#customs broker test

[buildingbrokerbrisbane]

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[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Most Wanted (Mafia Boss!Toji x Spy!Self-Insert!Reader 18+ One Shot) [COMMISSION FILL]

"I’m gonna make sure you remember tonight and what happens when you fuck with a guy like me."

*IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: THIS WORK CONTAINS R*PE & NONCON SEXUAL ACTS. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS AND READ LIGHTLY.

Pairing: Toji Fushigiro x Self-Insert!Reader (Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You’re a highly skilled hitwoman. You’ve been doing this for years–getting paid to take hits on the wealthy and corrupt at your agency’s order. You figure taking a hit on the renowned Tokyo mafia boss Toji Fushigiro won’t be any different. However, things take a terrifying turn for you, and your skills are put to the test when you go undercover as a dancer at his favorite club and give him a private dance. But instead of killing you, Toji takes it upon himself to punish you and show you what happens when you fuck with him.

Warnings: Smutty Smut, 18+; Porn with Plot; Physical Fighting; Gun Play; Knife Play; Noncon/R*pe; Forced Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Forced Orgasm; Lap Dancing/Pole Dancing; Doggystyle; Spit Play; Degradation + Praise; Rough Sex; Choking; Hair Pulling; Unprotected PIV Sex; Creampie; Some Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Here you go lovely!! @curiouscutie143 I hope you & everyone other toji lovers enjoy this. I had so much fun writing this & I tried to make it as nasty as I could lol. I may write another mafia!toji thing in the future just cuz this shit was soooo fun. Enjoy! -Jazz

*********

“Peaches, you’re needed in the backrooms.” 

You resist the urge to smile as you turn around from your seat at the bar, sipping on some water after your dance and sweet-talking a middle-aged bank broker into his pockets. It’s important to keep up the facade.

“Comin’,” you tell your coworker and turn to the broker who looks ready to dive into your cleavage. 

“Sorry, but I’ve gotta run,” you sigh, acting apologetic. He frowns at you, making the wrinkles and lines in his face more evident. “But this shouldn’t take too long. Find me afterward?”

The broker puts his hand on yours, accidentally using the hand his gold marriage band sits on. “You’ve got it, baby,” he purrs. “I’ve got some dollars just waitin’ on ya.” 

He gives you a wink before polishing off his whiskey and walking away from the bar, leaving you to breathe and collect your thoughts. You turn to the bottle girl, waving her down. “One shot of Patron, please!” you yell above the music blaring from the overhead speakers. She nods, scurrying to fetch you a much-needed shot. It will be the first alcoholic drink you’ve had since your shift started. 

You suddenly hear a buzz from your right ear and instantly put your hand up against it under your hair. “V,” a gruff voice says into your earpiece. “Come in, V. It’s been 20 minutes since we last talked. Did you get him yet?” 

You scan the upscale strip club pulsing with purple and red strobe lights and booming with activity: businessmen and regular-degular customers tossing money at the dancers on stage who spin around poles and do splits in their thongs and heels.

“Target was sighted five minutes earlier, sir,” you whisper into the earpiece given to you by your agency. “He is currently in the backrooms waiting for me. He came alone. He made eye contact with me ten minutes ago, so he may be asking for me.” 

More like you made eye contact with him and had been since he walked in. He is impossible to miss with how tall and buff he is. His black V-neck tee stuck to his pectorals and abs while his jeans hung low on his hips.

You had expected he’d be flashier with his wealth by wearing obvious designer clothing, but you figured that he had to keep a low profile as well. Beneath the V-neck that hung from his neck, you could see the tattoos that roped over his chest just like his arms. The healed scar at the corner of his smirk as his green eyes scanned the place over told you that this was, indeed, your target. 

He stood between two bodyguards in suits half his size, giving off an intimidating aura, especially with the guns at their hips. But you’d expect nothing less from Toji Fushigiro, Tokyo’s most notorious mafia boss. 

He is powerful. He is wealthy. He is known throughout Tokyo and Japan for being the head of Tokyo’s infamous mafia gang, the spot being passed down by his father. He is also a criminal. White-collar crime, organized crime, drug trafficking––you name it, Toji does it. 

He is also known for his scare tactics on those who owe him a debt. He’s held man over bridges, threatening to drop them in the murky waters below. He’s pistol-whipped. He’s choked. He’s stomped. He’s jumped guys in alleyways and left them for dead. He is a man of his word. If he tells you he’ll fuck you up if you don’t give him his money in a certain amount of time, he’ll do it. 

He is the number one man current on your hitlist…and your agency’s. They knew it was a good idea to employ you, their top hitwoman, to Toji’s favorite club to take him out for good. Though he didn’t show up when you started at the club a couple of weeks ago, you knew it was only a matter of time until he showed up. 

And now, he is. As soon as he was in the club, everyone’s eyes were on him. Dancers scurried to the pole and backstage to change into their best outfits to milk him out of his pockets. Bartenders and bottle girls quickly wiped down counters and took care of customers as quickly as possible so they could tend to him. Your manager barreled toward him with complimentary champagne and a spot in the VIP section. 

As Toji walked with your manager, your eyes met across the room. They met again while he sat in the VIP section when he should’ve been watching a dancer twirl around the pole in front of him. Both times were fleeting, but they affected you completely. His green eyes, like mirrors to a forest, sent chills down your spine and made your stomach flip. His gaze was intense. Intimate. His eyes made it hard to relax or act like a normal dancer working her shift at the club. 

He seemed to know what he was doing to you or he was sizing you up because he would simply smirk and sip on his whiskey on the rocks and puff on his cigar, his soft lips forming Os and blowing the smoke into the strobe-lit air. You can understand why so many women fell for him, but you aren’t one of them. The tiny gun strapped to your hip proves it. 

Your real boss sighs in relief. “Excellent work,” he praises. “Unfortunately, we can’t see what you’re doing from over at headquarters and we’re still working on connecting the audio to hear what’s happening around you, so just fill us in on what you do next until then. All you have to do now is walk back there and complete the mission as we discussed.” 

You toss an arm over the bar, stretching your coffin-shaped nails along the polished bar. “Of course,” you reply with a smirk. “Don’t I always?”

The bartender returns with your shot and you down it at once, relishing the burn and the way it loosened you right up. “I’ll keep you informed,” you say. “Just stay near the phone.” 

“Be careful,” your boss says before the line cuts. You check your makeup in the bar before you get up from the bar and strut over to your beautiful, blonde coworker in her red lingerie and heels. “Hey, Yuki,” you greet her. 

She smiles at you and guides you to the backrooms where the wealthier customers usually take the girls to get a dance…or something more. Sexual exchanges aren’t allowed, but the manager never complains if they bring in more money. You and Yuki peer down the hallway to the double doors of a private room where Toji’s bodyguards stand. 

“Why the guards?” you ask, pretending to be confused. “Is the President here or somethin’?” Yuki turns you to face her, her eyes wide. “Even bigger,” she replies. “He’s the hot guy with the scar who comes in here often. He’s a mafia boss, apparently. Super hot, but very powerful. The bossman gave him his pick of any girl he wanted and he picked you.” 

You do your best to hide your smirk. You knew you had him. “Me?” you ask breathlessly. “Why me?” Yuki shrugs, just as clueless. “Don’t know, but I was sent out to fetch you. He’s willin’ to pay double the amount of a regular lapdance, but he didn’t say if he wanted it topless, naked or not.” She gives you a worried look, furrowing her blonde brows. “You sure you up for it, hon?” she asks. “I know you’ve taken high rollers before, but he ain’t even a high roller! He’s beyond that!” 

To sell it even more, you bite your lip, acting nervous but intrigued. “I can do it,” you reply. “Just hold my hand when you walk me in there.” Yuki obliges and squeezes your hand as you begin to walk toward the guards, heels clicking across the floor. 

“Target is in sight,” you whisper into your earpiece, turning away from Yuki and putting your mouth in your arm to muffle your voice. “I’m walkin’ to the backrooms now where he’s located.” 

“Excellent, V!” your boss says. “Just do it as we discussed. Don’t falter, don’t yield, and don’t lose focus.” The three rules of being a spy. You never forgot them. Finally, you come to the guards and Yuki smiles up at them. “I’m here with Peaches,” Yuki announces. “The girl Mr. Fushigiro asked for.” 

You plaster a bright, charming smile on your face. It must work because the guards budge and step out of the way for you. One of them opens the door for you and Yuki, holding it. “Step in,” he orders. You thank him and scurry inside the dimly lit room with an included mini-bar, a single stripper pole, and leather lounging couches. Toji currently sits in one of them, legs spread and eyes hooded as he puffs on a blunt and sips on his drink. 

His green eyes pierce into your very soul when he eyes you in the doorway. “Here she is, sir,” Yuki says. “Just as you requested. And she’s just as pretty as I told you she is.” She moves your hair out of your face, exposing your pretty false flashes, Fenty Beauty gloss, and accentuated features to the boss. 

Toji hums, liking what he sees. “Yes, she is,” he agrees. “Tell your boss thanks. He can expect some good business out of me once the night is through.” Yuki nods and gives your arm a squeeze. “Good luck,” she whispers before heading off. The doors close and you are left alone with your hit. 

Neither one of you moves toward the other, staying posted to your spots. Toji takes a puff on his blunt and lights taps it above the ashtray next to him. “Y’know, you’re mighty pretty up close,” he purrs. “I’ve been wonderin’ what you’d look like up close instead of across the room.” 

You finally look at him, noticing how big he is even sitting down. “So you’ve been watchin’ me tonight?” you ask. He nods, his eyes trailing down your form. “I knew I hadn’t seen ya before,” he continues. “I come here often and I would’ve remembered seein’ a face and a rack like that.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Charmer, aren’t you?” you sarcastically question. 

He smirks at your wittiness. He likes that bite in a woman. “When I wanna be, but you’ll have to forgive me; the liquor makes me bolder than I already am.” His tongue jets out to lick his lips. “But you’ve gotta give a guy credit for bein’ honest and that lil’ outfit don’t leave much to the imagination.” 

You go to wrap your arms around yourself but then stop. You need to sell this and if you’re forced to stand here in a mini dress that barely covers your ass or titties with heels that could crush a bitch in front of your hit who also happens with me enticingly sexy, then so be it. Toji’s gaze softens somewhat, noticing your discomfort. “You are very beautiful, Peaches,” he genuinely says. “Is it okay if I use your name?” 

“Thank you, Mr. Fushigiro,” you softly reply. “And no, it’s fine. It’s what I’m known as around here anyway. I started here five weeks ago.” He nods, sipping on his whiskey. “Call me Toji.” 

“Toji,” you parrot, slowly striding towards the pole in the middle of the room, an overhead speaker playing soft R&B overhead. “You’re quite the man. The entire club seems to be in a frenzy over you.” 

His smirk widens, proud and cocky. “They always are,” he chuckles. “Don’t know why. This place gets plenty of people bigger than me all the time, especially international celebs. I heard Drake was here not too long ago.” You give a dry “mm-hmm” as you grasp the pole. Toji takes that answer another way. “What, you don’t like Drake?” he snorts. 

“He’s okay,” you reply, short and impatient. “So what are you here for? To talk or to watch me dance?” You wrap a hand around the pole and pop your hip out, waiting for him to give you an order. 

“Depends.” He sits up, leaning forward to get a better look at you. “What are you willin’ to do tonight for me? ‘Cause we can just sit here and talk. I wouldn’t mind hearin’ that pretty voice all night.” His green eyes gleam with mirth and a small hint of lust.

“Definitely a charmer,” you chuckle. “That’s fine if you’re willin’ to pay, though we don’t have a rate for conversation.” 

He laughs at this, the sound deep and raspy yet pleasant to the ear. He takes another puff on his blunt before he lowers it down onto the ashtray. “Then let’s cut to the chase,” he sniggers. “It’s $500 for a 10-minute dance, right? I want 20 minutes, so that would make…”

He begins to count on his fingers but then stops. “A lot,” he chuckles. “I’ll probably ask for you to strip though. Are you okay with that, Peaches?” 

You feel something flip inside of you at the mention of all of that money and how passive he is about it. Any girl working here would do whatever he wanted for 20 minutes! “I’m a stripper,” you reply passively. “What else am I gonna do?” 

Toji tsks, grimacing at you. “Damn, what kinda attitude is that?” he laughs. “A beauty like you should be more adamant about showin’ off her body. Can I offer you a drink to get you in the mood?” He nods at the mini bar overflowing with bottles of tequila, vodka, and liquor.

“I don’t drink on the job,” you reply. “Music helps.” You suddenly hear a buzz in your ear and then your boss’ gruff voice: “Give me the rundown, V,” he demands. 

You want another drink?” you ask. You nod at Toji’s empty glass and he agrees, so you walk over to the bar. To him, you’re seemingly looking for a bottle of whiskey, bent down to look through the racks. “With the target now,” you whisper. “Just waiting for the right time to attack. Give me a second.” 

Once the line goes dead, you walk back over to Toji and pour him a bottle. As you bend down, you give him an ample view of your titties much to his enjoyment. As you do, you slip the gun out of your dress and place it under the couch where only you can find it. Once done, you leave the bottle with him, and step back, hands on your hips. He sits back against the couch, preparing for the show. “Whenever you’re ready, darlin’,” he purrs, his eyes filled with obvious lust and attraction. 

With a slow song playing above and the lights dipping into an almost ominous red shade, you begin to move to the beat. You roll your hips, swaying them side to side and front to back, almost as if you’re grinding on Toji despite him being several feet away from you. You let the music take control of you as you grasp the pole and begin to grind against it, dipping low to wind your ass in his face. 

You do a few tricks on the pole for him–jumping and spinning around it, your thighs wrapped tight around the metal pole; squatting and lifting up your dress to bounce your ass, etc.–before you turn to look at him over your shoulder, flipping your hair. Toji’s eyes are hooded and lustful, all from the weed, the whiskey, and the effect you’re having on him. Despite the situation, it feels good to have an attractive man ogle at your plump frame. 

“Take off the dress,” he demands, a slight growl in his voice. You don’t turn to face him, instead still facing the wall as you carefully unzip the back of your dress. The thin piece of clothing falls off of your body, revealing all of your rolls, curves, and the matching glittery bra and thong set. 

“Shit!” Toji hisses, ogling at your asscheeks in your glittery thong. “Your back don’t hurt carryin’ that around?” 

You finally turn around and find him leaning forward, his hands clenching his thighs. “You don’t look like you’re ready,” you giggle, winding your hips and toying with your titties in their cups. “Did you talk too much big game, Toji?”

The boss looks like he can’t even speak, his scarred lips parted as he stares you down. “Goddamn,” he hisses. “How some horny fuck didn’t propose to you and steal you out of here yet is beyond me.” 

You give a light, tittering laugh, smiling down at him. “Well, if someone did that, I wouldn’t be here with you.” He looks happy with that response. You then twist around and bend over for him, giving him a full view of your full, round, perfect ass. “Can you handle it, baby?” you purr. “Can you handle me?” 

You quickly pop up and turn around, finding him shifting in his seat and gritting his jaw. “I should be askin’ you that,” he growls. “Come the fuck here.” Deciding not to tease him any longer, you strut over to him, feeling sexy and irresistible. It’s strange that the same man you were sent to kill is doing this to you. 

His eyes have grown several shades darker, reminding you of the deepest, darkest parts of a jungle. “Dance for me,” he demands. “Not on the pole; on me.” He opens his legs wider for you and pats his lap, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Though clients often get handsy when dancers give them lapdances here, you decide that it’s best to do as he says. 

Plus, you’d be lying if you said that you aren’t curious to feel him for yourself. So you place your hands on his thick, muscular highs and begin to roll your body before squatting down, popping up between his legs. You reach up to drag your palms and long nails down his chest, feeling up his abs and toned stomach. He allows it, staring down at you with a look that would make a nun blush. 

You then stand up between his legs before turning around and lowering yourself down into his lap. “Shit,” he whispers, watching the way you work your ass along his lap and the jean-clad bulge that has begun to make an appearance. You twerk and bounce on top of him before he takes a drag of his blunt, blowing the air away from you. “You ever shotgun before?” he asks, his lips close to your ear now. 

Your body grows hot from him being so close, the attraction ironically magnetic. Slowly, you shake your head and Toji chuckles, adoring your mix of cute and sexy. “C’mere.” You lean back and tilt your head up while he takes another puff of his blunt. He holds the marijuana smoke before puckering his lips up and leaning down as if to kiss you. Slowly, the smoke travels from his lips to yours in an indirect kiss that leaves you breathless and your head dizzy. 

You can’t deny it: you’re wet. Your pussy has never been this wet for any man before…and he’s the enemy! Toji seems to feel it too judging by the hard-on you can feel pressing into your thigh. You shift onto his knee and begin grinding your ass back, doing your best to not grind your pussy against his thigh. 

“So you got a name other than that stripper shit?” he randomly asks you. You are immediately taken out of your lustful haze, remembering why you’re here. “I don’t remember us talkin’ about personal shit,” you dryly reply. “I don’t give my real name out to men I don’t know.” 

Then, for the first time tonight, Toji touches you. His big hand lowers onto your thigh and squeezes. You don’t try to move it but you are alarmed. “Oh, but you do know me, darlin’,” he replies, digging his fingers into your flesh. “And I know you, V.” 

At the mention of your real name, you freeze. The world freezes with you, everything seeming to cease their existence including the music that continues to play overhead. But you don’t hear it. All you can hear is your own blood pumping loudly in your eardrums. Toji releases you and you quickly jump off of him, turning toward him. 

He just sits there staring at you, a humorous smirk playing on his lips. The smile is no longer attractive to you anymore. Suddenly, you feel disoriented. You feel like you may vomit or drop to the floor in your heels. Your earpiece buzzes to life again in your ear. “V!” your boss calls. “We just got the audio working again. What’s happening?” He sounds panicked, just as much as you are. 

Toji bares his pearly whites at you as he calmly reaches for his whiskey. “Ah, now them wheels are turnin’ in that pretty little head,” he chuckles. “You know, you dance almost as good as you lie. I can see why you were put here to go undercover.” He takes a sip and licks the remnants away from his top lip, still staring you down. 

“Ain’t that right?” he asks and it feels like a snake has just silvered up your back and sunk its teeth in you, paralyzing you. 

“Y/N, he knows!” your boss hisses. “Stand down! Don’t do anything stupid!” He continues to yell and scream at you about aborting the mission and telling you that someone will be there soon, but you can’t quite hear him. It’s like you’re underwater and he’s standing above ground, his voice muffled and murky. 

For a few seconds that seem like a lifetime, you and Toji stare each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. Your body kicks into fight or flight, the freeze stage having already been awakened. Inisctively, you shift into fight mode. Quickly, you take the bottle of whiskey and bring it down towards Toji’s head, but he catches your wrist like it’s nothing. 

You grunt, wincing at the pain of his grip. “Oh, you wanna play, huh?” he cackles. “Goin’ against your boss’ little rules just to take me out? How cute.”

With a wail of effort, you swing your other hand at his head but he catches that too. Counting on this, you bring your leg up and kick him hard in the groin. He immediately releases you and lurches forward, holding his junk, giving you a chance to grab your gun from under the couch.

“Don’t move,” you growl, cocking the gun at him. “You move and I’ll shoot.” 

Toji, red in the face and panting, glares up at you. “Please,” he scoffs. “You act like you’re the first bitch that’s put a gun to my head.” Before you can blink, he is swinging the bottle at you. You duck which is a mistake because Toji uses that opening to tackle you to the ground. You struggle and growl, turning into an animal as he wrestles with you for your gun. 

He ends up winning, flipping you over and pinning you down to the floor with his body. “Get off!” you scream, still wriggling around. “Get off me!” Click. The barrel of your gun presses to your temple. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll make you regret it,” he growls. 

His fingers move your hair back away from your ear and pry the earpiece out of your ear. He snarls at it as if it’s nothing but a bug. “God, they made these things so much smaller now.” He stands up, keeping the gun on you, and stomps on the earpiece, breaking it. “Whoops!” he mockingly says. “They should still be able to find ya though. I don’t plan on movin’ ya to another location…if you don’t piss me off.” 

The gun clicks again. “Turn around slowly,” he demands. Despite your reluctance to do so, you slowly turn around and face him, lying on your back with your own shit pointed at you as Toji stands above you. “How did you know?” you whisper. 

He smirks, appearing like the Devil in your eyes. “It wasn’t hard, darlin’,” he chuckles. “Dancers don’t eye me up the way you were. You looked like you were out for blood, not dollars. Not to mention the gun I saw at your hip.” You flush, cursing yourself. You should’ve been smarter. Of course, he would know. He spends his days having people hunt him down. 

His smirk fades, his expression darkening. “Who sent you?” he demands. “And don’t lie. You don’t wanna know what I do with liars.” The gun cocks, his finger trained on the trigger. You glare at him, hating his guts even more than you had before you met him. So you weakly confess. He guffaws, shaking his head in disbelief. “Damn, those guys? They’ve been after me for years!” 

“You’re a criminal,” you hiss despite the gun in your face. “You only got this far because of you dippin’ your hands in crime and gettin’ blood on your fists. I’m here to stop you.”

Toji’s brows raise in shock though he’s intrigued by your stubbornness. He squats down in front of you, still pointing the gun at your head. “And how are you gonna do that, huh, little girl?” he asks. 

Not even thinking, you hollow your lips and wallop a glob of spit in Toji’s handsome face before quickly turning over and scrambling to the door. However, Toji is just as fast and has his big, tatted arms wrapped around you, squeezing you tight. You can’t elbow him anywhere because your arms are stuck in his, leaving you to kick and wriggle.

“Oooh, I love a feisty bitch,” he chuckles. “Makes it a lot more fun to break ‘em.” 

He begins to walk with you over to a nearby wall and slams you against it, knocking the air out of your lungs. You find yourself pressed against the wall and him who is equally as hard and unmoving as the solid wall against your front.

He shoves the side of your face into the wall while he pins your arms behind your back, causing your muscles to explode with pain at being stretched back too far. “Get off!” you cry. “O-Ow, that hurts!” 

Toji tugs on your arms again, emitting a weak whine of pain from you. “That’s what you get for fuckin’ with me,” he growls. “Now what should I do with you? Kill you? Leave your agency to find you here?” The gun once again presses against your temple, cold and unrelenting. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears pushing back the ducks. You can’t beat this. You can’t fight this. “Do it,” you sob. “Just do it!” You go limp against him, waiting to feel that bullet penetrating your skull and for the void to come to collect you…but instead, Toji takes the gun away from you, leaving an indent on your temple. “No,” he says. “I’ve got a better idea.” 

You open your eyes, confused but also scared. What else is he planning to do with you? Before you can answer, you hear the undeniable sounds of his zipper coming down and the clinking of his metal belt buckle. Your body instant seizes, fear flooding your insides.

“I’m gonna make sure you remember tonight and what happens when you fuck with a guy like me. Tonight, babydoll, you’re mine. You don’t have a choice. You’re mine and I’m gonna show you what that means.” 

With his belt finally in his hands, he trains the gun on you. “Put your hands against the wall and stick that ass out,” he demands, his voice void of all emotion. “Do it now.” Outnumbered and out of tricks, you do as he says, trembling as you do so. 

“Bad girls like you need to be punished,” he says before the belt comes down hard onto your right asscheek. WHACK! The sharp sound of the leather hitting the soft, jiggly flesh of your ass penetrates the air. It feels like fire has licked your skin and your knees buckle at the pain. “Ow!” you cry out. 

Toji cackles at your agony, finding enjoyment and cuteness in it. “What, that hurt?” he laughs. “You don’t like the pain? I’m sure a girl like you has taken plenty of worse things before.” He raises his arm and whips the same cheek twice.

WHACK! WHACK! You flinch at each sharp hit, each one becoming more painful than the last. “Hurts, don’t it?” he snickers. “Don’t you regret pullin’ that shit with me now, babydoll, hm?” 

He then proceeds to whip your left cheek, not allowing you any time to recover or breathe. 

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! You bite your lip so hard that you nearly draw blood, the burning of your backside too much to bear. “S-Stop!” you whine. “Please stop!” 

Toji’s big hands wrap around your mouth, covering it. “Don’t speak,” he whispers into your ear, his breath the scent of whiskey and mint. “You don’t get to speak. Just take it.” You have no choice but to do so as he wails on your ass again and again, the leather cracking like fire against your jiggly ass. “God, that recoil,” he groans. “I’m gonna enjoy my time with you, baby doll.” 

You don’t answer, too busy holding back tears that have begun to push at your eye sockets. Toji finally stops and tosses his head back to laugh. “Are you cryin’?” he laughs in disbelief. “Damn, and all from some spankings? And here I thought you were this tough bitch.” 

You burn with resentment and humiliation, but all of that is pushed aside when he forces you to stand up straight and tugs your arms behind your back. You begin to panic but don’t say anything as he tightens his belt around your wrists and locks the belt buckle around them. “Turn around,” he finally says. 

Despite your tiny sobs, you do so and face him. His eyes are hooded and dark with obvious lust for you. He uses one big hand to force you onto your knees, right in front of his open fly and hard cock that you can see pressing against his designer briefs. “I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about,” he growls. He points the gun at your face, specifically at your lips. “Open your mouth and suck on it.” 

His expression, dark and chilling you to the bone, makes you feel as if you don’t have a choice..and not the loaded gun pressing to your lips. Swallowing hard, you shakily open your mouth and he slides the pistol in. The metal feels cold and hard in your mouth, making you cringe. “That’s it,” Toji chuckles. “Take that shit, baby. C’mon, don’t you wanna please me?” 

Slowly, you begin to suck, hollowing your lips out against the gun. Though you tremble and shake, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to imagine the gun as a hard, warm, throbbing cock instead. Toji moans as if you’re sucking on him, watching your tongue swirl along the barrel and your head bob. 

“Fuck, baby doll,” he groans. “You’ve got such a mouth on ya.” He slides it in further, the metal scraping against your teeth, until he reaches your throat. You gag and try to pull away, but Toji grips the back of your head.

“Uh-uh, mama,” he snickers. “You don’t get to get outta this. C’mon, just open your throat and breathe through your nose. You can do it.” He continues to push and pull, the gun sliding in and out of your mouth, while you struggle to breathe. You can feel sweat pool under your pits and between your cleavage all from your fear. Toji’s finger isn’t on the trigger anymore, but it doesn’t matter. He could change that in a second. 

So you suck and you slurp and you bob your head up and down like a good little slut, staring him into his eyes while spit drips from your lips. Finally satisfied, Toji pulls the gun out of your lips now coated in your saliva. “You fuckin’ slut,” he pants. “Now I need to try ya out for myself.” 

He pockets the gun and, with one hand, pulls down his briefs. His big, long, throbbing, veiny, perfect-looking dick springs to life. It damn near hits you in the face, making you gasp. “Sorry, mama,” he chuckles. “He just likes you.”

He wraps a hand around his 12-inch dick, pumping it lewdly in your face. “So you finna stare at it or suck it?” he deadpans, but he doesn’t wait for you to answer or recover. 

“W-Wait,” you stammer.

That’s all you get to say before his cock is pushing between your lips and into your mouth. He releases a moan when he first slides into your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your wet mouth, soft lips, and tongue wrapping around him. Meanwhile, you’re struggling to take him. His girthy dick stretches out your jaw and your throat as he pushes himself in deep. 

“C’mon, babydoll,” he chuckles. “That can’t be all you can take of me.” He continues to push, filling your tongue and nostrils with the scent and taste of him. The walls of your throat have no choice but to accommodate his size though it burns and you gag as he begins to slowly yet roughly thrust into your mouth. “Maybe this will help ya out,” he says. Suddenly, he retrieves a pocket knife from his pocket and flicks it open. 

Fear flares into your stomach, making you want to jump away, but his large hand keeps you locked down on his cock. He presses the knife to your throat, chuckling as he does. “Careful now,” he warns. “You lean too close and that pretty neck might get sliced. I just wanna encourage you to do a good job.” He grips your hair and wrenches it up to look at him. “And you will do a good job for me, won’t you?” he asks. 

His tone makes it so you can’t refuse, so you say yes and allow him to force your head back down onto his cock before pulling it back. He does that for a while––pushing and pulling your head down onto his dick like you’re his toy while he uses your sloppy, wet mouth like it’s a fleshlight. “Fuck!” he shouts to the ceiling. “This fuckin’ mouth is heaven, baby. I hope your pussy is just as tight as your tight ass throat.” 

You gargle and mumble on his cock, causing pleasurable vibrations to travel throughout his body and his heavy balls that drip with your saliva. He continues to fuck your face and ruin your makeup, marveling at how beautiful you look choking on his cock. “Look at you, you little slut,” he dreamily sighs. “Makeup all fucked up. Hair ruined. You’re just a little mess for me, aren’t ya?” 

He slides his cock out of your throat and you take a grateful gulp of air, strands of your hair stuck to your wet lips and chin. He takes the knife and slides it along your chin, smirking down at you. “Now it’s my turn to taste you,” he murmurs. Before you can protest, he is picking you up, tossing you over his shoulder, and placing you on your stomach with your arms still tied behind you. 

“Please!” you sob, beginning to cry again. Toji straddles your ass, one hand massaging the globes of fat in your thong while the other holds his knife. “Please what, baby?” he mockingly coos. “I ain’t even touch you yet.” You then feel the cool metal of the knife dragging up your spine, sending shivers down your spine. “Time to get your sexy ass out of these fuckin’ clothes,” he growls. 

You flinch when you feel the knife drag up to your left shoulder where it cuts the bra strap. He does the same to your left one before positioning you onto your knees with your wrists slung over the couch arm. Your tits are now exposed, hanging like ripe, juicy fruit beneath you. Then off comes your thong with two swipes of the knife cutting through the thin straps. You sob helplessly as the cool air touches your sodden, wet pussy. 

“Damn, baby!” Toji cackles. “Are you wet from all this? You naughty little girl.” His middle and forefingers gently probe your entrance and slide up and down your slit, dragging unwanted moans out of you. “I’m gonna have some fun with you,” he chuckles. “Make sure you never forget about me.” 

He then bends you over the couch and proceeds to put his hot, wet, experienced mouth on your pussy while the knife stays pressed against your thigh. You whine at the feeling of his soft lips and tongue swirling along your clit and every sensitive part of you, opening your pussy up to more of him. He drowns in your pussy, pushing his face into it as far as he can and letting his tongue do all of the talking. 

You can’t stop the moans and gasps that escape you. The pleasure is just too much and too good! What a shame that a man who is so good at eating kitty is the same man you were sent here to kill. “Toji,” you moan, using his name for the first time ever. “Please…please!” 

Toji’s one hand massages and smacks your ass, becoming aoslutely obessed with it. “What do you need, babydoll?” he coos against your clit. “You need somethin’?” You nod helplessly though you have no clue what you need at this point. “Tell me you’re mine then,” he growls. “Say it and fuckin’ mean it. Say you’re my good little slut.” 

You keep your lips clamped tight, not wanting to swallow your pride or give up that tiny part of you that hates him still. SPANK! Your ass stings from his assault on your ass, his hand no doubt leaving a handprint. “Say it!” he bellows. 

At the blinding pain, pleasure, and delirium, you break. “I’m yours!” you sob. “I’m your good girl! Your good little slut! I’m everything you want me to be!”

Toji, pleased, presses soothing kisses to your burning asscheek. “Good girl,” he praises. “See how easy that was? Now you get your reward.” Suddenly, you feel his thick cock smack against your pussy once, twice, three times and then he is sliding home inside of you. 

Your mouth goes slack and your eyes grow wide as he begins to rocks his hips into, allowing you to get used to him. He is big. You can feel him stretching out every part of your cunt as he sinks deeper into your velvety, wet walls. “Fuck,” he sighs, one hand clutching your hip. “Not bad, babydoll. Your pussy is definitely the best one I’ve fucked…so far.” 

He begins to fuck you harder, faster, railing you as if this will be his last time doing so. Your moans and huffs of breath become louder and more intense the harder and deeper his cock plunges inside of you. “W-Wait!” you gasp. “Slow down! I can’t…can’t!”

Toji chuckles, watching your ass bounce against his pelvis as he fucks you. “Sorry, honey,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I couldn’t help it. You just sound so cute.” 

Your thighs clench and your body writhes as he rails you, unable to take this deep dicking into the couch. You try to move away but the knife suddenly sliding against your throat stops you. “Uh-uh, babydoll,” he growls. “Don’t run from me. I wouldn’t try it if I were you.” He then pops his knee up, his foot up on the couch, and reaches a part inside of you that makes you feel unimaginable pleasure. 

“Just take me like a good girl, okay?” he whispers. “You can do that for me if you wanna live.” You don’t have a choice in the matter, mostly because of the hold he has on your arms, pulling you back as drives himself forward again and again. The sound of your moans, his grunts, and the lewd plap, plap, plap as his balls swing against your overly-sensitive clit and his hips slam into your ass fill the air, drowned out by the music playing outside. 

“Who would’ve thought,” Toji pants into your ear. “C.O.D.E.’s good little spy gettin’ her brains fucked out on a mission, huh? I bet they’d love to see this.” His free hand releases your arms and yanks on a handful of your hair. “I bet they’d love to see you full of me,” he growls. “Full of this dick and my cum.”

He presses the knife deeper into your throat, just enough for you to feel the sharp, jagged edge of the blade. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks. “You gonna be a good slut and take all my cum too?” 

“Please!” you whimper, losing your mind and all of your pride. “Please just make me cum! I’ll do whatever you want, Toji!” He takes the knife from your throat and replaces it with his hand, choking you as he fucks you stupid. “Then do it,” he demands. “Fuckin’ cum on this cock while I fill you up. Cum with me now!” 

“Ah, ah, fuck, I-I’m gonna cum!” you deliriously sob as he continues to pound into you. “I’m gonna…gonna–!”

You don’t get a chance to finish because your pussy has finally reached its limit and explodes all over him, your walls squeezing around him and your clit shuddering. You reaching your peak triggers Toji and he grips your throat and ass as he comes to a still, his entire body tensing. “Fuck!” he bellows, cumming deep, deep, deep inside of you. 

You gasp as you feel a rush of warm liquid flood into your pussy while you gush all over his cock, dripping down his balls. He fills you to the brim, giving you so much that it has no choice but to trickle down your thighs. He doesn’t immediately pull out though––he continues to fuck you, albeit slowly and sloppily, before giving your tit one feeble squeeze and finally pulling out of you. 

You weakly moan at the feeling of being empty yet used, your pussy twitching and aching. “Mmm, now look at that,” he sighs dreamily, staring at your cum-soaked cunt. “Now that’s a properly fucked pussy if I do say so myself.” He takes a handful of your chin, squeezing your cheeks together, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not bad, babydoll.” 

You don’t respond, too weak and too tired to do so. You’re too tired to even feel any amount of disgust for him and shame in yourself for failing the mission and enjoying the sex. “Let’s get this off of you,” Toji says, his hands unbuckling the belt from your wrists. “I’m gon’ need it for myself, anyway.” He releases your wrists and lets you lay on the couch, panting and coated in sweat. 

Your makeup and hair are ruined. Your underwear is in tatters. You feel used and fucked-out. You can only stare at Toji as he quickly gets dressed and straightens out his clothes, his cock still covered in you. “I’m sorry, baby, but I’ve gotta go before your people get here.” He gives you an apologetic smile. “But gimme a call since I’m sure you can find that out. Maybe we can do this again.” 

He then moves to the extra bathroom behind the couch and retrieves a robe which he covers you with. “See?” he chuckles. “I ain’t that big of an asshole.” He presses a kiss to your lips before bending down to pick up your thong. “Thanks for this,” he says, dangling it in front of you. “And the dance. I’ll cherish both forever.” 

You don’t say anything, even as you watch him leave, taking your thong and your dignity with you.

Then you are alone. At some point, you find the strength to stand up and wobble to the bathroom where you take a hot shower, washing the scent of sex and cum off of you. When you return, dressed in your robe, the door busts in, and your boss and fellow spies enter the room, guns drawn and masks on their faces. 

“V!” your boss shouts, instantly dropping his weapon and running to you. His eyes widen at your state, looking for any bruises or scars. There are none…that are physical, anyway. “V, what happened?” he asks. 

And as the events of tonight come flooding back to you at full speed, you muster up the most believable lie you can, clutching your robe closed: 

“He overpowered me.” 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

At long last, a meaningful step to protect Americans' privacy

This Saturday (19 Aug), I'm appearing at the San Diego Union-Tribune Festival of Books. I'm on a 2:30PM panel called "Return From Retirement," followed by a signing:

https://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/festivalofbooks

Privacy raises some thorny, subtle and complex issues. It also raises some stupid-simple ones. The American surveillance industry's shell-game is founded on the deliberate confusion of the two, so that the most modest and sensible actions are posed as reductive, simplistic and unworkable.

Two pillars of the American surveillance industry are credit reporting bureaux and data brokers. Both are unbelievably sleazy, reckless and dangerous, and neither faces any real accountability, let alone regulation.

Remember Equifax, the company that doxed every adult in America and was given a mere wrist-slap, and now continues to assemble nonconsensual dossiers on every one of us, without any material oversight improvements?

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/07/20/equifax-settles-with-ftc-cfpb-states-and-consumer-class-actions-for-700m/

Equifax's competitors are no better. Experian doxed the nation again, in 2021:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/30/dox-the-world/#experian

It's hard to overstate how fucking scummy the credit reporting world is. Equifax invented the business in 1899, when, as the Retail Credit Company, it used private spies to track queers, political dissidents and "race mixers" so that banks and merchants could discriminate against them:

https://jacobin.com/2017/09/equifax-retail-credit-company-discrimination-loans

As awful as credit reporting is, the data broker industry makes it look like a paragon of virtue. If you want to target an ad to "Rural and Barely Making It" consumers, the brokers have you covered:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/13/public-interest-pharma/#axciom

More than 650,000 of these categories exist, allowing advertisers to target substance abusers, depressed teens, and people on the brink of bankruptcy:

https://themarkup.org/privacy/2023/06/08/from-heavy-purchasers-of-pregnancy-tests-to-the-depression-prone-we-found-650000-ways-advertisers-label-you

These companies follow you everywhere, including to abortion clinics, and sell the data to just about anyone:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/07/safegraph-spies-and-lies/#theres-no-i-in-uterus

There are zillions of these data brokers, operating in an unregulated wild west industry. Many of them have been rolled up into tech giants (Oracle owns more than 80 brokers), while others merely do business with ad-tech giants like Google and Meta, who are some of their best customers.

As bad as these two sectors are, they're even worse in combination – the harms data brokers (sloppy, invasive) inflict on us when they supply credit bureaux (consequential, secretive, intransigent) are far worse than the sum of the harms of each.

And now for some good news. The Consumer Finance Protection Bureau, under the leadership of Rohit Chopra, has declared war on this alliance:

https://www.techdirt.com/2023/08/16/cfpb-looks-to-restrict-the-sleazy-link-between-credit-reporting-agencies-and-data-brokers/

They've proposed new rules limiting the trade between brokers and bureaux, under the Fair Credit Reporting Act, putting strict restrictions on the transfer of information between the two:

https://www.cnn.com/2023/08/15/tech/privacy-rules-data-brokers/index.html

As Karl Bode writes for Techdirt, this is long overdue and meaningful. Remember all the handwringing and chest-thumping about Tiktok stealing Americans' data to the Chinese military? China doesn't need Tiktok to get that data – it can buy it from data-brokers. For peanuts.

The CFPB action is part of a muscular style of governance that is characteristic of the best Biden appointees, who are some of the most principled and competent in living memory. These regulators have scoured the legislation that gives them the power to act on behalf of the American people and discovered an arsenal of action they can take:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

Alas, not all the Biden appointees have the will or the skill to pull this trick off. The corporate Dems' darlings are mired in #LearnedHelplessness, convinced that they can't – or shouldn't – use their prodigious powers to step in to curb corporate power:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

And it's true that privacy regulation faces stiff headwinds. Surveillance is a public-private partnership from hell. Cops and spies love to raid the surveillance industries' dossiers, treating them as an off-the-books, warrantless source of unconstitutional personal data on their targets:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/16/ring-ring-lapd-calling/#ring

These powerful state actors reliably intervene to hamstring attempts at privacy law, defending the massive profits raked in by data brokers and credit bureaux. These profits, meanwhile, can be mobilized as lobbying dollars that work lawmakers and regulators from the private sector side. Caught in the squeeze between powerful government actors (the true "Deep State") and a cartel of filthy rich private spies, lawmakers and regulators are frozen in place.

Or, at least, they were. The CFPB's discovery that it had the power all along to curb commercial surveillance follows on from the FTC's similar realization last summer:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/12/regulatory-uncapture/#conscious-uncoupling

I don't want to pretend that all privacy questions can be resolved with simple, bright-line rules. It's not clear who "owns" many classes of private data – does your mother own the fact that she gave birth to you, or do you? What if you disagree about such a disclosure – say, if you want to identify your mother as an abusive parent and she objects?

But there are so many stupid-simple privacy questions. Credit bureaux and data-brokers don't inhabit any kind of grey area. They simply should not exist. Getting rid of them is a project of years, but it starts with hacking away at their sources of profits, stripping them of defenses so we can finally annihilate them.

I'm kickstarting the audiobook for "The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation," a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and make a new, good internet to succeed the old, good internet. It's a DRM-free book, which means Audible won't carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

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/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[leven11]

can i bite your tongue (like my bad habit)

summary: something goes wrong at one alanna's deals. unfortunately for you, you're the reason. and she demands you make it up to her.

pairing: alanna mitsopolis x reader

words: 998 words

content warnings: talk of weapons, degradation, talk of murder, weapons broker! alanna, pet! reader, talk of punishment

It started when you were at the club. Or more specifically, when you had accompanied Alanna to the club, with strict instructions from the woman to not interfere, or to talk, or even to move- unless directly told to. Alanna’s job, as the infamous White Widow, was to make big deals with dangerous people, and even occasionally to eliminate them. 

Your job, simply put, was to look pretty, and most importantly, to behave. But you had never responded well to authority- especially not to this specific authority, with her slightly curved grin, and her beautiful, pointed gaze, and especially that one raise of her left eyebrow that always signified you were in trouble. 

This particular eyebrow raise that had presented itself to you almost seconds after you had exclaimed to an old potential customer of hers that night- John Lark, a military tycoon with more money than he knew what to do with- that you “swore you heard that someone was offering a much better deal elsewhere!!” You bit your tongue immediately after, cursing yourself silently for interrupting your girlfriend’s nearly successful deal. As a weapons broker, Alanna had been under enough stress. By bringing you along for the week-long deal, she thought your presence would be calming, a breath of fresh air from the everyday stress she had to deal with as Russia’s most successful middlewoman. 

She wouldn’t ordinarily take her pet to meetings. She found it unprofessional. A bit silly, even. But maybe she was wrong. Because at first, you behaved perfectly. You had let her pet you, let her stroke one perfectly manicured hand down the nape of your neck when she had a dispute with Lark over pay. But as the nights drew out longer and longer, you had grown tired, and you had grown restless.

 So, you had started to act out. A shake of your head when she brought her thumb to your lips, a slight nip of your teeth to her ankle, resulting in a sharp tug on your hair. But she had let it slide. She knew how you were. Sometimes she even enjoyed the constant tug of war, the glazed over look that covered your eyes when you knew she had won. That snarky comment of yours, however, was over the line, even for her. You were not doing what she had asked. And she didn’t appreciate it. 

Turning to you, her mouth curved into a small, artificial smile, Alanna excused herself from the conversation happening on the incredibly high-powered table, and whispered down to you on the floor. “A word please, darling. Now.” 

Immediately, you stammered desperately, eager for retribution. Alanna’s grin rang every single alarm in your head, and you were terrified of what she could do. Of what she would do. At your scared expression, her grin only grew wider. “Don’t test me, baby”, she smiles. “You remember what happened last time, hm? The last time you were bad?” You say nothing, but you give a very quiet whimper, one only audible to the woman standing in front of you. She raises a singular eyebrow, yet again. Daring you to fight back. “Or do you need a reminder?”, she says, as she lifts your chin with her finger and looks you very pointedly in the eye. A challenge. 

But this was a battle you were rather ill-prepared for. You played with your hands silently as she traced her nails across the bruises she had given you due to your previous misgivings, shades of purples and reds dotted randomly across your hips and back. You scrunch your face as she presses down firmly on one of the more concentrated spots, and she tuts at your demeanour, sighing deeply. "I don't ask much of you, pet," she begins, as she traces her hand painstakingly slowly across the journey the bruises take on your body, "not very much at all, really. Sit still, sit pretty, and be good. But for some reason, you seem to have a habit of disregarding every little thing I say." You rapidly shake your head in disagreement, and that causes her to take pity on you, kneeling down to your level to coo at you while you tremble under her wrath.

"I know you're dumb, doll, I know.", she murmurs, as your eyes glaze over at the sound of her words. She gently places a strand of hair behind your ear as she comes closer and whispers.

"But I have guests, darling", she continues, "customers. And if you're misbehaving, puppy, you're making me look bad, no? That doesn't look good on me, does it?"

You shake your head in agreement, and she shakes her head to mirror yours in a condescending manner, almost mocking the action.

"So I'm going to have to teach you how to be good, okay?" she tells you, with a little kiss to your forehead. "And I'll like it more than you will, puppy, and that's okay. You don't have to like it. You just have to take it.” 

At her words, you give a large whine of complaint, and her hand immediately goes to cover your mouth, one large hand effectively cutting off any means of speaking. "Quiet, puppy", she whispers, sharply. "Don't make me take away your speaking privileges. You remember how much you cried last time, don't you? How much you hated the gag? It was cute. So let's not do that again, okay?"

You look at her with a mix of dread, admiration and love in your eyes, as her hand remains solidly over your lips, and you nod, slowly. A signal of defeat. Alanna nods, and removes her hand, slowly petting over your shaking form. "Good girl," she says, as she stands up, waves a rushed goodbye to Lark and his henchmen for the night, and nearly pushes you out of the door. “Let’s go to my room, pet. You have a lesson to learn.”

[ohblackdiamond]

paulventures in florida

first off, this would not have been remotely possible without my dear friend @elrohare who generously, and incredibly, asked if i'd be her +1 to this event. I'm eternally grateful for a wonderful time.

friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your ears--

wait, that's not right.

HEY, PEE-PUL--

On 2/23/24, Cynthia and I met Paul Stanley and had dinner with him. 

Our full weekend adventure eventually ended up taking us all around the sovereign state of Florida, a state I have not (been) driven around since 1998, when my family went on a trip to Disney World.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many palm trees or so much Spanish moss.

But you don’t wanna hear about the insane roads of Florida, you wanna hear about Paul.  We’ll get there.

I was running on approximately four hours of sleep due to having taken a 7 a.m. flight in order to ensure I would be able to see Paul in the first place.  Was Paul actually due to show up around 7 p.m.?  Yes.  Did I care?  No.  It was not exactly a short drive from the Orlando airport where Cynthia picked me up  to the Hard Rock hotel/casino in Hollywood (Florida) where the gallery was.  We had to guarantee our presence (and I had to guarantee that there would be room for error should my flight be delayed!).  Once we were at the Wentworth gallery, Cynthia’s art broker, Laura, showed her one of her pieces. Laura also mentioned offhand that “he (Paul Stanley) was just here earlier” and I believe she may have showed us a picture of him at the gallery– I know she said he was nice.  Inside of the gallery was a small section with a table full of different sharpies (gold, silver, black) and he had scribbled on a piece of paper or something on the table to test one out. 

Cynthia determined she could only fit one of the paintings in her trunk and would have to have the other shipped.  She took care of those details and afterwards asked when we should be there for Paul– we were told that, of course, around seven was it but if we wanted to poke over at 6 or 6:30, we could.  She encouraged us to hang around and shop/etc. if we wanted, but honestly, the mall aspect of the casino was fairly paper-thin and if you weren’t gambling and weren’t super-enamoured with the (admittedly cool) water/fountain light show, you weren’t going to be entertained for hours on end.  Fortunately, obsessing over our upcoming meeting/dinner was entertaining enough when it wasn’t nerving us both out! 

We had some discussion on whether we should show up at the gallery again right at 6 or not, and ended up kind of poking over and realizing that the gallery hadn’t exactly filled up at that point.  We ended up poking back in at 6:30, which was ideal.  Directly outside the gallery (you could only really stick around in there if you’d purchased or were very interested in purchasing a painting, due to the meet and greet aspect that was going to happen there in the back) was starting to get a bit crowded and that only continued– fans with things they were hoping to get signed/hoping he would look at (there was a gorgeous drawing of eighties Paul that a girl was holding up that she’d done!)-- but I think a lot of them just wanted to get a glimpse of Paul. 

Cynthia and I made some small talk with the other gallery-goers, including a nice couple, Heather and her partner, Eric. Heather was wearing a really pretty purple gradient dress while Eric had a blazer with a custom-made purple shirt underneath that had the Starchild makeup on it.  They were pretty invested, especially Eric, though they’d done these events before.  It was cute how Heather would come back over and say “I think he’s bought another one….” (Heather also was trying to ensure there would be a non-meat option at the dinner for Eric due to Lent.)  

I noticed that every so often someone from the gallery would open a door at the back (near the Sharpie table), say something, and then shut it, so I was pretty sure that Paul was right behind there, which terrified me.  But then he just suddenly appeared only a couple feet from us, which was more terrifying (to me) and I sort of immediately tried not to look his way for fear of– aw, geez, I don’t know; I have a lot of feelings.

“Who’re you here to see?” he said, and the small crowd (myself included) immediately answered back with “Paul!!” 

He was smiling– he was smiling a lot.  I have encountered Paul prior on Kruises and I’d honestly never seen him look nearly that happy at those.  Maybe it’s because he’s really a mermaid and is really bitter every time KISS goes out to sea, but honestly, it’s probably mostly because he gets seasick and getting stuck on a ship for five days with a couple thousand rabid fans is probably not his idea of a good time. 

Dinner with about 20-30 rabid fans apparently was right up his alley, though!

We had been told prior to Paul’s arrival that we were third in line for him.  I had brought Mandate but this was more something I’d feel out– I’d said to Cynthia way beforehand that if it didn’t get signed/didn’t feel right to try to get signed, that was fine because after all, I was there as a plus-one.  I will honestly admit that seeing him look like he felt that good made me feel like maybe the magazine would ruin his demeanor– anyway, while we could’ve watched any and all of the other meet and greets, I really wanted to let everyone else have their space/time– I did not want to be creeping around trying to get extra shots of him or anything. 

I was also just extremely nervous.  I think we both were! 

We were called up around maybe 7:10 or 7:15.  I wanted to make sure I didn’t cut into Cynthia’s time and also make sure I was not weird, either.  Paul was great. He immediately complimented Cynthia’s star dress, which she said she’d worn in his honor and curtsied very cutely.  She introduced herself and shook his hand; then I introduced myself and shook his hand, and then she talked to him about seeing the last MSG show and about Evan being there and how cool that was (to have him opening for KISS’ last show); he said it wouldn’t be the last time (for Evan).  He said something about how MSG was special (paraphrase) or that it was a special time, something like that.

Then he said he guessed it was time to take some pictures– they brought out first the Starchild picture, took a picture of us (one of my feet was shaking by this point so I didn’t stand too close to him), and then he said to the photographer, “I blinked” (he did not) and said quietly to Cynthia, “You get two.” 

Next was the Gene picture. Cynthia said she liked the crystals on it and he said that they were Swarovski and that they were hard to put on or took a long time to do, something along those lines. Once the photos were over, he wrote her dedication (“Cynthia, Make life a work of art, Paul Stanley”) on a black sheet of paper– I noticed as he was writing it that he went back to fix one of the letters) and Cynthia seized the chance to ask him to sign her copy of his autobiography. He was really quick about it– “Yeah, I’ll sign that,” and immediately signed the front cover.  (I told Cynthia afterwards that of course he signed the front– it had his face on it; he couldn’t help himself!)  As either this or the paper-signing was going on, the photographer handed me Cynthia’s phone back and I was so dumbstruck by everything that I just kind of looked at the phone in sheer confusion for a second or two– I think a part of me somehow thought there was something he wanted me to do with it, when in actuality he was just giving it back!  He said he’d see us soon and Cynthia corrected that we’d see him at dinner. 

“Three points,” I said as we exited (to the main area of the gallery). (I don’t usually give him any points. I have a lot of conflicting feelings about Paul, but had promised Cynthia I would not say anything disparaging about him during the duration of our time together.) We were both in a state of giddiness mixed with that feeling of it being all over mixed with anticipation. It was really the sort of feeling I’ve only had at meet and greets, but the night wasn’t over.  We stuck around the gallery, still talking to other KISS fans (one guy had the most amazing KISS shoes with the RARO cover art on them that either he or his boyfriend had painted, can’t remember– he said that Paul wanted them and he wouldn’t let him have them!).  Heather said that Eric had moved his timeslot down to the very end, but there were people that came in way later than everyone else, so I’m not sure if he actually got the last timeslot or not.  And as we were waiting, we got another meet and greet.  

This one was not so good and it was my fault.

This one was Doc McGhee’s would-be meet and greet. 

I had met Doc on a couple occasions, the last one being most memorable even if we didn’t speak.  I had a very good seat at the next-to-last MSG concert and as Doc walked down to his own seat before the show started (or possibly a song or so in– might’ve been as I was standing up!) he reached over and quickly pressed something into my hand: I opened my hand and found it was a guitar pick (I couldn’t see whose it was at that point), and immediately closed my hand and held onto it for dear life for the next two hours, only sticking it in my purse when I felt certain I wouldn’t lose it.  It’s a (worn) Paul pick– a good omen. 

Anyway, Doc just wandered in the main entrance, as Doc is wont to, and spoke to a couple people. Doc not being anywhere near as intimidating as Paul, I told Cynthia, “I’m gonna say hi to Doc” and walked over to him.

“Hey, Doc! You gave me a pick at Madison Square Garden!” 

“I did!” (I don’t think he remembered. Maybe he did.)

“Thank you!” and I shook his hand. 

Then he stood there. And stood there. He thought I had more to say to him or that I’d ask him for a selfie.  He did not expect that that was all I had to say to him. 

Doc slunk off into the shadows of the art gallery. Sorry, Doc.

Around about 9:30 or so was the dinner.  We were seated and then Paul walked in, giving a couple fistbumps on the way to our table.  There were three tables, each with 10 or less people there, and he’d be seated at the middle for each.  We were first, so we ate Caesar salad and a charcuterie board full of appetizers (salami, cheese, those little stick things, etc.) with Paul.  Paul was catty-corner to me which was insanely intimidating.  He looked me in the eye twice that I was aware of (without saying anything) and I just dove into the salami like a girl that got stood up for senior prom devouring the refreshment table.  My nerves were killing me.  Paul still looked… intimidating. I was riddled with the wounds of past experiences and the knowledge that I could say absolutely nothing to him that he had not heard before.  I couldn’t think. I could only mindlessly eat and wince as Cynthia excitedly kicked me under the table when Paul began to eat himself.  It was pretty funny, because the first couple times she kicked me, I thought that there was something she wanted me to say to Paul, but she just wanted to point out that he was eating!  

I ran out of salami and the waiter refilled my glass of water (I didn’t order any alcohol) about four times while I tried not to pay too much attention to Paul Stanley being that close to me.  That is to say, I was paying attention, but trying not to be a creep.  He was talking to a dark-haired lady sitting next to him and due to how loud it was in the restaurant, I could hear less than half of what he was saying (and only because I was straining) and basically none of what she said (he did say something about Soul Station, but as Cynthia said, we heard entirely different things regarding that particular venture, which says a lot for the amount of noise in the restaurant!).  After a point, he looked over our side of the table with an expression that was a bit “well?” i.e. “you can talk to me” without actually coming out and saying it.  He was pretty well aware that nobody on our side had really said anything to him as he consumed Caesar salad, various cheeses, etc. at our table, and he did want to give everyone the opportunity.  I was, apparently, incapable of taking said opportunity. 

Enter Patrick, who was sitting directly across from me/on the other side of Paul and whom (along with his wife, Nicole, sitting next to him) Cynthia and I had been talking with from the time we got seated on.  He had made small talk with us on the typical topic (KISS) and the two of them had been collecting Paul’s artwork since he started around ‘08 or so– this wasn’t their first rodeo.  Patrick had a loud voice that carried well.  Patrick did something that he really didn’t have to do at all, that I dearly appreciated– after talking briefly to Paul himself, he gave me the floor.

“I think you need to talk to your youngest fan (at the table).”  

Paul looked at me again.  I did not die. 

“I’m not all that young…”

I can’t remember if Paul actually asked me how old I was or not, but I said I was thirty-four.  Paul said “what?” (he didn’t hear me).  I held up my fingers in a 3 and a 4.  Paul did not understand. (I cannot overstate how hard it was to hear in that restaurant.)  Finally, I got my volume up loud enough.  “I’m thirty-four!” 

I want to say he looked surprised, but that might be wishful thinking.  I’m of mixed Asian and white descent and am very short and small.  Anyway, he responded with, “I have shoes older than you.” 

My incredibly brilliant response was “I know. … My mom’s your age so it’s fine.” (What’s fine? His 35+ year old shoes?)  Paul found this witty repartee hard to answer.  Probably because he likely couldn’t hear it.  

Patrick made an additional extremely kind effort just a second later.  I think he must’ve known how much I wanted to say something and how paralyzed/starstruck I had ended up.  It was exceptionally nice– he could’ve monopolized Paul easily, and he chose not to.  He didn’t have to go out of his way like that. 

“She’s been on the Kruises!”

“Oh?”

“Y-yeah I’ve been on the last three (technically four, I did both the back to back Kruises)--” Inspiration. Stupid inspiration. “I was the one that asked you– no, actually I asked Gene– about Dark Shadows.” 

Great, now Mr. Paul Stanley thinks I have an undying fascination with Dark Shadows. Okay, I do, but my life’s goal definitely wasn’t to ask him about that at dinner. 

“I remember that (show).  Barnabus…. It came on in the afternoons. (I think he said he watched it. … So did almost every baby boomer in the mid/late-sixties)”  He actually looked like he might’ve been contemplating the show, but he might’ve actually been contemplating whether the salad he spilt on his lap made a stain on his pants; I don’t really know. 

Patrick is the true hero of this entire story.  If Paul got three points, Patrick gets thirty. Patrick somehow kept introducing the stuff I had just told him to Paul (i.e. my first KISS record was “Rock and Roll Over,” and said something about “Hard Luck Woman”) and I manage to spill several things I am not sure that Paul heard at all (because I could barely hear myself) including (quickly) that I had only gotten my mom to come with me to a KISS show during EOTR, and that when she finally did she’d wished she’d gone to see them sooner. Paul was looking at us, nodding, and was trying to follow the general convo but honestly, if I was only getting a little over half of what Paul said, he was getting a fourth of what I said in general, best case scenario.  I don’t fault him.  Cynthia told him something about Phantom of the Park, but I could barely understand her! 

Probably a couple minutes after that, he went to the next table for the main course (he spent roughly half an hour at our table). He waved as he left and we remained with a surprisingly good vantage spot to see the back of Paul’s head and occasionally his profile.  Also his phone, which he never got out at our table but did get out for the main course’s.  It has a pink case. 

We saw him move to the final table– I think he may not have gotten dessert, but I could be wrong there.  (I had veal parmesan as a main course and split tiramisu with Cynthia. I only had about four bites of the veal due to having eaten every piece of salami on our charcuterie board, but it was pretty good. The tiramisu was also great.)  After that, he left, but he waved as he went and he still looked happy.  That meant a good bit to me.  I gripe about Paul a lot but I do want him to be happy.  I want them all to be happy.  

Cynthia thanked the art gallery director (not sure of his title) prior to us leaving the restaurant and we were told she could pick up her painting tomorrow morning at ten. It was very late at night at that point– not sure when we got back to our hotel, but I do know we were talking until two about everything that had transpired and the whole rest of the weekend was filled with talk of Paul. 

The verdict: Very good event.  Paul was sweet, engaged and definitely wanted to be here.  The only real negative I have is how loud that restaurant was!  It was something else to be that close to him– I had tempered my expectations due to my own cynicism and wariness, but he was great.  Really incredible time that I’m going to remember. 

Paul, if I see you again, I promise not to bother you about Dark Shadows. 

We’ll move on to Bonanza or Match Game or something.

[stronghours]

Acts of Love

Analyzing the situation from all angles, Roscoe, the fair arbitrator, the sole solid voice of reason for everybody in the neighborhood but himself, was left with the insufficient and constant truth that there was nobody in the vicinity to blame. With nobody to blame he had nobody to advise, and with nobody to make fun of his advice, all his shortcomings formed a cyclone of immaturity within his breast.

He made a split decision – he could make decisions; he was an adult – and phoned up the one person who could not be more physically separated from the problem if he tried. Heedless of what time it was in San Francisco, Roscoe phoned, and by the time the ringing cleared he had nearly convinced himself that he had found the right person to blame after all.

“There’s a problem,” he stated clearly, before any how-do-you-dos could pass. “And I’m blaming you for all of it!”

“You got it, sport,” Martin replied, those 2,000 miles of distance, in Roscoe’s opinion, unduly bolstering his confidence. “Tell papa all about it.”

-

“Solids,” Roscoe asked the room, “or stripes?”

“Ugh,” said Harper, “shirts with collars.”

Roscoe rotated the selection a minute degree to the stool on Harper’s left.

Jules didn’t even pick up his chin. “Boy clothes are boring,” he declared.

Roscoe twirled a 160 to the only customer in the shop. “Jackie? Stripes? Colors? For goodness sakes.” Jackie, a good two-fifty in his socks, was sumptuously unearthing himself from his own tank top. “We have a dressing room for a reason.” The dressing room was a shower rod and sheet stabilized with clothes pins, but it certainly existed.

“Jack,” Harper advised, “The three-strikes consequence is not so interesting that you have to keep testing me so.” Harper, in his own words, preferred to keep the chest hair out of the register.

“Yeah,” Jules said, “plus there’s a lady present.”

“A confident man prefers a visual opinion.” Jackie threw a wink at Jules. To Roscoe he threw: “A Saturday night event, and you need to wear a shirt? That’s barbaric.” He thumped away toward the shower curtain, swinging his rag.

“Sure, I’ll just go out the way I am now.” Roscoe gestured at his undershirt and his not-even-nice jeans. “I’ll go out to my meeting like a slob. Or nude. Apparently, this is all I need to strive for!”

“Wear the solid, Roscoe,” Harper said. “Don’t have a heart attack. I couldn’t possibly stand more excitement.”

Jules and Harper possessed similar levels of social astuteness (inconveniently high) but Jules’ sadistic appetite for discomfort presented the skill with far more aggression than phlegmatic Harper ever mustered the motivation for. He twitched upright, terribly alert. “A meeting on Saturday night?” He posed.

“Yes,” Roscoe answered mildly, stepping into Jackie’s vacated mirror. He’d known Jules four long years and knew enough to work him, a little. “The communications head for that men’s health initiative that sponsored the safer sex seminar we played host for. Remember, Pride? You helped set up the folding tables.”

“Oh.” Jules, turned off instantly at the whiff of an informational brochure or pamphlet, sat back in his stool. “That’s boring. I feel bad for you.”

“Kid, your compassion is an inspiration.”

Harper picked up what Jules had childishly put down. “You’re extremely stressed,” he observed, “about your choice of shirt for a mere meeting.”

“You only have one chance to make a first impression,” Roscoe replied. He liked the stripes.

“But you met this guy before,” Jules said. “You literally just said.”

“One of those professional, no-nonsense Saturday night corporate one-on-one meetings,” Harper continued. “Perks of the white collar.”

“Business in that world doesn’t work the same as business here!” Roscoe fended and fought and failed to keep Jules and Harper from listing toward each other in the malevolent mind-meld they could occasionally broker when their victims’ irritation superseded whatever pet animosity they held toward one another. Jules provided the energy, and Harper contributed the bulk of the riposte. “You know. The department heads are interested in utilizing our space again, but nothing is approved until a million emails have been sent – emails on a corporate server – and until the right person signs the right release, you can hardly get the ok to speak to a man.” He rattled the hangers. Now he hated both shirts. “And anyway,” he continued, “I’m lucky he’s even decided to broach the topic with me on his own time, so I’ll have all my cards on the table before the holidays. It’s really inconvenient for both of us. And it’s a matter of public health.”

“Come on me, not in me,” Jules recited. “That’s one, right? An old one? From black-and-white times?”

“You’ve known of this man since June,” Harper laid out, “so exactly how many dates have you been on?”

“It’s not a date,” Roscoe said, mainly to himself, to keep calm. “It’s an informal meeting.”

“Speaking of informal –” Jackie briskly swept the shower curtain aside and presented his torso to the room. It was encased in a series of canvas straps. The man possessed the most prehensile chest hair Roscoe had ever seen. “Little man,” (this was Jules) “my buddy, if my goal were to seduce a very cutie-pie cashier, say, seduce him outright and carry him to my home to have my will in all ways, would this design be the one that allows said cashier to be seduced? And if not, what improvements could be made?”

“You’d have to pinky-swear you’d eat him up all in one bite,” Jules suggested, “so he wouldn’t have time to get scared.”

Harper, stiff in the wrists and face red, retrieved his Tristram Shandy from beneath the counter and began to ignore everybody.

“Jackie,” Roscoe said, “Stripes? I like stripes.”

Jackie shook his big mug slowly. “Solids,” he said.

Roscoe gave it up and started for his office again. In the jumbled space, it was slow going. Jules called: “Solid. Solid color.” He sounded abruptly calm and steady.

“The striped is a little more…” Roscoe shook the hanger again and stared hard at the shirt, realizing once more that he could barely hold an opinion on it. He may as well argue, he had a couple hours. “Jovial? Fun?”

“That’s what we call you behind your back,” Harper said behind his pages. “Fun Roscoe.”

Jules, instead of taking the path of least resistance, slithered bodily over the countertop and came for Roscoe that way. “No, no,” he said, as if he’d devoted a miniscule percentage of time in his hindbrain to figure out the issue while he and everybody else had fun with their torment. “Listen, so you two are doing this stupid extended-coy thing. Informal corporate meeting, sure. Buy into it. That’s what this guy will expect. Who looks jovial at a meeting? Play the game.”

“Play the game,” Roscoe said to himself as Jules freed him from the hangers. He wondered how long Jules would be able to say that so casually before the rules and the years made things stale.

“That’s how adults think they have to play,” Jules said, so fiercely it was as if he’d overheard the passing thought. “Don’t blame me if you’re too scared to do something different. This one needs pressed.” And he shoved his way down the narrow hall and disappeared behind the basement door. He slammed it shut.

“He reminds me of this houseboy I had a share in, back in the eighties,” Jackie mused. He’d pulled on his tank top but he was a man who remained spiritually naked, no matter the coverage. “Only this one didn’t have the attitude. And we weren’t having him do the ironing.” He lounged now against the glass countertop and spoke past Harper, though ostensibly to him, as was his respectful habit with cute young men who evaded his understanding.

“I cannot possibly,” Harper repeated, in arctic timbre, “bear any more excitement.”

-

Roscoe had come around to the fact that he was not particularly respected. That he was appreciated – a walking, talking, emotional necessity – had only to do with the physical existence of his environment – the bar and the leather shop – and the fact that he’d taken it all over after Val died. This one responsibility assumed in 1989 had earned him an immovable seat in the scene, but he’d been frozen in community judgment at 22 – an anxious, retiring, conflict-averse functional alcoholic. At his glummest moments he wondered if Val had left things to him less out of any belief in his business prowess, and more out of the practical sense that out of all the surrounding men, Roscoe would always have the least going on socially.

You could have respect, Roscoe thought while he buttoned his solid-color shirt behind his narrow office door, or be appreciated, or be beloved. Most men only had one. A few could muster two. Val had been the only one he’d known who’d netted all three.

“And you’re fucking dead,” he said aloud, and tried to nab his reflection in the black computer screen. These were not the thoughts to rev yourself up before a date. He sought back in time, not to Val, but far more recently when he’d been down in the basement pawing through historical paperwork while Jules hunched, absorbed, over some strap or belt or harness in his little workshop. They’d passed several minutes in total silence until Jules, out of nowhere, spoke aloud with so much poison Roscoe whirled around, exceedingly hurt. Jules remained completely bent, eyes on his work surface. He was shaking with passion and so keyed up over some frustrating detail his face had reddened and his eyes watered. He wore headphones. Not only had he been speaking to himself, but he wasn’t aware Roscoe had come downstairs.

He said to himself now what Jules had said down there. “Don’t,” he muttered, hand on the door, “Don’t be a fucking loser.”

He had met Bobby at the safer sex seminar; he’d told the truth. At the end, when the bar had cleared out, he’d walked past a trim man around his own height, with a lot of loose brown hair. He wore a green linen shirt that appeared out of place in the grubby surroundings yet managed to look rather graceful and cool. The man had reached out and touched Roscoe’s arm. “They told me when they hired me that parties were one of the job perks,” he said confidentially, as though he and Roscoe were well known to each other, “but they didn’t mention I’d have to organize them all.”

Roscoe, idiot, had blurted out “Oh!” And then, recited Bobby’s email address, which was how they knew each other. Bobby had laughed and compelled him to sit down. For months Roscoe had been sneaking out the shop’s back door to meet him for coffee, brief pleasant chats that thrilled him, though he wondered what someone that corporate-cute got out of it. Roscoe was not corporate – he was not even particularly leather. He was what a lot of the gay men around were – a forty-two-year-old guy.

Bobby had been the one to suggest a dinner, albeit with coy hedging, but Roscoe had suggested he meet him at the shop “to meet the crew” as his own gesture of good faith. After the shirt debacle he doubted the wisdom of this, but he left his office bravely and made his way to the front. Jules and Harper remained in position – Jackie, to his disloyal relief, had lumbered away.

“Alright, I’m out,” he tried to declare, boss-like. “Please, no calls. Unless there’s a deadly emergency, in which case, please call me.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Harper said.

“Yeah,” Jules said. “Whatever you do, don’t go out with this guy and finish your dissertation.”

Harper kicked out against Jules’ stool and upended him. At that moment the bell over the door jingled and Roscoe, distracted from the fracas, whipped around for what felt like the dozenth time that evening. “Hi!”

“Hi!” The nice thing about Bobby was that he naturally matched the energy of whatever greeting Roscoe gave. He looked pleasantly flustered coming out of the coolish autumn evening and fresh air blew in behind him. “Now I suddenly forget your name,” he directed to Harper, who was busy shoving Jules’ yapping head below the counter. “But I know it starts with an H.”

“Hello,” Harper said.

“Hello!” Bobby repeated, delightfully awkward.

Jules, behind Roscoe’s back must have resurfaced, for he gasped so significantly he gagged on air. He said, overloud: “Oh no!”

Roscoe wanted to ignore it; he could have ignored it, if he hadn’t seen the pleasure, all at once, drain from Bobby’s expression. He turned and saw Jules, wide-eyed with a transient horror that struggled not to jitter toward amusement, as if he had just become aware he’d laughed at a joke full of slurs. “Oh no,” he said again, and clapped a hand over his mouth. Jules was not someone who voluntarily shut himself up.

Roscoe looked back to Bobby, whose face was overcome with irritation; it de-aged him considerably. He folded his arms and drew himself up into a neat little package. His jaw set harder than Roscoe had ever seen it; He had the feeling this is what Bobby looked like in meetings.

A cold wind sucked through Roscoe’s bowels. “You two already know each other,” he predicted, and lapsed into a little horror himself, at the obvious innuendo.

“Not like that!” Jules said through his fingers.

“A little like that,” Bobby said coolly. “Only the matter of how and with who are not as clear. The shock on your face! I would think,” he continued, with nastiness Roscoe hadn’t thought him capable of, “you’d be used to this kind of thing happening to you!”

To Roscoe: “Should we go along now? I think we should.” His painful smile brought Roscoe gallantly out of his stupor. “Yes, yeah,” he agreed. “We’ll talk about it later.”

He ushered him gently out the door; the idyllic bells jingled; the smell of dying leaves and of balcony gas fires cleared their heads; and behind them among the brightly lit hedonism, Harper, triumphant enough to be heard through glass, intoned, “have any other smartass thoughts about my fucking dissertation now, you nasty little slut?”

-

In months past, Bobby had always been collected and softly confident in himself. Any faux pas or nervousness on Roscoe’s part had been gently absorbed and accepted by his mere mildness. Now, Roscoe found himself squiring a virtual teenager to dinner. They sat out on the restaurant’s patio, but Bobby cast his head around rapidly at any loud, passing group. His left hand unconsciously picked at its own cuticles. He carried on a staggered and desperate conversation with Roscoe about something funny that had occurred at work until Roscoe, ashamed he’d let this go on so long, found the little bit of steel he kept inside himself for these moments. He reached out and touched Bobby’s stiff hand, clenched through the gaps in the garden table. “Listen,” he began, but Bobby crumbled instantly.

“Oh my god,” he moaned. “I’m acting like a moron. I know.”

“No,” Roscoe insisted. He had enough experience to know the less he spoke, the more Bobby would blurt out. This was the function of Roscoe in any scene. He knew so many sordid secrets he was surprised no uptight bar queen had had him assassinated yet.

“I didn’t sleep with that brat,” Bobby explained. “Let me emphasize that.”

“I believe you,” he said, brat tweaking him inside, even as Bobby’s hand relaxed in minute segments.

“About a year ago,” Bobby continued, his eyes fixed on his and Roscoe’s stacked fingers. “I was in a relationship, an open relationship, so to speak. And it was open because, well, the man – Neil – he lived with me at that point – well, he was an animal.”

“Right.”

“I mean,” Bobby’s eyes widened, and he traveled off into some kind of fugue. “He possessed absolute filth. He was such a stud. He carried me off. I was astonished he was interested in me at all. I was literally possessed. He pushed you back into a wall and you just blacked out. My friends were mortified. I worshipped him, in private, though I could be such a catty bitch about his adventures; adventures where I was not included. But he could be, you know, very kind about it. He’d touch your face and ask why you were so worried. He kissed in public and held your hand. He wasn’t a malevolent person.” This came out in one long, humiliated gust. “He was sweet and relaxed, even when I was furious with him. Before that, I attracted boring men – you know, administrative people – and boring wouldn’t be so bad, but boring doesn’t mean nice and gentle. There’s nothing worse,” he said with some savageness, “than a boring, corporate, unkind man. And I dated stacks and stacks of them. Then Neil.”

“Neil.”

“Right.” Bobby held Roscoe’s hand proper, now. “Now, the rule was that he had to let me know if he was embarking on some conquest, and he wasn’t allowed to bring anybody back to my apartment. He was always bad about the letting me know part before the fact. It was always a “by the way honey” after the fact. And I put up with it, and I put up with it, then one night I came home unexpectedly after a work retreat was cancelled, and there’s Neil standing up in the kitchen, just roped with sweat, extremely post-post, just a towel over his shoulders. He said casual as you please, hi babe! Then guess who strides out of my bedroom.”

“Oh dear.”

“Not a stitch on his body,” Bobby gilded the image nicely. “He sees us both; He read the situation instantly, I give him that – He says, oh no! Just exactly how he said it back there.” Softer, and more dangerous, “with that stupid look on his face, like he was trying not to laugh at me.”

Jules, Jules, Roscoe chided in his brain. It was an automatic reflex, with the real culprit vanishing, as they always could, into the sexual ether of the past.

“It was one thing when he was going behind me to nail people his own way, his own age, his own level,” Bobby continued. “But seeing his aftermath with what looked like some teenager – these hot new young things coming up behind us, not a care in the world – that was the last straw. I’d gotten used to humiliation, but this was the kind that makes you see yourself. And I saw myself – this pent-up, boring, unkind, thirty-five-year-old admin sissy, obsessed with the sexual propriety of some goddamn hustler. I was better off sticking with my own kind.”

They ordered; they lapsed with the words for a while.

“It’s so stupid,” Bobby said quietly at one point, “To be heartbroken over what amounted to dumb sex games. You get older and older, but you can never get older than that.”

Roscoe had used this time to consider his next move. “Listen,” he said, drifting forward in his seat. “How much money would someone have to pay you to go back to being in your early twenties?”

Bobby released something; He laughed out loud, enough that he closed his eyes. “Oh god!” He cried out. “Awful! Awful!”

Roscoe shook his head. “Not even millions,” he said. “Not even.” He was pleased to find he agreed with what he was saying: not for a million bucks, not in a million years. “I think he’s a good kid,” he ventured, bolder. “Down in it, he’s a good kid. He’s running a little wild now. Most of them are. But, Bobby,” he said, more insistently, “There’s nothing to be jealous of there.”

“Skinny,” Bobby offered. “Youthful energy. Plastic brain. Full head of hair, no greys.”

“Puppy dogs online have more money than he does,” Roscoe said bluntly, walking the tripwire; he had two people to try not to betray. “He lives in an illegal basement. He works at Domino’s. He can’t get along with people his own age.”

“Demonic sex powers.”

“He’s treasurer for the neighborhood gay bridge club,” Roscoe countered. This did the trick; Bobby cackled briefly, then stifled himself out of kindness.

“Alright fine,” he agreed. “Fine, you’re right. I’m better than all that now. I should be glad about it.”

“You shouldn’t regret that you were brave enough to have your heart broken,” Roscoe said. “The only man I ever let break my heart was my father.”

Bobby had softened now to pre-Jules levels. “If I have a glass of wine with dinner,” he asked, “will we still be able to kiss goodnight?”

“Oh sure.” He mustered all his power to appear nonchalant about such a thing happening. “I’m not someone who’s particular.” Which was, miraculously, the first lie he’d told all evening.

-

He’d returned to the shop at the end of the night alone, meaning to placate Jules, but he only found Harper, who smirked to himself while he balanced the cash register. He was lighthearted for once and greeted him cheerfully, so Roscoe could guess he’d battered the complementary tale out of Jules, who’d been slick enough to slip away into the night. “Well, it’s not a big deal,” he said firmly as Harper’s smirk evolved into a one-sided grin. “Bobby and I talked, and he understands. It’s nobody’s fault, it's just an awkward situation.” He was still a little dizzy from the kissing and didn’t have the energy to scold Harper, who appeared truly gleeful with misfortune.

“Oh certainly,” Harper said. “Merely an awkward situation.”

Roscoe shot him a warning look with zero heat behind it. “Let the heterosexuals wreck their own lives about insignificant crap like this,” he lectured. “I should hope we are a little more sexually evolved than that.”

“Fags aren’t sexually evolved,” Harper said, “They’re sexually primordial.”

“And if you want to keep working here,” Roscoe shot back, “may I suggest you quit talking like you aren’t one?” This was about as rough as he could get with Harper, who primly returned to his steno pad.

But he overestimated Jules’ resilience – he stayed away from the shop for three days straight. It was his habit to lurk in the basement and putter regardless of if he had a piece on order and Roscoe was truly stumped. He was under the impression Martin had scrubbed most of the shame out of the kid. He settled on the idea that Jules was sulking over his privacy being pierced and, feeling sneaky, he made another date with Bobby on the fourth evening, when Jules was set to cover for Harper behind the register.

At the appointed hour, Jules sailed through the back door with his eyes half-shut and his face arranged into a careful, bland portrait. To Roscoe he said “Hey,” as if he’d been in the basement all week.

“Been busy?” He truly didn’t know – he had made it a rule not to pester Jules by phone.

“Sure.”

Jules kept one eye on Harper, who was grinning again as he stuffed graded papers into his satchel. He kept quiet until he could no longer resist. “There’s plenty of time,” said Jules’ older and blonder mirror-self, “to hide downstairs, baby child.”

Jules turned on Roscoe, betrayed. “You did not.”

“There’s nothing to do.” Roscoe flicked through his wallet, attempting to appear a bastion of mature calm. “It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal at all, so just relax.”

“I’m not talking to you about this.”

“That’s just fine,” Roscoe said. “There’s nothing to talk about. Because it’s not a big deal.”

He couldn’t understand the outsized misery emanating from Jules’ slumped shoulders. He looked like a gangling, tortured foal. “What’s wrong now?” He asked, too gently and too late, because Jules was already facing away, and Bobby was already jingling through the door.

“Hii-iii-!” Harper greeted him first, happy as a clam.

Bobby smiled weakly. “Hi,” he said softly, toward Roscoe, and Roscoe was touched that he was trying. “Jules, hello.”

Jules was utterly still. “Mmhmm,” he mumbled, and Roscoe, suddenly a bit sick with foreboding, wanted to grab Bobby and rush him out the door. But Bobby was graciously (relentlessly) coming forward.

“Now hear me out,” he said, mildly. “I was surprised. I still had some feelings about the whole situation. But it’s over with now.” He shrugged and offered his hand (Jules literally leaned away). “Let’s just forget about it,” he suggested. “Let’s leave it with Neil. Wherever the hell that devil is.”

“Yeah.” Jules woke up and allowed himself to shake hands, though he let go snappish. “He was, uh, a pretty active guy.”

“Oh, I certainly know.” Bobby moved toward Roscoe.

“I mean, I know too.” Jules barreled forward, an uncontrolled tone entering his voice. “As in, I knew. Like, knew him. Knew of him. For like, a year before that night. But like, maybe you weren’t even seeing him at that point?”

“Probably should head out now,” Roscoe suggested, but Bobby planted his feet.

“Like,” Jules said, his face a mask of blank horror, as if he were under some horrible influence and couldn’t possibly stop speaking until all was revealed. “Maybe you weren’t even seeing each other around, uh, fall-winter of 2008? Because that’s when we were uh, most active. Together. With others.”

“Pardon me,” Bobby said, “others?”

“Yeah,” Jules answered, totally helpless. “You know, the gangbangs.”

“Gangbangs?”

“Not that I arranged that,” Jules swerved. “My old man at the time arranged all those. But I was there, as, you know, the subject of the evening. And Neil was a participant uh, most of the time. And sometimes individually, for house calls.”

“House calls?” This was Harper, cross-legged on the carpet, clutching his satchel and likewise paralyzed by the situation.

“But maybe you weren’t even seeing him, at that point,” Jules repeated, like saying it enough times would make it true. “At that point, fallish and winterish of 2008?”

Roscoe gripped Bobby by the shoulders, unwilling to move him extrajudicially, but hoping to impede him if he lunged forward. Jules, for his part, did not bodily retreat.

“No,” Bobby answered at long last, his voice a monument of cold dignity that surpassed even Harper’s abilities. “No,” he repeated. “No, I was not aware of the gangbangs. Or of house calls. I was also not aware that my boyfriend, at the time, was some kind of doctor to small animals. Let’s go now,” he said to Roscoe, and revolved gracefully underneath his hands without dislodging his grip. “I’d like to leave now.”

“Right,” Roscoe agreed. He ushered him out, pained that he couldn’t discreetly look back. No tender autumnal milieu appealed to his senses this time, and Harper, struck as dumb as everybody else, made no glass-passing remarks. When the door slammed, the door slammed.

-

There were, to Roscoe’s dismay, no vulnerable talks this time. Bobby, drawing on some kind of work persona for power, handled the evening and the conversations with brisk, friendly professionalism and relaxed only a few degrees when it became clear Roscoe wasn’t going to push the issue. And it would have been fine, if this had ended that evening – it lasted through the whole week, and into the next. Bobby took the date-arrangements into his own hands, and they met away from the shop. This way, he gradually recovered some of his previous warmth, but he swiftly hardened anytime Roscoe brought up some doing or event connected to the shop or bar. He couldn’t even mention Harper without Bobby’s eyes glazing over protectively. Roscoe didn’t bring up Jules’ existence whatsoever, and this, after barely seven days, made him feel like a real piece of shit.

He understood, at last, that he’d made it as a gay man past forty and had never had to delineate his life in even trivial ways. His friends were everybody else’s friends, his job was everybody’s trivial and unhealthy sanctuary, and he never had any reason to hide himself. When he could no longer bear his family, he’d left them. When his AA sponsor reared his head with too much religion, he’d broken off and made his own sobriety group. When those sober friends got snitty about him owning a bar, he’d walked right through them and continuously among them and left them free to leave or stay or slink back, however they needed. He’d never considered himself a person with principles until now, when it seemed impossible to heed their calling.

He newly considered the position of Jules and Harper, who were still too fresh to be beloved or appreciated or respected. Without the stability of those prisons, they floated in some hellish erotic no-man’s land, out of sight of their own peers, hobbled economically, excised from shared history, right or wrong. He remembered Harper, years ago, a scrawny little adjunct with Kurt Cobain’s hairstyle and fire in his face, charging through the doors with his retail resume hot in hand. He recalled Jules, not as many years ago, speaking very calmly, face half-maimed and half blind, no resume, inquiring about the antique sign in the window, leather bespoke, custom order. (I’m afraid it’s an old sign, Roscoe had said, horrorstruck that Jules was even upright. Do you consider that a wise business decision? Jules had replied, blood down his chin, speaking crisply through pink teeth). The hot new young things – sure.

And Bobby, neighborhoods away all this time, on another planet practically, lost in all this context, buried enough to be oblivious to it. He greeted Roscoe now with apprehension in his eyes that lasted and lasted and only vanished at the end of the night when they were separating anyway.

“Listen,” Roscoe said, but he didn’t know what to say and he didn’t know what to do.

“It’s alright.” Bobby petted his cheek. “It’s alright. It’s nothing.”

But he’d begun to make small, suggestive comments, very skillfully (a doctor to small animals), in ways Roscoe couldn’t counter – mostly about groups of young gays when they passed. Bobby would say something brief and clear and cruel and just as quickly shut it down and peer at Roscoe from his peripheral, observing the tested waters. A talent for verbal knackery could, would, be used just as easily for personal self-satisfaction as well as for social good.

And Jules, still a teenager at heart, but beholden to his adult ambitions, showed up at the shop as usual but dealt with the situation by refusing to speak to Roscoe whatsoever. He was hurt by this apparent anger, and once when he tried to come down the basement stairs behind Jules, the kid had shouted, brutally, over his shoulder: NO!

The fathers Roscoe had known had mostly been deplorable; He didn’t like feeling he’d become one himself.

He called Martin.

-

“Leaving so soon, gangbang boy?” Harper called out after the basement door slammed shut.

“You,” Jules answered, walking around the counter, and deliberately smashing every metal outcrop of his bag and kit and equipment into its locked glass cabinet, “are not pretty enough to be this mean. No wonder you haven’t had a boyfriend in years.”

“And where’s your boyfriend?” Harper stretched his arm across the counter to block Jules’ way. “Roscoe called and said he wants both of us here. I know he must have texted you; you shouldn’t be leaving.”

“I can do whatever I want.”

“Oh, you demonstrably do.” Jules dropped all his things on the ground at once, with the following expected awful noise. He deliberately made rackets when you didn’t want one and was still capable of supernatural silence when it suited his needs. “I don’t know why you’re acting like a child. If you’re old enough for high-risk sex, you’re old enough to handle high risk consequences.”

“This is not a natural consequence,” Jules argued. “This is a bizarre fucking freak-ass coincidence because god hates me.”

“And before the freak-ass coincidence interfered with your comfortable situation,” Harper poked and prodded, “you seemed perfectly at peace with the fact that you had probably ruined somebody’s relationship.”

“Neil was a high-risk person to be in a relationship with.” Jules’ voice pitched raggedly higher and higher, as was so whenever he got too excited. He started pulling together his bags again. “I knew it after he fucked me once. If Bobby didn’t figure that out after knowing him for years, then he was a fucking moron.”

“And you’ll tell him that to his face, too,” Harper said. “To Roscoe’s only beau!”

“Why not?” The front door jingled and opened broadly. “If he’s going to act like some wounded bitch every time he sees me, why shouldn’t I get the jump on him? But not now.” Jules turned and collided with a familiar, half-bare chest.

“Oh, fuck off,” he wailed, backing away from what he knew, in his experience, was an immovable surface. “Will everybody quit fucking interfering with my shit?”

“Now, now,” Jackie said, unbothered as usual. He topped Jules’ shoulders with his heavy hands. “What’s the hurry?”

“Jackie,” Jules asked, immediately popping on his most fetching impersonation of innocence. “If I asked you to carry me away right now, out the door past everybody to wherever you wanted to take me, would you do it?”

Jackie appeared to regard these words visually. “Mmm-mmm. No.” He shook his head with some regret. “I’m sorry, little brother. We have to face our fears.” He grasped Jules’ ribcage in a paralyzing, two-handed grip, lifted him like a hollow doll and propped him on the countertop next to Harper’s register. Jules, kitten-rigid in some kind of tonic seizure, grabbed two handfuls of Jackie’s shirt in shock. And there wasn’t much shirt to spare.

“Alright now,” Jackie said, satisfied that all was right in the world – his world. “Who can tell me what all the emotions are about?”

“He’s upset because him being a massive fucking whore has preemptively ruined Roscoe’s first relationship in years,” Harper supplied, testy about the no boyfriend line himself.

Jackie, in a rare event, looked directly at Harper and with some disapproval. “I never understood,” he said, “any m or bottom’s insistence that swear words are for them to say. I’d leave the heavy language to the men, son.”

Harper, too proud to slump, merely narrowed his eyes and dragged his nails across the counter.

“I just said like three swears,” Jules interjected, with jumbled loyalty. “And that’s after you came in.”

“Harp’s older than you, he should know better.”

“Well, he’s right.” Jules had to look askance to say it. “I was a huge whore and I ruined Roscoe’s life, and I don’t know what to do.”

Jackie nodded, then thought twice, and shook his head solemnly. “Don’t understand at all, sorry.”

Jules rapidly regained coherence. “I homewrecked a guy a year ago,” he explained. “And he showed up just now as Roscoe’s new boyfriend, and he hates me. And turns out, I’d been homewrecking him for the year before that too, only I didn’t know it due to the uh, casual nature of the events.”

“Ah,” Jackie said, in an enlightened way, as he and Jules realized a common language. “Gangbangs. Martin was around.”

“Right,” Jules said, relieved. “But now he’s not, and I fucked it all up.”

“You young people. No, no,” he said toward Harper, who’d been about to interject, feeling lonely in the conversation. “Young people. You let any problem that happens now ruin all the good things that happened before. Calling yourself a whore – since when is that your job? Boys should be happy – they should smile and laugh and bounce around and feel good about turning over.” He cast, again, a significant look at Harper.

“I’m going to find a way to kill you,” Harper said. “Silently. When you least expect it.”

“Sure you will – you’re a lot smarter than me.” He turned back to Jules, who had restlessly moved his grip from Jackie’s shirt to his biceps. “Listen,” he said, kindly, “you’re taking responsibility for things that aren’t your business to take on. Martin did what he did to you as an act of love. You behave the way you do as an act of love toward him, even if he’s gone. I’d be pretty sad if you kicked yourself around because another adult got their feelings hurt.” Jackie, again, peered tangibly into the open air. “Some guys, adult guys,” he continued, “just can’t bear to know how intimately we’re all connected. Spooks them. Roscoe’s guy, he can learn. I won’t judge him, never met him. But it’s a lot easier if you never get to be that way in the first place.”

Jules, by this time, was gazing intently at Jackie’s bland, stereotypical face as if he had to absorb all the answers from it before cynicism again wised him up. In a moment of weakness, he dropped his forehead on one of his square and improbable pecs – Jackie, briefly and appropriately, patted Jules on the head, and even Harper looked uncertain about scolding the proceedings. He lucked out, because just then Roscoe, accompanied by a morose Bobby, strode through the front door.

The sight of Jules on the counter, being publicly snuggled by a creature like Jackie, was simply too much for Bobby to bear. He shot out, the snake that rears with eyeball-lancing precision, “Oh god! You let him carry on in your own business?”

“Bobby.” Roscoe grabbed his forearm. Bobby shook free.

“It’s one thing when you carry on in the privacy of your own home,” he spat at Jules. “Or should I say, more accurately, in one’s own basement squat?”

Jules, held back by Jackie’s huge paw, forgetting every single lesson he’d just attempted to absorb, shrieked with rage. “You haggard, unloved queen! Fuck you!”

“I’d rather be a haggard queen than a used-up slut!”

“I’d rather be a used-up slut than some neocon society faggot!”

“It’s always you uneducated goddamn children slinging around correct phrases like neocon, because you’re all too goddamn selfish to give your all to one person!”

Harper, who’d taught Jules the word neocon, just barely opened his mouth before Jackie valiantly drew him and stool both toward the protection of his insane body.

“Maybe if you really were giving your all to Neil,” Jules continued screaming, “he wouldn’t have been fucking cheating on you every fucking second of every fucking day!”

“– With fucking whores like you making it possible –!”

A clothing rack tipped; seemingly of its own accord, it tipped and terminated the human outburst with its own; Harper yelped, christ, the slings! as though they were made of glass,and Roscoe, arm outstretched for reasons nobody had actually seen with their own eyes – they’d long forgotten he was there – bellowed in the loudest voice any of them had ever heard him use:

“BE QUIET!”

Everybody, quiet; they froze in place too, all except Jackie, who fully turned around with great interest, thrusting his chest out hard as if he needed it to properly hear. But Roscoe was turning on Bobby, now shaky in the knees and white in the face. He touched his mouth, like he didn’t understand who on earth had just passed all those insults.

“That is unacceptable,” Roscoe said to him.

The shop space, its contents so incongruous with what was going on, seized the words and froze them. The air twanged and vibrated.

“That is unacceptable,” Roscoe repeated, gaining power. “It’s always been unacceptable, and it’s my fault for not telling you before, but I’m telling you now: you can’t talk to my employees like that. You can’t talk to my friends like that. I’m not interested in someone who feels they have a right to speak to people like that; if that’s so impossible for you to quit doing, then this stops right here. Bobby? This stops here. Right now. There’s no compromise. Do you understand?”

Bobby had clutched one arm around his stomach, as if seized with sudden cramps during this speech. He wiped his face with his hand, words out of reach.

“And you!” Roscoe turned on Jules, who leaned so far back on the counter he was in danger of injury. “You, buster, are not nineteen anymore! You’re old enough to know when you should act like the bigger man! No screaming! No silent treatment! And quit saying faggot! Both of you!” He gracefully included Harper; nobody was left out.

Everybody, stunned, waited for something. Nobody knew what.

“I’m sorry,” someone said quietly. It was Bobby, who among all in the shop, was the only one standing alone. “I’m really terribly sorry. I’m acting exactly as –” he cut himself off. “Well, exactly as was said. And it might seem easy to say this,” he explained, this time to Roscoe. “But I’m truly ashamed right now. I don’t know what to do.”

Roscoe struggled not to wilt in the face of this weakness.  “I want you to apologize to Jules,” he said, doubling down.

Bobby veered toward Jules like a well-trained child. “Jules, I’m sorry,” he said, very simply, and seemed on the verge of saying more before a surge of emotion disfigured his face; he hid again behind his hand.

Jules contrary to the situation, whispered to Harper: “what do I do?”

“Traditionally, one accepts,” Harper advised.

“Right,” Jules said. “I accept. Uh. Sorry for calling you a neocon and the f-word and haggard and unloved and a queen.”

Bobby laughed shortly and bitterly, almost on the verge of tears, and not one of them would have known how to move forward if not for Jackie, who cleared his throat and said, quite loud, “Roscoe, have you seen that shithead Danny Bride sneaking around at all?”

“What?” Some of Roscoe’s signature haplessness retook; after such decisive behavior, the change was like a douse of cold water. Everybody looked around confused, freed from some spell. “I don’t – pardon me?”

“Well.” Jackie scratched his head, one of his other favorite gestures, and stepped away from the counter. “If you see him, tell that chickenhead the longer he stays away from me, the worse I’ll rip him up. Don’t parse it gentle – he doesn’t really understand stuff that way.” Jackie approached Bobby, who leaned back, stunned. “I’m Jackie,” said Jackie, and he held out his hand. He shook the tips of Bobby’s offered fingers in a gentlemanly manner. “Jackie. You’ll see me around. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Enchanted,” Bobby said, his eyes now dry and stable.

“Right,” Roscoe said, as Jackie trundled through the door exactly the same as he’d entered it. “Right. So, there’s that. And now,” he placed his hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “If you don’t mind, we have reservations, don’t we?”

“We do,” Bobby said, a little thick in the throat and not unsurprised at Roscoe touching him. He did not touch back, and something about the pain of this unmatched gesture made Jules and Harper start bustling around for anything to do but watch. “Yes, if you like, we do.”

“I’ll be back later,” Roscoe called out as he led Bobby away. “And one of you should really fix that rack. You know, if you aren’t too busy working.”

“Sure, big daddy,” Harper said. “Say the word and I’ll polish the boots you don’t own.”

Roscoe, the bigger man, let this go unchallenged. The door jinged and janged.

Jules, quick to recover and his enviable plastic brain ready for life’s next great mystery turned to Harper and asked, “how come Jackie knows you’re a bottom?”

-

Outside, far enough from the shop door but not enough from the bar, Roscoe grabbed Bobby and swung him around. “I’m not actually a yeller,” he said.

Bobby blinked, once at him, once toward the smokers lounging on the façade, then he seemed to give up and held Roscoe back – he didn’t notice.

“I’m not,” Roscoe insisted. “I don’t shout. I don’t make demands. I’m not that kind of person. But I couldn’t stand myself if I didn’t do everything possible to live with myself and keep you here. Because I want all of this. I want all of this, alright? These are my people and I want you here with me. Are you listening?”

Bobby, now eloquent beyond words, stared back at him with due attention. Roscoe understood exactly what Neil had seen in him – he had looked at the right time and caught a moment of breaking-open in a face that could be kind or cruel. An opening so large and so tender you thought you could stick your hand in – but you couldn’t – and Roscoe, looking back on what he had assumed of Bobby before, knew he’d been blind to the man right in front of him, this stranger peering into his face right now, who wanted to meet him too; the regular guy that he was.

The previous night, over the phone, after laughing himself sick over the sexual hijinks, Martin laid down his own reasoning. “Can I tell you,” Martin had asked, “about a mindset that helped me when I was in a tough spot about what my relationship with the kid was going to be? There were the usual issues with honesty and fear, on both sides. But, you know, all that stuff gets carried along by the realities of the situation as they present themselves. The age difference, being one of them. Which some might call significant to unacceptable.”

(I’m aware, Roscoe had said, bitchy – Bobby was only six years younger.)

“It’s especially hard when the younger in that kind of situation has only ever had shitty experiences with adults in authority. Grown-up is such a fuckless phrase, isn’t it?” Martin remarked. “Kids don’t like grown-ups. They don’t want to bang around with grown-ups. They don’t want to trust grown-ups. But boy, when you look like one, especially in comparison, it’s easy to act the part, right? And maybe a little bit of you – him, whoever – does need a grown-up sometimes, but you can’t sustain a mature relationship like that. You know, a mature relationship with the works. Anyway,” Martin continued. “I sort of had a talk with myself. Then I had a talk with him, about what I was going to do – what I was going to do, listen – and what I was going to do, was start giving him very real, very tangible experiences to help him work out emotionally that I wasn’t a grown-up – I was a man.”

He waited, sat with the obvious to see the deeper meaning beneath what Martin was saying, before realizing Martin was not that kind of person – none of his friends were.

(You’re telling me to man up? That’s it?)

“I am, huh,” Martin said. “Yeah, that is exactly what I’m telling you to do. Because you’re the boss, and those are your employees, and that’s your boyfriend. They may whine and cry and get scared, but they need you to act the part. They’ll either calm down that they have a lead to follow – or they’ll man up themselves one day, god willing.”

(And how exactly does a man discover the right decision to make? The right decision that gets him everything he wants?)

“Let’s not get too essentialist,” Martin said. “Nobody on earth gets the privilege of one-hundred percent certainty. That’s what makes our choices so important. Even if things go wrong, now or in the future, we have to know the decisions we made in the moment were acts of love.”

Martin paused for a long time. Roscoe could literally see him shrugging, oh well! From 2,000 miles away, the sadness was, for a millisecond, awful and acute. Then it was gone.

(My old man set those up for me. Is that what he called you?)

“No,” Martin had said. “Jules called me Dad.”

Roscoe, back in the moment outside the bar, held Bobby in his arms and had not a clue what the next move would be to give everyone everything they wanted. But Bobby, in his own wisdom, let himself break open further.

“I don’t want to impede on your plans,” he suggested, shyly. “But exactly how attached are you to those reservations?”

Down the street, in the opposite direction than planned, arm in arm. Roscoe had seen it happen to others plenty, and now that he was living it, wasn’t sure where his mind was supposed to be besides anchored to some bizarre, blank emotion others would call calm. Bobby might change his mind before they reached Roscoe’s apartment; he might not. Roscoe might choke in bed at the critical moment; he might not. He put his arm around Bobby’s neck and walked in the dark and hoped he’d be strong enough to put his arm around the whole rest of his life. Everywhere, he thought, thousands of people were rolling over and doing just that, staring forward at a bulwark of love that might fail – and they put their arm around it.

These are the acts that convince us we’ve become adults, Martin had said.

It stings; right?

[zet-sway]

Fanfic: Comm Buoy Secure Encryption

Or, Shakarios Part 2: Revenge of the Garrus

[Read on AO3] - Rated E for EXTREMELY SPICY TIMES

Pairing: Garrus/Thane/FShep | Rating: 18+ | Words: ~5700

The word Roshun is borrowed from bluerose5. Check out her fics for more shakarios!

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Two and a half years. It had been nearly two and a half years.

“Welcome home, Vakarian.”

The customs agent waves him on through to the orbital shuttles, and he’s off. The familiar glow of re-entry almost makes him feel normal again. He’s strapped in with a handful of other civilians. One of them is muttering to their companion about the running news segment.

“Authorities are investigating a possible link between the recent activation of the Omega-4 Relay and an explosive event near the galactic core.”

He shuts his eyes. No one would believe him anyway.

They’re about to touch down when his omni-tool pings. 

| SHEP: Let us know you got there safe, big guy.

There’s a photo attachment. Shepard is grinning wide next to Thane, his lips upturned in a timid smile.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The first week goes by in a whirlwind. There’s hardly time to think between Solana’s wedding and his father’s questions. Where have you been these last two years? Cerberus is an enemy of the state. People don’t come back from the dead, Garrus. 

But Shepard had. 

“The way you talk about her,” Solana says one day, “It’s like you don’t believe she’s real.”

Thane talks about her that way, too, he thinks. Maybe that’s the only reason he does believe she’s real. Thane’s eidetic memory is one of the few things keeping him sane in that regard. The memory of their night together resurfaces and he fights to control the flange in his voice.

“You should meet her. You should meet both of them.”

“Both of them?” Solana asks, confusion intoned beneath her layered voice. Her eyes narrow with the understanding that he’s not telling her everything.

But he just shakes his head, as yet unwilling to share the warmth that blooms in his chest when he thinks of them.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The second week tests his mental fortitude. 

“I believe you, but Cerberus doesn’t have the resources for it," his father says with a sidelong glance. "They’re just a bunch of ex-military assholes who never should have left the Sol System.”

“I don’t know where they get their money, dad. But I’m telling you they had a direct line to the Illusive Man.”

“Did you speak with him personally?”

Garrus shakes his head.

“Damn coward thinks he’s some kind of Shadow Broker,” Castis mutters. “Look, son. You're making bold claims. It’ll be a hard sell without data.”

“Hold on, I’ll send you the ship schematics.” Garrus punches up his omni-tool to transfer the data.

His father nods. “I’ll pass this up the chain. Dig through what you have and send me anything else.”

Garrus turns his attention back to his omni-tool to make sure he hasn't missed anything. As he's sifting through what footage he was able to collect on his visor, a message pops up from Shepard. It's been a few days since he heard from her, but that's not abnormal - typical hangup with interstellar data and comm buoys.

When he opens the message, he nearly chokes on his own tongue.  

| SHEP: Miss you, hotshot.

His eyes are greeted with a lurid sight. Shepard stares back at him, her hair fanned out over softly wrinkled, white pillows. She licks her lips and smirks, sets her omni-tool down on the nightstand, revealing her state of undress - completely naked from the waist down, black camisole bunched up over her breasts. Garrus' eyes go wide when he realizes Thane's head is buried between her legs. She arches her back and threads her fingers through his crest, urging him on.

Stunned to silence, Garrus fumbles for the mute on his omni-tool and exits the message before she starts getting loud. 

Castis glances up from his terminal. "What's the matter?"

"N- nothing," he says, probably too quickly. "...spam call."

Garrus braces himself for more questions, but blessedly, his father says nothing. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Garrus doesn’t want to admit he can’t stop thinking about (and rewatching) this ridiculous (hot) clip of Thane going down on Shepard. Worse yet, he doesn’t know how to respond to such a message. The nagging thoughts follow him through stuffy  hierarchy debriefs until finally, he fires off a message he instantly kicks himself for.

| GV: Warn a guy next time.

Her reply comes through just two hours later, while he's having dinner with Solana and her partner.

| SHEP: Consider yourself warned.

A forwarded attachment from Thane follows within seconds, and his finger hovers over the innocuous notification labeled "no subject" before he puts two and two together. 

They're both in on this.

Hours later, when he's finally alone, Garrus holds his breath as he downloads the vid and transfers it to his visor. 

Shepard's eyes stare right back at him.

She's kneeling, unzipped hoodie framing the dog tags resting on her bare chest. Her gaze is heavy - she knows he’s watching - so intense that he doesn't realize what her hands are doing until Thane's twin shafts are extricated from his leggings - hard and proud, and inches from her mouth. 

Garrus mutters a breathy swear, reaching between his legs to soothe his hardness, already growing strong. Before he even knows what he's doing, his own cock is in his hand. 

She swipes her tongue over the tip of each length, one by one. Her hand curls around his upper shaft and Garrus can hear Thane's soft sigh out of frame as she begins to stroke him. Her dark lips push against the head of Thane’s lower length, her mouth opening around him. He slides effortlessly into her throat. Garrus can practically feel her - getting oral from another species isn’t something any turian could ever forget. Watching her give the same pleasure to Thane - blessed (and cursed) with the intimate knowledge of how he tastes - is the sweetest torture. 

She works him as only she could, hands and mouth and shoulders moving together, a visual chorus of action that makes his head spin - is she performing for Thane or for him? She must want it bad. 

There's a soft "Siha'' from off screen. She moans as one scaled hand cards through her hair. They’re impossibly beautiful together, their sounds of mutual pleasure distorting his reality, an emotional tailspin of lust and affection. 

And then something in the background catches his eye that sends him flying over the edge. 

They’re in his bunk - his own fucking bunk - tucked into the corner of the main battery.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

If the first vid had been distracting, the second was downright criminal. 

“You look like you hardly slept last night,” Castis says with a flange of disapproval in his voice. 

Garrus shrugs, having hardly heard the man. Papers and datapads are strewn across his makeshift workstation with intel they’ll be bringing to the hierarchy. He’d slept alright - about three hours, after his traitor dick kept him awake long after he’d tried to drain its frustration. 

Only one week left on Palaven, and he’s beginning to think they’d meant to sabotage his trip from the get-go. Commander fucking Shepard is sexting him on turian comm channels from the other side of the fucking galaxy. His hide feels tight - his pants, even tighter. His cock feels like an insatiable parasite sucking the blood from his body.

“Where are you going?” His father asks as Garrus rises from his desk without a word.

“Gonna shower before we head out.”

“Make it quick.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

| GV: Hey

Shepard views Garrus' attachment while stuffing half a sandwich in her mouth. He's leaning against a shower stall, his plates shining with hot water. One hand reaches down to his considerable length and she nearly chokes, her eyes bulging  when he wraps a taloned hand around himself, slowly pumping with a tight fist. 

| GV: Never would have pegged you two for a bunch of cockteases. When I get back there…

| GV: I hope you're ready.

A quiet rasp floats from her omni-tool, and Shepard slams her hand on the mute button.

Only a few feet away, Tali is attaching a custom stock to her shotgun. "Did you hear that?" she asks, looking around for the source of the very sexual but decidedly non-human sigh that had just come from Shepard's direction. 

Shepard coughs, trying to remember to chew the rest of her sandwich so it doesn't choke her on its way down. 

"Hear what?" 

Tali's expression is unreadable beneath her helmet, but Shepard swears she sees her luminous eyes narrow as she hurries past toward the elevator. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Garrus smirks to himself when her reply comes through a day later (sadly, without an attachment this time). 

| SHEP: Bring it on.

One more night on Palaven. He can't resist sending an instant response.

| GV: Be careful what you wish for.

Before his message is even finished processing, an attachment from Thane arrives. Subject line: “See you soon.”

The audio comes through, deafening in the silence of his room: shifting blankets and skin on skin as Thane lays her down on her side. He's behind her, all bare scales and muscled arms and roaming hands as he kisses her neck, massages her breast, before drifting lower. Garrus can hear him murmuring into her skin as he molds himself against her naked body, devouring her with his embrace. 

And then he grips her thigh and raises it up - and fuck. To see the dripping need between her legs floods him with the memory of her scent, and he's at full mast in moments.

He grits his teeth in frustration, torn between losing himself to this fantasy and fearing to blink, should he miss a single moment. Thane's fingers ripple through her folds and reemerge, glistening with her desire. And then he's moving, touching, positioning the lower of his dual cocks behind her and she moans. Her body tenses, her mouth falls open as he pushes into her tight ass from behind, Thane nearly shaking with restraint. He watches as they lose themselves to one another, Thane slowly fucking the breath from her body with each long, deep thrust. His chest feels tight - eyes fixed on the plush, glistening softness of her empty cunt - he should be there, sliding his tongue inside her, his fingers, his aching cock -

Thane's fingertips spread her open and circle over her clit. Shepard's face melts into bliss, her head pitched back, shoulders tense, breath fluttering in her chest as she comes hard, all while her pussy visibly clenches around nothing.   

| SHEP: I told him to save room for you.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Eighteen hours later, he's standing in the SR2's airlock, practically vibrating with anticipation. Decontamination never felt so long. 

There's no real reason to assume she's waiting for him on the other side of this door. But the decon VI helpfully tells him "CO Shepard has the deck" and the simple sound of her name makes his plates itch under his armor. 

He checks his omni-tool for the seventh time. Nothing from either of them yet. 

The doors hiss open to a quiet flight deck. 

"Welcome back, Gary," Joker says with a sideways smile. "Get any ass on short leave?" 

Garrus doesn't even have the mental bandwidth to roll his eyes at the dumb human nickname. You don't know the half of it, he thinks to himself. 

"Like you wouldn't believe," he mutters. Garrus doesn't even try to control his eager subvocals - Joker can't hear them anyway. 

"Great, cause Shepard said to put your ass to work as soon as you boarded. Something about calibrating her internal heat exchangers."

Garrus shoulders his duffel and heads toward the CIC.

He's fifteen steps down the gangway when he overhears EDI in the cockpit: "The internal heat exchangers are performing as expected, Jeff." 

Oh. 

Oh.

He punches up the elevator for the captain's cabin.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Even if she spends little time there, Shepard's cabin smells different from the rest of the ship. Her scent hits him like a wave as he crosses the threshold. Somehow, the anticipation feels worse than his teenage years. 

He exhales sharply when he finds Thane lounging on the sofa, shirt off and pants undone - as hard as the day is long. And Shepard - fucking hell - the look in her eyes is pure satisfaction, a woman who knows precisely what kind of trouble she's starting. She’s on the floor, between his knees. Her mouth is stuffed full of him. 

Play it cool, Vakarian. 

"Internal heat exchangers, huh?" he drawls with a raised brow.

With a wet smack of her lips, she pulls off of Thane's cock and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Fuck. Life just hasn't been the same since he's been burdened with the memory of her hot throat. 

"Yep. Knew you were the right man for the job," she says with a playful smile. 

Thane's eyes are locked on him, and there's something in his stare that seems different from last time he’d come up to their cabin. A new kind of desire, this time interwoven with… openness. Trust. And yet, after weeks of fucking his own hand to the tune of their escapades, Garrus is still just a little unsure how to engage them. He fumbles for the confidence he knows he has, assessing the look on Thane's face with calculated consideration. 

An opportunity, then, he decides. 

"You know," Garrus muses. "I'm more of a gunnery guy, but I think I might be able to help." 

He knows exactly how that sentence sounds, but it has the desired effect, what with the soft chuckle he earns from Shepard. He takes a step forward, lingers maybe just a little too long on the pale green scales of Thane's abdomen, noting the subtle uptick in the man's vitals through his visor. 

"...in fact, my scans are showing we're on an overheat trajectory. Could cause some serious damage."

"Oh no," Shepard whispers, covering her mouth in mock surprise, as though she isn't face to face with a veritable bouquet of alien cock. "Officer Vakarian, what should we do?" 

Her eyes dart between Garrus and Thane, and the way she licks her lips makes his hide feel like it’s going to burn straight through his civvies. His next words rise unbidden before he can stop them.

"Both of you, on the bed. Now."

He’ll never forget how her brows shoot straight up. "Yes, sir," she says with a playful lilt in her voice. Shepard turns as she rises, giving him an eyeful of how her panties are endearingly riding up one smooth, round cheek. 

Sir, he thinks. Shepard is calling him sir.

Thane’s voice is full of warmth as he stands and steps close. "We've missed you, Roshun,” Thane touches his chin and leans up to press a kiss against his mouth. Garrus can smell Shepard's musk on his hand. "I trust Palaven was an enjoyable stay for you?"

Garrus' chest rumbles as the drell pivots away to join her. His blood feels heavy and hot, his cock curving hard against the inside of his codpiece.

"Yeah, it was great," he says with no small amount of sarcasm "While I was meeting with the Primarch's aides, you were getting sucked off in the battery."

"A shame you couldn't have joined us," Thane says with a sly smile. 

Shepard parts her knees for him as they fold together in bed. She pulls her black camisole off head and their hands connect over her breast, Thane's graceful palm kneading in slow circles. Through his visor, he can see their heart rates climb to a steady thrum as they mold together, skin to skin. 

"You going to join us, big guy?" Her voice tightens as Thane thumbs her nipple. "I thought you were dying to get back here." She shimmies out of her panties and Garrus manages one single, suffocating glimpse of the intimate shadow between her thighs before she winds one long leg around Thane's. The smothered groan she pulls from him tells Garrus everything he needs to know about how wet she is, and spirits be damned…

"You spent the last three weeks teasing me," he says, stepping toward them. "Seems only fair I should return the favor."

"I'm beginning to think we may not have teased you enough, Roshun." Thane rasps, bowing his head to Shepard's chest. The dark green stripes criss-crossing his back shift under Shepard's hands, subtle ridges of his spine catching the low light and leading Garrus' eyes downward. Propped up on his knees, the man's ass is center stage, sizable lengths jutting from his undone fly, both erect and leaking precome on the pristine white sheets. 

Restraint is a word rapidly evaporating from Garrus' vocabulary. His hands connect with Thane's hips and the man rumbles in acknowledgement, pressing back into his touch. He spares a moment to peel Thane's too-tight pants off his thighs, lets his wide palm roam the curve of Thane's backside, and in a flash of impulse… gives his ass a firm smack. 

The action stuns even himself - his copper-blue blood flashing cold in his veins as he braces himself for reprimand. 

Instead, Thane gasps, a surprised, vulnerable sound that shoots straight to his groin. It makes him damn near feral, darkness and frayed control collecting in the corners of his eyes. Thane's firm ass pushes back into his hands and he feels the first thread of inhibition snap within him.

With a groan, Garrus presses himself up against Thane’s backside and slips an arm around him, palming his cocks. 

“Damn, Vakarian,” Shepard huffs. “A few weeks away really left you hungry.”

"Kind of unfair that you two were rolling in the sheets all that time without me," he says, subvocals keening so strongly in arousal it makes his throat raw. "I think it's my turn to call the shots." 

He pushes a palm into the center of Thane's back, savoring the groan of need as his head is forced low between Shepard's legs. Just as Garrus had hoped, the position puts his face barely a hand's width away from her bared sex.

Thane thinks he knows where this is going - and he's half right - but as his hands grip her thighs to pull her closer, Garrus swats his ass again. The shudder and heavy-lidded look he earns could melt him straight through to the engineering deck. 

"You'll taste her when I say to, understand?"

Face down, ass up, the position is compromising, but there's no reason Thane couldn't free himself if he wanted to. Garrus' eyes rake over him like a man starved, finally sparing a moment to free his own erection from his pants as he takes in the pair beneath him. 

"Damn," she whispers as she begins to tease the wetness between her legs. Garrus' tongue is thick in his throat, his body burning so hot he has to yank at the buttons closing his shirt. His blood surges as cool starship air hits his keel and he reaches for her, deliriously cinching her small human wrists together in one three-fingered hand, pulling them away from the ache she's so keen to satisfy. 

Part of him thinks he's already gone too far. But Shepard smiles, voluntarily lifting both her arms over her head in a gesture that makes her look especially enticing - to say nothing of the attractive things the position does to her breasts. 

"Alright, killer," she says with a smile. "Show me what you got."

"That's my girl," he murmurs. He runs a hand along her thigh, one taloned thumb reaching to swipe the slick heat between her legs. "You want it so bad you'll do anything I tell you."

"Almost anything."

"We'll see," he says with a smirk, circling his thumb over her clit before pulling away, pressing that same thumb to Thane's lips. Thane accepts without question, warm mouth engulfing him, eagerly sucking Shepard's essence off his hand.

"Got a lot of steam to blow off after that trip, Krios. Can you handle it?" 

Thane practically purrs in response, shifting himself against Garrus’ hips and peering back at him over his shoulder. His sheath is glistening at the root of his twin cocks, and Garrus gathers some of the slick fluid as he presses one blunted finger against Thane's opening. 

"I am at your service, Roshun."

Garrus doesn't waste a second, breaching Thane's opening with a slow press of his hand. The heat within grips him like a vice, hot and tight. He feels different than anyone he's ever had before, and the delirious pull of pleasure to come spurs him on even further. 

"Spread her open for me, Krios." Arousal bleeds into his voice as he unfastens his pants with his free hand. Thane obediently pushes on her thighs, spreading her wide. "Be good and I might let you have a taste." 

"You fucking better," Shepard groans. Thane's mouth is inches from her flushed cunt, his breath coming hot and hard. 

"You feel that, sweetheart?"

She nods, hands clenching above her head. 

"Tell me why I shouldn't just fuck him over you like this? Maybe show you what it's like, getting a front row seat lightyears away from the action." The thought of Thane moaning hot over her untouched center as he takes his fill of her lover's body…

Shepard has the nerve to flutter her lashes at him. "That the best you can do?"

He growls, twists his finger in Thane's channel and the man gasps, bucking back against his hand. 

"Demon woman," he huffs. "It was your idea, wasn't it, Shep? Teasing me like that. Showing me all the wild places you guys fuck each other on this ship?"

"You liked it," she bites out. 

"You bet your sweet human ass I did. Doesn't mean I won't make you pay for it." 

She scoffs. "Maybe next time I'll -"

"Next time I want you to call me on the QEC. I want a live feed."

She actually laughs at that. The ship is only equipped with one entangled channel: a severed connection to the Illusive Man. But the thought of misusing a wildly expensive miracle of particle physics just to watch her fuck doesn't appear to be lost on her. She meets his eyes and wiggles her hips, a blush creeping across her cheeks.  

"Hope you didn't expect me to delete that footage," He continues as he withdraws and cleans his hand, watching as Thane's tight hole releases him. "Maybe Thane and I should compare notes sometime."

Thane takes a moment to adjust his position, moving his knees just little wider, his ass just a little higher, ready and willing as Garrus has ever seen. A quick detour to her nightstand and the lubricant from their last encounter is exactly where he remembered it should be.

Eyes never leaving them, Garrus uncaps the bottle and squeezes some into his palm as he orders: "Show me your tongue, Thane." 

Shepard tenses as Thane's tongue darts out, hovering a breath away from her apex.

"Good man," Garrus huffs, coating his cock in the slick substance. "Go on, give her a taste." 

Fixated on them, he barely hears how she groans when Thane's red, bifurcated tongue connects with her heated slit. Garrus can't help but stroke the taut scales of Thane's ass as his tongue glides slowly along her center, releasing a guttural sigh of satisfaction as he goes

"Just like that. Keep going, just like that," he murmurs, resting the tip of his cock at Thane's entrance. "Are you ready for me?"

Thane pauses in his exploration of her, his raspy voice nearly a whisper: "Please, Roshun."

"What was that?"

The drell clears his throat. "Please," he offers, louder this time. His breaths come slow and heavy against Shepard's cunt and he tips his hips back toward Garrus' length.

A hand roams over his backside, talons dragging along smooth scales as Garrus taps the tip of his cock against Thane's hole. "You can do better than that, Krios. Tell me what you want."

Shepard, with her arms trembling above her head, grinds her hips down on Thane's mouth and he practically whines his frustration. Pressing his palms into the bed for better leverage, he thrusts himself back against Garrus' hips and huffs against Shepard's sex, writhing between the two of them as though he can't decide whether to suck her cunt or fill himself with turian cock. 

It's a victory in and of itself to see calm, reserved Thane Krios worked up on desire. Garrus purrs, slowly thrusting his length along the cleft of the man's ass. 

"Come on, Krios." He reaches forward, a hand cupping Thane's jaw to hold him just shy of Shepard's center, cock pressing hard at the rim of his entrance. "I don't think you want it bad enough."

"Please, Roshun," he rasps, throat puffing out in desperation. "Make me yours."

Perfect. He's perfect.

Garrus shakes as he pushes forward, breaching Thane's opening, rapidly losing the more rational parts of himself as the man's tight, hot channel stretches around him. Slowly, he tells himself. Go slowly. 

The low, guttural sound Thane makes is pure rapture. Slack-jawed, his eyes squeeze shut as Garrus pries him open. "Ocean take me,” he groans, head dropping against Shepard's pubic bone. 

Garrus squeezes his hips. "Don't get distracted, Krios." Obediently, Thane's head rises, his eyes raking up the bare expanse of Shepard's quivering body. "You don't finish until she does."

Having already been intimately acquainted with the way she tastes, there’s something intense and visceral about watching the way Thane teases apart her slit with his mouth. She shudders beneath his mouth, biting back a moan as he drags the meat of his tongue upwards along her clit. The motion pushes back her hood, opening her further to sensation. When he passes over her pearl again, she tenses all over, her hands clenched in the pillows above her head. Garrus can't help but vocalize his appreciation, caught between the dizzying sight of Thane’s mouth in her cunt and the intense, tight heat clutching his cock. 

“Hot,” he mutters, rocking back, sinking back in.  "She tastes good, doesn’t she?”

Thane gasps as Garrus pushes inside him again, gasping for breath over Shepard’s glistening clit. “Incredible,” he manages. "An ocean like none other."

The memory of her taste is as alive as the slick, gleaming flesh beneath Thane's mouth. Garrus stretches himself over the other man, long limbs and body arcing easily within reach of the action he's only now starting to accept he has some control over. The position forces him to the hilt inside Thane's channel, the new angle making Thane’s tongue stutter on its steady exploration of Shepard's pussy.

He shoves one taloned hand against her thigh and she gasps, obediently spreading her legs wider for him. “I want a taste too,” he says, running his palm over Thane's throat. 

Hips rocking of their own accord, Garrus runs one thick finger down Shepard's wet slit and then pushes it inside, subvocals screaming his need as she moans for him. With Thane's tongue on her apex, Garrus lets himself linger. How he'd gone from reckless vigilante to fuck buddies with the dead Commander Shepard and renowned assassin Thane Krios is anyone’s guess. But here and now, the position he's found himself in is not lost on him. Finger-deep in her cunt with his cock buried in her lover's ass, he's inside both of them in one way or another. The heat is more scorching than any Palaven summer. 

"Spirits, you both…" The words are meaningless, unintelligible, his hips rocking slow and deep against Thane's ass in attempt to soothe the aching, consuming desire to somehow fuck them both simultaneously.

Somehow, he manages to withdraw his hand and bring it to his mouth to taste her salt. 

"Should've warned me that humans taste so good.” He savors her, each drop of her essence reducing him lower and lower until it feels like he’s drowning in lust. His hips have a mind of their own, easing his length in and out of Thane’s clutching heat. “Do you think about me when he fucks you? That why you couldn't stop sexting me?"

She whines as Thane gives her clit a stiff lick, and her voice is strained. “You bet your ass I do.”

“I’m listening." He gives Thane’s ass a firm squeeze. 

“Wanted you hot,” she manages. “Ready to cut loose.”

Garrus shudders. His hips snap into the man beneath him and Thane gasps, the sound muffled between Shepard's legs. 

“That’s my girl. Give her more - I think we both want to hear all the pretty sounds she makes.”

“Roshun,” Thane’s voice wavers against her. He's so close that his beautiful, verdant lips are stroking her with every measured lap of his tongue. 

“I’m going to ruin you,” Garrus growls, hardly able to form a rational thought as white-hot heat erodes his mind. 

His eyes fall closed, he lets his large hands roam over the stripes on Thane's back, the delicate pleated frills at his sides. It’s so easy to tease him, gently grazing talons over vermilion flesh, before traveling lower still, gripping the crease of his thigh, moving over his as yet neglected dual cocks. His hand closes around both of Thane’s shafts. The man's tongue slip into Shepard’s opening, and Garrus can hardly hold himself back. His hand sets the pace, and his hips follow. 

“Gonna fuck you so hard you’ll never think of anyone but me. But us.”

He doubles over Thane’s back, pumping into him with vigor. 

“And when you call me on that QEC," he pants, "I want you both naked and begging on that lowlife Cerberus conference table. I want you to see me stroking myself as you moan to every star between us."

“Yes. God- fuck-" she quakes as Thane moans long and deep against her. "God damn-"

He’s fucking Thane so hard that his thrusts carry momentum into her body. Thane’s jaw crashes against her cunt, her body jolting with each movement. By now he’s long since ready to admit to himself that he loves the way her tits shake. 

“Use your hands, Thane,” he pants. "Show me."

Thane is quick to comply. He teases his fused digits from her clit down to her opening; his ruby cheek rests slack-jawed on her thigh as he pushes inside her. Shepard is so damn wet that he can see the gleaming, viscous curve of her fluid gathering around his fingers as her cunt swallows them down. 

“Are you close, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” she bites out. Garrus’ hand tightens on Thane’s cocks and he can see the drell’s eyes fall closed, his mouth parted and gasping. 

“Give it to her,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t stop until you both finish.” 

Thane's whole body vibrates with an eager trill. His mouth covers her sex, devouring her like she's the only thing in the world worth tasting, all fingers and tongue and desperate fury, working her into a quivering, wailing mess. Garrus lets the last thread of his control snap, pounding into him from behind, losing himself to the heat and the softness and the sweet give of Thane's flesh beneath his hands. His talons prick at glossy scales and all it seems to do is spur Thane on; the man thrusts back against him with eager rasps of pleasure, lost between Shepard's trembling thighs. 

Though he'd demanded she keep them over her head, Garrus doesn't argue when she lowers one hand to her breast and the other to Thane's head, stroking his sensitive cheek. Thane's free hand joins Garrus' over his twin lengths, guiding him to the perfect grip to send him over the edge. 

"Fuck, Thane- fuck-" 

Her back arches, grip tightening around whatever she can reach as she hits her peak. Garrus can practically see her cunt sucking around Thane's fingers as she goes, crying out with each searing stroke of his tongue. 

"Don't you dare stop, Krios."

Thane can only groan as Shepard writhes against him, her hips twitching in oversensitive pleasure-pain. And it isn't long until Garrus feels Thane's body go tense, his cocks stiffening further in his hand. As the man's channel spasms around him, Thane's abundant release flows warm and wet over Garrus' fingers.

It's too much, too fast, too hot - he's right there on the edge, head spinning and throat raw. Garrus shakes as he thrusts deep, lost to the gripping heat around his cock and the colors exploding behind his closed eyes. With a final strained gasp, he finishes, releasing pulse after pulse of hot cum deep into Thane's suffocating heat. 

For a long moment, the three of them are reduced to shallow breaths and silence. Shepard falls boneless against the pillows, her body radiant with a satin sheen of exertion. Garrus extricates himself slowly from Thane's body and the man crumples between her legs, Garrus' thick spend already oozing from his twitching channel. He smiles in blissful contentment, resting his head in the crook of Shepard's splayed knee. 

They're a damn mess. They're perfect. 

"Jesus H Christ," Shepard breathes after a while. "We are absolutely doing that again."

Thane makes a soft sound in agreement and mumbles something unintelligible. Garrus can't help but smile, watching their sated drell sag further into the mattress, stretching his tired legs and untensing his spine.

"I think you killed him, big guy."

"Looks like.” 

Thane clears his throat and manages, "Thoroughly calibrated, Roshun."

Shepard gives a short laugh and pulls herself off the bed. 

"We missed you," she murmurs, letting Garrus pull her into his arms and nuzzle into her hair. She's so small against him like this - it's almost impossible to compare her to the hardened woman he knows her to be. 

"Thinking about making this a regular thing, then?"

"Without question," the boneless sack of scales formerly known as Thane announces from the bed. He inhales deep, and with a tired shove, rolls on to his back. "It's been far too long since I've been had with such… enthusiasm." His eyes look dreamy and unfocused, his hands slowly settling on the pale scales of his abdomen. 

“You could’ve just asked,” Shepard says with a roll of her eyes, walking over to the shower. “I would’ve picked up a strap for you.” 

“Some needs…” he says without opening his eyes. “...some needs are buried so deep they are difficult to articulate.”

Warmth wells in his chest. “Glad I could help you dig that out.” 

Their eyes lock as Thane pushes himself up on his elbows. Garrus clasps his hand and hauls him up. With a satisfied hum, Thane presses a soft kiss to his mouth. 

It’s in the little things, he thinks. 

“...Hey Garrus?”  Shepard calls from the restroom. “Does your visor record video?”

[mariacallous]

To understand how the American media landscape fractured, one must first understand the brands that forged it. According to Faris Yakob, cofounder of creative consultancy Genius Steals and author of Paid Attention, advertisers created the neutral “view from nowhere” voice in media. In the 19th and 20th centuries, national brands looking to grow customers wouldn’t partner with biased publications. But everything changed when ad tech arrived.

“People started tagging their digital media buys so it wouldn’t appear next to topics like homosexuality, or Covid, to avoid getting into clusters,” Yakob says. “But that means that the news isn’t being funded. If you can pick and choose what topics to fund in news, you can distort what is being reported on, to some degree.”

That distortion, like the US Federal Communications Commission’s abolition of the fairness doctrine in 1987, is part of how America got into this mess. Similar to content recommendation algorithms, audience profiles in digital marketing created micro-targeted ads. Those ads are more valuable on multiple screens. Media executive Euan McLeod recalls growing up when “there was no choice” but to watch what his parents were watching. Now each person in a household might be watching something wildly different, and the shared experience has dissolved. Isolated artists are creating for isolated audiences. Is it any wonder that generative AI seems poised to tailor entertainment to audiences of one?

In this world, we can all be George Lucas, using technology to create special editions. Rick gets on the plane with Ilsa. Jack fits on the door with Rose. Ben Solo lives. As Marvel Comics writer Anthony Oliveira says, Andy Warhol was fascinated by the fact that people everywhere drank the same Coke. But the allure of AI content generation, he says, is the same as the Coca-Cola Freestyle: filling your own cup with someone else’s flavors.

But when everyone can just request the narrative path they want, opportunities to hear other people’s stories greatly diminish. “That is a very sad world to live in, because how else are we gonna be conveying our deepest hopes and wishes, what we think should be a vision of the world we want to live in, what we should worry about?" Yang says. "This is what story and art is for.”

Using AI to sanitize content in regions where certain subjects are banned is already possible, especially if actors yield likeness rights. Generative AI means that studios could edit or change the content of some films without consulting the people who signed a contract based on a script, and the only thing stopping them is the possibility of a defamation suit. It sounds unlikely, until you remember that multiple versions of Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse appeared in cinemas.

And animation is an apt comparison: Most changes to entertainment production have made film and TV more like animation or video game development, not less. With current technology, actors can be little more than action figures smashing together, as weightless as they are sexless. With AI, the actors need never leave the trailer. Or exist.

“[Studios will] say it’s for the insurance,” says production designer Blass, suggesting a “Paul Walker scenario” in which a deceased actor’s performance needs generating, because that performance is one of the terms of the film’s business insurance. But in reality, these likenesses could be used to do things that actors would rather not—whether it’s a dangerous stunt or a sex scene.

Generative AI could also be used to edit films in real time, responsive to data-brokered preferences, with algorithms running A/B tests on how much nudity you want based on the customer profile you most closely match.

If this sounds familiar, that’s because it is: In the 1990s, Blockbuster Video refused to stock films like Natural Born Killers and The Last Temptation of Christ. But that tradition goes back even further. Otherwise known as the Hays Code, the Production Code was an industry standard of self-censorship guidelines for major US studios from 1930 to 1968, when it was replaced by the movie ratings system. The Code influenced everything from the Comics Code to parental advisory warnings to video game ratings. It’s why titles from major studios during that period don’t depict graphic violence. It’s also why they lack out-and-proud queer and interracial relationships. But today, a revived Production Code might have very different guidelines. For example, the Pentagon recently announced it would no longer offer technical support to filmmakers who censor their films for the Chinese market.

When I ask McLeod if he thinks America will ever re-adopt the Production Code, he’s unequivocal: “Absolutely. Everything goes in cycles.”

Hollywood’s Future Belongs to People—Not Machines

[mochigobrrrrrrr]

Qin Kha Ottile Srivastava / A workaholic machinist

This character hasn’t always been exclusive to XIV, if anything I always liked making him in different game’s character customizations. Before I only had drawings and placed him in different universes or anything I was obsessed with at the time. Qin’s been more or less a muse for my art work and imaginary best friend since I was 13 yrs old. (I’m weird lemme alone.)

Full Name Qin Kha Ottile-Srivastava Species Au Ra / Hyur Birth Date / Age 3rd Sun of the 6th Astral Moon / 38 yrs Guardian Nophica, The Matron Clan Xaela Gender Male Height / Weight 6'10" / 260lbs Body Type Lean / Mesomorph Hair Color Dirty Blonde Eye Color Chartreuse (left) Hazel (right) With Gold Limbal Ring Distinguishing Features Sparse Facial and Body Scales / Pointed Ears / Tattoos / Intricate Scars / Magitek Tail Birthplace / Current Home Azim Steppe / Empyreum Profession Engineer / Gunsmith Sexual Orientation Bisexual Relationship Status Married - Rajani Srivastava Kith and Kin Shal're Kha (mother) / Lian Ottile (father) Sarnai Kha (non-bio sister) (deceased, age 8) Personality Easygoing / Subdued

Qin has always been a tad introvert and selective about it, only coming out of his shell and outgoing with people he warms up too. Now of late he lives more carefree and opens up more easily, feeling less forced about putting himself into a public setting. He always carries a sarcastic and rowdy demeanor. When the time calls for it, Qin can be serious and strict.

Notable

His early work depended heavily on where he stayed, but he never stayed in one place for too long. Using what skills he had acquired from Azim Steppe, such as hunting and long distance combat, Qin became useful for bounty boards and quick jobs. Soon enough he found himself falling into the life of a mercenary and ran a small company for several years; Qin used it as a means to ship goods from Azim to Limisa and sell hired swords.

One day he found a passion for firearms. The once talented archer became enamored with them; to the point of commissioning his first firearm, He commissioned a custom-built Wander from the Skysteel Manufactory. Since then, it has become his passion to collect and care for each arm he acquired throughout the years. Today, he owns a total of five firearms that he himself modified, not counting his multi tool.

His Magitek tail is one of the many interesting features but how he gained the prosthetic though, is less interesting. Perhaps it’s one story kept between him and the multi-tool responsible. His multi-tool is an ever-expanding arsenal equipped with a: drill cannon, air anchor, chainsaw, and a grenade launcher. The last one was more or less the cause; a simple weapons test involving homemade explosives went horribly wrong. While the initial blast did not cause the majority of his injuries, shrapnel and infection did. Walking around with a stump for a tail didn’t bother him, but it did impact his quality of life. His stump caused balance issues in day-to-day life. A collaborative effort with colleagues and himself soon took off, where they began researching magitek and utilizing their engineering knowledge to fashion a prosthetic tail.

Likes

Traveling

Working (Seriously. You have to make him stop or he won't.)

Drinking (Whiskey served neat.)

Smoking

Solitude

Dressing nice

Dislikes

Alcohol that tastes like piss water.

Pointing at his ears.

Inability to let things go.

Asking him what happened to his tail.

Backstory

Qin Ottile spent most of his childhood raised on the outskirts of the Azim Steppe, growing up in a small Kha village that accepted both Xaela and other races alike. It was there Qin’s mother met his father, a Midlander who traded in Reunion. During the war and unrest caused by the Imperial invasion, a rebellion of pirates from the Ruby Sea managed to broker a trade agreement with the Qestir, whom allowed them to trade fish for much-needed medical supplies. Qin’s father was among the few chosen to trade in Reunion, where he met her. A young Kha woman with dark skin and golden eyes, with scales black as a beautiful midnight. Her lovely smile stole his heart and he would never want to leave this place again. As time went on and trading continued, Qin’s father spent more time with her, even staying for nights on end. Eventually he would never return to the Ruby Sea again.

After living together in the Steppe for a time, the Kha woman would welcome a new life into the world; Half Xaela, Half Hyur. In spite of their love and preparation, nothing they could teach would steel Qin for the lifetime of bullying and bigotry that awaited him. Not fully Xaela. Not fully Hyur. He was stuck in between, constantly struggling to find the place where he fit among them. How do you teach your child to protect themselves from a word they shouldn't have to understand? Discrimination. In spite of being shunned by most of the Xaela, his mother taught him the ways of their people while his father, the pirate, would teach Qin how to defend himself. Even if it meant fighting dirty.

For years he endured, strengthened by the lessons of his parents…And of their people. His people. Qin became an excellent hunter, quite skilled with the bow handed down to him from his grandfather, using his prowess to bring home game for his parents to trade in Reunion. He held his own, proving that not only had he survived but that he thrived, able to protect himself and provide for his family. Amongst Xaela who prided strength above most else, he had at least earned a measure of respect. However, Qin would find his adventuring heart longing to experience the lands his father had spoken of until he, like his father, would leave the land he had known in search of more.

Current

Nowadays, Qin spends his life in Ishgard, working diligently as an engineer for the Skysteel Manufactory, residing within the newly built Empyreum. With old comrades and new, they run a new company where Qin happily spends his days crafting firearms and any invention that comes to mind.

How he found himself where he is now is shrouded in a haze of fractured memories. Bits and pieces of his past life as a mercenary, familiar faces forever blurred, a life in Limsa Lominsa running a company with a forgotten name with freelance adventurers and dear friends alike, all lost in the recesses of Qin’s mind to never recover no matter how much he has tried.

But as old memories fade, new ones arise with just as much curiosity…

The sting of ice and the stench of blood fill Qin’s senses as he stands alone in the alleyways of the Brume.

Or so he thought…

The flutter of wings and a bright turquoise light radiates around him, a memory that shines bright in his mind. A small colorful hummingbird, an uncanny resemblance to the tattoo, perches on his right shoulder. He remembered the voice, a warm voice that brought peace to his very soul. An assurance that even through all of his heartbreak, through all of this fear and doubt and darkness, that there was light, that there was a bright future ahead. Since that day, he came to know this small creature as Sorianna, his guardian, his friend.

One shot "Time was still"

Time was still, yet the signs of an unhurried morning slowly peaked it’s sleeping head out from the horizon. It was dark, still, and the silence deafened any and all ears, though slight movement could be heard from the single occupant within the small confines which the man, who sat at his desk, called an office. With whiskey on his breath, and the embers dancing to their death in a dying fireplace, there was life in this abyss of an office, yes….but it was as if time itself had ceased to be.

A striking eye of gold pierced through the ebony darkness, a feature that always caught anyone’s attention as it shimmered alongside it’s brother eye of chartreuse green, the two scanning the room. From a desk of elder wood and hanging uniforms with tattered, patched holes, to retired guns and a beaten down bow that out-ages it’s current master, there was history in this room. His mind leapt into wandering as his eyes reminisced, memories flooding his mind as he downcast his gaze to the hands that sat before him, one of which held his favorite beverage, whilst the other held something more…

An azure crystal that filled its surroundings with radiance, the crystal was held together by a tattered leather string, decorated with beads to match. A thumb caressed the crystal with affection, this object, this crystal, it meant something to him. His hand gripped and clutched his precious possession…

An abrupt sound of glass broke the eerie silence.

Red, crimson liquid dripped from the halfling’s grasp as shards of the once bottle of whiskey embedded into a callous hand. Overwhelming feelings washed over the small half-Xaela, with tears forming slowly whilst mouth gaping for a scream that never came. Frustration, a clutched bloodied hand raised up, only to crash down onto the elder wood of the desk. The desk was stained with blood, tears, and emotions….yet time was still.

Comfort never came. The only solace Qin could find was rocking his body, back and forth, back and forth, a rhythm that his body knew too well. Over and over, as if a babe in its crib. Doubt filled his heart as the golden eye never left the glisten of the crystal. It was his anchor, his strength, and yet….the darkness, the bastard who went unseen, ate at him, as if a wolf starved of elk, ripping and tearing at his corpse with no end in sight. His heart, soul, his body felt numb. Hues of pink and orange hinted from the outside world, a new dawn was approaching.

Fear, his worst enemy. Failure, doubt, the willingness to believe in himself…it was shattering every fiber in his being, chipping away at the little hope that remained.

Yet time was still.

Qin and Sarnai Kha

Sarnai and Qin had formed an unbreakable friendship as children. You would think they were bothers and sisters, given how close they were. Growing up and living next door to each other, their families practically did everything together. It would have fooled anyone into thinking they were just one big family.

The pair would always start their day doing morning chores together before running off and playing. Sarnai and Qin were so inseparable that their own mothers used to tease them, asking if Qin would be the next Khagan and Sarnai his Nhaama. This obviously embarrassed the two, but everyone knew if fate had kept on its path, they would have ended up together as a bonded pair.

Sadly, that day never came. Sarnai had returned to the lifestream at the tender age of 8 after a tragic hunting accident on Qin's 10th birthday. The young boy had cornered a small game animal, but the commotion had attracted a baras, which had attacked him and Sarnai. It had left Qin with only minor injuries, but his sister... While it was never entirely his fault, he still carried her death in his heart. He was foolish and naive, only wanting to prove his worth. His ego and desire to constantly fit in had led to his sister's fate.

[samsinghtripler]

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[farharbour]

you've been talking about your ocs a lot and i'm curious to who they are/what they're like! if you don't mind me asking, anyway!

i've been looking at this ask all day like a rabid beast waiting to get off work so i could answer it LOL it's so sweet of u to ask ily 🥺💖 i do have a lot of them but i think you might just be talking about jesse? he's the only one i've really been talking about lately

jess is my sosu & main oc; he's a doctor, a synth lover, and tbh he's about as close to a pacifist as you can get in the post-apocalypse lol. i'll talk more at length about some stuff under the cut (this got pretty long so feel free to skip it):

he's high intelligence/perception and low strength/luck. kind of the typical long-range stealth sniper build but it doesn't revolve around crits. truly hates killing anything, even raiders (he still sees the humanity in them despite what they do). he prefers to stay out of combat if at all possible and takes the long way around/will move at a snail's pace if it means he can avoid a fight. his main weapon is a sniper rifle he modified to be able to take custom tranq rounds (mgs3/mgsv tranq sniper my beloved). he has a 10mm sidearm and a knife on him too for close combat should he need it. like he Does know how to fight, he grew up in a military family, but he doesn't like it and would rather exhaust every other option before resorting to violence.

his story is ... complicated lol, it revolves a lot around some of my other ocs/npcs and i still haven't worked out all the nitty-gritty of it even after five years BUT basically pre-war he's a med student getting his doctorate in radiation medicine and his dissertation revolves around studying the new plague. his wife teressa was in law school at the same uni and had a part-time gig as a waitress.

post-war in game world he's aligned with the minutemen until around the time he finds virgil. that's when he decides that all of this is bigger than the minutemen can realistically take on even with his help building them up so he seeks out the railroad and joins up with them. he tries to broker peace with the other factions while working undercover but dez isn't having it so in the end both the brotherhood and the institute get fucking owned and he hates that he wasn't able to find a less violent solution. he breaks away from the railroad post-game and takes doc sun's place as the resident doctor in diamond city with curie as his assistant and nick as his malewife.

he's a synth too! some sort of experimental-type that shaun was working on in secret. he's kind of obsessed with the idea of this family he never had (see synth shaun) and not only wanted to meet his parent but he wanted to test the theory of a synth/robobrain hybrid if that makes sense? like. a whole human brain plopped in a synth body. still thinkin' about this bit tho and the intent/science behind it. mind changed! he is no longer a synth.

i think he's a more interesting character if he gets this idea in his head that he's this synth experiment, succumbs to the fear that plagues the commonwealth, reads too deeply into what kellogg and shaun do and don't tell him... but it's all subtle manipulation, on all sides. in the end he finds out the truth, though, no eternal "what if" question. it still makes the interaction with dima pretty awkward which i like, i love that tension.

a lot of this i've never talked about... and honestly there's a lot more i'm embarrassed to say right now LOL he's such a part of me and a bit of a self-insert in a lot of ways too. and there's a perfectionist streak in me that wants everything to be laid out and perfect before i talk about any of it publicly. but. idk this whole post feels like baby steps to talking out my process publicly instead of just hiding it away.

since you asked about ocs (plural) tho i do have others that aren't jess that are integral to jess' story like bec (my lw who's mainly just a fo4 npc at this point, she's a mechanic who lives at the red rocket and she owns dogmeat) and her girlfriend peaches (she basically takes over for jess when he leaves the minutemen). there's also the mojave gang... simon my dumbass courier, tex the escaped synth cowboy, cyrus the freelance (and recently ncr-contracted) hitman, and um. some other ones too that live in a different oc universe and that's a whole can of worms that i won't even touch right now because this post is absurdly long as-is nfkdfhsf

anyway THANK UUU for asking abt them it's nice to ramble a bit! hope this wasn't too annoying lol.. and i hope ur having a nice day today 🌻🧡💜💛

[paydayquid]

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[kaiba-cave]

It's been officially three years since I started working where I work now. If I make it to four years that'll be as long as I've ever kept one job, lmao. Three years seems to be about as long as I can go if I hate my job (and the last one at the greenhouse only lasted about a year).

So congrats to me for finding a job I've lasted three years at without wanting to kill myself over it, and will hopefully keep for good. I have co-workers who have been working at this place for 15+ years, so, it's possible.

And if I ever do leave this specific company I'll probably definitely stay with customs type of work. I live in a border town so there are TONS of customs brokers to choose from in the area if this one ever really pisses me off, lmao. Plus if I passed my test (still haven't gotten the results) I'll have a separate designation that can help me get other jobs having to do with customs. The test that I took doesn't actually have anything to do with my current job, it's just one of those things that is good to have on your resume, so the company pays for it.

Because of COVID it feels like it's been way longer than only three years though. It also feels like I worked in the office a lot longer than I did but in reality it was only a few months, since it was March 2020 that we started working at home. I was really only in the building from October - March, and almost all of October was training, not with my team.

We are starting (voluntary) come-to-the-office-once-a-week next week though. Last time we were going to start that we had a big system outage again so didn't bother, lmao. Thankfully my company seems like they're going to mostly stick with at home work though. They're calling it a "hybrid" model where it's partially at home, partially in the office. Plus a lot of people have changed positions over COVID time where they now work for a Vancouver team despite living in Ontario so like, obviously those people can't really go into the office lmao.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

This day in history

#20yrsago Revolution is Not an AOL Keyword https://web.archive.org/web/20030322155720/http://journalism.berkeley.edu/projects/biplog/archive/000748.html

#20yrsago United Way will provide cheap WiFi and PCs to poor people in Philly https://web.archive.org/web/20050316131603/www.zwire.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=7404562

#15yrsago State Department employees canned for snooping in Obama’s passport records https://web.archive.org/web/20080322110151/http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23736254/

#15yrsago CEO of subprime mortgage broker fined $29,000 for dropping 73 f-bombs during deposition https://web.archive.org/web/20080322102326/https://consumerist.com/370052/htfc-mortgage-company-ceo-has-a-potty-mouth

#10yrsago Canadian government trying to launder secret copyright treaties into law https://web.archive.org/web/20130323151506/http://www.michaelgeist.ca/content/view/6812/125

#10yrsago Is it worth spending half your profits “fighting piracy”? https://www.techdirt.com/2013/03/19/indie-film-distributor-spends-half-her-profits-sending-dmca-takedowns-is-it-worth-it/

#10yrsago Ray Bradbury’s fan letter to Robert A Heinlein https://www.flavorwire.com/377707/10-illuminating-fan-letters-from-famous-authors-to-famous-authors

#10yrsago HTML5’s overseer says DRM’s true purpose is to prevent legal forms of innovation https://memex.craphound.com/2013/03/20/html5s-overseer-says-drms-true-purpose-is-to-prevent-legal-forms-of-innovation/

#5yrsago Marx’s birthplace celebrates his bicentennial with Communist traffic-lights https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-43470315

#5yrsago Chinese surveillance/tech giant Alibaba joins ALEC, will start co-authoring US legislation https://theintercept.com/2018/03/20/alibaba-chinese-corporation-alibaba-joins-group-ghostwriting-american-laws/

#5yrsago The future legal shenanigans that will shift liability for pedestrian fatalities involving self-driving Ubers https://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-static/2018/03/test-case.html

#5yrsago Alabama Sheriff legally appropriated $750K from prison meal budgets to build himself a beach house, locked up his whistleblowing gardener https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2018/03/14/593204274/alabama-sheriff-legally-took-750-000-meant-to-feed-inmates-bought-beach-house

#5yrsago 1.7 million viewers tuned into Bernie Sanders’ Inequality Town Hall webcast https://www.huffpost.com/entry/bernie-sanders-economic-inequality-town-hall-million-viewers_n_5ab08fb6e4b0e862383ab6b4

#5yrsago Billionaire Cartier boss returns from fishing holiday gripped with terror that the poors are going to start building guillotines https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2015-06-08/billionaire-cartier-owner-sees-wealth-gap-fueling-social-unrest

#5yrsago Why no one has made a tool to turn off Facebook oversharing https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/03/why-we-didnt-make-fix-my-facebook-privacy-settings-tool

#5yrsago Just because Cambridge Analytica tells its customers it can sway elections, it doesn’t follow that they’re any good at it https://www.wired.com/story/the-noisy-fallacies-of-psychographic-targeting/

#5yrsago RIP Anna Campbell, a British woman who joined an all-woman Kurdish Protection Unit in Syria https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2018/03/19/briton-anna-campbell-killed-fighting-kurdisharmed-unit-syria/

#5yrsago A recipe for the deliberately obscured task of changing your Facebook settings to opt out of “platform” sharing https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/03/how-change-your-facebook-settings-opt-out-platform-api-sharing

#5yrsago Sara Varon’s New Shoes: a kids’ buddy story about the jungles of Guyana and redemption https://memex.craphound.com/2018/03/20/sara-varons-new-shoes-a-kids-buddy-story-about-the-jungles-of-guyana-and-redemption/

#1yrago Kathe Koja’s Dark Factory: Taking Bohemia seriously https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/20/a-walk-in-the-park/#all-night-party-people

[presidentalpaca]

lowkey i cant believe ive gotten this job. like i just want to list everything out real quick. i have so much respect for service workers cause its fucking hard. and im just rlly grateful to get a break

getting fully licensed as a broker. studying is on the clock. tests are paid for. its assumed that i have jack shit financial knowledge and they take time to make sure everyone gets it

class discussions, independent study time, kahoots, quizzes, practice tests

if you study at home you gotta let them know so you get paid for overtime

learning financial literacy! aside from brokerage, theres insurance, IRAs, etc. ill finally know what that all means but i dont have to look it up on my own?? sick as hell

full benefits

classes and workshops not just on finance but also self care and health

everyone is so nice

despite it being finance, it seems like the most lesser evil i couldve found??? there are just a lot of green flags here. still critical of the system and all its parts ofc, but so are many people here

you dont gotta work to figure out how to get a promotion. and promotions are more abt what u wanna learn how to do rather than what you know from the get go

8 hrs a year PTO to volunteer in the community

so many gay people here. a lgbt+ organization and little flags at every couple desks

CONSISTENT SCHEDULING. bitch i need to know what ill be doing at work 3+ months in advance if im gonna get back into theatre.

also the routine of it all helps me take care of my body (sleep, meals, exercise, same shit every day, dont gotta replan and debate options)

bonuses throughout the year

two paid 15-min breaks on top of the 30-min lunch break, and u can take occasional 5-min breaks to go to the bathroom or get a coffee w/o permission

im not on my feet on concrete all day greeting every customer and never getting more than an "im just looking" and watching diligently for shoplifters. im not exhausted and in pain

at this point i dont have to sell anything!! or call anyone! i just help people who call us. thats so nice

desks that move up and down to be standing or sitting

working and growing w a team instead of figuring everything out all by myself

ive always wanted to move to chicago or atlanta to pursue film/tv but now it seems doable!! give it a little time and save money up and ill be able to move to the branch there and try to get a second job or just work on independent projects

and finally.... drumroll......

there's a free-to-use flavored seltzer machine

[nickgerlich]

Ready For Prime Time

We see it everywhere. Apple Pay. Google Pay. Paypal. Pay with Klarna. Everyone wants a piece of the action, even if it is only a small sliver. With total retail sales at $6.5 trillion, there’s plenty of money to be made at the margin, even if the margin is small.

But now Amazon is extending its reach. Buy With Prime launches at the end of the month, and allows partner retailers to leverage every aspect of Amazon’s might, from order fulfillment to payment processing and returns. Of course, Amazon assesses several payments along the way, from storage to packing and shipping, not to mention credit card processing. Customers get all the same benefits they get when using their Prime account at Amazon. And partner companies can still offer their own order fulfillment and processing if customers opt out of the Prime feature.

In some regards, it’s like being in bed with the enemy. But as they say (whoever “they” is), if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

Amazon put Buy With Prime into test market last Spring among its existing Fulfilled By Amazon (FBA) clients. It works rather seamlessly: partner retailers simply add a BWP logo and button, all copy and paste just like PayPal code. Oh, and ship some inventory to the nearest Amazon warehouse.

Partnering with Amazon relieves the small company from having to handle time-consuming (and expensive) order fulfillment responsibilities, storage, as well as shipping, for which Amazon has already brokered huge discounts. Basically, you can “off-shore” multiple layers of your business, expand your reach, and quite possibly enjoy higher sales and profits.

From Amazon’s perspective, this is not all that different from food manufacturers selling off unused capacity by contracting to make private label goods. Amazon is doing the same, albeit in warehousing, packing, and shipping.

There was once a time when Amazon was demonized for being too successful. After all, shopping online necessarily displaces smaller business along the way. But that’s like complaining 110 years ago that auto manufacturers were putting bicycle retailers and farriers out of business. They had to adapt, or go out of business. Today’s small businesses have similarly been forced to evolve or die.

Or partner with Amazon. And to be fair, Amazon will probably take some heat for reaching its tentacles into more of the retail pie.

But Amazon has also reached a plateau, and has begun laying off 18,000 workers. Anything it can do to help put the company in better balance is a good thing, and BWP may very well play a big role.

All things considered, this is a good move for small retailers as well as Amazon. While smaller companies must have an e-commerce presence, managing the back end of that can be a major distraction from storefront operations. Letting the expert—in this case, Amazon—do that is genius for both parties.

And I as a customer find this particularly appealing, because I’ve been clicking those Amazon Buy Now buttons more times than I wish to admit.

Dr “I’ll Click To That“ Gerlich

Audio Blog