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torchlitinthedesert · 8 months

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Transcript under the cut.

Paul

"Life had just started to get a bit messy when Linda became pregnant with Mary. Allen Klein [the American business manager] was involved iwtht he Beatles and, over the year, things seemed to get more chaotic and worrying. Then, the miracle: our Mary. The chaos got pushed to one side and all I cared about was being a dad. But there was still a lot of unpleasantness flying around, so in the end I said: "Let's get out of here, go to Scotland and be a family." It wasn't planned, but Mary came at exactly the right time. She changed my perspective to a degree where I could look at what was happening with the Beatles and think, "Does it really matter?"

If you were a dad in the late 1960s, you were part of taht first wave who got involved with the whole process of pregnancy and birth. One afternoon I remember going down to the local Family Planning Association and picking up a booklet called You Are Having A New Baby. I loved reading it: "At this-many-weeks, your baby will be as big as an orange." And then being there at the birth! In my dad's day, that would have been unheard of.

My first solo album came out in 1970 and I decided to use one of Linda's photos of me and Mary on the cover. This tiny head poking out from the inside of my jacket. These days you wouldn't do it because it feels dangerous to put pictures of your kids out there, but back then we weren't bothered. A lot of musical acquiantances warned me that being a dad would change my professional life. You can't take kids on tour, you can't have them in the sutdio. My professional life did change because I was no longer in the band, but I was still writing and recording. For the first Wings tour in 1972 we simply packed a load of nappies and toys and took the kids with us.

Later, when they were at school, I'd have a word with the headmaster. "Look, we'll be away for six weeks and I don't relish the thought of getting a call in Australia saying something happened to one of the kids." The school gave us a list of the lessons they'd be missing and we took a tutor with us, which the kids hated. They saw it as a six-week holiday. Like all parents, we were dreading the rebellious teens, but the most rebellion we had from Mary and Stella was having to listen to Wham! all day long. Looking back, I guess that wasn't too bad.

In 1998 Mary and the kids lost their mum and I lost … Linda. I knew it was my job to be “strong Dad who keeps it together”, but you can’t do that the whole time unless you completely hide your feelings. Eventually my emotions started leaking out. That’s when the roles were reversed and the kids rallied round me. We got through it, but we all struggled because she was the glue that held everything together.

Linda would have been so happy to see how far vegetarianism has come since we started the food business [in 1991]. And now Mary’s continuing the tradition with her own vegan cooking show. Yes, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved musically, but I’m also proud that Linda played such a big part in bringing vegetarian food into people’s homes.

Christmas and new year were a big family thing when I was a kid, so I keep the tradition going. Me and Nancy [Shevell, whom he married in 2011] like to go to Mary’s, the grandkids running around with their new toys. I do it for them as much as me — I want them to experience the same joy I felt at their age. That connection with family is what keeps me sane. I’ve got my fingers crossed for 2022. Like everyone, I’m hoping we’ll get a chance to do some of the things we’ve missed out on, see the people we love. It’ll be nice to have a bit more normality.

Mary

My earliest memories are split between London and the farm in Scotland. The excitement of city life versus absolute solitude. It was still exciting but in a different way: riding ponies, climbing trees, helping Mum in the kitchen. And the sound of Dad’s guitar.

It makes me laugh now, but there were some afternoons when we’d be watching cartoons and Dad would wander over with his guitar. He’d sit down and start playing this beautiful music, messing around with melodies and songs. We’d all give him an evil stare. “Dad, we’re watching telly. Go in the kitchen.” One time he said: “Do you know how many people would love to be sitting here now, listening to me play guitar?” I just shrugged. “But we can’t hear The Wombles.”

Being a vegetarian family in the late 1970s marked you out as different. Everybody said it was all Mum’s idea and she’d forced Dad to stop eating meat, but they did it as a team. I remember them discussing recipes and Dad saying he still wanted something he could slice for his Sunday roast. Mum was always excited about cooking and she inspired me. Dad’s pretty good in the kitchen — he’d make a great sous-chef. If you ask him to sort out the mashed potato, it’ll be the best you’ve ever tasted. He’s meticulous, just like he is in the studio.

Of course people made fun of Mum and Dad for being veggie. They made fun of Mum for a lot of things, saying she wasn’t a real musician, she wore odd socks and charity-shop jumpers. The real problem was that she didn’t fit the mould of the woman they wanted Paul McCartney to marry. They wanted someone who went to all the chichi parties, but Mum was more interested in feeding the animals on the farm.

Mum and Dad insisted we went to the local comprehensive school, which made me feel a bit awkward at the time. I’d be in school for a term, then off on tour. When I came back, all my friends had made new friends. Now, when I look back, I realise what a smart move it was. It kept us grounded.

Dad was almost too enthusiastic when it came to helping with homework. On my own I could knock it off in half an hour but Dad would get out the encyclopaedia, he’d be cross-referencing and drawing graphs. The teachers must have got suspicious when I gave in these ridiculously detailed essays. Dad said education changed his life and he wanted to pass that love of learning on to us.

I look at Dad and think, after all he’s been through, how has he managed to stay in one piece? He has found a way of keeping a level head, no matter what else is happening in his life. My own personal theory — I’ve not talked to Dad about this — is that he needs normality because that’s what inspires him. Real life and real people. That’s where all the music comes from.

Every year that goes by I seem to find a new level of admiration for what Dad has achieved — and Mum too. My husband and I have this game where we try to get through a day without coming across a reference to Dad or the Beatles. What usually happens is that I get to around nine o’clock, then something comes on the radio or I see an ad for the new Beatles documentary.

I do listen to the Beatles at home, but it’s the Wings stuff I play the most. Mum’s not around any more, but when she’s doing her backing vocals I can still hear her and Dad together. There’s a song called I Am Your Singer — that always gets me. “When day is done, harmonies will linger on.”

#paul and linda #paul and children #mary mccartney #paul mccartney #linda mccartney

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crystal-mouse · 8 months

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I need to ask somebody this question because it's been in my brain for a while and it's driving me nuts. Is spok vegetarian or vegan?

Because we all know he doesn't eat meat, but there wasn't a discussion about other animal products.

The closest we got to spock eating was with zarabeth where he suggested they start a greenhouse so they don't have to eat meat. He still could've suggested they get an animal and milk it (which would naturally lead to the question are Vulcans lactose intolerant but that's for another day)

On the other way when he's stuck with kirk in the 20th century, kirk brings him purely vegetables - no eggs, no cheese, no yoghurt, not even another comically large baguette. Which makes me think spock is actually vegan but I've never seen it addressed anywhere.

Hiya! Thanks for the ask- this is a really interesting question, and I think it generally comes down to three main points, which are:

What we see in the show

Cookbook interpretations/recipes

What replicator food counts as

As you mentioned we don't really see much of Spock's diet in TOS (beyond him saying he does not eat meat, plomeek soup and what Kirk brings him when they're stranded in the great depression)- so we can gather that he does largely eat a vegetarian/vegan diet but lesser the finer details. Many vegetarian dishes can also be vegan- so the fact Spock has eaten food that appears to be vegan, may not confirm one way or the other.

When you start to look at the cookbook's made in addition to the series (which tbh they might be less vegan friendly due to the years they were published) the Vulcan/Spock specific dishes listed in both the 1978 Cooking Manual and Star Trek Cookbook (1999) seem to be more vegetarian leaning and often contain animal products such as eggs, butter, cream, cheese and milk (which may also answer your question about Spock being lactose intolerant, but at the same time, i've never met anyone lactose intolerant who hasn't also consumed lactose intentionally).

Below are some recipes from Spock's section of the 1978 cookbook (there is also a section on Vulcan food, but I chose to focus on Spock as he's the main subject we're talking about):

And here are the Spock/TOS specific recipes from the 1999 cookbook:

I'm yet to read/obtain the 2022 trek cookbook, but based on what I could find online, the plomeek soup recipe in this version also contains animal product (greek yogurt/creme fraiche) in order to create the opaque effect seen on screen.

In all, based on these recipes/interpretations of the food we do see in TOS, I'd say that Spock is more likely vegetarian than vegan.

However! Spock could still be vegan if you wanted him to be- it all depends of whether you consider replicated/synthesised animal products as true 'animal products'. As they are synthesised, they have never interacted or come from the animal in question, and only take on the form and taste/nutritional value of the product. So ig it mainly comes down to your own personal opinion of this- Would synthesised milk, that tastes and has an identical composition as non-synthesised milk, but has not come from a cow, be vegan? Personally, I'd lean to think they don't really count in the same way a veggie/meat-alternative sausage isn't *really* a sausage, more an imitation of varying degrees of success (where in this scenario, a synthesised/replicated sausage would be a very successful imitation as it's near identical).

Although that said- due to the synthesised food being practically identical down to the molecule, I'd doubt many vegetarians or vegans who are so because they dislike meat/animal products (instead or in addition of the ethical consideration) would want to eat it.

Additionally, while the recipes above mention animal products in the ingredients, they are frequently items that have vegan alternatives- while the usual version may contain the animal product, if Spock was vegan by choice, he could also substitute these for his personal food/replicator cards.

It's a bit of a long response, but I hope I managed to answer your question!

#star trek #tos #star trek food #vulcan food #spock #star trek meta #mouse rambles #mouse answers #long post

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preet-01 · 2 months

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In 2023, I wrote We've Never Hooked Up during the Lewis/Merc contract negotiations and a reporter asked if Lewis and Toto had hooked up about the contract. Now, what was originally a one-shot is a story told in three parts. This is part 2 and part 3 will be out in about a week

Word Count: 1555

The plans to spend the summer break together fall through before early July.

It isn’t because Lewis is annoyed by how bad the car was and how no matter what he did the team barely seemed interested in listening to his feedback. And it wasn’t due to the continued fights they’d been having about his contract – or how Toto refused to advocate for him with the team in Germany. They’d agreed ages ago to not let work interfere with their relationship.

Not to mention that Toto has meetings that he should focus on. The German headquarters business didn’t stop just because Formula One was on a summer break. As CEO, Toto needed to work and Lewis didn’t want to spend the few weeks he had off fighting for some time with Toto.

So Lewis decides to make his own plans.

Maybe he’ll do some traveling with Miles, Spinz, and all the others. They had talked about a trip to Brazil. Or he could go island hopping with Daniel, chasing the warm sun and sandy shores. He had been meaning to spend more one-on-one time with Daniel after everything that had happened last year – it was bad when both Seb and Fernando were concerned. Maybe he could take up Seb on his offer to visit him in Switzerland and see his animals named after drivers. As great as his current friendship was with Fernando, he did miss seeing Seb every weekend and bitching about all things FIA-related.

“Will you be attending Google Camp this year?” John asks. The older man had offered him a ride to England on his private jet after the Austrian Grand Prix and with most of the Mercedes team leaving Sunday night, Lewis had taken him up on the offer without hesitation. He hadn’t had time to catch up with John in a long time, so it was as good an opportunity as any. Just the two of them and their respective security on the private jet — Seb would probably chastise him about it.

“I hadn’t intended on attending,” Lewis replies – he had declined the invitation weeks ago when the plan had been to be on some remote island with just Toto and a skeleton staff as company. “I already declined the invite before my original plans fell through,” he adds.

‘Hhm,” John nods, “come with me. I have a plus one and those events tend to be dreadful without good company.”

Lewis can’t help the laugh that escapes him. John had been downright miserable at Google Camp the year they had met. Stuck in some pissing contest conversation between Zuckerberg and Musk, John had jumped at the opportunity to pull him into a separate conversation when their eyes met across the ruins.

Google Camp hadn’t happened in 2020 for obvious reasons. Lewis didn’t know about 2021, but he’d been busy with other stuff. And in 2022, he’d gotten a few calls from John about the event. Most of them complaining about the lack of good company with a mind for racing beyond just “fast cars go vroom.”

He doesn’t commit to going but does tell John that he’ll think about it.

It wouldn’t be the worst way to spend the summer break. Lewis quite liked John’s company and he liked Sicily. They’d had a grand old time during the few days they’d spent at Google Camp together in 2019.

____

He goes to Sicily.

Of course, he goes to Sicily.

He goes and he lets John plan their entire trip. He lets the control slip out of his own hands and into John’s — trusting that he wouldn’t be a disaster at planning.

They have a private villa at the Verdura Resort that is probably much too big for just two people, but it has a pool and is one of the more beautiful places he’s stayed at during his life so far. There’s of course a lineup of Ferraris there just for their use and private chefs well versed in cooking vegan food.

Google Camp is well not so different from how Lewis remembers it and it quickly turns into an Italian vacation with John taking him to places Lewis had never thought of visiting before. Whisking him away from Sicily in one of the many Ferraris until they reach the harbor where a boat awaits to take them to mainland Italy.

He doesn’t think of the missed calls between himself and Toto or the short messages exchanged. Neither of them seemed to catch the other at an opportune time. Instead, he focuses on John and attempts to tell the man that there are better ways to have a sweater hanging from one’s shoulders than how John tends to have them. However, he does admit that it is an endearing idiosyncrasy.

And in the coming months, he does his best to not think about the promises that John had whispered in his ear as they lay under the blazing Italian sun. Or the taste of fermented grapes and ripe strawberries as a million stars shined down on them. Or how he’d laughed more in those few days with John than he had with Toto in the past few years. No, he doesn’t think of that at all…

Lewis ignores it the best that he can, for as long as he can — he’d always been very good at compartmentalizing and pushing forward.

Just as plans for the summer break spent on some remote island fall through, so do the plans for winter break. They don’t go to Toto’s home in the Austrian countryside or visit the Christmas markets. Well, Lewis doesn’t go, Toto does.

Lewis instead flies out to Brazil with Miles, Spinz, and all his other friends. None of them mention that the private jet they use isn’t the one that Lewis would usually rent or the one he’d occasionally borrow from Toto, but borrowed from one John Elkann.

Brazil is everything he’d needed after the season, after fighting with his car time and time again. It’s a necessary break that he had needed to decompress and just think.

It’s an eye-opening vacation, to say the least.

Things need to change because as Lewis had told Toto months ago, he didn’t have years and years to keep fighting.

Just as he’s about to call Toto so they can talk through everything like they normally do, a different billionaire is calling him.

“Hi,” Lewis answers, unable to help the smile that breaks out when he answers John’s call.

“Hello, Lewis,” John replies, “how is Brazil?”

Lewis goes into the details about the vacation. Everything that they have done so far and everything that they plan to do in the coming days. John, ever so attentive, makes his own recommendations and tells Lewis about the places that he loved growing up. “You lived in Brazil?” Lewis questions, he had not been aware of that. How it hadn’t come up in their many conversations, he doesn’t know. Just as he’d thought that he’d learned everything about John, the man reveals something new – some new avenue to take their already hours-long conversations.

“Briefly when I was young. I attended primary school in England and then Brazil before we moved to Paris when I was in my teenage years,” John answers. “But it has always been somewhat of a home as many of my earliest memories are from there and I have gone back to explore the country many times since,” he explains.

“Tell me more,” Lewis says, getting comfortable on his bed as all thoughts of Toto and his future fly out the window.

If Lewis spends the rest of the day on the phone with John, just talking and definitely not flirting, then that’s no one’s business except his own. And he certainly doesn’t invite John to join him in Brazil. He just so happens to have business in Brazil obviously, nothing to do with Lewis.

As John Elkann makes declarations of unconditional devotion and presses kisses onto the most intimate parts of Lewis Hamilton, Toto Wolff is in the company of his other driver.

It is a far cry from how Toto had expected to spend his winter months ago when Lewis had joked about the two of them never hooking up during a press conference. Then he’d imagined a shorter man with tattoos on dark skin and a gap-toothed smile in his bed. He’d imagined Lewis curled up around him as they sought relief from the cold Austrian winter. He’d imagined a quiet vacation spent in one another’s company and visiting the Christmas markets that Lewis had fallen in love with.

Instead, his winter is spent in the company of George who is nothing like Lewis. Instead of a private vacation with visits to Christmas markets, he’s at karting tracks, ski charity events, and public places where people easily recognize them both. Instead, his winter is spent with someone who is still not fully sure of his position with Toto.

George is still staying at his place in Oxford when Lewis finally calls him about their usual pre-season coffee. Toto doesn’t kick him out, can’t find it in himself to do so. Not when George had looked so lovely and had taken so long to get comfortable.

No, George has an event to go to that morning anyway. It would be fine.

#lewis/john elkann #lewis/toto #elkilton

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the-forest-library · 1 year

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June 2023 Reads

Return of the Thief - Megan Whalen Turner

Moira’s Pen - Megan Whalen Turner

Once More With Feeling - Elissa Susan

Cassandra in Reverse - Holly Smale

Ciao for Now - Kate Bromley

The Happy Life of Isadora Bentley - Courtney Walsh

Same Time Next Summer - Annabel Monaghan

Meet You in the Middle - Devon Daniels

Not Here to Stay Friends - Kaitlyn Hill

What Happens After Midnight - K.L. Walther

The Wishing Game - Meg Shaffer

Some Shall Break - Ellie Marney

Bryony and Roses - T. Kingfisher

As Old As Time - Liz Braswell

Such Sharp Teeth - Rachel Harrison

Jasmine Zumideh Needs a Win - Susan Azim Boyer

Yellowface - R.F. Kuang

Charlotte Illes is Not a Detective - Katie Siegel

Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret - Judy Blume

The Princess and the Grilled Cheese Sandwich - Deya Muniz

She-Hulk, Vol 2: Jen of Hearts - Rainbow Rowell

Happily Ever After - Debbie Tung

Book Love - Debbie Tung

The Worrier’s Guide to Life - Gemma Correll

Cryptid Club - Sarah Andersen

Escargot - Dashiki Slater

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs - Judi Barrett & Ron Barrett

Hooked - Sutton Foster

Better Living Through Birding - Christian Cooper

Have More Fun - Mandy Arioto

Notes from a Public Typewriter - Michael Gustafson

These Precious Days - Ann Patchett

It Was An Ugly Couch Anyway - Elizabeth Passarella

Dear Girls - Ali Wong

Where to Start - Mental Health America

The Vegan Week - Gena Hamshaw

Bold = Highly Recommend Italics = Worth It Crossed out = Nope

Thoughts:

I am now in a world with no more Queen’s Thief books to look forward to, but what a marvelous ride it was. This is now one of my favorite series, and I eagerly look forward to whatever Megan Whalen Turner does next.

Also, I didn’t mean to read two beauty and the beast retellings back-to-back, but it was fun to compare them. The highlight was T. Kingfisher’s Bryony and Roses, which was absolutely lovely.

Goodreads Goal: 210/400

2022 Reads | 2023 Reads

#2023 reads #book reviews #book recommendations #books #booklr #bookish #reading #bibliophile

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that-rackin-frackin-varmint · 4 months

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#22 — 07/28/2022 12:08 PM

Bugs has a “carrot” cellar. Basically carrot juice (equivalent alcohol). And he has a Yosemite Sam statue. I want one lol

Present day thoughts:

I have headcanons that Bugs procures his own carrot wine juice and names them endearingly after the directors he's worked with. He makes passive income with this carrot juice business (among other side businesses). This one's popular with the rabbits and vegans.

#melon ramble🍉#looney tunes #bugs bunny #looney tunes lore #looney tunes comics #bugs as a bartender would be a nifty idea. he just serves alcoholic carrot beverages.

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rhaenerystargaryen · 2 years

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modern hotd headcanons

inspired by @sansaorgana pls check out her modern hotd au work!!

pairing: hotd characters (aegon, aemond, helaena, alicent, rhaenyra, daemon) x modern!au

synopsis: what the hotd characters would be like if they lived in 2022.

warnings: mentions of sexting & cornhub

wc: 367

aegon:

aegon is def a fuckboy

sleeps w half of the school

only wear hoodies, slides, basketball shorts

never heard of a vegetable

jizz tastes like battery acid

addicted to gaming, cornhub, sexting, vaping

in a fraternity (if he even goes to uni)

aemond:

takes archery and fencing lessons

when it comes socratic seminars or class debates, he goes off

refuses to be seen out in public with aegon

tries very hard to impress his mother, but alicent is hyper fixated on aegon

has a sick looking car but isn’t a car guy

bullies his bullies back or just ignores them

history or philosophy major

helaena:

gets her outfit inspo from pinterest

very soft, pastel clothing

is the type to have pet spiders or i can see her having a bearded dragon

vegan causes she 100% an animal enthusiast

is a psych major or zoology major, i can see her being very interested in working with animals or helping people

her and aemond’s style are polar opposites

alicent:

drinks her days away

probably is in a book club (her arch nemesis is still rhaenyra)

milf milf milf

husband is never home…but his multiple credit cards are

is afraid of helaena’s pets

terrible at driving

is having an affair with her kids old tutor, criston cole

only drinks diet sodas

rhaenyra:

bakes the best cookies

smells really good, like a warm hug

is also in a book club (w/ alicent)

the fun aunt who will let you have a sip of her wine

men fear her, women want her

probably an english teacher (the one that everyone gets along with)

daemon:

hot history teacher that everyone wants to bang

rhaenyra and him work at the same school

always dresses so formally

dilf dilf dilf

thinks that tiktok is a waste of time

house has a huge library

doesn’t understand memes or how to use them

pulls out his reading glasses whenever his kids show him something on their phone

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japhan2024 · 9 months

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Ian throws Anthony a surprise birthday party

Such a timely prompt :D

I decided to combine this fic with this promt:

The Best Day Ever

November thirtieth, 1987

June seventeenth, 1984

September sixteenth, 1987

Ian never had to think about these dates. He just knew, from around a month before they were due, to buy a gift and send a card. Of course he would also just call his sister and he'd see Anthony every week anyway. It had been like that for years and years. But the last few of them had been painful.

September sixteenth, 2017. Ian had sent a card and a text. No reply.

September sixteenth, 2018. Ian had sent nothing.

September sixteenth, 2019. Ian had sent a text. Just a 'thanx' in return.

September sixteenth, 2020. Ian had sent a birthday meme. 'lol thanks'.

September sixteenth, 2021. Ian sent nothing.

And September sixteenth, 2022. Nothing.

But now it was August 16th 2023 and Ian was determined to make Anthony's upcoming birthday count for seven. He was pacing up and down his Los Angeles appartement, suddenly stopped and shouted: "that's it!" into the dullness of the evening.

"What's up with Ian the last few days?" Shayne asked Keith at the Smosh headquarters.

They'd barely seen Ian, which had been common but not lately, now Anthony was there too. They peaked into Ian's office.

"He's still on the phone?"

Shayne stroked an imaginary goatee. "He's up to something…!"

Then the invitations started to arrive at people's doorsteps. They were impeccably hand written in gold letters that made you feel guilty of even considering not going. "The Declaration of Anthony Day" was written proudly at the top of each invitation. People would ask each other if they'd gotten one in hushed tones, and soon it was apparent that everyone at Smosh - the cast, the crew, the supporting staff - they were all invited. This was going to be some hell of a party.

And then the day arrived. A dull Saturday morning, Anthony had invited Ian, Mykie and a couple of his close friends for a vegan brunch at his home. Nothing fancy. Turning thirty-seven wasn't a particularly remarkable feat and Anthony didn't want to remind everyone of how hot he was while being the oldest person at Smosh.

The brunch was nice and uneventful, and Anthony was ready to spent the rest of the day quietly but all of a sudden the doorbell rang.

"Did we order pizza?" Mykie asked.

"I don't think so?" Anthony said, confused.

He opened the door and his jaw might as well have hit the floor. Shane Told from Silverstein was at his doorstep, dressed in all black but casual garments, and said matter-of-factly: "Happy birthday Anthony! Are ya comin'?"

"Wh.. whaaaat?" Anthony laughed and looked around, and immediately found the culprit. Ian stood there cheesing like a fool.

"Are you behind this, bestie?" Anthony asked. Ian winked.

Everyone followed Shane down the stairs and then they saw it: a sparkling monstrosity of a party bus. It was already packed with people!

"Oh my god, Jenna? Justine? Ryan! Natalie?!"

It was like the bus was filled with the year 2005. Anthony loved it. All these OG youtubers he'd not seen for ages. All of them greeted him with hugs and kisses and giggles and there was wine and champagne, and Anthony's party entered the bus as well and they drove off into downtown LA. When they arrived, Anthony saw they were at Rahel Ethiopian Vegan Cuisine, one of the best vegan restaurants in the city.

The owner of the restaurant greeted the party at the door and said "In honor of Anthony Day I have prepared you the most delicious foods! Please come inside."

"Anthony Day?" Anthony wondered aloud, and Ian laughed.

The evening was simply wonderful and Anthony saw so many people he almost got dizzy. But the night wasn't over: Ian's phone rang and he said "Hey Anthony, it's for you!"

Anthony picked up the phone, and he saw his mom in her home, together with Ian's mom who was apparently visiting.

"Hello dear," they said in near unison. Anthony was on the verge of tears.

"Hi moms."

They exchanged some sweet words and congratulations and when they hung up, Anthony dived in to hug Ian.

"This means so much to me, Ian."

Ian smiled mischievously.

"What are you planning now?" Anthony said mock-accusingly.

"Well, Anthony, you've just eaten the best meal of your life, but not everything can be five stars on your birthday. I've made you something that you must eat, or I will be offended! But I can't promise you that it's any good, or edible at all…"

The chef appeared again and rolled up a cake with thirty-seven candles on it.

"You made the cake?!" Anthony asked Ian, with a quiver in his voice.

"I sure did buddy. You know the last six years I haven't gotten you a proper gift or anything. I want to make good on that."

"Oh Ian!" Anthony hugged him again.

"Alright, alright," Ian patted Anthony on the back but he smiled widely while he did it.

To be honest, the cake did taste mediocre, but Anthony didn't mind at all. It was all the more proof that Ian had actually made it himself. He ate a whole chunk of it, and it wouldn't have mattered, all the other things. Just this cake alone, and Ian, those were the best gifts he could have ever gotten. Anthony was blissfully happy. When he went to sleep that night, he croaked to Mykie:

"I love Ian so much, he's the best friend in the entire world."

"I know you do honey," Mykie replied sweetly. "I'm so glad you're finally back together. You've been so much happier, and that in turn makes me happier."

Anthony hugged her under the blankets.

"You're such a hugger, I love it."

"Come here, daddy wants his cuddles," Anthony joked. But he was so tired that he fell asleep almost immediately after that.

#Anthony Day #Anthony's Day #ianthony

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tropes-and-tales · 2 years

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If You Weren’t You

Day 12: Hate/Angry Sex (Benny “Borracho” Magalon x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen. The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)

CW: Rude and insulting language; misogynistic language; smut (angry sex but only kinda because most of the anger is pre-sex so maybe this is a poor entry for kinktober, I dunno, your girl is struggling here; PiV, unprotected; car sex). 18+ only.

Word Count: 5513

It’s Big Nick’s fault.

He sets the tone between Major Crimes and the FBI. He talks poorly about the federal agents, saves the worst of it for Lobbin’ Bob and his perfectly parted hair and perfectly pressed suits. Bob and his veganism, Bob and his good, clean living.

Big Nick sets the tone, and his detectives follow suit. Lobbin’ Bob responds accordingly…as do the agents who work under him.

Borracho’s thing with you actually starts because of Henderson. It’s a string of bank robberies; the suspects are a crew out of Bakersfield working around Los Angeles. The FBI is called in. When Lobbin’ Bob and his field agents walk past them to get to the crime scene, Henderson elbows Borracho and snickers.

“Looks like they got an ice princess on the feds now,” he says, nodding in your direction. You look like you’re cut from the same cloth as Bob: neat clothing, neat ponytail, stick-in-the-ass way of walking.

You walk past, already have your back to them, but you catch Henderson’s remark. You stop and turn, look at them. Your eyes, for whatever reason, settle on Borracho: matches Henderson’s words to him.

“Asshole,” you say, eyes narrowed, and you turn away.

“Got me in trouble, you dick,” Borracho snorts, shaking his head at his fellow detective. But to your retreating back, he glares from behind his shades and thinks, what a bitch.

-----

It doesn’t get any better.

You’re the only woman on Bob’s team, and Big Nick has nearly as many comments for you as he does for your leader. Which marks you as fair game to the rest of the guys in Major Crimes.

Borracho, for his part, has never been a complete follower—not the way Henderson and Z and Connors are—but it is easy to get swept up in the piling-on that happens when Big Nick starts on you.

You have two main approaches to the crude comments Nick lobs at you: utter silence and snarky retorts. You typically employ the former: Nick may say something incredibly rude—imply that your pussy is filled with icicles, imply that a hard fuck would loosen you right up—and you only respond with an unblinking stare.

You stare so long that it makes them squirm, makes the entire moment turn from funny to something heavy and uncomfortable.

But the latter approach, the snarky retorts? You employ those sparingly, and to devastating effect. And you use them mostly on the guys, Borracho included.

Most of Borracho’s insults for you hew close to Henderson’s original ice princess remark, with his own observations around you being uptight, robotic, and obsessive about proper police procedures. Your answering insults to him seem to cast him as a drooling moron.

Borracho calls you a frosty bitch.

You call him an idiotic asshole.

He calls you an uptight cunt.

You call him tall, dark, and stupid.

He says that any guy who might try to fuck you would have his dick fall off from severe frostbite.

You snort mirthlessly, tell him that’s funny, coming from a walking STD like him.

He implies that you and Lobbin’ Bob have a thing going on, two asshole feds having bland vanilla sex together.

You reply, completely monotone, that you’d rather fuck Bob than be Nick O’Brien’s little lap dog.

He tells you to shut the fuck up.

You reply that he too should shut the fuck up.

It doesn’t get any better. It only gets worse.

-----

It gets worse when Major Crimes and the FBI work a case together.

It involves other departments—LAPD, ATF—but the bulk of the work is done by your respective teams. Big Nick, unable to stand planning a multi-agency case, passes off much of the work to Borracho.

Lobbin’ Bob is juggling too many cases and hands off the FBI’s side to you.

If you weren’t…well, you…Borracho would be impressed. All the things he and the guys from Major Case harass you about…your work ethic is the flip-side of those things.

Your frostiness could be construed as consummate professionalism.

Your uptight, robotic nature could be read as a desire to solve a case quickly and with airtight evidence.

But you’re you. You’re the woman that called him a lap dog and a walking STD (though he’s called you things just as bad, a fact he tacitly ignores), so Borracho doesn’t let any admirable feelings for you take root, and he only does what he must to solve the case and never work with you so closely again.

*****

Despite all the new technology, sometimes things have to be old-school, which is why you find yourself setting up a listening post in an apartment building in Marina del Rey. It’s a high-end building, full of wealthy people, but the one you are targeting is on a top floor condo.

You work with building management to take over a utility room one floor down, right under the condo in question. It’s a cramped space, but there’s enough room for the audio equipment and recording devices.

And enough room for two chairs and two people.

You try to plan it any other possible way. You try to pull in an LAPD detective, but they are running their own piece of this case. Same with ATF.

You try to get another FBI agent to sit with you on the overnight shift, but Big Nick manages to speak up long enough to throw a fit—he accuses you of icing out his team, trying to steal all the credit when the case is solved.

So you try to get any other detective from Major Crimes. Literally any other guy.

It ends up being Tall, Dark, and Stupid.

You know his name is Magalon, just the way you know he knows your name. But he never uses your name, not a single time, and you do him the same courtesy.

-----

You’ve run a few listening posts. It is never as exciting as it looks in the movies, because usually there’s nothing to do but wait for that one, single clue.

Late on a Friday night, sitting in a cramped utility closet with Magalon, you wait.

And wait. And wait.

Your partner for the evening sighs early on, slides his dark glasses over his face, then leans back in his chair. You can’t tell if he’s asleep, but he’s silent, and that’s something. For once he isn’t calling you a bitch or a cunt or any charming variation on the same misogynistic theme.

It doesn’t bother you when he does. You’ve worked in law enforcement your whole adult life, and Magalon is exactly the same as the majority of men in the field.

You’ve run listening posts before. You know the drill. You set the equipment high enough to hear, low enough to not be heard through the utility room door. And then you pull your book out of your bag and start reading.

You swear you hear Magalon snort, very softly. You can imagine what he’s thinking. In his world, reading a book probably translates to stuck-up or boring or whatever other untrue things he thinks about you.

So you tilt your chin a little higher. Let him think whatever he wants.

*****

Borracho is bored and moreover, the guys had a piss test earlier in the day, which means he’s missing their usual party.

They drew names to see who had to run the listening post with Queen Frostine. Of course his name was pulled.

And of course you sit there completely composed, paging through a book, engrossed in whatever you are reading.

He watches you from behind his dark glasses. If you weren’t you, he’d think you were okay. Too well put-together for his tastes; Borracho prefers his women a little messy. Women with an edge. You’re too polished, perfectly rounded off. No edge to you.

But you are good-looking. He tries to picture you dressed down and finds he can’t do it. Even now—you’re in jeans and a button-down shirt tucked in—you’re too neat. Your eyeliner is perfect. Your lipstick is just a shade darker than your natural color.

He can’t picture you roughed up. He can’t picture you with eye makeup a little smeared, lipstick blurred at the edges of your lips. Hair tousled, clothes rumpled.

You’re probably the type of woman who sleeps in formal pajamas. The thought makes him snort, and it pulls your eyes from your book, your cool gaze settling on him.

“Something wrong, detective?”

He doesn’t answer you. “What are you reading?”

You look back to your page, turn it. “A book.”

“Funny.” A beat. “What’s it called?”

You turn the book so he can see it, tap the cover with your forefinger. The Devil in the White City, it says.

“What’s it about?” he asks.

“Crime.”

“Sounds fun.”

You glance at him again. “It’s about H.H. Holmes. Some consider him to be the first modern serial killer.”

“Sounds extra fun.”

You turn back to your book. “About as much fun as manning a listening post with an ice princess, I imagine.”

He snorts again, this time bitter. “Or with a walking STD.”

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of your lips before you school your expression. You don’t reply to him.

-----

An hour passes. No—it crawls by.

You read. He scrolls through social media, and it’s punctuated from time to time with messages from the guys.

Z sends a simple Miss you, bro.

Connors says It’s only 10 and Nick is already FUKKED up.

Henderson asks how’s it going with the bitch queen?

Borracho chuckles and replies Quiet. Listening post is dead and shes reading.

It’s Friday night and he already has that Friday night restless energy thing going on. He sighs and counts down the time remaining until the two of you are relieved by another FBI agent and a technician from the Sheriff’s department.

Twenty minutes later, Nick sends a text. Well, less a text than a series of pics: the bevy of women Nick has hired for the night. What Borracho is missing out on.

He sighs again, and you glance at him. You correctly guess at what’s bothering him.

“You can leave, if you want,” you say.

He’s tempted. He knows you can handle it, and further—he doubts you have plans on a Friday night. He doubts you’re missing anything fun. You’d probably be reading that same book at home.

“Big Nick wants one of us here,” he replies.

“I’d cover for you.”

“Bullshit,” he retorts. “You’d throw me under the bus.”

You shrug. “Yeah, probably.”

“Then why would you even offer to cover for me?”

Another shrug. “I like mind games. Most bitches do.”

He huffs out a breath, crosses his arms across his chest. He leans back in his chair and stares at you. “I wasn’t even the one who called you an ice princess that first time, you know. That was Henderson.”

“I thought you were Henderson.”

“Asshole. You know my name.”

You turn another page, and he almost misses the faint smile. If you weren’t you, he’d think you were teasing him.

“Honestly, all of you Major Crimes detectives look the same to me,” you say.

“All you agents look the same. Same stick-up-the-ass.”

“Better to have a stick up the ass than to be a thug with a badge and a gun.”

“You think I’m a bad cop?” He tightens his jaw, feels his molars grinding against each other.

“I think you’re all bad cops,” you clarify. “I think you care more about your parties. O’Brien certainly cares more about being the bad boy of the sheriff’s department, and the rest of you fall in line like his little ducklings.”

It stings to hear you say it out loud, though Borracho has long suspected that you’d thought that about them. You have a way of looking at them when they are joking around, a subtle way of shaking your head like a disappointed mother.

“It’s just letting off steam,” he replies, defensive. “How the fuck do you unwind?”

You look at him, tilt your head. “Spoiler alert, detective, but I unwind the same way. I drink, I fuck. I just keep it separate from the work. I don’t let it affect my job.”

That stings too, you obliquely saying that you’re better than him. That you have it more together, which (in a calmer moment) he’d probably admit. Right now, he stews—the guys are off having fun, Nick sent the pics of the honeys at the party, and Borracho is stuck sitting with you, being told that you’re better than him.

“Yeah, I can just picture it,” he snaps, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Half a glass of white wine, then you fuck some lame asshole in missionary with the lights off. What a fucking badass.”

You keep your head tilted, and now you pair it with an infuriating smile.

“I don’t need to prove to you if I’m cool,” you say. A beat, and then you add, “at least I don’t have to pay for it.”

“I don’t pay for it!” He hates how defensive he sounds, the way his voice cracks on the word pay like he’s a fucking child.

“Oh, sorry. O’Brien pays for it. That’s so much better.”

“I don’t…partake in that stuff.” Not anymore, anyway. He had a few times right after his divorce when he was in a bad way and wallowing, but he hasn’t since then. It always left him feeling cheap and a little scummy…but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy going to the parties and looking.

“Okay.” Your tone is clear that you don’t believe him, and you turn back to your book.

“I don’t.”

“Sure, Henderson.”

He huffs in frustration. “Christ, you are a cunt.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Isn’t it? Cunts are a lot of fun. Seems like a compliment, calling me one.”

It always goes like this. Every single fucking time. You always respond to his insults with these infuriating responses, deliver barbs and retorts back to him without being affected at all.

And just like always, Borracho settles on his usual closing statement.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says.

“You first,” you reply.

*****

The bickering kills off the remaining time of your shift, and before you know it, there’s a knock on the door and your relief is there to spell you.

What surprises you is Magalon doesn’t stalk away the moment he can. He keeps his steps measured to yours, falls in beside you as you go into the parking garage under the building.

He doesn’t speak. He just walks beside you, and you can feel the anger still radiating off of him. Of all of them, Magalon falls on the quieter end of the spectrum. O’Brien is Major Crimes’ chattiest asshole, and Magalon usually sits back and listens. You think sometimes he talks the most to you, which is probably a shame since you constantly squabble.

In the parking garage, he grumbles, “this was a lot of fucking fun. Great way to spend a Friday night.”

It stings, faintly. You offered to cover. He’s the one who stayed, in the end. There wouldn’t have been any repercussions if he left, especially from his boss. For fuck’s sake, O’Brien is the first to break the rules. He’d never reprimand one of his detectives for leaving their post with an FBI agent.

“Hurry along then,” you retort. “Maybe you can make it in time and get O’Brien’s sloppy seconds.”

You expect him to tell you to fuck off. You expect him to call you a name. You expect his usual weak finishing move of shut the fuck up.

Thing is, he does say shut the fuck up…he just says it as he turns and squares up to you, puffs his chest out and faces you, and you stupidly think he’s challenging you to a fight. He’s only half a head taller than you, but he’s broad through the chest and arms, and you take a defensive step back…

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up?” he repeats, and he shakes his head at his own question, frustration writ across his face. “Why can’t you ever just…be fucking quiet?”

You open your mouth to answer (apparently you cannot ever shut the fuck up), but he takes another step to close the gap between you, and maybe Detective Magalon hates you, but something is driving him other than hatred at the moment. He reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of your neck, holds you steady. His eyes dip down to look at your mouth before they slide up and gaze into your own eyes.

Oh. Oh, shit.

You only just grasp the situation when his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, but not cruel. His mouth slots over yours, his tongue pries your lips apart, and you hate that you open up to him so willingly. You try to logic out the situation—Friday nights always key you up, and the guy you had a friends-with-benefits situation moved away months ago��but the cool, logical part of your brain is falling silent.

It’s giving over to the baser part of your brain that chases pleasure, that sparks up like fireworks at the feeling of Magalon’s rough kissing, the way his lips are just a bit chapped. The way his facial hair tickles against your face. The way he grips your neck—firm but not too hard, and the pad of his thumb strokes the side of your neck.

Well, shit.

*****

Borracho convinces himself that he’s just worked up. He’s just confusing the nascent lust that bloomed from Big Nick’s pictures of the women with his ongoing irritation of you.

That when you took the mean shot about sloppy seconds, he was going to place his hand over your mouth to shut you the fuck up…but you looked at him in surprise, your lips parting, and the motion drew his eyes, and his brain (tall, dark, and stupid after all) did the wrong thing.

What surprises him is that you still for a second, but then you kiss him back. You open your mouth to him, allow him to sweep his tongue against yours. You breathe out through your nose, and after a beat, you reach up to circle your fingers around his wrist, around the hand that has a firm hold on you.

You don’t pry his hand away. You only hold him steady as he holds you steady.

It’s not love. It’s not even lust. It’s just months and months of irritation, finally bubbling over into this.

That’s what he tells himself. As he walks you backwards, as he presses you against your SUV. As he grinds against you, getting steadily harder against your thigh. As you make these little noises, these quiet whimpers. As you kiss him back, as your other hand hooks against his belt and holds him close to you.

This is just his irritation with you. He’s letting off steam. That is it.

He can’t fathom what you’re doing. If he’s constantly angry with you, then you have to feel similarly.

Maybe you’re unwinding too. What did you say earlier? You unwind the same way as him?

I drink, I fuck, you said.

Your prospects for the latter must be bleak if you’re willing to fuck him, but he’s not going to complain.

You release your hold on his wrist, and you reach down into your pocket, fumble until you pull out your keys. You hit the fob, and you unlock your SUV. He steps away from you, releases you from where he has you trapped against the door. You open the door to the back, and he starts to push you in, push you onto the back seat but you murmur, wait a second.

You turn away from him, and it’s automatic how his hands go to your waist, hold you. It’s like if he stops touching you, the insane spell will be broken, a current halted because of a break in the circuit.

There’s a protective cover on your backseat, and it takes you a moment to get it unhooked and tossed into the far back of the vehicle, and you turn back to him with a shrug. “Dog hair,” you say simply, and Borracho lets the comment slide over him. He is already pulling you back to him, kissing you again, pushing you into your SUV.

You hook your hands into his belt again and pull him in with you.

Car sex is always better in theory than reality. It’s hot in the abstract but fraught in practice. Borracho has a fair amount of experience—the sum total of his sexual history in high school was realized in the backseat of the shitty Acura Legend he inherited from his aunt.

At least your SUV is bigger.

It’s still awkward. Difficult to get you out of your jeans and panties, difficult to get his own pants and boxers pushed down enough. The backseat is too short for both of you, so it takes effort to arrange your legs. You bend one, press it against the back of the seat, and the other plants on the floorboard. Borracho kneels clumsily, shuffles to slot himself between your thighs.

It’s dim enough in the SUV that he can pretend you’re not you. Because aside from you murmuring yes to answer his question is this okay with you?...you don’t talk.

The thought occurs to him that maybe you’re pretending he’s someone else too.

You are far touchier than he thought you would be. You smooth your palms over his back, his shoulders, his arms. It makes him feel a little big-headed; he thinks maybe you like his build, maybe you’ve been studying him on the sly and are finally getting to touch him. You run your fingers through his hair, muss it up, and the strange intimacy of the gesture makes him shudder.

You still when he pushes into you. He reaches down and lines himself up with you, then inches his hips forward. He’s shocked to find you ready for him—wet and hot, and as he breeches your entrance, he can feel how your pussy is already twitching against him.

The first stupid thought that comes to his head is I’ll have to tell the guys that there’s no icicles in her pussy after all.

The second, better thought: No, this is between me and her. I’ll never say a word to the guys.

*****

Look: Magalon and O’Brien and their merry band of assholes can say whatever they like about you. They can call you a bitch or a cunt or whatever rude phrase they want, but you know you’re an ace at your job. You are efficient. You are smart.

Sometimes you aren’t quite as smart in your personal life.

Case in point, this moment. Magalon half-naked, you half-naked underneath him. In your SUV that smells faintly of salt water and wet dog from the weekend trip to the beach with your retriever. You know this is a bad idea, your great big brain screams a million warnings, but sometimes you just do dumb things.

The dumb thing you are doing right now is Magalon.

You have no idea what is driving him. He’ll probably go running straight to the dickhead brigade at Major Crimes and spill everything, but you don’t really care. They already say terrible things about you. This would just give them a new avenue to explore.

If he wasn’t Magalon, it’d be easier to fall into the fantasy. The man is not repulsive looking. He’s broad, and you run your hands over him, can feel how he’s built under his flannel shirt. He’s a decent kisser too, not too rough, not too soft and precious about it. An acceptable amount of tongue without trying to map the shape of your tonsils.

His hands are nice too—you’ve noticed them before. You can admit to yourself that you don’t hate the way they feel when they touch you, when they grip your waist or when they cup your hip as he settles against you.

When he pushes into you, it stuns you. You freeze underneath him, breathe in deep and shut your eyes at the sensation.

The universe is often unfair, you’ve found. Giving an asshole like Magalon that good dick, perfectly sized. What a waste.

Not a complete waste, not now, at least. Not when he’s sliding into you, and not when you give way to him. It burns just a bit, the way he stretches you, but it’s that good pain that bumps up so close to pleasure that the two are undiscernible from each other. He must feel his own version of it because he drops his head beside yours, breathes out a harsh fuck once his hips are flush against yours.

You know he hates you, but in this moment, he’s considerate. Almost sweet, actually. It’s awkward in your SUV; the door handle digs against the top of your head and he notices two thrusts in. He mutters something you can’t make out, but then he reaches up and cups the back of your head, helps hold you steady.

And he deals you gentler thrusts to keep from hurting you.

You would have never guessed he could be nice. Especially in a moment like this. You know it won’t last. It will end the minute this ends, but he’s being nice, so you’re nice too. You wrap your arm around his neck. You pull his face to yours and you kiss him, soft.

It must surprise him because he huffs against your lips before he kisses you back. Presses a second gentle peck to your mouth before he breaks away, drops his head beside yours again.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he mutters, and he sounds almost begrudging. Like he thought you’d feel terrible and is mildly pissed to find himself wrong.

You have no witty retort. You are stunned to near muteness as the feeling of him, the thick drag of his cock as he fucks you at a sedate pace. You reply, lamely, “you too.”

“Your pussy is gripping me like crazy,” he adds, and his breath against the side of your neck makes you shiver underneath him. “Fuck, what do you need?”

“Just keep going,” you say. You raise your hips to meet his thrusts, plant one foot firmer on the floorboard and press up. It changes the angle, changes the drag of him inside you. He bumps against that spot inside you, and tilting your hips like makes the base of him settle against your clit each time he bottoms out.

“Close?” He moves his head, whispers in your ear, and it shouldn’t be hot, him whispering in your goddamned ear. As he fucks you. In the backseat of your SUV.

“I can feel it,” he continues. “Feel you getting even wetter. You like fighting with me? It turn you on, being mean to me?”

You laugh—an actual, genuine laugh. “Guess so.”

“S’okay.” He’s getting out of breath; he starts to pant as he picks up the pace. He lifts his head to gaze down at you, and he’s actually smiling.

You didn’t think he was capable of smiling. It’s weird to see it on him. Magalon has actual dimples, a winning smile, and you bite back the urge to tell him that he should smile more, that he should drop the tough-guy, stone-faced routine.

“Guess it turns me on too,” he admits.

You can feel yourself getting close, the licking flames of your orgasm growing in heat and intensity. It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is, and Magalon is too good and you kinda hate that you’re so close already. That the feel of him, the sound of him, the heavy press of his cock as he splits you open over and over get you so close, so quickly.

Even the smell of him—no obvious cologne, just the lingering scent of his soap or laundry detergent, the growing scent of his arousal paired with your own. Your SUV reeks of sex, and you wonder how long it will take to dissipate. Will it still be noticeable on Monday morning, when you drive into the office?

He drives into you faster, harder, but he keeps his hand on your head, shelters you from hurting yourself against the door. You feel yourself cross that threshold, the point of no return, and the heat blooms outward, consumes you as you come.

“F-fuck, right there, Magalon,” you whimper. “Don’t s-stop, oh fuck, don’t stop—”

“Jesus,” he breathes out, and he rears back to watch your face. His own expression is tense, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and you realize that he’s trying to hold on, trying to delay his own pleasure….

He fails. He deals you one, final punishing thrust, and then he pulls out with a curse. Reaches down and pumps his length, and then you feel the hot ropes of his cum as he paints your belly with his release.

“Jesus,” he says again, this time a low mutter. He drops his head on your shoulder, and you don’t know how to act now that the moment is over. You reach out and pat him awkwardly on the back, and you stop yourself before you say, “great work, champ.”

It’s a long moment of silence, then he lifts himself off of you. He doesn’t quite meet your gaze, but he asks, “do you have anything?” Trails off uncomfortably, then gestures vaguely at the mess he made of you.

“Napkins in the center console.” You sit up; he reaches past you and snags some napkins from between the front seats. He hands them to you, and you clean yourself up as best you can.

Then he reaches down, hands you your discarded clothing. You dress in silence except for the exasperated grunts as you each trying to shimmy back into clothing in the cramped back seat of a vehicle.

Then the two of you climb out of the backseat, and the moment gets so damned awkward and heavy, you try to break it with a joke.

“Now you can tell the guys that there’s no ice in my pussy,” you offer. You keep your tone light.

He glances at you but doesn’t respond.

“Or tell O’Brien that you gave me a hard fucking, see if it loosened me up or not,” you try.

Magalon shakes his head. He slides his phone out of his pocket, checks for new messages. He slides it back into his pocket, then mutters, “wouldn’t do that.”

“You could. I couldn’t stop you.”

Just like that, you’re back to bickering. Only now there’s a new weight to it, since he just had his dick in you moments ago. Since you just swabbed his cum off of you.

“I said I wouldn’t. I’m not a complete asshole.”

“Since when? Since five minutes ago?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.” He crosses his arms and his face goes stony. The smile, the dimples are long gone.

“Okay.��

He shakes his head. “Don’t do that shit.”

“What shit?”

“Okay.” He mimics you, meanly. “Don’t agree with me in that tone that says you don’t believe me at all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t. I don’t give a shit.”

“You sound like you do,” you observe. “You still pissed you missed your party?”

“That I missed Big Nick’s sloppy seconds?” He snorts. “Nah, had you instead.”

“Poor guy,” you reply. “Had to settle for an ice princess.”

“Yeah, desperate fucking times call for desperate fucking measures,” he snaps.

For some reason, that stings. That’s a direct blow, and you don’t know why. Of all the things he’s said to you, all the things he’s called you…this actually hurts. Maybe because he had been nice in your interlude, that hand cradling your head, that kiss that had been gentle. It must have been an act—a convincing one—and now he’s back to being the real him. The him that was apparently desperate enough to fuck you as a last resort.

No wonder he won’t tell the guys. He’s ashamed to have fucked you. He’s embarrassed.

You’re a smart woman but you make stupid choices sometimes.

“Well, it’s over. You survived.” He can probably hear the hurt in your voice, but you don’t care.

You tend to deal with the consequences of your stupid choices by fleeing. Which is what you do now—you turn away, fumble your keys. Open the driver’s side door, and you catch the startled expression on his face, the surprised “hey” he says, but you ignore both.

You only climb into your SUV, turn the ignition, and then leave. And you send up a fervent prayer that the listening post yields something useful over the weekend, because Monday morning already looms like a bank of storm clouds.

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