#i get paid less than a dollar by hour

[carcarrot]

do i really want to make individual drinks again

[nobodybetterlookatme]

I've never heard of emts working only at events? What's that like for you if you don't mind my asking?

Yeah, there are ambulance companies that staff certain events, but there's some event specific companies out there lmao. For me specifically, it's almost entirely college events, whether it's happening on a campus or not. It's not great, usually pretty boring, but it's better than being on an ambulance or in a hospital. We do get actual emergencies sometimes, but usually it's just getting drunk people to the tent or giving out water and bandaids lmao. Again, boring as fuck, but I chose this over working on a 911 rig, so that's on me 😔 if I'm being so real tho, other than my coworkers, the best part of the job is the food lmaoooo it's so good and all the food trucks/food booths give discounts or free food to us depending on the location and event. And there's almost always a ton of downtime, so I basically just get paid to sit there and vibe for the most part

[confinesofmy]

i'm planning next week's picnic like if one thing goes wrong i'll be publicly beheaded. i'm locked in to such an absurd degree.

[inkskinned]

when i wrote this 2 years ago, i put in the tags the other thing that was happening: right before covid, i had changed my tune. instead of telling my students here is what you can't write, i asked them to please choose something that brought them joy. choose something beautiful. in college, i am not looking for a specific topic, there is no "winning" the essay, i am just making sure that you know how to format an essay and accurately cite your sources.

the world is pretty bleak right now, and many of my 19 year old kids are full of anger. my brother and i are teachers at the same time, but he is a professor in engineering. our colleges are owned by the same person. he calls me, frustrated, because he just got a student out of crisis, and now the financial aid office has sent the student right back into hell again. we talk about the administration being useless. we talk about feeling useless. we both say: i wish there was more i could do, but -

the world is pretty bleak right now, and i asked my kids to write about joy, because i couldn't stomach what is unsaid in the above post: kids were writing too much about gun violence. they were writing about blood smeared across the hallways of their middle schools. i would get essays about how they huddled under a desk while the bell rang around them, this strange and eerie tune. one of the only times i told my siblings out loud i love you was while we had an active shooter. i was locked in a friend's room up in a dorm while we all huddled around unwashed pastel dollar-store bowls. we called our families and loved ones. what else was there to do.

i couldn't read any more of those accounts. how cowardly.

i wish i could say i was braver, that i heard the weight of what they were handling and was able to bear it, but it adds up. i had 50 to 100 students. every semester, at least 3 of them would have visceral memories of a school shooting. their friends and neighbors and loved ones. their hands shaking around their phone as they type out this message might be my last one. i couldn't read that and stay calm. i had to call my mom. sob to my therapist - how the fuck do i resolve that. how do i help them? we both still have to go to school in the morning - me and my students. how am i supposed to just read that and then go on and teach them about prepositions? i can't even promise they won't ever have to experience that again. i feel like we're just waiting for trauma and instead i'm showing them how to keep their commas in the right place. how the fuck do either of us navigate that space?

i forget it can be different. a few years ago, a series of roof tiles fell off our building and made a loud scattered popping noise when they met the ground. i remember the strange accidental culture shock: most of my students went quiet and flattened to the floor; i leapt up and & turned off the lights & shoved my desk against the door. there were three kids who hadn't been raised in america. i remember the look on their faces; shocked and confused, nervously laughing because they hadn't assumed a threat. the gentle hands of their american friends helping them get down; shushing in a way i can only describe as kind, sympathetic. one of my students whispered you get used to it.

how can i see how they are suffering and then still ask them such an incredibly selfish request: please just write something about love, about joy, about something that reminds you of passion.

i get novels in return. technically, i have a page limit, but i never enforce it. every semester, students are delighted by the prospect. i get essays about being a dog show judge and about the history of the throw rug and about how prismacolor chooses certain paints. about glitter controversies and about their favorite albums and their role models who helped them come out as gay. students came in with visuals and little movies they made. they would go above and beyond just to ask their heroes i have this assignment. will you tell me about what joy means to you? i have records of interviews from writers and tv producers and youtube stars. i hear stories about tracking down the recipe for their grandmother's soup and making bread with their uncle and learning about dance from other cultures. they put their whole heart into it.

i said: this is just for your freshman english class! you do not have to try this hard! i am just one teacher in a million!

my students looked up to me, coated in the viscera and insincerity of their lives; this harrowing space so slick with their own mortality, their childhoods never awarded to them. they do not have the same promise of future. they have never assumed they would live forever. love is not in an arrow-speared heart for them; it has always been too fleeting to tattoo. if they catch it, they release it back into the wild, horrified by how little territory it has left. they wish it well but do not keep it for long. they have always been aware of the cost of their own body.

and they said: it brings me joy, which means it's time well spent.

something about that. something about the fact they can find it anyway: i wish i could write each of them my own essay, and it will be full of all the words you're not supposed to use. ribs and teeth and middle fingers. i wish they related to that, that in their heart were only poems about falling asleep and soft blankets and galaxies. every rainbow peony cliche. i wish i could hold their hand and push the desk in front of the door and say: i got you now. it's gonna be okay.

i wasn't supposed to write about roses or blood or silver, about hearts or wings or galaxies; my teacher used to press her hands, firmly, to the top of our poetry stacks and beg us - love different. she was bored of it. i'd go home and write something with each of her off-limits words, emboldened by spite.

for a stint of time, i was a reader for a poetry magazine, shifting through thousands of submitted writings, each hopefully printed onto my tiny laptop screen for next-submission-viewing. one editor had a pile where we would put all the poems with parsnips or cauliflower, one pile for long-thin emergency rants that devolved into a blank scream, one pile for mentions of belladonna and chartreuse - for a whole year, i'd go to bed hearing chartreuse and silver and cities playing in my head in calligraphy. every three months, the beautiful public eye would become just-fascinated by pretty things. unusual, beautiful monstrosities. one winter, all about daises. the next, a fascination with posies. i watched the world spin from catching love in language to the same five phrases - help, it's ending, i'm alone, help, it's dark here, come home, help -

later, as an english teacher, i saw patterns. every semester, one million essays about four specific things. it wasn't pretty enough to be a teachable moment: the content they wanted to discuss was all extremely violent; a broken anthem of climate change and constantly being videoed is destroying us. i would wake up shaking, worried their visions were prophetic, soon-to-be-true. selfish, i couldn't handle the constant semester-to-semester panic they scribbled into six paragraphs, MLA-formatted text. read the world is ending fifty times every month; sob to your therapist i'm not doing enough, tell your students: please, no more violence, i don't have the right stomach.

each one seemed the same poem: we're dying, and nobody is coming to save us.

there are very few celebration poems these days. i want to rest my hand on a stack of poems about love in big red wings. love in a jacket, standing under an open galaxy. love written on the bicep, in an anatomically correct heart, with an arrow shot through the center so you can see the pink viscera of surviving a wound - so you know that even permanent tattoos are permeable. blood on the snout of a newborn lamb. silver rings around the pink scales of a pigeon's leg, and love with her hand around the ribs of a bird. i want to read boring essays about lunch. about which video games run the best graphics. about carnivals. about love in big cliche terms: standing in a garden of parsnips, clutching daises to her chest, eating raw meat over the body of a rich man.

i want to open the poetry magazine and have pages of sonnets about bluebells. about survival. about a mundane, beautiful spring. about sitting with your dog on a front porch, writing without spite, happily toying with the idea of ice cream.

my student sends me an email. i know you said to write about what brings you joy. but nothing really makes me happy these days. i don't know what i'm doing.

[wellthatschaotic]

agh i am Frustrated :/

[genderqueerdykes]

as someone who has been chronically homeless for 9 years due to severe disability, the way housing is managed in america is just a joke. it's all about the profits for the landlord, nothing else matters. credit checks are a gate to keep out poor people. deposits are a gate to keep out poor people. you wanna apply for a low-income housing program? you HAVE to have a "severe" disability diagnosis and proof that you're too disabled to afford or apply for "normal" housing. this is a gate to keep out poor people.

people in positions to help house homeless people don't care because they're housed. there's no sense of urgency. they don't have to think about what it's like to go without a roof over their head. they get paid tens of dollars an hour to sit there and scoff at all of the "lazy poor and disabled people who should just get jobs and stop whining and expecting to have things handed to them." they get paid to ignore emails and take 2 hour long lunches to forget about how hard and scary the world really is.

how the FUCK are you supposed to work when you don't have a place to sleep at night, shower, or eat? come the fuck on. use your goddamn brain. this system is built off of abuse, lying and torture. nobody earns an "honest" day's pay, none of this is "honest" work. it's all built off of the backs of lying and stealing from someone who needs it more. jobs aren't given to the person who's the most qualified- they're given to the person who lied the most to make themselves sound good during the interview. jobs are given to people who are good at interviews, NOT people who are GOOD at what they do.

i don't know how to tell you that when the average person isn't making enough to eat, fuel their car or pay for their phone, they also can't afford the roof over their head. disabled people and low-income people are struggling even worse with this. i don't know how to tell people that you should care about this.

we are literally all the same species. we are all humans. you cannot look down on disabled, poor and addicted people because we're "scum" and "less than human". we're not. that's a lie you're being fed by capitalism to feel better about yourself so you'll keep blindly working. wake up. this is not how humans behave. you're being brainwashed. everyone needs a stable home. EVERYONE. especially if you want them to contribute to your stupid money machine.

capitalism makes no fucking sense. give people homes or get the fuck out of our way, because we're about to just start taking them. this is unsustainable. this is unliveable. this system doesn't fucking work. a system that leaves its people to starve and die while apartments, homes, condos, and hotel rooms stay empty and collect dust doesn't work. none of this shit works. fuck this fascist system. none of us are free.

[kawaiijohn]

Help a queer family of disabled nerds

Hey my name is Dante, I live in the Midwest with three of my best friends. We have four cats, one of which is my babyman whom I love very dearly.

His name is Latke Library Card Mango (LLCM). He's very orange and he's the light of my boyfriend, Kris, and I's life.

Cat pics are great right? Have a few.

A few months ago, latkes chronic bladder stones condition acted up which resulted in two emergency vet visits and a week long stay with his actual vet to get the stone removed.

It was the size of a chickpea.

Here's a photo of his post surgery when he had a nakie tummy. He was very very happy to see us.

He's since recovered, but the cost of this put us back around 1300 dollars in total. He's now on a special diet with rather pricey food to prevent this from happening but it might still act up eventually.

We've paid down some of his debt, but the interest is making it become more and more as we try to pay it down.

On top of this, our pipes backed up into our basement and refused to work suddenly a few weeks ago. We live in a house that is over a century old, and the clay pipes keep getting roots growing into them that causes them to not drain.

The roto had to come out and high pressure the roots out to clear them (which required expensive equipment), This put us back another grand.

To add to everything, our 700+ auto insurance bill is due in November, which is the worst time for this bill to need due, but both myself and Kris drive over ten miles to work during different shifts on opposite ends of town- neither of our jobs have public transit anywhere near them.

We are currently barely making ends meet-

I am a lunch lady at a public high school. I love my job. I feed kids who possibly don't even eat at home some days. I do work I am proud of.

However, I can only work around 25 hours a week without risking losing my insurance as a disabled person. My job does not have longer hour positions available, and I am too disabled to work more than this without ruining my body like I have done in the past.

I have been going without buying groceries out of fear that what little money I have in my account will be needed in an emergency. I will be out of work for a week this month, around Thanksgiving, and during Xmas break- unpaid due to me working in a school. Me being out also means no guaranteed meal every day.

Kris works in a factory. He is currently working 55+ hours a week to make what we can to pay off the bills and keep our house. He only has one and a half knees that hurt all the damn time and is barely eating either just to afford everything. His factory keeps calling for sudden shutdown weeks with little notice at the worst times, and he's the main breadwinner in the house for us.

The other two in our household, one is severely disabled and can barely work 10 hr/week (he is waiting on hearing back to receive SSI) on top of having multiple medical appointments a week to figure out what is wrong with his body and why it keeps failing. The other is a freelance artist who is working her butt off to make money while carting the previous to appointments nearly every day. She is full up on commissions at the moment, but when she opens them I'll reblog her posts.

I really didn't want to make this post. I hate asking for help. But we are drowning and there's no sign of land. None of us can afford to live on our own, nor can we move back in with our parents for various reasons.

All I'm asking for is some help. I don't care how much. Five dollars is five dollars. Five dollars is half an hour less we have to kill ourselves to make ends meet.

Even if we don't make the full amount, every dollar will help us get a bit closer to paying this stuff down so we can afford gas and regular grocery trips again instead of having to save up to go once a month like we are currently doing.

Our goal is 2000 dollars.

Yes, this is the high amount. I do not believe we will ever reach it. I can hope we can raise this much at some point.

But for now that's the dream number.

It's the number that is looming over our heads, telling us to pay up or lose our home.

It's not something we need this very moment, but just what we need in the next few months to be able to afford living without destroying our body or working three jobs/ridiculous hours.

We thank anyone who can spare a few bucks to help us, and if you can't afford it just pass this post along to someone who might be able to.

Please send as friend/family if you can, PayPal is threatening to withhold money sent as transactions now if you receive over a certain amount.

This includes sending things through my ko-fi account- so here's the preferred methods:

Progress:

388.74/2,000

Thank you for reading. I love you.

[ms-demeanor]

But. Like. The lady who ran the newspaper expected me to work 20 hour shifts to get pages turned atound for production and let that columnist keep touching me even after i told her it made me uncomfortable and paid me minimum wage with deposits that were sometimes weeks late. She fired me by simply stopping sending me pages and never communicated that I didn't have a job anymore and I had to send large Bastard to collect the last four hundred dollars she owed me.

Coffee shop dude was directly abusive while mostly acting like a nice guy and if you called him out on his shit or asked not to be scheduled with people who problems for you, he punished you by cutting your hours. He *also* engaged in wage theft, insisting that all employees had to complete their closing tasks in 20 minutes or risk having their hours cut, so you just clocked out for your last hour of work. I had a coworker there who literally died of exhaustion (passed out, hit his head, aspirated vomit) as he mopped the floor while clocked out on his twelfth day in a row of work. He was twenty-two. Before I got too injured to keep working there, we closed together six nights a week. He liked to clean to the gladiator soundtrack and he wanted to be a director.

The gun shop had us clock out before the managers did the count, and nobody could leave until the guns were tallied; we closed at 9 and there were multiple days that i was locked in there until 1 with no pay and no food while the managers failed to find their ass with both hands. I watched as my coworkers (and some of my managers) *repeatedly* went out of their way to complete straw sales for white people while trying to prevent black and chicano customers from buying guns.

The first coffee shop was run by people laundering cocaine money from their club. We all joked that the severance package was half your last paycheck and a kick in the ass because they never fully paid anyone they fired and they banned you from the ship for a length of time that was proportional to what they owed you. They stiffed me forty bucks and i got banned for a week, there was a guy who was banned for life and they owed him over nine thousand dollars for several months that he was the only employee and worked the shop for eighteen hours a day. They paid less than minimum wage, they paid under the table, and when the manager smashed out the patio door in a fit of pique, they didn't explain shit and left us to deal with explaining the "break in" to the cops.

IDK maybe bosses are just bad.

[redflagshipwriter]

Fast Car Three (of four)

masterpost

“Why would I ever need help from Victor?” Danny scrunched up his brow and puzzled aloud after his passenger got out. He didn't mean to be rude but he was genuinely confused. Vic seemed nice enough, but he was kinda delicate, wasn't he? He was scared of Batman. What for? He was just some guy who was so risk-averse that he wore a motorcycle helmet out in public. He probably held the world's record for diagnosed anxiety disorders or something. 

‘I’m lucky he's so reactive,’ Danny chided himself not to be ungrateful. ‘If he wasn't, like, hyper-vigilant I might have had to talk to Batman. Horrific.’

He shuddered at the thought. He had planned to work a little more, but Danny decided to go back home and rest for a bit. His nerves were a little shot after the excitement of the morning. 

Oh, right. He hadn't checked what his tip was yet. Danny unfolded the bills and his eyes bugged out. “This is fifty dollars,” he said incredulously. “He paid me fifty dollars to take him like 10 blocks, with a 50 block detour.” 

Was Victor, like, okay? Danny cast a dubious look back in his rearview mirror and caught the barest glance of Victor's ridiculously jacked form disappearing into one of the murder warehouses. What a guy. Why'd he do-

“He was hitting on me?” Danny's voice reached a whistle pitch. Ah! Ah!!! Holy shit. What the hell? His face burnt red and he floored it back to his apartment complex, trying to get his heart rate under control. 

It was so obvious in retrospect! The weird awkward pauses in conversation! The huge tips! Asking for his number! 

Danny pulled to a stop at a yellow light rather than run it explicitly so that he could bang his head against the steering wheel. 

“I don't even know if he's hot,” Danny wailed. Instantly he knew it was a lie. He didn't know what Victor’s face looked like. He didn't remember what the photo had looked like anymore and the information was long gone. But he knew that Victor was tall, fit as fuck, and had really nice hands. 

Danny bit his lip and howled sadly. It helped, a little. He stole a glance at the receipt with Victor's phone number on it. He couldn't help but memorize the number. 

“I'm not going to call,” Danny told himself. Even if it was flattering. Victor might be a sketchy guy! Only sketchy people were out at the hours Danny worked. Danny couldn't afford association with anyone like that because he needed the authorities to never ever look at him. 

Also, and probably more importantly: you can't go to medical school if you have any kind of criminal record. If Danny was going to be Doctor Fenton the fourth and be able to provide his and Ellie's medical care, he needed to be a model citizen. He couldn’t trust that Vic would keep him out of whatever weird shit he was involved in.

Well. It wasn't like he was complicit in anything. Danny parked his beloved shitty car in the garage and took the stairs up to his apartment. He opened the door, saw Batman in his kitchen, and closed the door.

“Fuck.” 

Danny turned intangible and dropped like a rock through the floors. He was back in the driver's seat in less than 5 seconds. He turned it on and called Victor with one hand, because he'd just gotten the guy's number and he didn't exactly know a lot of Gothamites. “Hey, what do I do if Batman is in my apartment?” He said as soon as it connected. He turned the car on and peeled out onto the street.

“Wha- move, I guess. Is he there for fucking real?” Victor's electronic voice somehow managed to come across incredulous. “You probably shouldn't go back there. You're in your car?” A horn honked in the background. “You're faster,” Victor said. His confidence gave Danny a little. “I'll send you my gps point. Come to me and we can strategize how to get him off your tail.”

Danny swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, and violently repressed the part of him asking why this nervous ass Gothamite would know any better than he did. At least Victor was a local. His phone pinged and he opened up the address. “Got it.”

“See you soon.” Victor hung up. 

Danny burnt rubber out of there, heart all the way up in his throat. Why was Batman after him? What did he know? He gasped for air, feeling like he was choking. He needed to be normal. He needed to- to get his degree and get his career and never ever have a whole fucking militaristic brancho of the government after him. He was one guy. When he was 14 he'd thought it was a funny game and the GIW were a bunch of chumps. But they were a bunch of chumps with money, weapons, and numbers. He couldn't afford to fuck with them. The fact that his parents gritted their teeth through associating with the GIW was the only thing that kept suspicion off of Danny.

He cycled through a panic attack and then into anger. What the hell, dude? Danny got that Batman had a bee up his ass about metahumans “in his city” (like he fucking owned it??) but Danny wasn't causing crime or fighting it. He was going to classes and trying to survive. Batman had no right to get involved in his business. 

He was steaming mad by the time he pulled up to where Victor was waiting for him. Victor hauled open an old style garage door and ushered him in quickly. Danny parked inside and sighed over the steering wheel. It took a few moments to center himself and then he got out. “Hey.” He lifted a hand in greeting and then shoved it in his pocket, feeling unimaginably weary. It wasn't even 5 am, jeeze. What was his life? “Thanks for answering.” He cleared his throat and bumped his butt against the hood of his car. “Helluva morning,” he complained dryly.

“It's no problem.” Victor seemed a little stiff and uncomfortable, standing in the middle of the other parking space. Either that or he was posing. “It's not your fault.”

Danny let out a snort. “It's not, but what does that matter?” He shrugged. And then he realized- “Wait, do you know what I am- scratch that.” He made a hand gesture to wave that away. Victor had known what Amity Park was offhand and he'd had a chance to see Danny phase the car through solid matter. “I guess what matters more is why Batman is on my ass. D’you think he knows?” 

Victor looked at him for a long time. “No…” 

“No, what?” Danny narrowed his eyes up at the taller man. 

“I don't think Batman knows that you're…” Victor made a gesture at Danny that explained nothing. “Whatever you are. I think he wants to ask you what you know about me.”

Danny stared blankly at him. “About you,” he echoed. He gave Victor a dubious look. “Why would he care about you?” 

Victor lifted a gloved finger and pointed at his helmet as if that was supposed to mean something. Danny tilted his head to the side like a bird and raised one eyebrow. “Because I'm the Red Hood?” Victor said dubiously. “You know that, right?” 

“You're Victor,” Danny said. He furrowed his brows. “Is - is The Red Hood like, your drag persona or something? Cool for you but it's not really relevant -” 

Victor tore off the helmet to reveal a face that was a lot younger than Danny had anticipated. “It's not a drag persona,” he snapped. “It's- I'm the Red goddamn Hood! You have to have seen me on the news!” 

Danny mutely shook his head. He thought about saying that he didn’t watch the news, but he sort of felt bad for the guy. It was probably safer not to comment.

“It's been non-stop,” Victor said, and Danny could really tell how incredulous he felt without that goofy voice filter effect removing the pout from his voice. “I dropped 13 human heads off at the police station yesterday. Come on!” 

He blinked. 

Wait.

One.

Second.

“You had me take you to the police with contraband?” Danny roared, incandescent with fury. 

“Uh.” Victor looked a little shifty now, even with that dweeb ass mask covering from his eyebrows to his cheekbones. “Yeah, I guess-”

“I'm going to go to medical school!” Danny roared, and suplexed the bastard. Victor went down with a howl and a valiant attempt to dig out Danny's eye with his bent index and middle fingers. Danny went selectively intangible and rolled them both over to start slapping Victor on his stupid face. “I-” slap “can't” slap “have” slap “a criminal record!” He leaned so far forward that his lips were nearly touching Victor's. “Capiche?” Danny jabbed a finger into Victor's stupidly ripped chest. 

“Um.” 

“Capiche? Understand? Do you get my meaning?” Danny howled. “I am an illegal entity! My paperwork is suspect!” He dug his knees a little harder into Victor's sides, struggling to control his strength. 

“Hey man, me too,” said Victor. He seemed mildly surprised by this commonality. “That's why I can't get a driver's license.” He put his hands up by his head. The movement made his incredible biceps sort of…pulse. Bulge? 

Danny blinked, attention caught by something about what Victor had said. “How'd you get your Uber account verified without- oh my god!” He threw his hands up in disgust. “You're not even Victor, are you? Your first word to me was a lie?” 

Not-Victor laughed. Danny was surprised enough that he loosened his grip. But the other guy didn't try to get out. “You're fun,” he said. He had a nice smile, crooked and kissable. Oh, fuck.

Danny felt his whole face burn red. Shit. Abort. He scrambled up, suddenly mortified that he was sitting on the other guy. “What's your name?” he demanded, trying to sound unaffected and mean. 

“Jay.” 

“You're sure this time?” Danny managed to work up a little more indignation. 

“Hands to god, on my grave,” Jay promised. Danny sort of hated that he believed it. 

Danny relented. “Fine.” It wasn’t like he had any moral high ground to stand on about maintaining secret identities, if he was honest. He huffed and crossed his arms. “How do I get Batman off my ass? I'm guessing you don't want me to talk to him about you.”

[stuckyparty]

I know some of the old fandom folks are on here and I could appreciate your help.

I married a Republican and he was violent. I know. Egg on my face, who would have thought. He said he voted for Trump because of the stock market but I watched him in real time react to Jan 6 like "We don't do this, who would do this, this is a violent terror attack from Trump supporters!" and then in less than 24 hours of YouTube turn into, "That was a false flag operation and we were in the right." It was scary to see a formerly reasonable man get so sucked in by GOP social media and parrot their talking points like truth.

It took him five years to explicitly say, and this is a direct quote, "All men are violent. We allow women to be safe as long as they don't push it, and you fucking pushed it." So naturally I called a lawyer and waited until he left town and packed myself and the kid up and fucking left.

Oh the conversation that led to his violence that led to him telling me that was normal and fine male behavior? Was about our kid's speech delay. I said, "I know this frustrates you but you can't talk about him like that in front of him, he understands you, can we go in the other room?" and he screamed at me that our kid can't understand shit and it was my fault somehow (???), and I suggested that he leave for a couple hours to calm down but he escalated instead. So like. It wasn't even a political thing, I gave up opinions years ago to keep myself safe.

After we left and were in the new apartment, my kid said, "Where's dad?" and I struggled to figure out what to say long enough that my kid thought for a moment and then said, "This is a gentle house."

Help us keep the gentle house and pay for my attorney. A dear friend already paid the 5K retainer but it's an "evergreen" retainer and if I don't keep it at 5K they'll stop representing me, and the monthly "top ups" are expensive. If you have 20 dollars for legal fees I could really use them.

My PayPal is @KJordan541

Thanks.

[robertreich]

Think Tipping Is Out of Control? Watch This.

TWO DOLLARS AND THIRTEEN CENTS AN HOUR.

That’s how much millions of American workers are paid under the federal subminimum wage — which was set all the way back in 1991.

While many think tipping for services has gotten out of control, arguing over who deserves a tip and how much they should get distracts from what we should really be angry about: business models that depend on not paying workers a living wage.

It’s bad enough that the federal minimum wage is a measly $7.25 an hour. But employers are allowed to pay tipped workers just $2.13 an hour because supposedly the workers will be able to make up for it in tips.

Saru Jayaraman of One Fair Wage has been advocating to change this absurd and exploitative law. I asked her to share with us FOUR big reasons why we need to get rid of the subminimum wage and pay service workers a full living wage with tips on top.

Number 1: Workers who earn a subminimum wage often end up making less than the minimum wage

43 states currently allow certain workers to be paid a subminimum wage. Employers in these states are legally required to make up the difference if a worker’s combined wage and tips don’t reach the full minimum wage. But over a third of tipped workers report that their bosses regularly fail to do this.

That’s because enforcement of wage laws is lax, and it makes it easier for employers to get away with shortchanging staff.

Number 2: The subminimum wage perpetuates gender discrimination and harassment on the job

More than two-thirds of tipped workers — 70% — in the U.S. are women. And one in six women that work a tipped job are living in poverty — that’s nearly 2.5 times the rate for workers overall.

Since workers earning the subminimum wage are so dependent on tips to make a living, they are put in situations where they have to tolerate inappropriate customer behavior. A staggering 76 percent — that’s more than three-quarters of tipped workers — have reported experiencing sexual harassment on the job. And that only got worse during the pandemic.

Number 3: Tipping is actually a relic of slavery

Tipped workers are disproportionately people of color. And Black service workers in particular consistently earn less, including tips, than their white counterparts for doing the same job.

Look, this inequity of the subminimum wage is tied to America’s history of structural racism.

Following the Civil War, tipping was used as a racist solution by employers who didn’t want to pay formerly enslaved Black workers. So by allowing them to pay their workers just in tips rather than a wage, employers were able to avoid directly paying these workers.

Number 4: Paying workers a living wage plus tips is actually better for business — and our economy.

Corporate lobbyists, particularly for the restaurant industry, warn that paying workers a full minimum wage with tips on top will be devastating to businesses. But research shows these fears are completely overblown.

So far, seven states have replaced their subminimum wage for tipped workers with a higher minimum wage that still allows for tips on top. These seven states are actually faring better than the 43 states with subminimum wages for tipped workers — both in the number of restaurants and number of people employed by restaurants. And take home pay for restaurant servers and bartenders in these states was 24% higher than in states with a wage of just $2.13 an hour.

Workers at restaurants that have scrapped their subminimum wages in favor of higher minimum wages with tips on top are more productive, happier, and less likely to quit their jobs. This alone helps business owners cut employee turnover nearly in half. This is especially important following the pandemic, when restaurants are facing historic staffing shortages because over 1 million workers have left the industry due to low pay.

So not only have higher wage states been able to maintain their industries, but workers are more productive, getting paid more, and less likely to live in poverty.  

And when workers have more money, they spend more money — stimulating their local economies in the process.

And for the first time in 30 years, workers are winning on this issue, like in DC and Chicago and a dozen other states.

The bottom line is that ending the subminimum wage for tipped workers is better for workers, it’s better for business, it’s better for our economy — and it’s the right thing to do.

[aledethanlast]

I want to clarify something about my Lawyer!Andrew post:

Andrew is not doing this to impress people. In fact he actively doesn't want to impress people. He is done being a superman who holds everyone's lives in his hands. It's not good for his mental health when he's doing it and it's not good for anyone when that he fails, because the law is too big and some of these fuckers are just legitimately dumber and more guilty than his literal murderous mafia husband.

Anyways. Andrew wakes up in the morning, goes to his closet and shoves aside the 15k dollar Armani suits so he can put on the two piece he got at Macy's (then tailored to fit, cause he still has standards), and a matching tie.

He goes to the office. Brad asks him if he heard about the latest draft picks. Andrew stares him down until Brad goes to Andrew's desk and drops a quarter in the "Asking Andrew about Exy" jar. Andrew's coworkers seem to think that he's gonna buy the office a Foosball table with the jar money. They are wrong. It is for a new cat tower. Also, no Andrew hasn't seen it, but he got the rundown from Neil and Kevin, so he knows enough to tell Brad not to bother with a season pass for the Sealions this year.

He has two cases to deal with today. The first is a vehicular manslaughter charge. The client is pleading self defense, and that the victim was a stalker. Andrew likes her because, despite bursting into tears every time they have a trial prep session, she actually listens to instructions and knows when to shut the fuck up. He's confident.

The second is grand larceny. The guy is so super incredibly guilty but Brad gave him this case because he knows Andrew loves police misconduct cases and this one is just so full of protocol breaches that Andrew only had to show Neil the file for him to burst out laughing.

Janet says he has a call waiting. Janet is the highest paid paralegal in the county, because she also filters his celebrity mail. Technically Neil's pr firm still represents him, but Janet knows to turn down the DA's gala invitations without needing to argue with him.

He picks up the phone. It's the DA. The man invites him to the police gala because he knows Andrew ignored the emails. Andrew assumes the man was banking on Andrew giving a polite refusal he can wheedle or harangue into compliance. The man is new to the job, so Andrew will forgive this embarrassing miscalculation.

They spend the next hour discussing court dates for a certain case. Andrew's client for that one is disabled and only has partial aid, and he won't let them set court dates that they know she won't be able to attend. The DA, despite his embarrassing naivate, seems to be on the same page in this regard, so hopefully this will go well when they bring the matter to the judge.

In the span of this phone call, two of Brad's clients come into the office, and within five minutes of walking in are made to contribute to the jar. They don't get their questions answered, because he's on the phone, and they're not Brad.

He has court tomorrow. Court is annoying, because it's a room full of strangers who hear his name and forget why he's there, and he's not allowed to bring the jar. Court is a chore, because he has to walk people through their own idiocy, and then occasionally convince the room of just how stupid or brilliant it actually was.

Court is also, maybe, just a teensy bit fun, because whatever the stereotype of a lawyer is, Andrew really isn't it, and that makes people take him a lot less seriously until he starts quoting their words back to them faster than the stenographer.

(Janet also filters job offers. They tend to crop up every few months.)

(It used to be more fun, back in the early days when Neil would sit in sometimes, until he remembered just how horrifically boring the whole thing is. But that's fine. Andrew is happy having his own thing.)

But really, court is easy. It's a place where your word has weight, where promises are binding, and when everything is going to shit, nobody looks at Andrew like he's the freak for keeping his head.

[indig0trolls]

TINY BUSTS - PRETTY PASTELS

Yippee!! I'd originally planned to do these early September, but realized 4 sets of 4 was. A lot to space out. And then October was a wash. So you get them THIS month instead!

34$ Each! [ONE] [TWO] [THREE] [FOUR] [FIVE] [SIX] [SEVEN] [EIGHT]

Buy limit of 1 for first 12 hours! (Time posting: 2:30pm EST)

Tos under cut, please be sure to read it!

TERMS OF SERVICE

You MAY change the design/species of any design i've made after youve bought it, but you must leave credit with INDIG0TEA for the design, and the design itself must be recognizable.

Gender/sex/etc is ultimately up to the buyer.

If the design is gifted/traded at any point, all financial value up to that point is lost and it may not be resold until further art is made/commissioned for it.

You may NOT resell the design for more than you paid for it, unless it comes with extra art either made by you (listed for your current or historical commission rates), or commissioned by you. Gift art/free art does not count towards the value of any design I make, ever.

Additionally: You may not ever ask for, recieve, or offer full resale plus non-currency add ons (such as, but not limited to: art, characters, merchandise, games, game currency, etc.). Yes, even if the offer as couched as "free art/commission/character". Partial resale may be negotiated only for designs whose original buying price was 30 or more dollars USD, and split dollar amount may be for no less than 2/3 of the list price to prevent people trying to workaround this TOS to encourage other people to accept their offers. (For example: Partial resale on a 30$ design may be a maximum of 20$ partial + non-currency add on.) This is to prevent overoffering/artificially inflating resale value. I am willing to make exceptions to this clause, but you will have to speak to me directly to ensure my TOS is being respected.

You may not include my designs in resale bundles. Period.

You may not EVER feed ANY of my art into an AI interface of ANY kind.​​​​​​​​

If you resell, trade, or gift this design, please inform me that it has been traded/resold/gifted so that I may update the TOS to reflect that and so future buyers cannot be scammed.

You may not resell, gift, or trade this design (or any of my designs) to anyone on my blacklist, which is linked below for your convenience. Doing so will result in immediate blacklisting/blocking of your accounts.

You may not ever edit the original artwork(s).

You may not repost the original artwork to deviantart, instagram, or other social media/portfolio sites.

You may not use this design for the creation of license-able media such as (but is not limited to): books, animated shorts/shows, Vtuber/twitch streamer sonas, comics/webcomics, and video games (free or otherwise). If you would like to use this design in anything like this, we can negotiate a one time licensing fee which covers use in all of the above. This can be anywhere form an additional 150-500$ depending on your intended use.

You MAY use your design for any other purpose, so long as you are not profiting financially off of my work nor passing it off as your own.

You are allowed to store it in your deviantart sta.sh, post it to tumblr profiles, or upload it to websites like toyhou.se with proper credit. However, you may not reupload to toyhou.se, to keep the ownership log intact, and to keep the original tos consistent.

For my personal comfort, you may not delete original TH listings from toyhou.se and resell it separately. This is again to keep the ownership log intact, and to keep the original tos consistent. If the person you wish to resell it to does not have a toyhou.se, I have plenty of invite codes I can give out as necessary.

You MUST credit to INDIG0TEA the first time you post art of them to websites other than toyhou.se

Violation of many of these terms will result in permanent blacklisting/banning from buying or owning designs by me in the future.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Cory Doctorow Humble Bundle

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TUCSON (Mar 9-10), then San Francisco (Mar 13), Anaheim, and more!

It's been 21 years and 29 days since Tor Books published my first novel, Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom. In the years since, Tor has published every one of my novels, sending me around the USA and Canada to talk about them. Now, they've teamed up with Humble Bundle to sell 18 of my ebooks on a name-your-price basis, with part of the proceeds going to benefit EFF:

https://www.humblebundle.com/books/cory-doctorow-novel-collection-tor-books-books

I've been associated with EFF even longer than I've been published by Tor! My first novel came out while I was working EFF's first-ever booth at CES. I split my time between the booth and my motel room, where I paid $0.25/call to dial up to Earthlink's local number and manage the launch-day publicity. Over the years, I've benefited immensely from Tor's editorial and publicity departments, working with brilliant publishing people like Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Patty Garcia, Dot Lin, Laura Etzkorn, Elena Stokes, Sarah Reidy, Lucille Rettino, and of course, Tor founder Tom Doherty.

But I like to think that it was a two-way street. Tor and I have come a long way together on ebooks: most visibly, they allowed me to publish several novels under Creative Commons licenses (my first book was the first ever CC book, coming out just weeks after the licenses themselves launched). As my editor Patrick Nielsen Hayden said at the time, "Ebooks have the worst hours-in-meeting-to-dollars-in-revenue ratio of anything in my publishing career. Why not?"

https://craphound.com/down/download/

Just as important – but less visible – was Tor's willingness to let me insist that all my books be published without DRM, meaning that anything you buy on say, Amazon, can be moved to any reader program if you decide to start getting your ebooks elsewhere. This worked so well that in 2012, Tor became the first major publisher in the world to ban DRM on all its ebooks, flying me, John Scalzi and Charlie Stross to New York City to announce it this at a big, splashy event at Book Expo America:

https://web.archive.org/web/20130512022634/https://tor.com/blogs/2012/06/tor-books-announces-e-book-store-doctorow-scalzi-a-stross-talk-drm-free

Tor's unique status as the sole major DRM-free publisher in the world was well timed! That same year, I curated the very first Humble Ebook Bundle, which was very top-heavy with Tor titles, and raised more than $1,000,000 for the writers, publishers and charities associated with it:

https://web.archive.org/web/20121017215636/http://www.humblebundle.com/

That opened the floodgates to a series of Humble Bundles, tempting other major publishers to dabble with DRM-free, including Simon and Schuster:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-I5QyAfglU

And Harpercollins:

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

Now, 12 years after that inaugural Humble Ebook Bundle, I find myself honored by being the subject of a bundle of my own (it helps that I've written a hell of a lot of books in the intervening years). Included in the bundle are (nearly) all of my Tor novels and novellas: The Lost Cause; "The Canadian Miracle" (a Lost Cause story); Red Team Blues; Radicalized; Walkaway; "Party Discipline" (a Walkaway story); Pirate Cinema; Rapture of the Nerds (with Charlie Stross); For The Win; Makers; Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town; Eastern Standard Tribe, Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom, Little Brother, Homeland, Attack Surface, and "Lawful Interception" (a Little Brother story).

(The sole exclusion is The Bezzle, which came out two weeks ago and is already a USA Today national bestseller!)

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

Also included in the bundle is Poesy the Monster Slayer, my 2020 picture book for the littlies:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627/poesythemonsterslayer

All these books are delivered as DRM-free epub files. The Bundle runs for the next three weeks, and the minimum buy-in is $18 – that's just $1/book (full retail value is $187). Of course, you can name a higher price, and, as with all Humble Bundles, you can adjust the final split to share out the money between me, EFF, and the Humble folks.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/03/humbly-bundled/#eff-too

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Silver Lining 7

Warnings: non/dubcon, speech impediment, bullying and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: silverfox!Bucky Barnes

Summary: You have an unpleasant encounter with an older man.

Part of the Silverfox AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The library casts a wave of deja vu over you. The smell, the shelves, the soft rustle of patrons trying not to make a noise in the deathly din. You feel like the lost college student, once more trapped in the stacks, trying to eke out a final draft.

Since the calamitous destruction of your laptop, you’d been paralysed to do anything more than sulk. It took a few days to get the energy up to make a choice; buy a new one or find an alternative. The former option isn’t affordable but once you get this script down, you could splurge for at least a chromebook.

Negotiations with your sister were less than successful. She claimed the innocence of children as her shield. She couldn’t control their curiosity. It’s unfortunate that it happened but she’s a mother of two and can’t afford to pay for your expensive toys… Right, but she has a macbook in her luggage.

To no one’s surprise, and to your sister’s expectation, your parents agreed. It’s hard to pay for two kids in this world, your laptop isn’t a necessity. You can dig out the old Windows XP tower from the basement…

It’s futile. You love your family but they leave you feeling that the sentiment isn’t mutual. You can’t blame them. You're thirty, you’re living at home, and you have a job that isn’t really a job.

You settle in at a computer, your newly registered library card in hand. You paid the two dollars for an hour. You hope it’s enough to retrieve your work from the cloud and finish up the last edits. It’s only an hour per hour for additional time.

After getting used to the clacking keyboard and the worn ball of the old mouse, you start to whittle away. You’re immensely thankful for the omnipotent powers of OneDrive. Everything is still there.

You check the time. Ten minutes left. You’ll have to go top up, at least for another hour. You sit back and grab your phone from beside the mousepad. You had it face down on silent so you could focus. It’s only then you see the slew of notifications.

Your mother wants you to grab coffee cream on your way home and your next payment on your still standing student loan is coming due. Under all that, there’s a message from Bucky. You figured he’d be checking in. You are cutting it close to his deadline.

‘How’s it going? Was hoping to have the final draft today.’

Your stomach boils. You can get it done and he’s being less than pushy. Not demanding by any means but you’re taken back to your last job. To the constant pressure of expectation and the oppressive workload that never slowed down. All that and the closed door dealings that left you sleepless and quaky after midnight.

‘Will send over soon.’

The response should be good enough. A promise you can keep. You place the phone down and lean forward, cradling your head as you tell the memories to leave you alone. This is different. This isn’t that office, this is something you can walk away from at any time.

You close your eyes as the world narrows between your ringing ears. The silence of the library is replaced with the muffled ringing of office phones and the smothered voices of employees conferring between cubicles. You see the door, closed again, you feel the edge of the desk digging into your stomach, you hear his raspy words, your insides splinter.

Your eyes snap open as you sit up. No, you’re not going back there again. The computer’s lock screen shines blue at you. Time’s up. You dig around in your purse as you stand. It’s over so let it go.

As you stand at the counter, waiting for the librarian, your phone lights up. You tap your card on the desk before stepping away. You should answer it.

You quickly march across the lobby and into the vestibule between the inner and outer doors. You shouldn’t disturb anyone here. You check the ID again, it’s him.

“Hi,” you answer.

“Hey, I hope I’m not interrupting. I’m just a bit restless since I got back in town,” Bucky plunges right in without small talk.

“N-no, j-just wrapping up.”

“Great. Did you want to meet up tonight? I am working on the recording space and I thought you might like to check it out?”

“Ch-check it o-out?” You wonder. You imagined yourself just handing off the script and bouncing. Get paid and go home.

“Uh, yeah,” you hear him fumbling on the other end, “I was thinking… well, maybe it’s better if I talk to you in person–”

His voice is completely drowned out at the outer doors open and a group of rowdy students enter, completely ignorant to the atmosphere. You expect they’ll get a warranted shush from the staff so you don’t bother. You just turn your back to them and plug your ear.

“A lot going on?” Bucky asks.

“N-no, just… library’s b-busier than I th-thought.”

“Library? Oh, you doing more research?” He wonders. You hesitate again. You’re used to his bluntness. To him not caring about anything but what he wants. That’s an easier dynamic then all these questions.

“L-long st-ory,” your words creak out.

“I’ll come meet you,” he offers, “I got a few books to bring back. Which location are you at?”

Again, you're reluctant. His eagerness surprises you but you assume it’s more impatience. It'll be good to just get this over with.

“O-Oxblood,” you answer.

“Hm, never been to that one,” he comments, “when's good? Like an hour or something?”

“S-sure,” you shrug.

You give up. People don't really ask when they ask. They tell. Your mother, your sister, him.

“Sounds like a plan. I'll just finish up what I'm doing and head over,” he voice catches at the end, “shit, got another call. Talk later.”

Before you can respond the line is dead. You're almost grateful for the abrupt end. You're expecting this writing gig might just be a one-off situation.

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Cookie Kisses

Week 3 of the Winter Writing Challenge

prompts: hot chocolate / baking / dancing 

Summary: Dieter finds you baking cookies in your home after being away to shoot his series for months.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x fem. reader

wordcount: 1.9k

Rating: T

Warnings: fluff, making out, suggestive language (?), talk of future plans involving kids

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

It’s funny how much your life can change in less than a year. 

A year ago you were living in a shitty apartment with four other people, working three jobs and still not being able to afford a dollar more than you needed to survive. 

LA had turned into a fucking pipe dream for you. 

You knew thousands of people tried to make their dream come true by moving to the city of stars. 

Just like you did. You were a writer. You wanted to work in television or the movies. 

Yet after months and months you did not even get one call back or anyone interested in your work. You were getting frustrated.

You were at your lowest point a year ago just before Christmas. Not being able to afford the flight back to see you parents for the holidays, and not enough money to treat yourself to a shitty Christmas dinner from the supermarket. 

You were working 16 hour shifts at the diner just to not be back in your shitty apartment where you would spend all your time talking yourself out of just giving up and moving back home. 

It was one of those 16 hour shifts, at 3 am on a Thursday that Dieter Bravo stepped into your life. 

You had heard that he had been shooting in a studio not far away from the diner from some time from one of your co workers. Apparently he had been to the diner quite regularly in the last two weeks, just not ever when you had been there. 

You welcomed him to the diner with a tired smile, handing him the menu, missing the way he looked after you, when you left to get his order of a hot chocolate. 

You had missed a lot in the weeks after that first meeting too. 

Like that he somehow managed to now always showed up in your shift, seated in your section. 

How he tried to keep talking to you, when all you were doing was going through your to do list while taking his order. 

How he seemed to tip you always more than average on days you looked sad.

Of course you knew who Dieter Bravo was. 

You had seen some of his movies and the very successful series two years ago he stared in. An HBO series about… fungi zombies. Or…. Whatever. 

It was another nightly visit from him almost six weeks after your first meeting where you finally realised that maybe Dieter Bravo was interested in more than your ability to deliver food and the best hot chocolate he ever had (his words). 

The diner had been busy and there had been no free space in your section. You had seen him come in, giving him a friendly smile as you walked by and back into the kitchen. You put in the latest orders and excused yourself for a small restroom break after. 

When you stepped back into the diner it was completely empty. 

Safe for Dieter’s preferred table where the man was waiting for you. Two hot chocolates waiting in front of him, looking at you with big brown puppy eyes. 

When you thought back to this night it still seemed like the beginning of a fairytale. 

He had told you that he paid off everyone in the diner to leave, including most of the staff. He had told you that he had been trying to get your attention for weeks. 

You thought it was a joke first, why would Oscar winning actor Dieter Bravo wanting to get your attention?

He could have everyone, why would he want you?

You would learn months later that he was pretty sure he had fallen in love with you that first time he saw you, just before Christmas when he walked into the diner. 

Your life had changed significantly after Dieter stepped into your life. 

Dieter and you started hanging out outside of your work quite frequently before he asked you out on a date. 

And dating you did. 

He took you out to have dinner, flew you out to Canada when he was shooting the second season of his HBO series. He made you teach him how to make the perfect hot chocolate so he could make it for you.

He kissed and fucked you whenever you where together. 

The Dieter you got to know, and the persona he let the outside world know, were two completely different people.

He told you he loved you and that for the first time in his life he felt like he did not need drugs to make it through the day. Not that he did not do anymore drugs, just significantly less (as you learned from him and his manager). And only rarely in front of you.

When the lease of your apartment was up, he asked you to move in with him. Into his new house he had bought in the hidden hills and help him make it feel like home. 

Your home. 

Now, a week before Christmas you were standing in a kitchen that was double as big as your apartment before, preparing another batch of Christmas cookies you were making for your guests next week. 

Dieter had insisted on inviting his and your parents over for the holidays and you could not wait for them to get here. 

Dieter was due to be back from Canada for some reshoots later that day and you hoped you would be finished by the time he was back. 

You hoped he liked how you decorated the house, save for the Christmas tree you wanted to decorate with him once he was back. 

Moving in with Dieter had been an experience. While you were on the border of being OCD tidy, he was… not. You were both still learning how to get used to this new normal, but excited to do it together. 

You hadn’t spend much time together with Dieter in this house yet. You moved in in the beginning of October and he had to leave before Halloween to continue to shoot his series. You had only seen each other since then once when he was back for a brief meeting for another movie he would be shooting in Italy the next year.

Humming along to the radio to some Christmas song you loaded up the dishwasher, waiting for the timer of the oven to go off, you missed the garage door opening and footsteps making their way inside the house. 

It’s why you almost had a heart attack once you turned around and found Dieter grinning at you over his sunglasses, standing at the kitchen island. 

„Holy shit,“ you gasped, your hand pressing against your chest and your wild beating heart. 

„Hey babe,“ his grin widened and you laughed, before you practically ran around the counter, throwing yourself into his arms. 

„I missed you baby,“ you murmured and he kissed you, sighing audibly against your lips. 

„You taste like cookies,“ he mumbled against your lips, kissing you all over your face, his hands both on your ass, pulling you against him. 

„Want some?“ You asked. 

„Cookies?“ He asked. You nodded. He shook his head. 

„Want something different,“ he kissed you again, slowly walking you backwards until you felt the counter against your back. 

He kissed down your neck, his fingers pulling at your shirt. 

„Missed your tits,“ he dipped his nose into your cleavage and you bit your lip. 

„Baby…“ you gasped and he helped you sit on the counter. 

„Missed all of you,“ he murmured.

Parting your legs so he could stand between them he pushed your shirt up, kissing your stomach. 

„Canada is too fucking cold. Colder than your feet at night,“ he hummed and you giggled. He playfully bit into your hip before his hands both came to rest on your upper thighs. You pulled him into your arms, your fingers brushing through his hair as he rested his head against your chest. 

„I really missed you Dieter,“ you whispered and he snuggled even closer against you. 

„Love that I get to come home to you now,“ he said and propped his chin up against your chest, looking up at you. 

The timer of the oven let you both jump, and you chuckled. 

„One more batch to go and then you get to do whatever you want to me,“ you whispered, kissing his forehead. He pouted, sighing dramatically before he let go of you and helped you off the counter. 

He hovered behind you, following you like a puppy, as you took the finished batch out and put the last batch into the oven. 

You gently slapped his fingers away as he tried to steal a cookie. 

„Let them cool down for a second, will you?“ You chastised him playfully and pouted. You carefully pulled his glasses off, your hands on his cheeks. 

„There you are,“ you smiled and got on your tiptoes to kiss him again. His arms wrapped around you again, running soothingly up and down your back. 

„Can we make that pie I love so much tomorrow?“ He asked. 

„We as in us two?“ You asked, an eyebrow raised. 

He pursed his lips. 

„Well you are gonna bake and I am gonna lick all the bowls. I’m very good at licking“ he said seriously, wiggling his eyebrows. 

You shook your head with a laugh, your hands crossing behind his neck. 

„You are very good at licking,“ you agreed. 

„Want a demonstration?“ He offered, his hands on your ass again and you could feel how hard he was as he rubbed himself against you. 

„In… twenty minutes. Can’t let those cookies burn,“ you said and he pouted again. 

„You’re so damn mean,“ he whined. 

„But you love it,“ you say. 

„Yeah. Yeah I do,“ he sighed before he kissed you. 

It was a minute or so later that he slowly began to swing you to the beat of the music, some Michael Bublé Christmas song in the background. Smiling you let your head rest against his shoulder, one of his hands now in the middle of your back, gently guiding the impromptu slow dance. 

Sometimes you imagined moments like this years in the future. Maybe with a dog and cat around. Maybe a kid or two. 

As long as Dieter was in your future, you would be okay with everything life could throw at you. 

„You still got that meeting on Friday?“ He asked, his head resting on top of yous. 

„Yeah. They seemed really interested,“ you mumbled against his shirt. 

While you still hadn’t gotten your first big job, it looked like that might change in the near future. 

Dieter and you bonded over your love for writing and you both had been working on a script, which you sent out to some studios under different pseudonyms. 

You did not want to use Dieter’s connections to make it. Ever since you went public with your relationship, people knew who you were. And may it be stubborn, you did not want to use his name to finally get the recognition you always dreamed of. 

You already had two meetings with studios, a third one just around the corner before Dieter would join you to reveal who the second writer was. 

„You excited for Christmas?“ He asked you. You looked up at him. 

„So much. We gotta decorate the tree together this week,“ you said. 

He nodded and leaned in to kiss you, humming against your lips. You did not know it then, but a week later he would ask you to marry him. 

„I love you,“ Dieter mumbled against your lips.

„I love you too.“