#Three to five thousand dollars to spare?

[revenantghost]

Of course I'm having more car problems that I can't fix :) Of course :)

[hungermakesmonsters]

(Once Bitten) Twice Shy

Chapter Five

Plot summary : Desperate to get away from your controlling family, you take a job in New York as a wealthy vampire's blood source. A million dollars awaits if you can make it through a year, but life with Billy Russo is not going to be as simple as you think.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R�� Chapter Rating : R

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Smutty behaviour including toy use. All chapters will contain mentions of blood. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 5.6k (I am so sorry)

A/N : This was originally over 7k long so... at least I managed to get it down to under 6k. Tumblr is still only letting me tag five people at a time, so tags will be in comments again.

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR

MASTER LIST

Chapter Five

Minutes passed, your back against the door, barely breathing, the stuffed beagle clutched to your chest. Eyes closed, you tried to focus on any little sound that might tell you what he was doing, if he was even still out there. Part of you wanted to go to him, to carry on your conversation. To be near him. You’d seen a new side of him and it was enticing as it was frustrating; how could he be so aloof one minute and so sweet the next?

Your thoughts strayed to that night, to the way he’d kissed you and how his body had felt pressed against yours.

Tearing yourself from the door, you moved to your room, creating distance between yourself and temptation. But yet felt like a spring, coiling tighter and tighter with every little thought of him.

Surely he knew what he was doing to you, the effect he had every time he touched you and smiled that damned smile.

You barely knew him but he gave you butterflies. He stole your breath every time his dark eyes found yours.

Fuck. 

You felt like a silly school girl with a crush on the teacher, knowing that it was wrong and nothing could happen. Only, something had already happened. Just the thought of it brought heat to your cheeks and that fluttering feeling to your stomach.

Locking your bedroom door, you let your attention drift to your nightstand. To the top drawer. Cautiously you pulled it open and peeked inside. Embarrassment swelled inside you, reminding you why you’d been trying so hard to ignore it. 

It was as full as any other drawer in the room. No expense had been spared. Honestly, you weren’t even sure what half of the toys were for. Some you could guess but others were a little more confusing. All different shapes, colours and sizes. Some so large they looked downright painful.

Frustrated, you slammed the drawer shut.

You weren’t a virgin but you didn’t consider yourself experienced. Sex for you had been awkward fumbles with guys you’d grown up with, shameful moments that often ended in disappointment. Dates had been approved by your parents, and no one they approved of wanted sex unless it could be used to force an engagement.

But, now that you had the opportunity to experience new things, you didn’t even know where to start. Despite your age, you felt like a naive child.

Changing into your PJs you fell into bed, TV distracting you from thoughts of Billy and having dinner with him. When you finally settled to sleep, you pulled the stuff beagle to your chest again and realised that you could spell the faintest hint of his cologne on it. And, all you could think about as you drifted off, was how it would feel to fall asleep in his arms.

Panic gripped you the moment you woke, a thousand anxious thoughts about the evening to come filling your head. You didn’t know what you were going to wear or how you’d manage to make it through an evening without saying anything stupid.

You tried to read over breakfast but you couldn’t concentrate. The tension inside you, the desire that you didn’t know how to suppress, seemed to wind tighter and tighter until you couldn’t sit still.

Taking a cold shower didn’t help either. Instead, the cold water reminded you of his touch and, suddenly, it felt like his hands were all over your body, touching you and caressing you in ways that drove you crazy.

Returning to your bedroom wrapped in a towel, you threw yourself onto the bed, the frustration boiling over. 

He’d suggested talking, getting to know each other, but how were you going to do that when you couldn’t focus? How could you have dinner with him when all you could think about was him kissing you?

You realised there was only one thing you could do.

Closing your eyes, you fumbled with the top drawer of the nightstand, reaching in and pulling out the first toy your hand fell on. You took a few deep breaths before looking at it; blue silicone with a slight curve, not big enough to be intimidating but it still made your cheeks warm. A little button at the base caused it to vibrate.

Oh fuck.

You took a few more deep breaths, knowing you had to at least try. Parting your legs, you slipped the still-vibrating toy between your thighs.

Your breath hitched at the first little touch. The second touch was firmer, pressing the tip against your clit. Oh. It felt good, better than any pleasure your fingers were capable of creating. Biting your lip, you tried to keep from moaning, as the pleasure quickly started to mount inside you. You turned it off, knowing you needed more, you needed everything.

Gingerly, you reached between your thighs, feeling how wet you were before guiding the toy to your entrance. A low, gasped moan escaped you as you began to slowly slip it inside you.

Letting your head fall back on the pillow, you tried not to think too much about what you were doing, instead finding your mind drifting somewhere far more dangerous. To thoughts of him. And the more you thought about Billy, the better it felt. Soon enough, your eyes were closed and you were imagining him on top of you; the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress and his dark eyes fixed on you as he fucked you. You were certain that he’d know exactly what he was doing, that a night with him would be better than anything you’d experienced before.

“Billy,” you moaned softly, remembering the kiss, remembering the way he’d made you feel wanted. It became harder to hold back the sounds that were desperate to escape you as you descended further into the fantasy, moving the toy a little faster.

Your free hand reached for the first thing it could find, bringing the stuffed beagle to your lips to stifle your moans. Suddenly all you could smell was his cologne and it was almost enough to push you over the edge. 

Finally, you turned the vibrator back on and came almost immediately.

“Mr Russo,” you keened softly into the stuffed toy, every gasped breath filling your nostrils with his scent.

Your cheeks burned with shame the moment it was over, but you kept the toy inside you, imagining him as the sort of man who’d take his time before pulling out, making sure you were finished.

Suffice to say, you were mortified once you’d dropped the toy to the floor and your heart rate had started to slow.

It didn’t feel right, in fact it felt awful, like you’d used him for your pleasure without permission. But, you finally felt better. The tension was gone. You could finally relax and spend the rest of the day finishing The Picture of Dorian Gray, hoping it would give you and Billy something to talk about.

You drew blood early, getting it out of the way so you could spend an obscene amount of time obsessing over what to wear. Eventually, you settled on a casual little black dress that wasn’t over the top, but made it look like you’d made an effort. After tying back your hair, you put on some natural looking make-up, hoping it would give you a little more confidence.

And, when you finally stepped out into the penthouse, you could have sworn you saw his breath catch.

Billy was dressed more casual than you’d ever seen him, wearing a red sweater and dark jeans. A look that definitely worked for him. He watched from the sofa as you made your way towards him.

“You look lovely,” he said and your heart stuttered.

Glancing down at yourself, you bit your lip, feeling like it was too much. “We usually only have take out on special occasions back home, so...” you shrugged.

“I feel a little under-dressed,” he joked.

“You always look nice,” you remarked before realising what you’d actually said. “I mean... you always dress very nicely.”

“My tailor will be glad to hear you say that,” he smiled as you sat. “The food should be here soon. I hope you don’t mind that I ordered the fixed menu.”

“That’s fine.” If anything it made it easier; you wouldn’t have to worry about the food list.

“Wine?” He offered and you nodded eagerly, despite not being much of a drinker. “Is Riesling okay?” You weren’t sure so you nodded again.

The bottle and glasses were already on the table, in fact his was already half-empty. He filled a glass and you leaned to take it from him, your fingers brushing against his and, for a second, he didn’t let go.

“You smell nice,” he muttered, his gaze lingering as your cheeks warmed. You hadn’t put on perfume, so you assumed it must be your vanilla body wash. “How’s your hand?” He asked a moment later with a touch more reluctance.

Holding it up, you showed him the gauze bandaid across your palm. “It’s fine. Nearly healed.”

Billy nodded, his guilt obvious. But, thankfully, he didn’t say anything else on the matter.

“I finished Dorian Gray,” you told him, stopping an awkward silence from falling.

“Oh? And what did you think in the end?” He asked, crossing his legs so he could turn more towards you.

“I’m not sure yet. It was a lot to take in.” You shrugged. “He did some horrible things; especially to Sybil and poor Basil, but some of it wasn’t all that bad? And then when he tried to change, Henry made him feel bad about it.” You took a breath, feeling the weight of his scrutiny on you. “I get that it’s a cautionary tale about excess and hedonism, but I don’t think anyone should be punished for trying to enjoy themselves...”

“It was a different time,” Billy offered, still completely focused on you. “Dorian’s hedonism damaged almost everyone unlucky enough to fall under his spell.”

“I know, I just...” you let out a huff, not sure how to articulate what you wanted to say. “I think if he’d been given the opportunity, he could’ve changed for the better.”

“That’s very optimistic of you.”

He said optimistic but you were certain that he meant naive.  

“I still don’t understand why you like it.”

“Well, it’s -” he was cut short by the sound of a buzzer before the elevator doors slid open. “Saved by the bell,” he remarked, grinning as he got to his feet to go collect the food from the doorman and tip him.

While Billy got the food, you made your way to the dining table, taking your glasses and the bottle with you. Places were already set and you felt butterflies in your stomach when you noticed the candles. Realistically, he was probably just trying to make things nice but, in your mind, all you could think about was how it seemed intimate. 

You took a seat and a long sip of wine while Billy unpacked the food, almost covering the whole table. The smell was enough to make your stomach grumble. Once everything was on the table, Billy dimmed the lights with his phone and lit the candles.

“Dig in,” he told you, starting to fill his own plate.

You started with the things you knew you liked, taking a little and starting to eat, but it wasn’t long before you found your attention drifting to him, watching through your lashes. You watched him eat, watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the way he licked his lips.

“What?” He asked, fighting back a grin. Your gaze dropped to your place and your cheeks started to burn. “It’s okay, you can ask.”

“What’s it like? When you eat, I mean,” you asked softly, knowing it really wasn’t any of your business.

“Same as when you do,” Billy offered without seeming to care, “only flavours are muted and it never makes me feel full.”

“Oh,” you looked up and instantly felt bad.

“What’s that look for?

“What look?”

“You get this look sometimes, like something I’ve said has made you sad. Like you feel sorry for me.”

“It’s not that,” you tried to explain, “I just... I can’t imagine not being able to enjoy things like food and sunsets.”

“It’s not that I can't enjoy them,” he shrugged again, “I just enjoy them less than I did when I was human.”

“Do you miss being human?” You asked before realising how inappropriate it was. You shook your head. “I’m sorry, that was rude, I shouldn’t’ve -”

“No, it’s fine,” he answered, reaching for his glass and taking a long, slow drink. “I do miss it. This - this wasn’t something I chose.” 

There was nothing you could say to that. There were questions, yes, but you weren’t entitled to the answers and you didn’t want to risk ruining the evening by asking them. Awkwardly, you reached for your glass and took a drink.

“There’s that look again,” he remarked with a soft smile, “don’t worry, I’ve had enough time to come to terms with what I am now.”

The small talk continued over food, mostly about the food, until you felt like you couldn’t eat another bit. Sinking back in your chair, you closed your eyes and let out a slow exhale. When you looked at Billy again you found him grinning at you as he reached across to top up your glass.

“I didn’t order any dessert but if you’re still hungry I could -”

“Don’t you dare,” you laughed. “But thank you, this was really nice.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he told you as he refilled your glasses. “I want you to enjoy your time here. I know things got off to a strange start, but I want you to be comfortable here.”

“I am - I mean, I’m trying to be,” you struggled to explain. “I’m still getting used to it, but being able to go out with Karen really helped.”

“She enjoyed meeting you. She found you very interesting,” Billy answered, an indecipherable smile on his lips. “I find you interesting too.”

The comment caused your head to pound a little harder in your chest and your thighs to press together. The lump in your throat kept you from responding. A moment later, he changed the subject.

“Let’s go sit on the sofa,” pushing his chair away from the table. You nodded, pushing back your chair and standing, hesitating when you looked at the mess on the table. “Don’t worry, the maid will deal with it.”

“Maid?” There was a maid?

“She usually comes around 4am,” he answered, waving his hand towards the sofa, indicating that you should go while he got tonight’s blood from the kitchen.

Wine glass in hand, you sat on the sofa, staring out at the twinkling lights of the city and, again, you couldn’t help but think how intimate it all felt. Billy soon joined you, leaving some space between you, but not much - even less when you folded your legs beneath you and turned towards him.

“So,” he started with a smile, “what do you want to know?”

What followed was a long conversation about Billy, finding out what you could. He’d been a vampire for fifteen years; in his human life he’d been a Marine and, now, he ran a private security firm that mostly catered to vampire clientele. He was born and raised in New York but had no family. And he was wealthy enough that he simply laughed when you asked about the credit card in your name.

Then, he turned the spotlight on you.

You explained that you were from the Midwest, a little middle-of-nowhere town, and that your family were part of an insular, conservative community. You’d spent the last few years helping homeschool some of the local children, but you’d decided you’d wanted a change. You’d wanted to see the world and experience new things. He didn’t ask why you’d taken the job, and you didn’t offer the information, instead you tried to make it seem like everything was simple and happy in your life. 

All the while, his eyes stayed fixed on you, as he sipped your blood.

“Does it unsettle you?” He asked suddenly. “Seeing me drink your blood?”

“N-no,” you tried to speak around the lump in your throat, “I don’t mind.”

“But you have questions?”

“Some?” You answered and Billy gave a nod, indicating you could ask if you wanted. “The other day, when you mentioned it was still warm, is that...” you couldn’t bring yourself to finish.

“It’s better, yes,” his voice dropped to a low whisper, tongue running over his lips. “It’s like drinking from the source.”

“And is that...” Again, you couldn’t finish, feeling breathless just at the thought.

“I don’t bite. You never have to worry about that.” But the way he was looking at you said something else entirely.

“Good,” you finally manage to take a breath, “I don’t want to be bitten... or turned...”

Billy simply nodded.

“What can you taste when you drink my blood?” You asked, remembering what he’d said about knowing you hadn’t been sleeping or eating. “You said you can tell certain things from it?”

“Hormonal changes can affect how it tastes,” he offered.

“That’s why you want me to keep healthy and eat right?”

“Yes, it makes your blood taste better, but it’s also because I don’t want you getting sick. I’m not entirely heartless,” he smiled.

Silence fell and Billy took another drink. The care he took not to waste a single drop had your heart beating faster and, this time, when he noticed you watching, you didn’t look away. You couldn’t look away. Maybe the wine had helped lower your inhibitions, or maybe you were starting to feel more comfortable with him. Whatever it was, the moment didn’t end until he’d finished the whole glass.

Billy licked his lips again, and you noticed his gaze drop to the neckline of your dress as you took deeper breaths trying to calm your racing heartbeat, causing your breasts to awkwardly rise and fall. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment and your eyes dropped to the empty glass in his hand, now resting on his lap and - fuck, your eyes snapped back up awkwardly, the moment you noticed the way his pants were tented. He was hard. 

“I, uh -” you started, getting to your feet, “- I need a glass of water.” 

You didn’t wait for a response before heading to the kitchen, giving him space to deal with whatever that was. Your heart was still pounding uncomfortable, your hands shaking as you found a clean glass and started to run the cold tap. Filling it, you took a slow drink, hoping to drown the butterflies in your stomach.

You didn’t hear him move, didn’t realise he was right behind you until his hand came to rest on the edge of the counter beside yours, his cold thumb brushing over your pinkie. Your breath caught as his shadow swallowed yours on the wall, and your cheeks continued to burn. Desire and embarrassment warred inside you, but Billy didn’t speak until you did.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing without your consent,” he answered softly, against your ear.

He inhaled slowly, his nose inches from your hair. Then came that low, restrained groan. He sounded like a caged animal, desperate to be released, and you realised you were the one holding the keys.

For a second, you remained frozen, knowing that he was giving you a choice. It was a bad idea to complicate things between you, but some part of you wanted this, wanted him. Suddenly all you could think about were the fantasies you’d played out with the vibrator that morning.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped back, pressing yourself against him.

His hand twitched, his thumb covering your pinkie, holding it.

“Say yes,” he near-demanded, wanting your unequivocal consent, his lips ghosting your ear with every word. “I need you to say you want this.”

“Yes,” you breathed, “I want this.”

A split-second later, his hand was on your stomach, pulling you back against him, letting you feel the hard press of his cock against your lower back. His lips moved to your neck, kissing and sucking your skin in a way that made your heart race faster. And you quickly realised how much Billy liked that.

“That’s right, little hummingbird,” he groaned, moving his hand to palm your breasts over your dress. “Fuck, you’ve been driving me crazy all night.”

All you could offer was a whimper in response, breath catching as his hand started to slip down your body, reaching beneath your dress. Cold fingers trailed up your bare thighs, causing a shiver of delight to run up your spine and for heat to pool between your thighs.

His knee pressed gently between yours, urging your legs apart, letting his hand move higher. You bit your lip and tried to stifle a moan when you felt his fingertips against the wet fabric of your panties, but holding back anything became impossible the moment his cold fingers slipped inside. His touch was light to begin with, teasing, fingers stirring between your folds, drawing a gasp from you. A low growl vibrated through his chest as he coated his fingers in your arousal, his touches getting more pronounced the wetter you got.

Your head fell back against his shoulder as his lips and fingers continued their assault on your senses. You didn’t even notice his hand move from the counter until you felt his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling gently to turn your face enough so he could kiss you. His tongue against the seam of your lips was almost enough to distract you from his finger slowly easing its way between your walls. You whimpered and moaned against his lips, letting his tongue slip into your mouth, keeping you in the kiss until every inch of his finger was buried inside of you.

“Fuck, hummingbird,” he groaned, a dangerous glint in his eyes and a grin on his lips. You moaned as his finger flexed inside you, slowly starting to withdraw before pushing in again. “Don’t come. That’s the only rule you have to follow right now; don’t come until I say you can. Can you do that?”

“I -” you could barely think to answer.

“If you can’t, I’ll stop,” he warned, his finger stilling and causing you to keen at the loss of sensation.

“Yes,” you moaned.

Your relief was palpable the moment he started to move again. The fingers in your hair, tugging softly so his lips could return to your neck. It didn’t feel real. It felt amazing in a way you couldn’t comprehend. Your heart raced faster when you felt him start to press a second, cold finger inside you, and you realised you were gripping his thigh. Hard. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned against your neck. “Practically dripping all over my hand,”

The words alone were enough to cause you to clench around his fingers, letting you feel them more acutely as they started to move a little faster, fucking you to the knuckle each and every time.

“Billy, please...” you pleaded, not sure you could take much more.

“Not yet,” he groaned, his lips against your ear, nipping and sucking at the lobe in a way that made everything so much harder for you. “It’ll feel so good if you just wait.”

You wanted to wait, to play his game, but how could you when it already felt so good? You felt yourself on the precipice, every muscle tensing, your slick walls tightening and gripping his fingers. Your eyes closed tight and you almost felt ashamed of yourself, like you were going to ruin the moment because you couldn’t control yourself.

His fingers stilled again just before you could go over the edge.

“Not yet,” he told you, voice calm but commanding. “Just breathe. Let me be in control.”

You managed a weak nod before he pulled you back into another kiss, fingers staying perfectly still for a few moments, not moving again until he felt you start to relax. This time his fingers moved in shallow thrusts, bending inside you, pressing against your soft inner walls like he was searching for something.

Your whole body shuddered when he found it and you saw stars.

“Does that feel good?” He asked and you nodded, unable to do anything but moan when his fingertips brushed against the same spot. “That’s it, little hummingbird, sing for me.”

More moans slipped from your lips, each more desperate than the last, your fingers digging into his thigh through his jeans.

“Billy, I-I need to...” you begged, words fracturing into another cry of pleasure.

“Do you need to come?” 

“Y-yes!”

“Say it,” his commanding voice sending a thrill down your spine and right to your core.

“I-I need to come,” you pleaded, feeling more brazen than you had in your whole life. You’d never been the sort to beg to come, but the thought of it thrilled you almost as much as his fingers inside of you.

“Then come for me.”

Your reaction was instantaneous, so much so that you had to wonder if it was because you’d needed to come or simply because he’d demanded it. Your body started to tremble and shake, your walls clenching around his fingers as they continued to move inside you, and the sounds you were making - if you hadn’t felt completely out of your mind, you would have been embarrassed by the desperate noises.

As you came you barely noticed his hand slip from your hair to press against your chest, resting over your racing heart. Your head turned and his lips quickly claimed yours, swallowing down your moans, his fingers still dragging out your orgasm until your legs felt so weak you weren’t sure you’d be able to stand without his arms around you.

Without warning, Billy's hand slipped from between your legs and he swept you off your feet, carrying you back to the sofa. He sat back with you on his lap, holding you close, your body trembling so much that you worried it would never stop. It felt like he’d broken something inside of you and your body didn’t know how to process all the pleasure he’d created.

Being on his lap didn’t help, but it would have been a lie to say you hated the feeling of his arm wrapped possessively around you and his hand resting on your bare thigh. You curled against him, your head on his chest as you slowly caught your breath. 

Billy’s lips pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head as you finally started to sill.

“Are we going to -”

“Not tonight,” he answered, not needing you to finish the question. “I’m not going to rush you.”

Even though he was still hard, he didn’t want anything else. You weren’t sure if it was a rejection or if he really didn’t want to rush you, but it left you feeling even more uncertain.

When you found the nerve to lift your head, he gave you a gentle smile, his fingers squeezing your thigh tenderly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

Any conversation felt like it would be for your benefit rather than his. Billy seemed perfectly comfortable with what had just happened.

“Thank you,” you told him softly.

“For what?” Both confused and amused by the comment.

“For - for asking first,” your voice broke a little.

His gaze darkened, an unasked question on his lips. He was angry, not at you but at what the comment implied. Thankfully, he didn’t ask, didn’t push for an explanation you didn’t want to offer.

“You always have a choice here,” he reminded you. “You can always say no to this. I’ll never hold it against you.”

You stayed silent for a beat. “What if I don’t want to say no?”

“Then I’ll make sure you enjoy your time here with me.”

“But that’s all it’ll be?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I won’t pretend I can offer you more than that.”

“Okay, good. I-I don’t want anything serious.” The comment earned a strange smirk from him. “What?”

“I just didn’t expect you to want anything so casual. You’re constantly surprising me.”

“I -” you paused, biting your lip, “- I want to have fun. I want to experience the things I’ve been missing out on.”

“That’s something I’d be more than happy to help with, hummingbird,” he told you, smiling that cocky smile, making you want to melt.

“I’ve never...” you trailed off and saw his eyebrow raise, “I mean I’ve never done anything like... friends with benefits?”

“I thought I was paying you for your blood, not your friendship?” He smirked, recalling the terrible comment you’d made when you’d been angry with him. Then he shrugged. “It’s simple; we hang out and, if you want me to touch you, I’ll touch you. We’re just two adults having fun with an equal say in what happens.”

“Even when you give me rules to follow?” A shiver running up your spine as you remember the way he’d commanded and you’d obeyed.

“I told you, I like to be in control. But if it doesn’t work for you, there are no consequences.” He fell silent for a moment, the smirk on his lips seeming to grow. “Unless you want consequences.”

All you could do was nod, not daring to ask what kind of consequences he might have in mind.

“I have a rule too,” you dared to say.

“Oh?”

“You can’t lie to me.”

Clearly he hadn’t been expecting that but he quickly conceded. “That’s fair. As long as you follow my rule, I’ll follow yours - even when you’re in bed with your vibrator.”

Your heart almost stopped and your cheeks started to burn with embarrassment. 

“How did you -” you could barely get the words out, completely mortified.

“You moaned my name,” Billy continued, not in the least bit embarrassed. He’d heard you across the penthouse. “All I could think about over dinner was how wet you must have been and the way you moaned when you came.” His hand moved to your cheek, making sure your gaze didn’t drop in embarrassment. “It’s been a long time since I’ve jerked off, but listening to you had me coming all over my hand.”

Biting your lip, embarrassment and shame filled you, but Billy still wouldn’t let you look away. His thumb grazed your lip and left you speechless.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he told you, “those toys are yours to use whenever you need to, as long as you remember that your orgasms are mine now.”

You weren’t used to anyone being so candid but, you had to concede, it was exactly what made Billy the best person to help you experience new things. He knew what he was doing and he wasn’t shy about what he wanted.

“I’m not embarrassed,” an obvious lie that Billy decided not to call you on. “Things like that just aren’t exactly acceptable where I’m from.”

“Was that your first time pleasuring yourself - or was it your first time using a vibrator?” He asked, sounding like he was enquiring about something utterly mundane.

“Using a vibrator,” you answered, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Well, you never have to feel ashamed of doing anything that makes you feel good while you’re here,” he told you with enviable confidence. 

“Like Dorian Gray?” You offered with the smallest of smiles.

Billy let out a huff of laughter. “Does that make me your Lord Henry?”

“Only if you plan on leading me astray,” you answered back.

“Oh, little hummingbird,” he smiled, leaning towards you, “you’ve got no idea.” Before you could answer, his lips were on yours again.

Minutes ticked by with his lips on yours, enjoying everything about the moment, about him. When he finally pulled away, you let out a content sigh, smiling as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“So, this rule of yours... I take it you have a question, something you want me to answer honestly?”

You were quiet for a moment, trying to find the right words. “Have you ever done this before, with someone living here like me?”

“No, not like this,” he answered instantly, and it was good enough for you.

As he pulled you close again, you found yourself yawning, exhaustion catching up with you. Billy checked his watch.

“Looks like I’ve kept you up past your bedtime,” he joked, sitting forward and helping you to your feet. “We can continue getting to know each other tomorrow night, if you’d like.”

You nodded, barely even noticing that the pair of you were moving until you found yourself at the door to your rooms. His weight shifted from left to right, and you knew without looking that he was still hard. Your fingers tangled with his sweater at his waist and, for a few seconds, you just looked at him. Billy gave you a smile before pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Goodnight, little hummingbird. And remember, I’ll know if you break the rules.”

Biting your lip again, you nodded, and finally pulled yourself away from him and slipped through the door. 

End Note : I never know what to say after the spicier chapters so... hope you enjoyed this and it lives up to expectations. Thanks so much for all the genuinely lovely comments and feedback over last four weeks, I'm loving how much people seem to be enjoying this story!! Hope you all have a great weekend!

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters! If tagging doesn't work for some reason (aka Tumblr being dumb) I post most Fridays around 7:30 gmt. (Note: Tumblr is currently being stupid and only letting me tag five people at a time, so I'll be tagging people in the comments. Sorry if you get tagged twice!!)

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[ladykailitha]

Sweet Home Indiana Part 5

Hey all! Heads up for those that missed my previous announcements, I'm going on vacation starting today for about a week.

No WIP Wednesday tomorrow as it's my niece's graduation, but it should be back on next week, depending on how late I get in.

We finally hit pinnacle douche Eddie and the beginning of his turn to the lovable Eddie we know and love.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4

****

Steve walked into his house after a long day at the shop to find Eddie in the kitchen making dinner. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked behind him at the door he clearly unlocked to get in and then back at Eddie.

“How the fuck did you get into my house?” he growled, throwing his keys in the dish by the door and kicking off his shoes.

Eddie didn’t even bother looking up from his dicing of vegetables. “Robin always forgets her keys, so you have to have a spare for her to get in, and because she’s so forgetful it has to be in the same spot.”

Steve let out an annoyed huff. “Under the second flower pot with duck.”

“Right in one, darlin’,” Eddie said, looking up at him with a grin.

“So is this your new strategy to get me to sign the divorce papers?” Steve asked pulling out a beer from the fridge. “Buttering me up?”

“Well,” Eddie said going back to his cutting, “since we’re still married and all with you refusing to sign the papers, I figured I’d just move back in.”

Steve dug around his crock drawer for the bottle opener. “Like you’d give up your cushy tattoo job up in Seattle.” He popped open the lid and took a sip.

He immediately went to the sink and spat it out. “What the fuck is that?!”

“Craft beer!” Eddie said with another grin. “It’s all the rage out on the West Coast. But anyway, I was in town and stopped by the furniture shop because that couch is hideous and has to go. And of course we're going to need a bigger bed.”

Steve scoffed and shook his head. “Whatever, babe. It’s your money.”

Eddie stopped chopping and said with all the innocence he could muster and said, “But Stevie, I thought it was our money.”

Steve who had opened a bottle of his own beer and was drinking it, suddenly froze. His throat still moved, swallow after swallow but the rest of him was stock still.

“I bet the words ‘joint checking account’ are flashing through your mind right now,” Eddie sneered.

Steve emptied his bottle and threw it into the sink with a loud crash. “How much did you take?”

Eddie turned around and faced him, crossing his arms over his chest. “All twenty-nine thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven dollars and fourteen cents.”

Steve’s jaw formed a hard set line and he clenched his fists. “You put it back, right now.”

“Why don’t you use it for something useful, Steve?” he asked, waving his hands in front of him. “You have a shop, why aren’t you putting the money toward that? Christ that is almost life changing money.”

Steve stormed out of the room and was back before he could even raise a protest. “This is what it’s for, asshole and if you don’t put it back I will never forgive you. Do you understand me?”

Eddie looked down at the papers in his hand in confusion, gingerly taking them from Steve. In big bold letters were the words NON DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.

“Am I allowed to read this?” he asked with a gulp.

“It expired five years ago,” Steve bit out. “So yeah, otherwise I wouldn’t be giving it to you, would I?”

Eddie nodded and began reading. The date was roughly three or four months after he left and god was it a mess. It chronicled Susan Hargrove’s addictions to drugs, alcohol, and sex. And that if Steve wanted custody of her daughter, Maxine Maxwell he had to jump through so many hoops, including signing the NDA. His hand shook as he turned page after page of what boiled down to fifteen page document.

“The money is part of the settlement from the court,” Steve said through gritted teeth. “I put it in the old account because I didn’t feel like opening another one and forgot your name was still on it. It pays for her schooling, rent, and food until it’s gone.”

Eddie’s lip quivered. “Shit, Steve, I’m sorry. But I’m still in contact with most of the kids. Even Max and no one told me about this. Not ever.”

Steve frowned and took the pages from Eddie’s trembling hands. “I thought you knew. Hell, it was more than a nine day wonder here in town when the dust finally settled.”

Eddie thought for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. The more he thought about it the more it actually made sense. And fuck if that didn’t hurt like a kick to the ribs.

One of his worst parting shots was that the kids would be fine on their own. They had parents and friends and other people who cared about them. But that fucking NDA proved him to be the biggest asshole in that regard. Because it irrefutable proof that he had been dead wrong about that.

“Fuck,” he whispered, drawing his hands over his face. “It’ll be back in there by tonight, I swear. I’m so, so sorry, Steve. I swear I am. I know you won’t believe me and that’s okay. But I would never do anything that would harm those kids. Not if my life depended on it.”

Steve’s bottom lip quivered and then he pinched his nose and rubbed the end. And fuck if that didn’t break Eddie’s heart. That was Steve’s little tell that he was fighting back tears.

“You really didn’t know?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Eddie shook his head. “I didn’t know. Here...” he pulled out his phone and immediately transferred the money back. He had transferred it in several small amounts as to not trigger that that Fed law thingy and reversed every one of them. “All back.”

Steve let out a shuddering breath. “Were you really going to blackmail me with the money to divorce you?”

Eddie hung his head and let out a sigh of his own. “I can’t tell you why, but me and Chrissy are on a timetable and if we don’t get married by certain date, things can go very badly. So yeah. I was going to do whatever it took.”

Steve’s bottom lip quivered so him bit down on it to stop it shaking.

“Come on,” Eddie murmured. “Let me finish making dinner and we’ll talk. I think there are a lot of things between us left unsaid. I thought it was all on my side, but I’m starting to think there has been a lot of things that I haven’t been told about what’s being going on with you and this town.”

Steve nodded.

****

It took Steve a fair bit of breathing techniques to get his heart rate back to normal after that little stunt. And if he was honest, he couldn’t say had their situations been reversed, he wouldn’t have tried the same thing.

But there wasn’t anyone in his life right now that measured up to Eddie. Or at least that starry-eyed boy he fell in love with the first time.

Eddie had actually made his favorite meal. Manicotti. He had been cutting up the vegetables for the bolognese sauce that he poured over the top.

They sat down on the hideous neon green sofa while it went into the oven to cook.

“This sofa really is grotesque, Steve,” Eddie muttered, bringing one knee up so he could turn and face him.

Steve threw back his head and laughed. “That’s what everyone has said once they’ve seen it.”

“So why keep it?”

He ran his fingers over the worn surface thoughtfully. “Because despite how ugly it looks, it’s soft and comfortable. Great for naps and movie nights. If I spill something on it, I won’t freak out about it getting ruined.”

Eddie’s heart sank to his stomach. That was something that had made having movie nights over at Steve’s parents’ house such a nightmare. No feet on the sofa, no drinks anywhere but on the coffee table with a coaster, no dips or salsa, nothing red or orange, drinks or otherwise. It was the biggest house with the biggest screen, but it was a museum and not a home.

He actually looked around him for the first time, taking in the homey surroundings, the pictures on the wall of not just Steve and Robin, but all the kids. Birthdays, graduations, dances, you name it, if Steve was there with a camera, it was there up on his wall in some way.

The house was neat, but in a lived in sort of way instead of the strict tomb quality of his parents’ house. Christ. He had been joking about wanting to move back, but now he actually did. He could see himself slotting himself into this home as easy as breathing.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Right. So how long have you had this place?”

“About three years now,” Steve murmured. “That’s about when the shop started making a profit and not just coasting along above red.”

“I like it,” he said with a fond smile.

Steve gave his shoulder a shove. “You do not. You don’t need to pretend with me.”

Eddie grasped his hands to his chest. “Ah! I doth protest!” He paused for a moment and tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You’re right, I don’t like it.”

“See?” Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I love it.”

Steve stared at him for a moment before blushing and looking away. “So how long have you and Chrissy known each other?”

“Two years,” Eddie replied. “She came in for a tattoo to cover up the name of her ex-boyfriend and we became really good friends.”

“And she’s a paralegal?” Steve asked.

“Legal assistant,” Eddie said. “Don’t ask me what the difference is, I don’t know. But she’ll always correct people when they say ‘paralegal’.”

Steve nodded.

“So, is it just you and Robin?” he asked, looking around the house for clues there was another person here. Either for Steve or for Robin.

“Yeah,” Steve said with a sad smile. “But not for much longer. She’s starting school in the fall. She just needs to pick which one she wants and let the other know she’s pulling out.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asked. “What are her choices?”

“NYU and University of Washington,” Steve said. “I don’t get wanting to go to either except to get as far away from Hawkins as possible and still be in the country.”

Eddie laughed. “Well can you blame her?”

Steve leveled him with a glare and Eddie gulped.

“Right, sorry. That was a shit thing to say,” he said ducking his head. “I ran away and kept running away and you didn’t deserve that.”

“So why did you? Run away, I mean?”

Eddie ran his fingers over his face and let out frustrated sigh. “I thought it was what I wanted. The fame, the fortune, the screaming crowds every night. And maybe it still is, but the other guys got tired of it. Of the being away from family and on the road all the time, so by the time that all fell apart, it was just too much.”

Steve cocked his head to the side and regarded Eddie fully. He took him all in and not just the cursory glance he got at the bakery.

Eddie had filled out in a good way. He would always be thin, but he was no longer that waif he was in high school. He had more tattoos, which made sense considering his job. His hair was still as wild and untamed as always. He had stubble on his jaw and on his upper lip. There was a weariness to those dark brown chocolate button eyes.

“What was too much, Eddie?”

“The amount of pain I put you through,” he said softly. “And continued to put you through. You didn’t deserve any of it, sweetheart. You deserve a white wedding with all your friends and loved ones around you. You deserve to have someone standing by your side as an equal partner. You deserve someone who isn’t going to run the moment things get rough.”

“I always thought that would be you,” Steve admitted.

Eddie nodded. “So did I, once upon a time.”

“But not anymore?” Steve asked, breathless.

“No. Not anymore.”

****

Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

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9- @mac-attack19 @blondie1006

[fishbrain-glubglub]

The fight was going on forever, and Danny was exhausted.

Plasmius had appeared in Amity Park, flaunting some evil plan or whatever. Danny had honestly stopped paying attention after the fourth "Little Badger" and was just trying to figure out a way to escape so he could not study for his upcoming Biology exam and maybe catch more than five hours of sleep in a night.

At least the "not studying" part seemed to be going well for him.

"Honestly, Daniel, I expected more from you." The vampire-imitator blasted a pink ecto-ray at the boy, who didn't have the energy to dodge, and was sent sprawling onto the nearest rooftop, oozing ectoplasm from various cuts across his body. His healing factor was slowed due to lack of rest, and his body was utilizing more of his ecto-energy to just stay in his ghost-form, let alone try and counter-attack. If it wasn't for the fact it was a weekday, Danny would've put more effort into fighting back so he could spend the next day resting.

"Sorry to disappoint, Vlad." Danny rose slowly to his feet, hoping he wasn't shaking. "Not everyone can lounge around in an oversized mansion making thousands of dollars by just breathing."

"Oh, but you could, my boy. All you have to do is-"

"Renounce my father and become your loyal son, blah blah blah." Danny rolled his eyes and held his still bleeding side, praying to keep his ghost form long enough to escape. "You're so predictable. Is there anything you think about that isn't pining over my mom and bribing my loyalty? Get a cat or something."

Plasmius growled and sent another blast to the boy, knocking him back to the ground. Coughing up what felt like three lungs, Danny looked up at the looming fruit loop and shuttered before his ghost form finally dissipated. Ectoplasm transformed into blood and began staining his normal clothes before he was picked up by the back of his shirt. As Danny was turned to face Plasmius, he noticed the frown on the halfa's face.

"What," growled Danny, baring teeth slightly bloodied from his nose. "Was my beating not satisfying enough for you?"

Instead of replying, Vlad set Danny on his shaky feet, stabilizing the boy by holding him under his arms. Settling himself next to Danny, Vlad transformed back to his human form, the frown never leaving his face.

"Oh, now are you going to prove your superiority by beating me in human form?"

Vlad's grip tightened around Danny, digging his fingers into the boy's side, tensing the wraps around his chest Danny had forgotten about.

Oh shit.

"Care to explain, Daniel, what these are?" The man dug his fingers into the wrap again, causing Danny to wince.

"None of your business, Candy Pants." he bit out.

Vlad hummed before narrowing his eyes. "Despite what your naive young mind believes, I do care about your well being."

"You have a wonderful way of showing it."

"And because I care," Vlad continued. "I must insist that if you are to be binding, you are to do it properly and only for the maximum allotted hours for your safety."

Danny's blood ran cold as his entire body stiffened. There was no way that Vlad, after a single interaction, knew what the wraps around Danny's chest were for. "I don't know what your talking about."

"Oh please, dear boy, spare me your pathetic excuses. I know improper chest binding when I see it." Vlad had begun to guide Danny to the edge of the roof, glancing around to check for bystanders before turning the duo invisible and floating them down to the alley below before they emerged onto the sidewalk. "I might be old, but I am not oblivious."

Panic started to settle deep within Danny's core as Vlad led him down the street. The man seemed to be busy on his phone, typing away, probably doing boring rich people things Danny was too poor to care about. He didn't even think he had enough energy to phase out of Vlad's grip or even run down the street without collapsing. He could only hope that Vlad would take pity on him and leave him on a corner so he could crawl his way back home and get many three hours of sleep before starting his day over again with a new set of bruises.

To his surprise, waiting at the corner was a limo with the driver holding open the back door like in the movies. Danny glanced up at Vlad, but the man was still engrossed in his phone, barely sparing a glance at the driver as he dragged the boy into the back, signaling to the driver to start driving.

"I would say I'm surprised at the kidnapping," Danny snarked, trying not to get too comfortable in the admittedly luxurious seats while also trying to push down his rising panic. "but you've already tried to kill me on multiple occasions, so I'll just wait until we get to the torture chamber I'm sure you have hidden in your basement."

Vlad let out a sigh, still not looking away from his phone. "Relax, Daniel."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one being kidnapped." He wrapped his arms tightly against his aching chest as Vlad sent him a short glare, flashing red eyes before returning to his phone.

Seriously, what was going on?

He must have nodded off without realizing it, because when he opened his eyes, the neon sign of Fenton Works was shining through the window. Vlad, no longer on his phone, seemed to be patiently waiting for Danny to rise from his much needed slumber.

"Take a photo, it'll last longer."

Vlad only rolled his eyes before exiting the limo. He motioned for Danny to follow, tapping his foot impatiently on the pavement.

After sliding out of the back, Vlad placed a surprisingly gentle hand on his back before guiding him up the steps to the front door.

Before he could slip inside and collapse on his bed for the foreseeable future (until his alarm went of in the morning), Vlad's hand shifted to his shoulder, squeezing for a moment before turning the boy to face him. There was a glimmer of something different in the older man's eye than Danny hadn't seen before. The only word his sleep deprived brain could conjure up was sympathetic. But that couldn't be true. This was Vlad after all.

"If there ever is a time where you need anything..." The man's eyes glanced down to the hidden bindings for a moment before looking back to Danny. "specific your parents might not be aware enough to fund, I am willing to support those endeavors."

Danny narrowed his eyes. "What game are you playing at, Plasmius?"

"No games, dear boy." Vlad patted his shoulder before withdrawing his hand completely. "As I have stated, I care for your well being. Despite our differences, we are more alike than you think. I have a certain understanding that others might be unable to comprehend."

Danny's sleepy brain tried to read between the lines, but he had clearly spent too much energy just trying to stand up straight. Vlad noticed, huffing out a laugh to himself before turning back to his limo.

"Wait!"

Vlad turned around and raised an eyebrow.

"You're not gonna..." Danny licked his lips. "You're not gonna tell anyone, are you?"

That weird glimmer returned to the fruit loop's eyes. "It's not my place, Little Badger. I'd be quite the hypocrite if I went around 'exposing' your secret."

Danny frowned. "Why?"

Vlad flashed his perfect human teeth. "You'll understand soon enough. Rest well, son" He turned back around and reentered the back of the limo, riding away from a bewildered Danny.

Shaking his head, Danny entered his home, surprised at the lack of parents hovering at the door demanding why he was past curfew. Not wanting to press his luck, he rushed upstairs to his room, shutting the door quietly and ready to sleep until he was 20.

Before he could collapse into bed, however, he noticed the decently sized package waiting for him. It was in a plain black bag, no decals, no logos, nothing. Curious, Danny looked in the bag.

He gasped.

Inside was a stack of skin-colored binders. Proper binders from those websites Danny browsed every so often, unsure on how to ask his parents to buy one. Despite the risks, he had opted to just use ace bandages knowing the abundance they had due to the injuries of ghost fighting. My chest isn't that big. He would reason with himself. I'll be fine for a few hours.

It was never just a few hours, though. As long as Danny existed outside his room or the comfort of Sam or Tucker's room, the bandages were there, squeezing his chest to create the illusion that created enough serotonin to get through the day. Sure, he bound longer than he should, but he was already dead, right? What was the harm?

There was a note at the bottom of the bag, somehow written in familiar snobby fruit-loopy handwriting.

Daniel, I pray that you only use those horrid bandages for their intended purpose from now on. This bag should contain enough garments to last you a while, though with your track record, you'll require more within the year's end. Regardless, I expect you to be safe and take care of yourself properly. I am not above overshadowing you just so you don't permanently damage your ribs by being, as you so eloquently call me, a "fruit loop." I look forward to our next exchange. Vlad Masters

Danny stared at the note, rereading it again and again just to make sure it wasn't a prank and Vlad's pet ghost vultures weren't going to pop out of the bag and capture him for Vlad's gloating Packer-filled pleasure. It seemed too good to be true.

Nothing happened though. The garment stayed where they were and Danny's ghost sense didn't alert him to another threat.

The boy smiled, surprised at the tears forming in his eyes. "Thanks Vlad."

In the morning, if anyone noticed that Danny's shirt didn't seem as rumpled at his chest or that his smile seemed brighter than usual, no one commented. They let the boy go about his day, glancing out the window seemingly staring off into space, his smile never failing for a second.

[beefromanoff]

Project Mockingbird Ch. 6

summary: a little insight into Charlotte's backstory, lots of training.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC

author's note: there are more visuals than I usually use for this chapter, but it's just so fun! let me know what you think and if it's distracting! thanks for reading, xox!

tag list: @bangtanxberm (let me know if you want to be added <3)

chapter list

_________________________________________________________

Six weeks. 

It had been three weeks of living at the compound. The longest she’d lived anywhere, except - no. That doesn’t count. She didn’t live there, she was kept there. 

In the time since her imprisonment, she’d flitted from place to place, from life to life. Being a quick learner, she slipped into different places almost seamlessly. Her first stint in the real world had been in Siberia, not exactly an ideal place to be. She’d traveled across Europe by train-hopping, stowing away, and hitch-hiking before eventually settling in Austria. 

Her mistake was being a little too reckless with her abilities. Though she’d gone relatively unnoticed at first, it was difficult to make it anywhere without money. That’s when she started doing what she did best…fighting. A few underground fights, cash payout. It was a cakewalk. Through a few connections she made in the seedy world of street fighting, she moved up. People wanted to bet on her, knowing they’d win. It fast-tracked her to bigger fights, higher winnings. She’d even given thought to making that her new life, it was something she knew and something she was good at. Something she was made for. 

Until she saw the most beautiful, elegant thing she’d ever witnessed. In her studio apartment, rented for her by the man who’d been making a shitload of money off of her fighting, she sat surfing through channels just like every other night. On the screen, a strong, graceful girl hurtled through the air, landing perfectly on a blue mat. It was the first time she’d ever seen gymnastics. Charlotte couldn’t tear her eyes away. 

The next morning, she’d packed her limited belongings in a bag and headed for the train station. The man called her 27 times when he realized she’d left. At least, that’s how many she counted before she threw the phone out a train window. 

In less than a week, she’d learned everything she could about the gymnastics world, including the fact that the National Championship meet was being held in two weeks in Boston. With no ID, no passport, and no real identity at all - flying internationally wasn’t an option. However, when a cruise ship acrobat had suddenly received an urgent call from her ailing mother and fled to attend to her, Charlotte was there ready to step in. Her “audition” was enough for them to offer her a permanent contract performing on the ship. Politely declining, her only goal was to get to the United States. After ten days of performing for sunburnt tourists on the ship, they docked in the Port of Boston with just enough time to spare. 

Knowing she’d need to incentivize the powers that be to allow her to participate in such a prestigious meet as a nobody, she went back to the drawing board. While thinking of how to come into a large sum of cash in less than four days, she overheard a group of Harvard students talking about how they didn’t know how they would ever pass the BAR exam that weekend. In less than 72 hours, she walked out of the last exam with twenty thousand dollars cash in her bag. Four students, desperate and wealthy, had jumped at her offer to take their exams for five grand each. All it took was a night of leafing through their textbooks with a box of takeout in her lap to have it all memorized. 

With one day left until the meet, she bought the most beautiful leotard she could find. All black, one long sleeve, beautiful jeweled detailing. She watched footage of old Olympic meets, NCAA gymnasts getting perfect scores, anything she could find online. On the day of the championships, she stood waiting by the front door long before sunrise for the first judge to show up. She offered him ten thousand dollars cash to put her name on the roster for the day. He immediately accepted, leaving Charlotte pleasantly surprised. She’d been prepared to offer the full twenty. 

The rest is history. She competed last, swept the meet with perfect scores in every event. Her name was in headlines across the country by the next day, even making it on ESPN.

For a little while, she thought she could have her dream life after all. Thought her abilities could do more than the violence she was bred for. It was beautiful, but it was fleeting. Just before the conclusion of Olympic Trials, she was framed for using performance enhancing drugs and kicked out without ever even being drug tested. She knew gymnastics was a very political sport, and if she could bribe her way in, it was only feasible that someone else could have bribed her out. 

So she went back to fighting. This time in Vegas. After a few months of that, her penthouse suite rented indefinitely with three additional safes full of cash, she decided to switch to gambling. Poker and blackjack were her favorites. She’d managed to keep that going for a few weeks before casinos started to pick up on it, not knowing how seriously they took card counting. In her naive newness to the modern world, she thought that winning would be allowed and rewarded. It wasn’t the case. Not in the casino, not in gymnastics. The second someone caught wind of her unfair advantage, even when they couldn’t begin to explain it, she was kicked out. So her life became a run from one ruse to the next, catapulting to the top of whatever she tried and then forcing herself to abandon it as soon as eyebrows started to raise. 

Until Nat showed up and finally gave her a chance to stop running. 

And that was six weeks ago. 

After breaking her conditioning, she’d found a loose routine. One that didn’t involve lying about who she was or figuring out how to conceal all the cash she had without so much as a drivers’ license to open a bank account. These days were good. She’d wake up early with the team, following a different member each day. Since she didn’t really have a role of her own, she helped out where she could. Sometimes watching and assisting Tony in his lab, sometimes watching Steve train the SHIELD agents. Everyone had something to do, a role here. Except Charlotte. Up until now, it didn’t really bother her. She liked the freedom to drift around the compound, not looking over her shoulder. After about a month, however, she was beginning to feel restless. 

Which is why she asked to train with the SHIELD agents two weeks ago. 

“I thought you didn’t want to be an Avenger?” Nat had raised her eyebrow. 

“I don’t,” Charlotte protested. “But I’m…bored, I guess. I don’t have anything to do here. I feel like I’m in the way. If I can train with them, at least I’ll be prepared, you know…if anything happens and you do need me.” 

“Something tells me you’re already more prepared than even our veteran agents.”

“Please, Nat, I need to do something.” Her eyes were desperate. 

“I’ll talk to Steve.” 

The next week, she’d begun training. Alternating between hand to hand combat, weapons’ training, and intelligence tactics, Charlotte was in Heaven. There was a schedule, a routine, and always more to learn. Although not all of the agents felt the warm fuzzies about having her there. The team had chosen to limit the amount of information given on Charlotte for her own privacy, but her performance had left people with suspicions. 

“Fuck me.” Agent Bronson mumbled under his breath, stepping forward when his name was called. 

Steve frowned. “What was that?” 

“Nothing.” He ran a hand through his hair as he climbed into the sparring ring with Charlotte. “Let’s get this over with.” A few of the other agents snickered from the sidelines, relieved their name wasn’t called to be her partner. 

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. 

“Come on, Rossi, we both know how this is gonna go. Just try to leave me a shred of my masculinity this time.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” She smirked, feet set in a defensive stance. As soon as Agent Bronson began to raise his fists, her eyes tracked every miniscule movement he made. The way his eyes flicked to her feet, debating a leg sweep to take her down. The muscle that tensed in his neck when he prepared to throw a punch. In fractions of a second, her mind cataloged his fighting style, instinctively reacting to dodge and duck all of his attempts. 

Eight, nine…She counted each of the blows that whipped past her. Steve had scolded her at the end of the past week, telling her that if she was going to train with the agents, she had to at least try to stay on their level. She told him she’d give each agent a ten swing head start before she went on the offensive. Ten. 

When his boot swung over her head, Charlotte dropped to the ground, swinging her leg to knock his planted one out from underneath him. His back smacked the mat, making the spectating agents wince. From her crouched position, she interlocked her legs with his, flipping both of their bodies with the momentum. Agent Bronson was flat on his face before he even knew what happened. In another half second, Charlotte had his arms locked behind his back with her knees driving his shoulders down. 

“Fuck.” His voice was muffled as his face pressed into the mat. 

“Alright, let him up.” Steve stepped in. Charlotte climbed off, extending a hand to help him up. 

“I tried to make it quick and painless.” She grinned, whispering in his ear as he stood. 

“Much appreciated.” He grumbled. Of all the agents, Derek Bronson had been one of the more welcoming ones. He had some security from being one of the top performers, but still fell short when it came to Charlotte. 

“Okay, team, what can Agent Bronson improve in his hand-to-hand?” Steve looked over the group, waiting for a response. The agents exchanged glances, shuffling their feet. “Anyone?” 

No one spoke up for fear of being assigned to spar with Charlotte next, to demonstrate what they thought they could do better. After a few moments of awkward silence, Steve spoke again. “Alright, let’s wrap it up. We’ll resume on Monday. Good work today, agents.” He patted Agent Bronson on the back. “You’re a good sport.” 

As the agents filed out of the training room, Charlotte took her time gathering her things. She knew she wouldn’t be invited to wherever the group of agents chose to get dinner and happy hour drinks outside the compound, so she preferred not to see them make the plans at all. 

“You bored yet?” Steve crossed his arms and smiled. 

“Do I look bored?” 

“You looked bored the second day you got here.” 

She laughed. “I’m not, actually. I really enjoy it. I could do this all day.” She winked, using Cap’s favorite line against him. 

“I know you can, that’s the problem. Why don’t you train with us?” He held his hands up defensively. “Just train, that’s all. You don’t have to go off base, but it would be a little more of a challenge than this.” 

Charlotte narrowed her eyes, thinking. “I’ll try it out. But don’t get mad at me when you end up like Bronson.” 

This time, it was Steve who laughed. “I’m a decent sport, too.” 

_____________________

The next morning, Charlotte and Bucky jogged around the lake, having lost track of their laps an hour ago. 

“Good God, do you ever get tired?” He groaned as she ran past the trail that lead back to the compound, beginning another lap. 

“Eventually.” She smirked over her shoulder. “Keep up, old man.” 

He caught back up to her, throwing a dirty look. “We’re the same age.” 

“Semantics.” 

“Alright, one more mile and I’m calling it. I want to do more with my day than run in circles.” 

Charlotte shot him a mischievous look. “Race ya.” 

They took off running back into the woods. 

_____________________

The training room of the Avengers Compound buzzed with anticipation as Charlotte stepped into the ring, her eyes focused, albeit a little arrogant. Though the buzz of her first session with the Avengers’ had made its way around the compound, they elected to keep it a closed session. The group of them was clad in their black training uniforms, meant to mimic the weight and feel of their combat suits. Since Charlotte didn’t have her own yet, she wore another of Natasha’s. Each suit was specially engineered for the one who wore it, meant to accommodate their specific skill set. Nat’s was thinner, lightweight and flexible. Sam’s was double lined to keep him warm in high altitudes. Bucky’s suit had a cutout for his left arm, allowing full range of motion for the prosthetic. 

Sam, with his usual charismatic grin, stepped into the ring first. "I’ll take it easy on you, alright?" he held the ropes open, allowing her to step in. 

"I wouldn’t." Charlotte replied, her eyes glinting with challenge.

The spar commenced. Sam lunged forward, his wings extending to give him an advantage in reach. But before he could react, Charlotte sidestepped, her movements fluid. With a swift motion, she dropped to her knees and slid beneath the reach of his rings, grabbed his arm and twisted, putting him in a painful bind that dropped him to his knees.

"Damn girl," Sam breathed, his eyes wide with surprise.

"T’was a pleasure," Charlotte replied, releasing him and mock curtseying, barely out of breath at all. 

Next up the Black Widow herself. She stepped in the ring with an air of confidence, her eyes sharp and assessing. She must have noticed how Charlotte balked, not wanting to overstep on her first friend, the reason she was here in the first place. "Don’t you dare take it easy on me," Natasha reprimanded.

“If you say so.” Charlotte gave a small smile, preparing for action. Faster than Sam, Nat put her weight back on her left foot, aiming a kick at Charlotte's midsection.

Charlotte spun to her right, evading the kick. Nat was already striking again, punching across her body. Charlotte blocked, dropping her elbow in the crook of Nat’s arm, bending it and bringing them within inches of each other. Both women moving at once, their legs interlocked in the same takedown attempt. They rolled once on the floor, a blur of black neoprene. 

While Natasha was one of the most skilled Avengers in hand-to-hand combat, Charlotte was stronger, pinning the redhead down as they came to a stop. She held her forearm to Nat’s throat, knees pinning her arms down. 

"Impressive," she croaked, a flicker of admiration in her eyes. Charlotte stood and helped Nat to her feet. 

“Right back at you.” Charlotte’s chest rose and fell, breathing hard. 

Then came Peter Parker, all enthusiasm and boyish charm. "You ready for this?" he asked, a grin on his face.

"Are you?" Charlotte replied, smirking.

Attempting to go for the element of surprise, Peter shot a web at her feet, aiming to immobilize her. Having seen his tell, a clenched jaw and eye flick to the place he wanted to shoot the webs, she knew it was coming. Somersaulting forward, she rolled over the web blast and closed the distance between them. Without rising back off the ground, she delivered a swift kick to the back of his legs, buckling them and dropping him to his knees. As soon as he fell, she wrapped her arm around his neck from behind, pulling him onto his back on top of her. Each of her legs hooked around his arms, pinning them to the ground so he was at an impossible angle to web her. He froze, momentarily stunned.

"You're so fast," Peter breathed, eyes wide.

“So I’ve been told.” She untangled her legs from his arms and he climbed to his feet, offering her a hand. 

Finally, it was Steve’s turn, the one who’d convinced her to do this in the first place. "A little more fun than the agents?" he joked.

“I guess you could say that.” Charlotte tensed, knowing he would be the toughest of the three prior. 

The spar was intense, each blow whistling through the air as she dodged it, power oozing from his every movement. Charlotte anticipated Steve's moves with uncanny accuracy, her eyes keenly observant of his every shift in stance. Steve, in turn, pushed her limits, testing her stamina as the clock ticked on. His style was classic, controlled. He relied on speed and strength more than exceptional skill or strategy. 

The round went on longer than the previous three combined, Charlotte getting Steve in a near-pinned position three times, but unable to overpower him enough to keep him down. 

This time, she took a different approach. Steve swung with a hard right hook, and instead of dodging what she knew was coming, she stood her ground and took it. His fist collided with her jaw, blood immediately bursting from her split lip. Her head snapped to the side, but she didn’t lose her footing. 

“Oh, my God, Charlotte, are you okay?” Steve broke his defensive posture, eyes full of guilt. 

Exactly the reaction she wanted. 

In two moves, she swung her leg up, momentum carrying her into the air. Her legs wrapped around his neck and she twisted, throwing him to the ground. He landed flat on his back with a resounding thud, her shin pressed to his neck. 

"You're good," Steve admitted, a grin tugging at his lips. "Although some may say that’s cheating."

"All’s fair in love and war," Charlotte replied, blood dripping off of her face from the busted lip.

The other Avengers, watching with keen interest, broke into applause, their admiration evident. Nat cheered the loudest, recognizing her signature move in the final takedown. 

Bucky stepped forward and approached the ring, offering Charlotte a towel for her bloody face. “That looks like hell.” 

“But kinda badass, right?” She smiled, showing her blood-stained teeth. 

“Something like that.” 

Charlotte, slightly breathless but clearly exhilarated, wiped her face and stood to face Natasha, waiting to give her kudos. 

Bucky turned to Steve with a sly grin, clearly amused. "Well, well, Steve," he teased, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Losing to a girl half your size. What would Coach Tyler say?"

Steve gave an incredulous look. “Our high school wrestling coach, really?” He rolled his eyes. "Why don't you give it a shot, Buck? Let's see how you fare against that girl that’s also half your size." He raised his voice at the end, baiting Charlotte.

Bucky cracked his knuckles, his metal arm glinting under the training room lights. He stepped into the ring, eyeing Charlotte with a playful glint in his eyes. "Hope you're ready for this, sweetheart," he said, his tone mockingly confident.

Charlotte met his challenge with a smirk, her confidence unwavering. "I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Barnes, but I was made for this." 

He grimaced ever so slightly, still not used to the flippant way she spoke about her tortuous past. The team had heard more about HYDRA in her six weeks at the compound than in Bucky’s five years. Clearly she coped with trauma differently than he did.

The two circled each other in the ring, the air crackling with anticipation. Eyes locked on each other, Charlotte raised an eyebrow and licked blood off her lips. Bucky lunged forward, his movements swift and controlled. Charlotte dodged his advances with ease, her lithe form moving as fast as his fists. She countered his strikes, her blows precise and calculated, although they didn’t seem to phase him in the slightest. Their movements were lightning fast, the spectating Avengers’ having trouble tracking the action. It was clear neither of them held back the challenge too tantalizing to back down from. The two didn’t spend a ton of time together outside of group settings, save for the occasional run, but they seemed to get along well. Their shared sense of grim humor was the catalyst for most interactions. 

Bucky tried to catch her off guard, but Charlotte anticipated his every move. He advanced on her, swinging with near lethal force. She executed a series of back handsprings, narrowly avoiding his attacks. The ring seemed to blur with her swift movements, a small nod to her brief stint in the gymnastics world.

"Show-off," Bucky remarked, his admiration evident. 

Charlotte grinned. "Impressed?"

“Don’t flatter yourself.” 

Their spar escalated, each move met with a countermove. Bucky utilized his strength, attempting to overpower her, but Charlotte danced around him, always one step ahead. She was incredibly light on her feet, her agility allowing her to evade his strikes effortlessly. Where he was strong and intense, she was quick and fleeting. She landed more blows, but they barely even registered. He swung harder, but she stayed out of reach.

After almost twenty minutes of intense combat, both combatants found themselves in a deadlock, neither of them able to budge. Flat on his back, Bucky's arm stuck up in the air, his metal hand wrapped around Charlotte’s throat. She perched above his chest, one shin pressed into his throat, the other leg braced on the ground, giving her leverage to push down harder. Their breathing became ragged as neither one conceded, fighting for oxygen as they continued to right each other. 

“Should we -” Steve murmured to Natasha, brows knit together. 

“Let’s see how this plays out.” She narrowed her eyes. “Worst case, they both pass out.” 

Steve frowned but said nothing.

In the ring, Charlotte tasted the salt of sweat mixed with the lingering metallic taste of blood. She grit her teeth and drove her shin further down onto Bucky’s throat. He grunted but didn’t concede, gripping her throat tighter. Sweat had caused a few strands of his dark hair to stick to his forehead. 

The corners of her vision were beginning to go dark, the sounds of the training room sounding like they were fading away. Charlotte saw the blood vessels in Bucky’s eyes reddening and knew he wasn’t far behind her. Their eyes locked, a battle of wills and stubborn pride. Bucky felt her wobble ever so slightly and made a snap decision. 

“Truce?” He croaked. She paused, ever so slightly, debating if she could somehow spin this into a fifth victory of the day before her lack of oxygen overruled.

“Truce.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper through the vice grip he had on her neck. They paused for a second longer, eyes narrow, as if neither one of them trusted the other. Finally, they both released their grip, Charlotte tumbling to the mat beside him. Both chests heaved, their senses flooding back as their oxygen was no longer restricted.

Charlotte looked to her right and grinned. “You called a truce.”

Bucky, still flat on his back beside her, narrowed his eyes. “I’d feel bad choking out the new girl the first time we sparred.” 

“Whatever stops the tears.” She winked.

The other Avengers applauded, climbing into the ring with them. Natasha and Steve pulled them to their feet. “Just when we thought no one was more stubborn than you, Barnes.” 

Bucky chuckled, shooting a glance at Charlotte. "She’s tougher than she looks."

“Wish I could say the same for you.” She raised her eyebrows, eyes fiery. His eyes scanned her face, amused. Just like in the hospital room over a month ago, she swore she saw his eyes flick to her lips for just a split second. 

The team’s enthusiasm drowned out their banter, equal parts shit-talking and compliments flying. Someone handed her a bag of ice for her chin. One one side, Peter was asking her to teach him a back handspring and on the other, Sam was mimicking her doe-eyed look to Steve right after he socked her. All of it was good-natured, all of it was warm. Even with the throbbing in her jaw and pounding in her head from almost passing out, she was happy. 

So much better than the goddamn SHIELD agents. 

[shinebrightruby]

Hello there, 👋

I am Tamer Aldeeb, a dentist from Gaza.

We have suffered greatly from fear, displacement, and the destruction of our home and my clinic, and everything we literally own...

We want to save ourselves from what seems like an inevitable death.

I hope you can take a look at my campaign on the pinned post on my profile ,and help us by donating or sharing our campaign to reach the largest number of supporters.🌹🌹

Our campaign is verified by @90-ghost , @ibtisams , @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

Thanks a lot in advance ❤️❤️❤️

Guys, please help Tamer and his family escape from the genocide happening in Gaza. Even a little can go a long way. Share, like, reblog.

"🚨🚨🚨

Hello,

I am Tamer Al-Deeb, a Palestinian dentist from Gaza.

[Picture of Tamer before the war in his clinic]

I have hesitated and delayed for a long time to write these words and create an account on GoFundMe, but the need has become very urgent due to what I see of death approaching myself and my family.

To begin our story, it is important to introduce my family, who are the core of my existence and the source of my strength during these turbulent times:

We are a family of four suffering for over 9 months from a brutal war that spares neither humans nor stones.

Mother: The Heart of Our Home

My mother embodies generosity and kindness as a devoted homemaker, always prioritizing her family's well-being. Her unwavering love remains our sanctuary amidst the chaos.

Father: The Pillar of Strength

My father, Majed, a dedicated professor, faced the destruction of the university he served. Despite this, his commitment to education and society remains unshaken.

Brother: A Beacon of Healing

My brother, Mohammad, a compassionate doctor, confronts the challenges of healthcare amidst dwindling supplies and occupation brutality, showcasing remarkable dedication to healing.

Tamer: A Dream Deferred

As for myself, Tamer, I was on the verge of a new beginning, with aspirations to further my career in Germany. I had saved thousands of dollars for the mandatory block account to support my stay abroad. However, the conflict has not only shattered my professional dreams but also consumed what didn't burn of my savings, compelling me to fight for my family's survival amidst the escalating costs of basic human necessities.

Donate to Standing with a Family Escaping the Horrors of War in Gaza., organised by Abdallah Ghunaim

The story will be in three languages: English, German, and Ar�� Abdallah Ghunaim needs your support for Standing with a Family Escaping the H

GOFUNDME.COM

[Picture of the family before the war]

I have lost the lives of my dearest friends, neighbors, and much of what I loved.

We have lost our home with all its dreams and memories. A five-floor house completely leveled to the ground!!

[Pictures of the destroyed house]

I lost my clinic, my only source of livelihood.

[picture of the clinic]

My neighborhood .

[picture of the destroyed neighborhood]

Donate to Standing with a Family Escaping the Horrors of War in Gaza., organised by Abdallah Ghunaim

The story will be in three languages: English, German, and Ar… Abdallah Ghunaim needs your support for Standing with a Family Escaping the H

GOFUNDME.COM

Since the beginning of the war, we were forced to flee our home in the north of the Gaza Strip to the supposed safe area in the south. But unfortunately, this was just the beginning. We have been displaced four times in the same southern area, fleeing from death always surrounding us.

Initially, we fled to a school belonging to the UNRWA in the Nuseirat camp until we were forced to move to another area, and the Maghazi camp was the intended destination. Then a UNRWA school, where we were residing in a tent inside, was targeted, killing 7 civilians. We were forced to flee again to a tent in Rafah, but the scarcity of clean water and the spread of epidemics and diseases forced us to flee again to a UNRWA school in the Deir Al-Balah area until now.

UNRWA has been providing refuge to hundreds of displaced families for the past six months at schools that have become vital community hubs, offering shelter to thousands of individuals trapped in the southern region.

Women and children sleep inside classrooms, and the men sleep outside in tents set up in the courtyard. Rainstorms recently have flooded our tents, and it's very difficult to take care of our basic needs.

[Pictures of Tamer after the war in the UNRWA school and his tent]

I am currently volunteering at Al-Aqsa Hospital, assisting in the maxillofacial surgery department. However, a sense of helplessness and despair often overwhelms me. It's hard to put into words the horrors and injuries I witness daily. Surrounded by the shroud of death and the cries of the wounded, I feel powerless. "I want to save you, I want you to live," I often think, "I will do everything in my power to make it happen!" Sadly, many times, they become part of the countless casualties from my homeland. The shortages in food, water, and medical supplies are dire, to the extent that we sometimes perform surgeries without anesthesia. The suffering is unimaginable.

Donate to Standing with a Family Escaping the Horrors of War in Gaza., organised by Abdallah Ghunaim

The story will be in three languages: English, German, and Ar… Abdallah Ghunaim needs your support for Standing with a Family Escaping the H

GOFUNDME.COM

Now we hope to escape death, we hope for the end of the war, we hope to leave the Gaza Strip, and we hope to live a decent life away from bombing, occupation, and destruction.

It has been 9 months of hell and horror. This genocide has been too long to bear, and our mental health and lives are in constant danger. (I can’t describe enough what I have been dealing with daily in the hospitals for the past days. We have reached a point where there is no hope left for us here in Gaza, where we are unfortunately just waiting for our turn to die, and even if there is a ceasefire, the destruction in Gaza is beyond prompt repair

Evacuation fees are expensive, especially now that I have no source of income. Once we can evacuate, your donations will cover our travel expenses and help us get immediate support in Egypt. There will be meal expenses, wardrobe expenses, emergency expenses, etc., but no generous contribution will go to waste.

To cross the “Rafah” Gaza-Egypt Borders, you need to have your name listed in the Crossing List (paid permit), and coordinators in Egypt who have the power to add my family’s names to the list at the border are now asking for anywhere from $6-8,000 per PERSON! They will not add the names until we can prove we have the money ready.

I ask for your help because this is not just my battle alone, but a battle in which we seek your helping hand to survive and preserve our families. Any donation, big or small, will have a huge impact on the lives of my family and me. I am grateful to everyone who donates, and I will remain grateful forever for giving hope and opportunity to me and my family to survive and build a better future.

Thank you for reading my story. For sharing my story with your friends and family. I hope, there is a ceasefire, and we can get the rest and safety we deserve to build our lives all over again. ❤️

Tamer Al-Deeb

Donate to Standing with a Family Escaping the Horrors of War in Gaza., organised by Abdallah Ghunaim

The story will be in three languages: English, German, and Ar… Abdallah Ghunaim needs your support for Standing with a Family Escaping the H

GOFUNDME.COM

Our campaign is vetted by :

- @ibtisams 🫶🇵🇸 : Click here

- @90-ghost 🫶🇵🇸 : Click here

- @el-shab-hussein 🫶🇵🇸 : Click here

- @fairuzfan 🫶🇵🇸 : Click here

- @palestinegenocide 🫶🇵🇸 : Click here

- @el-shab-hussein 🫶🇵🇸& @nabulsi 🫶🇵🇸 on Vetted Gaza Fundraiser List Number [ 191 ] : Click here

@communistchilchuck 🫶🇵🇸

@sar-soor 🫶🇵🇸

@fallahifag 🫶🇵🇸

@plomegranate 🫶🇵🇸

@vakarians-babe 🫶🇵🇸"

[tocitynews]

Georgia Lawmakers To Rein In Aggressive Home Owners Associations After Hearing Homeowner Horror Stories – Atlanta Georgia reporting

You can be up to date on your mortgage, never missed a loan payment, and lose your home to foreclosure by your Homeowners Association.

▶︎ Each month Karyn Gibbons mailed a check for HOA dues on her Gwinnett County condo to the address provided in writing at closing. But she said she never knew when or if it would be cashed.

“It was just random. I mean there’d be two, three, four, five months go in between checks being cashed,” said Gibbons. Then out of the blue she was served with a notice of foreclosure by her Home Owners Association, with late fees and thousands of dollars in attorney fees.

She owed more than $30,000.

“Did you even know you could be foreclosed on by an HOA?” Gray asked Gibbons.

“No. Never heard of it,” Gibbons said.

▶︎ “It’s totally insane. It’s totally insane,” said Tricia Quigley, a former Cherokee County homeowner.

She learned it can happen the hard way.

When Quigley’s Cherokee County home of 18 years was sold at foreclosure on the courthouse steps for about the amount of spare change on her coffee table as Gray interviewed her.

“It went for $3.25,” Quigley said.

She admitted she did not pay two of her biannual homeowner association dues payments totaling $800.

She ended up paying more than $10,000 trying to get right with the HOA but the late fees and attorney fees kept growing.

“I kept thinking I paid all this money; how come it’s not stopping?” Quigley said.

A big reason is attorney costs.

Every email, every inquiry, every attempt to contest, fix, or even pay the overdue bill adds to the bill.

Channel 2 Action News checked foreclosure records and found that ▶︎ just two metro Atlanta law firms that specialize in representing HOAs have filed 279 notices seeking damage and foreclosure notices in just the past three years.

By the time Juliet Graham finally sold her downtown Atlanta condo her HOA bill had reached $250,000.

“You broke us. We’re broke,” Graham said.

“I can’t imagine the mafia having been any worse than what my experience was with this,” Graham said.

State Senator Donzella James, a Democrat who represents South Fulton County, introduced multiple bills this legislative session trying to reign in overly aggressive HOAs.

“People need to be protected and safeguarded against foreclosures,” said State Senator James.

“This is where I resodded the whole thing,” said James McAdoo, a homeowner in South Fulton County.

The only way he could stop his HOA from intercepting his paycheck was by filing for bankruptcy.

“They garnished my wages,” McAdoo said.

He owes $36,000 and counting predominantly because of weeds in his front yard.

They were garnishing $600 from his paycheck every two weeks until he started the bankruptcy process.

“What way do you see out of this?” Gray asked McAdoo.

“Selling my home and just getting out of this neighborhood,” McAdoo said.

That is what Karyn Gibbons did earlier this year even though she still does not believe she did anything wrong.

“I just said enough. I can’t do it anymore,” Gibbons said.

She paid $34,000 in fines, interest, and attorney fees to end the nightmare.

“I don’t know how it’s legal,” Gibbons said.

And it’s not just happening to homeowners. Gray also spoke with a couple who said just because they were renting a home, they were not safe from an HOA.

Jasmine Latson and Jaquan Hunter said their HOA in their South Fulton neighborhood came after them over the condition of their yard.

They ended up hiring a lawn service to take care of everything. But that wasn’t enough for the HOA.

“I was like, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m not doing good enough, I don’t know. So I went ahead and just hired an outside resource that my neighbor used. He’s been pretty consistent and good, but the fines keep happening,” Latson said.

Last year, they received a foreclosure letter saying the home’s owners owed fines and fees of more than $23,000.

“Never, never in a million years would I have thought that I would have would be dealing with this. You know? I pay my rent every month,” Latson said.

First Key Homes, Latson, and Hunter’s landlord negotiated down the fines to about $12,000 to prevent foreclosure. But the company has now passed that bill onto the couple along with an eviction notice.

Latson has fired an attorney and has a court date set for Friday.

Now, these renters are hoping state lawmakers can do something about these aggressive HOAs.

▶︎ A bipartisan bill sponsored by state senator and Rules Committee Chair Matt Brass, a Republican representing Newnan, did pass at the Gold Dome this year to create a study committee examining how to change laws to better protect homeowners.

Brass told Gray the No. 1 topic on the study committee’s agenda will be HOA foreclosures that he said are taking families’ generational wealth.

“To have some outside group come and take that away from me is again, it’s un-American. And we’re not going to stand for it in this state,” Brass said.

Several states have put in place laws limiting HOA foreclosure.

[newgenog]

REVENGE

Notes: This is part three of chapter four. If you're just stumbling across this, and haven't already done so, please stop and start by reading part one of chapter one.

This #Batwoman AU is based on the ABC tv series #Revenge. Ryan Wilder made a choice to be a hero on Batwoman. What happens when she chooses a different path?

Part 3 is short, but remember I've got parts in total for your. A lot happens in this chapter, so it'll be worth it, I promise!

Enjoy this snack.

CHAPTER FOUR - DUPLICITY (Part Three)

Ryan goes after the psychologist who evaluated her after her mom’s death, and determined that she should serve out her time in a youth correctional facility.

JUNE 30TH, 9:00AM, THE HOLD UP

At ten minutes before 9am, Sophie was the first one at the bar, but not for long, because Tyler was right behind her with his laptop bag thrown over his shoulder and a coffee in each hand. 

Sophie: "Morning."

Tyler: "Wasn't sure how you take it, but figured you'd have milk or sugar here, anyway."

When he reaches the bar, he hands her a cup, and she nods in thanks. Her sister and Angelique walk in, next.

Sophie: "We can work in the office. I just need a minute."

Jordan: "Tell me why we're here two hours early, again. And why is there a Crow in our bar?"

Sophie: "If you want more freedom, you're going to have to train Angelique to do more than bartend."

Jordan: "Isn't that your job, boss?"

Sophie: "Actually, my job is to tell you what yours is, and this morning, it's training Angelique. Tyler, let's go."

She spares herself Jordan's eye roll and any forced small talk with Angelique by quickly turning and heading towards the office without checking to make sure Tyler followed her. He said he followed the chain of command…If they were going to work together, he might as well start falling in line now. When she sits behind her desk, he's already begun taking the seat in front of her.

Tyler: "I can't believe you hired that ex-con. And isn't she an addict?"

Sophie: "I didn't, my mom did. And she's recovered. Also, what if we judge the system that failed her instead of the person who fell victim to it. And I thought you weren't here about my restaurant management skills."

Tyler: "Okay, didn't mean to offend your bestie."

Sophie: "Wrong again. I think I'm starting to see why Jacob Kane needs my help if this is your people reading A-game."

Tyler: "Wow! You're really not a morning person are you?"

Sophie: "Tyler…Before we travel beyond the point of return, why don't we discuss what you came for?"

Tyler: "Fine with me. You were so closed to the idea of working with us the other night, we never settled on your terms. I need an agreement and NDA signed before I can show you anything."

Sophie: "I'm five grand a week. Take it or leave it, if you even have the authority to make that decision."

Tyler smirks.

Tyler: "I do."

Sophie: "And since you came to me, we do things my way. I need access to everything. You guys are the ones with corruption, and if I'm going to find out what's going on, it won't be by piecemealing information together because your boss wants to keep secrets. You never know what's relevant, so I need it all. If I ask questions you won't answer, I'm out."

Tyler: "Be reasonable. Even I don't have that much clearance."

Sophie: "And maybe that's why you're failing. I'll sign whatever is required, but get me the clearance, or there's no point."

Tyler takes a beat to think, not breaking eye contact with her. Jacob had a lot of conviction around Sophie Moore, and her reputation from her time with the DOD in National City did precede her. He pulls out a Crows branded folder, opens it and writes something on a sheet of paper. He turns it around so Sophie can read the print. He's written the date and her fee onto a contract on the lines that were left blank. The file already has Jacob Kane's signature on it, and there are other pages behind it."

Tyler: "We're giving you a ten thousand dollar sign on. Boss said to double your rate for that. The NDA is behind it. Sign that, and I'll let you get started looking through what I was already working on while I make a call about your clearance. Worst case, you were paid for your consult today."

Sophie really can't fathom walking away from ten thousand dollars for two hours of her time. She quickly scans the documents, and then grabs a pen and signs. She looks up, and flips her palm out so he can give her whatever he needs reviewed. He drops a flash drive into her hand. 

Tyler: "Password is question everyone. Question mark, capital E for every, the number one."

Sophie gives him a grimace instead of a smile as he turns and walks out of the room, she assumes to call Jacob. She calls out to him before he's out of earshot.

Sophie: "I'm making copies of this."

She puts the drive into her computer and starts scrolling through the files and folders. One folder quickly catches her eye, and compulsion completely wins out over her ethics for a moment. She opens the file, which has very little in it, and prays her semi-photographic memory doesn't let her down this time, as she tries to retain everything her eyes can see.

She hears footsteps approaching and quickly closes out of the file she was reading, just barely resisting the unexplainable urge to delete it. 

~~~~~

12 HOURS LATER 

Mary takes a seat at the bar, big sister sitting again, and Jordan comes over to greet her.

Mary: "You look beat."

Jordan: "Sophie's had us here all day, and she's barely come out of that office."

Mary catches a glimpse of a petite, latinx looking, late-twenty something with a high pony, shuffling around in a hurry behind Jordan and raises a brow.

Mary: "Us? Who's the new girl?"

Jordan: "Her name's Angelique. My mom hired her. She's cool, I guess."

Mary: "Still deciding, eh?"

Jordan cracks a small smile. She's always liked Mary. 

Jordan: "Do you want me to try to get Sophie to come out?"

Mary: "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. She's gotta pee or something eventually, right? And, I can bug you for a while instead."

Jordan laughs while shaking her head no.

Jordan: "I think they taught her how to forget she has a bladder at Point Rock."

Mary: "Even soldiers have to go at some point. I'll bust her out of there eventually if she takes too long."

Jordan: "You are pretty good at convincing her to do stuff. I'll have to remember that."

Mary: "Depending on the ask, I'm happy to lend my services. She doesn't always know what's good for her."

Jordan: "Girl…! You know what? I'll be here all night if I start on that right now. Let me go see what your evil not-twin and her lackeys want to order."

Mary: "I'm following up on that other part when you get back!"

Jordan walks over to the cartoon crew, who seem like characters of themselves, and asks if they want their usual. They barely acknowledge her, because they're being too rowdy. She notices Tatiana is missing and likes them even less. So she takes them basically ignoring her as a yes, and walks off. 

Tatiana is returning from the restroom and catches Jordan heading back behind the bar. So, she takes a seat at it instead of going straight back to the table. When Jordan notices her, she walks over before entering the table's order.

Jordan: "Thought maybe you finally realized there are better people to hang out with than those Lord of the Flies wannabes."

Tatiana: "Throwback! No, I haven't ditched them yet."

Jordan: "Why is that again?"

She shrugs.

Tatiana: "They keep inviting me out, and I don't like to say no."

Jordan lifts her eyebrows, implying, 'if you say so…'

Jordan: "I was just about to put their usual order in. Want anything different?"

Tatiana: "You don't like us, but you have our order memorized?"

Jordan: "I remember everyone's order. It's like remembering a nickname for me. And why'd you group yourself with them like that?"

Tatiana: "Because you never came out again after that one time. Thought maybe I pissed you off too."

Jordan: "Oh, um…my mom got sick the night I went out with you guys, which felt like Karma telling me to chill. So, I've been trying to help out a little more. But you and I are cool. I do wish you had different friends though."

Tatiana: "You could invite me out with your friends sometime."

Jordan: "As soon as I make some, you'll be the first to know." 

Jordan salutes Tatiana, and then turns to finally place the order. It wasn't that Jordan literally had no friends, but she was never the type to go out. She took a year off of school because she thought she should live a little prior to tackling even greater education.

School, running, volunteering, and activism were her life. She liked long distance running because it didn't feel like a team sport; she could be as good at it as she wanted all on her own. And she was smart, but she wasn't a straight A student because she'd rather go to a protest than go to class, so she missed assignments here and there. In fact, one teacher called her "a missed opportunity." 

So while she was accepted everywhere she applied, she wasn't getting any full rides to college. And even though she was more or less a good kid, she was too busy to help out at the restaurant throughout most of high school. All the work she'd been doing around the bar recently wasn't exactly the "living," she imagined she'd be doing though. The temptation to cut loose was sometimes strong, and the wonderland gang almost made it too easy, so she'd given herself one night off of loathing them to see what the hype was about. It didn't end up being worth it.

Mary calls her over after she's done keying the order into the computer. She'd watched the exchange with Tatiana, and is curious.

Mary: "So, are you guys, like, friends now or something?"

Jordan: "I don't know. She's not exactly like them, but she doesn't seem bothered by them, and that makes her questionable."

Mary: "So you inherited that 'save the girl' Moore thing?"

Jordan: "What's that?"

Mary: "Even without the career, Sophie will put herself in harm's way for someone she thinks might be worthy enough to have their back. That's Tatiana for you."

Jordan: "You saying I have some sort of savior complex?"

Mary: "I'm saying you're a good person, but make sure your back is covered when you're busy watching someone else's, too. Not everyone worthy of being saved can or wants to be saved. It might be trying to help them that causes you the most harm."

Jordan nods in understanding, and agreement to think about what Mary said before heading back out to check on her other tables.

~~~~~

To be continued...

Happy Week of Lesbian visibility (wildmoore represents us so well)

All #Batwoman things I do now are in the name of #SaveBatwoman. Go follow all the social handles and support the cause, please.

[local-legal-marketing]

The Importance of Proper Image Sourcing for Your Law Firm Blog

Do You Have Thousands to Spare on a 6-Year-Old Law Firm Blog Post? Imagine this: A simple blog post on your law firm's website, from six years ago with a tiny image copied from the internet ends up costing you thousands of dollars. This isn't a hypothetical situation; it's a harsh reality that many businesses face. If you think you're safe from copyright infringement claims, think again. The recent US Supreme Court ruling in Warner Chappell Music, Inc. v. Nealy proves just how real and expensive these issues can be. Why This Matters to You Whether you're a small business owner, a marketer, or an attorney, copyright infringement can hit you hard. The Supreme Court's decision now allows for larger damages awards for plaintiffs, even if the infringement occurred years ago. This could mean unexpected lawsuits and hefty settlements, all because of a seemingly insignificant image on your website. Our Personal Experience At StudioHOF and Local Legal Marketing, we've always advised our clients to be cautious about using images from the internet without proper copyright checks. Despite our best efforts, we've had three clients over the last decade sued for copyright infringement over minor images in blog posts. Recently, we faced a lawsuit ourselves for a five-year-old blog post featuring a small image of a Google display at a trade show in France. Although the statute of limitations is typically three years, it starts when the infringement is discovered, not when it occurred. This lawsuit cost us thousands of dollars in settlement, money that could have been used to support our business operations. It was a tough lesson, but one that underscores the importance of proper image sourcing. The Supreme Court Ruling On May 9, 2024, the US Supreme Court ruled that there is no three-year limit on monetary damages for timely filed copyright infringement claims. The 6-3 decision in Warner Chappell Music, Inc. v. Nealy opens the doors to larger potential damages awards for plaintiffs and is likely to lead to increased litigation over older infringements. The majority assumed that the “discovery rule,” which means claims accrue when they are discovered, applied to Nealy’s claims. Impact on Your Law Firm Marketing This ruling has far-reaching implications. It essentially means that there is no real statute of limitations for copyright claims if the infringement is discovered later. This puts businesses at significant risk, especially those with older content that may have used images without proper sourcing. How to Protect Your Law Firm From Website Copyright Infringement Claims To safeguard your business against copyright infringement claims, it's essential to: 1. Source Images Correctly Always use images from sources that explicitly grant permission for use. Services like Shutterstock, Getty Images, or any other reputable stock image provider are excellent options. 2. Keep Detailed Records Maintain a record of where each image was sourced from, including the date of download and the licensing agreement. This can be crucial evidence if you ever face a lawsuit. 3. Update Your Content If you cannot verify the source of any image on your website, replace it with a properly sourced image. It's better to be safe than sorry. 4. Educate Your Team Ensure that everyone involved in content creation understands the importance of using properly sourced images and the potential legal ramifications of failing to do so. Our Process At StudioHOF and Local Legal Marketing, we use an online service for image sourcing. We store images by client and can show any attorney at any time where we obtained the images and that there is no copyright issue. We also disclose this information in our privacy center on a page dedicated to media credits. Conclusion Don't let a simple mistake cost you thousands of dollars. Protect your business by sourcing images correctly, keeping detailed records, and updating your content as needed. Remember, it's not just about avoiding lawsuits for copyright infringement on your law firm's website; it's about maintaining the integrity and professionalism of your website, especially if you're in the legal industry. FAQ Q: What is the discovery rule in copyright infringement cases? A: The discovery rule means that the statute of limitations for copyright infringement claims starts when the infringement is discovered, not when it occurred. Q: How can I ensure the images on my website are properly sourced? A: Use reputable stock image services, keep detailed records of image sources, and educate your team on the importance of proper image sourcing. Q: What should I do if I can't verify the source of an image on my website? A: Replace the image with one from a reputable source that grants explicit permission for use. Q: Why is it important for attorneys to adhere to copyright laws? A: Attorneys are held to a higher standard due to their position in the law. Violating copyright laws can damage their professional reputation and credibility. For more information, refer to the original article on Lexology: Warner Chappell Music, Inc. v. Nealy or visit the US Copyright Website. Read the full article

[makesitprecious]

https://www.tumblr.com/moireia/698662464938803200/okay-i-need-to-know-everything-about-alyssa-snow?source=share

I think this is what that last anon was talking about without backing it up. I remember myself that plotline about Robert's interest in Myra Stark from @damn-daemon story and how Myra asks him to spare Lady and how it gives rise to rumour she is his mistress, his weird interest in her due to looking like Lyanna and Cersei's arc. It was really clever and powerful. Alyssa's version just sounds like a straight copy. Myra is my fave OC from GoT ever and I'm pretty sure there is probably tons of wannabes out there but it doesn't make them plagarists. I'm just concerned @moireia is defending herself over the same face claim than the direct plot similarity in that aspect?

Please stop consulting me about this. If you don't like who I follow or reblog, you don't need to follow me. It's nice that your sticking up for your friend, but it's between @/moireia and @/damn-daemon.

D-D spoke themselves on the controversy:

Even if they hadn't, it's not up to anons to message random blogs about the stories. It's up to the writers to work things out between themselves. @/moireia told my herself that she would be happy to talk with @/damn-daemon and address this between them. Should D-D felt it was plagiarized, @moireia considered it within D-D's right and would absolutely be obliging and willing to change her story. It is kind of @/damn-daemon to recognize, as they said, similar stories appear all the time.

In movies it's called Twin Films, not only are they alike but awkwardly put out at the same time (Mirror Mirror / Snow White & The Huntsma.n, and when ATL@ pushed back their released because Avatar (Dis.ney) was being released the same summer (I think even the same month). EVEN CURRENTLY Diz's Snow White is hitting controversy with another company putting out a closer to the fairytale version of SW. The lead actress of Diz's version (who I will not name) is not taking it well and her comments have been very rude.

Here's a great video that wraps it up (I remember when The Prestige and The Illusionist came out! Damn those are both fantastic films. Shock and awe for both! Also my fav actors. And yes, they ARE similar yet vastly different stories when you watch them!)

In the case of G0T: I have seen Jon twin stories before and the same face claim used as a Stark or Snow. Adelaide has been a fan favorite for Lyanna for years (I can't even think of someone so used as her) so her being fc'd as a Snow/Stark or admired as a character that looks "similar to Lyanna" is not surprising.

How story writing, fanfiction and similar plots work:

(I have to - I have an English degree...)

There are about 6 total plots to stories. They boil down to three: man vs. man, man vs. nature and man vs. self. I paid in college to study ancient literature -- thousands of dollars -- for a class only to find out that the historically heralded Virgil's (named one of Rome's GREATEST POET'S EVER) the Aeneid is a literal fanfic insert of Homer's Odyssey. He even wrote a scene in which he MEETS Homer (who he was well known to fan worship). The whole class was up in arms. We could not believe the sh*t we were reading; when fanfiction itself gets such a bad wrap and here's a famous writer in history doing it and getting awards and no one's saying "well he's obviously an outcast and just sheltered/creepy". There's a great textpost floating around where a college student told her professor - who was dumping on fanfiction - how the five books they studied were in fact all fanfiction. Obliterated him. Good for her. And you know what? Good for Virgil. He saw Homer's world and said "I LOVE that man." The Stan of his time. He brought Homer back from the dead just to say hi, fictionally.

Shakespeare ripped off Triston and Isolde for Romeo & Juliet. (Although I don't cater to the idea that he copied someone else's work word for word).

I could name these off all night, including movies, cinema and comics. The fact is some people have the same ideas and some plagarize, but it's "within a realm" or public domain so there's 20 books on the shelf at Barnes & N0ble like Pride & Prejudice & Zombies that people buy and are made into very lucrative movies.

Ultimately, this was between the authors and it has been settled.

In the future, please contact the writers you are worried about or upset with directly. I have no idea why people chose me. If you think it was to warn me, thank you, but I can't control what other people write.

[xtruss]

How a Man in Prison Stole Millions From Billionaires

With smuggled cell phones and a handful of accomplices, Arthur Lee Cofield, Jr., took money from large bank accounts and bought houses, cars, clothes, and gold.

— By Charles Bethea | August 28, 2023

Illustration By Max Guther

Early in 2020, the architect Scott West got a call at his office, in Atlanta, from a prospective client who said that his name was Archie Lee. West designs luxurious houses in a spare, angular style one might call millionaire modern. Lee wanted one. That June, West found an appealing property in Buckhead—an upscale part of North Atlanta that attracts both old money and new—and told Lee it might be a good spot for them to build. Lee arranged for his wife to meet West there.

She arrived in a white Range Rover, wearing Gucci and Prada, and carrying a small dog in her purse. She said her name was Indiana. As she walked around the property, she FaceTimed her husband, then told West that it wasn’t quite what they had in mind, and that he should keep looking. West said that he’d need a retainer. She reached into her purse and pulled out five thousand dollars. “That was a little unusual,” West recalled.

Later that summer, Lee called again, with a new proposal. His wife, he said, had been “driving around Buckhead, and she came across this amazing modern house and thought it had to be a Scott West house.” She was right. The house, on Randall Mill Road, wasn’t quite finished, and it had not been on the market—but Lee told West that he was already buying it, from the owner, for four and a half million dollars. Now he wanted West to redo the landscaping and the outdoor pool, plus some interior finishes. West took another retainer, but he had other clients to attend to, and Lee grew impatient. Eventually, Lee asked West for his money back and began planning the renovations without him.

The renovations were supervised, as far as the neighbors could tell, by Indiana’s father, Eldridge Bennett, a sturdy man who drove an old Jaguar and wore a pair of dog tags around his neck. Neighbors described him as friendly but hard to pin down. He told one that he worked in the concrete business—and that he’d been on the team that killed Osama bin Laden—but gave another a card that identified him as the marketing manager for an accounting company. This neighbor noticed that a wine tower in the house was being stocked with Moët & Chandon (“thousands of bottles, like, twenty feet tall”) and asked who was paying for it all. Bennett told him that the new owner was in California, “working on music stuff.” Like many residents of Randall Mill Road, this neighbor is white. The Bennetts are Black. “It seemed like they didn’t come from money,” the neighbor said, “but they had sure found a lot of it.”

A closing meeting was scheduled for early September at a bank in Alpharetta, north of the city. By then, Lee and the Bennetts had made three down payments on the house, totalling seven hundred thousand dollars, most of which Indiana and Eldridge had delivered in rubber-banded bundles of cash. Lee told the seller’s attorney that they would deliver the rest—about three and a half million dollars—in similar fashion, at the closing. He couldn’t be there himself, he said, because he was still busy in California. (Lee, the lawyer recalled, said that he “represented a variety of entertainers and got paid in a variety of ways,” and also that he’d made money in Bitcoin.)

Because so much cash was going to be exchanged, the bank arranged for the closing to be held in its kitchen and break room, which offered some privacy. The bank also asked a local cop to be present. At the appointed time, Eldridge and a younger man carried several black duffelbags into the room and began handing stacks of bills to a bank employee, who spent the next three and a half hours counting them all. Afterward, on the phone, Lee asked the seller to complete a few punch items on the property. When the seller got to the house, he noticed that the door to a large safe that he’d installed—and which he’d left open—was locked, and that the combination had already been changed.

A few weeks after the close, Lee sent Scott West another e-mail. “I’m buying land in a month or so to start planning on designing a house 100% to my liking,” he wrote. “I want to give you the ball and let you run the entire project. Let you go insane on your ideas. I’m thinking of a seven million dollar budget just for the house, not including the landscaping.” He suggested that the two of them “become a team.” West replied, as gently as he could, that he was too busy. A week before, he’d received a call from a federal agent, who asked him if he knew a man named Arthur Cofield. West said that he did not, and the agent began rattling off names. “He kept going through aliases until he said ‘Archie Lee,’ ” West told me. Arthur Lee Cofield, Jr., the agent said, resided in a maximum-security prison in Georgia. He had been incarcerated for more than a decade.

Arthur Cofield probably stole more money from behind bars than any inmate in American history. His methods were fairly straightforward, if distinctly contemporary: using cell phones that he’d had smuggled into prison, and relying on a network of people on the outside, he accessed the bank accounts of the very wealthy, then used their money to make large purchases—often of gold, which he’d typically have shipped to Atlanta, where it was picked up by his accomplices. Some of that gold he seems to have converted to cash: he and his associates bought cars, houses, and clothes, and they flaunted all of it on social media. (At one point, Cofield wrote on Instagram, “Making millions from bed.”) By the time Cofield was charged—with identity theft and money laundering, among other crimes—he had likely stolen at least fifteen million dollars. “I don’t know of anything that’s ever happened in an institutional setting of this magnitude,” Brenda Smith, a law professor at American University who has researched crime in prison, told me. Cofield, she said, was “something of an innovator.”

He didn’t arrive in prison as a man with a lot of connections or a history of fraud. He didn’t have much history at all—he was just sixteen. He had grown up in East Point, a poor and predominantly Black suburb southeast of Atlanta. A number of gangs operate there, but, if Cofield belonged to one back then, no one seems to have noticed. When he was a kid, dirt bikes were his passion. He began riding at a motocross track northwest of the city when he was little; at eight, he finished fourth at the Amateur National Motocross Championship, in Tennessee. A friend from his riding days told me that Cofield stuck out among the motocross crowd for two reasons: “He was African American, and he was freaking badass.” Cofield told the friend that he was called racial slurs by fans and other racers. “Nasty stuff,” the friend said. “It almost fuelled the fire.”

Competing in motocross is expensive, and Cofield’s father, who mostly made his living hanging drywall, converted a box truck into a trailer, with living quarters, so that the family could get Arthur to the big races. At one of those races, when Cofield was about fourteen, a gate collector noticed that more than eight thousand dollars had gone missing from the till, and told the track’s operators that Cofield had been lingering nearby when it vanished. “We went into Arthur’s mobile home and he had the money hidden in there,” a member of the family who owned the track told me. The family was fond of Cofield and his father, and declined to press charges, but it was the last time that they saw the Cofields at a race. Soon, Cofield began to “slack off from racing,” his friend said, adding, “That’s when everything happened.”

In October, 2007, when Cofield was sixteen, he brought a gun into a bank in Douglasville, just west of Atlanta, and demanded that the tellers give him all the money they had. He walked out with twenty-six hundred dollars and headed for a stolen station wagon, where a friend of his older brother’s was behind the wheel. A smoke-and-dye pack hidden in a stack of bills exploded as he got into the car; the young men crashed soon after getting on the road. They ran but didn’t get far. The driver was sentenced to ten years and was paroled after three. Cofield got a fourteen-year prison sentence and ended up in a maximum-security facility in middle Georgia.

It took a few years and a couple of prison transfers before he became a more successful thief. Early in 2010, Cofield sustained cuts on his arm from a razor blade; according to a prison report, he initially told a guard that he’d cut himself shaving. But he later handwrote a carefully argued lawsuit alleging that he’d been attacked by a fellow-inmate and that prison staff had not only failed to intervene but knowingly allowed the assault to take place. Citing the damage to his motocross career, which he slightly embellished, he demanded more than a million dollars. A judge dismissed the suit on procedural grounds. Cofield was sent to another prison. Later that year, he was mailed a package containing bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Inside each bottle was a cell phone.

As smartphones have become more powerful and more ubiquitous, the barrier between life in prison and life on the outside has become more porous. Thousands of phones are confiscated from Georgia prisons every year, according to the state’s Department of Corrections. Prison guards are generally not well paid, and they are often bribed to assist in the smuggling or simply to look the other way. Most people in prison use phones in innocuous ways: to talk to loved ones, for instance—prison phone services are notoriously expensive—and to keep up with what’s going on in the world. In 2010, inmates at seven Georgia prisons used smuggled cell phones to organize a protest for better living conditions. But phones are also used to carry out drug dealing and other crimes. Authorities have recognized this problem for more than a decade now, but the phones keep coming.

In the years that followed Cofield’s first prison transfer, he was found with phones in his soapbox, taped around his waist, and inside his undershorts. Many more seem to have gone undiscovered. On one occasion, he told a guard seizing yet another phone, “I don’t give a fuck about that phone. I’ve had hundreds of phones.”

In 2014, he was transferred again, to Telfair State Prison, in south Georgia. There he met a man named Devinchio Rogers, who was serving a seven-year sentence for manslaughter. Rogers grew up not far from Cofield, but he was a few years older, and flashier. Cofield is stocky and gruff—he was lean and muscular in his motocross days but put on weight in prison. Rogers was tall and stylish. He shared Cofield’s knack for getting cell phones behind bars. He’d attained some brief local notoriety in 2011, when he began tweeting from inside Fulton County Jail. (His tweets were “littered with foul language and pictures of prison food, something that appears to be marijuana and himself,” a local TV station reported.)

Cofield and Rogers started a crew, which they called yap, for Young and Paid. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of similar crews in Atlanta, many with three-letter names, most of them small-time. They are typically founded in prisons or on particular city blocks. Some are involved in the drug trade; some flaunt a connection to nationally known gangs, such as the Bloods; some aspire to be movers and shakers in hip-hop. The most famous of these crews is Y.S.L., which was allegedly co-founded by the rapper Young Thug, whose real name is Jeffery Williams. Like Cofield, Williams, who is Cofield’s age, grew up in East Point. He and more than two dozen other alleged members of Y.S.L. are currently facing rico charges in Fulton County. They stand accused of crimes that range from drug dealing to murder. (Williams, who started a record label also called Y.S.L., has denied involvement in criminal activity.)

Cofield and Rogers adopted aliases, like hip-hop m.c.s, incorporating the name of their crew. Rogers went by yap Football, or just Ball. Cofield called himself yap Lavish. In March, 2017, they filed paperwork to establish yap Entertainment as a limited-liability partnership in the state of Georgia. yap Entertainment, according to its filing, planned to provide “agents and managers for artists, athletes, entertainers, and other public figures.” Within about a year of the partnership’s formal creation, three hundred thousand dollars went missing from a bank account in Alabama.

The Alabama Theft was probably not Cofield’s first big score, but it is the earliest, from his prison career, of which he has been formally accused. The target was a wealthy doctor. Cofield got hold of the doctor’s personal information, logged in to the doctor’s bank account, used money from the account to buy gold, and had the gold shipped to a UPS center near Atlanta, where someone else picked it up for him. According to a detective who has investigated Cofield and Rogers, the Secret Service, during the previous several months, had noticed a string of similar thefts, and began making inquiries. (The agency, which has jurisdiction over some federal financial crimes, declined to comment.) Eventually, the agency opened an investigation, and dubbed the case Gold Rush.

The year that followed, 2018, was a big one for Cofield and Rogers. They were, evidently, beginning to bring in a lot of money, and they also seem to have been actively recruiting associates. This recruitment could allegedly be quite direct. A young woman named Selena Holmes was approached by a friend, who, according to Holmes’s former lawyer, said, “Look, there’s these guys in prison. They’re really rich. And all you got to do is talk to them. They’ll look out for you.” A few days later, the lawyer said, Cofield called Holmes on the phone. She was nineteen and had grown up poor on the west side of Atlanta. (Cofield may have known her through a family connection.) She had dropped out of high school after becoming pregnant and was working at Panera. Shortly after Cofield called, according to the detective, a man named Keonte Melton found her outside work and handed her fifteen thousand dollars. (Melton could not be reached for comment.)

Soon, Holmes and Cofield were spending hours together on the phone. She got a yap tattoo and people began calling her yap Missus—the queen to Cofield’s king. He bought her a Mercedes-Benz and rented a penthouse apartment for her in Buckhead. He also flew her first class to Los Angeles, to shop on Rodeo Drive, where she bought a three-thousand-dollar purse. (The detective believes that Holmes was running yap-related errands.)

In May, 2018, a video was posted to YouTube of a pool party that yap threw at a “secret location” that looks a lot like a Buckhead mansion. The party was hosted by an aspiring rapper, Anteria Gordon, who had adopted the name yap Moncho. Gordon, in the front seat of a Bentley, gives a shout-out to Lavish. “Nobody doing it bigger than us,” he says later, amid drinking and twerking revellers. Around this time, Gordon released a single called “Lavish,” mostly about spending large amounts of money (“two hundred thousand, blow it on a stripper”), and gave an interview to the YouTube channel Hood Affairs, sitting in an ornate gold chair at the same mansion where the party was held. Wearing a diamond chain that spelled “yap,” Gordon shows his interviewer around the mansion, praising Missus and thanking Lavish, seeming to call him “the most richest motherfucker in the city.”

In June, Rogers was released from prison, and quickly began throwing money around, according to a person who knew him before he was incarcerated. “He bought four hundred and thirty-six pairs of Reeboks,” this person told me. “He had a line around Greenbriar Mall—people lined up to get those shoes that he paid for. He was giving them to kids.” This person also saw pictures of Rogers “standing on top of Mercedes-Benz trucks” and “living in penthouses.” (In one of them, there was a shark tank.) A lawyer for Rogers told me, “I’ve seen the photos, but he gets paid a lot because he’s attractive and he does social-media posts wearing different clothes and things of that nature. I don’t know if it’s called ‘influencing,’ but he’s a fashionista type.” As for yap, the lawyer said, “their business did sign people and do social media and marketing—club things—and that’s what our client Mr. Rogers is good at.”

The detective who has investigated Cofield and Rogers believes that the two men were both building a brand and enlisting accomplices—mostly young men who had spent time in prison, plus a handful of young women with whom one of them had been romantically involved. The detective pointed, for example, to an attempted theft for which neither man was charged. A woman who worked at Wells Fargo, in Atlanta—and who had, according to the detective, exchanged “affectionate text messages” with Rogers—gave Keonte Melton access to a large account at the bank in August, 2018. (Melton is the man who allegedly delivered Cofield’s cash to Selena Holmes.) The account belonged to one of the family businesses of John Portman, a famous Atlanta architect and developer who had died several months before. Melton tried to withdraw eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars; another Wells Fargo employee called two of the account’s signatories, who said that they had no idea who this withdrawer was. Melton was charged with an attempt to commit a felony; he pleaded guilty and is on probation.

The woman left Wells Fargo for another bank, then went into real estate. (She has also appeared in multiple episodes of the reality show “Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta.”) When I reached her on the phone, she denied knowing any of the men involved. She does follow Rogers on Instagram; on her own account, she often posts pictures of herself in Lamborghinis or wearing diamond-encrusted watches, not only in Atlanta but in places like Dubai and Aruba. She was questioned by police in connection with the Wells Fargo theft but was never charged. (As part of Melton’s plea deal, he was ordered not to have contact with her.) “It was like a big ring that all of them were part of,” the detective said.

In the summer of 2018, Cofield heard that Selena Holmes was growing close to a man she had met named Antoris Young. Cofield, perhaps flexing his growing power and resources, allegedly hired someone to kill him. The hit man, Teontre Crowley, tailed Young in a car; Rogers and Holmes followed in a separate vehicle so that Holmes could I.D. the target. Prosecutors say that the pair was on the phone with Cofield so he could be sure that the hit was carried out. Crowley shot Young around ten times outside a recording studio. Young survived but was paralyzed from the waist down.

Days later, according to the detective, Rogers threw a birthday party for Cofield at Club Crucial, on Atlanta’s west side. “They had ‘Lavish’ on the club’s marquee,” the detective told me. Within months, Holmes, Rogers, and Crowley had been arrested for the shooting. All pleaded guilty and are now in prison. (Cofield was also charged, and pleaded not guilty; the case against him is ongoing.) A lawyer for Holmes maintained that she had been forced at gunpoint to help Crowley identify Young; Holmes later filed to withdraw her guilty plea but was denied. Last summer, at a hearing related to her sentence, an investigator said, of Cofield, “He finds these women from the outside and kind of pretends like he owns them from the inside, using money and things like that, and they enjoy the life style, so they go along with it. And they’re O.K. with it, as long as the money is good.”

“I Was a Pretty Girl in a Strip Club,” Eliayah Bennett, who goes by Indiana professionally, told me recently. “I wouldn’t say that I’m, like, a million-followers type of girl. But people know me. I danced for big people and stuff like that.” I had asked her how she and Cofield met. The full story would “probably take about two hours,” she said. I asked for the CliffsNotes. “Somebody seen my picture,” she said. “I don’t know who it was. And people was trying to find me. I was out of town. I think I was dancing in Miami or something, because, in the summer, Georgia gets slow. So one of my homegirls, they would have, like, stripper parties and I was invited to one. And that was it.” I waited for more. “It’s a real long story,” she said.

The detective offered me a shorter version: Cofield “wanted Selena to recruit a stripper and for them to have a girl-on-girl encounter in front of him on FaceTime,” the detective said, explaining that this detail came from Holmes. “That’s how Eliayah got involved. Then she and Cofield developed a relationship behind Selena’s back.”

Bennett told me that she and Holmes are very different. She said she comes from a more middle-class background and went to a good school—a charter school just north of the city. But, like Holmes, she began to live more fabulously after coming into Cofield’s orbit. She moved into a Buckhead home with separate floors for her mother and her father; she bought two Range Rovers and a four-hundred-thousand-dollar Rolls-Royce S.U.V.; she got breast implants and a nose job, though she said she funded those procedures herself. (“I’ve always had my own before Arthur,” she told me.) “When I talk to him, really it’s just to see me naked,” she told an investigator, downplaying the role of money in their relationship. “And that’s about it. And we’ll watch movies together.” They liked true crime, she told me.

She and Cofield were married, online, in July, 2019. Afterward, she was approved to handle his finances. As his spouse, she received another privilege: she could no longer be compelled to testify against him. Meanwhile, Cofield’s reputation within the prison system continued to grow. A month after his marriage, Cofield was moved temporarily to Fulton County Jail to attend a court hearing related to the Antoris Young shooting. “The jail was buzzing,” a person familiar with the case told me. “You could hear it on calls from inmates using the jail phone system: ‘That guy Lavish is here!’ ”

Cofield was transferred to the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison and later placed in solitary confinement in its Special Management Unit—a notorious facility that had been described by a social psychologist, a few years earlier, as “one of the harshest and most draconian such facilities I have seen in operation anywhere in the country.” There, he was kept alone for around twenty-three hours a day. But every prison has guards, and smuggling happens at all of them. Jose Morales was the warden of the prison when Cofield arrived. He described him as an unusual inmate. “The others were boisterous, loud, violent,” he told me. “Cofield was the opposite of that. Very cordial, very respectful.” Morales thought he was up to something.

In September, 2019, the Secret Service was contacted by Fidelity Bank. Someone had breached a large account belonging to Nicole Wertheim, the wife of the billionaire investor Herbert Wertheim. This person had used more than two million dollars from the account to purchase gold coins and had then had the coins shipped to a suburb near the Atlanta airport. Investigators traced the I.P. addresses of devices that had accessed the account: one led to an apartment building in Buckhead, and another led to a Verizon cell tower near the Special Management Unit of the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison.

Investigators informed Georgia’s Department of Corrections, which began looking for the second device. In November, guards at the Special Management Unit found two phones on Cofield, including one hidden in the rolls of his stomach. They gave the phones to prison investigators, who matched one of them to the Wertheim breach. The phone had a virtual private network that could mask its user’s identity by routing its connection through a private server, and it had a free app called TextNow, which is marketed as a provider of affordable phone service but can be used to disguise the number that a call or text is coming from. It also had several saved Yahoo and Gmail accounts that incorporated, presumably for the purposes of impersonation, the names of some of the richest men in the country, including the real-estate tycoon Sam Zell, the media mogul Sumner Redstone, the hair-care entrepreneur John Paul DeJoria, the businessman Thomas Secunda, and multiple founders of the global investment firm the Carlyle Group.

Cofield had apparently narrowed his targets to aging billionaires: men who were rich enough to not notice if millions went missing—and old enough, perhaps, not to have set up personal online-banking accounts. Secunda, who is in his late sixties, was the youngest person on the list. Two men on the list have since died: Redstone, less than a year later, at ninety-seven, and Zell, at the age of eighty-one, this past May. Before Redstone died, his Fidelity account was breached twice. (Secunda and the founders of the Carlyle Group declined to comment for this story; DeJoria told me that he hadn’t heard anything about Cofield’s scheme.)

Having identified a likely suspect in Georgia, the Secret Service turned the case over to Scott McAfee, an Assistant U.S. Attorney in the state’s Northern District. In August, 2020, one of McAfee’s investigators was contacted by the brokerage firm Charles Schwab. Two people, working in tandem, had successfully impersonated the ninety-five-year-old clothier and Hollywood producer Sidney Kimmel and his wife, Caroline Davis. Kimmel, who had recently executive-produced “Crazy Rich Asians,” reportedly had a net worth of around one and a half billion dollars, and had several accounts with Schwab. Cofield created an online brokerage account in Kimmel’s name, then called Schwab, claiming to be Kimmel, in order to connect the new account to a checking account. Over the phone, he provided Kimmel’s Social Security number, his mother’s maiden name, his date of birth, and home address. Three days after that, someone claiming to be Kimmel’s wife called Schwab and asked about making a wire transfer. Half an hour later, Cofield submitted a signed form authorizing such a transfer. The transfer was for eleven million dollars. It was used to purchase gold coins.

An investigator who has listened to these phone calls told me that the vocal impersonations were not sophisticated. “It was a bad old man’s voice,” he said, of Cofield’s Kimmel. “Just gravelly.” Even so, he said, the representative from Schwab was deferential. “I don’t know if they checked every single security-protocol box before transferring that money,” the investigator said. “It really seemed, like, ‘Yes, Mr. Kimmel. Yes, sir.’ ” Schwab, at the phony Kimmel’s behest, wired funds to a company called Money Metals Exchange L.L.C., in Idaho. This company was also deferential, the investigator told me: “They’re, like, ‘Folks, I’ve researched this Sidney Kimmel guy, this could be a really good client. Let’s give him the V.I.P. treatment! Let’s get him that gold!’ ” (When I asked the company’s director, on the phone, for comment, he hung up.)

Illustration By Max Guther

Cofield, still impersonating Kimmel, contacted security and logistics firms capable of transporting highly valuable assets from Idaho to Atlanta; that job was ultimately subcontracted to a man named Michael Blake. One night in June, just after 2 a.m., Blake landed on a private runway in Atlanta, during a heavy storm, with millions in gold coins in tow. He was met by two men in a Jeep Cherokee. The car was a rental, with Florida plates, which struck Blake as a little off. The driver showed him a license, and Blake loaded the gold into the car. He asked for a ride to a nearby hotel, due to the late hour and the weather, but the driver said no.

After the handoff, Cofield texted Blake with instructions to delete any photos that he had taken of the car or the driver’s license—and to send him a screenshot of his photo library and his deleted-files folder as proof. Blake, who had Googled Kimmel, thought this was an odd request to get, in the middle of the night, from a ninetysomething-year-old man. He complied, but he also kept a screenshot of the folder with the photos for himself.

Later, Cofield initiated another Schwab transfer, of eight and a half million dollars, again for the purchase of gold. But, before the transfer was complete, he cancelled the order and asked Schwab for a credit-line increase instead. At that point, a Schwab employee contacted a lawyer for Kimmel, who told Schwab that neither he nor his client had requested the transfer, or the previous one. (Kimmel’s lawyer did not respond to requests for comment. Last fall, he told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that neither he nor Kimmel had knowledge of anything related to the theft, adding, “Mr. Kimmel was unaffected by whatever occurred.” According to the investigator, the Kimmel breach alone doubled Schwab’s average annual loss from fraud. Schwab, which reimbursed Kimmel, declined to comment on this figure.)

In the meantime, guards at Cofield’s prison found two more phones in his cell in the S.M.U. and gave them to a prison forensics unit. The timing was fortunate: Cofield had been using the TextNow app, on which messages can permanently expire, to communicate with Money Metals Exchange and with someone listed in the phone as Yum. Prosecutors believe that Yum is a bank employee who provided Cofield with a driver’s license and a utility bill that belonged to Kimmel. Federal investigators also contacted Michael Blake, who sent them his screenshot of the I.D. that the driver in the Jeep Cherokee had shown him. Investigators enlarged the screenshot and determined that the photograph on the I.D. was of Eldridge Bennett.

Cofield Was Indicted in December, 2020, and charged with aggravated identity theft, conspiracy to commit bank fraud, money laundering, and conspiracy to commit money laundering. His lawyer, a prominent Atlanta attorney named Steven Sadow, declined to comment. (Sadow currently represents Donald Trump in the ex-President’s election-interference case in Georgia; Cofield’s legal team also includes Drew Findling, who represented Trump until Trump replaced him with Sadow, in late August.) Eldridge and Eliayah Bennett were indicted on conspiracy and money-laundering charges.

Soon afterward, a resident of Randall Mill Road was working at his kitchen table when he looked out the window. “Up comes a white locksmith truck followed by maybe ten black unmarked S.U.V.s,” he said. Armed federal agents circled the house. “I’m, like, ‘This ain’t good.’ It was right out of the movies.” The agents couldn’t get the house’s large safe open; McAfee, the Assistant U.S. Attorney, became convinced that that’s where the gold was. He tried, unsuccessfully, to subpoena the man who designed the safe, in Arizona. (“He was, like, ‘You’re not the real government,’ ” McAfee told me.) A team of six safecrackers finally got it open. It was empty. The vast majority of the gold that Cofield is known to have purchased with stolen money has never been accounted for. Laundering tens of millions of dollars in gold coins is not easy—it often requires dealing with transnational organizations capable of smuggling the gold out of the country.

Agents also searched the Bennetts’ place, seizing electronic devices, a Range Rover, a firearm, three hundred thousand dollars, and six Buffalo Tribute Proof gold coins, which were found on Eliayah’s desk. Cofield entrusted his wife with much of what he stole, and text messages between the two, discovered by investigators, suggest that this strained their relationship: on several occasions, Cofield seems to have become convinced that Bennett was going to steal, in turn, from him. “I get why u mad,” Bennett wrote at one point. “Cause U think I’ll steal a house from u. Like I don’t steal money from u I had Millions in my house for months. I know u love that house probably more than me I’ll never do that to u.”

“Phones were the key to his success,” Scott McAfee said, of Cofield, “but also his downfall. For me, it’s all there.”

A Few Months after Cofield was indicted, McAfee was appointed inspector general of Georgia. He handed the case off to another U.S. Attorney, who left the post after two years and then handed the case off yet again. McAfee’s successors both declined to comment for this story. (McAfee has since become a judge in Fulton County’s Superior Court. In August, he was appointed to oversee Donald Trump’s election-interference trial.)

In March, I got a call from Eliayah Bennett, who told me that she had Cofield on the other line. She then patched him through. Calmly and firmly, with a cool Georgia drawl, he told me that he was going to take a plea on the fraud and conspiracy charges. With Bennett listening in, the only matter he seemed intent on discussing, apart from the plea, was his connection to Selena Holmes, which he insisted did not exist. “In the story, if you don’t mind, don’t put this lady’s name anywhere close to mine, because she don’t know me,” he said.

The detective who investigated Cofield and Rogers described listening to hundreds of calls that Holmes made from a county-jail phone—many of which, the detective said, were obviously with Cofield. “He’d disguise his voice like he was an old lady when they talked, the same way he disguised it as an old man when he called the banks to take over the accounts. It was crazy Madea-type stuff,” the detective added, referring to the grandmother played, in several movies, by Atlanta’s own Tyler Perry. “They’d usually try to talk in code, and she’d slip up every now and then. When she’d get really angry, she’d write e-mails saying she was gonna tell everything that happened.”

Several people I spoke to expressed a fear that Cofield could try to retaliate against anyone whom he perceives to be working against him. He has, after all, been charged with ordering the murder of one person, and he committed most of his crimes while detained in maximum-security prisons—it’s not clear what authorities can do to make things more difficult for him than they are. Earlier this year, Georgia’s attorney general, Chris Carr, announced that he and twenty-one other attorneys general were pushing Congress to pass a law allowing states to jam phone reception in correctional facilities, which is forbidden as a result of the Communications Act of 1934. Todd Clear, a criminal-justice professor at Rutgers, told me that the better approach would be to allow people in prison to have cell phones, and to closely monitor their use. This, he noted, would also make prison life more humane.

A month after I spoke with Cofield, I attended his plea hearing, at a downtown courthouse. His high-priced lawyers made small talk about their ties while he hunched between them in his jumpsuit. He has a large tattoo on his neck, which was partly visible: “Laugh now, cry later,” it reads, alongside drawings of clowns.

After he pleaded guilty, lawyers for the government laid out the agreement that they had reached with him: a hundred and fifty-one months for fraud committed in Georgia and Alabama. The judge asked Cofield to explain what he’d done.

“What did I do,” he began. He took a deep breath. Without visible emotion, he described gaining access to bank accounts belonging to Sidney Kimmel and to the doctor in Alabama, using their funds to buy gold coins, and shipping the coins to Atlanta. “I got possession of it,” he started to say, when one of his attorneys cut him off. “I think that’s enough,” the lawyer said. The judge accepted this, then shook his head. “If you would have taken the ability and knowledge you have and put it towards something that was legal and right—” he said, in Cofield’s direction.

“I would be investing my money with him,” one of the lawyers said.

Eliayah Bennett, who has not yet entered a plea in her case, sat a few rows behind Cofield in the gallery. (Her father, who declined to comment for this story, has pleaded guilty and is awaiting sentencing.) Cofield smiled at her before a U.S. marshal escorted him out of the room. Later, the detective told me that another phone had recently been found in Cofield’s cell, and that he’d been Googling “U.S. marshal uniforms.” The detective suspected that he was trying to formulate an escape—that he wanted to get back to the free world, where he hasn’t set foot since he was sixteen. Devinchio Rogers is now in Ware State Prison, in south Georgia. His lawyer told me that, in July, he was stabbed multiple times. He is currently recovering, the lawyer said.

On one of my last visits to the house on Randall Mill Road, I saw that weeds had grown in the yard and around the unfinished pool. “Someone smashed a basement window,” a neighbor told me. “It’s attracted lots of activity and gawkers.” Neighbors said that they had also seen Eliayah Bennett around, late last year, in a Mercedes. “She was taking everything that wasn’t screwed down to the ground,” one said (including the Moëts). Bennett has opened a business in a North Atlanta strip mall offering facials and ombré brows. When I asked her on the phone whether she’d been by the house, she said, “I don’t want to talk about that.” Earlier this year, the government seized the property and put it on the market for around two and a half million dollars. It went under contract quickly. The new owner is an ophthalmologist. Proceeds will go to Cofield’s victims.

When I visited, it had not yet sold. As I stood outside, a black Lamborghini pulled up and parked nearby. Two well-dressed young men got out and ventured onto the property. When they returned to the street, one of them said to me, “The guy who built this house is in prison. Have you walked up on it? It’s nice.” This man turned out to be a real music producer, with the stage name of BricksDaMane. He mentioned his work with Drake, Future, and Lil Baby. (The Lamborghini was his.) I told him that I’d spoken with the architect who designed the house, and the producer asked me for his number. He wanted to chat with him, he said. He had some ideas for how it might be finished. ♦

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: Larceny and Old Lace

Sophia’s latest boyfriend claims to be a former mob enforcer (and present bank robber). Blanche and Dorothy read Rose’s diary and don’t like what it contains.

Picture It...

Dorothy returns home early from an appointment and catches Sophia taking lemonade to her latest boyfriend, Rocco, whom she met in a police line-up. Dorothy says Rocco is bad news and follows her out onto the lanai. Rocco makes veiled references to mob dealings and claims to have known the likes of Frank Nitti, Dutch Schultz and Al Capone. Dorothy shuts down their strip poker game and leaves, while Sophia complains about her to Rocco. Dorothy storms into the kitchen and vents to Rose that she thinks Rocco is a bad influence on Sophia.

SOPHIA: What the hell are you doing home? I thought you had a 4 o’clock beauty parlor appointment? DOROTHY: I did. They finished with me early. SOPHIA: On Christie Brinkley, they can finish early. You need every minute they can spare.

Blanche enters and almost immediately insults Rose, and Rose leaves. Dorothy asks Blanche what’s wrong, and Blanche produces a book: Rose’s diary. She claimed that the lock “popped off” while it sat on the table one day (which she demonstrates with a knife). She reads out a passage that mentions “living with these two pigs” and how annoying her roommates are. Dorothy scolds Blanche, saying it’s an invasion of Rose’s privacy to read her diary. Blanche drops the diary on the table on the way out of the kitchen. It takes Dorothy three seconds to begin frantically prying open the diary, and Blanche catches her.

Sometime later, Blanche is attempting to pry the diary open again with pliers, despite her and Dorothy saying they wouldn’t read any more of it. Sophia and Rocco enter with a shopping cart full of stuff, including a stuffed deer head. Sophia offered to store it in her room to keep it safe from robbery. Rose enters and notices her diary and the pliers. It takes her a few seconds to catch on, but when she realizes the other Girls read her diary, she’s furious. She tells them she’s no longer their friend and storms out.

SOPHIA: Alright, it’s late and I’m tired, so listen up. DOROTHY: Oh Ma, you gonna tell us a story? SOPHIA: No, I’m gonna do shadow puppets. See, an elephant eating a peanut -- happy?

That night, Dorothy enters Sophia’s room, waking her up to talk. She’s upset that Rose isn’t speaking to her. Blanche enters a few moments later and is upset about the same thing -- Sophia is cranky at being woken up. Rose then knocks as well. Dorothy and Blanche try to apologize, but add that she said terrible things about them. A shocked Rose says the diary wasn’t about them -- it’s about two pigs she raised for a county fair back in St. Olaf. Blanche and Dorothy ask Rose to forgive them and, after a moment’s hesitation, she does.

When they take their time making up, Sophia shouts at them to get out and throws Rocco’s black bag at them. It falls open and the other Girls are stunned to see it’s full of thousands of dollars in cash. They ask her how he got that much money, and Sophia says Rocco took the bag with him to the bank that day -- and he left the bank at a run. Dorothy thinks Rocco robbed the bank, but Sophia decides to ask Rocco himself over the phone. They talk for a moment and she hangs up -- Rocco robbed the bank.

SOPHIA: When we got to the bank, he told me to keep the motor running and five minutes later, he ran out at top speed. DOROTHY: And did you ever think of asking him why he was running? SOPHIA: No, the man is taking diuretics for a prostate problem. His whole life is a 50-yard dash.

The Girls pursue Sophia into the kitchen. Sophia says Rocco robbed the bank out of love for her, and he's coming over to talk. Dorothy threatens to call the police, and the other Girls point out to Sophia that he admitted to robbing the bank. Sophia blames herself for Rocco’s actions and says if she can’t convince him to turn himself in, she’ll call the police herself and leaves the kitchen. Even Dorothy seems touched by how much Rocco seems to care.

The other Girls talk about the romance of Rocco’s action and the most romantic things men have done for them. Rose says a man got his sheep to spell out her name in a field. Blanche says her and George’s first night together was in his car, which ran out of gas. He recreated the night with the addition of candles and wine for their 10th anniversary. Dorothy says the most romantic thing was Stan’s proposal -- he took her to a nice restaurant and ordered champagne while she was in the powder room. She gulped it down and only later discovered her engagement ring was at the bottom of the glass.

DOROTHY: It turned up three days later. ROSE: *after a pause* Where’d it turn up, Dorothy? DOROTHY: . . . on the Home Shopping Network, Rose.

Out on the lanai, Rocco arrives in a clandestine fashion. Sophia is upset with him and asks him about the bank robbery. Rocco says they can make a grand escape to Mexico together, but Sophia turns him down. She says that, while she enjoyed his stories, she assumed he’d gone straight and she has no interest in dating a criminal. Rocco finally admits the truth -- he’s not a gangster, he’s a retired cook and the money is his life savings, which he planned to use to treat Sophia like a queen. She tells him the way he treats her now is good enough.

Later, the Girls are playing Trivial Pursuit in the kitchen and Blanche fluffs a sports question -- though she provides intimate details about an encounter with a football player -- but Rose is able to correctly identify “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” from a short description. They get ready for bed, and Dorothy gets a phone call from Sophia. Her mother is spending at Rocco’s, but Sophia says something rude to Dorothy in response to the latter’s attempted scolding. After she hangs up, Dorothy fumes.

BLANCHE: Is your mother all right? DOROTHY: Oh fine. She does something wrong and suddenly she’s my mother!

“Yesterday she came home with Nyquil on her breath and his surgical stockings in her pocket.”

Sophia’s love life is rarely the subject of an episode’s A-plot -- in fact, I think this might be the first time it’s happened in the entire series (unless you consider her friendship with Alvin to be sorta romantic). Unfortunately, her paramour in this episode is not up to snuff as far as Dorothy is concerned, and Rocco himself doesn’t do a whole lot to allay her suspicions. Also, Dorothy and Blanche behave pretty badly themselves. The only thing that saves this episode is the hilarious mid-episode bedroom scene.

Usually, when Sophia and Dorothy have their spats, it’s because Dorothy’s unreasonably treating Sophia like she’s incapable. That happened in “The Competition,” and it sort of happened in the last episode -- the show frequently points out that Dorothy sometimes encroaches on Sophia’s autonomy because of her advanced age. However, in this episode, it’s not only shown that she has a point with regards to Rocco, but she’s also unusually gracious when she discovers his supposed motives for doing the deed.

Rocco is played by Hollywood veteran Mickey Rooney, who might be the biggest-named guest star to appear in the show this season. Rooney’s career went all the way back to silent films and vaudeville, and if you were a Horse Girl growing up like me you probably know him best from National Velvet and The Black Stallion. Like Estelle Getty, he was playing much older than his actual age, given that he was in his 60s when he appeared in this episode while his character is an 85-year-old would-be gangster.

SOPHIA: I have plenty of space in my room. Come on, Rocco. DOROTHY: And listen, when the two of you go in there, I want you to leave the door open. ROCCO: Yes, Mrs. Cleaver.

The reveal that Rocco is not a former mob boss but an assistant cook from New Jersey is one of those things that falls apart the longer you think about it. I guess I understand wanting to pretend to be tougher than you are to impress a beautiful Sicilian woman -- and apparently he actually was caught defacing a Spuds MacKenzie poster, so he’s not 100% a straight shooter -- but it’s not the sort of thing he could keep up indefinitely. It’s one thing to say you have a shady past, but he’s claiming to have robbed a bank in Sophia’s presence. Regardless, at least his feelings for Sophia seem to be genuine, even if he went about impressing her the wrong way.

I almost don’t want to address the B-plot because it’s yet another episode of Dorothy and Blanche being horrible to Rose for no good reason. We already addressed that in “Love, Rose.” This time, they’re not even trying to do right by her and messing it up -- they’re just reading her diary. Frankly, they would be in the wrong even if it had been a current diary and Rose had been writing about them. You cannot be angry when you peek and see something you aren’t supposed to see. It’s your own damned fault for peeking.

ROCCO: Get ready, you’re going with me. I’ve got a brand new Harley Davidson out in the driveway. SOPHIA: I didn’t know you could ride a motorcycle. ROCCO: I can’t. I pushed it all the way here from the dealership.

Though now that I think about it, why is Rose still hanging on to a diary she kept when she raised pigs for a county fair. I’m not into 4H, but I’m going to presume she was a teenager at the oldest when she kept that diary -- even if she kept it, what would it be doing laying around on the kitchen table? Also, not to pick at an already fraying plot snag, but don’t people generally date their diary entries? Maybe if she just kept it over the course of a summer, she wouldn’t add years to specific entries, but it still should have been a giveaway.

The scene in this episode that elevates it above two-slice infamy is the bedroom scene. It combines both plotlines, resolves the B-plot, adds several great jokes and even subverts the trope of Sophia imparting wisdom with a Picture It story. The Girls make up pretty quickly, which is a nice way to finish up the B-plot, and then Sophia accidentally moves the A-plot along by pitching Rocco’s bag and revealing his oodles of money. All of the jokes in this scene are solid, and it’s more memorable than the rest of the episode.

SOPHIA: What’s wrong? DOROTHY: I have a problem. SOPHIA: *petting the nose of Rocco’s mounted deer head* I'll say. You should never have stopped using that depilatory.

The one downside of having the B-plot be resolved in the middle of the episode is that it means we have basically two scenes of Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy having nothing much to do. In the first scene, they spend time talking about the romantic gestures that men did for them, which is a nice moment of character building. There is a small plot hole, in that Dorothy describes Stan giving a romantic proposal, but given that she had a shotgun wedding when she was 17, I doubt she got a proposal over champagne. But it’s nice to hear Blanche talk about George -- it’s rare we get to hear about how much she loved him, but it’s always sweet when we do.

Some behind-the-scenes tea I read from Golden Girls Forever: Apparently Mickey Rooney felt the script was more of a suggestion than anything, and had to be wrangled on set multiple times. He wanted to do more physical comedy and sight gags, as I would probably expect of someone who came up in vaudeville. Problem is, that’s not really the kind of comedy Golden Girls uses. The director and actresses had to wrangle him a bit.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰 (three cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

Sophia is too tired to deal with the Girls.

[deluxelifecote]

What is the Role of Exterior Coating in Home Insulation?

Exterior coatings can play a role in insulating a home by creating an additional layer of thermal resistance, which can help to reduce heat loss in the winter and heat gain in the summer. This can be accomplished through the use of insulating paint. Additionally, some coatings can also help to protect the exterior of the home from weather damage, which can further improve energy efficiency. Other Benefits of Exterior Coating in Your House Aesthetics: A fresh coat of paint can improve the appearance of your home and increase curb appeal. Protection: Paint can protect the exterior of your home from the elements, such as wind, rain, and sun, which can cause damage over time. Preservation: Painting the exterior of your home can help to preserve the wood and other materials that make up the structure, which can extend the life of your home. Energy Efficiency: Certain types of paint can reflect heat and UV rays, which can help to reduce cooling and heating costs. Deluxe Lifecote is one. Maintenance: Painting the exterior of your home can help to identify and address any potential issues such as rot, mildew, or pest damage. Increase property value: A well-maintained, freshly painted house can increase the value of the property. In summary, painting the exterior of your home can improve its appearance, protect it from the elements, preserve it for the long term, and increase its energy efficiency and property value. It’s important to note that coating your house’s exterior isn’t the only way to make your house more energy efficient. You can also use weatherstripping. Sealing gaps and cracks around doors and windows can help to prevent drafts, which can reduce heating and cooling costs. Energy Efficient Appliances In addition to applying an energy-efficient coating, replacing old appliances with energy-efficient ones can help to reduce energy consumption and lower utility bills. You should also consider installing smart thermostats, lighting, and appliances that can help to control energy use and reduce consumption. Upgrading to a more efficient HVAC system can help to reduce energy consumption and lower utility bills. It’s worth noting that different homes will have different needs, so it’s a good idea to conduct an energy audit to identify areas where improvements can be made. Choose Lifetime Coating Although exterior coating can help make your house more energy efficient, you still have to re-paint your house every three to five years. It means you’ll need to spend thousands of dollars on the painting job. Lifetime coating, on the other hand, will spare you from the said spending. As the term suggests, this coating is long-lasting and it can save you the cost of repainting your home in the future. When you choose Deluxe Lifecote, you are providing your house with the utmost protection against the elements. Plus, it has a warranty that you can’t find anywhere else. Most manufacturers of this kind of coating offer a warranty against chipping, flaking, and peeling. They don’t include cracking. Warranty Against Cracking The only lifetime exterior coating manufacturer that offers protection against cracking is Deluxe Lifecote. To know more about this offer, contact us.

[looye29]

Looking for survival techniques? Essential survival tips and tricks that are just that – absolute essentials! It would be best if you were equipped to survive in disaster scenarios. Getting clean drinking water, generating electricity using solar power, growing your own food in minimal spaces – if you think about it, all of these are possible. There are several DIY tutorials on the web, but we need specific equipment for each. However, in a crisis, you will not be able to visit hardware stores! What will you then do? My search leads to something interesting – the Survival Sanctuary. This is a comprehensive guide containing 25 DIY tactics on how to survive in extreme situations. There’s a famous quote by Charles Darwin I personally love: “It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.” Learning to adapt to circumstances and coping with limited available resources to survive – you need to know what to do. The Survival Sanctuary seems to fulfill this primary need. What is the Survival Sanctuary? The Survival Sanctuary is a DIY program that gives an in-depth view into surviving crises and emerging stronger. The book contains 25 projects that you can use during an emergency to get drinking water, get electricity, generate food, and arm yourself with self-defense weapons. Here are some specific projects are given in the guidebook: How to dig your own water well How to store rainwater for use Building a fuel generator from old car spare parts (very effective during oil crises) Creating an underground greenhouse (this grows summer fruits and vegetables even in winter!) How to build a DIY air conditioner (ultimately saving you thousands of dollars) A modern hunting tool (with a laser added for accuracy) About the Authors The Survival Sanctuary DIY projects guide is authored by the duo Mark Johnson and Lex Andrews. Mark Johnson is a Veteran survival instructor, and Lex Andrews is a professional architect (hence the detailed, precise diagrams in the book). The SCARR Principles The Survival Sanctuary program dedicatedly adheres to the SCARR principles: Simple: The DIY projects are all aimed at beginners. There is no technical jargon in the explanations. Everything is explained with highly detailed diagrams to help you along. Even you’ve never done a DIY project in your life (which is somewhat unlikely!), these are instructions you can easily follow and work out. Cheap: Each book's projects are careful not to include any expensive equipment. You will not need to spend a bomb on building any of these items. Adaptable: The projects are such that they can adapt to changing environments. Resilient: The project that you will be able to build with the instructions will all be robust items that will help you survive for long periods of time. Reliable: The guides create machinery that is dependable in times of crisis. When the going gets rough, you need things that you can rely on to work consistently, and these projects are those that you can confidently fall back on. The Triple Bonus Plan There are three bonuses included here: The Shoe Box Garden (which shows you how to grow your own food with minimal supplies and in tiny spaces), My American Castle (containing five projects on protecting your home from burglars and invaders), and The Home Energy Rescue Plan (shows you how to create energy reserves and store them in batteries for use during emergencies). Pros It addresses a basic need to grow and store your own food and all of it inexpensively. It shows you how to access drinking water, how to store and use available water most effectively. Experts create it with on-the-ground experience and knowledge about survival techniques. It has three beneficial bonuses, all of them also made with the SCARR principles. It has a two-month trial period (of course, this is a sixty-day money back plan).

It reduces stress and helps you keep prepared for emergencies. You will never be a nervous wreck in a crisis as you will always know what to do! Once you have this information, you will see that they are all straightforward – it's just that they were a secret from you until then. You can learn how to make a flamethrower, an accurate laser hunting tool, a home-made crossbow, and a tripwire trap. The plans to secure your home are beneficial to keep away unwanted intruders. Most items can be made using stuff lying around the house. It’s a great way to reuse and recycle items. The site is a member of the ClickBank marketplace, so that lends its credibility. Cons It's only available on the official website. You cannot purchase it elsewhere. The DIY projects are meant to be inexpensive. However, for some, you need to purchase items – not sure how that will work if it’s a natural calamity kind of crisis as we may not have access to buy the things. Final verdict The DIY Survival Sanctuary guide is meant to make you self-reliant. If that’s the aim, it fulfills the purpose. The projects given are doable, and all of them work. You can rely on them if situations turn adverse. It would help if you planned to tackle a crisis. This helps with creating a workable plan. I rate it 5 stars! If you need to live off-the-grid for a while, this Survival Sanctuary is quite handy. You can generate your own food, and you can store it for extended periods of time. You can generate your own electricity via solar power or wind power. It also helps you with collecting and storing water. The rainwater harvesting strategy works very well! So even if you don’t really need basic survival tips at the moment, the guide will show you how to save hundreds of dollars by fulfilling your basic home needs more effectively!

[restinan]

Yeah, people are just sort of- catastrophically bad with money, by and large, to an honestly kind of terrifying degree? Like- I wasn't living paycheck to paycheck when I was bringing in 600 over rent every month. I think it's partially that- saving money just isn't really a priority for a lot of people? Like, a lot of people are in situations where they genuinely can't but far more common than that even among people that are "poor" in the first world sense of the term but not the "absolute poverty" sense of the term is just- not doing it despite having hundreds or a thousand or even more spare dollars every month that you really don't have any obligations on.

I've also noticed a sense that money is perishable and you need to spend it before it disappears in lots of people. Of course, the place that perception comes from is spending all your money as soon as you get it, so it amounts to spending your money as fast as you can so you can spend it before you spend it. If numbers just don't click for you, and you're not that good at- cause and effect-, I guess you mostly just notice that the money seems to be gone pretty quickly and it's hard to connect that to your actions.

It's not people's fault that they have trouble with this, like- if you just get numbers and your brain doesn't glitch out around money saving is- it kind of doesn't really require willpower? If you get it, and you're poor, you flinch at the thought of a frozen pizza because twenty expenses like that in a month mean you're losing money every month rather than gaining it. It's not a virtue thing, really, once you feel it. And if you don't it's suddenly incredibly difficult to save because it doesn't feel real.

Like- I grew up very poor. Excruciatingly poor. I am in fact still notably below the poverty line in my country. But also I'm clever and good at numbers and so I emotionally learned that money is Precious and needs to be preserved. But a lot of other people learn, from those same life experiences, that money just Vanishes if you don't use it quickly. And it's hard to talk about that, because it pattern matches to saying poor people are Just Bad and it's Their Own Fault, but, like- nobody wakes up in the morning and decides "I will be confused about money today," you know?

Of course this isn't always the dynamic. But it's the reason I have friends and family members who have two or three or even five times as much after-mandatory-expenses money as me, and despite that fact I still have, you know, savings, and they don't. With many people, the best way to predict their spending practices is assuming that their spending will expand until it can't expand farther.

okay so i was looking at data about americans "living paycheck to paycheck" (important but vague concept) and wealth, and its...totally incompatible? which is weird. so, usually when you see data about americans living paycheck to paycheck its from PYMNTS, heres a recent report. i am totally unable to find a good answer to how theyre determining who's living paycheck to paycheck. the methodology section is a single vague paragraph. but i found this forbes article, which is more specific. it says 80% of americans have less than 2000 dollars in savings. but like. this cant be true. because median net worth in the united states is 192k. what, 30% of americans have 190k in illiquid assets and 2k in savings? no. its absurd. its not true. one of these must be wrong. (or im confused? i dont understand what i could be missing, but i could be missing something?)

i THINK the wealth data is right, and the paycheck to paycheck data is wrong. something about who theyre sampling from. this is because i trust the federal reserve to have huge datasets made from like, bank stuff, and other organizations to have tiny datasets made from polls. but im not sure. this is weird! like. surely the people publishing these paycheck to paycheck studies know about the federal reserve results. they know their results disagree with the federal reserve. so they should like. mention that

[bsotted]

the amount of therapy i need bro lmao