.

“hilary,” you repeat slowly. the way she watches your mouth when you say it makes your skin prickle.

in the light of her cabin, she looks even more like the woman from the news. the resemblance is striking to a point where you genuinely wonder if it’s physically possible to look so much like rhiannon lewis without being her.

her gaze remains on your lips shamelessly. when she leans in, your breath catches in your throat.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat. you wonder if it would make a difference at all if she really was rhiannon.

“neither are you,” you reply, aiming for something. a confession, maybe, a sign that your suspicions are true. the words hang in the air between you like a challenge.

she smiles, pleased with your sudden boldness. if you’re challenging her, then she’s accepting.

her hand brushes your cheek, calloused fingers tracing a line down to your jaw, and you shiver under her touch.

“i think we’re going to get along just fine” she murmurs, the rasp in her voice even more prominent now that she’s no longer bothering to keep up the australian accent.

when her lips finally meet yours, it’s not tentative or unsure. it’s possessive, demanding, all tongue and teeth, and you’re helpless to do anything but kiss her back.

her hands fall to your waist, urging you closer by your uniform, which suddenly seems too itchy and tight. too restricting. you don’t resist until her body is flush against yours. and even then, the world outside this room ceases to exist. the ocean that’s gently swaying the ship, the rules and etiquette about staff and passengers, even the unsettling familiarity of her face: all of it fades into the background.

you gasp into the woman’s mouth, which she uses as her opportunity to deepen the kiss and lick past your lips.

when your back hits the edge of the bed, she presses you down onto the mattress. the silk robe she's wearing parts slightly, brushing against your bare skin, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine.

her weight settles over you, not crushing, but deliberate, and her hands are everywhere: tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. every touch is calculated, purposeful, and it sets your nerves alight in ways you didn't expect.

"hilary," you murmur, the name foreign and clunky on your tongue, as if it doesn’t quite suit her. you can’t put a finger to it.

she pauses, her lips hovering just above yours, and for a moment you think you've said something wrong. then she smirks. "not thinking of backing out now, are you?"

you immediately shake your head, unable to form proper sentences. she takes that as permission, leaning down to kiss you again, slower this time. her lips move against yours with a practiced ease, like she's done this a hundred times before.

simultaneously, her hands slide under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your stomach, and you shudder at the coldness of her touch. but then something makes you hesitate-something subtle but impossible to ignore:

as her hands move higher, you notice the slight swell just above her hips, the faintest curve that doesn't quite match the rest of her frame. it's soft, tender in a way that feels out of place with the sharpness of her movements, and when your fingers brush her there, she freezes.

her eyes snap up to meet yours, and for just a heartbeat, the confidence she's been exuding all night falters.

"is that-" you start, but she cuts you off with another kiss, more desperate this time, as if she could silence the question before it fully forms.

you don't push it, though your mind is racing. the swell beneath your hand feels fresh, like the aftermath of something recent, and the pieces start clicking together in your head. the halfhearted accent. the overly polished mannerisms. the way her eyes dart around the room like she's always on edge. and now this.

rhiannon lewis, so you’ve heard, left a newborn behind.

you don't pull away. instead, you soften your touch, letting your hands rest against her sides in a way that feels less curious and more grounding.

she notices the change, her body relaxing slightly, and when she pulls back to look at you, there's something vulnerable in her eyes that wasn't there before.

"don’t," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "don’t look at me like that”

"like what?"

"like you know me at all,” her gaze hardens again, the mask slipping back into place.

you hesitate for a moment, searching her face for something, anything, that might tell you what to do next. but all you see is the same hunger, the same desperation that's been driving her from the start.

so you kiss her again. not because you've forgotten the truth, but because -for some reason you can't explain- it doesn't matter.

her hands are on you again, tugging at your clothes with a kind of urgency that makes your head spin.

when she finally pulls away, her breathing ragged and her lips swollen, she looks at you expectantly. with nowhere to be and the urge to feel more of her, your fingers reach for the robe she’s wearing. it’s doing a terrible job of hiding anything at all anyway. you might not have given yourself permission to blatantly stare before, but now that she -rhiannon, hilary, whoever this stranger may be- is on top of you, there’s no stopping your wandering hands and eyes.

you don’t need to push the fabric off of her to see the outline of her full breasts, her hardened nipples or the fact that she’s only wearing a pair of panties underneath. you do it anyway, satisfied with the shiver that runs down her spine as her bare skin is revealed to you.

she is beautiful. even more so, now that there’s nothing restricting your view anymore. you can look right at her; at the swell of her chest and the marks on her belly that you can’t help but trace with the tips of your fingers. above you, she gasps breathlessly and your eyes instantly dart in her direction, just to find that she’s watching you already, lips parted, eyes hooded as your hand trails upwards.

you don’t falter, looking right at her the first time you touch her, fingers gently squeezing one nipple between them until she starts rocking her hips against you.

moving lower once you’re satisfied with how hard it’s grown to the touch, you whisper: “can i..?”

the woman, who must’ve been on the verge of getting lost in the sensation of your stimulation, looks down at you momentarily. then, her palm pushes you back into the mattress. you bounce on it with the force of her push but hilary rhiannon doesn’t give you any time to catch up. instead, she shifts her weight to her knees and brings one hand to the headboard above you.

“i’ll sit on your face” she says, stating it like it’s a fact. “can you use that pretty mouth of yours?”

mere minutes later, and your find yourself in that exact position.

your fingers are digging into the soft flesh of hilary’s rhiannon’s thighs, your tongue lapping up the arousal that’s dripping from her cunt, down her thighs, and all over your face.

even from this angle and the little you can see, she looks beautiful: her bangs are clinging to the sweat on her forehead, her brows furrowed in pleasure and her lips parted.

you don’t mind the weight resting upon your face. if anything, you enjoy the pressure of her knees on either side of your face, the way she drags her wetness across it until your nose is nestled against her clit and your tongue is buried deep inside her.

you must be covered in her, at this rate, your whole face glistening with her arousal. you can feel it in the way her skin slides against it, taste it all over your mouth.

hilary rhiannon is throbbing, against and around you, dripping more with each pulse of her cunt.

“fucking god-“ she moans from above, wrecked with the pleasure you’re providing. you wonder how long it’s been since somebody has touched her, fucked her like this.

rhiannon’s legs are trembling around your head, knees pushing deeper into the sheets.

with the little that remains of your professionalism, you're aware that she's being too loud for the thin walls of the cruise. and while you know she shouldn't be drawing any unwanted attention to herself, you can't bring yourself to hush her. you don't care when her fingers yank you closer, deeper into her. you don't care when a satisfied sigh escapes her as your tongue delves further.

“right there” she whispers and your eyes catch the way rhiannon’s head falls back, though it’s hard make out the words over the obscene slurping noises from licking broad strokes through her pussy. “oh, fuck, yeah right there!”

she feels so good on top of you, you wonder if you could cum from nothing but your desperate attempts to rock your hips up into the nothingness between them and your body aches with the need to get yourself off. you don’t even have to check for yourself to feel the slick wetness that’s smearing across your own thighs.

rhiannon’s fist tightens in your hair, cradling you by the back of your head. you let her, gladly welcoming the way she maneuvers your lips until they’re exactly where she needs them, latching onto her clit.

“you wanna make me cum?” she coos.

you do, regardless of how badly you need to feel her touch too. rhiannon braces herself against the headboard, her upper body slumping forward so she’s looking right at you.

“mhm” you manage, involuntarily grinding against her, the shift making her bounce ever so slightly.

“oh that’s it!” rhiannon exhales in response, her lashes fluttering. you reach up, one hand daring to hold her hip as she begins to pick up the pace until she’s no longer sitting, but riding on your face.

“that’s it, you’re gonna make me cum!” she cries out between some incoherent words and soft moans.

naturally, you double your efforts, making sure you apply extra pressure against her clit where she’s rutting against your nose as you bury your tongue deep inside her hole all over again. that’s where she seems to like it the most, getting the loudest whenever you enter her.

the first thing you notice as rhiannon cums is the way she tenses. her muscles flex, closing in around your head, and tremble with the sudden tension. her back straightens too and even her jaw locks as she moves. with the last strength left in her, she rocks herself against your face to completion.

then, there’s the way her walls flutter around your tongue, the way her fingers tangle themselves up in the mess she’s made of your hair, the way her lips part in a silent scream before it all comes crashing down on her.

rhiannon’s whole weight collapses on top of you, her cunt throbbing the entire time that it takes for her to catch her breath.

you don’t take her for the cuddling type until she drapes her arms underneath your back and snuggles her face into the crook of your neck, breathing in deeply.

you wonder if she can smell herself there, now that she’s all over your face, or if it’s your scent she is inhaling. either way, you let her and slowly put your own arms around her.

it isn’t until rhiannon’s deep breaths have turned into shaky gasps and the bed gently creaks under the shift of her weight that you notice that she’s grinding against your thigh.

slowly, you lift your head from the mattress, catching a glimpse of closed eyes and parted lips.

“do you-“

“sh,” she harshly cuts you off. then, she blinks one eye open, looking the closest to apologetic you’ve eber seen her -which, truthfully, isn’t all that much.

“just…” rhiannon puts a hand down on your shoulder. “just stay there and…” whatever she was going to say morphs into a soft moan as she drags her center over the length of your thigh.

you can do that for her, you decide, but not without being just a little bit selfish in the process: rhiannon’s legs have fallen open around yours. with the slightest shift of your hips, so insignificant she doesn’t seem to notice, you’re pressed right against her thigh as well. you don’t even have to move, with rhiannon now steadily grinding, pressing herself further into you with every roll of her hips.

involuntarily, you whine and throw your head back into the pillows as she rocks against you.

you knew you were turned on before, but completely oblivious to how close you’ve gotten from her riding your face. now, with your clit rubbing against rhiannon’s skin through your underwear, you become painfully aware of it.

her lips trace your jaw, pressing against it before closing around the tender flesh and sucking.

how long would it take for her to draw blood like this? would she like to see you bleed for her? for your skin to bloom with reds and purples that her mouth left in its wake?

you don’t get a chance to find out, because rhiannon drops her forehead against your shoulder instead, grinding back and forth desperately.

“fuck,” you whine, unable to hold back. “fuck, fuck, fuck!”

rhiannon hushes you again, this time with a kiss. she must taste herself in your mouth because she eagerly licks past your lips for more.

it’s all too much to take; the flexed muscle of her leg against your clit, rhiannon’s spit mixing with the remains of her arousal on your tongue, the little noises she lets out with every roll of her hips.

at a particular good motion of her hips, you can’t help yourself anymore: you feel your abdomen coiling in pleasure suddenly, a ragged “rhiannon!” coming from your mouth as your soaked cunt contracts around nothing.

your fingers reach around her back, nails digging into her skin when you release through your underwear and all over her thigh.

whether it’s the sound of her name or the feeling of your orgasm beneath herself, rhiannon follows shortly after, cumming with a soft cry.

as she recovers from the second orgasm and you struggle to catch your breath, rhiannon stays on your chest.

she doesn’t ask you about the name. in return, you don’t ask for her real identity. whoever she is, you’re sure this is a thing that should remain unspoken.

“that was…” you finally manage, trailing off. your eyes are already scanning the space for the clothes you’ve shed. if you don’t pick them up soon, your uniform will get all wrinkled for the next shift.

“you’re not staying?” she asks, catching you off guard.

“i should be working,” you remind her, trying to move.

she kisses you again, holding on tightly. the first flight of panic you feel vanishes in an instant when you ask: “what is it?” and rhiannon responds: “hug.”

“i have to go,” you chuckle. you’ve already broken the rules by sleeping with a passenger. you can’t afford to fall in love with one, especially not her.

“i know, i know,” she mutters. “just for a bit. please?”

so you do, lying with her until her hold on you releases. you’re still the first to pull away.

“see you,” you can’t help but tell her once you’re dressed again.

“will you?”

“i clean your room once a day,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “i’m bound to!”

— a/n: i‘ve been waiting since november just so i could post this on january 8th 😭😭 (also i couldn’t find a good rhiannon picture for the header, but that one is so book-3-rhiannon-coded)

context: (massive spoiler warning!): in book 2, rhiannon gets caught and is forced to flee the country for a new identity. during the book, she’s pregnant with aj’s baby but decides to leave her daughter behind so she can continue killing. on the cruise, she pretends to be an australian woman called hilary.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, swearing, angst

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Part Twenty-Five of Ink & Needle

Price reveals three possible locations. Task Force 141 infiltrates.

Chapter Twenty-Four // Chapter Twenty-Six

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Knuckles pop. Joints crack.

Simon is primed—nerves and muscles alive and firing.

Ready for action.

Ready for blood.

His old life is returning. Not as fragments but through muscle memory. The training never left. It still dwells within him, twisting around tendons and bone like vines strangling a trellis, awakening to revive the man that once was.

"Tell me what you see, Simon."

Captain Price's voice comes from behind, drifting around Simon like lingering cigarette smoke and dirty snow. Silently, Simon observes the spread of information before him.

"These are the possible targets?" asks Simon, his gaze moving from picture to picture.

A small burst of air before the balaclava becomes steam. The abandoned barn they’ve set up shop in is fucking cold even with the generator-backed heaters turned on. But the cold hardly bothers Simon. His bad knee might not like it but the ache is easy to ignore.

On the wall is a massive map of the world. There are pictures of people and places pinned in various locations. Some of the people are crossed out—marked dead. Others are untouched or painted over with a question mark.

"Yes," affirms Price. "Anything familiar?"

Simon shifts his attention away from the wall and to the table in front of him. There are more pictures here—more documents.

A muscle in his neck spasms. "No," growls Simon. "Walsh likely abandoned his old haunts."

Price shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Two pictures of Walsh stare back at Simon. One is an old photograph from before. Walsh's skin is perfect here—free from burn scars or blemishes. The second photograph is newer but slightly blurry. Walsh wears a black jacket, hood up, face in profile. Even with the burn scars, his face is unmistakable.

"Walsh is prone to paranoia," says Simon, bringing the newest photograph closer. "He had places even I didn't know about."

"That's my point," replies Price. "Walsh trusted you. And yet he still didn't tell you everything."

We are gardens now.

The two of us.

It's easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

Simon's fingers twitch with the urge to crush the photograph. Shoving the compulsion down, Simon returns the picture of Walsh to the table. Focusing on the massive board before him, Simon observes each marked location, his mind flipping through the rolodex of information he obtained during his infiltration.

"What makes you think it's one of these three?" asks Simon.

He lightly taps the picture in front of him. It's an aerial photograph of a series of warehouses near the Port of Felixstowe. There are two other ports marked including those of London and Liverpool.

Unease slides like sludge in Simon’s stomach. “Not only are these major ports, two of the three are fucking tourist attractions.” Simon turns on Price, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can tour a naval vessel and then board a cruise ship in a single day at Liverpool. London is the fucking same. Walsh isn’t making moves there.” He points at the picture of Felixstowe. “This is the only plausible of the three. Privately owned. Recent docker worker strikes.” Simon drops his arm. “But I don’t fucking believe that for a bloody second.”

There are other ports marked across Europe and the United States. Walsh likes to move around, never staying in one place too long. Sometimes he’s moving drugs. Sometimes he’s moving weapons. Using the same place of entry is risky with dangerous cargo.

"We have surveillance," replies Captain Price.

Gaz hands Soap a laptop. Johnny takes a seat and taps away at the keyboard, bringing up several video feeds.

"This one is for Felixstowe." Johnny allows the feeds to run for a bit before clicking over to a new set. "Liverpool." He switches again. "And London."

Simon shakes his head, noticing nothing in the grainy footage. "It's too close to home. Too busy. Too regulated."

Price's face remains impassive. “Look closer." He glances at Soap. "Roll them again."

Simon steps up directly next to Johnny's shoulder. Placing one hand on the table, Simon leans in. Johnny pulls up the surveillance feed near Felixstowe first. As it plays, a tiny twist of anxiety curls in his stomach. Are his eyes going to shit?

"You see it now?" asks Price.

"No," says Simon sharply.

Johnny loops the feed and points. "Here, Lt."

Squinting helps but hardly makes things any clearer. "Zoom in."

Johnny pauses the feed and enlarges it enough to give a more focused picture but not enough to render the pixels worthless. From the back of an SUV emerges a man that looks like Walsh. With him is—a woman?

Like a punch to the solar plexus, the wind is knocked out of Simon.

Is that you?

"You see it, Lt?"

"I see it," growls Simon. "Show me the next one."

Johnny repeats each surveillance feed, pausing and zooming in. There is a woman emerging from an SUV in each one, that is unmistakable, but is it you? That part is unclear. The videos aren't distinct enough to show details.

"We think this is her," says Price.

"In three different places?" asks Simon, skeptical.

Hope is a fragile thing. He wants to cling to it, to imagine that this is you he's seeing in all three feeds, but he cannot allow himself to latch onto an idea that may not hold any reality.

The middle of Price's brow creases. "You need to look again, Simon."

Simon slowly straightens himself. All of this feels like a game—Walsh's game.

"The timestamps don't make sense," growls Simon. "They're not even hours apart!"

"Exactly," says Price, stepping closer. "All of them are the same. Except one." Price lightly squeezes Johnny's shoulder. He brings up the first video feed again, the one from Felixstowe. "This one is different," murmurs Price, his gaze focused on the computer screen.

The feed plays and Johnny pauses the image. A small light flicks on in the dark recesses of Simon's mind.

"You see it now, Simon?"

"I see it, Captain."

Of the three, the woman is always alone in the Liverpool and London feeds. In Felixstowe, she isn't. In Felixstowe, there's a man grabbing her upper arm. A man that looks very much like Simon's enemy.

"We don't have confirmation," continues Price, already seeming to know exactly what Simon is thinking.

It doesn't fucking matter if they have confirmation or not. This is a lead. This is something.

"We've already sent recon teams," adds Kyle, breaking his silence.

The pity isn't there anymore. There is only grim determination. They've seen Simon at his lowest, and yet that doesn't matter. They're doing this to take Walsh down but they're also doing it for him.

Gaz glances at the map but he addresses Simon. "Walsh wants us to focus on Felixstowe." He turns attention to Simon. "Which is why we sent recon."

"And recon said different," replies Simon.

Kyle winks. "Exactly."

"Felixstowe is staged." Price moves toward the map. "But Liverpool?" Price turns back to Simon, with a smirk. "Want to know who funded that little transfer for Walsh?"

Walsh has always moved behind the scenes. He always lurks in the dark. Pockets are lined and Walsh obtains what he wants. At its core, big business is greedy. They’ll happily look the other way if they can get what they want and get away with it.

Some of the earlier unease melts, adrenaline replacing the anxiety.

Simon’s question is immediate “Did you bag the fucker?”

“I have a tail on them as we speak.”

“Good,” growls Simon. “Walsh with them?”

“No.”

Even better. It means Simon can deal out his own justice.

Simon exhales, trying to find a sense of calm amongst all this new information. "All I want is Walsh.”

I just want her back.

Simon wants that fucking wanker alive. He wants Walsh to squirm. To suffer. To feed the man his own teeth before making him choke on them.

But even that won’t satiate what Simon truly desires.

You. Only you.

In his arms again. Warm and safe and all his. To know that you will never come to harm again.

Price’s smirk becomes a genuine smile. They’ve been after this man for fucking years, and now Walsh is truly in their grasp.

Nodding toward the map, Price gestures toward it. "Our best guess is this warehouse near the Port of Liverpool."

"Why?" asks Simon. “It’s a haven for tourist.”

“It caters to tourist and occasionally houses the Royal Navy just as much as it brings in and sends out goods.” Price exhales. “It’s busy, yes. But it’s unsuspecting.”

"It's also the only place we've seen Walsh arrive to and leave from," adds Kyle.

Simon shrugs. “Could be a distraction. Make it obvious so we aren’t looking at other possible targets.”

“Could be,” replies Price casually.

“We’ve got him, Lt. And not on surveillance footage.”

"The recon team did," continues Gaz. "Real subtle, too. Like he didn't want to be seen."

Diversion has always been Walsh's specialty. His most devoted followers will do whatever he asks from shooting up a corner store to acting as a body double. The man is a manipulator. A friendly face that says exactly what you want to hear to reinforce your own confirmation bias.

He does it all in the name of power and personal superiority.

Simon turns toward Price. "Are we going after that warehouse?"

Price nods. "Tomorrow."

Darkness is a friend.

A companion. A trained beast. A silent killer.

Simon looks into his scope, checking and rechecking the perimeter of the building. Soap has already disabled the surveillance camera on the western side of the building. To the person watching, they're seeing a continuous loop of nothing.

The building itself isn’t one of those boxy metal buildings you find all over the States. This warehouse is old, made from brick and stone, built when ships were still only made of wood. Marked as a historical location, and yet currently closed to the public.

How bloody fucking convenient.

While the night is cold, the port isn’t empty. There are no cargo ships unloading but there’s a docked Destroyer all lit up across the River Mersey. Tourists and locals move along pedestrian areas, and the nearby arena is awash with light as some musical artist performs.

Life moves. Uninterrupted.

As it should be.

And not one of those souls realize what lurks in the dark.

“Soap. We ready to breach?” comes Price’s voice over comms.

Johnny’s answer is laced with slight static. “You have five minutes until the loop ends.”

Price turns back to look at Simon and Kyle, silently pointing in the direction of the door they’re entering the building through. Johnny is on the roof with two members of the recon team sent earlier.

With rifles raised, the trio move silently across the concrete. Price forms the front while Gaz and Simon take the sides and back. They stay on a swivel, watching Price’s rear as he approached the door.

“Three minutes, Captain,” comes Johnny’s voice over comms.

Behind Simon, there’s a clink of metal meeting metal. Something rattles. Then a soft creak as the service door opens.

“We’re in,” replies Price.

Price eases the door open. He keeps his gaze forward, hand coming up to signal that everything is clear. Simon enters behind Price with Kyle on his heel.

“There are three down the hall,” crackles Johnny’s voice over comms.

Price, Gaz, and Simon move silently down the tight hallway. One side is solid brick, the other treated wood. They pass breakers and switches but no doors. There are a few wall hangings but they’re for the workers who would handle the upkeep.

At a tight turn, Price presses himself against the wall. Simon and Kyle crouch as Price eases a small handheld mirror around the corner. There are only a few feet of hallway remaining before it meets a door that says “EXIT.”

“Where are they, Soap?”

A pause. “Just outside the door. Left.”

Price turns the corner and stops at the door. They form a line, switching off night vision. The door opens, and Price is moving. Simon is right behind him, blood roaring in his ears as he follows his captain.

Simon’s finger hugs the trigger.

A muted pop leaves the chamber.

Dark red bursts in the dim light, painting the wall and nearby mounted lamp. The three men never had a chance. They don’t even make a sound as the lead penetrates their heads and explodes in their skulls.

Price’s voice greets Simon in his earpiece. “Clear.”

“Two near the entrance. Follow the lights.”

The building is utterly silent. It’s all exposed brick and pipes. Distantly, Simon hears water dripping, but it is otherwise quiet like a slumbering monster.

Walsh is here. He fucking has to be. Simon senses it in his gut.

Price takes the two out near the entrance, Simon following behind with an extra bullet for each just to make sure.

“We’re coming up on your right, Captain.”

Johnny appears with one member of the recon team. The other remains on the roof, keeping an eye for any incoming vehicles.

“The bunker is through here,” says Johnny, aiming his weapon at the floor.

“The door is in the bloody floor?” asks Kyle.

Johnny crouches, his gloved hand gently probing the wood. They all watch until his hand pauses, his fingers lightly pressing downward.

There’s a hiss, and then Johnny is lifting, revealing a ladder and a dimly lit hall that Simon cannot see the end of.

Price squeezes the shoulder of the soldier from recon. “Keep a lookout here. Radio if you hear or see anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price releases his shoulder and descends first. Johnny heads down next followed by Simon and then Kyle.

They’re going in blind. They do not have the plans or layout of this part of the building. The strangest thing is that it looks brand fucking new. It doesn’t make any sense.

Walsh doesn’t build. He utilizes what’s available and goes from there.

There’s only just enough light to see by and there are no doors except the one at the end of the short hall. They might find a maze. They might find a singular room. There could be walking into a trap or nothing at all.

Simon isn’t sure what worries him more.

But you have to be here. Somewhere.

Price counts down starting with three fingers. At one, he raises his rifle and kicks in the door, charging forward. Heartrate spiking, Simon heads in after him, finger tight on the trigger, ready to burst skulls and shatter bone.

The adrenaline peaks, swarming Simon’s senses.

And then it comes crashing down.

As if falling from a great height, Simon is presented with an entirely different outcome.

The firing end of the rifle drifts downward, his gaze focusing on the singular object in the entire room. It’s a box. A metal tackle box like you’d take on a fishing trip. Above it is a bulb hanging from the ceiling. The light it emits is warm and low like it’s been on for years and is just about ready to give out.

Price, Johnny, and Kyle all walk the perimeter of the room.

“It’s solid fucking concrete!” shouts Johnny, his steps increasing as he drags one gloved hand along the wall.

Price slowly spins. “What the fuck is this place?”

“It’s not a storage warehouse,” says Kyle. “There’s nothing here.”

“A hideout, then?” suggests Johnny. “A bunker?”

“Then where’s the bloody bed?” replies Kyle, voice rising slightly. “There isn’t even a table!”

Simon’s focus is narrowing to a pinpoint.

The tackle box is a deep forest green, the handle black, the latch gold.

He takes a step toward it.

“Don’t touch that, Simon.”

Simon ignores Price’s command. He moves closer.

“Simon!”

“Lt! Don’t touch it!”

It’s a game. This is all Walsh’s game.

Simon comes down to one knee beside the tackle box. It’s old—a little banged up. Somehow, he recognizes it.

His gloved thumb brushes over the metal latch.

“Simon!”

It’s Johnny, but Simon is already moving—already releasing the latch and lifting the lid.

Memory resurfaces, and cold dread twists Simon’s stomach. Scratched into the interior of the lid is a name.

It’s Simon’s father’s name.

The tackle box is his father’s, a relic from a time when there was no abuse and no alcohol. Simon remembers going on fishing trips as a young boy carrying this exact box even though he was far too small to hold it properly. He’d always walk leaning to one side due to the weight.

Then it collected dust in a closet as his father became a monster.

But the box isn’t empty.

There are no fishing hooks or plastic dividers. All of that is gone.

In its place is your hair.

Not much, just a cleanly cut portion no larger than Simon’s pinky. It’s neatly tied with red string. Beneath it is a filmy scrap of paper.

The words face him. Clear and obvious.

She’s not here. Try again, friend.

“Simon.”

A crater in the Earth opens up, swallowing Simon whole. He is descending, falling through an endless hell. Spiraling down, down.

“Simon.”

Johnny’s voice is a distant thing. It’s trying to penetrate, to worm inside and pull Simon out but his mind is flipping.

She’s not here.

Your lock of hair is delicately tied, a regretful solace that rings out into Simon’s subconscious.

Try again, friend.

“Simon!”

Following his name is a rattling of gunfire. It’s not distant. Just over his shoulder. In Simon’s earpiece, someone is rattling off a series of numbers and positions, but Simon isn’t paying attention.

You are not here.

You are—elsewhere.

Lost.

In a place where Simon cannot tread.

An instant passes. Then another. The darkness around him transforms, flipping end over end until everything that Simon knows about himself slips away.

You were supposed to be here. He’s supposed to find you. To bring you back.

But this is a task that Simon clearly cannot handle.

Fingers claw up his esophagus, creep over his tongue, and press against his teeth. It emerges, breaking joints, allowing the darkness Simon feels to burst forth and wrap around him, enshrining him in a bloodlust he hasn’t felt in years.

The rifle tip rises. Simon is running on autopilot, allowing Ghost to take over, to consume every ounce of sanity.

Price, Soap, and Gaz are holding down the door, firing at an enemy that Simon cannot yet see.

His feet are not his own. His hands belong to someone else.

Charging forward, the firing end of the rifle explodes. The enemy on the other side are surprised by his sudden appearance. They faulter for a second, their eyes widening slightly in fear. But it’s enough.

It’s enough.

They are cut down, reaching out, hands pressing against the holes in their bodies as blood pools on the floor.

Simon unloads until he’s empty. Reloads. Empties again.

“Simon!”

The rest of his team follow, but Simon is hungry. A blood beast.

When the lead isn’t enough, he uses his hands.

There are bodies all around him, a trail for Price, Gaz, and Soap to follow.

On he moves, devouring. Slicing and gutting until the blood of his enemies begins to soak into his clothes.

He doesn’t remember ascending. Doesn’t remember resurfacing only to dive right back into the void. With ears ringing and a hint of metal on his tongue, Simon destroys everything in his path.

He is aware of Price, Johnny, and Kyle. They move around him, guns high, picking off everyone they can. Simon moves from enemy to enemy, uncaring of how he kills them. He breaks bones. Breaks teeth. Breaks soul. He stabs and slices, relishing in every anguished sound they make.

It is only when so many have fallen that Simon digs in, wanting to draw out a final blow as if the man before him is Walsh and not a nameless crony. The man sobs, his eyes replaced with Simon’s burrowing thumbs.

“Where is she!” screams Simon. He doesn’t even recognize his own voice. “Where the fuck is she!”

The sob becomes a garbled cry. Bloody. Crimson pools and dribbles from the man’s open mouth.

“Tell me where she is!”

Unresponsive. Dead.

Simon slams the man’s head against the floor.

But it isn’t enough. It will never be enough.

A strangled scream is ripped from Simon as he repeatedly bashes the man’s head into the floor.

Hands are on him, grabbing at his arms, tearing him away. Simon swings, clipping Johnny in the chin.

“Enough!” Price wrestles Simon to his feet, pushing him hard against the wall. “They’re dead, Simon.”

His head pounds, the balaclava moving rapidly into and out of his mouth as he gasps for air.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

It’s all slipping away. Piercing and sharp and yet so dull that Simon begins to feel numb.

“Simon,” murmurs Price, the middle of his brow creasing.

Try again, friend.

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[gardenschedule]

just insane mclennon things

Link to masterpost of quote compilations

John playing his and Yoko's sex tape in a band meeting

As the meeting was drawing to a weary close, John, not this day with Yoko, who hadn’t seemed particularly connected with what was going on, said he wanted to play us a tape he and Yoko had made. He got up and put the cassette into the tape machine and stood beside it as we listened. The soft murmuring voices did not at first signal their purpose. It was a man and a woman but hard to hear, the microphone having been at a distance. I wondered if the lack of clarity was the point. Were we even meant to understand what was going on, was it a kind of artwork where we would not be able to put the voices into a context, and was context important? I felt perhaps this was something John and Yoko were examining. But then, after a few minutes, it became clear. John and Yoko were making love, with endearments, giggles, heavy breathing, both real and satirical, and the occasional more direct sounds of pleasure reaching for climax, all recorded by the faraway microphone. But there was something innocent about it too, as though they were engaged in a sweet serious game. John clicked the off button and turned again to look toward the table, his eyebrows quizzical above his round glasses, seemingly genuinely curious about what reaction his little tape would elicit. However often they’d shared small rooms in Hamburg, whatever they knew of each other’s love and sex lives, this tape seemed to have stopped the other three cold. Perhaps it touched a reserve of residual Northern reticence. After a palpable silence, Paul said, “Well, that’s an interesting one.” The others muttered something and the meeting was over. It occured to me as I was walking down the stairs that what we’d heard could have been an expression of 1960s freedom and openness but was it more likely that it was as if a gauntlet had been thrown down? “You need to understand that this is where she and I are now. I don’t want to hold your hand anymore.”

Paul putting beetles fucking on his album artwork

John hiring a pig and posing with it solely to mock Ram even though he was scared of it

At the end of the day a farmer delivered a huge hog to the mansion [Tittenhurst Park]. It was John’s notion to parody the album jacket photograph of Paul McCartney’s Ram, which showed Paul wrestling with a ram; John would wrestle with a pig. We all went outside and stared at the large surly animal. It was much bigger than any of us had expected. John circled the animal warily. He liked the idea, but he didn’t like the hog. Dan stood poised to snap the picture. “Climb on its back, John, and grab its ears,” he said. John looked doubtful. He stepped closer to the animal. It let out a shrill, strange, sound. John stepped back, but we all urged him on. “You can do it, John,” I said. John approached the animal once again. “I can’t hold the friggin’ pig for too long. You get one shot and one shot alone,” he told Dan.

Loving John: The Untold Story, May Pang

John & Yoko attempting to get revenge married in Paris 2 days after Paul & Linda

“On March 12, Paul married Linda Eastman at Marylebone Register Office in London, amid scenes of hysterical grief from his female fans. None of the other Beatles was present. The news reached John as he and Yoko were driving down to visit Aunt Mimi in Poole. Yoko’s divorce decree had become final a few weeks earlier, and, in a resurgence of Beatle copycat, John told her they, too, must get married as soon as possible”

Philip Norman, John Lennon: The life

We chose Gibraltar because it is quiet, British and friendly. We tried everywhere else first. I set out to get married on the car ferry and we would have arrived in France married, but they wouldn’t do it. We were no more successful with cruise ships. We tried embassies, but three weeks’ residence in Germany or two weeks’ in France were required.

John Lennon

SALEWICZ: Well, I always found it interesting the fact that he got – I mean, it seemed too much like coincidence to me, the fact that he got married a week or month after you. You know what I mean? PAUL: Yeah. I think we spurred each other into marriage. I mean, you know. They were very strong together, which left me out of the picture. So I got together with Linda and then we got strong with our own kind of thing. And I used to listen to a lot of what they said. I remember him saying to me, “You’ve got to work at marriage,” which is something I still remember as a bit of advice. I still remember that. Um… And then yeah, I think they were a little bit peeved that we got married first. Probably. In a little way, you know, just minor jealousies. And so they got married. I don’t know if that’s – I mean, who knows… [inaudible] making it up, anyway.

September, 1986 (MPL Communications, London): journalist Chris Salewicz

Their belief in telepathy & shared dreams

NEIL: I’d just rather not say anything. It’s one of those situations. PAUL: Yeah. [pause] Well, that’s – that’s the trouble you see, there, ‘cause that’s it. It’s like, with our – heightened awareness, the answer is not to say anything, you know. But it isn’t. ‘Cause I mean, we screw each other up totally if we don’t do that. ‘Cause we’re not ready for your heightened�� vows of silence. [laughs; hapless] We’re really not! Like, we don’t know what the fuck each other’s talking about, when that – we all just sort of get— NEIL: I think it’s just between the four of you, that get it. That’s what I’d pretend. PAUL: Oh yeah, right, yeah. But you see, that’s it, that’s why John doesn’t say anything. ‘Cause he, you know, he just… There was something the other day, when I said, “Well, what do you think?” And he just stood there and didn’t say anything. And then – and I know exactly why, you know. I mean, I wouldn’t, if… [long pause] Somehow. You know, there’s nothing really much to be said about it. You just – we all just have to do it, and all that, instead of like talking about it. But – but if one of us is talking about it, it’s a drag if the other three aren’t. Because then it sort of throws you off. [inaudible; voice marking tape slate] I mean, we’ve just been talking about it now for a few years, you know. Like this…

From the Get Back sessions (13 January 1969).

HINDLE: What do you think about language? JOHN: I think it’s a bit crummy, you know? It is a drag form of communication, really. We’ll get – we’ll get telepathy. I believe that. HINDLE: You believe that? JOHN: Yeah, sure. Sure. Sure as anything I believe. It’s too… Because now we need it so much. [...] There are – there’s people everywhere of the same mind and it’s just… even amongst ourselves we can’t communicate. Which is the hard bit, you know. HINDLE: Yeah. JOHN: Amongst the people that sort of really agree. HINDLE: Just ’cause of words? JOHN: Just ’cause of words, and upbringing, and attitude, and how you express your… Well, it’s just some – you’ve got to find a mutual sort of language to express yourself, you know? And my language is that— HINDLE: Unless you fall in love it’s impossible to communicate like that. JOHN: I mean, I wasn’t in love last year, but I was communicating quite well with people. Not as well, or maybe not as powerfully. ’Cause now there’s two of us, doing that, brrmmm, whatever it is. Sending out a vibration or whatever. But before it was me and… or me and George, alright, or whatever it was; we weren’t in love, but. You know. There’s enough in you to shove it out. It is just that bit. If you – if somebody comes in a room and he’s uptight and that, he can make the whole room uptight.

John Lennon, interviewed by Maurice Hindle (December 1968).

PAUL: I remember when John and I were first hanging out together, I had a dream about digging in the garden with my hands. I’d dreamt that before but I’d never found anything other than an old tin can. But in this dream I found a gold coin. I kept digging and I found another. And another. The next day I told John about this amazing dream I’d had and he said, ‘That’s funny, I had the same dream’. So both of us had this dream of finding this treasure. And I suppose you could say it came true. I remember years later talking about it – ‘Remember that dream we had?’; ‘Yeah, that was far out’. So the message of that dream was: keep digging lads.

PAUL MCCARTNEY TO THE BIG ISSUE. FEBRUARY 2012.

John climbing the wall to Paul's house because Paul skipped a session for his & Linda's anniversary

(Not confirmed but supposedly)

Paul being utterly convinced that John can't be gay because he didn't try it on when they slept in the same bed

I mean, if John was–the trouble is, see, is he’s not here to fend for himself, and we can’t ask him, “‘Scuse me, John, are you–have you ever been gay?” I mean, he’s the kind— I remember people used to ask that. There were lots of people asking cheeky questions, and they were always saying, “Well, why–have you ever tried homosexuality, John?” You know, they always used to ask all that kind of stuff. I remember John saying to them, “No, I’ve never met a fella I fancy enough.” And that was his kind of opinion. You know, “I may go–I may be gay one day, if some fella really turns me on.” He was–he was that open about it. But as far as I was concerned, I slept in a million hotel rooms–as we all did–slept in a million places with John, and there was never any hint of it.

December 24th, 1983: interview with DJ Roger Scott

“And I say, if he’s homosexual, I thought he’d have made a pass at me in 20 years, darling.”

Paul McCartney talking about John Lennon.

“Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager, was a known homosexual. Epstein was always polite and charming. It has been insinuated that John was drawn to Epstein. I believe there was no such relationship between them. John was macho. But if John was a homosexual, it would have made no difference to me. I’ve asked Paul McCartney, who laughed and said: ‘Why not me? I’m handsome.’ Then he said: ‘I was holed up with John in hotel rooms everywhere. There was never a suggestion of anything like that.’ I believe him.”

Julia Baird, in Boston Globe: Lennon’s half-sister remembers… (2 October 1988).

“All I can ever say about it is that I slept with John a lot because you had to, you didn’t have more than one bed - and to my knowledge John was never gay.”

Paul McCartney, The Brian Epstein Story

And maybe he's right to be offended?

Did Lennon have sex with other men? “I think he had a desire to, but I think he was too inhibited,” says Ono. “No, not inhibited. He said, ‘I don’t mind if there’s an incredibly attractive guy.’ It’s very difficult: They would have to be not just physically attractive, but mentally very advanced too. And you can’t find people like that.” So did Lennon ever have sex with men? “No, I don’t think so,” says Ono. “The beginning of the year he was killed, he said to me, ‘I could have done it, but I can’t because I just never found somebody that was that attractive.’ Both John and I were into attractiveness—you know—beauty.”

Yoko Ono: I Still Fear John’s Killer by Tim Teeman for the Daily Beast (13 October 2015).

There was even some discussion, albeit not very serious, of whether he should stick to his own gender. “John said ‘It would hurt you like crazy if I made it with a girl. With a guy, maybe you wouldn’t be hurt, because that’s not competition. But I can’t make it with a guy because I love women too much, and I’d have to fall in love with the guy and I don’t think I can.’”

Yoko on her and John discussing the terms of an open marriage in 1973 (John Lennon: The Life)

On that note, Paul's obsession with sleeping in the same bed as John

Paul McCartney answers questions for Q magazine, 1998

John and I used to hitch-hike places together, it was something that we did together quite a lot; cementing our friendship, getting to know our feelings, our dreams, our ambitions together. It was a very wonderful period. I look back on it with great fondness. I particularly remember John and I would be squeezed in our little single bed, and Mike Robbins, who was a real nice guy, would come in late at night to say good night to us, switching off the lights as we were all going to bed.

Many Years From Now

John and I always liked wordplay. So, the phrase ‘She’s got a ticket to ride’ of course referred to riding on a bus or train, but – if you really want to know – it also referred to Ryde on the Isle of Wight, where my cousin Betty and her husband Mike were running a pub. That’s what they did; they ran pubs. He ended up as an entertainment manager at a Butlin’s holiday resort. Betty and Mike were very showbiz. It was great fun to visit them, so John and I hitchhiked down to Ryde, and when we wrote the song we were referring to the memory of this trip. It’s very cute now to think of me and John in a little single bed, top and tail, and Betty and Mike coming to tuck us in.

Paul McCartney, on ‘Ticket To Ride’. In The Lyrics (2021).

“John and I grew up like twins although he was a year and a half older than me. We grew up literally in the same bed because when we were on holiday, hitchhiking or whatever, we would share a bed. Or when we were writing songs as kids he’d be in my bedroom or I’d be in his. Or he’d be in my front parlour or I’d be in his, although his Aunt Mimi sometimes kicked us out into the vestibule!”

New Statesman, “Paul McCartney - Meet The Beatle,” September 26, 1997

“I wrote all those songs with him so…. what can I say to people?? We were kids! I mean… we slept together, topped and tailed in beds and hitch-hiking and stuff, so,…. I mean, we were just totally you know,….. mates.”

Paul McCartney

John taking matters into his own hand to start rumours about him and Paul

The consensus among John, Paul and Yoko that if J&P could have been together, they would have

“. . . I mean, I think really what it was, really all that happened was that John fell in love. With Yoko. And so, with such a powerful alliance like that, it was difficult for him to still be seeing me. It was as if I was another girlfriend, almost. Our relationship was a strong relationship. And if he was to start a new relationship, he had to put this other one away. And I understood that. I mean, I couldn’t stand in the way of someone who’d fallen in love. You can’t say, “Who’s this?” You can’t really do that. If I was a girl, maybe I could go out and… But you know I mean in this case I just sort of said, right – I mean, I didn’t say anything, but I could see that was the way it was going to go, and that Yoko would be very sort of powerful for him. So um, we all had to get out the way.”

Paul McCartney, interview with German tv program Exclusiv, April 1985.

JOHN: It’s a plus, it’s not a minus. The plus is that your best friend, also, can hold you without… I mean, I’m not a homosexual, or we could have had a homosexual relationship and maybe that would have satisfied it, with working with other male artists. [faltering] An artist – it’s more – it’s much better to be working with another artist of the same energy, and that’s why there’s always been Beatles or Marx Brothers or men, together. Because it’s alright for them to work together or whatever it is. It’s the same except that we sleep together, you know? I mean, not counting love and all the things on the side, just as a working relationship with her, it has all the benefits of working with another male artist and all the joint inspiration, and then we can hold hands too, right?

John Lennon, interview w/ Sandra Shevey. (Mid-June?, 1972)

Y: After the initial embarrassment, that how Paul is being very nice to me, he’s nice and a very, str- on the level, straight, sense, like wherever there’s something like happening at the Apple, he explains to me, as if I should know. And also whenever there’s something like they need a light man, or something like that he asks me if I know of anybody, things like that. And like I can see that he’s just now suddenly changing his attitude, like his being, he’s treating me with respect, not because it’s me, but because I belong to John. I hope that’s what it is because that would be nice. And I feel like he’s my younger brother or something like that. I’m sure that if he had been a woman or something, he would have been a great threat, because there’s something definitely very strong with me, John, and Paul.

Yoko Ono, Revolution Tape, June 4th 1968

"We thought we'd do a number of an old estranged fiancé of mine called Paul.""

As a second choice from the Lennon- McCartney songbook, Elton suggested 'I Saw Her Standing There'. This appealed to John for its antiquity, and because its lead vocal always was sung by Paul. (...) There was a whisper of Royal Variety Show mischief when he announced "a number by an old estranged fiancé of mine called Paul" - no one yet knowing the estranged fiancés were long reconciled.

John Lennon: The Life, Philip Norman

You know, John loved Paul. No doubt about it. I remember once he said to me, “I’m the only person who’s allowed to say things like that about Paul. I don’t like it when other people do.” He didn’t like if other people said nasty things about Paul. And he always referred to Paul as his estranged fiancé and things like that, like he did on that [live] record ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ with Elton in Madison Square Garden.

1990: Former Beatles publicist Tony King

Married couple signatures

(and the reverse of that postcard...)

John publicly predicting Paul & Linda's divorce

You were right about New York! I do love it; it's the ONLY PLACE TO BE. (Apart from anything else, they leave you alone too!) I see you prefer Scotland! (MM) -- I'll bet you your piece of Apple you'll be living in New York by 1974 (two years is the usual time it takes you right?)

John's letter to Paul in Melody Maker, 1971 Finally, about not telling anyone that I left the Beatles—PAUL and Klein both spent the day persuading me it was better not to say anything—asking me not to say anything because it would 'hurt the Beatles'—and 'let's just let it petre out'—remember? So get that into your petty little perversion of a mind, Mrs. McCartney—the cunts asked me to keep quiet about it. Of course, the money angle is important—to all of us—especially after all the petty shit that came from your insane family/in laws—and GOD HELP YOU OUT, PAUL—see you in two years—I reckon you'll be out then—inspite of it all, love to you both, from us two.

John's personal letter to Linda & Paul, 1971

JOHN: Oh, [Klein]’d love it if Paul would come back. I think he was hoping he would for years and years. He thought that if he did something, to show Paul that he could do it, Paul would come around. But no chance. I mean, I want him to come out of it, too, you know. He will one day. I give him five years, I’ve said that. In five years he’ll wake up. YOKO: And people don’t understand, you know. There’s so many groups that constantly announce they’re going to split, they’re going to split, and they can announce it every year, and it doesn’t mean they’re going to split. But people don’t understand what an extraordinary position the Beatles are in, you know. In every way. They’re in such an extraordinary position that they’re more insecure than other people. And so Klein thinks he’ll give Paul two years Linda-wise, you know. And John said, “No, Paul treasures things like children, things like that. It will be longer.” And of course, John was right.

John Lennon and Yoko Ono, interview w/ Peter McCabe and Robert Schonfeld. (September, 1971)

[ladythornofrivia]

Lady with Teal Eyes || Aemond x Aunt!Hightower Reader (Part Two)

word count:

author’s note: writing more chapters of a sad dragon family series. I’ll be on a Norwegian cruise line for Italy and Greece for 2 weeks. I’m gonna be seasick, I already know it. So I’ll be writing this series before I leave. Please enjoy and have a good day.

warnings: incest, cockwarming, teasing, sucking, p in v, rough play, flirting, wholesome moment, jealous aemond, possessive, roughness, mild manhandling, mild degradation, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex, second hand embarrassment, dark content, mentions of su*cide, Aemond being too touchy with his aunt, degradation, humiliation.

summary: Aemond meets his aunt for the first time, and there’s more than meets the eye. (there will be three parts).

The preparations for the celebration of King Viserys has reached closer whilst you accompanied Alicent into the corridor, corridor after corridor of a long tour within the Red Keep. Servants bowed as you all passed. Cold bows and cold eyes lingered, despite their bare minimums of smiling graciously at your direction, as Alicent presented the halls with lavish decor. However, mostly it was green and gold. But others blended it with black and red.

As always, you’re marveled by the exquisite lace and embroidered patterns and a clear structure of its final design of artwork is invigorating. The stitching is what you’re most impressed of.

As all Targaryens and Hightowers strolling, Alicent parted ways with her children, unbeknownst to you, the one-eyed prince had his hands behind his back, violet shade of eye looming over your new gown designed by the seamstress, all soft-shaded periwinkle, strapped with gold embroidery and green and red, streaks of iridescent shun upon sunlight, your manes healthy and glowing, maintained through and through.

You knew he was watching. With his precious one violet eye gleaming at the back of your head, your body shivered in an alien sensation. As for Aemond, a dragon’s hunger is anything but stable or sane. A dragon’s hunger is like a breath of wild fire casted to the torch of the wondrous nature and life itself. The fire eats and leaves the bones of ash, dwindling in midair.

Aegon I altered the history and thus, House Targaryen must stand with unity and strength and blood.

Still parted aways after an idle chat, for Alicent to task with decorations, as her children were long gone, back into your large chambers, you were unpacking your materials for the completion on a quilt, a quilt with colorful dragons and mermaids and ships, various shades of sews and needles unpacked, as the back of your neck tingled with goosebumps as you felt a hot breath stroking.

Before you turned around, large and slender hands travelled over your clothed waist, nearly close to your chest above. A writhe of hot tingle rushing in your coils and chest. A quiet breath strained, lax down to a low hiss, a hiss nearly tickling your skin. No servants were around, no Alicent or Gwayne.

Aemond, a one-eyed prince has lurked and captured you. A princess sent by a Maiden herself. The fiery dragon must seize the princess.

You thought he has gone back to training yard with Ser Criston, as Alicent mentioned once at the entryway within a prolonged conversation.

“Aemond—”

His face inched close to yours, his supple and pretty lips touched your cheeks, trailed down to your jawline, whilst his left hand grasp your face to stay still. The pool between your legs gradually strengthened its warmth and slick, easily for the prince to prance and insert into your tight hole. Under the layers of silk dress, Aemond bunched the layered fabrics to your waist.

You never had a noble taken an interest in you. The only that interests them is the brightness of your teal eyes.

A mesmerizing glow of your hues has yanked his curiosities. His mother never mentioned him about you—not even once in a dubious talk.

Better late than never.

With his hand, fingers strapped, and his trimmed nails clutched the fabric of your corset, the laces loosener it in smooth motion, loosening around your frame, breasts ached as his hand—his cold hand—brushed and pinched your nipple while his other hand found his way your thigh, grasped as Aemond’s tongue flicked and his lips pressed a chaste kiss to your clit.

A moan escaped, your mouth shielded, you face drowned in flush, as Aemond’s heart leapt in satisfaction. Humming, he stood up and inserted his fingers into your cunt, thrusting the fingers in with doubled speed as your moans grew louder, but restrained the pleasure into your chest, holding it. The walls in the Red Keep are dire; servants and nobles and guards walked passed and patrolled through wall and doors. Even the highest nobles strolled by.

“Fuck,” is all he said, as if it was a prayer. “Your cunt might be as Holy as the Maiden herself.”

His lips sucked your swollen tit.

“My prince,” you cried softly. “Please. The guards, my brother and sister will see us.”

“I do not care of their pious thoughts.”

“I’m your aunt, my pri—”

“Don’t fight it, my sweet,” he said, giving a sensual flick on his warm tongue to your swollen flesh, “I might give you a reason to have bruise on you, ones that they’ll never find on your skin.” His hands grasped your waist, trailing with soft strokes. “You’re humiliated. Maybe there’s more than meets the eye.”

Based on his words, you never thought you found it attractive, considering the soft spoken voice, hoarse with arousal.

“Don’t fight it. If you fight against this, this subtle encounter between us, you’ll never forgive yourself,” he whispered, his wet lips brushed yours. “If you have been, you would shoved me away. Would you like that, princess? Shoving me away?”

His voice ragged dampened your cunt and clit twitched at his sound.

“Seems you enjoy it. You’re a good princess. But alas,” he pulled himself afar, the warmth on your body began to turn a chill.

“I shall see you at the feast. Enjoy your stay.” His neck went for a stiff bow, but his eye glued with plea for your consideration of his statement, whether you accept his offer or not, and departed your apartment—a once organized structure is now filled with clutter and oozing sex and the arousal groans you shared has imprinted in your head, you find yourself still with embarrassment.

In a way, a blessing in disguise when no one, not even Gwayne, saw or heard your affairs with a young dragon prince.

You have seen the arrival of Rhaenyra and Daemon and the children, you had a short introduction to all Black faction.

The dinner celebration for Viserys’s nameday celebration has been all but cumbersome. You felt a subtle hostility, but to due your presence, it has lessened but somewhat guarding up—all due to pettiness.

As you, making a progression with your father, it was all but cold distance even you and Otto were near. Not once he looked at you with adoration like he shared his adoration with Princess Helaena, showing her teal beetle. The Green children are all strained; Aegon had his fair share of capable stupidity to throw down a nasty comment of his cousins and nephews.

Daeron was disappointed with Aegon’s perversions, but Daeron veered at you with a kind smile and made a polite conversation with you. Once again, Otto did not acknowledged of your accomplishments. You felt sick in the stomach, and it’s not your bright gold and yellow dress you have finished making. Tears behind your eyes was arising, and your throat budged with hot and parched sting.

Aemond clenched his fist, for his anger was directed at his grandsire for not noticing you. That damnable old fool—if only Otto sees how your talents. When Viserys disregarded Aemond, even his siblings, he wanted nothing more than to see him dead. But alas, with your existence, it’s almost as if Viserys’s existence just naturally died out.

You pardoned yourself, and Alicent thereby dismissed you, you bowed and left to your chambers, spent the rest of the night weeping, thinking what have you done wrong.

As you exited, the tensed feeling withdrew, and Otto was happy again. And so, without a doubt, Aemond gave a good jab on Otto, which caused a disastrous supper for everyone. The music stopped. As for Aegon and Daemon, they found it amusing while Alicent ordered the guards to escort Aemond way back to his chambers.

For Aegon, this was a win for him. He’s not in trouble for once.

~~~

In dreams, you have never seen your mother, what she appears like or what she sounds like or how her personality was. The only thing that is closest to being a mother to you is the wetnurse or the servants or the Septa who provided you with assistance on your daily appearances and wisdom. Whenever a servant brushes your hair, you often think of what it feels like to have a mother brushing your manes with care and doting manner, a soft voice to soothe your aching heart, where doubts and fears would go away.

In times of sleep, you often thinking of ending your life, just to see your biological mother on the other side. Or perhaps more than just seeing your mother. There are times where you hated your life, and you want nothing more but to end it.

People have often told stories of your mother, though it felt it was a grave mistake. Some say she fled away to Free Cities, some said she ended her life from the highest tower of Oldtown and fell down to the sea. There are rumors where Otto took you because you’re adopted, or perhaps he had a secret, illicit affairs.

The cold feeling rushed in you as your eyes pricked with tears. With somebody telling you stories of your late mother, it brought no peace. Only the enigma of your shadowed doubts and an endurance of chaotic insanity, to question whether your life is real, if you’re real in this world with purpose.

The servants have been kind to you more than the nobles, the more everyone pointed out your flaws and the insignificance of your existence, you lead to believe that you’ll never be loved.

And cried once more. Each night, your tears flooded in pillows and blanket, as you embraced the closest object, pretended that it’s your late mother. An endless of an anguish thought has been a hazard.

Only the echoes of the walls could hear you and the pillows has stained, under your hug squeezed the material as hard, wishing for the pain to go away.

In his awake, he’s a perfect prince, but in his dreams, he’s a beast.

A beast kept within a shell of a noble man.

He has dreamt of your teal eyes basking in his dark dreamland, your voice, how it was yearning so much more. A dark dreamland filled with scornful memories of his nephews and Aegon, and the pink dread. He had kill all of them in his dreams, even the fat pig.

With a scolding from his mother, he couldn’t care less. He wanted your presence to be acknowledged by your father, but how can Otto be so cynically dimwitted and more offensively calculating against you?

When the servants spoke over how you’re not related to Alicent, chances are why Otto was pretending that your presence is nothing more than a useless and meaningless substance of meaning to exist.

Others said that they haven’t seen you gone out from your apartments—and that was recent.

Aemond visited you, presented you with a gift, but the word from you not leaving the apartments has concerned. Thus his mind came up an idea.

You have several servants entering the room with stack of your favorite meals and drink—including lemon cakes and Dornish wine.

One knows someone’s best interest. Whoever did it, your heart is elated. As soon as Aemond came in, you hadn’t known whether he knew something that you don’t. Somehow, his intimidating presence softens your heart, prickled in relief.

For some reason, when Alicent paid you a visit, although shortened, she was concerned of your health, you hadn’t formed a proper conversation; Alicent hasted when the Council has called for her summon, but gave her regards.

Aemond accompanied you for a while in your apartments, and chat whatever discussion came up. Each minute and each hour, the two of you became close, became so close that you or him hadn’t open your hearts, despite what he did to you days ago. With your cunt coiled at his face, his voice and neck, his waist, you find yourself crossing your legs, aroused and squirming beside him. You wondered and imagined of Aemond’s tongue guiding and gliding your soaked cunt. At this moment, you wanted tackle him and suffocate him with your legs wrapped around him, taking in of your nectar.

“I’m glad you are doing well, princess,” Aemond said to you. “For I have been concerned of your well-being. A delicate flower such as you does not deserve the cruelty of my grandsire or anyone in the matter of your visit.”

“He’s always been difficult,” you explained. “No matter how much I’ve improved with my skill, he’ll never sees as his or my sister’s equal.”

“In ways my mother and grandsire are more intolerable. Though I respect my mother, I find myself with bore with my grandsire has to say. If anything, I’m glad your presence has casted a light into the dread.”

In Aemond’s case, however, found you as exquisite as gentle as the blooming flower. His one took a longer glimpse at you and notice the difference—how your eyes glinted in glee while your cheeks adorned with youthful flush and enamored smile. Oh so pure and harmless. He hasn’t seen his mother and his siblings. As for Otto, he hasn’t spoke to him since supper at Viserys’s nameday after sending a jab across the face—out of character for a self-assured prince.

Oh, to ruin you.

“Thank you for the meal, Prince Aemond. You don’t know how much I’m relieved to say this,” you said as you finished the embroidery on your unfinished dress you sewn.

Aemond found your gowns just as otherworldly as you.

Consequences won’t matter; Viserys nor anyone else in the room care for his presence. Perhaps it is a blessing, perhaps it is for the best for you to be settled here in King’s Landing, as long you’re in content, nothing else matters, but if harm does come, he shall smite the immoral act. Aemond is no perfect, but with you, he’d be at his best behavior.

“Then I shall relieve you,” he proclaimed.

You find yourself halted at his declaration and glimpsed at his resolved expression.

Something has stirred in your heart that you wanted more than the civil interactions, wanted more than having someone to converse with you.

Tossing and turning onto your bed was all but a doozy. Dizzy from pivoting and switching positions, you had enough. Dreams had come again. This time it’s Aemond calling out to you, feasting on your wet folds and pumping his lithe and graceful rugged fingers in you. Ever since the day before Viserys’s nameday, with Aemond’s thirst, your legs ached.

For a Hightower, it’s a sin to self-pleasure one’s body—a selfish immoral act.

Somehow you found it odd. If a man does self-pleasure, no court would turn the eye, but a woman does self-pleasure with hasting fingers and naughtiness is considered dire.

Faith of the Seven had their own laws, but you knew that men and women had their fair share of illest secrets. Lucky for you, Alicent and everyone in the Red Keep does not know your impure thoughts. The room became hot, then cold, then all at once, the breath in your lips became ragged and desperate. You wanted someone to hold you, treasure you, seduce with sweet nothings and sweet promises with adore.

For your years of not having a partner, you have begun to fear of not having pleasure. In the heating moment, you thought of what’s like losing your maidenhood to someone with a big cock.

You wanted a cock.

His cock.

Oh, a dragon prince. If Aemond hears your thoughts, you’d run away and never to return Westeros and give yourself a new name and fashion.

Damn the consequences and the punishments from the Lord Hand and the Queen themselves! Damn the Faith of the Seven and their laws!

With your fingers circling your clit, no climax arrived. Thus, you casted your blankets aside with a huff, setting out to see him.

Trudging through the dark halls, the guards were nowhere to be found, assuming the guards went elsewhere. As you made your way to the doors, you approached and entered the chambers where you have found Aemond on his bedside.

Your breath held back, taking in at the sight of Aemond. With his porcelain skin and his long silver-blond hair, it gleamed under moonlight, appearing paler compared to daylight. His eye had an old scar, and his eyepatch was placed elsewhere.

Watching his body rising and falling within breath, you approached him and kissed his back, planted your light kisses, feeling the smooth surface of his skin.

Aemond awoke and turned, found you kissing his back.

“My lady,” he whispered, one eye widened, as you stare at his sapphire. It was beautiful like him.

You placed your finger on his lips.

“Have you come to made a decision?” he asked.

Your lashes fluttered under his gaze. “What do you think, my prince?”

Then your lips collided with his. Aemond was taken aback of your sudden act. Eventually, his consciousness fell; with his lips shared an illicit chaste kiss, his hands uncloaked you, and roamed on your womanly body, caressing you, until you began to undo his trousers, his cock hardened.

“This won’t take long,” you promised, slowly pinning him down onto the pillows, unstrapped yourself naked and sat in between his legs. You didn’t expect for his cock to harden.

Your eyes darted to his, awaiting. And thus, you yanked his trousers downward, unveiling his hardened cock. You eyes widened at the sheer size. Your maidenhood hasn’t been taken yet. Your future prospects of marriage hasn’t arrived, but it feels as the more you wait, the more your chances of marriage dimmed. With your body descended, the maidenhood had met his engorged tip.

Aemond lay still, watching you. His sapphire eye gleamed at its victory.

Your voice moaned aloud; your maidenhood slammed down, his engorged cock tightened on your damped walls. Gradually, the pace on your hips sped. You have never felt anything as good. Prayers in the sept are insatiably helpful compare to the prince’s cock.

You have never felt so alive.

Aemond knew you’re a virgin; your hips bounced all thanks to the guidance of his hands.

He pleasured a woman in the brothel in the Street of Silk at the age of three-and-ten. As a young boy, he regretted making a decision by making himself a fool to go along with Aegon and his shenanigans. He was expecting Viserys to guide him gently into the world, but the Driftmark incident has left Aemond concluded that Viserys, his father, did not spare a single kindness or thought and only spared it Rhaenyra and her sons.

All hope was lost until he saw you—a radiant maiden.

You reached your high, as Aemond clutched your hips, spurring down the hot semen bursting the inner walls—a divine conclusion.

Gasping for air, your legs stood achingly, leaving white traces of his semen dripping down on his balls and thighs. When Aemond tried to assisted you, but instead his face met your open legs and slammed your went against his chiseled face and nose.

Fuck my maidenhood, you thought, desperate, as your hips gyrated, feeling his warm tongue and the sharp line of his nose encouraged your arousing sense to further the climax, as your right hand found its way at the back of Aemond’s hair.

Aemond find himself humming against the warmth of your cunt, mingling with his semen. It was a divination, nothing like the brothel. If only his virginity had taken by you instead of a woman who hasn’t live up to her beauty and standards of gentile and grace. Streets of Flea Bottom aren’t to be trusted. His lips kissed your inner thighs, gliding his tongue, and pumped it in between your walls.

Groaning, almost feral-like, your hips paced, your tits bouncing as your walls grew hot again.

“Relieve me,” you said to the prince, hoarse. A soft squeak caught into his ears.

I shall relieve you, my sweet. Just as I promised, he thought.

Your hips gyrated harder, until the spurring had come close; hot liquid squirted on his face as Aemond’s tongue lapped on your cunt faster than last. Your head threw back with his languid strokes on his warm tongue.

Gods it was a miracle.

He has taken your maidenhead.

“Good boy,” you cooed, your breath rasped, your hand still placed on the back of his long silver-blond hair, gyrating your tired hips against his face.

Both you and Aemond found yourselves in elation.

“Good boy.”

Taglist: @toodlesxcuddles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @domithebomi @moonseye @faesspace @rxixo31 @tm-starr @xinthia19 @halsteadstyles @lothiriel9 @liannafae @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @thought--bubble @remuslupinwife1 @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @kimsubin05 @mylosz0 @blackgaladriel @valeskafics @liannafae @theboleyngirlx @syraxnyra @lothiriel9

[ltwilliammowett]

Today we're heading into the eternal ice of Antarctica and keeping a special lady company. The beautiful Endurance is waiting for us in door no. 7

More about her here:

The three-masted schooner barque designed by Ole Aanderud Larsen (1884-1964) was built by the Framnæs shipyard in Sandefjord, Norway. When she was launched on 17 December 1912, she was named Polaris. She was 43.8 m long, 7.62 m wide and weighed 350 tonnes. In addition to square sails on the foremast and gaff sails on the main and mizzen masts, she had a 260 kW steam engine, which allowed a maximum speed of 10 knots (19 km/h). The ship was designed for polar conditions and constructed to minimise the pressure of the ice masses. With a thickness of 28 cm, the frames were made of greenheart wood, a particularly stable type of tropical wood, and were twice as thick as on conventional sailing ships of this size. The hull of the Endurance was designed to be relatively straight-sided, as it was only intended to sail in loose pack ice. She was therefore calmer in the sea than ships with a spherical hull, such as the Fram; however, this came at the cost of not being lifted significantly out of the pressure line in ice pressures and was therefore unsuitable for encasements in pack ice.

The ship was commissioned by the Belgian polar explorer Adrien de Gerlache and the Norwegian whaling magnate Lars Christensen, who actually wanted to use it for polar cruises of a more touristic nature. However, due to financial problems, Christensen was happy to sell his ship to Shackleton for 11,600 pounds sterling (approx. 934,000 euros, as of 2010) - an amount that was less than the original construction costs. Shackleton renamed her Endurance after his family's motto ‘Fortitudine vincimus’ (‘Through endurance we shall conquer’).

The Endurance left the port of Plymouth on 8 August 1914, around a week after Great Britain's entry into the First World War, and completed the journey to Antarctica with a stopover in Buenos Aires without any problems.

Before the crew of the Endurance could cross to the Antarctic mainland to cross the Antarctic as planned, the ship was trapped by the pack ice of the Weddell Sea in January 1915 like ‘an almond in a piece of chocolate’ - as the much-used comparison goes. After resisting the force of the pack ice for 281 days, the Endurance was crushed by the ice on 21 November 1915. The expedition team had previously saved themselves on a safe ice floe. Thanks to a masterly feat of seamanship and navigation, Shackleton and his crew managed to get out of this desolate situation without any losses with the help of three lifeboats that were salvaged from the Endurance.

Initially continuing with the pack ice and later on ice floes, the castaways drifted northwards in their camps along the Antarctic Peninsula until the floes broke into small pieces. They finally reached Elephant Island in their lifeboats. There, one of the boats was converted and set off for South Georgia with 6 men to fetch help, which was successful. Months later, the remaining men who were still stuck on Elephant Island were rescued by a Chilean navy guard boat.

In 2019, a private expedition attempted to locate the wreck of the Endurance, but was unsuccessful.

In January 2022, the Endurance 22 expedition began the search. The S. A. Agulhas II brought the expedition, in which marine physicist Stefanie Arndt from the Alfred Wegener Institute took part,[3] to the last coordinates of the Endurance mentioned. From the historical records, the expedition members knew that the ship must have sunk at ♁68° 39′ 30″ S, 52° 26′ 30″ W. According to the rules of the Antarctic Treaty, the wreck is a protected historical site that may not be touched.

On 5 March 2022, the expedition found the ship with a diving robot at a depth of 3008 m, 7.7 km from the recorded position. Photographs showed the wreck standing upright in excellent condition.

[beanarie]

same story as my tommy and athena scene, set a day earlier. lab rats seems to be making me more upset the more distance i get from it. fun!

~

At his back, he hears the colonel radioing for an extraction team. It galvanizes him. He could stay put, keep bearing witness as Evan watches his surrogate father get brought out in a black bag like food waste from a restaurant. But all three of the people stuck on that side, the living and the dead, would want to make sure the others are looked after.

Tommy drains a water bottle in three long swallows, he dries his eyes, and he makes someone show him where the rest of the team is quarantining.

Howie is listless and pale, shrouded in misery in a way Tommy hasn't seen since he buried that buddy of his their probie year. Tommy would let him rest, but from the tension in his jaw and the way he's holding himself, he's clearly not resting.

He crouches down. "Hey, Howie."

Howie stirs, sniffling. "Tommy?" he says. "Are we being air-lifted?"

"No," Tommy says, before shrugging. "Actually, you might. I don't know. I came here at gunpoint." At Howie's bewildered look, he raises a hand. "Don't- Don't worry about that. How are you holding up?"

His expression shifts, turning impossibly sadder. "You know about Bobby?"

Tommy nods, regretting the plastic sheeting between them. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah." His eyes fill with fresh tears and he shoves them away with his hands. "It's... the job, right?"

Inhaling deeply, Tommy sees Bobby clinging to Athena after the cruise ship. He remembers Evan's face when he heard Bobby was going to recover after his heart attack.

"Firefighter Han? Listen to me. Fuck the job right now."

"Yeah," Howie says. He gives a weak, watery laugh that turns into a sob.

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

This fulfills both my BuckTommy agenda and my Chimney and Tommy are besties agenda. It's Fluffebruary Day Eleven: Double Date! Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary, and you can read this on AO3 over here.

It’s Howie who suggests he and Tommy take their Buckleys out together, and Tommy is happy to go along with it. He and Howie have been occasionally meeting up for a beer or coffee ever since the cruise ship rescue, and they’re currently sitting next to a playground while Jee-Yun goes down the same slide over and over. She lands about four feet from them and waves every time until she runs back to carefully climb the steps back up.

“What are you thinking?” Tommy asks, swirling the last of his coffee in its paper cup to mix it before taking a swig.

“LA County Fair is coming up. You ever go?”

Tommy snorts softly and nods. “Yeah, with Ben.”

“Yeah, fuck that, we’re making new memories,” Howie says, making a face. He’d heard about Tommy’s last serious relationship in all its toxic glory after he’d cornered Tommy in a CVS to ask why the hell he’d been ducking Howie since his and Evan’s (thankfully temporary, then current) break-up. “Just do not tell my daughter, because we’re taking her in a couple weeks and she’s gotta think it’s the first time or she’ll look at me with big, sad eyes.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” Tommy vows solemnly, and Howie claps him on the shoulder.

They settle back and watch Jee-Yun, happily taking compliments from a couple of other parents and nannies on how sweet their daughter is.

“Yep, we love her, she’s our little angel,” Howie says, putting an arm around Tommy’s shoulders and squeezing.

“Absolutely,” Tommy agrees readily, squeezing Howie’s knee. “Been that way since the day we brought her home.”

“Uncle Tommy!” she shouts, running full-tilt toward them and catching herself on his knees. “Swing?”

“Swing,” he confirms, scooping her up and messily kissing her cheek as she squeals with laughter. “Let’s see if we can get you to go all the way around in a big circle.”

Howie jumps to his feet. “Let’s not do that.”

Tommy turns his own big, sad eyes on Howie as he backs toward the playground. “But Da-ad.”

“Tommaso Gianni, you better not break my daughter.”

Jee-Yun gasps and looks at Tommy. “Uh-oh.”

“First and middle name? I know,” he says gravely. “Okay, we’ll carefully swing.”

She pouts and throws her arms around Tommy’s neck. “Oka-ay.”

He happily pushes her on the swing until Maddie shows up with Evan, both of them having had lunch with their parents. Tommy bites back a grin when he sees the confusion on the faces of the people who’d approached him and Howie as Maddie greets her husband with a kiss.

Evan walks over and waves. “Hey, guys!”

“Uncle Buck!” Jee-Yun shrieks, and Tommy barely has time to catch the chains of the swing to stop it before she launches herself off of it to run to Evan’s waiting arms. He picks her up and kisses her cheeks before settling her on his hip.

He’s listening to her recap about the caterpillar she found when they’d arrived and asking her questions about what it looked like and is in the middle of telling her what kind of moth it’ll probably turn into as he reaches Tommy.

“Hey,” he says, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. “We swinging?”

“Yep, but we’ve been restricted to safe swinging,” Tommy says, and Evan makes a face. “Right? Howie doesn’t know that this girl’s ready to fly.”

“Alright,” Evan says to a captivated Jee-Yun, sitting on the swing. “Here’s how we’re going to do this. You’re gonna hold on real right, okay? And then Uncle Tommy is gonna push as hard as he can.”

She nods and wraps her arms around Evan, and he holds the chain of the swing with one hand and wraps his other arm around her. When he’s settled in, he backs up until he’s almost standing up straight.

“Alright, launching in five, four, three, two, one!”

With that, he pushes off, and Tommy grins when she shrieks with laughter. He pushes them carefully, not wanting to risk Evan losing his grip, but Evan’s pumping his legs to build up a little more height.

“So are you guys poly or—”

The question catches him off-guard, and he looks sheepishly at the nanny who’d been talking to him and Howie earlier.

“No, that’s my boyfriend’s brother-in-law,” he explains. “We were, uh, just messing with people.”

She snorts and shifts the toddler she’s carrying to her other hip. “You guys are going to be the talk of the playground for a couple days. Please don’t clear things up with anyone else, I live for this kind of thing.”

“Uncle Tommy is slacking!” Evan calls over his shoulder.

“Uncle Evan can chill,” Tommy says, stepping back into position.

When they’re ready to hop off, Evan dramatically “jumps” as the swing is coming to a stop, and Maddie comes over to offer her daughter a bag of pretzel chips and some water.

“What’s this I hear about a double date?” she asks, plucking two pretzel chips out of the bag and handing one to each of them.

“Yep,” Tommy says, popping the snack into his mouth. “Tomorrow, actually. Details to follow.”

He gives a meaningful glance down to Jee-Yun, who’s looking up at them as she sips her water. Later, when they’re in Evan’s Jeep and away from little ears, Tommy asks him how he feels about the fair.

“Oh, man, I am so winning you a bear,” Evan says, grinning.

“Uh, I think I’m going to be winning a bear for you.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I’m one half of the organizing party, it’s my responsibility—”

“To buy me a funnel cake and hold my hand on—actually, no, no ferris wheel.”

Tommy shudders. “Yeah, nothing that, uh, leaves the ground.”

They bicker about who’s responsible for winning stuffed animals for who all the way back to the loft.

–

His last trip to the fair really had been a disaster. Ben had complained about the price of food, Tommy had ignored every attempt at initiating conversation about them attending Ben’s high school reunion, and they’d ended the night in silence and with headaches.

This time, Maddie is six months pregnant and devouring every bit of fair food she can get her hands on, Howie has had three different face painting artists have a go at him and now looks like Spider-Man/Darth Maul/a butterfly depending on which third of his face you’re looking at, and Evan is carrying a stuffed puppy under one arm and has a weird monkey puppet looped around his neck. Tommy has a pink bear the size of Jee-Yun under his arm, and he feels like he’s going to be sick if he eats anything else that’s been fried.

“Alright, funhouse, funhouse, funhouse,” Evan chants.

“Absolutely not,” Maddie says around a fried Oreo. “But you guys enjoy yourselves.”

They hand off their stuffed prizes to Maddie and Howie and run into the funhouse. It’s very old and mostly full of spinning platforms and moving walkways and some mirrors, and Evan has them stop and take a picture in every single one. After, they spot the haunted house and manage to entice Howie and Maddie into joining them on that one because it involves sitting down.

It’s so much goddamn fun. Howie and Tommy hang back while Maddie and Evan try to do a game that involves rubber ducks, both of them sipping on overpriced beer.

“You know, Maddie told me they never went to a fair when they were kids,” Howie says. “Danny was too sick, then everything after. Isn’t that wild?”

Tommy knows he means that it’s something else and nods. “Means we should probably take them every year to make up for it.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

They clink their plastic cups together and exchange grins.

“State fair up in Sac when the kids are old enough,” Howie decides. “Or if we can get a babysitter for the weekend.”

“I know a cheap pilot.”

“Oh, don’t call yourself that, honey,” Howie coos, pinching his cheek.

“Stop flirting with my boyfriend,” Evan says, pressing a small, squishy dinosaur against Tommy’s chest. “Your move, Kinard.”

Maddie hands a Minion dressed like a pirate to Howie. “Meet your son.”

“Howard, Jr,” he sighs, petting its goggled eye happily. “Who wants to go scare the shit out of the person running that thing where you swing a hammer to hit a bell? I’m pretty sure they’ll cry when they see these two muscle-bound freaks.”

By the end of the night, they’re tired and all leaning against each other and carrying more stuffed animals than any four adults should ever own. The big, floppy elephant that Evan is hauling is Tommy’s personal favorite. He also has a tote bag over each shoulder with crafts, trinkets, snacks, and random spice and tea blends from vendors.

“We should do a Ren Faire,” Evan suggests.

“Oh, my god, Jee as a little squire or a princess,” Maddie whines, burying her face in her stuffed shark. “Honey, please.”

“Yeah, alright,” Howie says, leaning in to kiss her hair. She’s already got grease paint smudged on it and her face from him, so she’d stopped batting him away hours ago.

They get to Howie and Maddie’s car, since paying for parking twice had sounded like a terrible idea, and they get a ride back to Tommy’s house.

“We’re the fucking kings of double dates,” Howie says, reaching back to bump Tommy’s fist before they get out of the car. “But maybe just dinner and a movie next time.”

“Go big or go home, Han.” He swoops in for a kiss to Maddie’s cheek and climbs out of the back seat, joining Evan in gathering their prizes from the back of the car. “Alright, let’s get them settled into the guest room.”

They arrange their prizes on the bed and Tommy takes a picture of the frankly ridiculous army they amassed, though there’s one more soldier on his side than Evan’s thanks to that game where you shoot water into a hole to win a horse race. They’d been so close to winning a bear as big as Maddie, but he’s a little glad they didn’t. He doesn’t even know where he’s going to keep all of these and imagines the toy drive will be getting a sizable stuffed toy donation once he lets their friends’ kids pick out a favorite to adopt.

The elephant and bear are staying with them, though.

[roosterforme]

In the Line of Duty | Rooster x Reader

Summary: During preparations for a dangerous mission, Bradley finds comfort in writing his thoughts down for his unborn child to eventually read. There's always a chance that he won't make it back, and his final plans involve safeguarding the most important item he brought on his deployment with him.

Warnings: Angst, deployment, pregnancy topics

Length: 2800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

Bradley was in the same tiny room with the same seven people for the nineteenth day in a row. He was sweating, too aware of his surroundings. He could hear Reuben breathing next to him. He could hear Admiral Turner's wristwatch counting off every second. He could hear the plans being laid out, but he could barely focus on them.

"The political climate is rapidly changing," the admiral said. "This bombing run is essential, however it will undoubtedly lead to a hostile environment for our allies. Getting the timing just right is essential to a successful mission."

He'd been telling the aviators the same things for days, and while Bradley knew somebody's best interest was at heart, he wasn't really sure it was his. Or Reuben's. Or anybody's in this fucking claustrophobic room. But what choice did he have but to sit here in his flight suit, reeking of jet fuel until he was released?

"Also," Admiral Turner said, his voice laced with exhaustion, "we'll be keeping a close watch on the weather. If you fly this mission, it's going to be a rough takeoff and an even rougher landing. And that's not even mentioning the elements you'll encounter in the air."

Bradley could feel it. The aircraft carrier was a massive vessel, nothing like a cruise ship or anything smaller. It was built to withstand typhoons and hurricanes, but he could still feel it. The movement was getting worse by the hour now. There were deckhands and petty officers walking around with seasickness bags. People were running from the mess hall left and right. The only thing that could be said of this small group of aviators in this tiny ass room was that professional fighter pilots had all traces of motion sickness eliminated from their bodies during flight training, never to be heard from again. He wasn't uncomfortable, but he could still feel it.

"And with that final precaution, I've made my selection for the three pilots who will fly when I say it's time to go." Bradley knew it in his bones even before he heard the admiral say, "Vandal. Patches. Rooster. Everyone else will remain on standby. You're all dismissed."

As he stood, Reuben stuck his fist out. "Congrats, man," he said, and Bradley reached out as well to bump fists. Being chosen was an accomplishment; Bradley always wanted to be chosen. He always wanted to perform to the best of his ability. But his thoughts were so heavy now, filled with new hopes and fears. 

"Thanks, Payback," he replied, following his friend from the room and into the noisy reprieve of the cool hallway. There were people rushing around as the two of them made their way to the mess hall. "But if I have to sit in that room for another day, I'm going to lose my mind."

Reuben laughed as he started to load a tray with food. "I love how the weather is too bad for us to do any training runs, but in the same sentence, we're told to be ready to fly a mission in this. It's like they're steering us right into the worst of the storm."

They were. Bradley could tell they were. There was something strategic about the open water location, but they were absolutely heading into the worst of it. He just hoped it would clear up before he was called out on deck to fly. 

"It's a good thing I haven't barfed in a Super Hornet since that very first time," he said, also piling food that he knew would taste like cardboard onto a plate.

"This shit sucks," Reuben muttered, biting into a roll once they reached an empty table. "We got any more of your wife's cookies back in the bunk?"

Bradley smiled as he looked at the questionable meal in front of him. "A few." He bit into the steak and grimaced. Everything you cooked at home was better than this. He'd trade his whole plate of food right now for half of a grilled cheese sandwich made by your hands. Just thinking about it had his stomach growling louder. "You already ate most of them."

Reuben popped another roll into his mouth and chewed it up before saying, "Rooster, you've got a hot lieutenant commander who can cook for a wife. And a baby on the way. Come on, man. The least you can do is spare some more of those cookies."

Once he let his thoughts drift, Bradley knew it would take hours to get focused on his job again, but he couldn't help it. When he left home, you looked the same as you always did. You'd been complaining about your weight gain and bloating for weeks, but you looked just perfect to him. He wanted to get back home to see if you had a bump yet. He wanted to get home and talk to the Nugget. But he'd already been gone for three weeks, and he hadn't been given a single chance to call or FaceTime with you. 

He hated having no idea how your most recent doctor's appointment went. There were probably new ultrasound photos sitting right on the kitchen counter, but it could be weeks before he got to see how much the Nugget grew since last time. He should be a home, catering to your every whim and building the massive jungle gym for the backyard.

"Are you excited?" Reuben asked, breaking through his thoughts. "You've got what, like five more months to go before you're a dad?"

"One hundred and eighty-six days until the due date," Bradley replied with a grin. "And yeah, I'm pretty fucking excited. It's all I can think about." He tried to finish all of the food, but he set his plate aside and said, "Let's go eat some of those cookies."

An hour later, Bradley was sitting in his bunk, nibbling on the rationed baked goods while Reuben snored across the room. He took this opportunity to get out the pink and blue striped notebook which he affectionately referred to as the Nugget notebook. He'd filled half of it with his musings, and he figured it would be full by your due date. It was silly, just his random thoughts and some sporadic story telling, but he liked the idea of his kid having all of this to look at later. He uncapped his pen, jotted down the date, and started writing what was on his mind. 

You'll never guess where I am right now. No really. It would be impossible, because even I don't really know where I am! But it's somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, I know that for sure. And while I'm really, really far away from you and your mom right now, the two of you are all I can think about....

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

The weather was so bad a few days later that the gym was closed. Bradley and Reuben stood in front of the locked door in their gym clothes looking at each other. 

"This is fucking wild," Bradley muttered, deprived of the only activity he could think of to keep himself busy. The hallways were pretty empty at this time of night, but everything still felt more deserted than usual. The dining menus had been pared down, presumably because half of the kitchen staff was too seasick to make everything. He was starting to feel anxious. "Let's go workout in the bunk and then finish the cookies."

"Sounds good," Reuben replied. They took turns churning out sets of fifty push ups while the other ate a cookie. They did this until they were both sweating and all of the cookies were officially gone.

"Now what the fuck are we supposed to do?" Bradley asked, but any response was cut off by a knocking on the door. He jumped up, glanced at Reuben, and then opened the door for a petty officer. 

"Bradshaw?"

"Yeah?"

"You requested a FaceTime call? Report to the lounge in thirty minutes."

"Thanks," he said, heart beating wildly as he closed the door. He rushed around the room, grinning and grabbing everything he'd need to take a quick shower.

Reuben just laughed and said, "Please thank her again for the cookies."

"Will do," Bradley replied, making a mad dash for the showers. If he did the math correctly, he figured it was between four and five o'clock in the morning back home in San Diego. He hated calling you in the middle of the night, especially when you were pregnant and exhausted, but he knew you'd forgive him. And he desperately needed to see your face and hear your voice.

His hair was still damp when he jogged along the quiet corridors toward the lounge and took a seat in front of one of the computers. He quickly entered his credentials followed by your phone number, and then he waited and waited. "Shit," he muttered, gripping the edge of the table, afraid the call was going to ring through and then cut off. But then he heard you screech his name and saw you as you reached for your glasses while the light from the lamp on your nightstand illuminated your face. 

"Bradley!" you practically screamed again, your voice scratchy from sleep. "Roo! Are you okay?"

"Hey, Baby Girl," he said, feeling calmer than he had in weeks as you juggled your phone around and tried to sit up fully in bed. "I'm fine. Sorry it's so late."

"No, no, no, this is perfect!" you insisted, rubbing your eye behind your glasses as you tried to stifle a yawn. "This is great."

Bradley laughed and said, "I miss you so fucking much. Wish I was in bed right there with you."

"Me too," you insisted, and he could see the sincerity on your face. "It got chilly here tonight, and Tramp isn't as snuggly as you are."

He wanted to kiss you. He wished he could somehow dive through the screen and end up next to you where you'd pull him right into your arms. His voice was just a whisper as he said, "Tell me about the Nugget."

Your smile was soft, and you bit your lip. "Dr. Morris said the Nugget looked great when I was there two weeks ago."

"Two weeks ago," he groaned, rubbing his rough hands along his face. "Sweetheart... I already missed so much." When he looked at the screen again, you were out of bed and on the move. "Where are you going?"

You flipped on the hallway light and said, "To get the ultrasounds to show you. I left them on the kitchen counter."

The fact that he knew that's where they would be made him smile. When you propped your phone up next to the stove and turned on the light, he felt tears stinging his eyes. You held up one of the photos so he could see the baby, and he had to blink past his blurry vision. "There's my Nugget," he said, voice thick with emotion as you held up a second image. "Fucking cutest baby I've ever seen."

Your laughter sounded beautiful as you showed him a third one. "I liked this one the best. I think it looks like the baby is waving hello."

"Shit," he gasped. "You're right. I can't wait to wallpaper our bedroom with copies of these."

You pulled the baby picture away, and he could see your face again as you said, "You're probably not even joking."

"I'm definitely not even joking."

You leaned on the counter and got a little closer to your phone as you said, "Another week or so, and I can go in for an anatomy scan."

Now Bradley felt like crying for a totally different reason. "You get to find out if the Nugget is a boy or a girl."

"Yeah," you said with a nod. "But I don't really want to do that without you there too."

Bradley looked at your beautiful face and the perfect curve of your cheek. He imagined a little baby in your arms with the same flawless features. "I wish I could get home in time to hold your hand and find out in person. But you know I don't care one way or the other. The only nice thing is that we can start narrowing down baby names soon. I actually wrote down a few that I kind of like in the Nugget notebook earlier."

Your smile was brilliant as you told him, "I can't wait to read all of your notebook entries. And if you're not home for my next appointment, I'll be practically vibrating with anticipation until I get to tell you if it's a boy Nugget or a girl Nugget."

Bradley opened his mouth to say he couldn't wait to come home and spend a full day curled up with both of you. He was about to ask you to pull his UVA shirt up and let him see what your belly looked like now. But the lounge door swung open so hard, it sounded like it was going to fall off the hinges.

"Bradshaw!" barked Admiral Turner. "It's time. Get into your flight suit."

"Yes, Sir," he said before glancing back down to see your face as you started to cry.

"You have to go," you sobbed.

"I do," he said quickly. "Right now. Listen, I love you. More than anything. You and the baby both, okay? I love you."

"I love you, too," you sobbed as your lips trembled. "So much."

"I'll be home soon," he promised, even though he knew he couldn't guarantee anything of the sort. "I love you."

After he ended the call, he ran back to the bunk where Reuben was already in his flight suit and pulling on his boots. It was late enough now that it had to be dark outside, so he was either about to fly another mission without the use of one of his senses, or they were sending him out at first light. Either way, he knew what he had to do, so he pulled his own flight suit on with shaky hands.

The call with you had calmed his nerves right up until the point when he had to abruptly end it. What he wouldn't give to be back home within a week. He'd drive you to the appointment in his Bronco and hold your hand the whole time. Dr. Morris would let you know if he was going to be the dad to a daughter or a son. His little Nugget.

"You ready?" Reuben asked as Bradley finished lacing up his boots. 

He looked up at his friend as he stood. "Actually, no," he said, pulling his duffle out from under his bed. He started rooting through it as he said, "I need you to potentially do me a favor."

"Sure," Reuben replied, "but we gotta get to the meeting room now, Rooster."

"I know," he mumbled in response as his hands connected with the most important thing he had with him. He held up the pink and blue notebook, his voice calm in spite of his nerves as he said, "Just real quick, you see this? I need you to take this back to my wife if anything happens to me."

His friend was silent for a beat before he said, "Alright. I can do that."

Bradley's fingers tightened around the spiral binding holding together all of his thoughts about fatherhood and how much he loved his unborn child. And now his voice shook a bit as he said, "This is very important to me."

Reuben nodded and said, "Understood. I promise I'll take care of it if the need arises."

"Thank you." Bradley kissed the striped cover and propped the notebook up against his pillow, giving it one last look before he followed Reuben from the bunk.

At first light, Bradley made his way out onto the carrier deck through the rain and whistling wind. The mission was on. The weather was miserable, but the plethora of Naval officers deemed this the best opportunity they were going to get to help their allies. 

It was time. Time for Bradley to trust himself. And if he failed, he trusted Reuben to take the notebook back to San Diego and get it into the hands of his wife. Then you'd take care of the notebook for the Nugget. Because if there was one person who was never going to let him down, it was you.

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

I can't deal with how much I've been hurting my own feelings with these two. Should we start a new series? Would that be okay? A tragic, new series? Thank you for reading about and loving them! Please stay tuned. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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[lovelytsunoda]

dim the lights (close your eyes) // arthur leclerc

summary: arthur leclerc is the only man she would ever trust to touch her this way. the only man she would want to take her virginity.

pairing: arthur leclerc x female reader

warnings: smut, loss of virginity, a hell of a lot of feelings, lots of giggles. had no idea how to end it, but it is what it is.

prompts used: i don’t wanna stop touching you.  i just wanna be near you and close to you in any way i can + breathe baby, breathe. I’m right here

"arthur, i'm ready."

she'd said that three weeks ago, and they had both been preparing for this moment ever since. makeout sessions had gotten more intense, hands experimentally traveling under clothes. arthur had even tried fingering her a few times to make sure she knew what she was getting into, that she was prepared for how it would feel.

and mostly because he was scared. nervous about being his beloveds first. because if he messed this up, he could lose her for good.

the only reason she had waited this long was because she had never met the right man. hell, she was twenty one and her first real boyfriend had been arthur. sure, there had been crushes and meaningless kisses and sheer terror at the idea of being in a relationship, but arthur made her feel safe, like a warm hug on a cold day. his presence was comforting, and she never felt like she had to be someone she wasn’t around him.

after a night out of the town that made her feel like the best version of herself, like she was walking on a cloud (as spending time with the youngest leclerc brother always did), they found themselves back at arthurs flat.

he carried her up the stairs, ever the gentleman, hand over her eyes as he pushed the bedroom door open tho his toes.

“i want to show you something.” he says softly, asking her to keep her eyes closed while he shuts the door, switching on the fairy lights, reaching for the bag of fake flower petals. “okay, open your eyes.”

“oh, arthur.” she said softly, breath catching in her throat as she placed her hands over her heart. “it’s beautiful.”

a trail of fake petals lead from where she was standing to the bed, where even more dotted the simple white duvet, a towel elephant resting on the corner, like the towel animals on a cruise ship. the room was illuminated with soft, warm fairy lights. with a goofy grin on his face, arthur came towards her, reaching into the graft bag to throw more petals in the air.

she laughed, pulling him in for a gentle kiss as he dropped flower petals in her hair.

“wait, you haven’t seen the best part.” the boy laughs, reaching for the stereo remote. with the press of a button, heart’s ‘what about love’ begins to play softly. “damn it.” he mutters. “this was supposed to be a relaxing and easy listening playlist.”

“arthur,” she giggled, prying the remote from his hand. “it’s perfect.” she pressed up on her toes, arms around his shoulders as she kissed him, breathing in the smell of his cologne, the feel of his linens shirt under her fingers.

she sat down on the end of the bed, slipping out of her high heels and dropping her purse on the floor. she leaned back against the bed, fake rose petals sticking to her skin as arthur lay on his side next to her, warm hands caressing her skin.

“hi.” she said softly, fingers tracing her jaw as she propped up on an elbow to meet his gaze.

arthur reached behind him, triumphantly holding up the towel elephant and waving one of its small arms. “hi, darling.”

she laughed, throwing one of her legs over arthurs before she nuzzled up against him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “you’re such a dork.”

“you love it.” he said before he kissed her, his lips soft against hers, the glittery lipgloss that had almost faded off her skin transferring onto his lips as he gently pressed her against the pillows.

she sighed in contentment as his hand slipped up her dress, resting reassuringly against her upper thigh. she cages his upper lip between both of hers, fingers cradling through his hair as she pressed herself closer to him. the shoulder strap of her dress slipped down her pale skin, bathed a heavenly shade of gold in the fairy lights. before she could get self-conscious and teach to right it, arthur took charge, pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses to her skin.

“you’re so perfect. i don’t wanna stop touching you.  i just wanna be near you and close to you in any way i can.”

her heart swelled with love at hearing arthur’s words. this entire evening had been so surreal. she never thought she’d meet someone who made her feel the way that arthur leclerc could.

even now, he was so mindful of her boundaries, so cautious and careful with her heart as he presssed her into the mattress, fingers teasing the edge of her panties, but firmly staying there until she said otherwise, gave him permission to touch her like that.

for now, he was content with kissing her neck, his fingers on his free hand lacing with hers to cradle her her hand with the gentlest, sweetest of touches.

“arthur.” she whined, bucking her hips against his. “please…i need more.”

arthur slowed his movements, gently rolling them over so they were facing each other on their sides, one of her legs hiked over his hip. he kissed her softly, his tongue gently teasing her lips as he started to push her panties aside.

“just remember to breathe, beautiful. remember, this is nothing we haven’t already done before.”

“i know.” she sighed, biting her lips as his fingers began to circle where she needed him most. “i trust you. fully and completely.”

arthur sunk his fingers inside of her, peppering her face in kisses as he gave her time to adjust, her juices dripping down his fingers as he began to flex his slender fingers, scissoring them rapidly.

“oh, fuck, babe,” she whined, fingernails digging into his shirt as she bucked against his appendages. “feels so good.”

“yeah, you like having my fingers inside you, don’t you, cherie?”

“yes, god.” she moaned, burying her face in arthurs neck, fingers scratching down the bit of exposed chest peeking out from his button down. “i love your fingers.”

“good. the only purpose they serve is to make you feel good, love.” arthur smiled, dotting kisses over all the exposed skin he could reach.

he curled his fingers, fingertips touching her spongy center. she yelped at the pleasure, springing off the bed. they both burst out into a fit of giggles, arthurs fingers still working their magic.

“do you want to come of my fingers pretty girl, or are you ready to take my cock? you feel ready, but I am more than happy to lie here all night and finger you until you scream my name.” arthur chuckled, gently slipping his fingers out and sitting up on the bed, beginning to undo the buttons on his shirt.

she would never get tired of seeing her boyfriend without a shirt on: the muscles and veins popping in his arms, his broad, strong shoulders. his washboard abs that she intended to mark up with her nails before the night was over.

“im ready. i want your dick.”

laughing, arthur got up from the bed, shedding his shirt as his lover got to her feet, slipping out of her dress and allowing the white fabric to pool on the floor. he opened his bedside drawer to extract a box of condoms, his eyes wide ending in both adoration and lust as he looked back at his girlfriend.

“bebe, you look beautiful.”

her face blushed pink as she tried to make her bikini cut panties seem sexier, averting her gaze from arthur. “thank you. thank you for making me feel comfortable, and beautiful.”

arthru hummed, standing in front of her and tilting her head up to his. “you don’t need to thank me, gorgeous.” he kissed her softly, allowing her hands to travel the expanse of his exposed skin, nails scratching at his abs as he steered her back towards his bed. “i think this will go easier if you’re on top. that was you can set your own pace.”

she nodded, hands resting nervously near the waistband of arthurs pants. “okay. i can do that.”

he gently pushed her hands away, and she sat on the edge of the bed, one leg over the other in an attempt to hide the ever-growing damp spot on her panties. she swallowed harshly, feeling her nipples grow harder as she watched arthur undo his belt, dropping his jeans and his boxers in one fell swoop, his hard cock springing to attention now that it was free of its fabric confines.

he rolled the condom on, sitting at the head of the bed before beckoning his girlfriend over and helping her out of his panties, his eyes darkening at the sight of her now mostly naked body.

“there we go, just like that.” arthur encouraged, guiding her to straddle him, answering every question she asked and reassuring her that she would be perfect.

“so I just sit down like…this?” she asked, bracing her hands on arthurs shoulders as she tried to sink down on his length, arthurs gentle touch guiding her towards his cock. “oh my god.” she inhaled sharply, not even halfway on his dick before she froze, muscles tightening.

“hey, hey, it’s okay.” arthur soothed, gently kissing her breastbone, fingers tracing reassuring circles on her skin. “it’s okay, just breathe. i can stay like this for a minute, you don’t have to take it all at once.”

she nodded, breathing heavily as she brushed her hair behind her ears, resting her hands on either side of arthurs neck, resting for a moment before sinking down further, her face contorted in a grimace as she allowed her boyfriend to bottom out inside her.

“breathe, baby. breathe. I’m right here, I’ve got you.” arthur hummed, kissing her softly. “we go at your pace. nice and easy.”

she moves slowly, gingerly, hands braced on her lovers shoulders as she starts to move her hips, rocking gently back and forth. keeping his touch gentle, looking out through hooded eyes, arthur gently began to guide her up and down, resisting the urge to thrust up into her when she moaned, fingernails clenching into his skin.

“fuck, i love those moans, princess. keep moaning for me, let me know how good you feel. or, let me know if you stop feeling good and we’ll take a break, okay?”

“yeah.” she nodded, picking up the pace of her movements, panting heavily as arthur tried not to let his eyes roll back in his skull, pressing his lips to hers to muffle his own moans of pleasure.

the real thing was so much better than his late night fantasies, and knowing that she trusted him this much added a whole new layer of intimacy to the scene, somehow managing to make it even more erotic. he feared he’d blow his load too soon, but would that really be such a bad thing right now? he’d almost certainly be hard again if she decided she wanted a round two, or if he buried his head between her thighs and tongue fucked her until she came undone on his face.

“fuck, arthur.” she moaned, her movements becoming slower, exhaustion seeping into her legs. “please, i need more. my legs can’t take this. can you take over?”

he kissed her hard, flipping their bodies over so he was on top, driving into her quickly, but trying to restrain himself, his fingers clutching the sheets to practice restraint.

they’d work up to the more adventurous, more erotic activities later. right now, it was back to basics as he tried to keep his speed steady, matching what they were moving at while she was on top of him.

“is this what you wanted, love? does this feel good?”

“yes, god, please,” she moaned, trying to hold his body closer. trying to get as physically close to him as she possibly could. “this is so good, arthur. so, so good.”

“perfect.” he smiled, leaning down to kiss her. “I love you.”

“i love you more.”

TAGS:

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