#Ample Parking.

[leesh]

seeing people on twitter say they don’t want harry to tour stadiums in the US because of traffic is so funny to me like it took me nearly three hours to leave the slane car park and i walked the streets of bologna alone at 4am post reggio and am fully traumatised by it but seeing harry in a stadium (or big ass field in those two cases) is absolutely life changing. the pure energy and charisma is insane

[howdyneighborr]

"I see you finally grew a pair. But did it drop yet?" Craig snickered. What he means is he's surprised at the fact that Cartman has finally decided to grow the hell up and move away from all the shit he had caused in the past. Craig however won't forgive him yet still, but maybe just maybe he'll give him one last chance to stop being such a douchebag as he was when they were children. (From supercreig. I couldn't resist ;.;)

-> @supercreig [moved from @screwyewguys;] [ ask box; open -> x ]

❝Shut the hell up, Craig.❞ Eric folded his heavy arms over his broad chest. His eyes, brown and eerily streaked with pale blue around the left iris, glared up at the taller man. Suspicion slithered over his round face. What did Craig Tucker want with him. Years had passed between them without much more than a ❛Hey, wassup.❜ Yet, right in front of him now stood the biggest douchebag in Park County. And he wanted to talk about Eric's balls? Oh yeah, Cartman knew he had a huge set himself, but Craig needed a fucking wheelbarrow to lug his around, if he instigated this interaction just to try to bully Eric. ❝Should I call you the ambulance now, or give you a chance to apologize? I'm feeling generous today. Speak. What do you want?❞

[x-lordofdarkness-42069-x]

(@friendscfmine)

Stan: "I just came here to the party for the dogs."

-> @friendscfmine 

❝Jesus Christ!❞ Clyde nearly shit himself. The disembodied voice even shocked away his buzz, to his dismay. He sucked in deep, slow breaths to calm himself down. His head whipped around, tousling his messy brown hair in the process as he moved to locate the source of the sound. When his eyes landed on the startling noise's corporeal creator, his shoulders relaxed. Shew!!  Just Stan. Not like... a >ghost< or something. He sighed; though his heart still fluttered unsteadily in his chest. With a heavy hand, he fanned the rosy heat of embarrassment away from his full cheeks. Fuck!– anyway, haha. Clyde looked over at the other man. ❝Dude! The dogs are so cute. Have you actually met them yet?❞ Ehh... As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he had basically volunteered himself to direct Stan toward the aforementioned pups. Which, he was more than willing! But… a second to breathe (from the clamor of the get-together, and now from his near-heart attack) would have been nice, too. Bouncing around was kind of his thing at functions like this, but the constant moving and mingling was also… exhausting. He wasn't even the host! Clyde had just found himself that quiet, little corner away from the action, too. His attempt to recharge himself before he had to go back out and start slamming shots again had utterly failed. But, hey! ->Stan<- was here, and so were some dogs!!

[swuid]

Also I stopped to get food from my favourite food truck but that was a huge mistake because it took me an hour to figure out parking bc massive traffic & again I ended up paying $60 which like. Why the fuck should I have to pay for parking that’s AT the venue maybe you guys should kill yourselvez

[theaddress]

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[subsidiary]

hope every driver that honks at me when i’m trying to ride my bike swerves straight into a tree and blows up

[zonerealty]

FOR LEASE: Quality Offices with Ample Parking in Auckland Central Quality offices of approx. 213.13m2. Kitchenette and toilet facilities. Great natural light. Conveniently located near Auckland University, Auckland Hospital, public transport and motorway network. Plenty of car parks on site @ $75 p.w. + GST each. The asking price is $52,500 p.a.+GST+OPEX https://www.zonerealty.co.nz/property-item/12941

[psychoticwillgraham]

the hannibal reunion is tomorrow…. woag….

[feldspar-thethief]

❛ i'm sorry. am i interrupting something? ❜

(from Pete @haveatime )

-> @haveatime [𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 (𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧) 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬] -> x

the clattering of computer keys halted suddenly. he rolled his stormy eyes up from his laptop screen. ❝do i fucking look busy?❞

[screwyewguys]

“I’m not slowing down because you’re short.”

(from Michael @haveatime )

->@haveatime [ small / tall starters ] -> x

Stomp. Stomp. Huff-huff. Stomp. Stomp. Huff-huff. ❝Fuck… Fuck you… You giant, Lurch-looking… fucking douchebag.❞ Eric’s brain lacked oxygen so much so that even his insults suffered because of it. Which only pissed him off that much more. Not only was he waddling in the wake of the Crypt Keeper, he couldn’t manage to properly bully and berate Michael for his freakishly long limbs. God, where the hell were they going? Why the hell had Eric agreed to follow him? He squinted hard, narrowing his cat-like eyes at the back of The Tall Goth’s head, and tried to ignore the sweat collecting underneath the collar of his otherwise seasonally-appropriate outerwear. ❝Shit, actually...❞ * Pant * ❝Wait... hold on, hold on.❞ * Pant * -–—;; !! ... ❝I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Could you pleeease slow the fuck down??❞ Defeated, Eric's fat ass found the nearest bench and he heaved a great sigh as he made contact with the wood, barely covered by shellac worn away by years and years of portly pedestrians much like himself finding their respite on its hard seat. ❝Is there a sale at the fucking the fucking Goth Gap or something???❞

[nextradevelopers]

Investing in Pre-leased Property is a smart move for long-term financial growth.

✨Spacious and well-designed office spaces ✨High-speed internet connectivity ✨24/7 security and surveillance ✨Ample parking space for tenants and visitors ✨Fully equipped conference rooms ✨Cafes and restaurants within the premises

📞 Contact us: 8448 798 170 🌐 Visit our website: www.nextradevelopers.com

[howdyneighborr]

’ We killed eight people and stole a property and nobody cared. ’ - kenny to cartman :3c

@dustified; saw sentence starters -> [ x ]

❝ C’mon, Kenny– You act like we did that stuff on purpose. Well, the grand theft auto wasn’t an accident, but it was totally necessary… And hella fucking sweet, dude. Don’t act like it wasn’t cool as shit. ❞ Eric belly-laughed and kicked his feet up on the dashboard, pressing the toes of his shoes against the frosted glass. ❝ And no one’s going to find out – unless —; we want them to. ❞ He turned his eerie blue-brown stare to the other and a grin curled up his cheeks. Eric bit his lip.

[x-lordofdarkness-42069-x]

Craig: "Rollercoasters are alive to me. I can't explain that. They just are."

-> @troublcmakcrs

Pinks and blues swirled in the wispy clouds above their heads as the sun began its slow descent beyond the faraway mountain ridge. The mingled hues reminded Clyde of the cheap cotton candy he had absolutely housed, not even an hour ago. Funny how he loved the sticky sweet confection, but could never force himself to savor the delicate treat. However, he now desperately tried to grasp the fleeting seconds as they threatened to steal away this saccharine view. The shorter friend turned his head, angling his neck just enough that he could watch Craig without the inky-haired man realizing that he stared at him. A glint of a smile sparkled in his dark eyes. ❛F u c k,❜ he sighed to himself. He could listen to that specific brand of Craig Tucker nonsense spill out of his mouth all day. Clyde knew of his own reputation for being a bit of a dunce, but nobody ever mentioned the times when Craig said shit that just... did not make sense. Maybe those other people didn't share the same privileges he did. A little possessive closet in his soul loved to let him believe no one else would ever see that side of Craig, whether the hope existed in reality or not. He would lie to himself if it meant he could socket away even just pieces of the moments like this. He would feed his clandestine, selfish delights. The effects of the J Clyde burned on their trip to the amusement park had hit its peak about the time he smashed his cotton candy, so he tripped down the descent of his high now. But his shoulders still felt heavy as the warm weight of affection settled over his squat frame.  Enough daylight streaked through the sky, casting down across the sharp angles of his Craig's face. They definitely had time for one more ride. An ample, goofy grin creased the corners of his big cow eyes. Clyde seized Craig by the hand, squishing his palm with unbridled exuberance. He fought the urge to fill the spaces between Craig's fingers with his own. He opened his mouth to speak. ❛I think– I could love you,❜ is what Clyde wanted to say. Instead, he proposed, ❝If you can't explain it, will you just show me? These bitches aren't going to ride themselves, y'know.❞

[knightjpg]

Brick by Brick

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

tags: construction worker simon/neighbour reader

part 1 | part 2

Summer is the worst time of year for construction work outside. Up early before the birds are awake to try and beat the heat, arriving on site at six or earlier with bleary eyes and creaky joints from the day before. It means coming home at four or five with lots of day left to get through yet without the will or energy to do anything beside shower, eat, watch some telly, and sleep. 

The pay is good and it beats sitting in a cramped office all day, but when Simon gets home with aching knees and the thrum of a headache at the back of his skull it's hard to remember why on Earth he chose the career he's in. He's drenched in sweat, large dark patches adorning his pits and back. 

It's one of those days where very little can make him stray from his commute straight to home to collapse into his big falling-apart chair, but today it's not really up to him. A large moving truck blocks his driveway. The faded company logo against dirty white overtakes the entire view of his windshield, though Simon can see the back doors are still swung open. No one to attend to it, though. 

Simon noticed the FOR SALE! sign had gone, of course. Remembers feeling vaguely pleased, even, that the home next to his wouldn't be empty anymore, because he of all people knows exactly how quickly places can fall apart without anyone tending to it. But right now all he feels is tired, and hot, and really fucking annoyed. Just when he's clicked his belt loose to get out of the car and see if the dolt belonging to the truck is anywhere to be found, voices carry from the open front door. 

“...last. I'm afraid it's a little heavy, though, so maybe we should get the boxes out first?” 

And out steps the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Hair tied up, tight little top, and shorts that give him ample view of your legs.  

Maybe summer's not so bad after all. 

You're talking to a bloke wearing a uniform that matches the moving truck and who looks flushed in the face from exertion. As soon as you clock Simon's car, though, you stop mid-sentence in surprise, and then quickly walk to him, brows furrowed apologetically. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry—you're trying to get past us, aren't you?” Simon gives you a nod, and you turn back to the mover. “Would you mind moving the truck up a little? I don't want it to be in the way.” 

There's precious little parking space ahead, so Simon rolls down his window and calls out to you, “Jus’ backing up a few yards s’fine.” He gestures to his driveway so you know that's where he's headed, and you flash him a smile and a thumbs-up in understanding. 

The truck is moved, Simon parks his car, and you pull another heavy-looking box from the cube. You never reach your new doorstep with it; Simon steps in and lifts it from your hands. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweetly with surprise. “Oh—are you sure? It's heavy...!” 

One corner of Simon's mouth tugs up. Tired as he is it weighs next to nothing, and he can't resist holding it with one arm, holding out the other. 

“Can take ‘nother if you need.” 

You laugh and assure him this is quite enough, then jog back to the truck while Simon pushes past the half-open door to his new neighbour's home. 

It's a mess, of course. Piles of boxes, scattered furniture, rolled-up carpets. Simon puts the box down in the living room, then saunters back outside to lift another from your hands. He does the same with the couch; the mover is struggling and Simon doesn't trust him not to let it fall and crash. And you're such a little thing. Just doesn't feel right, watching you rush around and struggle without stepping in. 

With Simon's help it's quick work. The mover thanks Simon before driving off, but he's not really listening. There's much more important things to pay attention to. 

You're pretty. Cheeks flushed from exertion, breathing hard, flyaway hairs from your ponytail sticking up in odd directions. Simon has to suppress the urge to smooth them away. 

"Thanks so much for the help,” you tell him earnestly. “I'm sorry we were in the way—we thought we'd have a little more time before people started coming home from work.” 

“S’alright,” Simon says. It's nearing evening, now, the sky above you glowing in pale pink and oranges hues. The little smatter of trees across from you rustles with a gust of summer wind.  

You introduce yourself and insist on giving Simon your number “in case there's ever anything you need.” Simon's more concerned about a young woman living all on her own but takes your number all the same, watching your pretty little fingers tap it in on his phone. 

“I mostly work from home, but I'm very quiet and boring,” you tell him with a smile. “You don't have to worry about noise.” 

For some reason that isn't the selling point it should be. When Simon stands inside his hallway, house empty and dark and quiet, he wishes he still lived in a shitty apartment with thin walls on the bad side of Manchester. Maybe then he'd hear your footsteps, or better yet, your voice. Instead the only thing waiting for him at home is silence. Heavy and thick, where he's ripped away from sweet sunshine and plunged underwater. 

-

Simon is halfway to falling asleep on the couch when the bell rings. He groans, drags a hand over his face, and glances up at the TV. The football match is still going. The camera pans over a cheering crowd, their cries distant and quiet. 

He mutes the thing entirely and heaves himself up to open the door. Swear to God, if this is the fucking salesman again... 

“Hi there.” 

You give Simon a little finger wave, your other hand cradling a round oven dish. When you shift on your feet the protective foil on top rustles noisily. 

You look a little more put together than you did yesterday—rested, showered, fed. Just as pretty. 

Although, speaking of fed... 

“Alright?” Simon asks, eyes on the oven pan. He's only catching a faint whiff of something, but whatever it is smells really fucking good. His stomach reminds him that the only thing in his fridge are a couple cans of beer.  

You nod and lift the dish with a shy little grin. “Yeah. Um. I wanted to say thanks again, for yesterday. And I wanted to test out my oven, so...” 

You hold the dish out for him to take. Simon's fingers brush yours, large meaty paws easily twice the size of your own. When he peels back the foil you add, “Shepherd's pie. I thought about cookies, but I wasn't sure if you'd like those.” 

The scent hits him, then, rich and hearty and buttery smooth. The dish is still a little warm. 

Fuck. When was the last time he ate something homemade? 

“No, I'll eat anything,” he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He hasn't showered yet. Must look a nightmare. Does he stink? “Thanks.” 

Your whole face lights up, and Simon's neck feels hot. He averts his eyes to avoid your gaze and pretends to inspect the pie instead. Jesus, what is he, twelve? “I'm glad. I'll leave you to it, then.” 

D’you want to come in for a drink?  

It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get the words out quite right and gives you a brusque nod, watching you walk back to your own home before closing his door all the way. 

He eats at his kitchen table and finishes the whole thing in one go. Chases bits of flakey crust with his finger, licks up every leftover crumb. The meat is tender and juicy and for a while after the only things he smells is golden-brown potatoes seasoned with rosemary. 

He mourns it when it's gone, of course. Has half a mind to go over right now and ask if your cooking is for hire—Simon can't remember the last time he felt satisfied. When he ate not just for the sake of fuel or convenience but because someone wanted him to have something nice, something special. Is it special? Is he special? Are you going around the neighbourhood handing out cookies and pies to just anyone? 

Simon's sigh is loud in the silence and sticks to the kitchen walls. 

The pre-made frozen meals are fine, of course. Empty plastic containers fill up the rubbish bin. They're easy and cheap and most days Simon's glad just to have something warm in his stomach.  

And yet. 

The next day Simon stands at your door at six in the evening sharp, holding the clean dish in his hands. You invite him in for a cup of tea, because unlike him you have good manners, and you sheepishly apologise for the stacks of boxes everywhere. 

“S’alright,” Simon says, carefully manoeuvring around a large pile of books. “I don't mind.” 

And he doesn't, though he does feel like a bull in a china shop. Large and much too coarse for the little tea cup you hand him while the kettle whistles on the stove. 

“I'm afraid I don't have much to go with it,” you say with a flutter of your hands. “Do you like ginger snaps? I think I've got a pack somewhere.” 

You don't wait for his answer and pry open one of the cupboards. First come the ginger snaps, then the box of Earl Grey, which you hold up to him with a triumphant smile. “Unpacked the important stuff first.” 

Simon frowns and jerks his chin to the cupboard. “S’it stuck?” 

“Oh—yeah. They all are.” You give the wood a little knock. “It'll take me some time to get to fixing everything. The house went for a good price, but only ‘cause it needs some love.” You give him a rueful smile and get up, wiping your hands on your thighs. “I'm not all that handy, so I'll have to take it bit by bit.” 

Simon rises before you finish your sentence. "Let me see.” 

“Oh, no, it's okay. It's not a big deal, really—” 

Simon crouches down, slowly, to spare his knees, and tests the hinges. The wood is rotten in certain places, the hinges old and rusted. Rather than fixing it up it should be replaced entirely. You really better had gotten this place for good money, because this will take more than a bit of elbow grease to repair. He prods at the hinges, tuts, and looks up at you. 

“Ready to fall apart, this one. You said they're all like this?” 

You nod, worry creasing your brow. “I—yes. Well, the kitchen is. The bathroom seems alright. Is it worse than I thought?” 

“Might be. You have anyone look at this?” 

You shake your head. “I'm starting to feel silly about it now, but I was going to look up how to do it myself.” 

Simon straightens. “I'll go get my kit.” 

-

It's not as bad as he feared. Two cabinets need tearing down completely, but the others are worth saving. Simon warns you the repair job will fuck the wood, but you tell him it's no problem; you'll paint over it anyway. 

You feed him tea and ginger snaps while he works, asking him several times if he wouldn't like a break, hasn't he done a lot already? You feel terrible about having him work on his day off. Didn't he say he worked construction? He must be so tired, poor man. You insist he stay for dinner. “You've been so helpful—it's the least I could do.” 

Simon takes a breather to watch you cook. Chicken, pasta, summer salad. The sun sinks lower and hits you straight on from the kitchen window, painting the edges of you a dazed red-gold. An angel's halo. 

“You big on reading, then?” 

You turn down the heat and put a lid over the pan to join him at the table. Simon's eyeing the many books strewn about on top of boxes that say “pans” and “kitchen supplies”. Le Morte D’Arthur. Histories of the Kings of Britain. Beowulf. There's even one that prompts a vague, long-forgotten memory from his school days— The Canterbury Tales.  

“I am. Always have been.” You nod to the books. “I teach at university—medieval literature. But I'm working on my own research on the side.” 

Simon lets out a low whistle. His pretty bird is a clever one. Smarter than him, that's for sure. He might be big and strong but he's got bricks for brains. 

That's what his dad always used to say, anyway—that he's stupid. Those always were his kinder moments. 

“That explains all the books y’got.” 

“There sure are a lot of them, aren't there? I swear moving really makes you realise just how much stuff you own...” You shake your head. “I'll have to get a bigger bookcase.” 

“Think it's impressive.” 

Your eyes crinkle with a smile. “Not as impressive as knowing how to fix my cabinets! I don't know how I would've managed by myself.” You hop up from your seat to check the food, then ask over your shoulder, “Is that something you do a lot for work, too? Carpentry and the like?” 

Simon shakes his head. “We do the heavy lifting. Clearing a place out, laying the foundation. Johnny—my coworker, he's mostly on machinery. Kyle does transport and plumbing. I do the heavier handiwork.” 

You hum and start plating the food while asking him more questions. Is the pay good? Is his boss fair? Are his coworkers nice? 

Price's fairly strict is what he is, Simon answers, and you laugh again. He likes that. Likes that he gets you to do that. 

He wolfs down a plate of his pasta and devours the chicken. It's fragrant, roasted with lemon and thyme, bursts between his teeth. He tells you more about Johnny, that he's a cocky bastard who likes playing with electricity way too much, but that he's also a loyal friend. That he's a hard worker—that all of them are. 

When his plate is empty and he's eyeing what's left in the pans you push them closer without saying anything, and prompt him to tell you about that time a plumbing line exploded and Kyle got soaked from tip to toe in disgusting gunk. He smelt like sewage water for weeks. 

Simon doesn't even realise how much he's talked until his throat starts feeling rougher than usual. You make it easy somehow. If he'd thought you would look down on him because of your own job he needn't have worried. You're not at all like what he imagines when he thinks of professors, none of the stuffy superiority complex he's used to weathering when people find out all he does all day is chafe his fingers on hard cement.  

Maybe you're just good at faking it, but he doubts it. The sparkle in your eyes when you listen to him so intently has to be real. 

You send him home with a warm thanks and dessert, and Simon feels something in his chest lurch when you peer up at him through your lashes in the doorway, smiling and sweet. Can't remember the last time he went out for dates. Can't remember having the time or energy for it. 

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. 

Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench. 

There are days when it's hard, of course. Simon is only human, and spending days and days on sizzling hard concrete would wring anyone dry. The project is coming along nicely, but at the height of summer there's plenty of times when even the promise of your smile isn't enough to keep him from falling asleep on his couch—often on an empty stomach. 

But during the weekends he rings your bell dutifully. Six o’clock becomes something sacred in his mind, sweet relief after praying on his knees for hours smoothing out cement. It gets to the point where he turns down Friday drinks with the guys more than once because he's got something to go home for now, his pretty little bird that's never once mentioned a boyfriend of any kind. 

“You really should let me pay you.” 

Simon gives you a look before pushing his large shoulders further into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “Should be the one payin’ you. I know I'm doubling your grocery bill.” 

He eats more at your place than his own these days. It gives him incentive to rush through a shower, dress like something resembling a human, then wait at your doorstep to be let in. Wagging tail and everything. 

Your cheeks darken and you duck your head. “No, um... It makes me happy. To see you eat my cooking, I mean,” you confess a little shyly. “I feel like I'm the one getting everything out of this. I hope I'm not keeping you from—from spending time at home, or with your family.” 

“S’just me, love.” Simon pauses, pretends to inspect the pipes. “Less you don't want me coming ‘round anymore.” 

“No, no,” you say hastily. “No, I like—I like the company. Really.” Your voice softens. “And I'm not just saying that because I appreciate the help.” 

Simon exhales, shifts a little to accommodate the strain in his boxers, and holds his hand out for the screwdriver. 

[theaddress]

Investing in Pre-leased Property is a smart move for long-term financial growth.

✨Spacious and well-designed office spaces ✨High-speed internet connectivity ✨24/7 security and surveillance ✨Ample parking space for tenants and visitors ✨Fully equipped conference rooms ✨Cafes and restaurants within the premises

📞 Contact us: 8448 798 170 🌐 Visit our website: www.nextradevelopers.com

[elliaellia-blog]

Luxury Villa for Sale | Furnished | Beach Front Garden Homes Frond E