#john galley

[notkingyet2]

Mr Wall and Mr Diggle of AMC's The Terror (2018) are acrimonious ex-lovers who each thought they'd be safe from having to confront seeing each other again by being assigned to separate ships but then, alas, ice and tins.

[barbariankingdom]

The large galley inside is the reproduction of John of Austria's flagship at the battle of Lepanto in 1571, the famous Real, which was originally built at the Barcelona shipyard in 1568.

[longliverockback]

Whitesnake Slide It In 1984 Liberty ————————————————— Tracks: 01. Gambler 02. Slide It In 03. Standing in the Shadow 04. Give More Time 05. Love Ain’t No Stranger 06. Slow an’ Easy 07. Spit It Out 08. All or Nothing 09. Hungry for Love 10. Guilty of Love —————————————————

David Coverdale

Mel Galley

Colin Hodgkinson

Jon Lord

Micky Moody

Cozy Powell

* Long Live Rock Archive

[queenbea-1610]

Cozy Powell, Mel Galley and John Sykes photographed at Hotel Holiday Inn. London, 31st January 1984. 🇬🇧🌟

[myvinylplaylist]

Whitesnake: Slide It In (1984)

Audio Cassette

Geffen Records

[fourdiagnosesinatrenchcoat]

Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh I'm so excited for this unexpected companion book!

[quirkycatsfatstacks]

Review: Egypt's Golden Couple by John Coleman Darnell and Colleen Manassa Darnell

Egypt’s Golden Couple: When Akhenaten and Nefertiti Were Gods on EarthAuthors: John Coleman Darnell and Colleen Manassa DarnellPublisher: St. Martin’s PressReleased: November 1, 2022Received: NetGalley I’ll confess that I have not been that great about reading a lot of nonfiction this year. I keep making grand promises to myself, only for them to fall through. However! I did get around to…

[chili-paintings]

John

[ltwilliammowett]

Old naval slang

A small collection of terms from the 18th - early 20th century that were and probably still are known among sailors.

Admiralty Ham - Royal Navy canned fish Batten your hatch - shut up Beachcomber - a good-for-nothing Cape Horn Fever - feigned illness Cheeseparer - a cheat Claw off - to avoid an embarrassing question or argument Cockbilled - drunk Cumshaw - small craft - Chinese version of scrimshaw Dead Marine - empty liquor bottle Donkey's Breakfast - mattress filled with straw Dunnage - personal equipment of a sailor Flying Fish sailor - sailor stationed in Asian waters Galley yarn - rumour, story Hog yoke- sextant Holy Joe - ship's chaplain Irish hurricane- dead calm Irish pennant - frayed line or piece of clothing Jamaican discipline - unruly behaviour Knock galley west - to knock a person out Leatherneck - a marine Limey - a British sailor Liverpool pennant - a piece of string used to replace a lost button Loaded to the guards - drunk Old Man - captain of the ship One and only - the sailor's best girl On the beach - ashore without a berth Pale Ale - drinking water Quarterdeck voice - the voice of authority Railroad Pants - uniform trousers with braid on the outer leg seam Railway tracks - badge of a first lieutenant Round bottomed chest - sea bag Schooner on the rocks - roast beef and roast potatoes Show a leg - rise and shine Sling it over - pass it to me Slip his cable - die Sundowner - unreasonable tough officer Swallow the anchor - retire Sweat the glass - shake the hour glass to make the time on watch pass quickly - strictly forbidden ! Tops'l buster - strong gale Trim the dish - balance the ship so that it sails on an even keel Turnpike sailor - beggar ashore, a landlubber claiming to be an old sailor in distress Water bewitched - weak tea White rat - sailor who curries favor with the officers

Sailors' Language, by W. Clark Russell, 1883 Soldier and Sailor Words and Phrases. Edward Fraser and John Gibbons, 1925 Sea Slang, by Frank C. Bowen, 1929 Royal Navalese, by Commander John Irving, 1946 Sea Slang of the 20th century, by Wilfried Granville, 1949 The Sailor's Word Book, by Admiral W.H. Smyth, 1967

[markwickens]

Kitchen (Dallas)

[secretmellowblog]

One of my pet peeve misinterpretations of Les Mis— which I see in both adaptations, analysis, and fandom— is that “the criminal Justice system’s mistreatment of Valjean was wrong because Valjean was innocent. He was not like other criminals, he was a special exception, a good person who was arrested by mistake.”

The implication is that if Jean Valjean were not innocent, if he were a “real criminal,” the abuse and persecution would have been justified.

One example of this is in the 1935 American Les Mis adaptation. The judge who sentences Valjean proudly says that he is “guilty until proven innocent”— implying that the reason he was arrested was because 19th century France was savage and uncivilized in a way that the very wonderful fair equal society of 1935 America was not, and that Valjean would never have been declared guilty in a country with a proper court system. (Never mind that people are still given inhumanly long sentences for petty crimes even in 2024 America.)

Essentially, rather than analyze the way Les Mis criticizes the cruelty/inhumanity of prison,…..the novel gets framed as a simple story of mistaken identity. Jean Valjean is framed as a good person who is “falsely accused” of being a criminal, when in reality he never actually did a crime, or he “expiated” it, and should be considered wholly innocent ……Unlike Those Other Dirty Criminals Who Deserve What They Get.

This really stands out to me because of one of the things that separates Jean Valjean from Thenardier/Javert is is his unwillingness to betray other people from his class in order to save himself. He refuses to say “I’m not like other criminals” and to claim that he is a unique exception. He is tempted to do it— ex, when he briefly tries to convince himself that his life is worth more than Champmathieu’s, and that his life of theft and poverty isn’t as valuable as his own— but he recognizes how cruel and wrong the idea is. He is an ordinary John Doe that happened to be given a life changing act of grace and mercy; he’s not an innocent angel who was sent to the galleys by mistake.

As a character, Jean Valjean is marked by his refusal to declare himself the “deserving poor” and the others as “undeserving” criminals, so it’s strange that take rears its head so often.

[queenbea-1610]

Mel and John. 🧡⭐️

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Boeing’s deliberately defective fleet of flying sky-wreckage

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW (May 2) in WINNIPEG, then Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), Tartu, Estonia, and beyond!

Boeing's 787 "Dreamliner" is manufactured far from the company's Seattle facility, in a non-union shop in Charleston, South Carolina. At that shop, there is a cage full of defective parts that have been pulled from production because they are not airworthy.

Hundreds of parts from that Material Review Segregation Area (MRSA) were secretly pulled from that cage and installed on aircraft that are currently plying the world's skies. Among them, sections 47/48 of a 787 – the last four rows of the plane, along with its galley and rear toilets. As Moe Tkacik writes in her excellent piece on Boeing's lethally corrupt culture of financialization and whistleblower intimidation, this is a big ass chunk of an airplane, and there's no way it could go missing from the MRSA cage without a lot of people knowing about it:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/transportation/2024-04-30-whistleblower-laws-protect-lawbreakers/

More: MRSA parts are prominently emblazoned with red marks denoting them as defective and unsafe. For a plane to escape Boeing's production line and find its way to a civilian airport near you with these defective parts installed, many people will have to see and ignore this literal red flag.

The MRSA cage was a special concern of John "Swampy" Barnett, the Boeing whistleblower who is alleged to have killed himself in March. Tkacik's earlier profile of Swampy paints a picture of a fearless, stubborn engineer who refused to go along to get along, refused to allow himself to become inured to Boeing's growing culture of profits over safety:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/transportation/2024-03-28-suicide-mission-boeing/

Boeing is America's last aviation company and its single largest exporter. After the company was allowed to merge with its rival McDonnell-Douglas in 1997, the combined company came under MDD's notoriously financially oriented management culture. MDD CEO Harry Stonecipher became Boeing's CEO in the early 2000s. Stonecipher was a protege of Jack Welch, the man who destroyed General Electric with cuts to quality and workforce and aggressive union-busting, a classic Mafia-style "bust-out" that devoured the company's seed corn and left it a barren wasteland:

https://qz.com/1776080/how-the-mcdonnell-douglas-boeing-merger-led-to-the-737-max-crisis

Post-merger, Boeing became increasingly infected with MDD's culture. The company chased cheap, less-skilled labor to other countries and to America's great onshore-offshore sacrifice zone, the "right-to-work" American south, where bosses can fire uppity workers who balked at criminal orders, without the hassle of a union grievance.

Stonecipher was succeeded by Jim "Prince Jim" McNerney, ex-3M CEO, another Jack Welch protege (Welch spawned a botnet of sociopath looters who seized control of the country's largest, most successful firms, and drove them into the ground). McNerney had a cute name for the company's senior engineers: "phenomenally talented assholes." He created a program to help his managers force these skilled workers – everyone a Boeing who knew how to build a plane – out of the company.

McNerney's big idea was to get rid of "phenomenally talented assholes" and outsource the Dreamliner's design to Boeing's suppliers, who were utterly dependent on the company and could easily be pushed around (McNerney didn't care that most of these companies lacked engineering departments). This resulted in a $80b cost overrun, and a last-minute scramble to save the 787 by shipping a "cleanup crew" from Seattle to South Carolina, in the hopes that those "phenomenally talented assholes" could save McNerney's ass.

Swampy was part of the cleanup crew. He was terrified by what he saw there. Boeing had convinced the FAA to let them company perform its own inspections, replacing independent government inspectors with Boeing employees. The company would mark its own homework, and it swore that it wouldn't cheat.

Boeing cheated. Swampy dutifully reported the legion of safety violations he witnessed and was banished to babysit the MRSA, an assignment his managers viewed as a punishment that would isolate Swampy from the criminality he refused to stop reporting. Instead, Swampy audited the MRSA, and discovered that at least 420 defective aviation components had gone missing from the cage, presumably to be installed in planes that were behind schedule. Swampy then audited the keys to the MRSA and learned that hundreds of keys were "floating around" the Charleston facility. Virtually anyone could liberate a defective part and install it into an airplane without any paper trail.

Swampy's bosses had a plan for dealing with this. They ordered Swampy to "pencil whip" the investigations of 420 missing defective components and close the cases without actually figuring out what happened to them. Swampy refused.

Instead, Swampy took his concerns to a departmental meeting where 12 managers were present and announced that "if we can’t find them, any that we can’t find, we need to report it to the FAA." The only response came from a supervisor, who said, "We’re not going to report anything to the FAA."

The thing is, Swampy wasn't just protecting the lives of the passengers in those defective aircraft – he was also protecting Boeing employees. Under Sec 38 of the US Criminal Code, it's a 15-year felony to make any "materially false writing, entry, certification, document, record, data plate, label, or electronic communication concerning any aircraft or space vehicle part."

(When Swampy told a meeting that he took this seriously because "the paperwork is just as important as the aircraft" the room erupted in laughter.)

Swampy sent his own inspectors to the factory floor, and they discovered "dozens of red-painted defective parts installed on planes."

Swampy blew the whistle. How did the 787 – and the rest of Boeing's defective flying turkeys – escape the hangar and find their way into commercial airlines' fleets? Tkacik blames a 2000 whistleblower law called AIR21 that:

creates such byzantine procedures, locates adjudication power in such an outgunned federal agency, and gives whistleblowers such a narrow chance of success that it effectively immunizes airplane manufacturers, of which there is one in the United States, from suffering any legal repercussions from the testimony of their own workers.

By his own estimation, Swampy was ordered to commit two felonies per week for six years. Tkacik explains that this kind of operation relies on a culture of ignorance – managers must not document their orders, and workers must not be made aware of the law. Whistleblowers like Swampy, who spoke the unspeakable, were sidelined (an assessment by one of Swampy's managers called him "one of the best" and finished that "leadership would give hugs and high fives all around at his departure").

Multiple whistleblowers were singled out for retaliation and forced departure. William Hobek, a quality manager who refused to "pencil whip" the missing, massive 47-48 assembly that had wandered away from the MRSA cage, was given a "weak" performance review and fired despite an HR manager admitting that it was bogus.

Another quality manager, Cynthia Kitchens, filed an ethics complaint against manager Elton Wright who responded to her persistent reporting of defects on the line by shoving her against a wall and shouting that Boeing was "a good ol’ boys’ club and you need to get on board." Kitchens was fired in 2016. She had cancer at the time.

John Woods, yet another quality engineer, was fired after he refused to sign off on a corner-cutting process to repair a fuselage – the FAA later backed up his judgment.

Then there's Sam Salehpour, the 787 quality engineer whose tearful Congressional testimony described more corner-cutting on fuselage repairs:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP0xhIe1LFE

Salehpour's boss followed the Boeing playbook to the letter: Salehpour was constantly harangued and bullied, and he was isolated from colleagues who might concur with his assessment. When Salehpour announced that he would give Congressional testimony, his car was sabotaged under mysterious circumstances.

It's a playbook. Salehpour's experience isn't unusual at Boeing. Two other engineers, working on the 787 Organization Designation Authorization, held up production by insisting that the company fix the planes' onboard navigation computers. Their boss gave them a terrible performance review, admitting that top management was furious at the delays and had ordered him to punish the engineers. The engineers' union grievance failed, with Boeing concluding that this conduct – which they admitted to – didn't rise to the level of retaliation.

As Tkacik points out, these engineers and managers that Boeing targeted for intimidation and retaliation are the very same staff who are supposed to be performing inspections of behalf of the FAA. In other words, Boeing has spent years attacking its own regulator, with total impunity.

But it's not just the FAA who've failed to take action – it's also the DOJ, who have consistently declined to bring prosecutions in most cases, and who settled the rare case they did bring with "deferred prosecution agreements." This pattern was true under Trump's DOJ and continued under Biden's tenure. Biden's prosecutors have been so lackluster that a federal judge "publicly rebuked the DOJ for failing to take seriously the reputational damage its conduct throughout the Boeing case was inflicting on the agency."

Meanwhile, there's the AIR21 rule, a "whistleblower" rule that actually protects Boeing from whistleblowers. Under AIR21, an aviation whistleblower who is retaliated against by their employer must first try to resolve their problem internally. If that fails, the whistleblower has only one course of action: file an OSHA complaint within 90 days (if HR takes more than 90 days to resolve your internal complaint, you can no have no further recourse). If you manage to raise a complaint with OSHA, it is heard by a secret tribunal that has no subpoena power and routinely takes five years to rule on cases, and rules against whistleblowers 97% of the time.

Boeing whistleblowers who missed the 90-day cutoff have filled the South Carolina courts with last-ditch attempts to hold the company to account. When they lose these cases – as is routine, given Boeing's enormous legal muscle and AIR21's legal handcuffs – they are often ordered to pay Boeing's legal costs.

Tkacik cites Swampy's lawyer, Rob Turkewitz, who says Swampy was the only one of Boeing's whistleblowers who was "savvy, meticulous, and fast-moving enough to bring an AIR 21 case capable of jumping through all the hoops" to file an AIR21 case, which then took seven years. Turkewitz calls Boeing South Carolina "a criminal enterprise."

That's a conclusion that's hard to argue with. Take Boeing's excuse for not producing the documentation of its slapdash reinstallation of the Alaska Air door plug that fell off its plane in flight: the company says it's not criminally liable for failing to provide the paperwork, because it never documented the repair. Not documenting the repair is also a crime.

You might have heard that there's some accountability coming to the Boeing boardroom, with the ouster of CEO David Calhoun. Calhoun's likely successor is Patrick Shanahan, whom Tkacik describes as "the architect of the ethos that governed the 787 program" and whom her source called "a classic schoolyard bully."

If Shanahan's name rings a bell, it might be because he was almost Trump's Secretary of Defense, but that was derailed by the news that he had "emphatically defended" his 17 year old son after the boy nearly beat his mother to death with a baseball bat. Shanahan is presently CEO of Spirit Aerospace, who made the door-plug that fell out of the Alaska Airlines 737 Max.

Boeing is a company where senior managers only fail up and where whistleblowers are terrorized in and out of the workplace. One of Tkacik's sources noticed his car shimmying. The source, an ex-787 worker who'd been fired after raising safety complaints, had tried to bring an AIR21 complaint, but withdrew it out of fear of being bankrupted if he was ordered to pay Boeing's legal costs. When the whistleblower pulled over, he discovered that two of the lug-nuts had been removed from one of his wheels.

The whistleblower texted Tkcacik to say (not for the first time): "If anything happens, I'm not suicidal."

Boeing is a primary aerospace contractor to the US government. It's clear that its management – and investors – consider it too big to jail. It's also clear that they know it's too big to fail – after all, the company did a $43b stock buyback, then got billions in a publicly funded buyback.

Boeing is, effectively, a government agency that is run for the benefit of its investors. It performs its own safety inspections. It investigates its own criminal violations of safety rules. It loots its own coffers and then refills them at public expense.

Meanwhile, the company has filled our skies with at least 420 airplanes with defective, red-painted parts that were locked up in the MRSA cage, then snuck out and fitted to an airplane that you or someone you love could fly on the next time you take your family on vacation or fly somewhere for work.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/01/boeing-boeing/#mrsa

Image: Tom Axford 1 (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Blue_sky_with_wisps_of_cloud_on_a_clear_summer_morning.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

--

Clemens Vasters (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:N7379E_-_Boeing_737_MAX_9.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[calamitys-child]

NATIONAL HOLIDAY

[ID: Two screencaps from Black Sails ep X showing John SIlver standing alone beneath a skylight in the ship's galley. Captions show him saying "An account of goings-on, volume the first on this 13th day in June". End ID]

[https-florals]

banana pancakes - j.m.

word count: 2,347

summary: soft slow morning sex with JJ.

warnings: smut under the cut, minors dni!!! really soft fluffy smut, very slight dacryphilia (literally just mentioned in dialogue)

a/n: would have never guessed that outer banks would be the hyperfixation to pull me out of my smut writing block but here we are!!! likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━

You could never wake up in a bad mood at the Chateau. Even on the mornings after partying hard, the hangover always seemed a little weaker; not as rough and it would have been anywhere else. It’s like the place was laced with dopamine, a bubbly warmth spreading through your body the second you walked in. It was a similar feeling creeping through your veins right now, waking up with JJ’s face buried in your neck.

Laughter and the sound of cookware clashing together come from the kitchen. Somebody is blaring Jack Johnson, and you hum to the song as you try to extract yourself from JJ’s grasp.

He groans, shifting so most of his body weight is on top of you.

“J!” you manage to choke out, trying to squeeze out from under him.

“S’too early,” he grumbles, pushing his face into your chest. You can practically feel him grin against your boobs, and you roll your eyes as you finally push him off.

“You’re such a perv,” you joke as JJ rolls onto his back, hands behind his head. He’s so pretty in mid-morning light, you think as you watch the soft shift of muscle in his bicep. The ends of his dirty-blonde hair are so sun-bleached that they glow in the sun like pure gold, and you card your fingers through it like it’s an involuntary reflex.

JJ is still grinning as he takes your wrist and presses a kiss to the palm of your hand. “Morning, sweetheart.” He pulls you back on top of him, like he’s stuck to your skin with superglue. With his chest bare underneath your fingertips, you think that JJ Maybank is the prettiest boy on the cut. You kiss him, hoping to get the point across. It’s like pure heaven when his hands smooth up your thighs to rest on your hips, playing with the band of your underwear as he pushes your shirt- his shirt- up. You could never get tired of mornings like this.

JJ’s tongue has just slipped over yours when there’s a loud clanging somewhere in the back of the house, then someone shouting, “Pancakes are done!”

You practically jump off him, much to his disappointment, and yank on a pair of his boxers that’s resting on the dresser.

“Hey!” JJ whines as you slip through the doorway.

“I’m gonna bring you some!” you promise. Everybody except you and JJ are in the kitchen, you realize as you step into the room. The little galley- style kitchen is a little too packed, with Kiara flipping pancakes on one side, Sarah cutting up strawberries and bananas on the other. Pope is sat at the table with all his textbooks spread out, and John B is rolling joints across from him. It’s such a mismatched little group, but you couldn’t love it more. You snatch a strawberry from Sarah’s cutting board, yelping when she tries to pinch you in return.

“Look who’s up,” Kiara says, smiling as she flips two pancakes onto a plate. “If you’re trying to take these to JJ, I’m not letting you. He can come get them himself.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing the plate. “Do you wanna deal with a hungry JJ? Cause I don’t wanna deal with a hungry JJ.”

Kie sighs, but nods and puts two more pancakes on your plate nevertheless. You utter a thank you, then Sarah is piling fruit on top of your stack. “It’s sweet, how you act all motherly.”

“Freud would be so proud,” Pope comments, not even looking up at you.

You fake gag, Sarah bumping against you as she laughs.

Kie calls him out, saying, “Don’t make it gross, Pope.”

Maple syrup is your last pancake topping, and with two forks and some napkins in hand, you’re all set. You’re focusing on balancing the plate in one hand and your metal water bottle in the other, when John B shouts after you, “Remind J we’ve got a surfing date.” He holds up one of the joints, adding, “I’m even packing us a picnic.”

“I gotta get this study guide done,” Pope states. “Take your time.” He waves you off, and with that you slip back into the bedroom, just to find JJ sound asleep again. You set the plate on the nightstand, and crawl over him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “J,” you whisper, rolling your hips into his without even realizing what you’re doing. His eyes fly open, hands clamping onto your hips. “And I’m the perv?”

You sit up, frowning, but JJ keeps you where you are, hands like a vise. “I was trying to give you breakfast in bed, but of course all you think about is sex,” you scold, like a liar.

His expression hasn’t changed from that punchdrunk grin. “What kind of breakfast are we talkin’ here?” He’s proving your point and he knows it, but you can’t say much. You’d let him do whatever he wanted to you at any time, but the pancakes are warm, and you don’t want them soggy. You climb off him as he leans up, and set the plate in his lap. “You need like, real nourishment.”

“I could live off you and be the healthiest man on earth.” JJ’s grin is cocky, his hand not leaving your hip.

You roll your eyes, ignoring the little twist in your stomach, and take a bite of the pancakes. They’re perfect, and you force a bite into JJ’s mouth before he can protest.

“Isn’t that so good!” you exclaim, taking a few more bites before you give him the fork.

“Bet it doesn’t taste good as you, though.” He sets the plate on the bedside table, pulling you onto his lap again. JJ kisses you soundly, tasting like bananas and syrup.

“You’re supposed to go surfing with the boys,” you remind him as he trails kisses down your neck, and he pauses.

“Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I got all the time in the world. Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”

You wrinkled your nose, answering with a “Fuck is such a harsh word.” But you’re pulling the blanket up around you and wiggling out of your underwear.

“Fine. Make love,” he laughs, and you can feel him twitch through his boxers. He’s already hard and it makes you smile.

“That’s just a little cringe,” you reply, taking his hand and pushing it between your legs.

JJ kisses you as his fingers dip into you, forever loving the way you gasp against his lips. “Whatever you want, I’m your man.”

“My man needs to touch me,” you state, grinding into his palm, desperate for a little friction.

His eyebrows quirk up, and two fingers slip into you quick, working you open. “Then who the hell’s fingers are in you right now?”

You slump against him as his thumb begins to circle your clit.

“You’re soaked, baby,” he groans.

Of course you’re still wet. It’s a little bit leftover form last night, from JJ fucking you hard like you were dying tomorrow. It’s also partly from the sun bouncing off his hair, the slope of his abdomen, the gravel in his voice as he sweet-talks you. “Think you can take it?”

You nod fervently, pushing his boxers down and positioning yourself over him. You’re still a little achy from last night, but the tiny discomfort is worth it.

That first push is always heaven. Your foreheads are pressed together as you sink down onto him, breathing in tandem. It’s slow and soft like a Saturday morning, all smiles and gentle touches.

“All mine,” is the only thing tumbling past JJ’s lips as he fucks up into you, his pupils blown.

You’re both quiet, all too aware of your friends still in the house, but the sex isn’t rushed. His hands creep under your tshirt, thumb grazing your nipple and staying there. You could never get tired at the way he smiles at each of your little noises. His head is tilted back against the stack of pillows, the muscles in his abdomen tensing as he fucks you gently.

“J,” you exhale, hands flat on the plane of his stomach. “You’re so fucking pretty.” You can’t help but babble on, practically drunk on his taste, his smell.

“Shut up. I’m gonna come in two seconds if you keep talkin’ like that.

You smile, and fall quiet for a moment as you kiss him. It’s open-mouthed and messy, sharing breath.

His eyes are wider than the moon and bluer than the aquamarine stone in your necklace.

He slips his hand between you, finger just grazing your clit. A almost pornographic moan slips past his lips as you clench around him at that first touch, and you do the same in quick succession as he rubs that little bundle of nerves again. His rhythym stays slow, and though it stutters a bit, it doesn’t falter. You like rough sex as much as the next girl, but something about this lazy morning intimacy drives you wild. You swear you can feel every vein and ridge of his cock, the gentle speed making everything so heightened. JJ feels the same. He takes his time with you, rough palms smoothing over every curve of your body. There isn’t a square centimeter if your skin that JJ hasn’t touched.

He deepens the pressure on your clit little by little, but still keeping the slow pace.

You’re a mess, whining and writhing above him.

“Come on, sugar. You need to come, pretty girl?”

You slump against him, with your mouth on his collarbone, and whine.

He tilts your head up so his eyes meet yours, and he shushes you softly. “Lemme hear you ask.”

“Please, J.”

“Fuck.” His eyes roll back as he bounces you a little quicker, rubs your clit a little harder. His touch slips away for just a second, and you groan, brows furrowed. “What the fuck, J?” It’s a little rude, and he smacks your ass as a little rebuke.

“You’re being mean,” he shushes as he sits up and pulls your legs around him. The slight shift lets him hit a little deeper, and your head rolls back. JJ has a cocky grin plastered on his face, and it just gets wider when his fingers return to your clit. “Feel good, darlin’?”

You can only get out two coherent words in between your stifled moans, babbling, “S’good. S’good.”

A knot begins to tighten in your abdomen, hot and heavy. JJ knows your signs all too well, and keeps pressing on.

“You close?”

Like he doesn’t know the answer. You nod, and he presses his forehead against yours.

“I want you kissing me when you come, pretty. Think you can do that?”

The task seems simple enough, but as JJ pushes you closer to the edge, your head keeps falling back, causing him to remove his fingers and use that same hand to push your face back to his. “I had one request, baby. C’mon.” His tone is playful, but it’s frustrating nonetheless. You’re determined to keep your lips on his.

You can feel him twitch inside you, and the knot in your stomach begins to unravel. Your mouth is open against his, breath hitching in little sobs, tongues meeting then parting then meeting again.

Your orgasm hits you like a truck, and JJ kisses you hard, just in time to at least muffle your moans. He stutters inside you as he fucks you through your high, and it takes seconds for him to come crashing down with you. JJ has always been noisy, almost more than you at times, and you have to clamp you hand over his mouth as he groans a string of curse words randomly interjected with your name. There’s a lull to the movement of both your hips, but he doesn’t pull out immediately. You can feel the mix of you two slipping out, and you move off of him, grinning at his annoyed whine. “Just wanna have you sit on me for a while, babe,” he pleads.

“You have a surf date,” you remind him, kissing his cheek.

“Surf date, smursh date,” he mutters, swinging his legs off the bed and pushing himself up.

You drink in the view as you crawl under the covers and grab the plate of pancakes. His back muscles bunch and smooth as he pulls on his trunks and a cutoff tee. “Y’know, we could have slow sex for the rest of our lives and I’d never get bored,” you muse, taking a bite of pancake. They’re a little cold and soggy now, but you don’t mind that much.

“Yeah, but you’re so pretty when you cry.”

“Don’t be gross. You’re not changing my mind on this, Maybank.”

He kisses you on the forehead, soft and sweet. “Let’s go out tonight,” he proposes, switching the subject seamlessly.

“And do what?”

JJ pushes the baby hairs out of your face, answering, “Let’s go out on the boat! I’ll bring some weed and snacks, and you just bring your pretty little self. We’ll figure out something to do.”

You give him a dubious look, but your excitement peeks through. “Why do I feel like that something is gonna be sex?”

“Well, I was thinking we could stargaze, but I’m cool with sex if you are.”

You punch him in the arm and he laughs, pinching your sides in return.

“J!”

“C’mon, baby, it’ll be fun!”

You finally grab his hands in an effort to keep him from tickling you. “We can’t have sex on the boat. Sound carries so bad out on the water. The whole island would hear.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Maybe I want the whole island to know that I, JJ Maybank, am fucking the hottest girl in Kildare.”

You push his head away and press your lips together, trying to feign disgust, but you’re blushing.

JJ kisses you and wipes the look off your face. “So, 8?”

“You’re such a freak,” you laugh.

He opens the door and starts to slip out. “Only for you.”