#plumbing company Reading

[athomeplumbers]

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[fuckyeahgoodomens]

David and Michael in the interview with Ali Plumb for BBC Radio 1, 10th July 2023

I compared it with it's podcast version and there are some bits that are cut out in the video 👀 but I added them into the transcript ❤ 🐍😊 .

AP: If you're thinking I'm the kind of guy that rocks up to a Good Omens interview with...

Michael: With the book.

David: Oh, well done.

Michael: We'd be correct.

AP: Yeah.

[GOS2 Promo]

AP: So after such a successful and well received first series, what gives you guys?

David: Why risk it?

AP: Why risk it.

Michael: What gives you the right?!

AP: What gives you the cojones to do another one?

Michael: I know.

AP: How dare you?

Michael: It's terrible. When I wrote it.... Well, no, I mean, that's the thing, really, I mean, it's Neil and Terry's baby. And we'd always known that they'd gone beyond the world of the first book. In fact, there's stuff that's not in the first book, in the first series. So Gabriel is a character, you know, who's not there. So we'd always known that there was a lot more.

David: The ideas, the threads.

Michael: Exactly. And they even had a name for a sequel. 668: The Neighbour of the Beast. Which is hilarious.

[A cut out part that is not in the video, but you can listen to in the podcast version of it:

AP: Just take, write the joke and then work it out later.

Michael: The best Good Omens joke isn't even in the Good Omens book.

David: Yeah.

Michael: And so we knew there was all that. So I think given that, that gave certainly us the confidence to know that we were in, you know, safe hands.

David: Yeah.

Michael: And I think gave Neil the sense that it was worth exploring, going further, because I think without that, he would never have done it. If he didn't feel that Terry was part of that ride as well, then I don't think he would have gone on it.

]

AP: At the risk of reading from the scripture, this is what's in the hardback copy of Good Omens: 'Why isn't there a sequel? Neil: Well, we know how the sequel goes. We played around with the idea whilst we were on tour. We even discussed a few scenes, but we could never quite work up the enthusiasm. It'd have been fun. We'd split the cash. But we both had other things to do'.

Michael: Yes. It's very much how we felt, isn't it? We'll split the cash.

David: Yeah.

AP: And run.

Michael: You know, and if we got nothing else on.

David: Well, yeah.

Ap: And you kind of enjoy each other's company?

Michael: I mean, enjoy is a strong word.

David: We're very good at faking it.

AP: Actors. I love it.

David: Yeah, exactly, exactly.

Michael: Yeah, exactly.

AP: When, outside of a show's context or the film's context, have you felt physically, visually the silliest? Because I think in this show there have to be moments. Green screen, full orange wig hair, that you go, no one take a photo of me right now.

David: The opening scene of Season Two is set in space and we're dressed as sort of old fashioned-

Michael: That makes it sound like sort of an episode of Blakes 7 or something, it's not Sci-Fi space, is it?

David: There's nothing wrong with that.

Michael: No, there's nothing... I mean I love it.

David: Jesus,

AP: Are you stepping up saying Sci-Fi's rubbish at this-

Michael: No, no, no! Of course not! No. But what I'm saying is-

David: I don't know who this is

Michael: David is making it sound like it's like Aziraphale and Crowley are in a rocket ship.

David: It is set in space!

Michael: Well, yeah.

David: First series set in space! You can't... it's just factual.

Michael: But not like space 1999.

David: Just space.

AP: It's pure, undiluted space.

David: It's set in space. In fact, it is undiluted space. And for that, we were dressed as a traditional angel in a sort of nighties...

Michael: Yes, we weren't in silver spandex.

David: We were in nighties.

Michael: We were.

David: And we were strapped to make this floating in space - and they didn't have this on Blakes 7 - we were strapped onto these gurneys and moved up and down.

[hehe bonus pic :)]

Michael: I had a jetpack.

[again, cut out in the video but present in the podcast version

David: I mean, it looks beautiful. The finished, the finished piece.

Michael: It was very odd, wasn't it? Yes. We were both sort of just like.

David: Yes.

Michael: Hovering around each other.

David: And it was, it was ignoble. Some of the being strapped in and out.

Michael: It was. Yeah.

]

AP: At least it's not Jon Hamming into a room... full Hamm.

[GOS2 Promo]

[again, cut out in the video but present in the podcast version

David: The naked Hamm? The naked Hamm was... yeah. He seemed pretty...

Michael: He seemed very relaxed.

AP: He insisted on spending more scenes in that costume.

]

Michael: That was never in the script.

David: No, he just turned up on set.

Michael: That's how he showed up.

David: I had an idea, guys!

Michael: Yes. No, there's lots to look forward to.

AP bursts out laughing: Sorry.

Michael: And lots to look back on.

AP: This second series, having a little bit more wiggle room in terms of where you might be able to take the characters, I think it's fair enough to say. Do you feel more active input.

[again, cut out in the video but present in the podcast version

AP: Into where they might go? Because to me, they strike as having a very strong Woody and Buzz factor of...

David: Right.

AP: Bear with me here. You're both not very good at your jobs.

David: How dare you?

AP: It's true. One's no angel. One's far from evil.

David: That's true.

AP: And you kind of are fudging it constantly.

]

AP: Do you feel you have more room to kind of fudge here and fudge there and really muck about with the characters now?

Michael: I mean, I every day when we start, I like to first of all say, Neil, I've got no interest in hearing what you're going to say. This is what I think should happen.

David: Yeah.

Michael: I mean, the thing is, when you've got Neil Gaiman writing it-

David: Yeah.

Michael: -you should have just go, off you go, mate.

David: The last thing you want to do is start putting in your ideas. You don't want to limit anything that's going to come out.

Michael: It's like brain. It's like when Ringo says, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

AP: Yesterday, I have notes.

Michael: Listen, listen to what I've come up with.

AP: There's too much guitar in this.

David: Yeah.

AP: More drums.

David: Yeah.

Michael: Yeah. I think one of the things about Neil that is so wonderful is that he is so open and generous with ideas,

David: Yes.

Michael: and he's so not precious about what he's written. He is very respectful of what he and Terry created and is probably a bigger fan than any other fan, but he's not precious about it and he's very open to collaboration. In fact, he's probably the most collaborative

David: Yes.

Michael: I'd ever come across in my life.

David: Yes, absolutely.

Michael: So he loves watching what other people bring to the table, not just actors, but, you know, designers, everyone. And then I think he takes from that and is influenced by that. So it's very collaborative in that sense.

David: Yes. But if we influenced where the characters went in season two, it was sort of circumstantially.

AP: Right.

Michael: Yeah.

David: It was sort of by the act of what happened during season one and getting to know Neil and getting to know each other. But the great joy for us is turning up to these wonderful scripts and going, oh, I get to take this character here now. What a lark.

[again, cut out in the video but present in the podcast version

Michael: I mean, I wrote some very stern emails to him.

David: Yeah.

Michael: Which I was glad to see that he totally ignored.

AP: Screen time for me.

Michael: Yes, exactly.

AP: I like to think the 'I was right, or rather, you were right and I was wrong' dance was organic in the moment, not in the script. And could you give us a quick how might I recreate that beautiful...

David: Absolutely not. No. I worked with the choreographer for some days.

Michael: It's true.

David: Yeah.

Michael: It's true. And am I right in saying that... I wonder if this exists? But when we were filming it, didn't I, on the last take, I made you do it once with you thinking that you were doing it for real, but actually it wasn't for real. It was just so I could do.

David: It was so you could have-

Michael: So I could Strictly Come Dancing [british dance contest]-

David: Exactly that. Does it exist? I think it does exist.

Michael: It must have actually built... I had cards made with scores on them and David, God bless him, came in and did the whole thing again, thinking that he was doing it for the filming. And in fact, it was literally just so at the end I could go, 'SEVEEEEEEN'! [It was filmed, hehe, see here :)]

David: Yeah. But I don't want Amazon to think we're wasting your production...

AP: Money and time. No.

David: And it will show up on a blooper reel somewhere.

Michael: There was no film. There was no film.

AP: It was definitely not a waste of time. No, absolutely not.

]

AP: What would you say the fans have responded most to from the first series when you meet them at comic cons or on social media or what have you? Are there moments from the first series where they love talking about that scene?

Michael: Well, I think people really enjoy the going through history stuff, don't they? I mean, we thoroughly.

David: We certainly do. There's just something about the characters and their relationship, though, that seems to have just caught fire. I mean the amount of...

AP :I won’t read some ot the stories I’ve glanced upon.

David: Right.

AP: Yes. Fanfiction is quite….

David: Oh, I see. Oh that is not for us to read.

Michael: Oh I read it all.

AP: Oh you should. You write most of it, right?

Michael: I write most of it.

David: But it's lovely to see. And I have seen more than I can count. Aziraphale and Crowleys showing up. People dressed and always in twos, always in pairs.

Michael: Yes.

David: You know, and that's lovely. And that seems to absolutely encapsulate what the whole show is about, I think.

AP: Tattoos, fan art.

David: Definitely, yes. Seen a couple of tattoos.

Michael: Yeah.

AP: Yeah. Do you get fans in the street quoting lines or just pointing and staring? Because you two together can't really walk down the street.

David: Michael doesn't walk anywhere.

Michael: Those days are long gone.

AP: Jackpack.

David: Yeah.

Micheal: Yeah.

AP: Yeah, that's fair.

Michael: Well, I get a lot of ‘To the world’.

David: Oh, yes. Nice.

Michael: People like to… yeah.

David: Yeah.

Michael: And 'You go too fast, Crowley.’

David: Ooh.

Michael: There’s a lot of that. That gets jumped around.

AP: What about... and this is a kind of BAFTA winning question, so just send it my way.

David: Wow.

AP: Would you say these characters are in your top three most fun characters you've ever played? Because they strike me as being... I'd probably play these characters forever if I could.

Michael and David: Yeah.

Michael: This is like on what's that show when people have to say whether they want to date each other again? You go first. Top three?

David: I mean...

AP: Number two...one?

David: It'd be a weird scenario to say it wasn't.

AP: Yeah, I agree.

David: In this situation.

AP: Yeah.

David: To start something: well, I mean, it's sort in the little twenties. But... No, we did have an irresponsible amount of fun.

Michael: Yes. Not really like working.

AP: No.

Michael: I mean, I very much hope that we eventually get to, in one way or another, in one form or another,

David: Yeah.

Michael: get to play them just very, very old. And it may well be... I mean, we joke about doing a theatrical tour.

AP: And swapping.

David: I'm not joking. I'm not joking about that.

Michael: No.

David: It's a lovely little retirement plan.

Michael: I know.

AP: I'm dead keen on Good Omens 666. I think...

Michael: Oh!

AP: It's just there.

Michael: Yes.

David: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

AP: Think about it. Post apocalyptic...

Michael: Part, like Good Omens 1, 2, 3, all the way up to 666. I mean, that's a long running series. That's longer than Frasier.

AP: Big words. If a bad joke's worth telling. 666.

Michael: Telling over and over again.

AP: Over and over and over.

David: Yeah.

AP: Guys, I'm going to ask you one last favour as I wrap things up, which is I have at the front of this book, one Mr. Neil Gaiman.

[shows a copy of Good Omens signed by Neil Gaiman].

AP: He signed it and he said as he often does: Ali, have a good doomsday. Would you care to deface?

Michael: I heard the other day that someone went to interview George Harrison and the person who interviewed him said, would you mind signing this record? Whatever it know, the white album, whatever. And he went, do you want them all? And they used to all write each other's name, all sign each other's names.

David: Wow.

Michael: Because they had to do it so much.

David: Do you want to do mine?

Michael: Just get Neil to do that.

AP: Could you please sign as your man? I'll be very lucky.

Michael: On a different page.

AP: You pick your own page, deface as you will.

Michael: Yeah. Look at that. I do a little halo.

David: Oh, that's given me an idea.

Michael: Oh look at that, yeah.

AP: And then while I'm here, I'm going to do the super unprofessional thing of asking for a photograph, if that's allowed.

David: Yeah.

Michael: Oh, look at that.

David: That's perfect.

Michael: That's nice, isn't it?

AP: Beautiful. Would you mind helping me out?

David: Do you see what we've done there, Ali?

AP: Oh, thank you!

Michael: And yours is D for...

AP: I'm going to kneel behind you.

David: Sure.

Michael: I thought I should turn my M into wings.

David: Oooh.

Michael: This is, this is...

AP: Guys, as you may have worked out, big fan.

David: Cheers, Ali.

[ronearoundblindly]

Hideout (2)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sweet Baby (see previous or series)

Summary: 'Grant' becomes comfortable enough to tell you who he is, and you get comfortable enough to show him the kindness he deserves.

Warnings for description of minor blood/injury and light smut (mentions of morning wood, dry humping, hair pulling, praise kink? maybe coached orgasm?). This series is 18+ only. MINORS DNI. There is plenty else for you youngins to read on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you! WC 2.6k

Warmer months are for updating the rooms, so they are on a rotation of renovation. There are really busy times and really slow times based on events in town, but there’s an understanding with Grant’s ‘party’ of friends that, if needed, they can stay in the room closed for repair. It’s not as if any room is uninhabitable when they need a coat of paint and some plumbing tune-ups.

Clark doesn’t remember you told him about this—you used the excuse that Grant ’s company are handymen (and women) who come in between other jobs,—so the front desk kid calls you while you’re out running errands one day.

Two ‘dudes’ want to stay in room eight on the end. So? Let them. Those are the people who fix things. Clark just says “kay.”

When you pull into the lot hours later, you don’t expect to find Grant sitting on the curb, filthy and exhausted in some gym clothes, a plastic bag set at his feet.

“Wha’ch’a waiting for?” you call with the window down, hoping his spirits can lift easily.

Grant peers up at you through long lashes. He’s had a knock-down drag-out with a field of bramble…or something. That’s when you notice dark, dried blood in the grime stuck to him, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Sa—Tom used all the hot water,” he huffs, “so I’m biding my time.”

Their room’s water tank, the one due for maintenance, is going to take an eternity to reheat, and it’s the worst luck that there really are no other rooms available.

“Hop on in. You can use the bath up at the house.”

He looks just as startled as you by the invitation, but in no simple terms can you express how bad it is to have a huge guy covered in blood hanging out in front of your rural motel. That’s horror movie bait.

You know Grant. You trust him. All he needs is to clean himself up.

He checks behind him again. The same mix of seeking approval or seeking the cover of ignorance returns to his pretty features, and he trots over to the passenger seat of the car, plastic bag in hand.

He helps you bring in the groceries and supplies from town even though you point him in the direction of the upstairs bathroom immediately. There’s a big jacuzzi tub in there, and he is welcome to soak for however long he wants. You’ll even wash his clothes in the mean time, if he’d like.

Grant seems hesitant to accept or argue.

You press on.

Showing him where everything is in the bathroom takes a minute. You fish around a cupboard for the muscle-relaxing milk additive, explaining it may help him…if needed. You don’t know what’s happened, so you’re flying blind for options.

When the tap turns off ten minutes later, silence descends, but he never handed you stuff to wash. You knock and try the door, just to crack it open so he can hear you.

First, you notice the color of the water. He used the milk bath alright, but whatever washed immediately off him has saturated and soured the clean white into a rusty tan. Second, you pick up the pile of clothes and find more in the plastic bag, except…it’s a suit with a star decal half-ripped and dangling from the chest. Third, you realize you can’t see him in the water at all, not his feet, not his head, no bubbles, so you rush in and shove your hands beneath the surface.

He shoots up in alarm, gasping and sloshing to a different wide, rounded corner of porcelain.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you shriek, hands out and spread wide. “I just thought—I don’t know—I didn’t know if you’d—sorry!”

He rubs his hands down his face and over his dripping hair. He doesn’t even speak; he just waves for you to stop apologizing and clears water shot up his nose.

You have to collapse to the fuzzy rug and hold your heart before it beats right out of your ribcage. You still repeat “sorry” a few more times and then manage an impressed “wow, you kept all the water in.”

He thunks his head back to the lip of the tub and props up one leg, his knee cresting the surface. “I have a talent…”

The dirt, despite how much clearly came off already, is smeared grossly across him.

He looks so tired.

“May I—“ you grab the shampoo bottle all the way at his feet “—help?”

Defeated in more ways than one, he nods through the same concerned and confused gaze that’s become his signature. He maneuvers nearer you while you carefully wet your hands, starting a lather. His head stays down, spine exposed, as you massage at the base of his skull.

His eyes shut.

Your heart now swells with accomplishment; you gave this man a moment of peace.

Fingers gliding over the sinewy, tight bands beneath soft hairs, you press circles around and around his scalp. He cranes backwards while you move up and over the crown of his head, and by just above his ears, he’s laying his full weight in the water, lax against the rim.

You keep going long after his hair is strictly clean, though you’ll recommend he rinse after soaking because the water is too foul to count on.

He remains quiet, so you dip your hands in the water at his shoulders, shake them about, and move on to scrubbing his face clean, too, working down from the hairline and over his beard.

Somewhere around his throat, the man sniffs.

He sniffs again, raising a hand from the water to stop yours.

“My name isn’t…” His eyes open finally, only to stare blankly at the ceiling. “My name is Steve.”

“Okay,” you say, abandoning the washing to sit back on the mat again. “Do you want me to call you that or Grant?”

He turns, brows furrowed, and in the most authoritative voice, he replies, “you can’t tell anyone.”

You rest your chin on the lip of the tub, too. “I know. I won’t.”

Eyes locked, you two stare at each other for a long beat.

“The Captain America suit kinda gave it away though,” you whisper, and to your surprise and delight, Steve flicks water at you in retaliation.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, “handle yourself in here while I go start the laundry.”

You stretch and almost—almost—kiss his forehead because, for whatever reason, that feels right, but at the last second you tuck your head down, acting like you were just standing up. You can’t bring yourself to look back at him while gathering the clothes.

You keep busy downstairs, scrubbing at a few spots of caked on muck, trying not to listen to the sounds of splashing, the squeaking as he moves around, the rush of the draining bath, and the tap turning back on to rinse him again. You scramble to find the biggest t-shirt and pair of pants you own (although, come to think of it, Steve’s got fairly small hips, so you grab some stretchy sweats) and hand them through the door when realizing he has nothing else to wear.

He emerges with several visible cuts and scrapes but dismisses your offer to treat them.

“It’s not worth the effort. They’ll be gone by morning.”

You’ve decided something: if he doesn’t bring it up, you won’t either.

Whatever he wants to tell you, whenever he wants to tell it, you don’t ask. You are used to keeping guests’ confidence—not that anyone tells you deep, dark secrets, but you refuse to gossip about cleanliness or things in the trash—and ‘Grant’ will be no different.

You can, however, still tease him.

“Ready to share that queen bed with Tom?” You give his beefy arm a playful punch.

Steve groans.

“Kidding,” you beam. “I’m not making you walk that path in the dark right now. An elk could get ya!”

He pinches tired eyes, a ghost of a smirk realigning the hairs of his beard. You imagine that on any other day, he would put up more of a fight, but he’s fought enough.

“Yeah, okay. As long as I won’t scare the daylights out of your parents by being on the couch in the morning.” Steve steps over to the landing at the top of the stairs.

“They’re at a hospitality conference. I run the place…mostly. Besides, what kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer you a bed that fits you?” You dramatically bow and indicate your room. “This way, please, sir.”

Good thing he has no fight left in him. His eyes narrow adorably, but he doesn’t budge.

“I should let Tom know.”

“There is a phone in there, too. I’ll dial room eight.”

You get him some water, hanging his clothes to dry, offering as much privacy as you can in an old house with thin walls.

“Yeah, hi, it’s…yes, yes, I’m… Yeah, I know. I know, Sam, just—you don’t have to laugh about it. She let me use the bath, is all. You’re the one who—Well, don’t take all the damn wa—hello? Hello?” Steve is staring at the receiver of the land line when you appear in the doorway. “Uh, he…gets it.”

He sits on the edge of your bed, glancing around your neither childish nor sterile room. You put the glass down on your side table instead of handing it to him.

“Okay, I think you need rest,” you add, sweeping your hand down his bare arm.

You marvel at how the edges of his cuts are already shrinking, knitting back together in near-realtime. Your fingertips trace around the skin like an interactive roadmap.

First heal this, then he needs this, and this is deeper here.

You wonder whether he feels pain the same as everyone else. Is it dulled? Does he just have to ignore how much and how frequently he hurts because it goes away sooner? That’s a sad thought to you. Just because he’ll be okay, doesn’t mean he should suffer more.

He’s a miracle. As Grant, Steve, Cap, or nobody at all, he’s still a miracle.

“You don’t have to go…”

The last of the evening blurs as you wake, but you remember Steve needed this. He asked you to stay.

Spooning is the only way to fit on the bed together. After finishing your own bedtime routing, you began behind the giant man, curled tight, lightly scratching over his broad shoulders and arms. He fell asleep so quickly, and you don’t recall how long after that you both turned over. You had to drape Steve’s awkward arm around you, show him he could hold you close, assure him he can be as comfortable as he likes.

Whichever way he settled is infinitely better than falling off the bed, and you’re grateful he’s accommodating in a small space. You suppose he has to be. Though, for a man as dense as a brick wall, he is shockingly pliant around you. 

Shame you have to stretch, ruining the picture of fitting puzzle pieces you’ve become.

Arms out and legs long, you roll, restless on the one side for too long in the night. Steve shifts around your moves, laying his head on your arm instead of the pillow. His arm that was your pillow wedges down by your waist instead.

Your knees knock his, so even in sleep, he lets them slot through, legs entangled and…his erection laying over your thigh, the tip poking your hip.

Your body tenses for a split second, the muscles of your leg brush harder against his cock, and Steve groans softly, the arm draped over you pulling your body closer.

He’s still asleep, breathing easy, his features totally relaxed.

His golden hair shines in the early light, and he’s so, so beautiful.

You move stray locks from his face, enjoying how he nuzzles and sighs as you play. Quiet, lazy touches.

His hips nudge forward for friction. His fingers grab at your nightshirt. One of his shifts angles his length to drive against your mound instead, and you gasp involuntarily, having smothered your excitement for too long.

He stirs, a heavier, longer breath followed by Steve's whole body going rigid and his eyes squeezing shut. He tries to bury his face in your arm, and you can’t help it. You hope he’ll continue.

You shush him, carding through his hair to soothe him as you did in the bath.

There’s nothing wrong.

He can feel good.

He should feel good.

You want him to feel good. Hell, you don’t say it, but you need to make him feel good.

Steve still won’t face you. He leans closer, shielding himself with your chest, but he doesn’t pull his hips away.

You can hear him thinking through his options groggily, and in your nervousness, you pull at the fistful of hair in your hand.

Steve whimpers and juts his pelvis forward.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Did you like that? Does that feel nice, Stevie?”

His abs flutter with a spasming exhale, but he says nothing. His rough hands dig into your back while he desperately seeks more friction.

You let him—you encourage him—to keep going.

“Whatever you need…it’s okay.”

He pants into your skin, making you sweat while he dissolves into a mewling mess of shame, taking what he deserves.

He bends his leg for leverage, the sole of his foot pressing flush to your calf. You feel his thumping heartbeat along all of your skin that touches his. He swallows moans which sound hollow and deep where they die in his chest before Steve grunts and stretches, the whole underbelly of his cock rubbing your inner thigh and baiting your clit mercilessly with almost-contact.

You release his hair, asking “do you want my han—”

But it’s too late.

Steve seizes you in his last moments hard before he stills, palms so wide you’ll feel the marks over an entire shoulder blade and the breadth of skin from your ass to your ribcage.

You yelp, the nails of your trapped hand clawing at the sheets around you. It’s a good pain. It’s worth it to witness how his body melts into yours after he comes. He’s lax and heavy, pathetic convulsions of ecstasy subsiding.

You’re only just starting to feel the wet fabric on your thigh when he peels away and rushes to the bathroom.

The best thing for him is to act normal. It is normal for him to be hard in the morning, to want contact and satisfaction, and the truth is it’s perfectly normal for you to dream of providing that for him. You want that contact with him. You are satisfied when he is satisfied.

That's scary because it's a secret as hidden from you both as his identity now, but you won't talk about it. If he doesn't ask, then he doesn't want the answer. It's better that way.

So that was okay, and this is okay.

It's okay, and you tell him when you bring his gym clothes back to the door. You repeat it as he walks out of your home unable to look you in the eye, his partially-destroyed past life wadded up in a fresh plastic bag.

At the bottom of the porch steps, he turns, still focused on the ground.

“Thank you for the…the bath.”

You can’t tell anyone about him—about how you feel for him—not even him. It wouldn’t be right. He doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad you feel better, Grant.”

A/N: Google, Play 'Hopelessly Devoted To You.' *starts weeping some more*

[Next Part: Sensitive Boy, Part I]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes

[drdemonprince]

In reading your latest piece, I think I've stumbled onto something akin to a personal epiphany. You describe transition as an act of "want" (Chu's longing for gossip and yours for the life of an eternal bachelor) and I've realized that I think as a consequence of growing up autistic, I've obliterated the concept of personal want. I don't know if I truly ever want anything? How do I even know what I truly want (versus what other people tell me I should want)? Is there an opposite of resentment I can tune into so I can tell what I want when my conscious mind is unable to provide me an answer?

I think the place is to start with what you don't want. What I describe as "wanting the bachelor life forever" in my piece is actually a desire born out of negation: I don't want kids, I don't want marriage, I don't want responsible adulthood and the weight that that carries, I want to feel free-roaming and open to random experiences. What i knew most viscerally for myself was what felt wrong, and owning up to those feelings no matter how socially inconvenient they might be was what made it possible for me to articulate what I proactively did find desirable.

I recommend rejecting a lot of things, disappointing a lot of people, being disobedient, setting boundaries, all of that stuff that I have been writing about for a very long time (check out the pieces on those subjects if you haven't already, but from the sound of it you probably have). And then when it comes to positively desiring things, you've got to start small. Find a little thing to look forward to every day, or every week. In my household, Wednesdays and Fridays are Dunkin Donuts days. Instead of making coffee at home, you get a little treat. That makes getting a coffee out of the house still feel precious and special while also making it attainable, and gives the work week a little horizon to peak over at its mid point.

I so look forward to the weekly streams on Friday with @testdevice, too. Afterward I usually get a meal somewhere and then go out for some kind of weekend activity -- drinking and watching Drag Race at Roscoe's, a movie, dancing, whatever. I make forming plans for the weekend a task I set out for myself at the top of every week. I find street festivals, concerts, craft fairs, protests, little things to do that I know will be meaningful to me. Small pleasures parceled out on a regular schedule provide a pleasing structure to life. It makes the forward march of time feel more exciting and keeps daily life from being defined by obligation and drudgery. Sometimes it's something like playing a video game at home or meeting up at a friend's house for a movie night and snacks. However you can swing it, you gotta have little things to look forward to, I think, in order to enjoy being alive and to get into the habit of thinking more expansively about what you want. you can making finding things that you want to do a regular project, a practice.

A lot of life is experimenting with new experiences and relationships with other people to find out what you actually like. It's not some profound act of introspection. People block themselves off from a lot of meaningful aspects of life by thinking the answers come from plumbing the depths of their soul and finding their true calling or true desire divorced from everything else. There is no self outside of experience and social connection.

And so the best way to find out what you want is to try a lot of different things. Go watch your friend at their competitive poker tournament. Volunteer to clean litter off the beach. Foster a bunny rabbit. Make a casserole. Darn a sock. Buy some handmade jewelry. Visit a museum with a coworker you kinda might like the company of. Invite someone over for dinner. How it plays out and how you feel about it is all data about the kind of person you are becoming.

I also wouldn't get too bogged down in the idea that wants can only come from the pursuit of happiness. I got a few really well intentioned asks this week that I never answered about what brings me joy, what makes me happy. Truth is, I'm not someone who experiences happiness easily and i might never be. That is okay. I still have a life that holds meaning because I AM very good at finding things interesting. i like talking to people, learning from them, watching things play out in real time.

You don't have to feel some kind of abiding soul connection to an activity or sense that a way of life will absolutely make you happy in order for it to interest you, help you grow, bring your life meaning. Other people might not want to read long history books about genocide and the social construction of race in order to bring their life pleasure, but those activities engage my mind and make me feel more firmly rooted in the actual world. they're interesting and rewarding to study, and so i do it. i say yes to a lot of invitations purely because i've never seen what horse racing is like or because i want to see if i'll still get nauseated if i ride a boat now as an adult. it's interesting. it might not make me happy or be fun. but i like a life better with those experiences. those are the things i gravitate to and want. and you can find what you want, too, and it will always keep changing probably.

[magneto-was-fucking-right]

The Ghost Next Door - Chapter 6

Prompt: After suffering an almost lethal injury in combat, Simon "Ghost" Riley expected a dull, and uneventful leave back at his shitty apartment. His new next-door neighbor ruins his plans. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (named Riley Thomas for plot purposes)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 7

Disclaimer: slow burn; neighbor!Simon; semi-sexual content

Chapter Summary: In which Simon's neighbor gets drunk with his best friend and ends up, once again, on his couch.

Word Count: 3.1K

On a cold, rainy Friday night, Riley Thomas knocked on her neighbor’s door in sweatpants and a hoodie, a large pizza box from the restaurant down the street in hand. When Simon finally reached the door, the young woman slid inside quickly, sighing in relief at the comforting heat of his apartment.

“Why’d you take so long? The hallway is freezing!” She complained as a way of greeting, setting down the carton box on his table before rubbing her hands together.

“I took two minutes, you big baby.”

She rolled her eyes playfully.

“What’d you pick for tonight?” Riley asked curiously, peeking at his TV as she settled on the couch and quickly covered herself with their designated movie blanket.

“Mamma Mia.” 

“Fuck off.” She stared at him in disbelief, a mocking grin slowly creeping about her cheeks.  “Guilty pleasure?”

“One of many.”

She shook her head in amusement “You’re a man full of surprises, Simon.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He chuckled.

A slow, tentative friendship had begun blooming between them over the weeks, as Riley found herself in her broody neighbor's company more often than not. Simon’s icy walls had started to crumble increasingly easier at the young woman’s terrible jokes, finding comfort in her amiable invitations for a movie night, a dog walk, or something as simple as a quiet talk while each of them did their laundry in the building’s basement.

Tonight was different for Riley, as it had been Simon’s idea for them to share the evening together, excitement bubbling in her stomach at their new found companionship. She spent her work days longing for their moments together, when she would come home to find he had prepared dinner and “accidentally” made enough to share, dropping by as soon as he heard her turn the key on her door. She noticed the recurrent acts of service with a soft, yearning heart when he took out his trash and offered to take hers as well, maintaining a neutral expression and shrugging awkwardly when she beamed at him and thanked him endlessly. 

A few days before, when she had invited him over for a hot cup of tea and cake, Simon had ended up washing the dishes, despite her constant protests, appearing nonchalant as he claimed he was just checking for leaks in the fickle plumbing.

Despite growing closer, the pair still maintained a set of respectful boundaries that assured their mutual trust: as Simon filled each of them a glass of wine, placing them on the coffee table along with the pizza, Riley knew she shouldn’t look as he removed his usual black facemask to eat, keeping her eyes on the screen as she made occasional remarks about the movie.

“I can’t believe you like this.” She laughed as the dramatic musical unfolded, cheesy and cheerful songs filling the dimly lit flat. “Big old broody man enjoying Abba songs in a rom com.” 

“It’s entertainin’.” He grunted as he grabbed another slice of pizza, trying to ignore how close they sat to each other under the blanket, her feet up and near his muscled thigh. Simon’s phone buzzed and he quickly grabbed it with his clean hand, reading the notification and stifling an affectionate smile.

He could almost feel how hard she tried not to stare, as well as ask about it, as she took another long sip of wine.

“Still interested in findin’ the pup an owner?” His deep voice made her snap her head at him on instinct, quickly looking away as she realized his face was still bare.

“Sorry.” She felt her cheeks heat, but Simon merely shrugged, eyes glinting as he put the mask back on. “Yes, I really can’t keep him trapped in such a small flat, let alone keep listening to Mrs. Parsons complain about the noise.”

“The old hag still botherin’ ya?”

“Every single day.” Riley sighed in defeat, running a nervous hand over her messy braid.

“My friend’s coming back from deployment in a few days. Might come visit and stay over to meet the dog, see how they get along.”

Riley felt her insides boil with something hot she tried hard to conceal. It wasn’t pleasant, and she felt ridiculous as she asked:

“Do you think she’ll be interested?” Her tone was almost casual enough that Simon didn’t pick up on her small trap. Almost. 

“I think he is very interested.” He made sure to drag out the pronoun and noticed her flustered expression, even as she kept her eyes on the screen. “He’s always wanted one.”

The young woman nodded silently and hummed to the music as she took another bite of her slice.

“Why’d you take on rescues anyway?” He asked, killing the awkward silence between them.

“They were gonna be put down! I couldn’t just let them die! Can you imagine being sentenced to death just because of undesirable traits or features?”

“I can. It was called the Holocaust, love.”

“Simon!” She scoffed, smacking him on the arm. 

He pretended it hurt, and she pretended he wasn’t funny.

***

Johnny MacTavish was a burly, five foot ten, crackling ball of energy that put any other force of nature to shame. With bright blue eyes, a questionable hairstyle and a barely understandable accent, the Scot appeared unaware of the existence of the very concept of shyness or social anxiety.

When Riley Thomas had opened her door on the next lazy Friday evening, in nothing but leggings and an oversized sweater, she found herself in the man’s bone crushing hug before she could even utter a simple “hello”.

“Christ…” She gasped, unable to process why, exactly, the stranger was so excited to see her, until she peeked over his shoulder and saw Simon leaning against the hallway, arms crossed as he rolled his eyes at the scene.

"There ya are lass" he cheerily put her down, and the young woman discreetly gasped for breath, laughing nervously at the unexpected display of affection. "I'm Johnny. I heard so much about ya."

"Did you?" She scowled at Simon "Unfortunately I can't say the same."

Simon's facemask covered his smirk.

"Aye, do not worry lass, I know Ghost can be an old grump"

Simon grunted in response and Riley quirked an eyebrow.

"Ghost?" She turned to Simon inquisitively, but he gave no signs of willingness to indulge her curiosity.

"Aye, it's his call sign becau-"

"Johnny" Simon warned firmly, and the Scot toned down a notch, nodding.

"Right...anyway lass, I thought we ought to invite ya to the pub with us tonight." His smile was so endearing she couldn't possibly refuse, despite looking down at her own clothes with a frown.

"I'm sorry, I had no idea you were coming today." She shrugged anxiously "I'd have to go get ready an-"

"That's alright! Wouldn’t want to steal yer night with him. We'll wait, won't we Simon?" He nudged the man with an elbow, his frame so much larger than Johnny's that it was almost comical.

Simon was silent for a moment, seemingly weighing the outcomes of what he was getting himself into, before looking her in the eyes and nodding once in approval.

“We wait.”

And that was how two hours later, the trio had ended up bumping shoulders at a packed bar in downtown Manchester, the two men always by her side. Riley glanced over her shoulder, amused by the view: it was like walking with a very intimidating Dobermann, alongside an overly excited and friendly golden retriever. Opposites in every possible way.

 Simon wore his casual black face mask and hoodie, along with denim jeans, his blonde locks handsomely swept back, the only indication he had made an effort to look better than usual, other than the smell of his expensive cologne that Riley kept discreetly trying to get whiffs of. The young woman had opted for a pair of her best jeans, the ones that didn’t yet look too washed up and hugged her curves just right, along with a warm, modest top that didn’t reveal too much cleavage, covered by a faux leather jacket.

Simon quirked an eyebrow at her gaze, silently challenging her to say something, to which she giggled, flushing slightly as his hand lightly nudged her lower back to steer her into the right direction. The three of them ended up sitting on a corner booth, after venturing to the counter to fetch their drinks: for Simon, a bourbon, for Riley, a gin, and for Johnny, a massive pint of beer that would make him carry his weight in piss in half an hour.

“I gotta say, you’re a bonnie lass.” Johnny was slurring out by the time the fifth pint was half way gone. By then, Riley was feeling tipsy from her own alcohol, her cheeks flushed as she giggled at Johnny’s predicament.

“I’m gonna pretend I understood what you just said.” She lazily twirled the straw on her third drink, playing with the ice at the bottom of the glass.

Simon rolled his eyes, the bourbon barely warming up his blood,  but there was a glint of affection in his eyes as he countered “Easy, McTavish.”

“Don’t lose yer wits, Simon, just trynna’ help you remember how to treat a lass.” He leaned forward, confiding in Riley “Did ya know he hasn’t gotten laid in-”

“Sergeant.” A low growl in warning as Riley pressed him on, curiously.

“Go on! Now I wanna know!”

“No ya don’t.” She could almost swear she saw him blush under that mask.

“I can’t count the months on me fingers, I’ll tell you that.” Johnny lifted his hands playfully, and Simon glared at him, a silent threat ever present as his dark eyes squinted at him.

Riley roared with laughter, her dimples more noticeable than ever.

“Months? Those are rookie numbers. I haven’t gotten laid in four years.” She drunkenly blurted out, and Simon stiffened by her side, as Johnny choked on his drink. 

“What? How’s that possible?” The Scot coughed as the young woman shrugged, amused by his reaction.

“I don’t go out much.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like people much.” She avoided his gaze shyly, downing the rest of her gin “Plus, I work a lot.”

“Ya’ two are a match made in heaven.” He pointed out, ignoring Simon’s scowl and her playful eye roll.

“Cheer up Simon Riley, yer best friend is back and ya have a lovely lady by your side.” The Scot taunted before downing the rest of his pint.

Riley Thomas halted, looking up at the broody man sitting by her side, eyes glassy and sleepy as her drunken mind tried to comprehend what she had just heard.

“Wait…Simon Riley? Your last name is Riley?” Simon sighed deeply before looking her over, grunting in agreement.

The young woman chuckled to herself, leaning her head playfully against his muscled arm.

“Why didn’t you tell me? That’s hilarious!” Simon stifled an amused smile as he pretended to dodge from her touch. “Do you realize…” She poked his chest with her pointer finger “Do you realize that if we ever got married I’d be called Riley Riley?”

“That’s exactly why.” Simon retorted, rolling his eyes for the millionth time since the beginning of the day, but he felt himself buzzing at her words, at the fact she had considered, even if just for a moment, even if just playfully…

 For a moment, he found himself lost in her inebriated gaze. The droopy eyelids, the soft smile dotted by those damn dimples. The chipped tooth that always caught his attention, and the way she was leaning against his arm made something warm bubble in his stomach. She looked up at him so innocently, so curiously, that for a split second he almost forgot his best friend was right across the table.

“Get a room!” He taunted, almost breaking Simon’s usual stoic expression. “Save tha’ for later. Now we need shots!” 

“You’re a sip away from death, mate. I’d call it a night.” 

“But I haven’ even told her the Al Mazrah story!”

“And it’ll stay that way if ya want to live.” Simon threatened, and Riley perked up once again, eyes glimmering with humor.

“Tell me right now!”

“Imagine this, lass: scorching heat of the Middle East…”

“Soap.”

 “A food poisoned Simon on a sniper recon mission, no toilets in sight-”

“I’ll smack ya so hard I’ll turn that mohawk into a fade.” 

The young woman had tears rolling down her cheeks as she roared with laughter, picturing the situation so clearly she was out of breath.

“Away n’bile yer heid!” Johnny retorted at Simon’s threat.

“English, Mctavish.”

“Sorry L.T. Let me translate… “Go fuck yourself.”

“Much better.”

***

It must have been four in the morning when Riley Thomas felt herself being carefully placed on a familiar couch, strong arms under her back and legs. She felt so dizzy she knew it would be over if she so much as lifted her head, opting to remain still as Simon’s comforting scent temporarily disappeared. She could hear him guide a stumbling, barely conscious Johnny into his bed, not trusting the intoxicated man to sleep properly on his couch. 

When he finally returned, seemingly the only semi-sober one of the bunch, he once again reached down to carry her to her own flat in his arms, halting once he saw her open her sleepy eyes. Simon felt himself stiffen as she wrapped her arms around his neck clumsily, inhaling his neck deeply.

“You smell so good, Simon.” She slurred out, tone soft in his quiet, barely lit living room. He couldn’t move, unsure of how to react to the sudden affectionate touch, hands holding his weight on the couch.

“You need to sleep, love.” He muttered gently through his face mask, giving her shoulder blades a quick rub through her jacket and hoping she would free him from the awkward position.

“I’m fine.” She nuzzled further into the curve of his neck and he shivered, feeling the smell of her own perfume, mixed with alcohol and sweat.

“Riley…”

“Simon.” She let go of his neck, but forced him to sit down next to her, barely making out his face through the dim lighting and her blurred vision. “I…”

“Shhh. You’re sloshed.”

“I know, but I’m okay, I promise.”

“Let me get ya to your bed, yeah? Where are your keys?”

She had never heard him speak so softly, in such a caring, gentle way. Her heart was beating furiously, as deep, joyful warmth spread through her stomach when she looked at him. At his half covered face, dark eyes framed by blonde lashes that she found so endearing.

She silently moved closer, reaching over his lap and turning off the only source of light from a small table lamp. She heard him release a shuddering breath, his large hands gripping the couch for dear life. Riley placed a cautious hand on his shoulder in the dark, to guide herself into slowly straddling his muscled thighs, careful enough to sit closer to his knees, instead of his groin.

Simon Riley’s heart thudded so hard against his chest he was surprised she couldn’t hear it, his body frozen into place, nervously awaiting her next move.

Riley’s trembling hands reached up ever so slowly, fingertips trailing a curious path over his soft blonde locks, down to the crease on his forehead, the perfect arch of his eyebrows, all the way to his strong nose, where her finger locked in the black mask. Unmoving and barely visible, she was unsure of his reaction, as she slowly began pulling it down.

“Do you mind?” She whispered, so close their breaths mingled. 

“Hm.” Was all he could mutter, but one of his hands gently gripped her hip, steadying her in his lap. His thumb circled the small patch of exposed skin on her waist, where the top almost met the jeans.

She continued her ministrations leisurely, giving him enough time to stop her if he wished. But he didn’t, and her finger pulled his mask all the way down to under his chin, where she felt the stubble. Riley could barely breathe, doing her best to contain her excitement as her cold fingers trailed his face in the dark.

She felt the contour of his lips, slightly chapped as her thumb parted them tentatively. The raise of a scar, that seemed to have been carved all the way to the jaw, where she rubbed slow, careful circles lovingly. She felt his trembling breath on her flushed skin, the sounds of her faux leather jacket as she moved about, the only noise in the room. 

Riley placed a tender kiss on his cheek, feeling embarrassed as she felt the warmth that immediately soaked her underwear once her skin came in contact with his. The mixture of alcohol and desire in her blood seemed to burn, making her ache with longing as she kissed his nose, his forehead, and then his other cheek, until she was trailing his strong jaw, the stubble tickling her lips.

“Riley…” He muttered, their mouths so close she could almost drink in his words.

“Please.” She begged in a silent whisper, joining her forehead to his, hands cupping his face tenderly. 

His other hand held an iron grip on the couch, not letting up.

“You’re drunk.” He whispered back, teetering on the edge of self-control.

“I need you.” She replied, her lips ghosting his in the dark, skin almost grazing. She began moving her hips lower towards his groin, but although Simon had held his breath at the confession, his heart hammering in his chest, he finally gripped both of her hips firmly, keeping her away from the raging boner she would have found.

“I can’t, love.” He murmured softly, hoping she would understand.

“Please Simon.” She clumsily tried to fight off his grip, eager to press her aching body to his. “I need you so bad.”

Simon bit his lip so hard he was surprised he wasn’t bleeding as he did his best to keep his fraying sanity through her tender pleas.

He knew he was done for if he felt the softness of her lips, her wet tongue and the grind of her hips against his rock-hard shaft.

“Don’t do this to me, love.”

“I’m so wet.” She admitted, and he felt the crease of her frustrated frown against his own, words coated with need and shame. He sighed deeply, his bruising grip on her hips tempting him to just pull her into him. He could feel himself pulse in his briefs, so painfully hard.

“Four years is a long time.” He grunted softly.

“I know.” She practically whimpered.

“You’re very drunk, love. You can barely stand upright.”

“But-”

“Riley.” She stilled at his commanding tone. “I’m taking you to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow once you’ve rested up, yeah?”

Her shoulders slouched in defeat, the rejection still stinging as she placed another kiss to his cheek before muttering:

“Okay.” 

A/N: I'm back! And I managed to bring my work laptop home, which (hopefully) means quicker updates! :) Once again thank you to everyone reading and keep that feedback coming - seriously, it keeps me going. The slow burn is finally burning and the next chapters are gonna be spicy.

TAG LIST (I hope I haven't forgotten anyone)

@xaestheticalien @bossva @missmae3004 @yyiikes @lillysfrogsandbogs @missmae3004 @spicyspicyliving @shuttlelauncher81 @generaldestinychild @semendreaminsblog @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @iloveghost900

[smashing-teacups]

Atonement Chapter 44: A Sticky Situation

A/N: We havena done this in a very long time… 🥹

Happy five year anniversary to this not-so-wee tale of mine. Thank you so much to all who have come along for the journey. I appreciate you more than you know!

For better or for worse, they decided to move in straight away. 

It was in large part a financial decision. After months of working overtime, Claire had a decent sum tucked away in her checking account, but an indefinite hotel stay was a drain on their savings that they simply couldn’t justify, given the option to stay in the mill for free. As soon as that much was decided, the pair of them had locked into what Claire called triage mode, trying to sort out what they would need to purchase imminently if they were actually going to attempt to live in a half-functional construction zone. Foremost in both of their minds was the pressing issue of heat: Claire insisted that she was fine with just setting up camp near the hearth, and was busy Googling the nearest places to buy firewood in bulk. Unconvinced that the fireplace alone would be sufficient for his painfully thin and perpetually freezing wife, Jamie had pulled up the page for the local hardware store on his own mobile, sifting through the reviews on various portable space heaters that they could position strategically around the house.

After a few minutes, Claire’s musing broke the silence of their individual research. “I suppose if we don’t have a heat source then we don’t have hot water.” As he glanced up from his screen, she made an odd wee movement, squinting one eye as she shifted her hips off to one side and back again. “What are we going to do about showers?” 

Pocketing his mobile, he crossed his arms loosely over his front. “Aye, I was just thinkin’ on that myself. The plumbing’s already in, just need to finish gettin’ the boiler system up and running. Shouldna take me more’n a week or two, but”—There it was again, the microscopic spasm of Claire’s cheek, this time as her thighs clenched together—“in the meantime, I reckon we can use the showers over at the gym. It’s no’ but ten minutes down the road.”

“Sounds good,” she said mildly, though the tightness around her eyes didn’t slacken. Jamie regarded her for a long moment, frowning with the effort to pin down the source of her unease. If she wasn’t comfortable showering at the gym, he was sure one of their neighbors would be more than happy to let them use theirs…

Before the offer could even make its way to his lips, though, Claire shifted again, and something about the way she moved the third time — the subtle, swiveling twitch of her pelvis, the grit of her teeth — struck him as familiar where the other motions had eluded him. He knew all too well the squirming discomfort of having an itch in a place that couldn’t be scratched in decent company.

But that was just it: he wasn’t company, he was her husband. There wasn’t an inch of her body that he hadn’t tasted or touched; Christ, he’d been buried to the hilt inside her not half an hour ag—

… oh.

Ohhhh.

Quite abruptly, he struck recognition like a brick wall.

Keep reading...

[is-this-yuri]

once upon a time i worked for a total of three and a half (3.5 entire) weeks at a metalworking facility where i used power tools to carve away at giant metal pieces. the metal pieces in question were pipes and plumbing of various types, to be used in sewer and water systems. so, for threeish weeks, i was part of the reason someone had running water and sewage. this is generally considered unskilled labor for some reason

anyway, the place didn't provide me the right sized gloves. i have freakishly small hands, so like, i didn't expect them to have a good pair for me right away, but they refused to get me a pair in the right size. so, since i didn't feel comfortable with my fingertips flopping all over the place, and they didnt just let not wear the gloves, i got my own.

i got vibration resistant gloves because i noticed even within the first day that my hand was getting numb in places from holding the tools. the gloves seemed to work great, but they quickly wore out and i had to take them home for difficult repairs every week.

i STILL got raynaud's syndrome. just working there for less than a month! with special gloves designed to help prevent it! i didn't realize until the next winter i spent homeless and my fingers went numb and turned white, so i never thought to pursue any compensation.

on top of this, the OSHA guidelines for average dust particles in the air was up on a board for me to read, but when i read it i wondered if they'd considered the fact that every single employee stops their work and sweeps their station at the same time every day, kicking up a visible cloud of metal dust particles. my boogers were constantly, always pitch black for the brief time i worked there. i have some pictures of me in that place and i literally look like a coal miner. no masks or respirators provided, i also bought my own of those.

this was also a teamsters company, and i was really excited to hear that at first because it was my first time working under a union. and most likely the union has made excellent progress in making that workplace safer than it otherwise would be, but i personally still didn't feel like my health was a priority.

so yeah, three weeks at that place was enough to know it wasnt for me. i didnt even mention the macho work culture i didnt fit into, which is also common at factories and warehouses. this wasn't my only attempt at this kind of job, but it was the shortest, because at that point i had enough self respect to leave when i knew it was bad.

the sad thing is, every job is like that in some way. your health is never a priority. the unions have gotten us to a point, but it's essentially bare minimum. and thats if you can even get unionized. you're going to have to reach into your own pocket to accomodate your needs at work, a pocket your boss's hand is already deep into.

so if youre feeling guilty, or lazy, or worthless because you can't stand your job, just know that almost no job is a hospitable enviornment.

[foreficfandom]

Alastor - Historical Trivia And Headcanons

Alastor was a mixed-race Creole man living in New Orleans, and was in his 30's/40's when he died in 1933. We don't know much else about him, but historical context can provide us with possible additional details:

The population of New Orleans in 1930 was 458,762, more than it is now. 27.2% of the people were black, 3.1% were foreign-born, and roughly half of America's bipoc population was unemployed thanks to the Great Depression. New Orleans' original Francophonication was still strong, and it was common to run into locals who only spoke French dialects (Cajun French, Louisiana Creole). The city has had a huge Chinatown, a small Little Italy, and multiple other districts known for their immigrant African/colonized French cultures.

The Jim Crow laws were heavily enforced, as was the 'One Drop' rule. If Alastor was a mixed race black man, he would not have been able to attend a white school, use the same public transport, and would have shopped at black-local stores and restaurants under threat of violence. If he was mixed with any other race, some Jim Crow laws didn't apply, but state or city laws might specify differently.

Just because Alastor wears a suit, it doesn't mean he was rich in life. Radio personalities often didn't earn a fortune. Unless he owned his own broadcast, he was paid by a private company for long shifts of hosting music, news, and radio plays. In 1930, 40% of households owned at least one radio, which means that a popular radio host would have been easily recognized.

If he was in his late 30's in 1933, he might have fought in WW1, so long as he was over the age of 21. Some cities gave veterans small benefits, or encouraged the community to give them jobs. This often did not include veterans of color.

New Orleans was famous for being one of the least Christian cities in America, thanks to its unique immigrant and slave population. Haitian-based faiths and practices (such as voudo), indigenous cultures, Asian Buddhism, and atheism were common. But Christianity was still the official, law-enforced religion. Schooling involved reading the Bible, laws were sworn to Jesus, etc.

Alastor's outfit in Hazbin Hotel isn't very accurate to real-life American men's fashions of the time. Back then, deviating from the norm with the smallest detail would have stuck out like a sore thumb - like his white-lined lapels. Men always wore a hat. They were allowed to go without a waistcoat, but not a jacket. Belts were becoming more popular than suspenders. The silhouette was bulkier than the slimmer, Italian cuts of our modern times, especially the pants. Hair was kept short, and oiled down in a side part. Americans preferred the clean shaven look. Ties were essential unless you were a blue-collar laborer. Colors were almost universally muted neutral tones for everyday wear. The most colorful textiles for men were sporting outfits, like a tennis jacket.

If Alastor was a middle-class single man, he likely would have lived in an inner-city apartment, in an ethnic neighborhood. He probably didn't own a car, and took public transit like the streetcars. If he owned a house, it would likely have been an inheritance, and even the more opulent houses of the time would have looked small and plain to our eyes.

Because of the Great Depression, unmarried men were becoming the norm, rather than the exception. Men of the community who were sought after but remained single were suspect to gossip, but less ire than you might think; in the '30s, American queer culture was going through a very sharp revival, escaping the rigid Victorian era and before the puritan 40's/50's. But as a mixed-race man, it may have been illegal for a white woman to marry him, as the Jim Crow laws forbade the marriage of white people and Black/Asian people.

A middle class city household would have had electricity, gas heating, indoor plumbing, but may not have had running taps or a gas stove. Even with decent means, Alastor might have been using a potbelly woodburning stove, a dry sink/washbasin, wooden bathtub, and did his own laundry instead of sending it to the neighborhood laundresses. He may or may not have bothered with an icebox. Fresh groceries needed to be cooked and eaten soon, as things like pasteurized milk or store refrigeration wasn't a thing.

If he had enough money, then he almost certainly hired maids or other servants. Whether the maid came over just once a week, or did the shopping and laundry every other day, hired help was much more common back then, especially if he had no wife.

The most popular musicians in 1933 were Bing Crosby, George Olsen, and Leo Reisman. As you might have noticed, it was trendy for the lead singer to be backed by an orchestra, not a 'band' of just four other people like today. The most popular radio shows were Dick Tracy, Sherlock Holmes, and Doc Savage. They were recordings the radio station would buy and then broadcast, or sometimes the actors were live on the air. The radio host was usually not the journalist - the production team was responsible for writing his script.

[sjsmith56]

A Better Man, Part 6 - Transformation

Summary: The renovation on Andrea’s house finally begins. As the transformation of Barnes Contracting gets underway, Mrs. Parker brings up regulatory aspects they have to follow. Bucky returns home to find Andrea in bed, sick, so he takes care of her and Lily.

Length: 5.9 K

Characters: Steve, Sam, Thor, Mrs. Parker, Bucky, Andrea, Winnifred.

Warnings: Steve being suspicious. Symptoms of mastitis discussed. Andrea feeling too sick to look after Lily and Bucky worries about her.

Author notes: Some changes are happening, both openly and behind the scenes. Is it foreshadowing? Maybe.

<<Part 5

Part 6

With the rest of the stolen inventory delivered, Bucky, Steve, and Sam began transforming Barnes Contracting into a legal renovation company.  While Bucky supervised the four men who moved the rest of Andrea's belongings into storage, he went up on the ladder to check the exterior brick façade, finding it in good condition.  The one set of windows with the crumbling caulk that allowed rainwater in was a singular occurrence and once those were replaced and finished properly the seal on that wall would be waterproof again.  He also called his roofing guy who went up his extra long ladder to inspect it and give him a quote on replacing it.  Then he called in the electrician he trusted the most to look at the electrical panel and the hodgepodge of copper and aluminum wiring in the house.  He came that day, shaking his head at the setup; agreeing it would all have to come out.  Like Bucky, he suggested trying to recycle the copper wiring but since he would charge for it suggested that one of Bucky guys should be assigned that task to keep costs down.

Bucky phoned in a request for an asbestos test on the house with the appointment set for the next day.  As rooms were cleared, he opened the ceilings up where the water stains were to look at the plumbing, confirming that several original parts of it was lead and would need to be replaced.  With his mother promising the funding he began tackling the building permit forms, filling out what needed to be done and the time frame he needed to do it.  By the end of the first day, he felt like he had accomplished a lot. 

With the house now empty of everything he was able to picture what he really wanted to do with it.  There were even some additions that he wanted like a small window alcove turned into a book nook with a window bench at the window; a perfect place to curl up with Lily to read to her.  Another book nook could be put in her room as he pictured it in a cream and rose-pink colour scheme.  There were several parts of the house that could accommodate a built-in storage or bookshelf unit.  As he stood in the living room then impulsively pulled back the old carpeting from one of the corners, he smiled at the original hardwood floors that were underneath.  No doubt there would be some areas that would be damaged, but he could always pull the old wood out of the upper floors to patch those areas, then redo the upper floors in newer materials to keep the main floor look intact. 

For the first time in a long time Bucky didn't feel anxious about his work.  He really wanted to do this and prove that he had what it took to be a general contractor on a legitimate job site, using honest tradespeople, and legally acquired supplies.�� Even though he was doing it for Andrea and Lily, he was doing it for himself as well.  I'm really looking forward to this.  This is what I've always wanted to do. Locking up the house he returned home, where he enjoyed another quiet evening with Lily and Andrea, after one of her home cooked meals.

While Bucky spent the first day at the house Steve and Sam began assessing what they needed to do to drum up more renovation business.  Inviting Mrs. Parker into their office, because let's face it, she was an asset to their business, they threw some ideas around.

"We need to get signage," said Steve.  "Advertise that we're a contracting business in general, specializing in home renovations.  I know you just did your thing to get us off Google, but we have to get back on the search results."

"There are a few trade shows coming up soon," said Mrs. Parker.  "You could always rent a booth in them and have some photographs of a renovation in process then of the finished job.  You'll have to have a presence there for the whole day and it should be someone who knows the business, like you two.  I could arrange for the printing of some pamphlets and business cards to hand out.  The only problem is that your last renovation project was over a year ago and it went up in smoke because of arson so we don't have any photographs.  The house project is still in the beginning stages, but we should document the process for later advertising."

The sound of the phone ringing in the office took Mrs. Parker out for a moment, leaving the other two talking.

Steve shook his head, remembering that job.  "Yeah, he didn't have the money to pay us, but he did have insurance.  All that time working on it, and he torched it to get the money to pay us.  It didn't make sense.  What a waste of time and materials.  We did a good job on that place, too."

"Then he sold the property to a developer."  Sam grimaced.  "Didn't even invite us to be part of the rebuild."  He groaned.  "How many guys have building experience out of our workforce?"

Steve leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling.  "Five, maybe.  I think Clint has the most because he's been with us the longest, but most have no experience." 

Mrs. Parker returned, catching the last part of their conversation, to say it was a client from the other aspect of their business who needed them to hold a shipment.

"I told him we had to suspend that part of the business for a while," stated Mrs. Parker.  "I think Bucky will probably take the more experienced guys for the house renovation.  He wants to do it right.  One or both of you is going to have to run a construction boot camp for the others."

The two men grimaced as it was something they hadn't even considered before. 

"Do we even have enough tools for everyone?" asked Steve.  He didn't wait for an answer.  "Let's go get an idea of what our guys know.  Mrs. Parker, can you do your magic and come up with some business cards and a pamphlet for the business?  Use stock photos since we don't have a choice.  Maybe once we get some jobs under our belt, we can change those up.  Truth in advertising, right?"

They left her in charge of that part of their "rebranding" and headed for the warehouse where they were surprised by the sight of Thor, one of their bigger guys, who had only been with them for six months, in front of a mockup of an unfinished wall.  He was in the middle of demonstrating how to fasten drywall to a stud.  The others were gathered around him, listening in rapt silence as he performed the task, then handed the drill and a drywall screw to each one of them in turn.  Then he noticed Sam and Steve watching, grinning at them.

"I've done drywall before so I figured I would help these others learn it," he said.  "We're all in this together, right?"

"Right," said Steve as he approached.  "You worked construction?"

"Summers mostly, when I was in college," answered the big man.  Sam and Steve looked at each other.  Thor was in college? "I know what you're thinking.  How did a college guy end up in prison?  I helped a buddy out when he asked me to hold a hockey bag for him.  Said it was a surprise for his girlfriend.  Didn't know it contained a whole lot of heroin.  Got pulled over and charged with possession for the purpose of trafficking.  Had a shit lawyer but I kept my nose clean in the joint and got out early for good behaviour."  He looked apologetic.  "I'm sorry I didn't say that part when you gave me the job.  I don't want to be involved in drugs or the bad stuff in any way.  You guys were the only outfit that kept their noses relatively clean compared to the others.  I'm excited that you're going legit."

"Okay," said Steve, cautiously.  "What else do you know?"

"Basic plumbing, finishing, taping, mudding, kitchen installation."  He scratched his head as he scrunched his face up.  "Window installations, deck building, roofing, painting, flooring ... I've done most of it, except for electrical because you want an electrician for that and HVAC."

"Huh," grunted Sam.  "Okay, carry on, then.  We're just going to take an inventory of our tools and other equipment."

"Good idea," smiled Thor.  "I just grabbed this drill from the shelf.  Mrs. Parker gave me some petty cash to get drywall and some studs and screws to make this mockup.  Hope that was okay."

"Yeah, that was good thinking," said Steve, pulling at Sam's arm, until the latter man glared at him.  "Like Sam said, carry on."

As he went into one of the storage rooms where they kept tools Sam stopped him. 

"What were you pulling at me for?" he asked.  "He's doing a good job in there."

"He lied!" spat Steve.  "About college, about what he was in prison for, and about construction experience.  I interviewed him and he said nothing about any of that.  What else has he lied about?"

"What do you mean?

"What if he's undercover?  How did we end up on a task force's radar when we keep such a low profile?"  He pulled his cell phone out and called Mrs. Parker.  "Yeah, it's Steve calling.  Doesn't your call display say that?" He rolled his eyes.  "I'm sorry Mrs. Parker.  I didn't mean to get snippy with you.  Listen, do you still have that contact in the gang division?  Can you find out if Thor is an undercover cop?  Yes, Thor.  Did you know he went to college and that he was in prison for heroin trafficking and that he has considerable construction experience?  You did?  Why didn't you say anything?"  He paused for a long moment as even Sam heard her tell Steve off over the cell phone even though he didn't have it on speaker.  "My apologies.  You are an exemplary employee who certainly knows her job very well.  Thank you, Mrs. Parker."

He hung up and stood there breathing heavily for some time until Sam pushed him lightly in the arm.

"What did she say?"

"She runs an extensive check on everyone," he replied, looking into the distance.  "He's exactly what he says he is.  She asked him about it, and he admitted he didn't want anyone to think he was smarter than they were, and he was ashamed of being caught holding heroin."  He looked at Sam then.  "She knows that Natasha is a cop.  Recognized her.  She thinks we have a future together."

"How does she do that?" asked Sam.  "I swear that she's the one who tells Mrs. Barnes all of our secrets although she manages to worm it out of us anyways."

"Just be happy she's on our side," said Steve.  "Imagine if she worked for the cops."

They looked at each other for a moment then both of them shook their heads.  There was no way Mrs. Parker was an undercover cop.  She had been with them since just before George Barnes died, ten years before.  It was her expertise in computers that got them through some sticky situations plus she was efficient, generally pleasant and her nephew was also on their payroll, although he worked for the city.  Putting the thought out of their minds the two men began testing all their electrical tools, making sure they worked.  They also took an inventory of what they had, knowing that they had to look the part of successful contractors to make customers willing to hire them.

🪛🔨 🪚

By the end of the week, Bucky had the word from the asbestos guy that only the insulation in the attic and the flooring in the kitchen had asbestos in it.  As best they could tell there was none in the walls.  It was a big relief to him as it meant the abatement process would go quicker and be less invasive.  He booked the abatement guys for the following week and phoned the planning department to find out if his building permits had been approved yet.  He also contacted the roofing guy to book that job.  Until he had the permits in hand, he wasn't willing to do anything else that could jeopardize the project.  Instead, he went into the warehouse where the construction boot camp had been underway for the week.  After Steve told him about Thor's background, they put him and Clint in charge of getting the rest of the guys up to speed on their building skills.  Everything looked good to Bucky when he was there.

It was obvious that some of the guys were better than others at it.  After Luis sent a nail into his foot from the nail gun, and Steve took him to Dr. Banner, the doctor who usually treated people in their line of work, he insisted that everyone had to have steel toed boots immediately, blaming himself for not insisting on it to begin with.  Thank goodness Bucky was in the office at the time otherwise he would have been sick on the spot.  Two guys had already spent their last pay, so Bucky took them out to the work wear store, staying with them while they tried boots on.  He paid for them, as well as enough hard hats and tool belts for everyone, but made sure they knew the boots would be taken out of their next pay.  On his return Mrs. Parker appeared at his door.

"We need to talk," she said, closing the door behind her and sitting across from him.

"What about?" he asked. 

"Well, the only people officially on the payroll are you three, me, and Clint.  The others are paid cash under the table."

"Yeah," he replied, unsure where this was going. 

"If they're working at a job site, you can be sure that there may be some surprise inspections on your workforce.  Immigration is going to want to make sure they're legally entitled to work here, OHS is going to want to make sure they have the proper safety gear and training, and IRS might show up to make sure that your paperwork on them is all up to date.  They should have healthcare coverage as well in case they get injured on the job.  We have to get the others added officially to the payroll, so they need to fill out a bunch of forms.  They may have to provide background checks to satisfy certain insurance requirements.  They will also have to get bonded under the Federal Bonding Program to cover theft or other crimes which they may be tempted to commit at the job site."  He frowned.  "I can email you the details of why it's needed, but we should have it considering their backgrounds.  I mean, they're all ex-cons, right?  It's kind of a big deal in getting insurance coverage.  No one is going to hire you for a legitimate job if you don't have that."

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his face with his hands.  Then he breathed in and out a few times. 

"Are you able to handle that?  You already do our payroll, right?"

"Yes, but doing it for five people is easy.  Doing it for 25, plus handling all the paperwork and I'm also busy getting our advertising needs set and answering the calls ....  Bucky, I am already swamped.  We need another person in the office."

"Part-time?" She shook her head.  "More than minimum wage?"  Mrs. Parker shrugged then nodded her head.  "Do you know anyone who can do this?"

"I have a person in mind," she admitted.  "She was sexually harassed at her other job and quit, as her official complaint went nowhere, so the guys have to know they can't come on to her or any woman that works for the company, for that matter."

"Fine, get her in here and I'll interview her just to make sure I'm satisfied she can do the job.  I'll have a meeting with everyone to warn them about proper behaviour in the workplace.  Is there anything else?"

"Just one thing," she smiled.  Bucky looked at her with trepidation, wondering what it could be.  "I think you're doing the right thing.  The side business was getting a bit complicated, and I've heard rumours that Hydra was pushing the smaller companies to join them or be shut down by them.  I know you don't want to be associated with them or go to the extremes they go to.  You're not that kind of man."

Her words surprised him.  She joined the company shortly before his dad died, as his mother had her hands full taking care of him.  After his death, they were both so impressed with her that his mother asked that Mrs. Parker take over the secretarial duties completely.  Her cheery nature and work skills had been greatly appreciated by all of them. 

"Thank you.  I just hope that we're able to turn this thing around," he said.  "If we don't, I may have no choice but to get back to the other line of work."

"You'll do it," she stated, as she got up from the seat.  "I have faith in you, Bucky.  All of you.  Even the guys, with their backgrounds, believe in you.  Many of them are happy that you're going legit.  They want you to succeed."

He gave her a slight smile then sat back in his chair again.  When he proposed stepping away from the illegal jobs they were doing, he had no idea that trying to do the right thing was going to be so complicated.  He just hoped that he could manage it.

The following day Bucky arrived at the office to the sight of a younger, dark-haired woman waiting in a chair.  He said good morning to Mrs. Parker then entered his office.  She followed him in, carrying some papers.

"The young lady out there is here for the other office job," she said, placing the papers on his desk.  "Her name is Hope Van Dyne and that's her resume.  Be nice."

"I'm always nice," he answered, as she walked out the door.  "My mother taught me well.  You know that."

He looked at the resume.  She worked at a legal competitor's business, but the owner was a pig.  Bucky wasn't surprised she quit over sexual harassment.  It appeared she had all of her qualifications in order, including experience in payroll, accounts payable and receivable, as well as experience in web site maintenance.  They would need a web site.  Maybe she and Mrs. Parker could create one together.  He called her in, just as two uniformed police officers walked in the door.

"Ms. Van Dyne, would you just wait in here a moment while I see what the officers want?" he asked. 

He closed his office door and approached them.

"Can I help you, officers?" he asked politely.

One of them looked at the other and shrugged then stepped back. 

"Um, are you the company that's working on the brownstone a few blocks from here?"

"Yes, we are," he asked.  "Is there a problem?"

"Oh, no, no problem.  One of our detectives said you were doing the renovations on it.  I just bought a flat in a converted brownstone not far from there, and it needs some work before I can move in.  I was wondering if you had the time to do it.  That brownstone must take up a lot of time."

Mrs. Parker smiled at him. 

"Sure, just let me call one of my colleagues to speak with you as I'm interviewing a potential employee right at the moment.  Mrs. Parker, could you call Steve out from the warehouse, please?"

"Right away, Mr. Barnes," she answered perkily, as she picked up the handset.  "Would that be Detective Romanoff who recommended us?"

"Yeah, she did," said the officer.  "Says you're a good bunch of guys.  We had someone from Sitwell Renovations have a look at it, and that guy was slimy as fu... as anything."

"Just so you know, we do have ex-convicts for employees, but they are all in the process of being bonded under the Federal Bonding Program," said Bucky.  "I can personally vouch for any of them.  We don't take anyone who has been convicted of a violent crime.  They're mostly family men who want to turn their lives around.  Will that be an issue for you?"

"No."  The officer shook his head.  "I think it's a good thing that you're giving them honest work.  I didn't know you were a contracting business, not having a sign or anything."

"Yeah, just never got around to it and we kind of operated by word of mouth to a select clientele but business is competitive and we're stepping up to increase our presence in the community," said Bucky.  Where did that come from?  Steve walked in.  "Here he is.  This is Steve Rogers, my second in command, so to speak.  This is Officer ...?"

"Benson," said the other man, offering Steve his hand.  "That's my partner, Porter."

Steve waved at him.  "Come on into my office and I'll get your information, and we can set up a time to view your property."

Bucky nodded at Officer Porter, then went into his office where Ms. Van Dyne was waiting.  She looked nervous so he sat and picked up her resume.

"This is all on the level?  It's not padded?"

"No, Mr. Barnes.  I'm good at my job.  I liked it until ...."

"You don't have to tell me details," he said.  "Unique Renovations is run by a worthless piece of slime.  We all know it, but he gets away with it because his dad has connections.  Has Mrs. Parker told you about our company?"

"She said you had a limited client base before and decided to shift your focus to general contracting and home and office renovations.  She also said you employ ex-convicts, but I know May and if she wasn't comfortable working with them, she would tell me.  I'm willing to give you my best so long as I'm treated properly."

"Well, I read them the riot act yesterday, because Mrs. Parker insisted I had to hire you, so I expect them to be gentlemen around you.  If they're not you tell me ... and tell Mrs. Parker.  She'll kick their backsides.  The job is yours if you want it.  I noticed you have experience in setting up websites.  We're looking to have one, since we operated by word of mouth before.  Would you be interested in handling that as well as your other duties that you and Mrs. Parker work out between you?"

"Absolutely," she exclaimed.  "The pay?"

He wrote down her hourly pay on a slip of paper, noting her vacation time and that health care was included, although that still had to be set up.  She smiled broadly and he stood up, offering her his hand to shake.

"Welcome to Barnes Contracting.  I'm going to show you around and then Mrs. Parker will get you to fill in the paperwork."

The tour went well, except for Scott becoming a little weird around Hope, even for him.  She didn't seem to mind him so much, as he didn't come close to being inappropriate.  In fact, he seemed quite taken by her.  By the time Bucky was done showing her around Steve had finished talking to Officer Benson and set up a time the next day to look at the flat for the estimate.  Boot camp continued with Steve and Sam doing their part, while Bucky was shown a mockup of their pamphlet and business cards that Mrs. Parker had worked on.  She ordered in lunch for everyone, and the three of them ate in his office while the guys ate in the warehouse, playing the radio loud.  After lunch, Bucky started sourcing what was needed for the brownstone renovation, using many of his legitimate contacts.   By the end of the day, he felt good about everything that was accomplished.  As everyone left, the three of them sat in Bucky's office, while he took a bottle of scotch out of a drawer and poured them each a drink. 

"This has been the weirdest week I can ever remember having," said Sam.  "From finding out about Natasha being a cop, switching to becoming a legitimate business, Thor being a college graduate and an experienced construction worker, and now getting our first referral."  He looked at Steve.  "When are you seeing Natasha again?"

"Tonight," he smiled.  "She's coming over.  When are you seeing Maria again?"

Sam grinned.  "Tonight.  She's coming over."

"Are you guys official?" asked Bucky, sipping from his glass.

They looked at each other.  "Haven't been out on an official date since we left them at the tapas bar," said Steve, grinning.  "Seen plenty of her though."

"Yeah, yeah, but how do you feel about her?"

"There's something there," admitted his friend, with Sam nodding his head in agreement.  "It's only been a week."  He looked at Bucky.  "What about you and Andrea?"

"Taking it slow.  I had an episode in front of her." 

Both Sam and Steve sat upright as Bucky told them the details. 

"She was cool with it?"  Bucky nodded.  Sam smiled kindly at him.  "That says a lot about the type of person she is.  I hope you two can make it work."

"Me too."  Bucky drained his glass.  "I'm headed home.  Can you two lock up?"

On the way home he thought of how he hadn't seen much of Andrea and Lily this week, except for when his mother came over for dinner.  He had headed out early and returned home late most days, but Andrea always had something ready for him to eat when he walked into the apartment.  As he passed an open florist's he stopped and ran inside, picking up a bouquet of flowers.  When he came out of the elevator and called out that he was home, there was silence.

"Andrea?" he called out again, leaving the flowers on the kitchen counter. 

He headed to her bedroom, knocking gently on the closed door, then opening it slowly.  She was on the bed, not moving, and for a moment he felt the icy cold knife of fear in his stomach.  Then he heard Lily fussing and went over to the crib where she was awake.  Taking her out of her sleeping bag he held her and approached the bed, sitting next to Andrea.

"Hey, wake up," he said gently.  "You, okay?"

"Bucky?" She turned towards him.  "Oh, I must have fallen asleep.  I don't feel good."

He put his free hand on her forehead.

"Sweetheart, you're burning up," he said.  "How long have you felt sick?"

"A while after you left.  I got a bad headache, then hot all over and just felt like I couldn't move.  What time is it?"

"After six," he answered.  "When did you last feed Lily?"

"I don't know, noon, maybe?  She must be so hungry."

Andrea started to cry.  Bucky stroked her forehead, trying to settle her.

"Hey, it's okay.  I'm here now.  I can feed her some of your milk that's in the freezer, right?  I'll just thaw it in lukewarm water then warm it up.  You stay here."

"She's probably wet, too," moaned Andrea as she tried to get up. 

"It's okay, I'll change her.  I'm going to call a doctor friend of mine, alright?"

Andrea laid back and nodded, too sick to speak.  Bucky turned on the light and laid Lily on the change table.  He didn't really know what he was doing but he had seen Andrea do it.  Looking closely at how the diaper was fastened before, he unfastened it and wiped Lily's bottom clean with a baby wipe.  Then he laid out the new diaper, sliding it on underneath, and doing it up.  It was a little loose, so he tightened the sticky tabs then put the baby girl's legs back into her sleeper.  Turning off the light he took Lily to the kitchen, holding her in one arm while he took one of the bottles of breast milk out of the freezer.  Washing his hands first was a challenge but he did it, then he filled a bowl with lukewarm water and put the bottle in it to thaw the milk.  Next, he called Dr. Banner, describing Andrea's symptoms. 

"Do you have a thermometer?" asked Banner.

"I don't know," answered Bucky, going back into the bedroom.  "Andrea?  Do you have a thermometer?"

"In the bathroom," she said wearily.  "It's the type that you place on the forehead."

He found it, turned it on and placed it against Andrea's forehead.  It read 102.3° which he passed on to Dr. Banner, who was quiet for a moment.

"Does she hurt all over?  Are her breasts hot, red, and swollen?"

He asked Andrea who answered yes to the first question, then she surprised him when she pulled her top up for Bucky to look.  Gingerly, he touched the skin visible above her bra, confirming that one breast was hot and swollen.  There was a reddish area on it. 

"It's mastitis," said Dr. Banner.  "She's going to need some antibiotics and pain killers.  She also needs to express milk or breastfeed for a few minutes to relieve the pressure, not a full feeding.  It's okay for the baby.  I can phone the prescription into a pharmacy, but you'll have to pick it up."

"Okay, do that," said Bucky, giving him the number of a pharmacy nearby.  "I'll call my mother to come sit with her while I pick it up."

After Bruce told him more that could be done for Andrea's symptoms, Bucky called his mother who did one better, stopping off herself to pick up the medication.  When she entered the apartment and saw him feeding Lily, she felt a burst of pride in her son.  She put the medication on the counter, took her coat off and placed it over a chair with her purse then held her hands out to him.

"Please, may I feed her?"

"She's almost done but I think she's still hungry as Andrea didn't feed her for a while," he said.  "She was so sick she was in a deep sleep."

"I remember those days," she smiled, as she cradled the little girl in her arms.  "What did Bruce say?"

"To give her the medication right away, get her to drink lots of fluids and to either breastfeed or express her milk to get it going again."  He blushed.  "I don't have to do that for her, do I?"

"I think she can manage that," smiled his mother.  "Why don't you give her the medications and see if she's up to trying to feed Lily for a few minutes.  If not, she can put an ice pack on it.  You could always massage it for her.  That helps as well."

"Ma, please, don't joke."

"I'm not," she chuckled.  "Your dad used to do it for me when I got it with you or your sister.  It's not a sexual thing.  You're just trying to relieve the pain."

Bucky grabbed the medication, taking it to Andrea, not wanting to hear about breasts from his mother.  After getting a glass of water from the bathroom he sat on the bed next to her, and read the medication instructions.  Taking a pill out he touched her arm, as her eyes were closed.

"Andrea, sweetie, I have the antibiotics," he said quietly.

"Where's Lily?" she asked, as she turned over.

"My mom's here.  She's feeding Lily."

He gave her the pill, then handed her the water, encouraging her to drink it all.  She handed the glass back and laid against the pillow looking up at him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he answered.  "You got sick, that's all.  You looked after me when I cut my knee.  I'm just returning the favour."  He put the thermometer on her forehead, happy to see her temperature had come down a couple of degrees since he gave her the painkillers before he fed Lily.  "The pills already did their thing with your temperature."

She smiled sadly.  "You're so nice."

"Thank you.  So are you.  I bought you flowers."

"You did?  Why?"

"Because I've had such long days, and you still made me something to eat every day.  No one's ever looked after me like that since I was a kid.  You make me feel special."

"You are special."

Taking her hand in his he stroked it, then raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers.  She didn't pull her hand away.  Swallowing, he released it, then leaned down and kissed her forehead.  A warm hand cupped his cheek as he pulled away a little.  Her eyes stared intently into his then went to his lips. 

"You're sick," he murmured, wanting to kiss her more than anything.

"I know, but I still want to.  It's not catching."

"Get better first."  He stroked her hair.  "I'm not going anywhere."

"Alright," she whispered.  "Will you bring Lily to me so I can nurse her?"

"Yeah.  I'll send my mom in while I make you some soup."

He got up, but Andrea took his hand, keeping him near the bed.

"Thank you for looking after me."

With a squeeze of her hand, he pulled away and left the room.  His mother had Lily on her shoulder, gently rubbing her back. 

"She wants to try to feed Lily for a few minutes, just to relieve the pressure.  I'm going to make her some soup."

When he came out of the pantry with a can and began looking for a pot, Winnifred stood near him.

"You're a good man, Bucky," she murmured.  "Someday, you'll be a good husband and father."

He smiled self-consciously and opened the can of soup as his mother took Lily into the bedroom.  Stirring it with a can of water, he tried to focus on that, but his mind kept going back to how natural it felt to take care of Andrea and Lily.  It just seemed like he knew what to do.  Leaving the soup to warm up at a lower temperature, he got a vase out, filled it with water and poured the little packet of plant food into it, using a wooden spoon to stir it up.  As he arranged the flowers in the vase, he pulled a red rose out of the bunch and placed it in a smaller single stem vase. 

Something had changed between them since he got home and realized she was sick.  Earlier in the week Andrea said she wanted to take it slow, and he respected that, but she also wanted to kiss him when he was sitting on the bed next to her.  Maybe it was the next step in their relationship.  But he wouldn't do anything until she felt better.  In the meantime, he liked taking care of his family.  That made him smile at the realization that they were his family now.  Perhaps that was the change he was sensing.  Taking care of them both had changed how he and Andrea thought of each other.  It was the best feeling in the world.

Part 7>>

Series Masterlist

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[brokehorrorfan]

EC Comics, the influential horror comic company that gave us Tales from the Crypt and more, has been resurrected by Oni Press. Broke Horror Fan has an exclusive first look at the covers for Cruel Universe #3 and Epitaphs from the Abyss #4.

Cruel Universe #3 features work from Cullen Bunn (The Sixth Gun) and Davíd Rubín (Sherlock Frankenstein), J. Holtham (The Handmaid’s Tale) and Kano (Gotham Central), and Zac Thompson (Cemetery Kids Don’t Die) and Dan McDaid (If You Find This).

It will be published on October 2 with five cover variants: Cover A by Greg Smallwood, Cover B Dave Johnson, EC Homage variant (1:10) by Jay Stephens, Artist Edition variant (1:20) by Johnson, and Archive Edition variant (1:50) by Rian Hughes.

Epitaphs from the Abyss #4 features work from J. Holtham (The Horizon Experiment) and Raúl Allén (Dune), Amy Roy (The Lonely Store) and Claire Roe (Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special), and Jay Stephens (Dwellings) and David Lapham (Stray Bullets).

It will be published on October 16 with five cover variants: Cover A by Lee Bermejo, Cover B James Stokoe, EC Homage variant (1:10) by Jay Stephens, Artist Edition variant (1:20) by Stokoe, and Archive Edition variant (1:50) by Rian Hughes.

Read on to see the rest of the cover variants and learn more about each title.

The world's most existentially devastating comic magazine plumbs new depths as Cruel Universe #3 begins a manned expedition to the extremes of human existence and imagine the terrifying possibilities of what to expect when the best of intentions meet the cold, hard reality of our worst instincts. The world and everything you hold dear within it may be doomed to the cold touch of entropy... but at least you can keep this comic as a souvenir!

Every tombstone tells a tells a tale in Epitaphs from the Abyss #4 – the next unrelenting issue of EC’s flagship horror title! Fueled by the vengeful spirit of the legendary EC Comics, we proudly present all-new tales of the macabre and merciless from some of the top talents with a penchant for dragging you down to the bottom stair of despair!

[pony-unicorn]

Helpful information about Dead Boy Detectives

•Netflix title suggestion website:

It's REALLY easy and quick to use. All you have to do is write "Dead Boy Detectives", "Dead Boy Detectives season 2", "Dead Boy Detectives season 3" and press "send".

•Netflix official feedback website:

•Netflix official chat:

•Calling Netflix:

You can call Netflix on any official account clicking in "help"

•Unhappily Netflix doesn't have an official email*

•Dead Boy Detectives stats website:

It doesn't show the only important data though, Netflix would analyze in other ways too.

•The hashtags:

Dead Boy Detectives had/has a lot of hashtags, but at the moment the the most famous ones are #DeadBoyDetectives and #SaveDeadBoyDetectives . #ReviveDeadBoyDetectives is also being used when commenting specifically about the streams.

Please use at max two hashtags on Twitter. The app decreases the reach of tweets with too many hashtags, you can use as many as you want on Tumblr though. Also, please refrain from creating more hashtags because if it splits then the posts will have more difficulty to trend. Use more of them, everytime you tweet about Dead Boy Detectives, even if you don't think it's important to use, the hashtags have been trending less in the last few days.

•Atracting more fans:

Usually when people see other people speaking angrily about their shows getting canceled, while 100% comprehensible, people tend to ignore. It's easier to attract more fans if you show that the show is cool, even if it's just a marketing strategy.

Netflix receives messages like this all the time and unhappily they ignore it. But people that don't know the show might get interested if they see the trailer, an edit, a synopsis or something similar, remember to use the hashtags ( #DeadBoyDetectives and #SaveDeadBoyDetectives ). It also is a good idea to probably type something else when mentioning DBD on Twitter and Instagram and not just the hashtags, so it won't be read as spam.

By the way, talking about promoting the show, Ali Plumb, a famous interviewer, posted asking about underrated shows recently, it's a opportunity to coment about Dead Boy Detectives, but remember to focus on it and be respectul instead of talking bad about Netflix. The post's link:

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Ali Plumb (@aliplumb)

•The Petition:

There's a petition for the show currently happening for the show. We already got 11000 signatures, the goal at the moment is 15000 signatures. You can also use multiple accounts to sign but it would be even better if you could share it to other people. Please don't send Netflix or other companies the petition, the creator will send it later when there's enough signatures.

•"Watch party" and top 10:

We are mass streaming and trying to get Dead Boy Detectives on Netflix's top 10. And while not the only important thing, the views are important and really helpful. Currently we're appearing on the "Everyone is watching" category in some countries, but you can see in which place on the ranking Dead Boy Detectives is by looking at the stats website. Kudos go to @/starrygraves, @/intotstars and @/moonkailan on Twitter.

•Rating and reviews:

Rating also helps, you can vote by episode on IMDB and write reviews for the show in both websites. here are the links for voting on Rotten Tomatoes and IMDB.

Rotten Tomatoes:

IMDB:

By episode:

•Save Dead Boy Detectives (the account):

It's an tumblr account focused on reviving Dead Boy Detectives, it also has a website (that I'm gonna put below 👇), Instagram and Twitter account, all @/SaveTheDeadBoys. You can find way more information about saving the show such as emails models to send to companies.

•Fucusing on Netflix:

I would recomend foucusing on Netflix for contractual reasons, since it's easier for it to give on on the cancelation than another company buying it. While Netflx doesn't have an official email, people such as the founder and CEOs have. You can also find other* emails on the Save Dead Boy Detectives website. A few of the emails:

→Reed Hastings - Executive Chairman & Founder

reed.hastings@netflix.com

rhastings@netflix.com

→Greg Peters - Co-CEO

gpeters@netflix.com

→Ted Sarandos - Co-CEO

tsarandos@netflix.com

→Warner Bros

discoverycorpcomms@gmail.com

•Letters:

Netflix's mailing addresses are:

"Netflix Inc, 5808, W. Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90028", for the United States and "Netflix Services UK LTD, 30, Berners Street, London, W1T 3LR" for the United Kingdom.

Save Dead Boy Detectives created a plan to send the letters in batches so there can be a constant arrival of letters for weeks. There is also advice for what could help or make worse when sending letters, you can find more here:

Please do not send hate to Netflix, they constantly receive messages like this and will not listen to us. Use the letters to be convincing and show your love to the show.

•Engaging with the articles:

If you engage with the articles more people will write about it. The visualizations and comments is way to demonstrate that people want to see more of it. Here is a list of Dead Boy Detectives articles by @DeadBoysDetect on Twitter:

[athomeplumbers]

Offering expert plumbing and heating services in Reading, including boiler installations, central heating setups and repairs. Our skilled engineers provide reliable, professional solutions for all your plumbing needs, ensuring comfort and efficiency in your home year-round.

[sweeter-innocence-fics]

There's Always Time For Second Guesses (I Don't Wanna Know) (One-Shot)

Pairing: Tangerine x Reader

Work Summary: Tangerine x Reader Soulmate AU.

You're on vacation in Japan, trying to get away from the shitstorm that is your life, but you're not prepared for what's waiting for you on the bullet train to Kyoto.

Rating: Teen and up.

Word Count: 3519

Read on AO3.

Masterlists.

Taglist: @mcximffs @noz4a2 @rottenstyx @mrs-kai-anderson @ang3l1te @missryerye

Notes:

Warnings for snakes and sadness, general assassin stuff, blood.

Timeline probably doesn't line up with the timeline of the movie, whoops.

---

It was supposed to be fun. The sort of relaxing faux-adventure you get from travelling to the tourist-y destinations of another country. The precursor to a fresh start after everything in your life had gone to shit.

But that wasn’t meant to be. Your carefree vacation had turned into a nightmare over the course of a few hours.

There were people with guns on this train. There was a dead man bleeding out of his eyeballs. Over the course of your journey, the number of train passengers had thinned out, and none of them seemed as worried as you felt. It was like no one else was paying attention. You needed to get out of here, but the next stop wasn’t for another thirty-five minutes.

Heart in your throat, you decided to take your backpack and hide in a bathroom. It was close to one of the exit doors. You would wait until the train was pulling into the next station, and then you would run for it.

That was your plan at least. You sat yourself down on the closed lid of the toilet, trying desperately to forget the face of the blood-covered man. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you knew exactly how to distract yourself. You’d packed your vacation to the brim, trying to leave yourself as little space for quiet reflection as possible. Maybe this was your penance. Now was the time to think about everything that had brought you here.

For starters, your boyfriend of four years had found his soulmate. It wasn’t as if you’d never considered this eventuality. After all, things like that happened all the time.

You weren’t ready, though, when you came home and found him sitting at the kitchen table with an expression half-guilty, half-ecstatic, the back of his hand stained a bright red.

He had tried to let you down gently; he really had. You hadn’t wanted him to feel guilty, either. It just as easily could’ve happened to you. You wished him the best, and then, when he was gone, you’d cried for three days.

A few days later, you’d found out that the company you worked for was ‘downsizing’ and you hadn’t made the cut. Redundant and freshly unwillingly single, you packed up everything you owned into your car and drove back to your parents’ house.

They had welcomed you back with open arms, but you could see the pity in their eyes. You hated that pity. So you made a decision. You took your redundancy money and decided to go on a trip.

You’d never been to Japan before, even though you’d always meant to. It was an exceptionally beautiful country, but you were still miserable. You had hoped that travelling would decrease the desire to check your ex’s Instagram for pictures of him with his new girlfriend, but it was still a compulsion that you were struggling to break.

You should just delete the app. It’s not like you posted much anyway. As you opened your phone and pressed on that little colourful camera icon, you heard a low hiss.

Your thumb paused over the Instagram app. “Huh?”

Probably the plumbing. It didn’t sound like any pipes you’d ever heard before, but Japanese toilets were different from the ones you were used to. Even though you weren’t using the toilet, you decided to flush, just in case.

A shape caught the corner of your eye, and before you could properly process what you were seeing, a scream ripped its way out of your throat.

A small, yellowish-brown snake slithered had slithered out between your legs. You launched yourself into the door, cursing the lock as you did so. Your fingers fumbled over it, and then, after an agonising moment, managed to unlock it.

You spilled out of the room and almost collided with a man in the process. You stumbled backwards, slamming the door and praying that the snake was now trapped inside.

Feeling unsteady, you almost lost your balance when a warm hand wrapped around your forearm, helping you stay upright. The man’s skin was hot against yours. Too hot. It burned.

He leapt back from you suddenly, and you fell into the wall, stabilizing yourself with one hand. Your eyes darted over him, trying to assess whether he was a threat.

With a jolt, you realised that you recognised him. You had seen him and another man talking to the dead man earlier. He was tall and handsome, with piercing blue eyes, but now, his hair was dishevelled and there were splotches of blood on his clothes.

You took a step back, away from him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at his hand.

It shimmered, like gold paint. A soulmate mark. Unbidden, your eyes found the spot on your arm where he touched you. It still burned. It had turned a rich, dark blue.

He looked at you then, his eyes roving over your face, trying to take you in. Your cheeks heated up under his penetrating gaze.

“There’s a snake in the bathroom,” you blurted out. You clutched your arm to your chest, cradling it through the burning ache. The man in front of you flexed his hand, and you realised that he must’ve been feeling the same thing. As you glanced at the now closed bathroom door, you had a sinking feeling of dread. “I left my backpack in there.”

“It’s okay, love. I’ll get it back for you.” He smiled at you then, and when you smiled back, you realised that you had never really been in love before.

Your ex was forgiven, the pain forgotten. If his girlfriend made him feel half as good as you did now, how could you possibly blame him for choosing her over you?

As he guided you back into the carriage, gesturing for you sit down, your smile faltered.

“Be careful? Please?”

He chuckled a little at that. “Don’t worry, love, I’m a professional. Just stay here and keep your head down, okay?”

Your heart thudded as you watched him retreat. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to breathe. Today had been quite the day. You were sure you were going to cry as soon as you got away from this train.  

A moment later, your soulmate returned, holding your rucksack. He put it on the seat beside you.

“You need to get off this train, love. It’s not safe here anymore.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

“Okay. We get to Nagoya in…” He checked his watch. “Twenty-five minutes. Let’s find somewhere to lay low.” There was no question as to whether or not you would go with him. Your trust in him was implicit and biological. In the space of a moment, he was yours and you were his. He took your rucksack again and slung it over his shoulder.

He took three steps and then stopped, turning back to you. “I don’t even know your name,” he said, almost apologetically. You gave him your name, and watched that smile spread across his face again. “Tangerine,” he said in response.

“Tangerine?”

“That’s my name. Tangerine.”

You were sure he was lying to you, but you could get into that later. He led you down the train until he found some unoccupied private cabins. He even held the door open for you so that you could go in first.

He was nothing if not a gentleman, evidently. You sat down in the seat next to the window and pulled your legs up onto it, hugging your knees. Tangerine put your bag in the overhead storage and then slid into the seat opposite you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other. This was the man that fate said you were going to spend the rest of your life with, whether you liked it or not.

He was certainly very handsome. He was smooth and polite and well-dressed (or at least he had been, earlier). Other than that, you knew almost nothing about him. There was one thing you were sure about though: he was dangerous.

“I saw you and your friend talking to that man earlier. The one who died,” you said.

His lips turned down. “My brother.”

“Sorry?”

“Not my friend. My brother.”

“Your brother,” you repeated. “Where is he?”

Tangerine looked out of the window, frowning. “Dead.”

Your stomach gave a lurch. “What?”

He turned his eyes on you again, and took a deep breath, like he was steeling himself. “There’s some things you should know about me, sweetheart. I am not a good person. I am not a safe person. If you stay with me then you could get hurt.” As he spoke, you felt your stomach sinking. “Me and my brother, we’re- we were- are assassins.”

He shook his head slightly. Until he’d stumbled over his words, the speech had sounded practised. You wondered if he had prepared for this exact moment, when he would meet his soulmate.

“What happened to your brother?” you asked in a small voice.

He sighed deeply. “We were hired to retrieve something. A briefcase. And a person. Trouble is, someone else was hired to kill that person.”

“The man who was bleeding out of his eyes.”

“Right. Seems like this whole train is full of assassins. One of them took Lemon out. That’s why I need to get you out of here. I can’t lose another person today.” His eyes were starting to look very shiny. His hand was curled into a fist on his knee. Cautiously, you reached out and put your hand over it.

You watched as his expression smoothed out. His hand relaxed, and he let you turn it over, taking it between both of yours.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” you said softly.

“…Thanks.”

“You’ll come with me, right? When I leave the train?” you asked.

“I have to finish this job.”

“Why?”

“There’s people who’ll kill me if I don’t.”

“Sounds like there’s people who’ll kill you if you do.” For a moment, he smiled again. It was a reluctant smile, but it was still beautiful, because he was beautiful.

“You’re probably right about that. But still. I have to see this through. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Frustration was edging into your voice. “What could be worth that?”

He didn’t answer right away. He ran his free hand through his hair, turning back towards the window. The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again.

“Okay. I’ll come with you. There’s nothing left for me here, anyway.”

You squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

“What about you then? What brings you here? You’re not a local.”

It was your turn to frown. “I guess I was just looking for a distraction.”

“Well, you certainly found one.”

His expression was relaxed again. So you found yourself telling him everything. Your job. Your ex. Your parents. Everything that had been going wrong in your life that had led to you being here. He listened, lacing your fingers together and rubbing over the skin of your palm with his thumb.

The overhead announcement that you were about to pull into Nagoya almost made you jump. It hadn’t felt like twenty-five minutes had passed. Your heart began to speed up again.

Tangerine got to his feet and pulled your rucksack out of the rack above your head. Reluctantly, you stood up too. He swung the bag over one shoulder, and then held out a hand to you. When you didn’t immediately take it, he wiggled his fingers at you.

Okay. So he was cute too. Trying to suppress a smile, you took his hand.

It was a straight shot to the exit. There was a stretch of corridor about ten feet long, and then you would be off the train. You were almost at the door when Tangerine swore loudly, and then pulled you into the space next to the luggage storage.

You squeaked, almost losing your balance, but he put both hands on your shoulders. As the train pulled to a stop, his hands were the only things stopping you from falling into him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked once you’d got your feet under you.

“The man who hired me has got guards on the platform. If I try to get off this train, they’ll kill me.”

It felt like you’d been dunked in a bucket of ice. You’d been so close to getting away.

“What do we do?”

His expression was serious. “You need to get off the train.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “They don’t know you have anything to do with me. You’re just another passenger. They won’t bother you. Take this.” He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and grabbed a handful of cash. “Rent a car. Drive to Kyoto. I’ll meet you there.”

“Tangerine…”

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was scribbling something down on a scrap of paper. As he slid it into your hands, you saw it was a phone number.

“I know today must’ve been terrifying for you,” he said. “So if you don’t call me, I won’t hold it against you. My life is dangerous. I’d hate for you to get hurt. So if that means living without you…” He swallowed. “I can live with that, okay?” You gritted your teeth. Your eyes were stinging. “Come to Kyoto. Or don’t. I’ll understand either way. Okay?”

Your heart was beating hard enough to hurt. You were almost surprised he couldn’t hear it. This beautiful, stupid, dangerous man. You had only just met him, but you’d do anything for him. Even leave, if that’s what he wanted you to do.

You pushed up onto your tiptoes and kissed him. It was a clumsy graze of your lips against his, but before you could rock back on your heels, he grabbed your face and kissed you back properly. You gripped the front of his shirt, trying to pull him closer, but he pushed you away.

“You need to get off the train,” he said again, looking almost bereft.

You pulled him down to steal one last kiss. “I’ll see you in Kyoto.”

He handed you your rucksack. Resolute, you slipped it on and made your way out into the corridor. With your chin held high, you walked down the little steps off the train and onto the platform.

There were a lot of men in suits milling about, but as Tangerine had predicted, they paid no attention to you. You walked straight over to the car rental office without looking back.

*

The drive to Kyoto was almost two hours. The bullet train would’ve got you there in under forty minutes. You drove the speed limit, rucksack thrown haphazardly into the passenger seat, no question of stopping any time soon, but you still felt Tangerine getting further away from you with every minute.

There had been a lump in your throat ever since you’d left him behind. It would be just your luck to meet your soulmate and then have him die after you’d known him for less than a day.

You couldn’t think like that. You’d never make it to Kyoto if you had a mental breakdown on the drive there. Your eyes darted down to the new patch of blue colour on your arm. It was still as vivid as it had been when he’d first touched you. He was alive. That made it a little easier to breathe.

You were twenty minutes outside Kyoto when you reached the roadblock. There were police everywhere, and no way through. They were trying to direct you down a diversion, but you weren’t having that.

You pulled over to the side of the road and got out. You put on your best clueless tourist face and walked right up to the roadblock.

“Excuse me? Do you speak English?” you asked one of the cops. He held up a hand, telling you to wait, and then went over and spoke to another officer.

The second cop came over to you. “English?” he said.

“Yes. What happened here? Why is the road closed?”

He grimaced at you. “Bullet train derailed. Very bad.”

Your heart seized. You glanced down at your arm again. Still blue. His eyes traced the movement of your gaze right down to your soulmark, and a look of understanding crossed his face.

“My soulmate was on a train to Kyoto,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Not many people on this train. We found no survivors. Only dead.” At the expression on your face, he grimaced again. “Probably not your soulmate. Lots of trains come through here. Maybe on the next one?”

“Maybe,” you said shakily. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything else as you turned around to go back to the car. You slid into the driver’s seat, and took a shuddery breath.

Slowly, you unzipped your rucksack and rifled through it, looking for your wallet. In your hurry to get here, you had stuffed it into the top of your bag.

You flipped it open, and there, folded up in the space that used to hold a picture of you and your ex-boyfriend, was the scrap of paper with Tangerine’s phone number on it.

You smoothed it out on your lap. His handwriting was messy – though given the circumstances, you could hardly blame him – but it was still legible. With trembling fingers, you typed the number into your phone.

It was answered before the first ring had even finished.

“Hello?” Tangerine’s voice was in your ear, and your relief came in the form of a rush of tears.

“Tangerine?” you asked, and he said your name in return.

The rest of the phone conversation was hazy. You were crying through it. Eventually, he told you that he’d text you an address, and you needed to meet him there. You promised him you would.

*

It was dark by the time you drove up to the hotel. You pulled into a parking space, turned your engine off, and paused.

You were sure you looked a mess. You’d been crying on and off for hours. You looked at yourself in the rearview mirror and frowned.

“Stop being an idiot,” you muttered to yourself. Tangerine was your soulmate. He wouldn’t care if you were a mess. You took a few deep breaths, and then got out of the car.

The lobby wasn’t manned, so you went straight for the elevator. The floor numbers were handily written in both Japanese and English, so you hit the button for Tangerine’s floor and watched the doors slide closed.

It was very quiet here. The hum of traffic that had kept you company for hours seemed very far away now. You rubbed at your face, trying to get rid of any evidence of tears, to no avail. The elevator dinged.

Jittery, you made your way down the hallway and found the number of Tangerine’s room.

Here goes nothing.

You knocked on the door. There were footsteps, and a moment later, it opened a crack. A dark brown eye peeked out at you.

You were about to start apologising, saying that you had the wrong room, when the man took a step back, opening the door wider, and you recognised him as the man Tangerine had been with earlier. The man he’d called his brother. The man who he’d said was dead.

“Tan!” he called over his shoulder. “It’s for you.”

You heard another door slam shut, frantic footsteps, and then there he was, standing in the doorway.

He was wearing a white bathrobe. His hair, which had been slicked back earlier, was damp and curly. You liked it better that way.

He was no longer covered in blood, but you could see a couple of nasty cuts and bruises. You moved towards each other at the same time. He opened his arms and you stepped in.

He smelled like soap and aftershave. His skin was damp wherever it pressed against yours. He was so attractive that you felt a little light-headed.

A small, gasping sob escaped from your lips, and he immediately drew you tighter into himself, holding you.

“Shh, shh, love, it’s okay,” he murmured, guiding you back into the room. The door fell closed behind you.

You stood there for a moment, clinging to him like a lifeline. For his part, he seemed perfectly content to let you try to burrow your way into his chest.

Somewhere behind him, someone cleared their throat. Feeling a little embarrassed, you pulled back to see Tangerine’s brother lounging on a bed, a book propped open on his lap.

“If you two are gonna carry on like that, I’m gonna get my own room,” he said.

Tangerine chuckled, and then pressed his lips to your temple. “That’s probably for the best. Love, this is my brother, Lemon.”

“I thought you said he was dead?”

“It’s a long story, sweetheart. Come on. Let’s get room service.”

---

'‘Cause there’s always time for second guesses, I don’t wanna know If you’re gonna be the death of me, that’s how I wanna go.'

[maryangelex]

Dark But Sweet (Pt.2)

Maintenance Guy! Simon "Ghost" Riley x f! Reader

Part 1 here

Summary: Meeting Simon has left you wanting more, making any and every excuse to have his company once again. Until all your efforts finally prove effective.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, descriptive language, fluff at the beginning, smut, p in v sex, cowgirl, oral sex (male receiving), simon is shy but cheeky, dirty talking, pulling out, cumshots/cumming on belly.

A/N: this was so fun to write!! heavy on the smut so be warned!! once again let me extend a formal apology to the Brits reading this.

I know it's long, but let me know how you liked it!!!

Ever since Simon had visited your flat to make the repair, you had been finding every which way to see him again. You made it your mission almost every day to find an excuse to talk to him.

Thankfully, your flat was still in disarray; pieces of pesky IKEA furniture needed to be put together, shelves needed to be installed on your wall, and lightbulbs needed to be switched. The truth was that you could do most of these things, you weren't an idiot. But Simon didn't know that, as far as he was concerned you were just a girl incapable of repairing her own place.

So, you used your feigned incompetence to your advantage.

A few days after he fixed the plumbing, you woke up extra early that morning to bake a whole tray of biscuits and packed them neatly in your freshest Tupperware.

I'm in 1B if you need anythin' else.

And there you were, facing the bold metal digits on the worn wooden door of Simon's flat. You took a deep breath, biscuits in tow. You hesitantly raised your hand to the door, taking a second before you lightly tapped your knuckles to the wood.

Your face heated in anticipation, your heart solidifying into stone, and your throat went dry as if you had just done something malicious.

A few seconds passed and there was no movement, no sounds heard from inside. Maybe he didn't hear you, your knuckles had been light on the door. So you went for a second attempt, this time more confident and audible.

You shifted, clearing your throat and straightening your posture, readying yourself to face the man.

But once again, nothing.

You knitted your brows together, confusion and fear rising in you. Were you in the wrong flat? 1B, you remembered. What if he was busy with something? With someone? Your mind started racing as embarrassment crept on you.

"Need somethin', love?"

You jumped, your body jolting at the sudden sound of a deep voice breaking the deafening silence. A small gasp came from you as you turned around to see Simon standing behind you.

"Jesus!" you breathed, clutching at your chest. Your heart had skipped a beat when Simon spoke behind you.

You craned your head to look at the tall man. When your eyes caught up to his face, you saw the small smirk across his lips, and the look in his eyes was almost amused as he gazed down at you.

"Didn't mean to scare you, love." he said apologetically

Love, you were sure the man didn't even know your name, but you couldn't complain about having Simon calling you that.

"No worries! Sorry I, erm, I was just lookin' for you!" you stumbled over your words, a nervous chuckle exiting you.

You watched the man in front of you, your face and chest heating the more details you noticed. Evidently, he had just gone on a run. He was wearing short shorts, hugging his strong quads tightly. His shirt was tucked into the waistband of his shorts, draping like a towel. Making the upper half of his body completely exposed.

You gulped at the sight and realization that Simon, the man you were swooning over, was standing in front of you shirtless, with only a glossy layer of sweat dressing his upper body. His skin was bronzed from being exposed to the sun, and his tattoo sleeve was radiant from the sweat coating his toned arms. The muscles in his torso were tight and--

Shit, you were gawking at him again. Your eyes were devouring him and it couldn't be more obvious.

"Do you need help with somethin' else, love?" He quirked a sweaty brow at you.

"Y-Yes, actually! I just... I have a load of furniture that I, erm, I need to put it together and--"

"Not a problem, love" he interrupted your rambling, his voice soft, "I'll be up to put 'em together for you."

Your beaming eyes met his, a smile spreading wide across your red hot cheeks. You let out a small nervous giggle. Suddenly, you felt the weight and shape of the container nestled under your arm.

"Oh! These are for you," you extended your arms toward him, exhibiting the container full of enough biscuits to last him the whole year. Simon's eyes grew wide as he looked at it, his expression becoming flustered.

"I...can't accept that, really," he cleared his throat.

"Please, I made too many and can't eat them all by myself." you insisted, arms not faltering.

Simon made a noise that sounded like a grunt of appreciation as he took the container. He mumbled his gratitude. As much as he protested whenever you offered him or gifted him food, you loved seeing how flustered he got. It was no secret that the man had an appetite and that he genuinely liked and appreciated the meals.

You had decided that food would be your way into this man's heart.

That day Simon went up to your apartment after showering and changing into fresh clothes. You spent the afternoon on the floor of your apartment with him, putting together your furniture as if you were a newly moved-in couple. The whole time you were near him, you took in his scent and his appearance, as if he was a bouquet of flowers with an aroma that drew you in as much as its flowers' beauty did.

He smelled like a deep, manly cologne with a hint of vanilla; dark but sweet. Everything about him was like that. His voice, his scent, his demeanor. And you were enthralled, completely absorbed in his presence. When he finished and left, you felt a coldness in your flat once again. His company was warm, and every time he left you were left wanting more of him.

So for the next two weeks, you showed up at his door with a new recipe packed in a container and a new thing for him to help you fix. Each time he greeted you with a growing smile, getting less flustered with every meal you packed him, taking it more confidently and outwardly grateful; no more protesting from him.

One day you genuinely needed him, the damn shower wouldn't turn any other temperature besides freezing cold. So you showed up at his door with a meal, this time it was a salmon recipe you had found online, and were greeted by him like usual.

"Hey, Simon," you started, although he knew where you were going at this point. "The shower, it just won't get hot" You laughed lightly and he gave you a knowing smirk. He took the container as you extended it to him.

"I'll head upstairs, love," he said, his voice sultry and a deeper rumble than usual. "I had somethin' to ask you, actually."

You froze, your stomach doing a flip. Fuck, you thought, he's finally caught on and gotten tired of these little transactions.

"You're always bringin' me food," he began, "and I've been thinkin'..."

Your face bloomed beet red, a knot tying in your throat.

Shit, he's putting an end to it, the time finally fucking came!

"If it'd be alright if I could return the favor for you?"

You felt your heart clench like it had stopped beating. And you hadn't noticed, but your hands were clenched into tight fists, bracing yourself in anticipation. But his words made your tense body relax.

"Wha--How do you mean?" you babbled, puzzled by his question.

"I'm askin' you on a date, sweetheart" he clarified, a cocky grin curling his lips. "I'll cook for you if you let me."

You blinked, paralyzed by his invitation. You took a moment to breathe, not realizing you had been holding your breath all along.

“Well, I— Sure!” You finally said. Simon huffed, a mix of relief and amusement at your answer, your flustered and stuttered response.

“Good, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” His words were like a command.

“What will you cook for me?” You asked with a smirk of your own.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said as he stepped out of his flat, “dress nice for me.” He gave you a cheeky smile before closing the door behind him, tools in hand to head over to your flat.

For him, you repeated in your mind. On the way back to your flat with him you couldn’t help but ruminate over the fact that he asked you out. You were elated, the whole rest of the day and morning after all you did was anticipate your date with Simon.

When the moment finally came, you were at Simon’s door once again, wearing a brand new dress that you got just for him. Nothing too fancy but not casual either. You made the effort of putting on some makeup, even. The blush you had applied was amplified by the natural one that lightly heated your cheeks as you nervously waited for him to open the door. You fidgeted with the light fabric of your dress anxiously.

The sound of the door creaking open snapped you out of your nervous thoughts. You flashed Simon a bright smile, your lipstick accentuating it. He was standing beside the open door, his eyes trailing down your body, scanning you and making you feel exposed.

“Y’look pretty, love,” he said with a smirk. It made a fire light in you. You thanked him and you stepped inside with his hand signaling you to come in.

In all this time you had never been inside Simon’s flat until now. It was neat and clean, a fresh candle smell wafting in the air. Your eyes scanned it curiously.

His decor was modest and reserved, just like him. His furniture was simple yet cozy, and the color palette was muted; dark neutrals like grays and browns, some pops of navy. The lighting was moody and dimmed.

There were little personal details like a picture of him huddled with three other men. You took a few seconds longer to admire it, relishing the way he looked surrounded with what you deemed yo be his closest friends.

You suddenly felt Simon’s presence behind you, his body radiating a comforting warmth.

“May I?” His voice was soft, hands raised over your shoulders asking to help you remove your coat.

You nodded and gave him your approval with a polite smile as you shimmied the coat off your shoulders, letting him slide it off. His knuckles brushed against your skin and left goosebumps. You felt his gaze momentarily gracing the skin exposed by the straps of your dress.

He hung up your coat by the hooks near his entrance. You watched him head to the dining area to pull the chair out for you which you happily sat at.

“You’re quite the gentleman, Simon,” you said.

“Is it surprising?”

“Not at all,” you looked at him behind you, your eyes adoring.

You watched him as he shifted around his kitchen, preparing dishes and plating them expertly and delicately. As if he was preparing a masterpiece for you with the utmost effort. He was deeply concentrated in his cooking, and you were deeply concentrated in the ways he moved as you watched him from your seat. The way the muscles on his back shifted and bulged under his shirt, how his profile was chiseled and pointed.

He made his way back to you moments later with two plates that he placed on the table respectively. Then he poured a freshly opened bottle of wine into your cup followed by his. You took a sip as he watched you expectantly. You hummed at the taste approvingly and licked your lips, a movement that he watched closely. And with that he sat across from you, eyeing you as you tasted the food.

It melted in your tongue, eliciting a delighted moan from you. You caught him smirking as he asked if it was good. Good was not enough to describe it. All this time you had been cooking for him while his abilities were even beyond yours. He watched you eat, pleased with how much you were enjoying it, before he finished his own meal and wine.

The two of you chatted over your meal. You were a tipsy mess laughing at his dry humor. Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was just your massive crush that made him funny because the man said the strangest things. And you got a few laughs out of him, at least that’s what you thought the deep rumbling and huffing that came out of him was.

“Thank you, Simon,” you said, batting your lashes at him across the table. He was reclined in his chair, his blonde lashes fanning over his hooded eyes as he gave you a sultry look. You felt exposed under his gaze, your face flushed by a mix of the wine and his overwhelming gaze.

“No, thank you for the company, love,” he said in that pleasant, rough voice of his. It made your heart skip a beat.

You stood up from your chair and picked up the dishes to take to the sink. He moved a hand to stop you, but you insisted, “Let me thank you properly, Simon!”

It made him grunt in displeasure, but he let you.

As you stood over the sink, letting the water rinse the dishes, you felt his presence behind you again.

“There’s another way for you to thank me, if you’re interested,” his voice was low and you felt his hot breath near your ear, making you shiver and your movements freeze. The heat of his body was radiating towards you, he was centimeters away from you, you could almost feel the solid mass of him.

Your head turned over your shoulder as you watched his hands come up to your sides.

“I’m interested,” you said, biting your lip. The feeling of his hands was burning you as they rested on your waist, the front of his body now pressing against your back.

You pressed back towards him, feeling a stiffness against your rear. It made a small whine grow in your throat, and you heard Simon’s breath hitch at the motion; his hands gripped the flesh of your flanks tighter.

You felt the tip of his nose against your ear, then his lips gracing the shell.

“Come with me, then, love,” he said almost a whisper, “show me your gratitude.”

You turned around to face him, his body still close to you as his hands remained on your waist. He gently guided you to his living room, not leaving your proximity.

There, you gently placed a hand to his abdomen, lightly pushing him to direct him to sit down at the armchair behind him. He complied, reclining back on it with his broad thighs spread wide to make room for you, invitingly. You could see the outline of his member through the fabric of his pants, making your mouth water and the heat in your core flare up.

You sank down to kneel in front of him, nestled between his strong legs, and your hands lay flat on his thighs. You gave them a squeeze, more to ground yourself than to tease him, and you felt the bulks of solid muscle hidden under the fabric. His hands rested relaxed on the arms of the chair, letting you take your time.

Your hands slid up his thigh at a snail’s pace until you reached the waist of his pants. You trailed around the crotch of his pants, avoiding his stiffened member and watched as your teasing made his breath falter, his stomach sinking.

You watched his face as your hands caressed him. His lips were slightly parted, glossy with his spit, and his already dark eyes were black voids, glimmering as he watched you between his legs. His hands now tightened into anticipating fists.

Finally, your fingers made it to the button of his pants, undoing it; followed by his zipper, which you slowly dragged down. It made Simon lightly shift in his seat, giving you a chance to gently tug down his pants along with his boxers.

His cock sprang free and your eyes widened at the size of it. Simon gripped the base of it, giving it a few slow pumps in front of your face.

“Too much for you, love?” He said with a cocky smile, enjoying the look on your face. You shook your head and gulped the saliva flooding your mouth before you replaced his hand with yours. He removed his own, letting you take hold of it entirely. The feeling of your silky hands on his cock made him groan quietly.

You gave it a few painfully slow pumps, from base to tip, pressing your thumb to the red, leaky slit. Simon cursed under his breath.

He was well endowed, very well, actually. And as you pumped his cock slowly you pondered how it would even be possible for you to take him.

Your hand stilled at the base and you leaned forward, setting your lips with your tongue before brushing them over his tip. Simon held his breath, hands steady on the armrests.

You gave it an experimental kiss, eyeing him from between his legs. Then, you flattened your tongue against the head, licking a stripe over it, followed by another lick, this time along the shaft.

Simon reached his hand out to you, using a finger to tuck your hair behind your ear, then letting the hand rest against your cheek.

You looked up at him with doe eyes as you finally encapsulated the head of his cock with your mouth, giving it a light suck that made a “pop” sound. His lips parted further as he let out a breath he had been holding.

“Fuckin’ tease, baby,” he growled.

Baby, you liked that new one. You liked it a lot, actually.

You rewarded him by sliding your mouth down his shaft, taking him into your mouth inch by inch. Barely half way you were already gagging. You relaxed your throat to take him in forward.

Simon let out a sound, a long and quiet curse under his breath. His hand on your cheek moved further back into your hair, lightly grasping some of it.

The feeling of his fingers tightening into your hair made you moan, the vibration in your throat going straight to his cock, and the tight feeling going straight to your soaking cunt. You closed your thighs closed for some relief.

You took as much of him as you could before you retracted your head, sliding back up to the tip. You released him from your mouth and let out a sigh, saliva connecting your lips to his cock. It wasn’t even a second after that you took his cock back into your mouth, this time with more confidence.

Then you finally bobbed your head up and down on it, setting a steady pace. Your hands rested on Simon’s thighs and you felt his muscles tense under your touch. You heard his soft sounds as he basked in the feeling of you sucking his cock.

Your eyes fell closed for a moment before you felt his grip on your hair tighten.

“Uh-uh, look at me, sweetheart, up here.” He cooed, and you obeyed when your eyes snapped up to meet his. He watched you attentively under his long lashes, and you looked up at him with wide, blown pupils as your head bobbed up and down on his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he groaned. His other hand reached into your hair as he used both of them to style your hair into a ponytail. His touch was gentle and careful, and he gripped the hair with one of his fists. This allowed him to direct your pace now, making your head move up and down quickly.

It made another moan rumble in your throat, making his hips buck at the sound and sensation. His grip on your hair was tight and demanding and you'd be lying if you said you weren't loving it. You loved the fact that you were making Simon feel good with your mouth wrapped around his cock; evident by the way he tensed under you, how his hand guided your performance, the low growls that brewed in his chest along with the faint curses that came from his gritted teeth.

Your saliva soaked and dripped down his shaft, down to the base of his cock where it met his pelvis, the hair slightly dampening with a mix of it and with his sweat. Your pace was quicker, especially now that Simon started thrusting his hips up, fucking into your mouth.

With a commanding tug of your hair, he pulled you off his cock. The sudden release made you whine loudly, your spit coating your lips and dripping down your chin. You looked at him, cockdrunk and disheveled. You gave him a puzzled look as to why he stopped.

Then, Simon leaned forward, his fist not letting go of your hair as he crashed his lips against yours. You melted into it, savoring how buttery they were, their plumpness, as you audibly moaned into it. His tongue slipped into your mouth and he tasted the mix of you and himself in it.

He pulled away and whispered against your lips, his tone commanding, "Stand up, love."

He let go of your hair as you complied and stood up in front of him. He sat up on the chair, his hands on your waist now as he looked up at you. You looked back down at him, his pupils were swallowing you whole with a hungry gaze. You felt his hands smooth up and down your body, his touch heavy on you as if he was molding you like a piece of clay, learning the curves of your body and the tenderness of your flesh. You whimpered at the feeling of him touching you, something you had longed for the moment you met him.

His hands slipped under the hem of your dress, running up your bare skin.

"Been wantin' to feel you since the day I saw you," he purred, "so soft n' pretty."

The mix of his words and touch gave you goosebumps. He's been wanting you just as much as you have, you thought.

His fingers hooked onto the waist of your lacy panties, tugging them down lightly, not breaking eye contact with you as he watched you bite your lower lip, your cheeks flustered. Your hands rested on his shoulders as you let him. His knuckles ghosted against the skin of your legs as he took the panties off. You complacently stepped out of the garment.

"Good girl, lettin' me take these pretty wet panties off you." He bunched them in his fist, bringing the crotch up to his mouth, his eyes glued to yours as he stuck his tongue out to taste them before setting them aside. The sight made your pussy flutter, you were practically dripping down your thigh.

He hummed at the taste of you, then took hold of the back of your thigh with one hand and the other on the small of your back, guiding you to straddle him on the chair as he reclined back. You were now sitting on top of him, legs spread on each side of him with his thighs supporting you over him. Your face was impossibly red.

Your hands trailed down his chest, feeling the hardened muscles you had memorized the day you saw him shirtless and sweaty. Then down to his abdomen and v-line. The images he had teased you with on your previous meetings flashed in your memory. And now here he was, under you; you sitting on top of him with a sopping wet cunt that begged for him to touch it.

It was like he read your mind when his hand snaked under your dress once again, two of his fingers sliding between your slick folds, making you wince when they brushed over your swollen clit.

"Simon," you begged. It made him chuckle to see you so eager for him to touch you, and he rewarded you with a finger sliding into your entrance. Your mouth fell agape as you whined at the intrusion, your hand clasping around the fabric of his shirt.

"Feels good, love?" his finger slid in and out of you.

"M-More, please," your voice was soft and pleading.

"So needy," he teased before inserting a second finger, "You ask so nicely, baby."

The pressure of his two thick digits inside you made a moan fall from your lips, your walls clasping around them. You heard a satisfied hum from Simon as he felt your tightness.

"This pretty pussy's so tight, love. Y'get this wet from sucking my cock?" His voice was husky and gentle. His fingers alternated between curling inside you and pumping in and out at a slow and steady pace.

You nodded shamelessly in response, unable to form even the simplest answers, all you could muster were whimpers and moans. The pace of his fingers quickened, and you were seeing starts; a loud moan escaped you.

"Ahh, Simon!" your back arched, your hips involuntarily rolling. His hand on the small of your back was splayed out, supporting you as he held you closer to him. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the exposed skin of your chest, your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

"Love hearin' you say my name, love," he purred against your skin before planting another kiss on it with those plush lips of his.

Your hands flew to the back of his neck, your fingers entwining in the hair there as you held him close to you. His fingers curled inside of you as you rolled your hips and fucked yourself on his digits.

"Want you to make yourself cum on my fingers, baby."

And you obliged, chasing your high as you rode his fingers, grinding your clit against his palm while he buried his fingers in you.

Your orgasm grew within you, you were at the cusp of it. Your hips were sloppy, you threw your head back with your eyes screwed shut as Simon fingered you to your climax. It hit you like a strike of lightning when you came, convulsing against Simon's hold and letting out choaked-out moans along with his name like a prayer.

"That's it, pretty girl," he soothed, letting you ride it out on his hand before he removed it from you. His other hand came up to your jaw, angling it to his face so he could press his lips against yours again.

You panted, lips lax against Simon's as he kissed you tenderly. You were out of it, coming down from your high. Then you realized the man under you was still painfully hard, his cock swollen and balls full; you hadn't achieved your goal of thanking him yet.

"Simon, I..." you started, biting your lip. The rest of the sentence felt too filthy to sound out, despite your recent shameless actions; so you brought your hand to his manhood, pumping it slowly and lightly. He understood what you meant, giving you a small chuckle.

"Wanna take care of me, sweetheart?" He cooed against your lips before giving you a chaste kiss. You nodded, reciprocating the kiss.

He hiked the hem of your dress up, exposing your lower half, and took hold of your hips to lift them up for access. You took his thick member in one of your hands, using the other hand on his shoulder for leverage as you angled his cock and sank down on it.

A long, breathy moan escaped the two of you in unison as the feeling of his large, thick dick entered your sensitive cunt.

"That's it, takin' me so well, sweet girl," he groaned as he bottomed out inside you, his pelvis flush against you. He remained still for a moment, basking in the sensation of your walls around his cock. It made you clench around him, trying to find a way to ease the burn of his cock stretching you out, and trying to find a release for your aching desire.

"Please, Simon," you begged.

"Use your words, darling."

"Please, fuck me, Simon." Your eyes were wide as you looked down at him, pleading him to move.

"Good girl," he praised, the grip on your hips tightened again as he lifted them up and sank them back down ever so slowly, finally moving. You whined in relief as he finally began fucking you, giving you what you had been pining for this whole time.

Simon bounced you up and down on his cock slowly at first, then picked up the pace and maintained it. His hands migrated to firmly grasp the plump flesh of your ass. You were sure you'd have the imprint of his large hands the next day.

Your arms were wrapped over his shoulders, supporting yourself as you were lifted up and down. Your legs spread as far as they could, letting him enter with as much ease as possible, making as much room for him to fill you up and fuck into you.

Simon's face was buried in the crook of your neck, huffing breaths against your skin. He lifted and planted you on his cock, over and over, at a relentless pace, making you a mess of moans all over again, him also becoming desperate to reach his climax.

His hips began thrusting up into you, making the head of his cock hit your back wall. You let out a loud moan at the feeling of him bullying his cock against your cervix, the feeling made you clench around him tightly

"Fuck...fuck, baby, your pussy's so good...huggin' my cock so tight. Y'like how I fuck you, pretty girl?"

"Yes!" You cried, tears welling in your eyes as Simon fucked up into you mercilessly, bouncing yourself in tandem with his thrusts. "Fuckin' me so good, Simon!" your words were slurred.

Simon groaned. He pressed a hand against the center of your abdomen, making you lean back on his cock, reaching a new angle that made his cock hit that sweet spot perfectly. The pressure making your vision hazy. Your hands reached behind you, supporting yourself on Simon's knees as he took hold of your hips and slammed you against his cock.

He cursed under his breath, his eyes rolling to the back of his head for a moment, then fixing them on your vulnerable form, watching as your tits jiggled under your dress from the force of his thrusts. He was getting sloppy, on the edge of his climax.

But you came first, walls fluttering around his cock, hips faltering and shaking from your orgasm. Your mouth fell open into an o-shape as you let out a string of lewd moans and chants of Simon's name.

He was close behind, closer than ever, "That's it, that's it, baby... 'm close, so fuckin' close."

You whimpered, watching his needy face; jaw clenched, those feathery blonde brows knitted together.

"Wanna make me cum, pretty girl? That how y'wanna thank me?"

You nodded fervently, "Wanna make you, cum Simon, please, please please."

You let him use you to reach his climax. He rolled your dress up higher, exposing your tummy to him. And he immediately released his cock from the confines of your pussy, strings of cum splattering over your exposed belly and cunt. His lips fell open as he let out a breathy moan. The sight of his cock painting you with his cum made you bite your lip to suppress a whine.

The two of you sat there catching your breath. Simon reclined back on the chair, his hands holding you up by your ribs when you could barely sit up straight. You were both covered in a film of sweat, cheeks flushed, looking disheveled, and you had a mess of cum over you.

"Fuck, 'm sorry, love," he took a handful of tissues from the side table next to the chair and cleaned you up diligently and carefully. You hummed, giving him a tipsy smile.

" 's okay," was all you could enunciate. Simon chuckled at your fucked-out demeanor, tossing aside the tissues as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on your cheek.

"Guess we're even now," you said, placing a hand on his cheek, pressing a thumb against his lower lip.

"You won't be needin' my services anymore?" he said cockily.

You smiled at him, "I think I'll be needing them more after this."

Taglist (everyone that commented in part 1! thank you!): @hexxxsstuff @valkyriekill @ghostlythots @tumblinginoz @chocolatetakoyakis @cumikering @yvng97

[flutter2deceive]

Bitching about financials and job things under the cut

My company announced like 2 months ago that our jobs are being eliminated, but it's like this nebulous thing because they're outsourcing and we need to transfer all our products, so my end date isn't until 3/31/2026. Like that's so far in the future and I'm gonna get severence (at end date, i will have worked there for 20 years literally over half my life) + a retention bonus, so I'll be ok for a little while after the fact i think i hope

But anyway i decided to immediately start cost-cutting 2 months ago:

•canceled subscriptions (canceled hulu, paramount+ (i have a plex server hookup anyway), canceled ubereats (and also stopped ordering from them altogether), canceled or went down a level on my minimal patreon subs)

•signed up for Shell's rewards system (it's literally free and you save at least 20cents/gallon every single time and sometimes more without having to spend any money you just click a button and boom extra 10cents if you fill up on a specific day.)

•haven't done *any* fun online shopping or regular store shopping for that matter

•severely cut down my fast food spending (i'm sorry taco bell ily), and as my friends are in similar financial woes, we've stopped ordering food every weekend and opted to make cheap dinners where we each bring some small component like 1 brings pasta 1 brings sauce 1 brings garlic bread

•this isn't a recent change, but i never go out anywhere for like drinks or to see local comedy shows like i used to frequently do. I'm a homebody who goes into the office twice a week and goes to my best friend's house on saturdays and just sits at home the rest of the time

Even with all that!! My debit card is at $26, my 1 credit card is $3 away from its limit, the other is $21 from its limit. I *thankfully* get my paycheck at midnight, but like... woof!

Last paycheck i was down to less than $100 the day before as well. It's so mind-boggling to me that it's this bad. Partially because I've had some unfortunately-timed plumbing issues and had to pay a pricey deductible (but glad i have the insurance obv cuz of how much the total cost would've been otherwise.) But also partially cuz i feel like shit is so much more fucking expensive than it's ever been!! And the last gallon of milk i bought and properly refrigerated went sour like a full week before its expiration date.

I have a decent job and make pretty good money (for now at least.) I have made several cost-cutting measures recently. I feel like I don't *do* anything. And it literally doesn't matter!!

My best friend who has an equally comfortable job told me he had about the same amount of $ as me to last him til his next paycheck too.

And on top of the financial stress, i am so fucking stressed at work because no one knows what they're doing and i keep getting roped into things at the last minute with an IM that says "hey got time for a quick call?" And then i end up having to put together a complicated spreadsheet that is needed by end of week. Why didn't you fucking ask sooner than 2pm on a thursday?! Oh cuz someone who will still have a job at the end of this didn't do what they were supposed to? Ok sure I'll get right on that. And I do. I do get right on that and have it back to you within a couple hours. Because i stupidly care about my job.

Ugghhh i hate everything atm... Except i was able to livestream my favorite singer Terri Clark's debut concert at The Ryman tonight. And i have a ton of Fran/CC fanfics queued up to read. And the Ghosts discord is constantly coming up with the cutest scenarios for H$, my current otp. And i am off the entire next week because next Friday is my birthday. And my dog is snoring.

So i guess it hasn't been such a bad day after all, Charlie Brown... or some such sentimental nonsense 🙃🙃🙃

[mostlysignssomeportents]

End to End

In “End to End,” my new column for Locus Magazine, I propose a policy framework for a better internet: the “End to End” principle (E2E), a bedrock of the original design for the internet, updated for the modern, monopolized web, as a way of disenshittifying it:

https://locusmag.com/2023/03/commentary-cory-doctorow-end-to-end/

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/2023/03/07/disenshittification/#e2e

The original E2E marked the turning point from telco-based systems where power was gathered at the center, controlled by carriers, to the packet-switched internet, where power moved to the edges. Under the old model, only the network operator could add new features. If you wanted to create, say, Caller ID, you needed to convince the phone company to update its switches to support a new signaling system (and you probably had to rent a Caller ID box from the carrier, too).

But packet-switching made it possible for new services to be created by people at the edges of the network. Once your device was connected to the internet, it could exchange data with any other device on the internet. If someone set up a voice-calling system and you connected to it, they could add Caller ID to it without asking Ma Bell for permission.

End to end was the core ethic of this system: the idea that the telcos that sat beneath these systems should get out of the way of their users, serving only to deliver data from willing senders to willing receivers as quickly, efficiently and reliably as possible.

E2E was a powerful idea, one that truly treated the telcos as utilities — the plumbing that sat beneath the services, obliged to serve its subscribers by doing their bidding to the extent they could. If you chose to use a internet calling service instead of making phone calls, the carrier’s job was to shuttle those packets around, not to slow them down or block them to funnel you into its rival service.

There’s a powerful logic to this: no one rents a phone line because they want to make sure that the carrier’s shareholders are getting the highest possible return on their investment. The reason we buy network connections is to get to the services we value.

We have no duty to arrange our affairs to the benefit of a carrier’s shareholders. If those shareholders are so emotionally fragile that they can’t bear the thought of network users making their own choices on which services to use, they should get into a different line of work.

E2E wasn’t a law, it was a principle. Principles are useful! They can be embedded in laws (for example, the laws that establish most network providers as common carriers often include an E2E rule), but just as importantly, they can give us a vocabulary for critiquing or designing services: “Ugh, I won’t use that service, it’s not end to end,” or “How can we make this work in an end to end way?”

Principles can be integrated into professional codes of ethics, or procurement rules for public bodies (“Our university only buys end to end services”). Tech groups and publications can use principles to rank competing technologies (“Which network providers are end to end?”).

Network Neutrality is a way of operationalizing E2E: the idea of Net Neutrality is that carriers should be obliged to treat all traffic the same. If you request Youtube packets from Comcast, Comcast should deliver those packets as quickly and reliably as it can, even though its parent company, Universal, owns several competing services.

Net Neutrality can be treated as a principle (“This ISP sucks — it violates Net Neutrality”) or as a regulation (“The FCC is fining your ISP because it violated Net Neutrality”). As a regulation, Net Neutrality has a problem: it’s hard to administer, because it’s very difficult to detect Net Neutrality violations. The internet is a “best effort” network, with no service guarantees, so when your Youtube connection starts to jitter, it’s hard to prove that this is because Comcast is screwing with it, as opposed to regular network congestion.

Which brings me to my E2E proposal: end to end for services. Contemporary services have no E2E. If you search for a product on Amazon, Amazon often won’t show you that product until you’ve looked at five screens’ worth of other products that have paid Amazon to interrupt your search:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

If you hoist an email out of Gmail’s spam folder and add the sender to your address book, Gmail will still send that message to spam, or even block its server. It’s incredible that we had a Congressional debate about whether Gmail should mark politicians unsolicited fundraising emails as spam but not whether emails from your reps that you asked to receive should be delivered:

https://doctorow.medium.com/dead-letters-73924aa19f9d

Platform creators are workers whose boss is an algorithm that docks every paycheck to punish them for breaking rules they aren’t allowed to know about, because if the boss told you the rules, you’d learn how to violate them without him being able to punish you for it. Again, it’s wild that we’re arguing about “shadowbanning” (a service choosing not to send your work to people who never asked to see it), while ignoring the fact that platforms won’t deliver your posts to people who explicitly subscribed to your feed:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

Alexander Graham Bell’s first telephone operators were young boys who entertained themselves by deliberately misconnecting calls, putting you in contact with people you never asked to talk to and refusing to connect you with the people you were trying to converse with.

As @brucesterling​ wrote in The Hacker Crackdown:

The boys were openly rude to customers. They talked back to subscribers, saucing off, uttering facetious remarks, and generally giving lip. The rascals took Saint Patrick’s Day off without permission. And worst of all they played clever tricks with the switchboard plugs: disconnecting calls, crossing lines so that customers found themselves talking to strangers, and so forth.

https://www.mit.edu/hacker/hacker.html

Bell fired those kids. Even the original telecoms monopolist understood that the point of a telephone network was to connect willing speakers with willing listeners.

Today’s tech barons are much more interested in charging other people to interrupt your consensual communications with nonconsensual and often irrelevant nonsense and ads. This is part of the enshittification cycle: first, the platforms lock you in by giving you a good deal, including feeds that contain the things you ask to see and search boxes that return the thing you’re looking for.

Then, platforms take away your surplus and give it to business customers. They spy on you and use the data to help target you on behalf of advertisers, whom they charge low rates for ads that are reliably delivered. They insert performers’ and media companies’ posts into your feed, generating traffic funnels that result in clicks to off-platform sites. They offer low fees and even subsidies to platform sellers and creators who produce DRM media, like ebooks and audiobooks.

Users get locked into the platform — by the collective action problem of convincing their friends to leave, by the collapse of local retail that can’t match the investor-funded subsidies of would-be monopolists, by DRM that they are legally prohibited from removing, causing them to lose their investment if they quit the service.

Business customers also get locked to the platform: platform sellers have to sell where the buyers are; publishers and creators have to provide media where the audiences are; advertisers have to run ads on the services they’ve optimized for.

Once everyone is locked in, the platform can fully enshittify, harvesting surpluses from users and business customers for themselves. Platforms can hike fees, charge media companies and creators to reach their own subscribers, block posts with links off-site, insert ads into media (like Audible is doing with paid audiobooks!), and so on.

This is the cycle that E2E seeks to interrupt. E2E for services would dictate that platforms should connect willing speakers and willing listeners. The best match for your search should be at the top of the results — even if someone is willing to pay more to put a worse match there. Emails should be delivered to people you’ve told your provider you want to correspond with — not sent to a spam folder or blocked.

As with the original E2E, there’s lots of ways we can use this principle. It can simply be a term for criticizing platforms (“You aren’t sending my posts to the people who follow me — that’s a violation of the end to end principle!”). It can be a law (“It is a deceptive and unfair practice for ecommerce companies to deliberately return search results that are not the best match they can locate for the users’ query”). It can be a punishment (“The FTC settled with Google today and ordered the company to implement a Gmail feature that permits users to identify senders whose messages will never be blocked or sent to spam”).

Lots of people are pissed off about Big Tech and many have proposed that we could make it better by treating platforms as “utilities.” But I don’t want President DeSantis to run my email provider, or to decide what’s too “woke” for me to see (or post) on social media.

An E2E rule, on the other hand, creates a role for government that doesn’t determine who gets to speak or what they get to say — rather, it ensures that when people speak and to others who want to hear them, the message gets through.

Unlike Net Neutrality, E2E is easy to administer. If I claim that your emails are being sent to spam after I marked you as a sender I want to hear from, we don’t have to do a forensic investigation into Google’s mail servers to determine if I’m right. You just send me an email we observe where it lands.

Likewise for search: if I search Amazon for a specific product or model number, it’s easy to tell whether that product is at the top of the search results or not.

Same goes for delivery to subscribers: if we suspect that Twitter is shadowbanning posters — say, for including their Mastodon addresses in their bios, or linking to posts on Mastodon — we just send some test messages and see whether they are delivered.

Beyond administratability, E2E has another advantage: cheap compliance. Lots of the rules we’ve created or proposed for service providers are incredibly complex and expensive to comply with. Take rules about “lawful but awful” content, which require platforms to somehow determine whether a message constitutes harassment and block it if it does.

These rules require an army of expensive human moderators or a vast, expensive machine learning system, or both — so they guarantee that Big Tech will rule the internet forever, because no one else can afford to launch a new service with better community norms and better practices.

By contrast, E2E is cheap to comply with. Trusted-sender lists for email providers, search engines that put best results first, and content delivery algorithms that show you the things you asked to see in the order that they were posted are all solved problems:

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2023/03/social-media-algorithms-twitter-meta-rss-reader/673282

This isn’t to say that platforms wouldn’t be allowed to offer algorithmic feeds and results. Think of how Tumblr does it: you can choose between a feed called “Following” (posts from people you follow) or “For You” (posts that Tumblr thinks you’ll enjoy). Forcing platforms to clearly label their recommendations and give you the choice of controlling your own feed is a powerful check against enshittification.

If you know when you’re in charge and when the platform is driving things, and if you can toggle away from platform-determined feeds to ones that you design, the platform has to be better than you at choosing what you see, or you won’t choose its recommendations.

Platform owners have hijacked the idea that “freedom of speech isn’t freedom of reach” to justify the now-ubiquitous practice of overriding users’ decisions about what they want to see:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

The Old Internet had lots to going for it. It wasn’t perfect, though. While it was easy to find the things you knew you liked, it could be hard to find things you didn’t know you liked. Recommendations, whether they come from an algorithm or a human editor, are a source of endless delights. But when a we find something we like through one of those recommendations, we need to know that we can find more from that source if we choose to.

Sometimes it’s nice to scroll an algorithmic feed and get a string of surprises. But we are forced to use those feeds, they will inevitably enshittify, to our detriment, and to the detriment of the people who make the things that please us.

As ever, the important thing about a technology isn’t what it does, it’s who it does it for and who it does it to. When we control our feeds, we can choose to let a recommender system do the driving. If we’re locked into a recommendation system, it drives us.

Today (Mar 7), I’m doing a remote talk for TU Wien.

On Mar 9, you can catch me in person in Austin at the UT School of Design and Creative Technologies, and remotely at U Manitoba’s Ethics of Emerging Tech Lecture.

On Mar 10, Rebecca Giblin and I kick off the SXSW reading series.

Image: Felix Andrews (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Elephant_side-view_Kruger.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[Image ID: A room full of telephone operators at a switchboard; their heads have been replaced with hacker-in-a-hoodie heads. On the wall behind them is a poster ad for Facebook with the slogan, 'Find Your Facebook Group.' Atop the switchboard stands a small elephant with a bite taken out of its back.]