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kjupchurch-xx · 3 months ago

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Conflicting Feelings Part Four

I smirked, "Toxic in a sexy way, huh?" I teased.

He bit his lip, "You don't think so, love?" He asked, trying to keep his face as serious as possible.

I looked at him, in the bed beside me, only wearing his Calvin Klein boxer briefs, my hand still resting on his chest. "I happen to think you're sexy in other ways."

He tilted his head at me, "Oh?" He asked curiously, raising his brow in my direction.

I nodded enthusiastically, "I think you're really sexy when you make me food." I said sarcastically.

He giggled, "That's not where I thought this was going."

I propped myself up on my elbows beside him, "Where exactly did you think this was going?"

He chuckled, "You really want to play innocent, don't you?" He asking jokingly.

I smirked, "Would it really be that fun if I didn't?" I said while tapping my chin causing him to laugh.

He glanced at my cleavage before glancing back up to face me, "You're going to act like you didn't purposely wear that top?"

I shook my head, "This wasn't for you. I packed light." I said matter of factly causing him to snicker.

He glanced over to the side of the dresser noticing that I did in fact not pack light, nor had I ever for literally anything and laughed, "You're something else." He said, bringing my hand up and kissing my knuckles lightly.

His phone began buzzing again, he grabbed it, answering it on speaker phone. Ryan's voice immediately filled the room, "YOU DIRTY DOG!" He shouted trying to contain his laughter causing Hugh and I to look at each other and begin dying laughing.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mate." Hugh said bluntly.

"You don't know what I'm talking about mate, my fucking ass, Jackman!" Ryan yelled, in an awful attempt at an Australian accent.

"Blake said she was busy." Hugh snickered back.

Ryan failed at containing his laughter, "I'm not mad at you. Get your dick sucked and call me later. Tell her I said g'day."

"Bye, Ryan." I said giggling, cutting Hugh off as he went to speak before ending the call.

I grabbed my own phone, noticing my followers tripling as I noticed he tagged me in his post on his Instagram. He pushed at my hand that was holding my phone, putting on his best pouty face, "Put your phone down and kiss me."

I giggled, "Will you stop making that god awful face if I do?" I said while sitting my phone on the bedside table.

He shrugged, "It depends on how good of a kisser you are." He joked, making the pouty face more dramatic.

I playfully rolled my eyes, "I hate you. Come here." I said as I pulled him over towards me, locking my lips on his as I grabbed both sides of his face, holding it in place.

His hands found their way to my hips as he pulled me on top of him, continuing to kiss me as I sat on his hips. He slowly removed his lips from mine, "You're an incredible kisser." He said before locking his lips back on mine as I deepened the kiss. I could feel his excitement beneath me growing, but everything suddenly came to an end as my phone began ringing.

I moaned annoyingly, reaching over to grab it. My mouth dropped as I saw the name "Debbora-Lee" pop up on my phone. This was about to get interesting... "Who is it? What's wrong, love?" Hugh asked.

I turned my phone around for him to see, "Oh, fuck. Just don't answer it." He said sternly.

Why should I not answer it? Is she mad about the Instagram post? Was she not just sitting with another man on her own Instagram? I decided to ignore Hugh's wishes and answer, bracing myself for impact. Deb never had an issue with me. She had her suspicions, but she could be a jealous person from time to time. For example - He was never allowed to make a movie with Angelina Jolie.

"Hello?" I answered, trying to sound as nice and normal as possible. I knew she'd seen the picture. It was making waves online.

She wasn't having it. "What do you think you're doing?" She asked with a hint of attitude in her voice.

I sighed, "What are you referring to, Debbora-Lee? I'm sitting in bed, at my hotel room."

Hugh looked at me, clearly annoyed I didn't listen and answered the phone. She began raising her voice at me, "Yeah? In bed with my husband?!"

I chuckled, "So we're just going to act like you're not also with someone?" I asked, amusement dripping from my voice.

"That is my friend! Nothing more! You've been in love with my husband for years! Don't play stupid!" She yelled.

I rolled my eyes, "First off, why in the fuck are you calling me? Maybe if you actually acted like you gave a shit about your husband, he wouldn't have confided in me so much. But where were you? You obviously were too busy when his dad died, which ended in me having to go to England to deal with shit you should've been dealing with! But where the fuck were you?!"

She sat silenced. "I mean fuck, you told Hugh it was the dogs. You told me it was the kids. Whose dick were you too busy riding? I mean seriously. Don't act so fucking innocent, Debbora. I should've ripped your ass in half in England, but your husband saved your ass." I spat back.

She chuckled, "You don't know what you're talking about, you dumb bitch!"

Hugh finally spoke up, cutting us both off, "Okay, let's stop. Deb, she did nothing wrong. If you're out living your life, I'm going to live mine. What do you want from me? Do you expect me to sit and beg for you to come back home?" He asked, a bit annoyed and feeling somewhat defeated.

She no longer wanted him, but she didn't want him to want others. She expected him to bend over backwards for her like he'd had for 27 years.

Deb's voice softened, "No Hugh, I don't. I'm just pissed you're with her. She's spent years around our family and now she's your little girlfriend. Do you not realize she isn't but two years older than our son?"

"She's not my little girlfriend, Deb." He said nonchalantly.

So all of the last 24 hours have been what exactly? A hot young rebound? His words shook me to my core. He noticed and told Deb they would speak later and to not call me anymore. As he hung up my phone, he looked over at me, "Listen-"

I cut him off, putting my hand over is mouth. "I'm good. We're friends, right? Friends don't sleep in other friend's beds, so feel free to find your way to the sofa or get your own room. Either way, I'm going to sleep." I said coldly.

"Babe-" He tried to interject, grabbing my arm.

I jerked it away, "I'm done talking about this. Look, I'm tired. I want to go to sleep. I don't want to hear anything else." I said, raising my voice.

"Will you please just fucking listen to me?" He said, becoming annoyed.

I shook my head, "There's nothing to listen to. Get the fuck out of my bed and let me go to sleep. I'm literally begging you at this point." I got up, grabbing the blanket, "Fuck it. I'll go to sleep on the sofa."

He grabbed my arm again, getting up from the bed, blocking me. "Why are you acting like this?" He asked.

I shrugged, "I don't know, Hugh. But I'm getting really fucking tired of cleaning up your and her bullshit. I'm tired of always running to fucking fix you after she's hurt your feelings for the millionth fucking time all to watch you fall right back into her and her magical vagina or whatever the fuck she has that keeps you running back."

He rolled his eyes, "I never said I was going back to her. I told her we'd talk later to end the conversation."

I chuckled dryly, "Why? So you could spend more time with me? I'm not your girlfriend, remember? I'm just some sleazy ass rebound so you can get your dick wet for the first time in a year. Do not play me like I'm fucking stupid!" I screamed as I tried to get past him.

He grabbed my hands tightly, "I'm not trying to play you like you're stupid, love. You're not a rebound. If you were a rebound, I would've had a go at you last night or I would've tried to make a move when we were alone in England in bed together."

I stood, looking everywhere but him as he continued, "You are my best friend. I mean motherfucker, you've watched me cry like a bloody baby. I would never do anything to hurt you, love. This is why I told you to ignore her when she rang you. You get so in your head and you let others get into your head. Had she not rang, would you be acting like this?"

I slowly shook my head, still refusing to look at him, "No, I'm just tired of this shit."

He sighed, "Can I hug you?"

I nodded, "I told you, I'm yours. The only reason I didn't tell her that was because I was tired of hearing her bullshit. I wanted off the phone, I wanted you off the phone. You said we should lay low for a bit, so no, I was not going to tell her about this."

I sighed, "You're not wrong. I mean, I understand why. I guess I'm just scared of getting hurt." I said, looking up to face him as he pulled me into a hug.

He stroked my hair, "Love, I wouldn't ever hurt you. You know I wouldn't. Stop letting her get into your head. She's bitter and probably hurt. I don't think she ever truly thought I'd move on. And you know how she is, you know she's going to say whatever it takes to get under your skin."

He wasn't wrong. I've known them for years. If she's mad, everyone knows it and she makes sure of it. Even if he has to completely pull something out of her ass just to upset someone, she doesn't hesitate.

He looked at me as I looked up to him, "Please come back to bed with me." He asked, almost pleading with me.

I gave him a half-smile, "Fine..." I walked back towards the bed, pulling his arm to come with me as we collapsed beside one another. I climbed back on top of him, "Now, where were we?" I asked, smirking.

He giggled, "Were you not just accusing me of using you as a rebound and now you're on top of me?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. Wasn't me. Must've been Patricia." I said channeling my inner Split. If you've never seen Split, it's the dude with multiple personalities. Patricia being one.

He laughed, "Yeah? Let's bring the regular version out please. Patricia's depressing." He joked.

"Really? Damn, I guess I know who to not call when I'm having a bad day." I said sarcastically.

He smirked, "Oh, stop it." He said as he leaned upwards kissing me. "I thought you were going to bed." He said.

I leaned down to whisper in his ear, "I was, but I'm just going to be honest, I felt your boner earlier and I'm kinda curious."

He erupted in laughter, blushing, "Really?"

I nodded, "Hugh, Huge, whatever your name is. I can see why. 100%." I tried to keep my face straight but was failing.

He chuckled, "You know, I started that rumor. So do with that information what you will."

I snickered, "Can I at least see it?"

He looked at me wide eyed, "Are you-are you seriously asking me this right now?" He tried to stop chuckling as he began turning red.

I shrugged, "One little peak."

He laughed, "Can you go to bed?"

I smirked, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

He playfully pushed me off of him, "What are you? 5?"

I bit my bottom lip, "6 actually, now can I please see your penis?"

He threw a pillow at me, "Not when you say it like that, you absolutely cannot."

I fake pouted, "I offered to show you mine."

He shook his head, "I don't think I want to see your penis."

"Goodnight Hugh, I do not have a penis, thank you very much. Except the one in my suitcase. But I would've shown you something you would've really liked and now that's not happening." I said, while laughing, losing whatever composure I was holding onto.

I rolled over with my back facing him. I felt him snake his arms around me, trailing light kisses down my exposed neck to my shoulder.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Just 15 minutes ago you thought you were my rebound. I don't want you to get that idea." His voice now serious while stopping the kisses.

I sighed, "I know I'm not a rebound for you. I was just hurt and she pissed me off."

He softly kissed my shoulder, "Okay, but if at any point, you want to stop or if you start feeling that way, I want you to tell me..." He said reassuringly.

I nodded, "I will. Promise."

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macfrog · 1 year ago

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little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

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He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou #joel miller smut #fic: sex on fire

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fatehbaz · 26 days ago

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About the entanglement of "science" and Empire. About geographic imaginaries. About how Empire appeals to and encourages children to participate in these scripts.

Was checking out this recent thing, from scavengedluxury's beloved series of posts looking at the archive of the Budapest Municipal Photography Company.

The caption reads: "Toys and board games, 1940."

And I think the text on the game-box in the back says something like "the whole world is yours", maybe?

(The use of appeals to science/progress in imperial narratives probably already well-known to many, especially for those familiar with Victorian era, Edwardian era, Gilded Age, early twentieth century, etc., in US and Europe.)

And was struck, because I had also recently gone looking through nemfrog's posts about the often-strange imagery of children's material in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century US/Europe. And was disturbed/intrigued by this thing:

Caption here reads: "Game Board. Walter Mittelholzer's flight over Africa. [...] 1931. Commemorative game board map of Africa for a promotional game published for the N*stle Company, for tracking the trip of Walter Mittelholzer across Africa, the first pilot to fly a north-south route."

Hmm.

"Africa is for your consumption and pleasure! A special game celebrating German achievement, brought to you by the N*stle Company!"

1930s-era German national aspirations in Africa. A company which, in the preceding decade, had shifted focus to expand its cacao production (which would be dependent on tropical plantations). Adventure, excitement, knowledge, science, engineering prowess, etc. For kids!

Another, from a couple decades earlier, this time British.

Caption reads: "The "World's globe circler." A game board based on Nellie Bly's travels. 1890." At center, a trumpet, and a proclamation: "ALL RECORDS BROKEN".

Same year that the United States "closed the frontier" and conquered "the Wild West" (the massacre at Wounded Knee happened in December 1890). A couple years later, the US annexed Hawai'i; by decade's end, the US military was in both Cuba and the Philippines. The Scramble for Africa was taking place. At the time, Britain especially already had a culture of "travel writing" or "travel fiction" or whatever we want to call it, wherein domestic residents of the metropole back home could read about travel, tourism, expeditions, adventures, etc. on the peripheries of the Empire. Concurrent with the advent of popular novels, magazines, mass-market print media, etc. Intrepid explorers rescuing Indigenous peoples from their own backwardness. Many tales of exotic allure set in South Asia. Heroic white hunters taking down scary tigers. Elegant Englishwomen sipping tea in the shade of an umbrella, giggling at the elephants, the local customs, the strange sights. Orientalism, tropicality, othering.

I'd lately been looking at a lot of work on race/racism and imperative-of-empire in British scientific and pop-sci literature, especially involving South and Southeast Asia. (From scholars like Varun Sharma, Rohan Deb Roy, Ezra Rashkow, Jonathan Saha, Pratik Chakrabarti.) But I'd also lately been looking at Mashid Mayar's work, which I think closely suits this kinda thing with the board games. Some of her publications:

"From Tools to Toys: American Dissected Maps and Geographic Knowledge at the Turn of the Twentieth Century". In: Knowledge Landscapes North America, edited by Kloeckner et al., 2016.

"What on Earth! Slated Globes, School Geography and Imperial Pedagogy". European Journal of American Studies 16, number 3, Summer 2020.

Citizens and Rulers of the World: The American Child and the Cartographic Pedagogies of Empire, 2022.

Discussing her book, Mayar was interviewed by LA Review of Books in 2022. She says:

[Quote.] Growing up at the turn of the 20th century, for many American children, also meant learning to view the world through the lens of "home geography." [...] [T]hey inevitably responded to the transnational whims of an empire that had stretched its dominion across the globe [recent forays into Panama, Cuba, Hawai'i, the Philippines] [...]. [W]hite, well-to-do, literate American children [...] learned how to identify and imagine “homes” on the map of the world. [...] [T]he cognitive maps children developed, to which we have access through the scant archival records they left behind (i.e., geographical puzzles they designed and printed in juvenile periodicals) [...] mixed nativism and the logic of colonization with playful, appropriative scalar confusion, and an intimate, often unquestioned sense of belonging to the global expanse of an empire [...]. Dissected maps - that is, maps mounted on cardboard or wood and then cut into smaller pieces that children were to put back together - are a generative example of the ways imperial pedagogy [...] found its place outside formal education, in children's lives outside the classroom. [...] [W]ell before having been adopted as playthings in the United States, dissected maps had been designed to entertain and teach the children of King George III about the global spatial affairs of the British Empire. […] [J]uvenile periodicals of the time printed child-made geographical puzzles [...]. [I]t was their assumption that "(un)charted," non-American spaces (both inside and outside the national borders) sought legibility as potential homes, [...] and that, if they did not do so, they were bound to recede into ruin/"savagery," meaning that it would become the colonizers' responsibility/burden to "restore" them [...]. [E]mpires learn from and owe to childhood in their attempts at survival and growth over generations [...]. [These] "multigenerational power constellations" [...] survived, by making accessible pedagogical scripts that children of the white and wealthy could learn from and appropriate as times changed [...]. [End quote.] Source: Words of Mashid Mayar, as transcribed in an interviewed conducted and published by M. Buna. "Children's Maps of the American Empire: A Conversation with Mashid Mayar". LA Review of Books. 11 July 2022.

Some other stuff I was recently looking at, specifically about European (especially German) geographic imaginaries of globe-as-playground:

The Play World: Toys, Texts, and the Transatlantic German Childhood (Patricia Anne Simpson, 2020) /// "19th-Century Board Game Offers a Tour of the German Colonies" (Sarah Zabrodski, 2016) /// Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (David Ciarlo, 2011) /// Learning Empire: Globalization and the German Quest for World Status, 1875-1919 (Erik Grimmer-Solem, 2019) /// “Ruling Africa: Science as Sovereignty in the German Colonial Empire and Its Aftermath” (Andrew Zimmerman. In: German Colonialism in a Global Age, 2014) /// "Exotic Education: Writing Empire for German Boys and Girls, 1884-1914". (Jeffrey Bowersox. In: German Colonialism and National Identity, 2017) /// Raising Germans in the Age of Empire: Youth and Colonial Culture, 1871-1914 (Jeff Bowersox, 2013) /// "[Translation:] (Educating Modernism: A Trade-Specific Portrait of the German Toy Industry in the Developing Mass-Market Society)" (Heike Hoffmann, PhD dissertation, Tubingen, 2000) /// Home and Harem: Nature, Gender, Empire, and the Cultures of Travel (Inderpal Grewal, 1996) /// "'Le rix d'Indochine' at the French Table: Representation of Food, Race and the Vietnamese in a Colonial-Era Board Game" (Elizabeth Collins, 2021) /// "The Beast in a Box: Playing with Empire in Early Nineteenth-Century Britain" (Romita Ray, 2006) /// Playing Oppression: The Legacy of Conquest and Empire in Colonialist Board Games (Mary Flanagan and Mikael Jakobsson, 2023)

#mashid mayar book is useful also the Playing Oppression book is open access online if you want #in her article on slated globes mayar also mentions how european maps by 1890s provoked a sort of replete homogenous filling in of globe #where european metropole thought of itself as having sufficiently mapped the planet by now knit into neat web of interimperial trade #and so european apparent knowledge of globe provided apparently enlightened position of educating or subjugating the masses #whereas US at time was more interested in remapping at their discretion #a thing which relates to what we were talking about in posts earlier today where elizabeth deloughrey describes twentieth century US #and its aerial photographic and satellite perspectives especially of Oceania and Pacific as if it now understood the totality of the planet #ecologies #tidalectics #geographic imaginaries #mashid mayar

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hotvintagepoll · 7 months ago

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This is a three-way poll. Only one of these women will continue to the next round of the bracket.

Propaganda

Deborah Kerr (Bonjour Tristesse, An Affair to Remember, The King and I)— For several decades she held the record for most Oscar nominations without a win (6 in total), and she was a prolific leading lady throughout the 40s and 50s. She's best known today for the romance An Affair to Remember with Cary Grant, and as the governess in The King and I. Many people have this erroneous perception of her as extremely prim, proper, and virginal, but this could not be further from the truth. When she first came to Hollywood under MGM she was typecast into boring decorative roles, but broke sexual boundaries for herself and Hollywood generally in From Here to Eternity, when she made out (horizontally!) with Burt Lancaster (on top of him!) in the famous Beach Scene. She went on to play many sexually conflicted women, a character type that would define most of her post- Eternity work. She continued to break Hays Code boundaries with Tea and Sympathy, which addresses homosexuality/homophobia head-on, and even did a topless scene in The Gypsy Moths 1969!! One of the only classic stars to do so. She deserves a more nuanced and frankly a hotter legacy than she currently has!!!

Keiko Awaji (Stray Dog, A Japanese Tragedy, When a Woman Ascends the Stairs)— Her role as Harumi— a dancer who lives with her mom and will go to incredible lengths for one nice dress— is so fucking killer. she more than holds her own against Toshiro Mifune, the incredible sense of dread and foreboding in their scenes has really stuck with me

Hazel Scott (Broadway Rhythm, Rhapsody in Blue)—ok ok let me tell you about Hazel Scott. She was a Trinidadian piano genius. By the age of 3 she could play the piano by ear. She would play jazzed-up versions of classics in nightclubs and could sing too! She appeared in five movies, and used her influence as a piano prodigy to improve Black representation in film—she turned down offensive parts, demanded equal pay, and always wore her own costumes to ensure she was portrayed as glamorous and beautiful. She was the first African-American woman to host her own television show, The Hazel Scott Show. She stood up for civil rights and was an overall icon! If you want to watch her being a genius, here she is playing two pianos at once. And here's this one that shows off her consummate glamor! [videos beneath the cut]

This is round 4 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Deborah Kerr:

I think she was one of my first crushes before I realised I was bi in The King and I when I watched it as a kid honestly. The kissing scene in From Here to Eternity is iconic for a reason. Actually tried to learn the accents for the characters she was playing if they weren't English which is more than pretty much anyone else was doing then. Played very restrained characters who frequently seemed to be desperate not to be so restrained. Did horror movies without venturing into hagsploitation tropes. Gave Marni Nixon the credit she deserved for her share of the singing in The King and I.

Anne Larsen is a peak late 1950s bisexual with big MILF energy. Have you seen the behind the scenes pics of her wearing a suit?? Have you????? Vote Deb as Anne Larsen.

Nominated for an Oscar six (6) times and never won, but besides her having actual talent (hot), and besides her looking Like That (very hot, also beautiful), she was always playing women who are, like, crazy repressed. Which makes it fun and easy for me to read these characters as queer. Icon!!!! You know what's hot? Playing ambiguously gay in vintage Hollywood.

Her face and talent and body, yes, ofc, duh. But also!!! Her HANDS!!!! I may be but a simple lesbian, but she is the best hactor (hand actor) that ever lived and that's HOT! For propriety's sake I feel I must redact a large portion of my commentary on this subject. Anyway. She's hot in her most famous roles (mentioned above), and also some of her sexiest hacting is on display in An Affair to Remember (her hand on the bannister when Cary Grant kisses her off-screen??? HELLO???), Tea and Sympathy (when she's trying to persuade Tom not to go out and she keeps flexing her hands like she wants to reach out to him but can't??? ALLY BEHAVIOR! WE STAN!), and The Innocents (which opens and closes with extended shots of her hands bc director Jack Clayton was also an ally and he did that for ME). Much of her appeal also lies in the fact that she often played deeply repressed characters and you know what's hot? When those uptight characters finally unravel. It's sexy. It's cathartic. It's erotic. Plus, she's beautiful to look at in both black & white and technicolor, and the more of her films you see, the more you can't help but fall in love!

Literally is in thee most famously sexy scene of all time (or maybe just during the hays code era which is what we're talking about HELLO), which is the beach scene with Burt Lancaster in from here to eternity. To quote a tumblr post of a screen capture of a tweet of a video of joy behar on the view: "y'know, there used to be movies where they were kissing on the beach... From Here to Eternity. They're kissing-- Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr are Kissing on the Beach and then the WAVES crash!! You know exactly what they did!"

She might have a reputation of being chaste and virginal or whatever, but we all know it's the quiet ones who are certifiable FREAKS

Keiko Awaji:

Hazel Scott:

youtube

#hazel scott #keiko awaji #deborah kerr #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 4

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whiskeynwriting · 1 year ago

Text

How the Boys Act With Their Brand New Babies

Captain John Price, John “Soap” McTavish, König, Simon “Ghost” Riley

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Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Pregnancy, descriptions of birth (natural and cesarean), breastfeeding, established relationships/marriages, mentions of drugs (during C-Section), godparents, and I think that’s it!

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A/N: The baby fever is so real you guys. Also, the only one out of this group that screams “boy dad” is Price and no one can change my mind.

Thank you so so much to @thesleepingmusicneek for helping me with beta-reading and general plot additions with this piece and so many others I've posted recently 🥰🥰🥰

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Masterlists - Price | Soap | König | Ghost |

Join My Taglist!

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Captain John Price (~1k words)

Benjamin Price

John’s base instinct is “protector and provider” and Lord does that skyrocket with your son.

“No.”

“John.”

“I said no, not happening.” Turning, he held your son out of your mother’s reach. “She hasn’t washed her hands.”

Chuckling, you crossed your arms. “Baby, I think it’ll be o -”

Reaching over to grab a bottle of hand sanitizer, he held it out to your mother. “At least sanitize.”

There was something ridiculously funny about John, your hardened soldier, holding onto this pudgy, little baby. And what made it even funnier, was that Benji had a straight face nearly the entire time; staring over at his grandmother as if to say, do what my daddy says. John and his son were two peas in a damn pod.

Watching others hold his baby wasn’t an easy task. Regardless of whether or not they were family, it made his palms sweat, made his breaths shallow and fingers fidgety. What if they dropped him? Pinched him too hard? Bounced him too fast? Made him frown or cry? And by the time his thoughts started spiraling, he’d just get up and snatch him right back.

While John was more than proud to show off your little family, he might as well have “look, don’t touch” painted across his forehead. Even his own parents didn’t have access to Benji unless they followed his standards. And family friends? Strangers at the park? Yeah, they can forget even saying hi to him.

“He is a cutie, isn’t he?” John beamed, nodding along to one of your friend’s comments. “Hey,” He then said, holding out a hand. “What’re you doing?”

“Oh, I was just going to hold his little hand!”

“I don’t think so, Deb.”

“John, she’s only being nice.” Chastising him lightly, you tilted your head with sympathy.

“Nice or not, she’s not touching my son.”

John acted as if everyone was out to snatch up his son and take off running. And he didn’t care if he hurt anyone’s feelings in the process of protecting him.

“Love, you’ve got to be nicer.”

“Why?”

“Because these are our friends, our family!”

“Just keeping him safe,” He then turned to the chubby bundle in his arms. “That’s all.”

As per usual, Benji had that straight look on his face, expression matching that of his father. And Christ, do they look alike. He’s practically a carbon copy of John.

Shaking your head, you chuckle. “You and your mini me.”

And John’s face lifts with the brightest grin, cheeks cherry red with happiness. “Handsome chap.” He says, bouncing Benji on his lap.

Try as you might, there’s no changing John’s mind. In order to keep your baby boy happy and healthy, everyone and everything had to be clean. John ran a tight ship, something you’ve gotten used to in your marriage. And, you figure, in the end it’s only helping Benji.

When it came to the birth of your son, John made sure to have a plan. You and your doctors discussed a scheduled C-Section beforehand, and the two of you adapted well to this. They informed you of every detail, and after that, you discussed things on your own end. Back at home, John helped you devise a game plan, a list of things that you’d need and the exact steps to take when the day came. And when the moment finally arrived, everything went surprisingly smooth.

While it was difficult for John to see you under the influence of so many narcotics, that was the least of his worries. During your procedure, he focused on yours and the baby’s health. And even though you weren’t entirely conscious, he made sure to stay by your side. While you bore the weight of the most intense struggles, your husband intended to take on the burdens of every other task that he possibly could. That meant aiding in your recovery, and your son’s growth.

Once home, John was your round-the-clock nurse. On a timed schedule, he’d clean your incision and make sure it was healing well. He kept your nightstand fully stocked with water and pain medicine, as well as your comfiest heating pad. The ensuite had all the postpartum pads you could need, and he never left you alone in the shower. When it came to Benji, John did all of the nighttime feedings, and all of the nappie changings. He didn’t want you lifting a single finger, not while you were resting.

In the evening, John often cuddled in bed with you, bringing Benjamin along to nestle between your bodies. You both admired him, pet him softly and kissed his little hands and big, round belly. It was mesmerizing to you, the fact that you created this perfect, little soul. And while you focused your affections on your newborn son, you and John made sure to save some of it for each other, too.

“Beautiful.”

“I know,” Cooing quietly, you smiled down at him.

“No,” Shaking his head, John drew your attention back to him. “You, lovie.”

“I’ve been in bed for three days, this isn’t beautiful.” While you laugh, John tuts sadly.

“Don’t know how you could be so blind.”

But what you certainly aren’t blind to, is John’s unconditional love. And that is more healing to you than any medication on the market.

Though, that doesn’t stop the rest of the boys from trying. In their thoughtfulness, Johnny and Kyle have brought you gift baskets full of after-pregnancy goodies. Snacks and sweet drinks, fuzzy socks and cute onesies for little Benji. They were even kind enough to include postpartum pads.

“You guys are too much.” In the midst of it all, tears roll down your cheeks.

Shrugging, Kyle just grins. “Least I can do for my godson.”

Out of the entire group, John was the first to have a baby. And he wasted no time in making Kyle Benjamin’s godfather. And the boys understood; John and Kyle had a bond that exceeded brotherhood.

Of course, Simon tagged along. But he wasn’t exactly familiar with babies. Soap encouraged him to bring a gift, but all he could come up with was an Amazon gift card.

“I um, well… here. For his… things.” Ghost handed you the card awkwardly, but you smiled brightly regardless.

“Thank you, Simon.” Bringing him into a firm hug, he released a soft grunt, eventually patting your back.

“Alright, alright.” Johnny announces, “I think it’s time, Cap. Where’s that baby?”

Christ sake, John internally groans. “Have you sanitized?”

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John “Soap” McTavish (~1.2k words)

Elsie McTavish

Is so excited about the baby that he sometimes forgets himself.

“I know, I know.” He’d respond, only half annoyed.

“Just, p-please,” Reaching out with shaky hands, you watched as Johnny swung your newborn infant around in his arms. “Watch her head!”

“Aye,” Johnny sighs, rolling those beautiful blue eyes.

Pulling her to his chest, he lets her head rest on one of those broad shoulders, bouncing a bit as he pats her on the back.

“How’mie supposed to have fun with my daughter if ye won’t stop nit-pickin’?”

“Baby, I’m just, I want her to be -”

“Safe, I know, bonnie. She is safe with me.” He then grins, turning to your daughter as he holds her up in front of him. “Aren’t ye, wee lassie?

And you suppose he’s right. Being a helicopter parent isn’t fun for anybody. Besides, Johnny loves your daughter enough to keep her safe and you should trust him with her.

“Ohh,” Johnny starts, and you think, here we go again. “Elsie and her daddy, say he’s a good ‘ole laddie. He’ll keep you safe and happy. We’ll play all day and sing away, yes Elsie and her daddy.”

Your husband’s makeshift songs never ceased to put a smile on your face. Johnny was always a fun and carefree man, but with your daughter? He was the goofiest dad.

Whenever you needed rest, he’d jump right to his feet, swooping in to take her to wherever she needed to be. The changing table for a new nappie, the kitchen for a bottle, or simply to the couch to give you some much-needed alone time. There was never a complaint, never a sigh or roll of his eyes. Oftentimes, you’d stumble into a room to find Johnny enjoying himself even more than Elsie. He became so animated when reading books to her, acting out scenes and making the noises of each animal. And it made her giggle wildly. He’d fidget with the toys on her playmat while she laid with him, roll the rattles around and build with the rings and blocks. But most of all, he’d interact with her. Regardless of her being barely two months old, Johnny had full-on conversations with your daughter.

“And then what happened?” He’d ask, sounding completely interested. And she’d babble back to him, as if she was truly joining in.

Nodding, he raised his brows. “That’s wild, lass. Shouldn't have to put up with that.”

Another babble, a little giggle.

“Aye, nothing wrong with that.”

Sometimes, she’d slam her little hand, and Johnny would raise his own in defense. “Oi, no need to get political about it.”

Johnny’s newest baby obsession is doing her hair. She was born with so much of it that he decided one day, he ought to do something about it. And so, he bought a pack of colorful bows, using them to make a little mohawk in her hair. You happened to walk in on him in the middle of it one day, your daughter sitting on his lap and cooing innocently while he made her look like a rockstar.

When he looked up to find you in the doorway, he grinned. “Like it?”

And you’d be daft to say it wasn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.

Your husband truly embraced the excitement and general fun of fatherhood. He figured enough seriousness surrounded her birth, why not make the rest of her life as joyful as can be?

It was an emergency C-Section, something neither of you were prepared for. There was no question of whether or not he’d be in the room with you, he simply put on the plastic hospital gown and cap and followed you in. His hand didn’t leave yours, not even for a second. Even though you were given medicine to dull the pain and any real feeling, he wanted you to know he was there.

When your daughter was successfully taken from your womb, things finally started calming down. After that, your health went back to normal. You didn’t lose too much blood, your stitches went in properly, and you were wheeled back to your room to start your recovery. Johnny was thanking the Lord that the two of you made it out okay, that both of his girls were safe. And while he waited for you to wake up, he sat in the room with your newborn baby, laying her over his chest while she slept.

“Little bonnie,” He whispered, kissing her head. “My Elsie girl.”

It was at that moment that she became his new best friend, his partner in crime, his perfect angel. He saw it as a privilege, really, taking care of you in your recovery while also caring for Elsie. Not everyone has this, he often thought to himself. My wonderful family.

And he couldn’t wait to show off his little clan.

As soon as she was ready for visitors, he invited everyone he possibly could. Friends, family, an entire get together just for her. And she was definitely her father’s daughter, blue eyes bright with excitement as each and every person greeted her with delight. Ever the extrovert herself, she giggled for hours, bouncing on people’s laps as they each took turns entertaining her.

“Oh, oh! And watch this!” Johnny says, setting down his glass and leaning toward his little girl. “Elsie, look at daddy!” And that’s just what she does, watching as Soap widens his eyes with his brows raised high. Perfectly, she mimics him.

“The smartest little thing!” Her nanny cheered, clapping with pride.

“Ah ken, ma!” Johnny responds to his mum, agreeing with her wholeheartedly. “She’s just a wee little thing, already clever as wits.”

And your side of the family couldn’t possibly be more proud. They’d been waiting for ages to have a grandbaby, and knew if they waited for the right time, you and Johnny would give them just that.

“Oh, what’s this about?” You chime in, frowning when Elsie suddenly begins to cry.

“She’s hungry, eh?” Your husband chuckles, reaching out to stroke her mini hand. “Go on then, go to mummy.”

The two of you were lucky enough to have a respectful family, entirely understanding of whenever you needed to take her away for a feeding. And oftentimes, Johnny would come with you. He saw it as a bonding moment, for all three of you. When he first asked, he seemed incredibly timid about it, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. But you thought it sweet; him holding you, while you held your baby, lulling her to sleep with your warm milk.

“She’s dozing.” Johnny whispers into your ear, head dipping to kiss your shoulder.

Together, you’d gone up to your marital bedroom, sitting up on your bed. Johnny’s back rested against the headboard, while your own rested against his firm chest. He’d butterfly his legs out, welcoming you between them and holding you close with every limb. And sitting like this, is when Elsie was the coziest.

“You’re amazin’, bonnie.” Keeping his voice hush, Johnny rests his chin on your shoulder, admiring your baby from above. “Thank you, so much.”

“What for, baby?”

“For givin’ me her, our sweet Elsie. And just… bein’ with me. You’re everything to me.”

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König (~1.2k words)

Gisela and Avelina

He had been enamored since the moment the test showed positive.

The word paternal is the perfect description for him. Even before having a baby in his arms, König embraced fatherhood wholeheartedly. He read all the baby books, took you to all your classes and participated equally in them. Every night, he’d sit by your tummy and read, talk to the baby and sing German lullabies. He thought he had everything figured out, thought he was prepared in every way.

That is, until he learned that there were two of them.

“I… I can’t believe it.”

“Oh my gosh…”

Your collective shock made the doctor giggle, continuing to inform you that not only were they identical, they were girls.

“Daughters,” König then said, eyes widening. “Two daughters…”

Worry began to swirl inside your belly from his words, his hesitancy. Glancing up at him from your lying position, you asked quietly, “Are you not… you’re not happy?”

“My love,” Releasing a quick breath, he knelt by your side, immediately taking your hand. “I couldn’t be happier.” And he was beaming. “Daughters, Schatz. We’re going to have two little girls.” (Sweetheart)

And to prepare for their arrival, he bought nearly everything in sight.

“Schatz, look! Look at what I bought for them.” (Sweetheart)

Lumbering in with three shopping bags, he sat you down in the living room to show you everything he got to welcome your baby girls into the family. One by one, he pulled each item out, displaying multiple onesies, mini dresses, bows for their hair, new blankets and swaddles, the list goes on.

“So cute,” He muttered to himself, holding up a purple dress. And just hearing this mountain of a man use the word cute made you smile from ear to ear.

“Gisela will wear pink,” Your husband decides, “And Avelina, she will dress in purple. Matching, but different, ja?”

When König found out he was having two babies, he knew he’d have no problem giving them both an equal amount of love. He never once worried about having to devote time to each of them, make them each feel cared for and adored. In his mind, it wasn’t even a question. He knew he had more than enough affection to give to each of his girls.

He’d even gone out of his way to stock up on the essentials - diapers, creams, wipes and bottles. And although the twins won’t be able to use them for a few months, he also took it upon himself to buy some toys - mostly soft blocks, rattles, play mats, and stuffies.

“They’re going to be spoiled.” You grinned, not the least bit annoyed by your husband’s overzealous preparation. How could anyone be annoyed by that?

And now that they’re here, König finally has the opportunity to truly shower them with all his love. Every nighttime feeding was, in his words, their best time to bond. When the world is quiet, and you are finally resting, it’s just him and his daughters. And with his imaginative and resourceful talents, König figured out a way to tie their bottles to their little rockers, pushing the chairs back and forth as they ate. He never wanted to feed them one at a time, he thought it cruel to have one watch their sibling eat while they themselves were hungry.

Whenever the girls were done eating, he’d hold them, lay them both over his broad, bare chest, allowing them to feel his warm skin. It comforted the girls, cuddling with their father. You thought maybe one of them might favor you, but that hope quickly dwindled. They are definitely daddy’s girls. But it was hard to be jealous when every one of this trio’s interactions were breathtakingly sweet. Their bond was something that genuinely brought a tear to your eye, in both sentimental and humorous ways.

“GG!” He calls to her, holding up his phone. This nickname for your gorgeous daughter came quickly, along with Gisela-Bella, Ella, and your personal favorite… “Meine Schnuckel!”

“What does that even mean?” Chuckling to yourself, you watch as Gisela’s father attempts to take a picture of her.

“My cutie!” He answers cheerfully, your daughter looking right at him as soon as he says it.

“Yes! Perfect, my beauties.” And then he’s leaning over to show you. “Look, look at them. The cutest things. I’m so happy Ava was already looking.”

Avenlina’s nicknames consisted of Ava, Lina-Ballerina, and… “My little Spatzi.”

As if responding to her German name, Avelina babbles back to her father, just like she always does. Between the two of them, she was certainly the talker, always chirping away, König’s little sparrow.

The photo he shows you prompts a small laugh from your end, a wide smile growing across your lips. He’d dressed them up in the most adorables outfit you’d ever seen, strawberry and blueberry dresses. GG wore the pink one, of course, with Ava in blue. Each outfit had a berry hat and matching shoes, too.

Genuinely, he could never get enough of them. Whether it was spoiling the girls with presents or giving them every bit of his time, your husband did everything he could to be the best father. But there were times he’d have no choice but to hand them over to you, their daytime feedings being one of those scenarios. Although, it’s not like he didn’t join you.

Laying beside you in bed, he shifts onto his side, watching with love in his eyes. You’ve gotten used to feeding them both, being blessed with the ability to produce enough milk to sustain them. And while sitting back against the headboard, you do just that, rocking the girls gently as they drink.

“She has my eyes, don’t you think?” Reaching over, König taps little Gisela’s chin.

And he’s right; her piercing blue gaze is just like his. “Absolutely.”

“Sie sind so schön.” Whispering, he stares up at his daughters with sincere wonder in his eyes. “You made them.” (They are so beautiful)

“I know.” Giggling, you nod in response. “Do you think Ava has my nose?” You wonder aloud, watching as their eyelids begin to droop.

“Of course, that perfect little button.” He adds, gently booping his younger daughter’s nose. Though, only younger by two minutes.

Unable to help himself, König then leans in, placing a gentle kiss to Avelina’s head, being that she’s closest to him. And then one of those large hands is lifting, petting gently at his eldest’s thin, blonde hair.

“Let me put them to bed, Schatz.” (Sweetheart)

“No,” Whining quietly, you puff out your lower lip. “I wanna.”

It was something the two of you often ��fought’ about; neither of you could get enough of your precious daughters. Even while giving birth, he practically tried to catch them with his bare hands. He was the first to hold them, each of them, even before they were placed on your chest. It made for quite the special moment, though. It was him who laid them onto you, one at a time, your little family coming together as you finally held your daughters, your sweet babies.

To König, there was nothing more inspiring than seeing you give birth to his daughters. You were fierce, powerful, and he was there to support you every step of the way. Hell, he was practically your birthing coach. He cheered you, doted on you until you’d insisted you were okay. In his mind, no one could care for you or your daughters better than him. And that caring instinct only continues to grow as your family does.

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Simon “Ghost” Riley (~1.3k words)

Charlotte Riley

Isn’t quite sure what to do, and always looks to you for guidance.

It’s not that Simon doesn’t love his daughter, or isn’t interested in her, he’s just afraid. Afraid he’ll hurt her, make her cry or just do something wrong. He’s so big and she’s just so… little. She’s the most precious, fragile thing he’s ever seen and honestly, he’s wondering how he was even capable of making her.

“Do you want to hold her, Si?” Your voice is gentle, looking up at him with encouragement in your eyes. “She wants you.”

“I don’t know, love.”

The huge, menacing man you grew to love was quickly dwindled down to a nervous wreck when it came to your newborn daughter. He’d wring his hands, rub the back of his neck and constantly shift his stance. When Charlotte was with you, he was calm. But in literally every other scenario, he felt like he was about to lose his head.

During the birthing process, Simon was sweating bullets. You were in an ungodly amount of pain and he had no idea what to do, there wasn’t anything he could do. But after a moment, his instincts kicked in. Thanks to his background and general personality, his body often chooses to take action in these fight or flight instances. And he figured the best thing he could do was to just be there for you. He leaned down, wrapped an arm around your shoulder and kept his head right beside your own, holding your hand with his free one and letting you squeeze and claw him as hard as you needed to. You called out for him, crying miserably through the pain. It tore his insides to shreds, it was heart-wrenching.

“I’m here, I promise I’m here. And you’re so strong, sweetheart. You can do this, you can.”

And now, it’s your turn to reassure him.

“I promise it’ll be okay.” Pushing your folded arms out toward your husband, you bring her just a bit closer to him. “You don’t want to hold your baby?”

“I, I feel like…”

“Don’t be nervous, Si. She loves you, she trusts you. You can do this.”

He gulped then, eyes floating down to the small bundle in your hands. Only, it’s not just a small pile of blankets. It’s his daughter, his Lottie girl. And so, with a sigh, he nods, straightening his stance.

I can do this.

With a smile on your face, you watch as he gently, slowly, takes her from your arms.

“How, how do I -”

“Support her head.” Answering softly, you show him just how to do it, gently maneuvering his strong arms and large hands. “There you go, just like that.”

At first, you were annoyed with him. Did he not pay attention in your parenting classes? Did he not actually read the books you gave him? But an honest conversation quickly put those worries to rest. Simon did pay attention, he did read those books, he had all the knowledge he needed to succeed at this. But he just didn’t trust himself with it, with her. None of those classes prepared for him an actual baby. He thought he’d surely and properly fuck this up if given the chance, but right now, he’s proving himself wrong.

“Look at you, Si.” The reassurance in your tone makes his heart beat with happiness and pride. All he wants to do is please you, both of you.

Glancing down at his daughter, Simon nods, uttering a quiet yet confident, “Yeah…”

But a breath of air is quickly sucked in when he sees her squirm, his body stiffening immediately. You hold out your hands and pause, urging him to just wait. And within seconds, she’s calming down again, tiny body snuggling into his chest.

“She, um…”

“She loves you, baby.” Stepping closer, you slide a finger over her little hand, cooing, “You love your daddy, Lottie?”

“Stop it.” He orders playfully, eyes unwavering from Charlotte’s sweet face. And when you quirk a brow at him, he continues grumpily, “Making me all emotional.”

But what you said was true, he can do this. He wants to do this.

And he does.

It takes less than a week for Simon to get used to this, becoming so comfortable with your daughter that he openly scoops her up from your arms whenever he pleases. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of how to feed or burp her yet, but he has been helping you with diaper changes. He’ll watch you perform the task or explain a piece of it, and then he’ll do it, testing the waters a bit. It’s slow, but it’s progress.

What helps with this is his best mate, having a baby of his own to demonstrate.

“Hold the bottle like this.” Johnny instructs, showing Ghost how he holds his own daughter. “Yeah!”

“Alright,” Ghost nods, voice quiet and a bit shaky.

Charlotte’s head rests on the bulk of Simon’s bicep, the rest of her body cradled on his lap. And with the bottle perfectly angled, she drinks easily and happily. Elsie does the same, but that’s nothing new.

“Have you read to her?”

“Read to her? But… she doesn’t understand it, Johnny.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Soap shrugs, grabbing his baby’s backpack to pull out some of her favorite stories. Well, Johnny’s favorite stories. “Elsie loves it! Surely my little godlassie will, too.”

How that came about, nobody really knows. It sort of just… happened, the two of them being their daughter’s godfathers. Nobody fit the role better than them, it was just common knowledge.

Opening an interactive tale about animals in the jungle, Johnny reads to the girls, their eyes watching him intently. Now that they’re done eating, they focus on Johnny and the way he’s speaking, his facial expressions and movements.

“The monkey says… ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” Reaching forward, he quickly tickles their tummies, watching as they erupt into laughter. “Here Si, you give it a go.”

Shoving the book into his hands, he watches his friend gulp. It’s as if an entire crowd is in front of him, and not his best friend and two baby girls.

“The, um… the lion says… roar.”

The girls do nothing, and Johnny rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, put your heart into it! The lion says roar!”

Clearing his throat, Ghost nods, staring at the simple picture book. “The lion says… ROAR!”

But instead of giggling, the girls start crying, and Simon is tossing the book down in an instant. Scooping his daughter up into his arms again, he mutters a grumpy Christ while patting her back and bouncing her lightly.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Daddy’s sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but Johnny can still hear him. And he smiles.

“Don’t worry about it.” Keeping his chuckles to himself, Johnny then says, “Lottie’s got a great dad. I can tell.”

“How in the bloody hell is this so hard?” His voice is still low, keeping his cheek beside her own in an attempt to comfort her.

“You’ll get the hang of it.” Soap is resting easy, having calmed his daughter down in less than a minute. “What d’ya say we have a day together? Just us four?”

“And do… what?” Simon hasn’t yet mastered the art of interacting with his tiny baby. He doesn’t know what she’s receptive to. But how will he ever know if he never tries?

“We can go to the zoo! Practice those lion roars.” Johnny jokes with a grin, watching his best mate roll his eyes. “Really though, it’ll be good for the girls.” And you, but he doesn’t say that part out loud.

“That… actually sounds nice.” The hammering heartbeat in his chest has slowed now that his daughter has grown silent, only small coos slipping from her lips.

Honestly, Simon doesn’t know what he’d do without you and Johnny. He’d be completely lost, and in more ways than one. But with your collective encouragement, he finds himself growing into his fatherly role more and more every day.

◆

Bonus - Uncle!Price (~500 words)

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) Underage drinking, mentions of drug usage, partying.

“You’re shitting me.” He says into the phone, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t mean to, Pricey. Promise!”

Charlotte’s tone on the other end of the phone only makes the situation worse; she’s very clearly inebriated. The background noise doesn’t help the conversation, either, nothing but boisterous teenagers shouting and singing.

“What pub are you at?”

“Not at one,” Hiccuping, she then swallows. “At a… party.”

“Christ, Lottie.” But he’s already walking out to his car and starting the engine. “Text me the address, lovie.”

“You won’t tell dad?” She whispers on the other end, as if Simon could somehow hear her.

“No, hun. But you’ve got to be better about this.”

It wasn’t the first time John had picked his niece up from a situation like this. Out of the group’s kids, she was definitely the partier. As soon as she hit her teenage years, she ran Simon up a goddamn wall. But she honestly didn’t mean to, she wasn’t a bad kid. She just sometimes got herself into bad situations. There had even been times at her friends' houses where she was uncomfortable and nervous, times when they’d bring hard drugs she wasn’t expecting or willing to experiment with. These situations made her far too nervous to contact her dad, fearing he’d just be angry with her. That’s where Uncle Price came in.

Of course, if she was ever hurt or in serious danger, he’d tell her parents straight away. But in these types of situations, he figures he’s helping her dodge a bullet. He knows how harsh Simon can be, and after all, she’s just a teen. At the end of the day, she’s safe, and that’s what matters.

“Thank you for calling me. Last thing we need is you driving like this, or driving with someone else like this.”

“Yeah…” Trailing off, she sighs. And in this small lull, John hears a familiar voice.

“Who -” He pauses, did he really just hear who he thought he heard?! “Who was that?!”

“Um… who?”

“You know who!”

“Is he coming?” The voice then says, and Charlotte is quick to hush him.

“Benjamin!” John shouts, eyes wide as he continues to drive. “You’re there too?!”

Handing the phone to her cousin, Benji gives the excuse of, “Had to look after her, da.”

“Yeah, right job you did there.” His father returns, nodding. “Anyone else I should know about?”

“Well… maybe.”

“Elsie! C’mon! Uncle John is almost here!”

Christ sake.

Groaning, John rubs the bridge of his nose. “You lot are out to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of fun!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rolling his eyes, he peers out the window while at a stop light.

Internally though, John is grinning. This entire situation is reminding him of his own memories, recalling the crazier nights of his youth. What an absolute shitshow, that was. And on top of that, he didn’t have the type of parents that could get him out of tough cracks, they just didn’t understand. He had to rely on himself. And now, he’s glad these kids can rely on him, too.

#cod fanfiction #Call of Duty fanficiton #Simon Riley #Simon “Ghost” Riley #John McTavish #John “Soap” McTavish #John Price #Captain John Price #Konig

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afeelgoodblog · 1 year ago

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The Best News of Last Week - June 6, 2023

1. Biden orders 20-year ban on oil, gas drilling around tribal site in New Mexico

Hundreds of square miles in New Mexico will be withdrawn from further oil and gas production for the next 20 years on the outskirts of Chaco Culture National Historical Park that tribal communities consider sacred, the Biden administration ordered Friday.

The new order from Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland applies to public lands and associated mineral rights within a 10-mile (16-kilometer) radius of the park. It does not apply to entities that are privately, state- or tribal-owned. Existing leases won’t be impacted either.

2. Groundbreaking Israeli cancer treatment has 90% success rate

An experimental treatment developed at Israel's Hadassah-University Medical Center has a 90% success rate at bringing patients with multiple myeloma into remission.

The treatment is based on genetic engineering technology. They have used a genetic engineering technology called CAR-T, or Chimeric Antigen Receptor T-Cell Therapy, which boosts the patient’s own immune system to destroy the cancer. More than 90% of the 74 patients treated at Hadassah went into complete remission, the oncologists said.

3. Federal Judge Makes History in Holding That Border Searches of Cell Phones Require a Warrant

With United States v. Smith, a district court judge in New York made history by being the first court to rule that a warrant is required for a cell phone search at the border, “absent exigent circumstances”. For a century, the Supreme Court has recognized a border search exception to the Fourth Amendment’s warrant requirement.

4. Indigenous-led bison repopulation projects are helping the animal thrive again in Alberta

Indigenous-led efforts are reintroducing bison to their ancestral lands in Alberta, bringing back an iconic species that was nearly extinct. These reintroduction projects, such as the one led by the Tsuut'ina Nation, have witnessed the positive impact on the bison population and the surrounding wildlife.

The historical decline of bison numbers was due to overhunting and government policies that forced Indigenous peoples onto reserves. These initiatives aim to restore ecological integrity while fostering spiritual and cultural connections with the land and animals. Successful results have been observed in projects like Banff National Park, where the bison population has grown from 16 to nearly 100, providing inspiration for future wilding efforts.

5. Breakthrough in disease affecting one in nine women

Sydney researchers have made a world-first leap forward that could change the treatment of endometriosis and improve the health of women living with the painful and debilitating disease. Researchers from Sydney's Royal Hospital for Women have grown tissue from every known type of endometriosis, observing changes and comparing how they respond to treatments.

It means researchers will be able to vary treatments from different types of endometriosis, determining whether a woman will need fertility treatments.

6. Latvia just elected the first openly gay head of state in Europe

The country’s parliament elected Edgars Rinkēvičs to be its next president, Reuters reported prime minister Krišjānis Kariņš saying.

Rinkēvičs publicly came out as gay in November 2014, posting on Twitter: “I proudly announce I am gay… Good luck all of you.” In a second tweet at the time, he spoke about improving the legal status of same-sex relationships, saying Latvia needed to create a legal framework for all kinds of partnerships.

7. France bans short haul flights

The introduction of France’s short-haul flight ban has renewed calls for Europe to cut down on journeys that could be made by train. Last week France officially introduced its ban on short-haul flights.

The final version of the law means that journeys which can be taken in under 2.5 hours by train can’t be taken by plane. There also needs to be enough trains throughout the day that travellers can spend at least eight hours at their destination.

----

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation:

BUY ME A COFFEE ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog.

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#best news of last week

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asentienthaze · 5 months ago

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Have you ever thought about the horror of a post apocalypse fic for Jon?

From the day you sit at your desk, a day that will forever change the trajectory of your life, you are endlessly watched. Your every word devoured by something far greater and more incomprehensible than you could ever hope to know.

And from before you could even understand what was happening, you were marked for a narrative you will never have control over. Every moment of your life from then on is to watch and to be watched and to be pulled along by strings that play for a hungry crowd. Every torture and horror you go through ultimately inevitable.

And in the end you sacrifice yourself to rid the world of the fears that have bound it.

And. It. Follows. You. Still.

The eyes follow you still.

You will live a hundred, a thousand different lives, all pre-written and all to be read by that hungry crowd who is never satiated. Even in your sacrifice you will never regain yourself again. What binds you cannot be cut. What watches you cannot be blinded.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma podcast #jon sims #jonathan sims #also yes i did post thtis in the discord but i thought it deserved its own post #debs own posts

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speakofthedebbie · 3 months ago

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i. i spoke too soon.

if schools ever realize tumblr is social media im cooked

#top 10 saddest anime moments of all time #legit stopped loading in the middle of making a post #school #tumblr #social media #youtube #discord #debs is a reblogger #of her own shit bc i really shouldnt have been testing fate with that one

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prozac-shaped-urn · 5 months ago

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just wrote this. i'm laughing and crying so hard

Deborah inhaled sharply and jerked her head. Her gaze landed on the wall as she tapped out an erratic tune on the counter.

“What are you scared of?”

“Love.”

“Why?”

“I have abandonment issues.”

Deborah rolled her eyes with tight lips. “I know that, Ruby. That's not an explanation. I need you to tell me why.”

“I never had a consistent source of love and affection growing up, and I've continued down an emotionally detached path when it comes to romance, so I get anxious when someone starts giving me lots of affection. It's not something I'm used to. I don't know how to process it, and that terrifies me, so I run away – run somewhere else, somewhere safe where I have all the answers.”

“So you can fix someone else?”

“No, so I can avoid fixing me.”

Shit... Should've saved that one for the talk therapy grand prix.

“Then what was this?” Deborah motioned between them. “Some mind game to make you feel superior?”

“I might have a God complex, but I'm no sadist, Deborah. That should be clear by now.” Ruby cocked her head with a jaded pout. “I think I better leave.”

#if it hasn't be excruciatingly evident during this whole event i am ~most definitely~ tossing a fuck load of my own shit into this fic #ruby is basically a stand-in for myself #and deb vance is 100% me in every way except financial status comedic timing and physical appearance #i really fucked myself with this fic and y'all are gonna reap the rewards of my masochism #irl post #writing #fanfic #lunch fic

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raspberrysmoon · 2 months ago

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oh my god wait im intrigued by this au so much . please say more

hiiii hehe im gonna use this as an opportunity to properly introduce levels!!! heres a link to two other ictd posts that have background information - one and two ! :3

so, levels! levels are a categorization of the powers of people in hatchetfield. they rage from zero to ten. here are the basics:

10 - wiggly - a lord or lady. godly, designated to exactly six characters. level ten characters are lord wiggly, lord nibbly, lord tinky, lord blinky, lord pokey, and lady webby.

9 - lumberaxe - inhuman, gifted, but not godly. other level nine entities include evelyn metzger and the witchwood.

8 - uncle wiley - semi inhuman, strongly gifted. some are able to cross the black and white. not godly, still looks human. some have open, 24/7 communication with patron and other lords. another level eight character is miss holloway.

7 - hannah foster -often have open communication with patron and access to not only their own gift but their patrons power as well. likely semi inhuman. other level seven characters include: holly cross, sheila young and lars metzger.

6 - sophia - high level gift; usually unable to access patrons power, but can draw on their energy as use it as their own power. low communication. other level six characters include lex foster and daniel laine.

5 - ted spankoffski - semi-open communication/one sided communication with patron. no obvious gift power, but definitely gifted. another level five character is seaton monroe.

4 - linda monroe - obviously gifted, but not so much that it’ll ever do much in a day-to-day life without training and/or enhancements. another level four character is alex bailey.

3 - grace chasity - gifted, but without self-held power. often held as toys. other level three characters include steph lauter, pete spankoffski, and sherman young.

2 - ethan green - very low, almost unnoticeable level of the gift. cannot be trained to be useful on the daily. can be enhanced, but not by much. other level two characters include sam sweetly and solomon lauter.

1 - jeri - not gifted, but touched. another level one character is deb reynolds.

0 - blake shapiro - not gifted, not touched. normal human level. other level zero characters include matilda waylon, lucy stockworth and the entire town of clivesdale.

now, levels dont dictate which powers each person has- only their strength. for example, jeri has more powers than alice woodward, despite being several levels below her. alice just happens to be stronger.

anyway. uhm. i outlined 23 chapters of the mainfic today. are any of you proud of me

#yes. deb. not dan. deb. i promise 😭#alice answers asks !!#raspberry writes #starkid #hatchetfield #ictd #i curse the day #ictd: levels #ictd: powers #i dont wanna tag all those characters #tbh

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blvckentropy · 1 month ago

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🔔DING DING DING!!! A Treat From Me To You!

MEET DEB VIL 😈

Traits: Evil, Snob, Unflirty

Full set: Everyday, Formal, Athletic, Sleepwear, Party, Swimwear, Hot wear, Cold wear

Reminder: Please play fair! Please don't share or link! Also don't claim or reupload as your own.

Feel free to tag me after the event if you use her or post her! I hope you enjoy her as much as I do 🧡 HAPPY SIMBLREEN!!

DOWNLOAD

#treat 😈#don't claim #sim download #simblreen 2024 #ts4 halloween

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theitgirlnetwork · 1 year ago

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Better

Chapter 1: Not A Nice Guy

Authors Note: Did you miss me? Lol be patient with me y'all, I'm building a universe and have a couple more white boys of the month to add to it xoxo See the post before this one for Charlotte Fisher's aesthetic (its not my fave and I'll probably make a better one soon. Ofc you can imagine her as you want, but occasionally her appearance will be described. This chapter is short but they'll usually be longer :)

“First shower!”

“Fuck that! You’ve had it first everyday this week!”

“Yeah, neither of you are getting it, Carl needs it more.” Fiona sighs, picking up a toy fire engine that almost took her out laying on the floor in the hallway. “Ian, you need the phone today don’t you? It’s yours if you can take Liam this morning. Lip, take out the trash will you?”

“Debs!”

“No,” Fiona huffs, shoving her brother’s shoulder. “I asked you, not Debbie. She’s helping with breakfast.”

“Fucksake.” The blond groans, tightening his pajama pants and jogging down the stairs to grab the trash bag. He snags a cigarette off of the counter, letting it hang loosely in his mouth as he heads out the door. “Heavy ass bag.”

Lip’s head shoots up when he hears a clatter coming from the direction of Kev and V’s house. “Ow! My nail.” a feminine voice whines.

Lip drops the trash in the bin and crosses over their connecting grass to look into their driveway. “You alright, V-” he’s caught off by the sight of a pretty girl in a short skirt, dragging a suitcase from the trunk of Kev’s car, clothes spilling out, a bright pink thong on the ground in front of them. “Not V. What, is Kev having an affair or somethin’?”

The girl’s head shoots up, revealing big brown eyes and pouty pink lips, her silky black hair bouncing with the sharp movement. “What? No. I’m not-”

“New foster kid, then?” He questions, tearing his eyes away from her to glance at the ground again, eyeing the underwear and chuckling lowly when she squeals, slamming her foot over it to cover it.

“No!” she yelps, dragging her foot closer to her before clearing her throat. “No. I’m Charlotte Fisher. V’s my cousin.” The girl rolls her shoulders back to stand up straight, completely letting go of the suitcase and letting it clatter to the ground, releasing a helpless laugh at her own expense. The sound rings in Lip’s ear. Sighing she holds her hand out for him to shake.

He takes her soft hand into his rougher one, careful not to squeeze too hard as he shakes her hand. “Oh yeah? Lip Gallagher.” The girl snorts, quickly taking her hand back to cover her mouth while Lip absently wonders how many different sounds she was going to make in this encounter and how many more he could get her to make. “Somethin’ funny?”

“I’m sorry…just…your parents named you Lip?” Her giggles get louder and Lip just stands there. He doesn’t know what to do. If anyone else laughed in his face like this, he’d crack their jaw. Or call them a bitch and flip them off, cause hey, his sister taught him not to hit women.

But this…he didn’t care. He just liked the sound of her laughing. Even if it was at his expense. But whether he liked the sound or not, that didn’t get rid of the heat on the back of his neck. “It’s actually Phillip. Lip is short for Phillip.”

“Phillip.” Charlotte smiles, leaning against the car, jumping a little when the alarm sounds. Her hands cover her ears as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Damn it, Lottie!” V comes running out of the house, tugging on her robe, car keys jingling in her hands, turning the alarm off. “I told you to wait for Kev.”

Brown eyes go wide, and pink lips turn downward slightly. “No, I know, but I needed to change my clothes, and take a shower.”

“Could’ve borrowed some of my clothes.” V shrugs, tossing a bra back into the spilled suitcase.

Charlotte stares down at her feet, tilting her weight from one hip to another. “Didn’t want to.”

“Why the hell not?” V says incredulously.

Lip snorts, shaking his head.

“Somethin’ funny, blondie?”

“Nah, V, I was just tellin’ your cousin here, that I’d take her bags in.”

“Oh yeah? Bet you were, take it inside and put it in the living room, Kev will take it the rest of the way. Charlotte, you can use the bathroom upstairs.” Her eyes follow the younger woman inside before her hand shoots out to stop Lip from following her in, gripping the back of the wife beater he has on. “Don’t even think about it, Lip. I’m serious.”

“Think about what?” the blond shrugs, leaning to the left to look over V’s shoulder at Charlotte’s ass as she heads up the stairs.

“Hey, hey!” she snaps her fingers in front of his face. “She’s a nice girl. And she doesn’t need any of the Gallagher bullshit.”

“Isn’t your best friend a Gallagher?”

“Hm,” she pauses, tapping her chin sarcastically. “Well, if Fi starts eye fucking my cousin I’ll let her. Bag down, then outta my house.”

Lip rolls his eyes, hauling the other bag under his shoulder. “Heard you.”

And he had. Heard her. Lip respects V…and sometimes Kev. They should know better than to move a hot, of age girl next door to him. She’s 19, only a year younger than Lip, pretty face, body, well, she’s got V’s genes. That’s all of the information he got from the recon Carl did for him. It was perfect.

So that’s how he got here, standing outside of Kev and V’s house, throwing rocks at the window to the spare bedroom because suddenly, V started locking the front door. The window creaks open and suddenly a head full of black shiny hair falls through. “Phillip? What are you doing?”

“I am…” he glances around, checking for any sign of V. “takin’ you out. Show you around this shithole.”

“I would like to but I can’t.” She hums.

“Any reason why?” Lip places his hands on his hips. Charlotte disappears back into the house but leaves the window open. “Did V say something? Because I think she’s just menstruating or something, she’s generally one of my biggest fans.”

“Nope!” She chirps, bounding out of the front door, pulling on a pink blazer over a white dress. “But I’m job hunting.”

“Don’t you look cute.” Lip smirks, reaching over and adjusting the girl’s collar. He eyes the clean fabric and all he could think about is wanting to dirty it and rip it apart with his hands “Where you interviewing at?”

“A couple different places.” she hums. “M’Staying with V and Kev for a while so I can be on my own. You know, learn how to be independent. It’s what my parents want. I’ve got a list see.” She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper with little characters on the side, turning it to show Lip. “Lots of ‘em, see?”

Lip takes the paper, scanning over it before looking the girl up and down. “You dance?”

“I dunno, sometimes? Why does that matter?” The girl asks, pulling out a pink rhinestone bedazzled phone. “Signal sucks.”

“Not that kind of dancin’ at least three of these places are strip clubs. Don’t seem like the type-”

Charlotte gasps, leaning closer to lip to eye the paper again, letting him smell the sweet scent of vanilla. “Which ones?”

“I’ll get rid of them.” he smiles, ripping part of the paper. “There we go, that leaves a few.”

“Any drug fronts or prostitution rings on here I should know about?” She asks, tilting her head as she looks at the remaining places on the list.

Lip glances back at his house, where Mandy was no doubt asleep in his room. Blue eyes scan the window carefully before he dips his head imploringly at the girl, wetting his bottom lip. “How about I go with you, we’ll hang out.”

A dimpled, shy smile appears as Charlotte looks off to the side, “Dunno.”

“Okay, I mean it’s up to you, I’m just from here, and you’re new, just lookin’ out for a family friend.” he shrugs. Lip could all but feel her wide eyes following her as he walked slowly back toward his house with absolutely no intention of going inside. Three…two…

“Hey, Phillip? Wait.”

“Yeah?”

She rocks on her feet, grinning at him widely. “Would you come with me?”

Lip lets his eyes scan the woman one more time, letting a wolfish smile spread across his face. “Um…yeah, sure.”

“And this would be your uniform.” The greasy manager leers, dangling the outfit on the hanger in Charlotte’s face.

Lip chuckles to himself quietly around a tooth pick, watching as she studies the skimpy outfit. Skin tight baby tee and matching elastic booty shorts that are barely enough fabric to not be considered panties, pretty covered up compared to the other outfits the rest of the southside shithead managers had dangled in the girl’s face all afternoon. Her manicured nails pinch at the fabric as a line forms between her furrowed brows.

“I-is this what all of your servers wear?”

“The ones that look like you, honey. But if you like, I’m sure I could find you somethin’ smaller.”

“What?”

As much as he was enjoying the show, he’d rather not watch this gross old fuck mess with the untouched forbidden fruit when he was trying to get there first. He’d noticed throughout their little day out that Charlotte wasn’t the brightest. Functioned just fine but didn’t know how to bargain for shit. The fact that she’d graduated high school put her miles above most of the fuckers out here but she didn’t seem to know that. V and Kev gave her free reign to figure out her own situation. She also didn’t know that her cute little pink resume wasn’t what was getting all of these middle-aged, sweaty assholes to offer her jobs that she could literally start tonight. “You…uh, you don’t wanna take him up on that, alright?”

Charlotte studies Lip’s face, shifting closer to him unconsciously while wrapping her arms around herself and pouting. “Nothin’ left on the list.” she sighs loudly and tucks the uniform under her arm. “I’ll take it.”

“Perfect!” the man claps. “See you at 8. That’s when we have our rush. Bring your fine ass and we’ll make you some cash, honey.”

Charlotte huffs out another sigh and whirls around to slip past Lip and out of the office, both men’s eyes following her as she goes. “Those damn Fisher genes, huh? Try not to Gallagher that all up before anyone else gets a crack at it, will you?”

“Yeah, fuck you too, Alan. I’ll be back at 8 too, save a table for me.”

“So, uh, back home?” Lip asks, shoving his hands in his pockets once he catches up to Charlotte.

“Yeah, guess so. I need to get ready for work. This is gonna be my first job.” she chirps, bouncing in her step next to him.

“Really?” he drawls. He’s completely unsurprised, he can read privilege on her from a mile away. Maybe not a gold spoon in her mouth but definitely a silver one. “What’d you do for your mom and pops to push you out?”

“Oh, nothing. They just want me to grow up and be independent. I wanted to too! And V, I’ve always wanted to be just like her-”

Oh I’d pay to see that. “Really?”

“Yeah.” she hums. “What about you, Phillip? Where do you work? Are you in school?”

“Um…here and there. Did the school thing, finished the part that mattered.” he shrugs, quietly ushering her to walk on the side of the sidewalk further away from the road. “I do what I can to get by.”

“Fiona told me that you’re smart. You really helped me today, it must be true.”

Course she met Fiona. No need to wonder why she’d never introduced me. “Yeah, I can read and write. A little addition and subtraction. What else she tell you about me?”

“Um, you’re the second oldest and help her take care of Ian, Debbie, Carl and Liam. Right? I wish I had siblings, all I have is cousins and I was only ever close to V.”

“Yeah? It was lonely out there in…”

“Great Falls, Virginia.” silky black hair falls over her shoulder as she tilts it pensively. “Well I was with Mom and Dad, so, not lonely.”

“Mom, dad and boyfriend?”

Charlotte looks over at him, both of their mouths slowly spreading into a smile. “Sometimes. Not right now.” Not that it matters to me. “Do you have a girlfriend or was this day out you trying to get a date with me?”

“No girlfriend and maybe a little. Cute things like you don't usually stumble into our hood.” The two of them round the corner into their neighborhood and Lip tries to pull ahead to see if Mandy’s hanging out in the yard. “So how about it?”

“‘Bout what?” she smiles, pulling a lollipop from her jacket pocket before holding it out to Lip, shrugging when he shakes his head and taking it out of the wrapper and shoving it in his unsuspecting hand. “You haven’t asked me anything, Phillip Gallagher.” she smiles as she takes the candy into her mouth. Lip can’t decide whether or not the way she’s eating it is intentional but god is it working.

“I’ll pick you up from work at 8:30.”

“But I don’t start until 8.” her sweet voice calls across the yard.

Lip smirks as he makes his way back up the steps to his house. “Alright, I’ll be there at 7.”

“Hey, where were you today? Missed you.” Mandy whispers, hugging behind Lip as he pours some cheerios into a bowl for Liam. “Ian and I were thinkin’ about seein’ a movie tonight. Gonna give him an excuse to see Mickey. Be my double date?”

Lip nods quietly to himself as he lets her kiss his neck before shrugging out of her hug to slide the bowl onto Liam’s high chair table. “Here ya go, buddy. Um…maybe, I’ve got an errand to run but I might meet up with you guys at uh…some point.”

“Well, can I come with you on the errand? We can help out Ian after.”

“Nah, it’ll be boring.”

Mandy’s mouth slowly falls into a frown before she shoves at Lip’s back. “Fine.” she huffs before storming up the stairs.

Lip looks after her before shaking his head and leaning down to Liam’s eye level. “Fuckin’ crazy, huh, buddy?” the toddler blows a raspberry in his older brother’s face and giggles, causing the older boy to chuckle. “Yeah you get me.”

“Hey, Lip’s in charge, Ian’s out and I'm gonna be back in a little bit.” Fiona calls out, running her hand over Carl’s head and kissing Liam’s cheek.

“Actually-uh…Fi, I have to be somewhere, shouldn’t be long, but I’m sure Debbie can run things for a while though. Shouldn’t take me long. Be good shitheads.” Lip grabs his coat and starts to dart out of the door.

“Woah woah woah, where are you going? Meeting up with Ian and Mandy?”

“Um, since when do we check each other on where we’re going? I don’t know where you’re going.”

“With Fi to get some nice stuff for her cousin Lottie. She just moved in and she’s found a job. We wanna celebrate.” Fiona smiles, leaning against the door frame. “Your turn.”

“Get some smokes. You mind?” Lip huffs, pushing past her.

The bell to the establishment rings as Lip pushes in, immediately finding the woman he’s looking for.

“Hey, honey, new table four beers, quickly!”

“Yeah okay, comin’!” Charlotte rushes over, balancing the four beers in her arms, pushing up on her toes to get them onto the high top table while the glasses clink. “Here ya go! Can I get you guys somethin’ to eat?”

“Yeah,” the drunken man wearing the Bachelor badge slurs, “You’ve got somethin’ I wanna eat.”

“Oh, um-”

Lip takes wide strides over, slipping his arm over Charlotte’s waist and pushing her away from the table. “Hey, Alan, invite your baby mama to the wedding yet?”

“Fuck you, Gallagher, leave some for the rest of us, what’re you gonna share this one with Frank too?”

Lip grits his teeth, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt, “Listen shithead-”

“Who’s Frank?” Charlotte asks from behind the blond.

The man immediately feels himself cool off, letting a smug smile across his lips. “Exactly.” Lip guides Charlotte away to go take other orders and slides into a booth himself, watching her work.

Every once in a while, she would stop at his table, slipping him fries and beers, only giving him two before cutting him off and bringing soda. They would chat about how her shift was going and she would try to guess about their date that he didn’t ask her on later. During her break they went over to the game section of the bar and he taught her how to play chess.

She showed him pictures on her phone of her back in highschool. She looked exactly like what he pictured. Pretty little cheerleader, belly button piercing, prick boyfriend lurking in the background of nearly every picture. Lip was grateful she said that’s been over for at least six months. He could take a hit, but damn, juiced up football players tend to pack a punch. Not that it’s stopped him before.

Finally twelve a.m. came and she got off her first shift. She told Lip to meet her out front and after ten more minutes she came jogging out with a bag full of stuff. “What’s that?”

“It’s cake,” she grins, handing the bag over to Lip. “For Fiona and the kids, as an apology for keeping big brother out all night. Bad first impression as the new neighbor, right?”

“Ah, sweet, they’ll love that. Free food’s the best kind.” Lip grins, slinging an arm over Charlotte’s shoulder. “No one’s worried about when I get home. But I’d better get you there safe before V comes after me with a bat. Wanna go for a drink and walk? Cold?” he asks, unwrapping his scarf from his neck and wrapping it around hers.

“Um, I don’t really drink outside of special occasions. And my birthday, I always get fucked up with V and Kev on my birthday.”

“Woah, sailor, dirty words from that pretty mouth.” he nudges, smiling back at her as she looks up at him.

“I’m pretty sure you curse more than you use regular words.” she snorts, nudging him back. “Now tell me about your day today.”

“Mm, okay, I woke up, smoked a blunt with my brother, let him beat me to the bathroom, met this absolute smoke show struggling to carry a suitcase-”

“It was heavy!”

“I lifted it.”

“You’re strong.” she hums. Lip shakes his head, guiding her up the street, pulling her a little further under his arm when some random guys on the street eye her. He holds her even tighter when she tucks herself into him when she notices them too. Lip clenches his jaw at the feeling of pride in his chest he feels when he feels her fingers grip the fabric of his jacket. If it had been Mandy they were looking at she would yell at them ‘Can I help you? Shitdicks?’. Hell, had it been Karen she’d threaten Lip with actually going with them. “Are we almost back? I guess I don’t really know the way at night. Kev was gonna pick me up but I told him I’d made a friend who was gonna take me home.”

“Yeah, um, we’re almost home. Hey, uh, make any good tips?”

“Mm yeah.” Charlotte nods.

“Really, good job, let’s see it.”

“Um, no.” she shrugs. “Oh, I think I see the street sign.”

Lip cocks his head back in questioning, “What’re you worried I’ll take it from you?” he stops walking, and she stops too. Her big, pretty brown eyes are looking everywhere but at his blue ones. “Someone else took it from you?”

Charlotte shifts her weight from one foot to another before walking past him, “I think I can make it the rest of the way. I had fun today.”

“Hey-” Lip tries again, following her toward V’s. “Who took your money?”

She lets her head fall back, looking toward the sky. “No one took it. All of the waitresses share tips, that’s what they said.”

“Yeah? Did they pool it and let you take a portion?”

“Yes!”

“Charlotte.”

“Seriously!”

Lip’s brows furrow as he looks at her. “So what happened to yours? Because…no.” he scoffs, “no.”

“It was a thank you for being my first friend here.” She smiles innocently. He raises the bag of cakes. “And thanks for taking care of my cousin all these years?”

Immediately Lip is annoyed. Truly, his family never really minded getting free shit from people. But this, it felt annoying, and embarrassing. What, did she not think he could take her out? She’s some priss from the suburbs and she thinks the broke boy couldn’t even buy his own beers and snacks? Fuckin’ slumming it with him for her little stint in the hood? Does she really not fucking drink or did she not think he could buy her one. He lets a heavy breath out from his nose, and shoves his hands in his pockets, ready to tell her pissy ass about herself.

But then big brown eyes stare up at him, pink lips pouting, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I just thought it would be nice…and…the manager said that the stuff would be cheaper if I was the one buying it…I just thought it would be sweet.”

A beat passes before Lip is wrapping the ends of his scarf in his hands, tugging the woman forward and to his lips, breathing out a “real sweet.” before connecting them.

Phillip Gallagher is an intelligent man. Like real fucking smart if he does say so himself, but as he wracks his brain he can’t find one synonym, adjective, fuck-any intelligible thoughts that can describe what her soft ass lips against his felt like. Working her mouth open and cupping her jaw with his rough hand he files away the sound she made for later and tries to forget the one he made. It’s intense, satisfying, its fucking good. So, he does the only next step he’s taken since he lost his virginity at like thirteen. “You wanna go inside mine and bang one out? Since Kev and V’s is probably off limits.”

“Wh-what?”

The confusion on her face only intensifies when Carl comes stumbling out of the house with a wide smile. “Woah, you’re fuckin’ hot. You’re hanging out with the wrong Gallagher, babe.”

“Carl! You can’t talk to people like that, fucksake.” Fiona pushes the boy back into the house before stopping in the doorway. “Oh, shit, Lottie, she’s back V! Lip, please tell me you didn’t.”

Lip huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t what?”

“Hi Fiona. It’s good to see you again.” Charlotte smiles, going up the walkway to hug the older girl.

Soon the Gallagher clan was filing out of the house, and onto the lawn, joined by Kev and V. Veronica makes her way over to her cousin pulling her into a hug. “Hey baby, how was work?”

While Ian leans over to Lip mumbling to him, “You might wanna wipe your mouth, unless you’re gonna try to sell Mandy that you’ve started wearing peach lip gloss.”

“Fuck you, its strawberry” Lip sneers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hands as his depends on who you ask, girlfriend makes her way out of the house, immediately ducking under Lip’s arm and smiling at Charlotte.

“Mandy. Lip’s girlfriend. You’re V’s cousin?”

For the third time tonight Charlotte surprises Lip, when her face falls flat, her lip curling in disgust, he doesn’t think he’s seen her look this much like V. “Girlfriend?”

Mandy straightens, and Lip finds himself gripping the back of her shirt in case she decides to get aggressive. “Yeah, girlfriend.”

Charlotte sniffs, looking around at the people chatting in the yard, and gestures with her head for Lip and Mandy to follow her a little ways away. “Look, I’m gonna show you some courtesy and not embarrass you in front of your family. Mandy, your boyfriend asked me on a date, kissed me, and asked me if I wanted to have sex with him. I did the first two, and I’m really sorry, I didn’t know he had a girlfriend. It won’t happen again.” she glares at Lip. “Believe me.”

“You bitch-”

“You can be mad at me, if you want to. But I think you should be mad at the person who owes you loyalty. You could do better. You’re not a nice guy, Phillip Gallagher.” Charlotte snips, flipping her hair and swishing past them.

Lip knows he should be mad at her for snitching on him. He knows Mandy is probably gonna deck him for cheating or whatever she was gonna call it. But all he could think about is how many balls it took for that sweet thing to give a girl like Mandy the ‘coming to you as a woman speech’ over a little kiss and proposition. That, and the sweet scent that brushed past when she did.

#shameless #lip gallagher #fiona gallagher #gallagher #ian gallagher #oc #lip gallagher x oc #lip gallagher x you #lip gallagher x reader #veronica fisher #kevin ball

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