#how are you. where. where would there be rectangles

[natjennie]

not gonna watch this video because I have better shit to do but like. where. where are the rectangles. there's no rectangles. what are you talking about.

[adahlenan]

But I'd rather not remind myself and leave it all behind And I've tried so hard to fix it all but nothing seems to help

[higherhell]

Can feel the day of reckoning when I have to actually sit down and learn how to design a guitar and then design like 4 or 5 of them and then go back and draw them into every illustration I've left a shitty placeholder guitar in up til now approaching. It scares me.

[4whomittolz]

Was drunk and bored and getting annoyed at the ridiculous coverage of the US election so I decided to fix the place.

I'm from Australia where we only have 7 states, as such I have the (objectively correct) opinion that 50 is too many states, so I decided to cut it down to 10.

A few notes on my improved US map:

•Despite Illinois making the cut, Chicago is now in Michigan, due to the state getting the entire bank of its namesake.

•Boston is also in Michigan due to special exception. Edit: Yes I know where Boston is, that's what "special exception" means.

•New York is now the capital of Pensylvania

•Yes that's how you spell Pensylvania

•The border of California is just roughly the Rockies, no need to overthink it.

•Making Florida bigger actually dilutes it's power, but Texas must be abolished

•Colorado should still be a rectangle, that's my mistake, I just couldn't be bothered fixing it.

•Alaska has been returned to Canada with a hand written apology

•All the random ass islands that the US forgot to pretend they didn't colonise have gained independence

Please let me know if there are any more improvements you can think of.

Edit: As a number of you have mentioned, Alaska never belonged to Canada, and giving it to them would be incredibly wrong when the native people have been trying to gain independence all this time.

Luckily, the apology note got lost in the mail in all the turmoil, so Canada never realised they're meant to have Alaska now. The Alaskans just start quietly self-governing and hoping the US and Canada don't notice, then after a few years they declare independence.

[syoddeye]

meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card. 

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself. 

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers. 

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe. 

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children. 

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line. 

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient. 

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him. 

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it? 

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?” 

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile. 

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.” 

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment. 

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same. 

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism. 

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent. 

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other? 

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you. 

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored. 

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself. 

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him. 

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers. 

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back. 

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you. 

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach. 

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift. 

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up. 

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet. 

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.” 

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.” 

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned. 

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked. 

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste. 

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up. 

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left.  “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush. 

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?” 

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later. 

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way. 

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

[fozmeadows]

the older I get, the more the technological changes I've lived through as a millennial feel bizarre to me. we had computers in my primary school classroom; I first learned to type on a typewriter. I had a cellphone as a teenager, but still needed a physical train timetable. my parents listened to LP records when I was growing up; meanwhile, my childhood cassette tape collection became a CD collection, until I started downloading mp3s on kazaa over our 56k modem internet connection to play in winamp on my desktop computer, and now my laptop doesn't even have a disc tray. I used to save my word documents on floppy discs. I grew up using the rotary phone at my grandparents' house and our wall-connected landline; my mother's first cellphone was so big, we called it The Brick. I once took my desktop computer - monitor, tower and all - on the train to attend a LAN party at a friend's house where we had to connect to the internet with physical cables to play together, and where one friend's massive CRT monitor wouldn't fit on any available table. as kids, we used to make concertina caterpillars in class with the punctured and perforated paper strips that were left over whenever anything was printed on the room's dot matrix printer, which was outdated by the time I was in high school. VHS tapes became DVDs, and you could still rent both at the local video store when I was first married, but those shops all died out within the next six years. my facebook account predates the iphone camera - I used to carry around a separate digital camera and manually upload photos to the computer in order to post them; there are rolls of undeveloped film from my childhood still in envelopes from the chemist's in my childhood photo albums. I have a photo album from my wedding, but no physical albums of my child; by then, we were all posting online, and now that's a decade's worth of pictures I'd have to sort through manually in order to create one. there are video games I tell my son about but can't ever show him because the consoles they used to run on are all obsolete and the games were never remastered for the new ones that don't have the requisite backwards compatibility. I used to have a walkman for car trips as a kid; then I had a discman and a plastic hardshell case of CDs to carry around as a teenager; later, a friend gave my husband and I engraved matching ipods as a wedding present, and we used them both until they stopped working; now they're obsolete. today I texted my mother, who was born in 1950, a tiktok upload of an instructional video for girls from 1956 on how to look after their hair and nails and fold their clothes. my father was born four years after the invention of colour televison; he worked in radio and print journalism, and in the years before his health declined, even though he logically understood that newspapers existed online, he would clip out articles from the physical paper, put them in an envelope and mail them to me overseas if he wanted me to read them. and now I hold the world in a glass-faced rectangle, and I have access to everything and ownership of nothing, and everything I write online can potentially be wiped out at the drop of a hat by the ego of an idiot manchild billionaire. as a child, I wore a watch, but like most of my generation, I stopped when cellphones started telling us the time and they became redundant. now, my son wears a smartwatch so we can call him home from playing in the neighbourhood park, and there's a tanline on his wrist ike the one I haven't had since the age of fifteen. and I wonder: what will 2030 look like?

[suiana]

isekai but make it reversed... yandere! villain who isekais into YOUR world and loses all of his powers so he just looks like a chuunibyou

he's fighting some hero or something in his original world and guess what happens? that's right, he gets sent here. where does he spawn? in the middle of a grocery store, of course!

specifically, your grocery store.

you're unsure of what just happened, you probably don't even care that a couple aisles just collapsed and there's people screaming at someone. you're too tired, damn!

but guess again, what do you think happens?

this stranger comes straight for you, ignoring literally the hoard of people who were waiting to chew him out.

"YOU. mortal, tell me where i am."

"uh... in a walmart...?"

you're too zonked out of your mind but this man has other plans. and he's planning on making you answer every single one of his questions. if you don't answer? well he'll just-

"what are you... doing?"

"what?! this... 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖇𝖊... my powers..."

"man, too many druggies approaching me recently..."

yeah, what's with him and his weird poses? does he think he's a villain or something? lol, let's just ignore him. look at that cosplay too, he probably thinks he's part of lord of the rings or some shit.

"no... NO... why?"

and so, he decides to do what he does best and that is to cling to the next closest thing he can. which is none other than, drumroll please!

you.

"bro, let GO."

"but but... i'm just a powerless man now... in an unknown place... you wouldn't reject helping me, would you?"

"yes i would."

so yeah, now you have this weirdo clinging to you 24/7... turns out he doesn't have a house either so what do you think he did. that's right, he's invading your apartment. he doesn't even pay rent by the way, and no, he won't leave no matter what you try to get him to do.

you've learned that he's actually a super feared villain back from where he's from (you don't believe him) and has super cool powers that he somehow doesn't have (you still think he's on drugs). but he's rather entertaining to have around, you suppose. for one, apparently he doesn't have all these... gadgets back at home. for example:

"human, what on earth is that rectangle you hold?"

"it's a phone, you can search on it, play games, and surf the internet."

"i see.... so it's sorcery..."

it's been a few weeks since he's moved in and you've finally convinced him to work at a kfc. why? because you quote and unquote told him 'working at kfc helps you conquer earth.' helps get him off your back a little and make some rent money which is good. he's a big ass leech.

but hey! he's surprisingly obedient! in fact, he's the most obedient man you've ever met.

"you know other men?"

"uh, obviously."

it's weird how he just listens to you like that, especially with how he claims he's killed countless people... but who are you to care? you quite like the fact that he just listens to you no problem. in fact, the only problem you have is that he's too obedient and looks to you for every single thing. he especially likes it when you give him validation too so like...

"good job, the toilet is clean."

"hnng...."

"???"

guess you have a villain for a housewife now!

[1d1195]

Under Construction I

Read Under Construction here | ~5.6k

From Me: this is going to be a bit of a slow burn, totally unsure how many parts it will be and how on earth it's going to go. I have no end in mind right now or any climactic parts. P.S. I had to give her a last name, I couldn't see a way to get around it, but I tried to pick on that would match the nickname Harry was going to give her.

Warning: fluffy, cute, maybe a little angsty in my teacher-brain mind.

Summary: Harry nodded. “I’d be happy t’help.”

“Oh, that’s completely unnecessary,” she assured him. “I can’t imagine you really want to be here after a long day of manual labor on a Friday no less and—”

“Miss Bird, I would imagine s’not nearly as draining as trying t’wrangle and keep the attention of twenty-something six-year-olds, for six hours a day,” he interrupted and looked at her knowingly. “M’happy t’help.”

“Miss Bee! DJ took my crayon right out of my hand!” She turned from the table of four she was working with and glanced behind her to see DJ coloring and Janie pouting. She sighed.

“Janie, my love, there’s more crayons in the craft drawers,” she reminded her.

“But I was using that one!”

“I know, and DJ, you know better than to take something out of someone’s hand while they’re using it, please give it back,” she said knowingly. He frowned and dropped the crayon on the table. “Thank you,” she nodded appreciatively and turned back to her table.

“Miss Bee, I think DJ like-likes Janie,” Mae giggled.

“Ew,” Kaleb wrinkled his nose.

“It’s not polite to gossip, Mae,” she said knowingly. “Now can you guys tell me what’s wrong with this sentence?” She asked and held the whiteboard out. She watched the eight pairs of eyes scrutinize the marker.

The other students were at their stations learning and discovering. It was the last round of rotations. When the little bell chimed from the countdown on her SmartBoard they would head to the carpet for story time.

Her classroom was the stuff of dreams—or at the very least her dream. There were colorful posters around the room. Inspirational messages and words of kindness all about her space. The cubbies were filled with lunch boxes and snacks. Their little closet spaces hung their fall coats and backpacks. When they headed to lunch, she would sift through their take-home folders and make sure to gather notes and questions from parents and fill it with the weekly letter she sent to their family.

It was her fourth year of teaching kindergarten, and she loved it so much. The kids were so happy to see her each day, and it felt like she had a family of twenty. Each of her students was so sweet and lovely. This year she had really felt she had won the lottery with how good they were. Over the weekend she missed them. On holidays she was antsy about coming back to school and ask how they enjoyed their family time.

She was exhausted too, there was no doubt about that. Little ones were needy—over the smallest of things. Like the crayon stealing. Or the tummy aches. Sometimes the six-year-olds were just overtired or overstimulated and needed a hug.

But even her toughest kids loved her too. The parent night held just a couple weeks into the school year told her that. “He has never been excited for daycare or for school, but he is so excited for this year of kindergarten.”

The timer sounded off and like little, adorable robots her sweet students picked up their stations and settled all the items they were using back into place. She thanked her current group, and she marked where the current four were so she could pick up where they left off on Monday.

The group of students hurried to the carpet, sitting cross legged on the colorful squares. “All my friends love to sit quietly on a primary color while we wait for story time!” She had a lilt in her voice that wasn’t quite singing, but perhaps close to it. She watched as the students giggled helping each other remember what a primary color was as they all shifted around the rectangle looking for a spot. What they didn’t know is it helped spread them out a bit and would help them keep their hands to themselves while they waited much more patiently than any six-year-old had a right to.

“All my friends love to be super quiet,” she whispered putting her fingers to her lips. “We have to pick our friend who will lead us through the opener for the day,” she reminded them.

They all put their fingers on their lips; their eyes hopeful of being chosen. She pulled a popsicle stick from a cup and pulled out the name. “Milo,” she grinned. “Would you like to lead us today?” She always gave them a choice. Sometimes the little ones were much too shy.

He grinned shyly. “Okay, Miss Bee.”

She sat on her chair; a rocking one she thrifted from a local shop. A lot of her classroom was that way. A teacher on a budget. Organizing drawers and old bins that were a little worn and loved. Bookshelves that had been found at garage sales and even her office chair wasn’t brand new.

But she loved it and her students loved it too.

She watched Milo walk up to the board where she had everything spelled out for him and she waited patiently for him to read. “Today is Friday, October 5th,” he said softly. “We have art at specials time today,” his voice got quieter with his nerves of speaking in front of his whole class. A small snicker started and she turned to the culprit narrowing her eyes at him not harshly, but enough to make him know she meant business. The little one silenced himself and she returned her attention to Milo.

“Isn’t Milo doing a great job?” She whispered to the little one beside her.

Milo pushed his shoulders back a little and continued. “Today we’re going to start Char-lotties Web.”

“Good job sounding that out Milo!” She cheered. “It’s a tough name. It’s called Charlotte’s Web. Can everyone say that?”

She waited while everyone repeated, and Milo continued.

“It’s the thirty-seventh day of school.”

She watched all the little ones with rapt attention on their classmate while he read through the daily schedule. This was his second go around and by the end of the year she anticipated he would do it with ease and no anxiety. He was adorable, just like the rest of her group.

“Before we have our little math lesson we’re going to read the first chapter of Charolotte’s Web. Based on the title and the picture on the front does anyone have any guesses about what the story is about?”

A fleet of hands shot into their air and she smiled. She was a lucky teacher. “Hadley, do you have an idea?” She asked.

“A spider,” she wrinkled her nose.

“I know,” she agreed dramatically. “We all know how much Miss Bee hates spiders.” The class giggled as she pulled the book from the shelf. “Can anyone tell me who the author is?” She asked holding the book out for everyone to see clearly. “Raise your hand!” She added as they all opened their mouths to say it.

The little hands fluttered into the air again and right as she spoke Amara’s name, a loud bang sounded from outside. The little ones screamed; their eyes filled with horror as they were clearly terrified by the loud noise. It even spooked her so she went to investigate.

“Shh, shh,” she whispered. “It’s okay,” she placed the book on her chair and headed toward the window. Instantly her eyes were drawn to the construction crew next door dropping piles of wood and building materials. Fuck, she mouthed to herself and if the kids weren’t so freaked out, they might have noticed her saying the bad word in the reflection of the glass. “Don’t worry everyone, it’s just the construction workers.”

“Construction paper isn’t that loud Miss Bee,” Mae frowned. “It sounded like an elephant fell down!”

The rest of the class giggled, and she smiled. “I suppose it did,” she hummed. The noise continued. The sound of trucks backing up and the like. It was going to be a long few months of work and trying to teach at the same time. “Construction workers, my love, not paper,” she corrected. “It’s people who make buildings and things.”

They chatted behind her to one another offering instances in which they had seen construction done in their neighborhoods or that their uncle was a construction worker. Or that even they had helped their mom and dad with some work around the house.

For a few moments she considered her next plan of action. She briefly turned to the schedule Milo was reading. A quick detour and impromptu lesson on future career options, math in motion, and communication skills, could be managed and even helpful if it meant she could convince her class there wasn’t anything to be scared of nor would they need to find the noise distracting if they knew what it was and could work on tuning it out.

“Alright guys and gals, why don’t we put on our coats and see what our neighbors are up to?” she said with the air of going on an adventure while she grabbed her own coat from the small thin closet behind her desk. It housed her school bag, her coat, and her lunch bag.

The kids all hustled excitedly to put on their coats while she called the main office to let them know she would be outside with her class, and she was bringing the walkie talkie in case of an emergency. Tyler was line leader, so he led the group behind her, and her line ender was Zara making sure the back half of the group was okay too. They walked in a straight line and followed one another at about an arm’s length. A trick she learned in student-teaching so her students wouldn’t want to touch one another with excitement.

They headed outside and they played a couple rounds of eye spy as they made their way up the path toward the parking lot. She turned around, walking backwards grateful of her early morning outfit choice today was pants with comfy shoes and not a dress and her favorite wedge booties. “All my friends love to be really careful near the parking lot, and listen to Miss Bee so no one gets hurt,” she reminded them. “All of my friends know they have to listen to Miss Bee or they will not have show and tell this week.”

They all zipped their lips and threw away the key as they walked toward the fence where the playground’s baseball field turned into the driveway next door where the construction was beginning. The little ones all oohed and ahhed over the big trucks and pressed their faces against the chain link fence as the materials were brought into the area.

“Wow, that’s the biggest truck I’ve ever sawed,” Brayden whispered.

“Ever seen, my love,” she corrected gently. “Okay, who can tell me one thing they’ve never seen before and have a question about?”

Immediately hands flew up into the air but before she could call on anyone, they were interrupted.

“They told me we were going t’have a young crew for this job, didn’t think everyone would be this young.”

She turned her attention to the man approaching the fence and she felt her heart flutter like a hummingbird against her chest. The man was tall, sinewy from being part of a construction crew and doing all the manual labor, she was sure. He wore a T-shirt with the company’s logo across the front Under Construction that stretched perfectly over muscular pectorals. A white hard hat was on top of his head but she could see swirls of brown hair peeking out from underneath. There were the standard work boots and pants of a construction worker on his lower half but that was all she really noted of his body.

It was his face that drew her in. His eyes, his smile, even his eyebrows seemed to catch her interest. His face had the slightest scruff on his cheeks and over his top lip. He was deadly handsome and she momentarily forgot she and her little ones were the only thing there. “We’re not here to work,” Mae giggled.

She shook her head and smiled. “No, sorry we can’t be part of the crew,” she said apologetically.

“We were going to do math, but Miss Bee wanted to show us the scary noises,” Milo explained bravely.

“Ah,” he caught her eye. Did his smile grow? She must have imagined it. Was it hot out? It was early October, and the nice fall breeze was blowing a chill in the air, and she felt like she was about to sweat through her clothes and wish she hadn’t worn her jacket. Holy shit, he was hot. “Are you Miss Bee then?”

“It’s actually Miss Bird,” Kai explained. “But Miss Bee is a nickname.”

“Bird,” he repeated. “Nice to meet you, Miss Bird,” he held his hand out. “I’m Harry, Harry Styles.”

“Harry,” she answered. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Styles.”

He smirked at the formality but held her hand an extra second longer before letting go. Surely, she imagined that.

Harry saw the gaggle of children and the woman alongside them about five minutes prior as they approached the fence between the playground and the building site. “We got company boss,” Niall smiled while he moved some of the materials across the site with the help of his forklift. Harry turned toward the group and was in awe of the woman that could wrangle a group of little ones like that so effortlessly. As he got closer he became a little more entranced by her. She was all bright colors, her pants were firetruck red, and her jacket was a bright pink. She had an off-white bandanna or wrap in her hair of some kind that came to a knot at the top of her head from underneath her hair. She was beautiful. Obviously. Harry thought she was lucky she didn’t teach older kids because they would probably get nothing done staring at the pretty woman for hours on end. She looked so young too—no way older kids would take her seriously. But the little ones seemed to adore her, waiting patiently while they looked on with fascination.

She held a walkie-talkie in her left hand while she shook Harry’s hand during introductions.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off her smile and the way she looked fondly at her students while he introduced himself.

“We didn’t mean t’scare you all. We’re putting in a new fire and police station here t’keep you safe,” he explained to the little ones. “The noises y’heard were us putting the materials down.”

They all watched expectantly, waiting for him to continue. “Could they ask a question?” She smiled sweetly at him. “They’re waiting for you to say they can ask questions; it’s kind of a thing in the classroom,” she wrinkled her nose so cutely as she explained.

“Oh—right, yeah,” he chuckled. Harry wasn’t totally sure how a group of six-year-olds could have questions about what very little they had seen thus far, but he couldn’t wait to hear it. “Of course...do y’have questions?” Harry felt a little silly not seeing what inquisitive little minds she was molding behind the fence barrier.

However, all twenty hands shot into the air. She giggled and shook her head. “We aren’t getting to all the questions,” she laughed. “Mae, you can start,” she said.

One of the girls in the middle turned to Harry. “Why’s your hat white?”

“It means I’m in charge of everyone over there,” he explained. “It’s called being a foreman.”

“So, you’re like Miss Bee, she’s in charge of us,” Mae reminded him.

“Yes, just like Miss Bee,” he agreed catching her eye. She bit the inside of her lip and glanced at her line of students.

“Milo, do you have a question to ask?”

The boy toward the end of the line looked shyly at Harry and he grinned before looking at his feet. He mumbled something toward the ground and Harry took a few steps closer, bending in front of the fence. “Can y’repeat that for me, lad? I didn’t catch it.”

“How do you know where to put stuff?” He asked.

“We have maps and outlines of where stuff is going to go,” Harry grinned.

“It’s kind of like the maps we made of towns, remember?” She prompted. “Where we would put the school, the houses—”

“The ice cream shop!” Someone else called out from the other end of the line. The rest giggled and she nodded with her beautiful, ever-present smile.

“Yes, the important things if you recall,” she glanced at Harry apologetically. “One more question, then we have to head back inside for snack time.”

“But Miss Bee! I have a lot of questions!” DJ pouted.

“Me too!”

“I do too!”

The chatter started to become a little loud and overwhelming as they reminded her that they had many questions for Harry and he smirked at her as she shook her head. “All my friends love to turn on their listening ears and turn off their voices,” she practically sang. Instantly, they were soundless.

“Wow,” Harry murmured. “I should try that on my crew.”

They all giggled, and she smiled at him apologetically once more. “Zara, do you want to ask your question?” She asked.

“How do you know what tool to use?”

“It depends on what y’have t’do, but I had t’learn which tool t’use by going t’school,” he explained.

“You went to school too!?”

“That was another question!”

“It doesn’t count!”

“Miss Bee!”

“Hey, hey, hey! Hocus pocus,” she called gently.

“Time to focus!” They all silenced themselves.

“Wow,” Harry was in awe of her. That was almost superhero powered in nature.

“Mr. Harry, could we write our questions down to have you answer?” Tyler asked.

“That’s a great idea Tyler, but Mr. Styles has to—”

“I would love t’do that,” he offered immediately and caught her eye. “This project is going t’be a while,” he explained.

“Mr. Harry,” Janie asked pulling on his pant leg through the fence. “Could you fix Miss Bee’s desk? It’s all crooked,” she explained.

“Janie, my love,” she said softly, her cheeks turning the same shade of pink as her jacket. She was adorable and Harry was putty already. “That’s not very polite to ask. Mr. Styles is working,” she explained. “It would be like asking you to do your adding while you’re doing your sentences.”

Harry grinned almost apologetically as he caught her eye once more. “I could take a look at it,” he offered. “When does school get out?”

“Oh, that’s okay—”

“We line up for the bus at three-fifteen. That’s when the clock looks like this,” and they all turned to put their hands together to the left of their bodies, surely to mimic the hands of the clock where indeed, it would look like three-fifteen.

Harry grinned. She was a cool teacher to teach all these inquisitive little minds. “All my friends love to thank Mr. Styles for taking time out of his day to teach us about construction work,” she said knowingly and looked at him once more.

“Thank you, Mr. Harry,” they all sang.

“I said Mr. Styles.”

“But Mr. Harry is like a nickname, like you Miss Bee.”

She rolled her eyes. “Alright, Tyler, are you ready to lead?” She asked and waved to Harry.

As the line departed, he watched until he couldn’t see the pretty woman or the cute little ones any longer before he turned back to his job site. Niall rolled over on his forklift once more and popped out of the seat to stand beside him. “How was kindergarten?” He asked.

“They’re funny,” he smirked. “And very cute.”

“The kids or the teacher?”

“Both,” he shook his head, smiling to himself. “Get back t’work,” he mumbled and headed toward the other workers.

*

Harry watched the little ones boarding their buses and their teachers wave from below the overhang of the drop-off port as the kids left for the weekend. He could see the bright red pants and pink jacket from where he stood by the fence once more and a few students called out to him. “Bye Mr. Harry!”

She turned instantly and found him there. Harry’s crew was also leaving (trying to beat the buses before they got stuck behind) but Harry was without his hat now, waiting by the fence. He waved to the little ones, feeling a bit like a superstar with all the eyes that looked over at him. But he swore he could feel the pretty woman’s eyes boring into him more than the others.

He hopped over the fence now that the children were on the buses and parents had their children in cars. “Hi,” he smiled as he approached her. Her pretty lips parted ever so slightly in surprise. Her eyes scanned his face for recognition as to why he would be approaching her after the kids had left. “M’here t’look at your desk,” he explained.

“Oh!” She shook her head. “That’s okay. It’s Friday. I’m sure you have better plans than—”

“I don’t mind,” he offered with a shrug.

“Um...” she swallowed. “It’s really alright, I don’t want to put you out—”

“S’very okay, Miss Bird,” he teased. “M’happy to take a look.”

She nodded. “Okay, well...we just have to get you signed in at the office.”

“Sure,” he smiled.

“Do you have your license?” She asked.

He nodded and followed after her. They stopped at the front of the office, one of the older women greeting and going through the spiel of being a visitor. “Will you be here often?” She asked. “We could do a background check to make things simpler.”

“Oh, he’s just working nex—”

“That would be great, thank you, ma’am.”

She pressed her lips together, but Harry swore he could see the corners of her mouth twitching upward. Harry quickly filled out the information on the form and once he had a visitor tag on the front of his shirt, he followed her down the hall. The school was definitely older. It was part of the reason the safety buildings were getting an upgrade. The whole town was a bit older. They were silent as she led down the hall, her arms crossed over her stomach, he followed her down a stairwell and they stopped as a custodian greeted her.

“Hi Miss Bee, staying late today?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I’ll keep my mess to a minimum,” she promised.

“Not a problem Miss Bee,” he was a bit older too. Clearly, he was used to seeing her around after hours. Late? How late did she stay? It was Friday. Didn’t teachers race to get out of the building on Fridays?

“I like to set up my classroom for next week,” she explained. “It’s a little easier to have everything planned out.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” he promised.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” her cheeks flushing pink once more. “I’m a little embarrassed,” she explained unlocking her classroom door.

“S’nothing t’be embarrassed ‘bout. M’happy t’take a look.”

“I guess...but they shouldn’t have said anything. Six-year-olds. You can’t tell them anything.”

He chuckled. “S’fine,” putting his hands in his pockets as she pushed the door open. It felt like being transported into another world. A bright, colorful, sunny world. There were windows overlooking the yard separating the building and a soccer field. There were string lights around the top of the wall, along with floor lamps placed around the room as well. There was almost a separate room for her colorful carpet where an old rocking chair was situated in front of the whiteboard. On the other side of the room were her play items for the kids as well as tables and little chairs for her kids. There was artwork and displays of all her students’ work around every free space of the walls. All organized and stapled properly at regular spaced intervals.

Harry would have loved being her student, he thought, but he was glad he could get to know the pretty lady as she was right now.

At the back of the class near another door, there was her desk. Underneath one of the legs was a stack of old books. Harry frowned. It was very crooked.

“It’s really not as bad as it looks. I like to believe I’m pretty resourceful so that was one of the easier fixes of the classroom.”

He sucked his cheek a bit and nodded. “Is there anything else you’d like me t’look at?”

She shook her head. “No, really. It’s okay, this is too much as is,” she said hurriedly. It was hardly anything. “You’ve had a really long day.”

But as if her classroom knew that Harry was there, the wooden sign above the door they just walked through fell off the wall. He smirked while her cheeks turned another shade redder and she winced practically with her whole body. “M’happy t’look around,” he offered. “You’re here late?” He asked and knelt beside her desk inspecting it. It was old. A fairly solid wooden structure but Harry could see it was made mostly of cheap particle board. There was no way that this was up to the fire code instructed by the public buildings in town.

“Uhh...yeah. I have to make copies and cut some stuff out for my new bulletin board,” she explained. “I also like to do a little extra cleaning on Fridays. The custodians have a lot to do so I try to do my fair share,” she went to the little closet behind her desk built into the wall. The door stuck a bit as she pulled it open and she hung her pink jacket up and pulled out a broom and disinfectant wipes.

Harry nodded. “I’d be happy t’help.”

“Oh, that’s completely unnecessary,” she assured him. “I can’t imagine you really want to be here after a long day of manual labor on a Friday no less and—”

“Miss Bird, I would imagine s’not nearly as draining as trying t’wrangle and keep the attention of twenty-something six-year-olds, for six hours a day,” he interrupted and looked at her knowingly. “M’happy t’help.”

She watched Harry for a few moments surprised by how kind he was to a complete stranger. “Could I take these drawers out?” He asked.

“Um...” she swallowed. “If you can open them.”

He tilted his head at her with a smirk. “Is there a point t’having this desk?”

“I found it at a yard sale. It’s kind of my thing,” she explained. “Most of the shelves, chairs, et cetera are from yard sales. I’m a teacher on a budget kind of thing. They just need some TLC. I say I’m going to do it over the summer, but I tutor a bunch, babysit, and whatnot so I haven’t had the time. This is my fourth year of teaching so I’m hoping this summer will be different now that I won’t be preparing lessons much now that I know what I’m doing for the most part.”

Harry watched her as she spoke, a gentle smile on his face. God, she was cute. Without her coat, she was wearing a blue almost denim looking shirt and she looked so adorable he wanted to pick her up and twirl her around like she was a princess. “I think you’re a superhero,” he told her.

Her face flushed once more and she turned to the tables lower than any normal table Harry had ever sat at (especially for his tall frame) and she knelt to wipe the surfaces. Harry turned to the desk letting her settle with the compliment he offered. He tugged the drawers out, with effort. A piece of particle board splintered a bit but given the drawer was empty, he didn’t think she would mind much. But Harry would rather build her a new desk altogether. “I don’t sit much,” she added.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Shouldn’t take an act of God t’get a drawer open.”

He lifted the desk off the books once the weight of the drawers was out of the way. He carefully moved her piles of items and organizers onto the floor taking mental pictures of her setup. There was a framed photo of her and a man and his heart almost gave out at the thought that the pretty girl was taken. He glanced at her wiping the desks, her left hand bare of any rings. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but there was no way he could ask if she was taken. He gently placed her laptop on the back counter behind him and then tilted the desk onto it’s side.

The weight of her gaze was prominent on his face, but he ignored it, focusing on her desk and hoping to make her life a little better. “S’this little screw for the leg.”

“Yeah, I figured. It was too stuck for me. I tried using some WD-40 but I didn’t get much luck.”

He pictured the pretty girl in her bright red pants trying to get her desk to unstick. Resourceful she was. “I think I have some in m’car, I’ll go pop out.”

“Let me prop this door open,” she offered and went to the classroom door labeled with a giant two. Just follow that path up,” she pointed. Harry hurried out waiting until he was out of her sightline to all but run to his car and back. He returned with a selection of random tools he grabbed and walked back to her classroom.

“—shouldn’t stay late on a Friday,” he hated how jealous he was of a man’s voice. “Come out with El and I,” the voice offered.

“Louis, I’m exhausted. I will come over tomorrow. I can’t even imagine talking to the two of you right now and I love you guys.”

“I know,” the voice sighed. “Do you need help?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Course not.”

“Shut up,” she rolled her eyes.

“That isn’t very kind of you Miss Kindergarten,” the voice answered with attitude.

Harry cleared his throat as he returned. “I gotta go, Louis. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Don’t stay too late, Miss Bee,” he sang.

She continued sweeping and glanced at Harry’s tools. “You really don’t have to do this,” she reminded him.

“Happy t’help,” he assured her. She seemed pretty adamant though. He wondered why she felt so uncomfortable asking for help. His eyes dropped to her left hand once more looking for a tan line or any indication she was taken. “M’a big fan of teachers,” he promised. “Had some really good ones,” he explained.

She took a deep breath and nodded. “If you’re sure. I don’t want to be a bother.”

Harry wondered who on earth made this saint of a woman feel like a burden. Her desk was old and rickety. It was hardly rocket science to fix it and it wasn’t even that heavy. The drawers stuck, which Harry would tackle next, but otherwise what was so difficult? He sprayed the screw at the foot of her desk and gave it a spin, but it didn’t work. He pulled a wrench from his toolbox and tried to get better leverage. “There we go,” he mumbled to himself as the screw unstuck. He untwisted it all the way and sprayed both the screw and the hole. He twisted the metal piece back in and smiled feeling glad he made her life a little easier. He stood, tipped the desk back to it’s rightful position. He put weight with his hands to ensure all the legs were the same length and he wiped his hands on his pants.

“There’s a bathroom through that door—everything is low because of the kids though,” she pointed toward the one right near him.

“Thanks bird,” he smiled and headed through it. Whoops, he thought to himself.

He rinsed his hands with soap quickly admiring the bright, neon green paper that said you should sing Happy Birthday to yourself twice to get the germs off while washing your hands. He imagined she heard happy birthday all day long and found that adorable.

When he reentered her room, she was already putting things back, including trying to get the sticky drawer back into position. “Oh, I can do that, love. Don’t hurt yourself,” he hurried over and grabbed the drawer from her grip.

“Thank you so much for doing this, this is so lovely,” she frowned. “Can I pay you or something?”

“Absolutely not,” he chuckled. “S’hardly anything, bird,” he assured her and jimmied the drawer back into position. “Y’can keep doing your thing. I’ll put everything back.”

She bit the inside of her lip. “Thank you,” she repeated.

“You’re welcome, seriously. S’hardly nothing.”

“No but it is,” she assured him. “I don’t mean to dump this all on you but my ex-boyfriend made it very clear that I put too much effort into my job and that all the extra time I didn’t get paid for didn’t mean anything because caring so much didn’t get me anything more. But I love this room and all it’s little quirks but this means the world to me, honestly. I want one of those Pinterest perfect classrooms in some ways, but I don’t think I’ll ever get it because this school is old and I don’t have the money, time, or energy I’d like to fix a lot of the things I probably need to. I don’t think I’m explaining it quite right and I’m sorry I just dumped all that on you, but I don’t think anyone has ever done anything this kind for me.”

Harry felt bad that his assumptions were correct, but he loved the way she let all of that out. He listened to every word with bated breath grateful for the word ex. It didn’t mean she didn’t have a current boyfriend, but it put into perspective why she was so overwhelmed by Harry’s little help. “Well, Miss Bee, m’at your service,” he assured her.

--

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If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[wheeloffortune-design]

ok but imagine how crazy convoluted Skakespeare plays would be in a world where people have daemons like in His Dark Materials

like! imagine the love rectangle Helena/Hermia/Demetrius/Lysander if you add all their daemons and those daemons fall in love with the wrong daemons because love potion went wrong and Puck can't breathe because he's laughing too hard

like. Titania doesn't fall in love with the mortal but with his donkey daemon. She doesn't care for the guy, who just needs to hang around while the queen of fairies serenades the very confused part of his soul that's shaped like a donkey.

and that's just Midsummer Night's dream!

I'm not even gonna get into Twelfth’s Night. The love triangle Orsino/Viola/Olivia is now an hexagon.

*breathes heavily*

Shakespeare plays with daemons.

[thatdisasterauthor]

New disaster education graphic! Had to split it in half so tumblr wouldn't TOTALLY eat the quality. I'm going to put the full, unsplit version beneath a cut so if you want to share this graphic you can grab the whole one or the two halves, whichever works for you. As always, my disaster graphics can be shared anywhere on the internet that isn't making a profit, as long as my credit remains intact at the bottom! If you would like to license a physical or paid use of them, reach out to me on my website.

I've seen a lot of graphics about defensible space over the years, but I've never really seen one that does a good job of also explaining WHY the recommendations are what they are, so I've been wanting to make a graphic that dug into the why.

Alt text is also below the cut!

Alt text: Two halves of a single infographic. The background is dark gray. The top text reads "Why Does Defensible Space Matter?" in large yellow text. Below that is the text "When it comes to protecting your home from a wildfire, having defensible space around your home is one of the best things you can do. But why?" in black. Below that is the text "Wildfires move in three main ways:" in white.

Next there are three rectangles in a lighter gray, stacked one on top of the other. Each has a diagram of a small house on the edge of a forest. There are decorations on the porch, firewood on the porch, leaf litter on the roof, overgrown grass, trees growing right up next to the house, bushes, and the forest is crowded and overgrown.

In the top box, there is a fire moving along the ground, and the box is labeled as "Along the ground." In the second box the fire is moving through the tops of the trees, and the box is labeled, "through the crowns of trees." The third box shows a distance fire with lots of little embers being blown through the air, labeled as "Through the air via embers."

After that is the text, "The goal of defensible space is to make changes that impede each of these types of movement" in white.

Below that are the same three boxes as above, but each one shows changes you can make to impede one of these types of movement. The changes are listed under the box in a numbered list, with the numbers also in the diagram where those changes are reflected in the art.

The first box is labeled as "Impede ground movement" and has the following items listed:

Create a five foot zone around your home with no burnables using gravel, pavers, or other hardscaping.

Keep grass trimmed and well maintained in a thirty foot radius around your home.

Keep ground plants other than grass to a minimum and well spaced out.

Trim low hanging branches to prevent a ground fire from accessing higher portions of the tree.

The second box is labeled as "Impede Crown Movement" and has the following items listed:

Remove trees hanging over the roof and close to the home.

Thin trees within One-Hundred Feet of the home to reduce movement of flames between them.

The third box is labeled as "Remove Anything that can trap embers" and has the following items listed:

Clean debris such as leaves from off the roof of and around your home.

Do not store firewood or lumber near your home.

Keep combustible decorations That can trap embers close to your home to a minimum.

After that is a larger version of the house, but redecorated in a more fire safe manner. The door has been painted purple, there are plants visible inside through the window, and the outdoor decorations are made of non-combustible materials. After the house is the text "There are still plenty of ways to make your home your own while being fire safe!" in white.

Below that in a rectangle is the text "For more information on defensible space and how to create it around your home, visit: https://www.fire.ca.gov/dspace for a more in depth breakdown of how to protect each zone around your home."

The last text on the poster reads "If you are in the U.S.A. and experiencing disaster related anxiety, call the Disaster Distress Hotline at 1-800-985-5990 for support and resources. Poster created by Katy L. Wood ● www.Katy-L-Wood.com"

[tpwrtrmnky]

crimes

[ID:

Five panel comic with crudely drawn stick people

Panel 1: a grayscale person is pointing accusingly at a green person

Grayscale: "You!"

Green: "Me?"

Grayscale: "Yes, you! I know of your crimes, now!"

Green: "Sigh. what now."

Grayscale: "Kidnapping."

Panel 2: The grayscale person points towards a large student dorm building in the background, where two green people are standing outside.

Grayscale: "I know you're affiliated with them."

Green: "Who"

Grayscale: "Don't play this game with me. I've been paying attention. Tracking the disappearances. The suspicious amount of incredibly saturated green people living in this specific dorm building."

Panel 3: The grayscale is still pointing.

Grayscale: "The only reasonable conclusion. Is that a secret forcegreening ring is operating on this very campus. I have caught you in the act, criminal!"

Green: "You know this is a completely ridiculous thing to believe, right? Like how would the logistics of this operation even work."

Panel 4: A catnip green cat person is watching from the window above while the argument continues in the distance.

Grayscale: "Of course you would say that! You have a vested interest in maintaining the secret, because you've been partaking in the crimes!"

Green: "I have never been here before."

Grayscale: "Lies! Lies from your fake identity!"

Panel 5: The bright green cat person is in a common room. A moss green person wearing a bandana, and a dark green person with weird rectangle shoes covered in hazard stripes, are on separate seats.

Catnip: "That one has been at it for a long time. Should we…?"

Moss: "No point. Forcegreening doesn't cure annoying."

End ID.]

Start - Previous - Next

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The enshittification of tech jobs

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me at NEW ZEALAND'S UNITY BOOKS in AUCKLAND on May 2, and in WELLINGTON on May 3. More tour dates (Pittsburgh, PDX, London, Manchester) here.

Tech workers are a weird choice for "princes of labor," but for decades they've enjoyed unparalleled labor power, expressed in high wages, lavish stock grants, and whimsical campuses with free laundry and dry-cleaning, gourmet cafeterias, and kombucha on tap:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhUtdgVZ7MY

All of this, despite the fact that tech union density is so low it can barely be charted. Tech workers' power didn't come from solidarity, it came from scarcity. When you're getting five new recruiter emails every day, you don't need a shop steward to tell your boss to go fuck themselves at the morning scrum. You can do it yourself, secure in the knowledge that there's a company across the road who'll give you a better job by lunchtime.

Tech bosses sucked up to their workers because tech workers are insanely productive. Even with sky-high salaries, every hour a tech worker puts in on the job translates into massive profits. Which created a conundrum for tech bosses: if tech workers produce incalculable value for the company every time they touch their keyboards, and if there aren't enough tech workers to go around, how do you get whichever tech workers you can hire to put in as many hours as possible?

The answer is a tactic that Fobazi Ettarh called "vocational awe":

https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/

"Vocational awe" describes the feeling that your work matters so much that you should accept all manner of tradeoffs and calamities to get the job done. Ettarh uses the term to describe the pathology of librarians, teachers, nurses and other underpaid, easily exploited workers in "caring professions." Tech workers are weird candidates for vocational awe, given how well-paid they are, but never let it be said that tech bosses don't know how to innovate – they successfully transposed an exploitation tactic from the most precarious professionals to the least precarious.

As farcical as all the engineer-pampering tech bosses got up to for the first couple decades of this century was, it certainly paid off. Tech workers stayed at the office for every hour that god sent, skipping their parents' funerals and their kids' graduations to ship on time. Snark all you like about empty platitudes like "organize the world's information and make it useful" or "bring the world closer together," but you can't argue with results: workers who could – and did – bargain for anything from their bosses…except a 40-hour work-week.

But for tech bosses, this vocational awe wheeze had a fatal flaw: if you convince your workforce that they are monk-warriors engaged in the holy labor of bringing forth a new, better technological age, they aren't going to be very happy when you order them to enshittify the products they ruined their lives to ship. "I fight for the user" has been lurking in the hindbrains of so many tech workers since the Tron years, somehow nestling comfortably alongside of the idea that "I don't need a union, I'm a temporarily embarrassed founder."

Tech bosses don't actually like workers. You can tell by the way they treat the workers they don't fear. Sure, Tim Cook's engineers get beer-fattened, chestnut finished and massaged like Kobe cows, but Cook's factory workers in China are so maltreated that Foxconn (the cutout Apple uses to run "iPhone City" where Apple's products are made) had to install suicide nets to reduce the amount of spatter from workers who would rather die than put in another hour at Tim Apple's funtime distraction rectangle factory:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2017/jun/18/foxconn-life-death-forbidden-city-longhua-suicide-apple-iphone-brian-merchant-one-device-extract

Jeff Bezos's engineers get soft-play areas, one imported Australian barista for each mini-kitchen, and the kind of Japanese toilet that doesn't just wash you after but also offers you a trim and dye-job, but Amazon delivery drivers are monitored by AIs that narc them out for driving with their mouths open (singing is prohibited in Uncle Jeff's delivery pods!) and have to piss in bottles; meanwhile, Amazon warehouse workers are injured at three times the rate of other warehouse workers.

This is how tech bosses would treat tech workers…if they could.

And now? They can.

Writing for the Wall Street Journal, Katherine Bindley describes the new labor dynamics at Big Tech:

https://www.msn.com/en-us/money/companies/tech-workers-are-just-like-the-rest-of-us-miserable-at-work/ar-AA1DDKjh

It starts with Meta, who just announced a 5% across-the-board layoff – on the same day that it doubled executive bonuses. But it's not just the workers who get shown the door who suffer in this new tech reality – the workers on the job are having to do two or three jobs, for worse pay, and without all those lovely perks.

Take Google, where founder Sergey Brin just told his workers that they should be aiming for a "sweet spot" of 60 hours/week. Brin returned to Google to oversee its sweaty and desperate "pivot to AI," and like so many tech execs, he's been trumpeting the increased productivity that chatbots will deliver for coders. But a coder who picks up their fired colleagues' work load by pulling 60-hour work-weeks isn't "more productive," they're more exploited.

Amazon is another firm whose top exec, Andy Jassy, has boasted about the productivity gains of AI, but an Amazon Web Services manager who spoke to Bindley says that he's lost so many coders that he's now writing code for the first time in a decade.

Then there's a Meta recruiter who got fired and then immediately re-hired, but as a "short term employee" with no merit pay, stock grants, or promotions. She has to continuously reapply for her job, and has picked up the workload of several fired colleagues who weren't re-hired. Meta managers (the ones whose bonuses were just doubled) call this initiative "agility." Amazon is famous for spying on its warehouse workers and drivers – and now its tech staff report getting popups warning them that their keystrokes are being monitored and analyzed, and their screens are being recorded.

Bindley spoke to David Markley, an Amazon veteran turned executive coach, who attributed the worsening conditions (for example, managers being given 30 direct reports) to the "narrative" of AI. Not, you'll note, the actual reality of AI, but rather, the story that AI lets you "collapse the organization," slash headcount and salaries, and pauperize the (former) princes of labor.

The point of AI isn't to make workers more productive, it's to make them weaker when they bargain with their bosses. Another of Bindley's sources went through eight rounds of interviews with a company, received an offer, countered with a request for 12% more than the offer, and had the job withdrawn, because "the company didn’t want to move ahead anymore based on the way the compensation conversation had gone."

For decades, tech workers were able to flatter themselves that they were peers with their bosses – that "temporarily embarrassed founder" syndrome again. The Google founders and Zuck held regular "town hall" meetings where the rank-and-file engineers could ask impertinent questions. At Google, these have been replaced with "tightly scripted events." Zuckerberg has discontinued his participation in company-wide Q&As, because they are "no longer a good use of his time."

Companies are scaling back perks in both meaningful ways (Netflix hacking away at parental leave), and petty ones (Netflix and Google cutting back on free branded swag for workers). Google's hacked back its "fun budget" for offsite team-building activities and replacement laptops for workers needing faster machines (so much for prioritizing "increasing worker productivity").

Trump's new gangster capitalism pits immiserated blue collar workers against the "professional and managerial class," attacking universities and other institutions that promised social mobility to the children of working families. Trump had a point when he lionized factory work as a source of excellent wages and benefits for working people without degrees, but he conspicuously fails to mention that factory work was deadly, low-waged and miserable – until factory workers formed unions:

https://www.laborpolitics.com/p/unions-not-just-factories-will-make

Re-shoring industrial jobs to the USA is a perfectly reasonable goal. Between uncertain geopolitics, climate chaos, monopolization and the lurking spectre of the next pandemic, we should assume that supply-chains will be repeatedly and cataclysmicly shocked over the next century or more. And yes, re-shoring product could provide good jobs to working people – but only if they're unionized.

But Trump has gutted the National Labor Relations Board and stacked his administration with bloodsucking scabs like Elon Musk. Trump doesn't want to bring good jobs back to America – he wants to bring bad jobs back to America. He wants to reshore manufacturing jobs from territories with terrible wages, deadly labor conditions, and no environment controls by taking away Americans' wages, labor rights and environmental protections. He doesn't just want to bring home iPhone production, he wants to import the suicide nets of iPhone City, too.

Tech workers are workers, and they once held the line against enshittification, refusing to break the things they'd built for their bosses in meaningless all-nighters motivated by vocational awe. Long after tech bosses were able to buy all their competitors, capture their regulators, and expand IP law to neutralize the threat of innovative, interoperable products like alternative app stores, ad-blockers and jailbreaking kits, tech workers held the line.

There've been half a million US tech layoff since 2023. Tech workers' scarcity-derived power has been vaporized. Tech workers can avoid the fate of the factory, warehouse and delivery workers their bosses literally work to death – but only by unionizing.

In other words, the workers in re-shored factories and tech workers need the same thing. They are class allies – and tech bosses are their class enemies. This is class war.

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/2025/04/25/some-animals/#are-more-equal-than-others

[dcxdpdabbles]

The Summoned Demon Part 4

#Holiday Requests I would love updates to Child Support, The Summoned Demon, and Passion For Fashion

Danny had no idea where he was.

No one around him could understand what he was saying, and he couldn't read anything either. After running through the suburbs, Danny had made his way on foot into the large city. There was nothing familiar about where the cults had summoned him to.

Everything looked wrong. The clothes, the cars, the street ads, and even the people. He stood on the side of a corner, attempting to make heads or tails of his surroundings, but people passed by him like water in a river.

It must have been the fact he was covered in dirt.

Thankfully, a group of teens had been willing to stop his frantic shouting. One girl had snapped her fingers, then waved rectangular screens at him- What was that thing?- speaking into it.

The rectangular screen spoke in what he thinks is a different language, but not anything Danny could understand. Her face fell but she seemed determined to get him to talk into her rectangle. When he did, it gave her soft buz like the ones that are played on game shows where a constant gets a wrong answer.

The girl had looked at her companions, utterly lost, until one of them stepped forward and started playing charades. There were a lot of vague hand motions and desperate gestures when he attempted to explain his situation, and the children were able to direct him to the police station.

No one on staff was able to translate what he was saying. However, they did seem mighty alarmed by how he was covered in dirt and speaking a foreign language. They had given him some water and a change of clothes and sat him in a room with a two-way mirror. Danny felt safe knowing the authorities were on his side, sipping his water at the little table while he waited.

Time moved slowly when more and more police officers entered, attempting to establish communication with him. They placed a list of writing in front of him, each line a different symbol, and he knew they were meant to be a language.

The aging man with white streaks, dusting his red hair, adjusted his glasses, then pointed to the first sentence on the list. He said something slowly, patting his chest with an open palm, then pointing more determinedly at the line.

"Is that your language?" Danny asks, scanning the lines and realizing he can't read one. He shakes his head "I'm sorry I don't understand."

The old man frowns and then stands. He places a chocolate bar on the table- or what Danny thinks is one, but he can't read what it says, and it's quickly becoming frustrating how much that's happening- before heading out of the room. A few more minutes go by when a man wearing one of the police uniforms but a long, more outdated one walks through the door.

Danny blinks up at him as the man carefully considers his face. He avoids looking at the bullet holes decorating the cop's chest. "Wow, you seem pretty young. Wonder what you did to get old Gordon to personally question you?"

Danny chances a look at the two-way mirror before muttering. "I didn't do anything, sir. I got kidnapped."

The man turns around, arms still folded over his chest, but the second he realizes the door has remained firmly shut, he whirls around, gawking at Danny. "You can see me?"

"Yes, sir. I'm half ghost on my mother's side." He jokes but still maintains a level of respect. The Fentons joked around often, but they always respected those in service until the person proved unworthy of the uniform.

"Holy shit!" The policeman laughs. "I don't think you can pass something like that down the family tree, kid."

Danny cracks a smile. "You be surpirse."

"Guess I am. Who knew I would be shocked twice after my death?!" The man's jolly laugh makes Danny relax just a little. He doesn't even mind that the ghost's heaving chest is splatting a few drops of red on the table. "Haven't laughed like that in years. By the way, kid, my name is Alex. Alex Anderson."

"I'm Danny Fenton." Danny smiles, offering his hand for a shake. Alex hesitates, reaching out only to have his face brighten when he makes solid contact and eagerly pumps their joint limbs up and down. "It's nice to meet you, sir."

"Pleasure is all mine." Alex claps his hands, settling- somewhat as he goes slightly through the metal- in the chair opposite Danny. He laces his fingers under his chin and offers another impish grin. "So what's this about a kidnapping?"

Danny straightens, rapidly recapping his last few days. Alex doesn't interrupt, listening with an intensity that tells Danny he's being taken seriously even if he's still smiling like there is nothing wrong in the world. When Danny is done, he has to take a breath and top off his drink as Alex considers his words.

"That's a rough couple of days, Kid," Alex says at the end, leaning more on his hands. Danny nods sadly, feeling utterly exhausted. He's not sure where the nice older man went, but no one had come to check up on him for a while, and he's starting to feel cagy.

Alex considers him a little longer before throwing his head back with a sigh. "Alright. I guess I need to help you escape. I feel too guilty if I just let Gordon hand you over."

"What?"

Alex stands, pretending to stretch his arms over his head. He nods to the two-way mirror, clicking his tongue at it. "Yeah, Gordon called Batman a while ago when they were trying to figure out your language. This place will be swarming with vigilantes and their magic users any minute now."

"Batman?" Danny repeats, rising to his feet. "What's Batman?"

"The guy who put you in that cave cage." Alarm fills Danny's veins as he realizes that this whole time, the police were setting him up to be returned to the cultist. Was the entire city in on this!? "Normally, I wouldn't be making deals with people Gordon deems unsafe, but given that you're half ghost, I've chosen to ignore my morals in solitary."

"But why?! Why would they give me back to them!?" He demands, rising to his feet and backing away until his back hits a wall.

"I was Gordon's first partner," Alex tells him, gesturing at his chest. "I died to make sure the idiot got back to his wife and kids. Ever since he's done everything he could to make Gotham safe. As much as Batman makes me uneasy, he is doing a good job cleaning this place up and doing what I can't do anymore. I'm trapped inside this building, but I've seen the bats plenty of times, so I know they are not dangerous. I also know they will shoot first or ask questions later; this is your only chance to get away until you can establish communication. Take it."

Alex gestures to the wall behind Danny. "Can you faze through?"

Danny lets himself sink through the stone just as the door is kicked up, and three cops rush in with raised guns. He ends up in another interrogation room- because that's where he was. They had not placed him somewhere safe; they had set him up for capture- where a man handcuffed to the table screams. Danny apologizes desperately, trying to get the guy to stop yelling, as Alex yanks him by the collar of his shirt.

"No time for manners, Kid! You have to get out of the building. Bat's just landed on the roof!" Danny races through the walls, ignoring the people who shout and scatter at his sight until Alex leads him straight out of the building. The ghost stops behind a window, where chains had manifested and wrapped around him, preventing him from going forward.

Alex doesn't seem to pay them any mind as he points in a direction. "Head that way until you see a giant clown. The Joker is currently in custody, but his old hideout has thousands of ghosts. Someone is bound to know what to do. If that fails, follow the road with the white bricks to Old Gotham. Lots of Magic is rooted there. Maybe you'll find something."

"How do you know that?"

"My mom was a professional card reader. I inherited some of her ability to sense the paranormal, and trust me when I say Old Gotham always felt cursed." Alex pauses before tilting his head. "If you ever get to talk to Gordon, tell him I forgive him. And the key to our treasure is at our old hideout. Tell him I still love him even if he picked her."

Danny's eyes fill with water. "I promise."

"Good." There was a loud thump as a man in a trench coat raced down the hallway, aiming his glowing hands at Danny. Alex threw himself before the bright yellow beam, spreading his arms wide as he made a shield. For a second, Danny's vision overlaps with a similar image of Alex blocking a young redhead man in the same position. "Now go, Kid!"

Danny shifts into Phantom, flying at his top speed without further comment. Behind him, he hears someone with a British accent swear, and Alex's cries of pain nearly cause him to forget to turn intangible when he flies through traffic.

There had to be some way he could find a living person who understood him

_____________________________________________________

"What happened?" Bruce demands as John pushes something in a jar. Since it looks like an impressive mime trick, he's fairly sure it's actually a ghost causing problems for the Brit.

"Bloody demon had help from a human soul," The blond grunted, grabbing at the air. "Stubborn one that seemed convinced it was helping a child."

"Why?"

"Hmm?"

Bruce feels his eyebrow twitch but remains impassive overall. Right now, he's Batman, and Batman does not let emotions cloud his mind. "Why would a ghost think it was helping a child? Demons can't hide their nature from paranormals. John, are we chasing a child?"

"Normally, I would say, yeah, the thing is a child, but this one isn't your average spook. It's powerful. You saw it, right? The demon shifted forms, and I couldn't even see its second form until the two bright rings of light. If it could fool me into thinking the human flesh suit was its real form, it can easily fool a ghost."

"If it's so powerful," Tim cuts in, walking towards the pair with a floating hologram from his wrist. The integration room security camera plays on it, displaying the demon calmly sipping water. "Then why didn't it escape before? All it did for three hours before Gordon was alerted was wait."

John frowns at the camera, sealing the jar with a wax melt. "That is odd. Normally, things on that power level do everything, but be calm."

Bruce didn't like this. They had lost something powerful in his city; it had evaded detection only to waltz right into custody, where it had just as easily escaped. They had also confirmed that the demon was visiting the children previously offered to him as sacrifice.

First, there was young Jack, then Molly, who had attempted to help him with a translation app. The girl didn't seem to consider otherworldly language was untransltable. She behaved as if the demon with its harsh, raspy voice and chilling presence was not there to harm her.

In fact, when Steph interviewed her, the teenager insisted that the demon seemed lost and frightened.

Which one was the truth? His experts of the supernatural or the signs that the possible demon was dropping. That it was just a lost child terrified out of his mind?

Bruce had too many questions and not nearly enough to get any kind of answers. They needed to capture the boy again.

[hyunsuloves]

can u write myung gi x reader ?? shy reader who rlly doesnt like confrontation & talking to ppl but thanos keeps following them around maybe ?? or u can do (idk if u write for him) but daeho x reader ?? maybe during the mingle game, theres too many ppl in the group so reader leaves & finds other ppl (despite daeho telling them not to) daeho doesnt know if theyre alive until they get back to the main room ??

even if u dont write these i hope u have an amazing day!! i saw ur myung gi x reader n thought it was so cute >.<

i don’t know which way to go.

synopsis … you make a sacrifice in the midst of the mingle that leaves you without knowing if your boyfriend is alive.

pairing … kang dae-ho x gn!reader ༝༚༝༚ featuring in-ho who’s friends with the reader!

warnings … the way this is written is a little unclear, sorry 😓

lovely notes … i hope you like it ml !! & i changed the plot a little bit

꩜ [ 1.2k words ]

you, jun-hee, and dae-ho stood on the leisurely rotating platform. gi-hun and jung-bae stood not too far away, looking around the room in the same wary manner. you were in the early parts of a game called mingle. 

it was described as a game where players had to group up and enter rooms following a predetermined number. if the players didn’t make it into the rooms in time, or if the room had fewer or more players than necessary, they’d be eliminated.

the most childish music ever played as you stood, hand gripping dae-ho’s arm in a way that would’ve been painful if not for the adrenaline running through both your veins. 

the platform stopped abruptly, and the lights turned off for a brief moment before they started flashing purple and pink. 

the first number that was called out was ten. you were in a group of six, and the entirety of them looked around frantically, needing to find the four people to complete your group. 

“how many are you?” gi-hun asked a woman, hyun-ju you believed her name was.

“four,” she responded quickly. 

“that makes us ten.” jung-bae added. 

you all darted toward room 44, the green door. you made it in with one second left, mere moments before the latch would’ve clicked and left all of you to die. 

you stood in a corner, gripping dae-ho’s once again with such intensity. you saw gi-hun peek out the rectangle-shaped slit in the door before the sounds of gunfire filled the room. you made the safe assumption that anyone who didn’t make it into the room in time was eliminated, which was being shot to death.

“hey.” dae-ho whispered in your ear. 

you glanced up to see your boyfriend looking down at you with an affectionate look in his eyes. something as small as basic eye contact with him calmed your entire body. you felt the tension leave your shoulders as you allowed yourself to take a deep breath.

it felt odd to find yourself relaxed in such a strenuous environment as the one you are in now, but maybe it was just the effect that your boyfriend had on you. 

“just stick with me, okay? i got you.”

“okay. thank you, dae-ho.”

each person stood in the room, taking a moment to catch their breath before going out to the death game you all knew you couldn’t avoid. it would be another number called, and you’d have to scramble to find a certain number of people once again.

the door unlocked with a click, and you found yourself standing next to dae-ho on the rotating platform once again. 

as the first round, the platform stopped, the lights turned off for a fleeting moment, and then they began flashing obnoxiously.

the next number that was called out was four, and you were in a group of six. you couldn’t risk any of your friends dying, so you quickly made a move to leave the group.

“i’ll go.” young-il spoke. 

“i’ll go with you,” you said without hesitation. you wanted dae-ho and jun-hee to survive more than anything, even if it meant putting your own life on the line. 

you made a move to leave before dae-ho gripped your forearm. “no, you can’t go. i can’t risk losing you.”

your eyes watered, causing your vision to blur, and you felt the burn in your nose. you didn’t want to lose your boyfriend either, but what else could you do? all you had to do was find two other people and you and young-il would be safe for another round. 

“i love you dae-ho, so, so much. but i have to go, and i have to go quick.” you gave him a fleeting kiss before grabbing young-il and running to the nearest participants you could find. 

you heard his screams of protest, but you had no choice but to leave. there was only twenty seconds on the clock, and you’d be damned if you let yourself die on the second round of this godforsaken game. 

you quickly found two people who stood and dragged them into the nearest room, with young-il close behind. 

you made it into the room with only two seconds left on the clock, and the latch clicked, as it did the first round. 

you stood in the constricted room for a drawn-out moment before the latch clicked again, and you all filed out of the room and onto the platform once again. 

the rest of the rounds felt like a blur. with screaming, rapidly moving bodies, and the near-blinding flashing lights, you were unable to locate dae-ho.

you deeply regretted leaving your group, and most importantly, your boyfriend. but you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if any one of your friends died because you tried to be so selfless.

you tried not to panic as your heart beat rapidly and your hands sweated tremendously. you felt a sudden, intense wave of fear as you stood on the platform with young-il for the last round. 

“have you seen dae-ho?” you looked up at the man beside you, a buoyant tone in your voice.

“i’m afraid i haven’t. but i’m sure he’s alright.” he comforted you, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. 

you inhaled slowly through your nose, knowing that young-il was most likely right. your ex-marine of a boyfriend could survive grouping up and going into rooms, right?

the platform clunked, the lights turned off, and they flashed as before. the number was two, and it couldn’t be more perfect for you and young-il. he grabbed your arm, and the both of you ran to the first space you laid eyes on.

for the last time, the lock was unlatched and you were allowed to leave. you finished the third game, and you’d made it out alive.

you walked out among the crimson blood and lifeless bodies littered on the ground. you shuddered as you navigated your way through the room, and your body was wracked with tremors.

you walked next to young-il, making pace in getting back into the main room. your eyes scanned the room rapidly, looking for the man you left in the middle of the game.

suddenly, you felt warm arms tightening around your waist. your boyfriend found you before you could find him.

“i found you,” he whispered in your ear, voice husky. 

you instantly turned around, your hands finding purchase around his neck. you had been so worried about losing him, and it felt surreal to have him standing right in front of you. 

you felt like you would never see him again, like he’d die just because you decided to leave the group to avoid causing chaos between them. 

“hi. i was so scared i was gonna lose you.” his mouth was right next to yours, yet the proximity didn’t feel like nearly enough,

“never. i’m here. please don’t ever leave me like that again.”

“okay, dae-ho. i’ll stay with you. i promise.” you intended to keep your promise; you intended to never leave him again. 

you had finally found your boyfriend again, amid the death games. you were wrapped in your lover's embrace, and you never wanted to leave again.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Supermarkets

Alien: What makes this place “Super”? Human: It has all the food you can want. Alien: Does it serve human? Human: …….. Human: It has almost all the food you can want. ---------------------------

Alien: And you call these things “Spices”? Human: Yup. Human: From all over the world and you put them on food to make them tastier. Alien: They don’t seem that noteworthy. Human: Don’t tell the british that; they fought several wars over them. Alien: And yet their food still tastes terrible. Alien: *Stops and turns to see human friend smiling Alien: What? Human: I am just so proud of you right now. --------------------------

Human: *Watches alien friend debating between two different brands of milk. Alien: *Becoming increasingly angry wondering where the rest of the 98% of the cow is. ------------------------

Human: What are you doing? Alien: *Unwrapping candy and measuring it Alien: I am ensuring it really is by the foot. ------------------------

Alien: I now understand why your species is so random. Human: Really? Human: Why? Alien: *Points to liquor aisle. -----------------------

Alien: Why do you put your young in tiny containment chairs? Human: Have you ever seen a child free in a supermarket? Human: They are like terrorists hopped on Colombian snow. Alien: None of what you said makes any sense to me. ----------------------

Alien: You have been debating between those rectangles for the last ten minutes. Alien: Please pick one as I wish to see the crustacean torture box once more. Human: Please do not call the fish tank a crustacean torture box. Alien: Do you not make them watch as their comrades are taken away one by one to be devoured. Human: Well, yes, but- Alien: Then it is a crustacean torture box. ---------------------

Human: I can’t decide. Human: *turns to alien friend and holds up two boxes. Human: Which one should I get? Alien: *Looks at both boxes, then points at right one. Human: Really? Human: Why pick that one? Alien: In a fight these tiny pointy eared mutants would be no match against a terran tiger. Human: *sighs Human: You can’t pick cereal based on which mascot would win in a fight. -------------------- Alien: Why does this fruit not have skin? Human: It was peeled so the customer doesn’t need to peel it. Alien: If it was meant to be easy then why is it in a plastic container? Human: Because without the skin it rots faster, so the plastic keeps it contained. Alien: Was the skin not already an effective container? Human: It was. Alien: So you skinned the fruit to make it easy to eat, but then put it in plastic to stop it from rotting. Human: I DIDN’T MAKE THE RULES; OKAY?!?! --------------------

Alien: I wish to use the mobile throne. Human: That’s a mobility scooter and you can’t use it. Alien: But my legs are tired of walking. Human: It’s meant for people with disabilities so you can’t just- *Loud snapping sound Human: *Turns to see alien has broken one of their legs and is now limping over to scooter. Human: Your lack of pain threshold is infuriating. Alien: Kiss my thorax ground pounder! *Proceeds to drive slowly away. --------------------

Alien: Why do you store your cheese as wheels? Human: Ease of access I guess. Human: How do you store your cheese? Alien: Paradoxical Cubes. Human: That doesn’t seem possible. Alien: For centuries it wasn’t. Alien: We lost a lot of good scientists in the endeavor.  Human: ……. ---------------

Human: *Wondering where alien friend is when alien friend comes running around the corner. Alien: We need to leave. Human: What did you do? Alien: They were offering samples of fried fish. Human: And? Alien: And I took two. Human: Dear god…. *angry supermarket workers come swarming in from every aisle

[so-i-did-this-thing]

So sorry if you've answered this before, but do you have any tips for how to tell if something is actually 30s/40s vintage cut or a mix between vintage and modern? I've seen you talk a couple of times about how a company's vests will be too long and their jackets too short (or something similar), but I don't know if that's a "the vest shall be precisely two inches below the apex of the wearer's elbow" type thing or just something you get an eye for once you do it a lot.

There are rough Rules, but you're really best off by developing your eye. "How to read a suit" is a great book, btw, for learning how suits have changed over time.

Start a "look book" of vintage photos of men in garments you like. Use actual vintage photos (or movie stills) of real people and *not* fashion drawings. You want to get good at deconstructing the vintage suit silhouette -- generally, what makes the torso more "V" shaped and the legs longer.

Let's use Jimmy Stewart as an example:

This is a great photo that shows off where trousers hit at the natural waist. It also shows a period tie length, how full the legs are, how the pleats sit, the full length trouser crease, the wide jacket lapels, and shoulders that extend beyond the natural shoulder.

These photos show where waistcoats and knitwear hit. You can also see the waistcoat has a high neckline, and, despite being short, has a lot more buttons than modern cut. The waistcoat also has a sort of fishtail look when that bottom button is undone.

These garments don't extend much past the (also high) trouser waistband. They do not cover the hips. Also note that the waistcoat *is* form-fitting, a rare garment of this era that is "slim".

This is a good example of coat length -- see how his coat hits between the two joints on his thumb. Also note his trousers - a wide turnup/cuff, and how they don't have a "break" in this case (aka, they don't spill over on to his shoes, but are a perfect length to completely hide the socks).

Some other fun details are the double breast pockets, some kind of collar bar, the spearpoint (long and pointed down) shirt collar.

And here, you can see how the suit coat nips in at the waist. This, combined with the wide cut shoulders, gives more of a "V" shape.

Now compare to these two Thomas Farthing cuts (no major shade - I have several garments from them, but also think their suiting would be so much better with an accurately vintage silhouette).

See how short the coat on the left is? It barely hits his wrist! It also doesn't look like it nips in at the waist. He looks like a rectangle and not a "V".

And the waistcoat on the right - that torso is so long! The waistcoat should end roughly where those pocket flaps are, instead of going over the hips. It also fits a bit loose - not much of a snatched waist look. Again, the impression is of a rectangle.

The trousers are... fine (they tend to not be wide enough), but since the other details are off, the trousers can't really do their job of making the legs look long.

As you dial in your look and shop around, try to shop online from places that show the clothing on a model -- that will at least help you see general proportions and silhouette.

Once you develop your eye, you can translate your ideal look to measurements that work for your own body. It might be a bit of trial and error, but once you get a great-fitting piece, measure it and start your own custom measurements sheet. Then, shop based on those measurements vs what is actually on a label or what your body is.

It is important not to solely go off of your body measurements. This is because of the concept of "ease", which is how loose fitting a garment is. I like my coats to have enough ease to layer in a sweater/jumper, and my shirts to have a boxy cut - not slim. This has meant that I've started wearing a slightly larger size than modern fashion would put me in (because modern fashion tries to be form-fitting). But in the vintage silhouette, that larger size *works*!

I hope this all helps. It all boils down to what *you* like, which doesn't have to be "accurate". But it will help your fashion journey if you're able to articulate what does and does not work in an outfit for you.