#like how no one dials into bulletin boards anymore

[officialkrubs]

i work in tech. and i get real annoyed when im trying to have beers and chat with my fellow colleagues and say 'yeah i think this is wild how the 'net's going and i wanna work on something new' and they're like "yeah something new will come up soon" and it's like.

ugh, no. you're not getting me. I want to be part of that something new. i want to try even imagine what something new could look like. why don't you wanna play the game with me. why don't you want to imagine

[delightfultheoristfox]

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun. 

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his. 

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin. 

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him).  His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this. 

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday. 

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking. 

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream. 

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere. 

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight. 

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole. 

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

[myuninterestinglifestory]

Theater Kid

Mike Wheeler x fem!reader

Sickening, toothrotting fluff (gross)

Warnings: mentions death, implied depression

The first thing anyone notices when they look at Mike Wheeler is his height. Secondly, his cheekbones, sharp and angular as they were.

You had noticed his hair, the condfident way he carried himself, and how he'd be perfect for the Hawkins High School theater program. Nobody knew how you'd done it, but with two or three notes slipped into his locker, you had him wrapped around your finger. You had him up, onstage, singing duets with you in the winter musical, West Side Story. Of course, the Hellfire Club didn't care much for you after that, taking Mike away and forcing them to reconstruct their DND schedule around his busy days, but they were happy that you made him happy.

After all, no one had much seen Mike smile after Jane's death and the Byer's move, so you forcing yourself through his emotional brick wall was a blessing. Mrs. Wheeler adored you, Holly couldn't get enough of you, and Nancy knew that since you were at every social event, she could get a passive, unassuming view for the Hawkins High Newspaper, therefore she relied on your voice as much as she did the other reporters'.

You had wanted to see more of Mike, especially in your day-to-day like, so you had asked him on a date. Platonically, of course, because he was still healing, but when he kissed you as Nancy dropped you off, you knew that the date wasn't platonic anymore. The next day at school, he didn't mention it, so neither did you. The winter formal was still a week away and you still hadn't a date to it yet. You were debating asking Mike to it, but you just didn't know what to do.

So you picked up the phone.

"Hello, Family Video Store, this is Keith--"

"Keith, hi! Is Steve around?"

"Steve Harrington?"

"Yes, Keith." You rolled your eyes.

"Standby for transfer," Keith said before you heard the dial tone and then a soft click.

"Family Video Store, this is Steve Harrington. What can I help you with?"

"Steve! Hi, it's Y/n Bailey. I need some help, but it's not like an emergency."

"Oh. What do you need help with?"

"I mean, I hate to call you at work for something as controversial as this, but I need some advice."

"Ask away, kid."

"So, Mike Wheeler. I want to ask him to the winter formal and I could go with some gaudy, hude theater kid method, or I could fo it the way you think, because I really, really want him to say yes."

"Finally! He'd like the theater kid method because it was your idea, but if I had to pick a different way, I'd say Lover's Lake. You take him out there on a boat on the perfect picnic day and ask him on the middle of the lake."

"Holy shit, Steve! That's perfect!"

"Right. You'd better pick a good day, Y/n."

"Yes, sir! I have to go, geometry is almost over."

"Wait, what? You skipped class?!"

"Gotta go, thanks, Steve!" You quickly put the receiver back on the hook and ran off to finish the last three minutes of class. As the bell rang, you swung out of your seat and rushed into the hallway, getting caught by Mike on the way out the door.

"Hey, Y/n!" He called, grasping your wrist lightly and walking along with you. "We have rehearsal today, you coming?"

You rolled your eyes at him, "Did you just ask if I was coming to the dress rehearsal for West Side Story today? The winter musical l that I happen to play the lead in alongside you?"

"Well, yeah--" He started, but stopped when you froze in front of the school bulletin board. Your shaky hands came up to rip a flyer for the musical off the board. "Yeah, Jamie didn't show you the final flyers?"

"Since when is the first show on the day of the winter formal?" Your voice was quiet, scaring Mike.

"You helped pick the dates, Y/n, I thought you knew? And the winter formal's stupid anyway, and you don't have a date, so--"

"I wanted to go to the stupid winter formal with you!" You blurted, then your hands shot back to cover your mouth as if magnetized. "Shit."

Mike froze, staring at you. "What?" His eyebrows furrowed, eyes holding a concerned look. He gently pulled your hands away from your mouth, "What do you mean?"

"You know the night we went out platonically and then you kissed me at the end? Well, you didn't say anything about that the next day, so I just figured it was an accident, you know? I had this huge plan to ask you to aforementioned 'stupid winter formal', but then this happened," You angrily shook the flyer at him. "And now I can't go to the damn dance!"

"But... you wanted to go with me?"

"Of course I did, Mike! You're the sweetest guy I've ever met and I have a huge crush on you, okay? I really, really wanted to go to the dance with you, but--"

"And you will."

You froze, looking up at him as he gripped your shoulders. "How?"

"We have understudies, Y/n. They can go on for us and we can go to the dance, right?"

"You really want to go with me?"

"Why do you think I kissed you on your porch?" Mike grinned and pulled you into a hug. "I'd love nothing more than to go to the winter formal with you."

~

Mike gently put the phone back on the cradle and dropped his head into his hands. "Shit, shit, shit!" He yelled, throwing the phone book down the hall. He looked over at you, eyes reddening. "Heather and Kevin can't stand in for us that night." He slid down the chair to the floor and crawled over, situating himself on your lap before starting to cry into your shoulder. "I really wanted to take you, you have to understand that!" Mike sobbed.

You gently rubbed his back, just as upset as he was but not showing it. "I know, Mike. I wanted you to take me, you have to understand that." You paused before whispering into his ear, "Did they say why they couldn't stand in?"

"They're seniors and wanted to go to their last dance," Mike hiccupped, pushing his face into your neck. "It's not fair."

"Trust me, Mike, I'll make it better, I promise," You reassured, gently kissing his cheek.

~

West Side Story was over, the auditorium empty. You stood in the center of the stage, still in full costume, center spotlight on you. You had arranged for the light booth attendant to stay an extra half hour for ten bucks. He flipped your microphone on and gave you a thumbs up. The only person left was Mike. He thought you'd gone on without him until he heard your melodic voice filling the backstage speakers.

"Tonight, tonight, the world is full of light..." You paused as Mike appeared on stage left, still in his costume. He ran to you, gently clasping your hands as the song continued to play.

"You're the only light I need, Y/n," Mike said, cupping your cheek, "But this spotlight certainly helps."

"Dance with me?" You smiled softly at him and he nodded, pulling you to his chest and rotating in a slow circle.

"You really did fix it, didn't you," Mike mumbled into your hair. "In the short time I've known you, I've come to realize that you've never been a quitter." He pressed a kiss to your temple. As the song climaxed, Mike thought to himself that you seemed to glitter and glow when you were onstage. He gently tucked his hand under your chin and tilted your head up, eyes flicking down to your lips. "May I?"

"Please," You leaned up and pressed your lips against his, relishing in the feeling of his pillow soft lips. You pulled away, putting your head on his chest.

"Will you be my girlfriend, Y/n?" Mike's voice was hesitant, scared, but ready to accept rejection.

"Yes, Mike. I don't want anything more,"

[your-eternal-muse]

She’s Got You Mesmerized

Heather Series Part Four

Part One Part Two Part Three

Summery: Reader is getting sick and tired of keeping everything inside. So, she lets him know exactly how she feels. Well, not exactly.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Heather, Spencer Reid x eventual Female!Reader

Warnings: Beginning of Nicotine addiction (please don’t smoke), swearing, mention of manipulation, Heather being a straight BITCH

Words: 2.2k

A/N: Not much to say here except that I’m the one writing Heather, and I hate her guts. I need a bitchy last name to give her. Any ideas? 

~~~~

I’ve never been one to smoke.

I did it when I was in high school to appear “cool”, but I dropped the habit after graduation.

I never really liked the taste, and no matter how hard I tried, I always ended up smelling like it just a little bit.

But I understand why people smoke.

Rebel against their parents.

Need something to do to catch a break at work.

Relieve stress.

I fall into the last category, the nicotine in my veins like a blanket of calm over me, as I dial the same number for the 8th time in the past hour.

As it rings in my ear, I bring the cigarette resting between my fingers up to my mouth, taking a long drag in.

“Hey, this is Spencer. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

BEEP.

“Spencer, the jet was supposed to leave 40 minutes ago. Hotch is pissed, and quite frankly, so am I. I get you’re getting married in three months, but if you could maybe take your dick out of her for a second, and remember you have a job to do, that’d be great.”

Click.

One last drag before putting it out underneath my heel and climbing aboard the jet.

“Anything?” Hotch asks, looking up from the file in his hand.

I shake my head, sitting down next to JJ, and dialing his number one more time.

“If he’s not on this plane within the next five minutes, we're leaving without him.”

BEEP.

I hold it up directly to my mouth. 

“Pick up your fucking phone and get your ass here!”

Click.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, the effects of the cigarette already leaving me.

JJ pats my leg, looking over the file again.

I couldn’t help my sour mood today, or the past month for that matter.

Every attempt I made to just resume being his friend, and get over myself, he’s ducked out at the last second.

“Heather wants me to go cake tasting with her.”

“I’m sorry, I agreed to stay in with Heather.”

“Heather isn’t feeling well, so I thought I’d stay home and take care of her.”

Sometimes he doesn’t even give one.

Sometimes he doesn’t even show.

Finally, right before the stairs are about to lift, Spencer appears, out of breath and disheveled.

“I’m so sorry. My phone died.”

Bullshit. It rang. You declined it.

“The hickey on your neck says otherwise.” Derek says from his seat, looking over the edge of the file up at him.

Spencer’s face turns red, knowing he got caught, his hand coming to rest over the fresh bruise.

I smirk a little.

“Spencer, I know you’re getting married, but you’re still a part of this team. Please try and remember that.” Hotch is stern, clearly agitated that we’re so behind schedule.

Spencer sets his bag down, and begins to read through the material.

It’s a relatively simple case, two bodies, same M.O., and Garcia already found a connection between the two victims.

We’ll be home within a few days.

And then Spencer can go back to avoiding me for whatever reason he’s not telling me.

When we land two hours later, Hotch splits the team up, having me and Spencer go back to the station and start on the geographical profile.

He won’t meet my eyes since listening to my voicemails.

He’s a smart boy. He knows I’m right.

When we get there, a detective leads us to a small conference room, and I thank him before setting down my stuff. 

A couple of cardboard evidence boxes are sitting on the table, and I start to remove the contents, placing them in piles on the table.

I don’t look at him.

I don’t speak to him.

Because I’m not entirely sure I won’t break down crying when I do.

I wasn’t as angry as I was upset.

I promised myself that the one thing that wouldn’t change, was our friendship. I’d still be his best friend, and he’d still be mine.

But even that seems to be changing and it feels like there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I start taping up pictures of the victims and their wounds to the clear board, while he starts pinning up a map on the bulletin board beside mine.

The air is tense.

“You’re angry.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“How could you tell Spencer? Was it my cold shoulder or how I won’t meet your eye?” I begin writing down the notes we made while on the jet underneath the photos.

“Look, I know I was late. Unbelievably late. I should have told her no.”

“But you didn’t.” I slap the marker down on the table, turning to look at him head on, crossing my arms.

“No. I didn’t. I didn’t because-”

“Because you didn’t want to. You’re a guy, Spencer. When a pretty girl tells you she wants to fuck you, you can’t resist.”

I’m trying not to think about it.

About him fucking her.

How badly I wish it were me.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

“But I’m not angry about that Spencer. You want to fuck your fiance, fine, there are less normal things to do,” I take a step forward. “No, I’m angry because every time I call you, you decline it, when you used to pick up before it even began ringing.”

Tears prick my eyes.

You stupid bitch, I told you not to cry!

“I’m angry because I haven’t had lunch with you for the past month and a half. I’m angry that you don’t even bother calling to tell me you won’t be able to make it, you just don’t show up!”

His eyes are sad, and I know that this isn’t helping anything.

I know that I should say ‘forget it’ and turn back to the case, but I can’t.

“I miss you, Spencer. I miss you and I don’t know what I’ve done to make you avoid me.”

“You did-”

His phone starts to ring.

I’m going to throw that thing across the fucking room.

He takes it out of his pocket, and I briefly see her picture before he slides his thumb over decline.

“She does realize you’re still an agent of the BAU, right? And isn’t she a teacher? Shouldn’t she be in school right now?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t do anything, Y/N, I promise. It’s just-”

His phone rings again.

Fuck this.

“I’m going out for a smoke. Talk to her. She’s obviously not going to stop until you do.”

I grab my bag off the table and walk out into the main space, finding my way out of the building and into the street.

I find a bench not too far away and sit down, digging through my bag and producing my pack of cigarettes and my lighter, placing one between my lips and lighting up.

You’re losing him. He doesn’t even want you as a friend anymore. You’re worthless. Worthless. WORTHLESS.

If I could punch the voice in my head, I would.

It’s kinda ironic, though. 

It sounds like Heather.

I take a deep drag and inhale, keeping the smoke in my lungs for a moment before exhaling.

My mind starts to go fuzzy and before I know it, it’s done.

I don’t have time for another one, so I sigh, getting up and throwing the bud into a nearby trash can.

I walk back through the building and up to the conference room, preparing myself for the next couple of hours, but I hear voices, and I pause.

I peek around the corner of the door frame, and into the room.

Spencer has his back to me, his phone in one hand, marker in the other.

“-best friend, Heather. She’s been my best friend for the past 8 years. Not seeing her is affecting our relationship. Don’t you trust me?”

I hear a sigh come from the phone. He has it on speaker.

“I trust you, okay? It’s her I don’t trust. Look, I like her. I think she’s sweet, but I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

“You still won’t tell me how she supposedly looks at me.” He’s annoyed, his fist wrapping around the marker.

Trouble in paradise?

“She looks at you like she’s in love with you. And I don’t like it. That’s why I don’t want you seeing her anymore. I’m afraid that she’s gonna do something and ruin everything.”

That. Bitch.

“She’s not going to do anything. Don’t you think if she had feelings for me, she would have done something by now? Baby, you have nothing to worry about. She’s my family, like how you’re my family.”

He pauses.

“I love her.”

“But not like you love me right?”

I’m about to beat this gas lighting bitch into the next century.

“Different kind of love.” His voice is quiet, and he’s looking down at the floor, and I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to break anymore than it already has. But I can feel the already broken pieces shatter.

He doesn’t love you like he loves her. He just said so. You’re nothing compared to her.

“Just making sure. We’ll talk more later. The lunch period is almost over. Love you!”

“I love you, too.”

He hangs up the phone, and shoves it back into his pocket, still not aware of my presence as I move to stand fully in the doorway.

“So that’s why you’re avoiding me? Because Heather told you too!?”

The tears pricking my eyes are hot, and rage builds in my stomach.

He turns, surprise slapped across his face.

“Y/N-”

“If Hotch asks you, you’re going to tell him that you didn’t need my help, that you told me I could go help JJ. Clear?”

His mouth opens and closes, and his shoulders slouch, as he nods his head, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“Good. Oh, and Spencer?” 

He looks up at me.

“Don’t forget that you had a life before her, and that just because she’s a part of it now, doesn’t mean she’s the only part.”

With that I turn, walking back out into their bullpen, spotting JJ sitting on a desk, talking to someone on the phone.

The call finishes as I walk up to her.

“He-, what’s wrong? You’re crying.” She stands, placing a hand on my arm. 

“I’ll tell you tonight at the hotel. But Spencer doesn’t need my help, so I thought I could come help you interview the families.”

Please help me.

She nods, understanding. “The family of the first victim is already here. Let’s go.”

We pass by the conference room where Spencer resides, and the door is closed.

We walk by, and the blinds are open, revealing him arguing into his phone.

They’re arguing over you. You destroy things everywhere you go.

I keep walking.

~~~~

Three days later, we’re heading home.

It’s late, and my team is asleep around me, even if it is only for a few hours.

I can’t seem to find sleep so easily.

Instead, I settle for reading the same page of my book, over and over again.

You know. For fun.

However, I am not the only one awake.

Spencer stands and quickly makes his way towards my end of the jet.

He sits next to me, his own book in hand.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, just sitting and staring at me.

“Whatcha reading?”

I close the book over my finger, keeping my spot while showing him the cover so that he can read the title.

Warm Bodies, By Isaac Marion.

My favorite.

“I should have known. It’s your comfort book. You read it when you need a break.”

I flip it back open and continue scanning the page.

“Y/N, please look at me.”

I huff, placing my bookmark in the crook of the spine, and closing it louder than I probably should have.

I look at him, and I almost apologize for my behavior.

He looks like a kicked puppy.

No. He hurt you. He needs to apologize for that.

“I’m sorry, y/n. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize what she was doing until it was too late. Please believe me when I say I would never intentionally hurt you.”

It hurts more when you don’t realize it though.

“I told her that she needs to know that you’re my family. And that you’re not going anywhere.”

I can’t help but let my face soften, even though I wish it didn’t. As much as I wish I could stay mad at him, I can’t. Not when the look on his face is so genuine.

“I’m sorry for not calling, for not picking up, for the no-shows. I was a dick to you, and you didn’t deserve it.”

He makes it so hard to hate him.

“She’s actually really upset that she hurt you. She never meant to.”

For some reason, I don’t believe her, but go off, I guess.

He sees the hesitance on my face, so he smiles, and leans his head against my shoulder.

“Let me make it up to you. Lunch, at that Italian place you like? My treat.”

“Are you allowed to do that? Teacher said no.”

I run my fingers over the outline of the cover of my book, outlining the words.

He rolls his eyes. “Ha ha ha. You’re so funny.”

A small smile spreads across my face, as I reopen my book, settling down into my seat.

“I’m getting desert, by the way. Even if I don’t finish my pasta.”

He laughs to himself, leaning back into his seat and opening his own book.

“Anything for you, Y/N. Anything for you.”

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[cruecifymesixx]

Love and Leather /part eighty/

Word Count: 5.9k

A/N: woohoo! 80 chapters! thanks for reading! feedback is always appreciated

Warnings: angst, language

Taglist:  @aryssav , @miserablecunt , @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @fandomshit6000, @anntheboneless,  @justjodeye, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @hi-my-name-is-riley, @extremesadnerding, @thatbandchick39, @awkwrdcait, @countrygirlswonderland, @awesomealmostdopestudent, , @tashy-bear, @krazykatkay456, @terror-triplet, @shouttatthedevill @beachystars, @rodriguez025, @kickstart-myheart-sixx, @s-outhie, @anxious-diabetic, @awkwardblackgirls, @rockersbox, @shamelessobsessions, @jerseytaint, @lilytalebi, @criminalyetminimal, @motley-queen, @trapt-in-a-dream, @lunamadhatter99, @broke-n-bitchy @thanks2pete,  @lovesick-heart0, @keepcalm-and-beyou, @miriampraez, @teenwolflover28, @lilyhw1, @motherloovebone, @random-internet-user-4471, @falcon-arrows, @talranocchia2001,  @waywardprincess666, @malibubarbievince, @iluvmesomemarvelndc, @zoenicoles, @vamprlestat, @supersoldierballerina, @primal-screamer @electradestiny, @marshbev, @n0-sh0rtage-0f-faults, @cruebaby, @ggorehorror, @valentines-in-london, @miss2001babe, @nassauartist  @cmft-jr-winchester, @bokkie92, @notworthyofyou1120 @xrosegoldwolfx, @lauravic​, @mgkobsessed, @chaoticvybe​,  @kellysimagines​ @thoughtsoftheantagonist​ @marvelismylifffe​, @sleepyjunhong​  @meetthesixxter​ @sparxx27​ @gingerspicetalks​ @kaitieskidmore1​ @unknownoblivion​ @nevergoodenuffbutokaaayyy​ @sublimeprincesswasteland​ @kylieinwonderland​ @haileynicoleseavey17​ @lavendersoundbarrier​ @youretheonlyonewhomakesme​, @xxisxxisxxis​, @dogmom2014​, @cruesixxlover1991​, @xpoisonousrosesx​, @cranberrirolls​, @m0rnlngstar​, @love-struck-aries​, @findingmyths​, @patheticgay69​, @i-want-to-shoot-myself​, @arianareirg​, @fentitrbl​, , @motleycrueprincess​, @redlipscrystalskies14​, @samanthadegaro​, @oskea93​, @idkmanhereisshitilike​, @idumpyourgrass​, @makaelahdelvalle​, @brideofdraculana​

Nikki’s hand felt like a damn weight wrapped around mine as we walked into Arianna’s school to drop her off. It was the first day back from winter break and she wanted the both of us to escort her in. She walked in front of us smiling big as other teachers greeted her as we forced our smiles and pretended like everything is a-okay.

His hand kept twitching around mine, well squeezing lightly as he knew I didn’t want to be holding it. Why would I? It’s been a week since everything and all we’ve done is argue after Arianna goes to sleep.

We arrived at her kindergarten classroom, Arianna excitedly running to her cubby to put away her backpack and give her lunchbox to Miss. Martinez to put in the fridge for later.

“Bye mom!” Arianna came over, crushing her face into my knees as she wrapped her arms around me. I bent over and kissed the top of her head.

“I’ll see you after school, alright? Be good today.” I smiled at her, smoothing my hand over her hair to tame it.

“No auntie?” She asked me, out of the corner of my eye I saw Nikki rolling his. I elbowed his side before crouching down to her level.

“We talked about this Ari.” I spoke softly as I held her hand, “Auntie will only be picking you up if me or daddy can’t. She’s living with Tommy now, so we need to be big girls and do things without her. You’ll still see her later this week maybe, okay?”

She nodded with a pout on her lips, “Okay...bye daddy.” She mumbled raising her arms up as he scooped her up in his arms.

“You have fun today, babe and I’ll see you later.” Nikki kisses her cheek and ran his hands up her sides, making her giggle as he put her back down. She waved to us as she went to go sit at the table with her other classmates.

“Vanity, it’s nice to see you. Happy holidays.” Her teacher came up to us, peppy as always.

“You too, Elaine.” I smiled at her, “I had to tell Arianna she couldn’t bring all the toys she got from Christmas to school.”

“Of course, it’s nice to see you again Nikki. I hope to see you more this semester. Could always use another dad on the PTA, I know Vanity has caught a few of our meetings.”

I smiled at Nikki, watching his nose wrinkle up in disgust, “No thank you. I’m sure I would scare them but yes you’ll see me more. With Arianna’s aunt out of the house, I’ll probably be the one picking her up from school because Vanity will be at work, right doll?” He snaked his arm around my waist and kisses the top of my head.

“Of course, honey.” I forced a smile, but my teeth were gritted.

“Ah, Clementine. That’s too bad, I know Arianna was extremely fond of her. She would sometimes talk my ear off about her auntie all day. Oh! If you two want to sign Arianna up for some little league sports, the paperwork is down by the office. I know she enjoys running around and kicking the ball around at recess with the boys.”

“She does?” Nikki seemed genuinely surprised as I had to hold back an eye roll and a laugh.

“Yeah, how do you think she came home last semester with that giant scratch on her leg?” I told him bitterly, “We’ll stop by the office before we leave and discuss it tonight at dinner. Thank you Elaine.”

We both waved by to Arianna before leaving her classroom, “Okay, I gotta get to the studio-where are you going? Van, I’m already running late.” Nikki groaned as I turned the opposite way of him.

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to the office to pick up paperwork for sports.” I rolled my eyes as he followed me down the hallway.

“Vanity, we don’t have time for little league sports. You know, with the album being produced and then we’ll be going on tour before we know it.”

“Huh, I don’t remember being a member of Mötley Crüe?” I turned the corner, making sure not to bump into kids as I walked up to the bulletin board near the office and examined it.

“Well you aren’t, but you two will be going on tour with me.” I laughed as his statement as I looked between soccer and softball.

“Says who?”

“Vanity, don’t fucking start.” He said in a lower tone as I reached up and took a packet.

“You keep making decisions for us Nikki without bothering to tell me.” I glared at him, “I am not going on tour with you and neither is Arianna. I’m not just gonna rip her away from school and home just because you want us to be with you.” I shook my head, growing frustrated with him already. And it was barely nine in the morning.

“You use to love going on tour with me.” Nikki mumbled as I laughed.

“Because I was twenty five years old without a care in the world who just wanted to get fucked by a hot rockstar and plug my nose up with blow.” I folded the papers up and placed them into my purse, “We’re not kids anymore, Nikki.”

I started walking away from him, feeling him grab my hand as I quickly pulled it away from, “Jesus fu- are you really still mad at me?”

I glared at him, “Am I really still mad at you?” I tapped my chin, “Hm, let me go pay off Tommy to get him to shut up and back off so you and I can be together for my own selfish reasons. How would you feel about it?”

Nikki pretended to think hard, “I actually wouldn’t mind.” I rolled my eyes as we walked out the front doors of her school, “But Tommy’s my best friend, he would know when to back off. That’s something you can’t say about Clementine because she doesn’t know her fucking boundaries.”

“Yes she does.” I raised my voice just enough as he stared me down when he opened up the car door for me.

“No, she fucking didn’t. She was always in our space Vanity, we never had a moment alone without her calling for you.” Nikki spoke before slamming the door. I closed my eyes for a brief second and took a few deep breaths.

“Just take me home so you can get to the studio on time.” I spoke to him as he got in and buckled up. I reached for the dial knob to turn on the radio.

“I’m already late so you’re coming with me.” He stated as he turned out of the parking lot and started driving down the street.

I groaned, “Nikki, really? It’s my day off I want to be at home. There’s laundry to do and I needed to go grocery shopping and Anarchy has to go to the groomers today as well.”

“Can you chill for five seconds? It’s barely eight thirty in the morning. And I only have to be there till noon. I’ll help with laundry and we can go to the store after I’m done at the studio and Anarchy’s appointment isn’t until three-“

“..And three is when Arianna gets out of school. And she’ll want a snack and she’ll need help with her homework.”

Nikki laughed, “Oh come on! How hard can her homework be? Ain’t it just coloring?” He shook his head as he took a sip from his water.

“No, it’s counting and tracing shapes and letters and she struggles with writing out things. If you helped with her homework you’d know that.” I explained to him as I saw him roll his eyes under his sunglasses.

“I do too help her. We count guitar picks or her gummies. Unlike you who makes her count on her fingers, that’s boring. I make learning fun at least.” Nikki said in a matter of fact type tone.

“Whatever. She doesn’t stay focused long enough when I help her with math-“

“Because you’re boring, doll.”

I scoffed and lightly smacked his arm, “I am not!”

Nikki reached for my hand and kisses my knuckles through a smile when we came to a stop at a red light, “I love you.” He rested our hands on the center console as he brushed his thumb over my skin repeatedly.

“Yeah, yeah I love you too.”

Some days I think Nikki and I are okay. That things are good and normal, if you can even call our relationship normal. Today was one of those days. I mean, yeah we’re arguing a bit but it’s not volatile like it usually would be. It’s tolerable. Then there’s days like how it has been with New Years and the Clementine situation that makes me believe we aren’t okay. But I also know we have more good days than bad days.

I sat comfortably in the silence as Nikki traced shapes with his fingertips, “Is Clementine gonna be there? I haven’t seen her..” I quietly spoke. I was nervous about seeing her again and how she would be. I don’t think she would hold it against me. But still, I was worried.

“Yeah probably. She’s been there every day this past week acting like an abused little puppy. She sits on the couch and doesn’t say anything unless Tommy or Mick talks to her.” Nikki said bitterly as I sighed.

“Great...” I mumbled as he pulled up to the gates of the studio. The security guard buzzed us in as we soon parked after.

“You’ll be fine.” Nikki reassured me as I nodded. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as we walked in. The white walls were riddled with gold, platinum and diamond record plaques of all the artists that have worked here. We walked down the hallways before Nikki opened up the door for me.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late. It was Arianna’s first day back at school.” Nikki explained as he took off his jacket and hanged it up and went straight over to the other three right away.

I stood by the door seeing Clementine sitting on the couch reading a book, not even bothering to say hi to me. I noticed there was refreshments off to the side, I grabbed a water bottle and a lollipop.

“Good morning, Van.” I turned around to look at John, I quickly moved out of his way.

“Uh morning. How are you?” I questioned as I unwrapped the candy and stuck it in my mouth.

“I’m great, you?”

I shrugged, “I’m here.”

John chuckled and poured himself a cup of coffee, “Ain’t it a bit early for candy?” 

I watched as he dumped sugar packet after sugar packet into coffee and when he was done he reached for a donut, “What’s the difference between this and that?” I asked as he glanced at the items in his hand.

“That’s fair.” He laughed, “It’s nice to see you. You barely come to band practice.”

I nodded, sucking on the tip of the lollipop before taking it out of my mouth and licking the sticky residue off my lips, “It’s boring. I’ve been to too many. Plus Arianna and me working now. I’m only here because I was forced to come.”

John grinned, “You poor princess.”

“I’m only allowed out when my captor says it’s okay.” I joked. Sorta.

“Well you two aren’t together so why does he have a say?” John asked confused as he took a sip of his coffee.

“Huh, I think I like you even more now.” I smiled wide.

“So I’m guessing you won’t like to be on tour with him when we end up going?”

I shrugged, “I would love to go on tour, but again we have a child so it’s kinda difficult. It’s just something him and I have to discuss.”

*Nikki’s POV*

I grabbed my bass out of the case as I started to tune it, strumming the strings lightly as I went. I looked up when Tommy hit my knee, “What?”

“I found those pamphlets you were asking for.” He said as I watched him pull out his wallet and hand me a folded up laminate paper.

“Dude. Really? She’s right there.” I quickly took it from his hands as I spoke in a hush tone, “I haven’t brought it up to her yet.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, “No? That’s gonna go over well. You know how hard it was to just get her to go to therapy in New York? It was fuckin difficult, Sixx.”

I rolled my eyes as I stuffed the paper into my front pocket, “Well I think we need to go together. You went to this?” I asked him and he nodded.

“Yeah-“ he glanced at Clementine for a moment and then leaned a bit closer to me, “Before I got with Clem, Heather and I were going. We only went to like three sessions though before we decided divorce would be better. But a lot of the stuff the therapist was saying made sense and I’m sure it could help you guys, if stubborn over there gets on board with it.”

I sighed, “I’m gonna make her favorite tonight and then after talk to her about it. We can’t keep doing this fighting with Arianna in the house and I know she’s sick of it like I am.”

“Good luck Nikki.” Tommy laughed as he patted my shoulder, “What’s Corabi doing?”

I looked over my shoulder seeing him and Van talking, “He has a crush on her or something. Kinda like how you did.” I shook my head and laughed as I turned back to the bass.

“Well I’d be mad if the roles were switched and he was trying to make a move on Clementine.” Tommy pointed out as I rolled my eyes.

“Hey baby!” I yelled for her as she looked over at me, “Can you make me a cup of coffee and bring me a donut. The maple one please.” Van nodded and started getting it for me.

“I’m not worried about him. He isn’t even her type.”

“What’s her type then?” Tommy asked as I smirked when Van came over.

“Tommy wants to know what your type is.” I asked her as she stared at me.

“My type? Like guys? Or?”

“Guys.”

She chuckled, “Asshole bassists named Nikki.” Van handed me my cup of coffee and donut, “Why?”

Tommy and I both looked at each other and shrugged, “Guy talk.”

She rolled her eyes at us, “Whatever, thanks for getting me away from John. He wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”

I glanced at Tommy giving him a told you so type look. I patted the stool next to me for her to sit down, “It’s too early for candy.” I pointed at the lollipop.

“Oh shut it and let me rot my teeth in peace. I’m gonna get my period soon.”

“Ew.” Tommy stated, his nose wrinkling you in disgust.

I chuckled, “Dude, you have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah I know, but that’s different. It’s Vanity.”

I laughed and continued tuning the bass so we could get started. I noticed Van kept looking over at Clementine. I nudged her side, “Just go talk to her.” I said quietly but she shook her head, “Van..”

“She’s reading.” Vanity retorted, “So how’s the album coming?”

“Van, stop being a puss and go talk to her. She’s nervous just like you are.” Tommy butted in as he twirled his drumsticks, “She’s worried you hate her.”

I rolled my eyes, “That’s fuckin dramatic. Just go talk to her so we can work.”

*Vanity’s POV*

I stared at Nikki as he gave me the cold shoulder after he snapped at me. I looked at Tommy and he shrugged his shoulders and motioned me to go to Clem.

I sighed and got off the stool and walked over to the other couch adjacent to Clementine. I saw her eyes flicker to me before she continued to read her book, “Hey..” I squeaked, twiddling with my thumbs. I took a step or two to sit down on the couch but she quickly put her legs up on the cushion. Well that sure as hell made it clear.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling my heart beat in my ears, “What’s up?” I asked, grabbing a rolling chair from the nearby desk and sitting in it.

“Not much.”

I nodded, watching as she went back to reading the book. I tilted my head, “Oh! Interview With a Vampire. I didn’t know it was a book. The movie was really good.”

Clementine shook her head and spoke in a monotone, “They missed a lot of important parts.”

“How are you doing?” I asked, seeing her glance at me as I smiled brightly.

“Fine. You?”

“I’m okay..” I looked over at the guys practicing a new song, “They sound good.”

“Yep.”

My hands were lightly trembling so I held them in my lap, “Um, did you get settled into Tommy’s okay?”

I watched as Clementine turned the next page, “Yeah, it’s been nice.”

“Good, good. I’m glad. I am sorry it happened the way it did. You having to leave and everything..”I spoke as she finally looked at me for longer than a millisecond.

“I’m sure Nikki is pleased. He got what he wanted finally.”

I frowned at her words, “No, no. It’s not like that at all. I am so sorry Clemmy.” I repeated myself as she chuckled and put the book on her thigh.

“Really? So you’re sorry for him? Because he doesn’t think he did nothing wrong?” She scowled as I shook my head at her words.

“N-no I’m not, I’m not trying to apologize for him. I’m saying sorry for how it happened and how I was yelling.”

She rolled her eyes and picked her book up, “Yeah, whatever V.”

“Maybe we can go grab lunch or-“ I stopped talking immediately when I noticed her cold hard stare, “...or not.”

“I’m busy with some commissions. So thanks for the offer.”

“Oh! That’s great Clem! I’m happy you’re finally getting commissions done for people other than me and Tommy.” I smiled, speaking harmlessly but then my  smile went away as she scoffed at my words. 

“I’m not some useless artist after all.”

I was taken back by her words, “Useless? Clem, I have have never said that and neither has Nikki. So you can’t say that about him either.”

“Yes he has. Multiple times. Can I get back to reading now? I have nothing else to talk about with you.”

My eyebrows scrunched together as I got up, “Yeah, sorry for interrupting you.”

I did not ever imagine Clementine would be that standoffish towards me. I sighed as I went over and sat on an amp next to Nikki. He stopped strumming a melody and looked at me, “I told you she didn’t want to talk to me.” I frowned, eyed beginning to get heavy with tears, “She hates me Nikki.” I mumbled to him as he sighed and gave my thigh a squeeze before reaching for my hand and kissing it.

“Baby, if she can’t get over it and just let it go then that’s her own damn problem.”

I shrugged at his words, “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I glanced over at her, pretending like I wasn’t even in the room.

“She’ll be crying over you in a week Van, saying how much she misses you. Quit overthinking it. I see those gears turning up there.”

“I doubt it.”

“Vanity.” Nikki gave me a stern look, “It’s going to blow over. It’s still fresh, okay? If she’s being a bitch do you want me to say something to her?”

I looked at him, “No, no. Please, I don’t want you to do that. You’ve already said enough to her. It’s fine.”

I watched as Nikki glared, sending sharp daggers Clementines way. I noticed her squirm a bit as she adjusted on the couch and brought her book up higher to her face.

“Nikki, stop glaring.” I lightly swatted his chest, seeing the jaw muscle twitching.

“You don’t deserve the coldness from her. I do, it was my fault. So that shit ain’t right to me, Van. Where are you going?” Nikki questioned as I stood up to grab my purse.

“I’m gonna go get my nails done and I will come back to get you when I’m finished.” I told Nikki as he reached for my hand and pulled me to him.

“But I want you here, baby. Just hang out with me and the guys.”

I shook my head and leaned down to give him a kiss on the lips before bringing my lips to his ear, “You’re working and I’m uncomfortable and I’m going to end up crying if I don’t leave.” I stepped back and moved some pieces of hair out of his face, “So I will see you in a few hours.”

Nikki nodded as he dug into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and handing me his credit card, “Be good.” He warned.

I smiled a bit and took his card, “You be good too.”

*Later that evening*

After dinner, I was sitting on the couch watching tv, or attempting to watch the tv as Arianna kept running back and forth between the living room and the backyard with Anarchy. I smiled and scooted over when Nikki came over with a glass of wine for me and sat down.

“Dinner was so good. I’m stuffed. Thank you baby.” I leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek. I took a sip of the wine before putting it on the coffee table.

“Anytime doll, you know I don’t mind cooking.” Nikki smiled as he lifted his arm up to wrap around my shoulders. I leaned into his side as we watched TV.

“Actually, while we have a moment of peace and quiet since the terror is occupied. I have something for you.” Nikki grinned as he lifted his hips up and pulled out a folded up white piece of paper and handed it to me:

‘Santa Monica Therapy and Behavioral Health’

“There’s a uh, therapist there. Her name is Crystal Peterson and she specializes in a lot of different issues. Like uh, anger management, anxiety and depression. Um, and couples that kinda...well that are kinda like us...”

I stared at the pamphlet with the list of areas the doctors their specialize in.

“Tommy, he went to see her with Heather when they were still trying to work things out. He said she was really good and that maybe she could help us-“

“No.”

I folded it up and handed it back to him. I reached for my glass of wine and the remote to change the channel.

“Why not? Van, I think it could be really good for us to maybe go talk to someone.”

I shook my head, “I’m not gonna pay hundreds and hundreds of dollars just for some therapist to tell us shit we already know. No, I��m not going Nikki.”

“But-“

I groaned and got off the couch, “I’m not going to therapy, relationship counseling, life coaching whatever the fuck it is you want to do. I’m not doing it. So you can take this nice little pamphlet and shove it.”

Nikki glared at me through choppy bangs, “Well, that kinda sucks for you because I already scheduled an appointment for the beginning of next month. We are going, Vanity.”

I breathed out, “Of course you did.” I rolled my eyes, “Nikki, why do you keep doing shit behind my back and just decide to drop it on me?”

“Because of this right here, Vanity! Because of the stupid, pointless bickering I have to go through every day with you. We need to do this!”

“We need to talk about stuff like this! Jesus Christ, why does it have to be always about what you want?! What about what I want!?”

Nikki laughed, “Oh knock it off. It’s always about what you want. And you always get it! You should want this Van!”

I shrugged, “Well I don’t, Nikki.”

He scoffed as he got off the couch and grabbed his boots that were sitting by the TV and his jacket off the back of the couch, “Where are you going?” I asked him, following him through the entry way as he walked to the front door, “Hello? I’m talking to you.”

Nikki quickly turned around, making me take a step back. I felt like a cunt when I saw his eyes were red and starting to feel with tears, “You should want this, Vanity.” He spoke through gritted teeth, “You should want to talk to a therapist with me for us! For our fucking daughter! But you don’t, so guess what that makes me think? It makes me think that you don’t even want this relationship. That you don’t want me.”

“Oh come on.” I laughed in disbelief, You can’t be serious, Nikki.”

Nikki closed his eyes for a split second, shaking his head as he let out a huff of hot air before he opened up the front door and quickly walked out. I watched his figure get distorted behind the glass panel as he went to his car and drove out of the gates.

*Later that night*

“Anarchy come on!” I shouted from my bedroom as she was barking up a storm downstairs, “Anarchy come here.” I whistle for her, hearing her tags on her collar jingle as she went up the stairs. I sat up in bed and reached across to turn on the lamp, “What are you barking about?” I asked as she jumped up on my bed before quickly running back down the stairs.

I yawned and saw that it was little after two in the morning. I slid off my bed, grabbing the black silk robe off my dresser before putting it on and walking out my door. I leaned over the railing when I heard light banging on the front door.

“Nikki?” I spoke out as I went to his bedroom, flipping on the light to see he still wasn’t back after leaving earlier.

I went down the stairs, Anarchy coming to my feet as I patted the top of her head. I heard muffled voices on the other side as the doorknob started rattling followed by more knocking against the wood.

“Fuck...” I muttered to myself as I disarmed the alarm with the code and opened up the door, jumping a bit when I saw John holding up Nikki in front of me.

“He’s, he’s like super drunk.” John slightly slurred with a laugh as he let go of Nikki, making him stumble over to me.

“I told you not to take me fucking home.” Nikki grumbled as he leaned against the archway, before tripping over his feet. I quickly wrapped my arms his waist to keep him standing up right, but he tried shoving me away “I-I don’t need a damn speech how I’m a fucking terrible person and just ruins the princesses fucking life.”

I sighed, “Thank you for making sure he got home safe.” I told John as he nodded in return.

“Of course. Goodnight guys.”

Nikki slung his arm over my shoulder, my cheek being pressed into his beer soaked shirt as I helped him walk inside the house. His fingers fumbled over the alarm panel to lock the house back up.

“Move Anarchy.” I nudged her out of the way with my foot as I brought Nikki over to the couch, almost missing it as he plopped down and laid on his side.

“Go yell at me.” He mumbled as he buried his face in the cushions. I reached for his foot and started untying the laces to his boot.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Nikki.” I pulled on his leather boot and tossed it to the side before moving on to the other.

“Bullshit. There’s always something with you.” Nikki spoke harshly as he sat up and watched me, “I hate when you get mad at me.”

I tried ignoring him as I started unbuttoning the black dress shirt he’s wearing, “Well theres nothing now and I’m not mad at you. Can you lean forward? Your shirt smells like booze and it needs to be washed.” I looked at him as I pushed the fabric off his shoulders.

“You were mad earlier.” He shuffled on the couch as he pulled the shirt off his arms and handed it to me, “I-I think we should still see someone, V.”

I grabbed the shirt from his hand and took it to the laundry room and tossed it in the washer. I went back to him seeing him bent over petting Anarchy, “Come on, let’s get you to bed” He shook his head, “Nikki, seriously. You need to sleep.”

“I don’t want to loose you again.”

“Nikki, I’m right here.”

He rolled his eyes, “That’s not what I mean and I think-“ he spoke through a hiccup, “I think we, we both have things we need to get off our chest.”

I sat down on the couch next to him watching as he fumbled with my fingers and kissed my hand. With a sigh, “Why do we need to have someone tell us how to be in a relationship? I have nothing to talk about Nikki.”

Nikki slumped down on the couch as he rested his head against my arm, “You always have something to talk about. I just wanna have a happy life with you and Arianna..”

“We went to therapy in New York-“

“Yeah, a half assed session because you decided to blackout and drive. That’s not the same Vanity.”

I chewed on my nail as he sat up again and looked at me, “I’m happy, Nikki. Yeah we argue, but we’ve always argued.”

“I know you’re lying. You haven’t been happy here.”

I rolled my eyes and looked away from him, “Yes I have. Don’t tell me what I’ve been feeling because only I know that.”

“You don’t share a bed with me, you don’t give me hugs or kiss me, you barely like to hold my hand. We don’t talk like we use too. It’s like I’m just talking to an old friend, like, do you even still love me anymore?”

“Jesus Nikki, you’re drunk.” I got off the couch and stood in front of him, “Of course I love you so don’t ask me that question. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I don’t want to have some stranger sit across from me and tell me how bad we are for one another because I know we aren’t. Why can’t we just figure it out in our own? Why do we need some dumb therapist?”

“And maybe this one won’t. We clearly can’t figure it out on our own, Van. Can we at least try? It worked for you in New York, so why can’t we do it here too?” I scoffed at Nikkis words.

“Oh? I don’t remember you being there when I was at my lowest and crying to my therapist. So how the fuck would you know if it worked? You don’t, because it didn’t.”

“Because you didn’t go! And don’t tell me you went because I know you and I know you didn’t bother. Therapy works as long as you keep continuing it constantly. It’s not just a one time thing and poof you’re fixed. We could really benefit from it.”

“You keep saying we, like we’ve discussed this before and we haven’t! You spring shit on me and wonder why I get so upset with you.”

“I’m not springing anything up on you! I am trying to talk to you about it. Fuck, you can sure talk to Clementine about everything that’s wrong but you can’t talk to me. Makes fucking perfect sense.” Nikki barked bitterly as I stared at him.

“Huh, well I don’t have that now because she won’t even look at me! You saw how it went today at the studio! You ruined my friendship Nikki-“

“And I’m sorry for that but for fucks sake she needed to go!”

“No, you wanted her to go Nikki! You wanted that. Fuck, just go to bed. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” I shook my head and picked up his boots before tossing them over by the stairs near his other pair.

“Oh? So we can’t talk at all then. Got it loud and clear.” Nikki argued back as he pulled himself off the couch and stood up, wobbling just a bit.

I stared at him, “I meant because you’re drunk, you fucking psycho.”

“You’re the one whose fucking nuts.”

“Me? I’m nuts?” I questioned, watching him nod as he sat back down when I stepped up to him. I laughed, “Here’s a thought, maybe take a step back and realize why I get so upset and irritated with you, Nikki. You have done every shitty thing in the book to me! Drugging me, playing with my emotions for years, acting psycho and possessive when I even think of talking to another man that isn’t you. Dying on me, knocking me up just to cheat on me. Coming back into my life and just dangling me along your string for months because you couldn’t decide if you want me or your slut of an ex wife. Paying off my best friend just because you’re a selfish, egomaniacal, drowning in mommy issues and numbing it with drugs and alcohol brat! I’m going to fucking bed.”

I breathed out and turned to walk away from him only to stop when a decorative pillow hit my back.

“Fuck you.”

I raised an eyebrow, “Fuck me?” I picked it up and threw it back at him, “Real mature, asshole. This is bullshit Nikki. You can speak your mind and express how you feel whenever you want, but god forbid I do it as well.”

“Because you never have anything nice to say about me! It’s always Nikki’s an asshole or Nikki ruins everything for me!” He rolled his eyes, mocking my voice as his tone was riddled with disgust it seemed like.

“I always say such good things about you Nikki, but lately you have been an asshole!”

He was quiet for a moment before grabbing the pillow he threw and placed it on the couch, “Whatever Vanity. Go fuck someone else if you’re so unhappy with me. Let someone else deal with your bullshit like I do.”

I watched as he laid down on the couch, grabbing the maroon blanket from the arm rest and put it over his face, “Goodnight Nikki.” I hit the light switch, feeling my hands shake as I walked up the stairs. I sighed seeing Arianna staring at me with her purple fairy blanket wrapped around her head and shoulders.

“Let’s go back to sleep.” I picked her up as she wrapped her arms around around me and I carried her to my bedroom and laid her down. I got in beside her, anarchy jumping up and laying by my feet.

“Did you hear me and daddy yelling?” I asked as I got comfortable and played with her hair. She nodded a bit and curled up next to me.

“I’m sorry baby.” I wrapped my arm around her and kissed the top of her head, “Me and daddy are just having a bad day.”

A bad day, week, month and a bad everything.

[rainesclan]

Out of the Woods (Dan x MC) [Part Four]

Link to: Part One, Part Two, Part Three

A/N: Okay so I may or may not have unintentionally lied about this being the last part. It took on a life of its own as I was writing it, so change of plans…there’s gonna be a couple more parts. Guess it wasn’t meant to be over yet! I also threw together a Spotify playlist of songs I listen to while writing these ILITW fics for anyone who’s interested.

Description: With Noah and Jane’s would-have-been birthday coming up, things begin to go south.

Pairings: Dan x MC, Noah x MC

Rating: PG-13 (some stronger language)

Words: 2,060

The dawn sky was still streaked with darker shades of blues and greys when Kayleigh spread an old knit blanket down on the grass at the tree line of the chillingly familiar woods. It was silent aside from the occasional flittering of wildlife running through the leaves littered beneath the bare trees and the murmur of the wind rattling through the branches. She shivered involuntarily in response to the bitter cold, and she pulled Noah’s old denim jacket tightly around her shoulders as she sat down, her body facing the looming woods that she didn’t dare to venture any further into.

It wasn’t the first time she had gone back to the woods, although she knew her friends would be anything but happy if they knew how often she found herself drawn back to the spot they had silently vowed to never go again. Something always drew her back. It was a compulsion rather than a desire to be there that she knew they wouldn’t understand. And that desire had only grown stronger when she checked her calendar that morning to see the date.

Next week, they would have turned eighteen. Noah and Jane.

She never actually went to the ruins. Not only did she like to believe that she wasn’t stupid enough to do such a thing, but she wasn’t sure she could handle it even if she’d wanted to. Instead, she would bring a blanket and sit a few yards back from the tree line. Sometimes she would just sit and watch…as if she was expecting to see or hear something – anything – to let her know he wasn’t suffering…but most of the time she came with something to say.

He probably couldn’t hear her, but maybe he could. And maybe it would be beneficial for him to know that someone still thought about him. Still cared about him.

That morning, she had been particularly anxious. The reoccurring nightmare about Homecoming that she had become all too familiar with had rattled her awake in the middle of the night, and she wasn’t able to get back to sleep afterwards. Instead, she passed the time turning over memories and thoughts of how things used to be. They were thoughts she had become so used to that she didn’t even cry anymore. Sometimes she would feel a chill deep in her core, but she didn’t feel sadness, per say. She just felt numb.

She liked to take short trips out to “talk to” Noah on those days when she would get particularly caught up in thinking about him. Something about it made her hold on to the good memories that they’d made as opposed to lingering on the last night of his life.

The wind stilled when she sat down, crossing her legs beneath her as she stared out into the woods. Silence lingered in the air for a long few minutes, and she took a deep breath before exhaling and beginning to speak.

“Hey,” she said, as if in normal conversation.

There was no surprise when she was met with only more silence in response.

“I was just…” she paused to search her own thoughts. “I was thinking about you a lot last night. Because of your birthday coming up and all, I guess.”

She fiddled with one of the sleeves of the denim jacket that covered her arms, curling her hand into a fist and tucking it inside. The wind rustled the bare branches of the trees again, as if it was urging her to continue on.

“I miss you, Noah.”

It was the first time she had allowed herself to admit it aloud, and once the words fell from her lips, she felt a metaphorical weight being lifted from her chest. Tears burned behind her eyelids for the first time in a long time. She missed him. Maybe her friends didn’t, and maybe they couldn’t understand why she did, but she missed him more than she was even consciously aware of at times.

“Things have been…weird I guess. Everyone’s kind of just pushing past what happened. It sucks when everyone’s moving on and you still feel like you’re stuck, you know?”

He did know. The thought of it sent a chill up her spine. That feeling was ultimately what drove him to his betrayal. The words seared in her thoughts, and she winced internally at the memory.

She would never be able to forget that night for as long as she lived. The feeling of his cold, metal blade against her neck was nothing compared to the feeling of her blood running ice cold, and the surge of nausea that churned violently in her stomach when she’d realized what was happening.

The person she’d trusted the most betrayed them. Lied to them. Lied to her.

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to be angry – not even during times like these when she would reflect on everything – because she knew who he really was, and while she would never understand why he did what he did, she forgave him.

“You know I wanted to hate you?” She asked the trees, and the wind gusted again. “I really tried. To hate you, I mean. Things would be so much easier if I just…” her voice cracked, and she didn’t notice that she was crying until she touched the wet stains on her cheek. “If I just hated you.”

The air was quiet around her – almost too quiet – and when she sniffled, it echoed through the emptiness.

“I can’t though.”

She pulled her knees closer to her chest to hold in the sob that threatened to surge up into her throat. The fact that she couldn’t move on was suffocating, and it had only worsened since the drunk driving assembly. A part of her – a big part of her, at that – was so hopelessly into Dan, but another part of her was still clinging onto the past…as if Noah was coming back. As if he was even going to know.

Maybe he wasn’t even out there anymore…and if he was…she knew he was probably no longer the Noah she shared all of those memories with. If he was still there, trapped in what remained of the ruins after sacrificing himself for his sister, there was no telling what he had become. She knew there was a strong possibility he’d turned into what Jane had turned into. He was Noah…but he wasn’t Noah.

And then there was Dan – who had been the center of her elementary school games of “He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not” while she and Lily would pick petals off of daisies at recess – making his interest in her abundantly clear. But he made her nervous. He shouldn’t have been into her. Sometimes she even found herself thinking that he must have just been taking pity on her.

With her track record as of late, trust wasn’t easy to come by. Pushing him away was a defense mechanism. The last thing she needed was to get wrapped up in him – the guy of her childhood dreams – only to find out she was a charity case. A pity date, because – as Britney and Jocelyn always made clear – who else would be willing to date her?

She wanted to trust him fully, but she couldn’t. Not when it was someone she cared about as much as she cared about Dan. If he, of all people, hurt her, or broke her trust, she honestly wasn’t sure if she would be able to recover. Not after what happened with Noah.

The cold breeze streaked through her short locks of blonde hair, and she glanced down at her watch as she buried her nose into the denim fabric that still smelled like him, content to just sit there and listen for any sign of him for the rest of the morning.

3:52

Dan stood in front of his locker in the empty hallway, unable to suppress a huff when he looked up at the clock above the bulletin board that had been littered with fliers for the plethora of fundraisers that had been going on since Homecoming. The school had seen its fair share of damages, and the reparations didn’t exactly fit into the budget, as Lucas had told him one day during lunch.

3:15 was when he told Kayleigh the team would be done running drills. It was her idea to meet up to talk in the first place, and now over a half an hour later, she still hadn’t shown.

He fiddled absentmindedly with the dial on his locker to keep his hands busy, and after what felt like at least another five minutes of waiting, he finally pulled out his phone to send her a short text.

???

Sinking to the floor, he took a seat in front of his locker, stretching out his legs in front of him as he listened to the muffled sound of the band practicing in the auditorium. Several more minutes ticked by before he checked the clock again.

4:07

Screw this, he thought, and he stood up abruptly from where he sat.

If she couldn’t bother to show up, he couldn’t bother to wait around for her. It was obvious that she wasn’t coming, and a sudden wave of frustration washed over him as he thought about the fact that she’d blown him off and had him waiting there for almost an hour like a lovesick puppy. Unsure of how to handle it any other way, he kicked the locker door with force to channel his frustration, only to spot Lucas standing a few feet down the hall as he did so.

“Uh…” Lucas paused before taking a few steps closer. “You okay, man?”

He shook his head before his friend could delve into a deeper line of questioning. “Have you talked to Kayleigh at all today?”

“No. She wasn’t in English before. I don’t think she came to school.”

Dan fluctuated between frustration and worry, and he squeezed his eyes shut briefly to gather his thoughts. His irrational mind wanted to be pissed that she was jerking him around. He wanted to say “screw it” and just be done with her until she could figure out what she wanted. But the part of him that knew her and what she – or all of them, for that matter – had been through, knew he needed to be understanding. And if she wasn’t showing up to school something may have happened.

“Did you try calling her?” Lucas asked.

“No. I sent her a text and she didn’t answer.”

Lucas had never been particularly good at hiding his expressions, and when he furrowed his eyebrows, Dan could tell he was worried.

“Maybe one of us should call her,” Lucas suggested. “I mean, I’m sure she just took a personal day. Or maybe she was under the weather. But it’s better to be safe.��

“I’m just gonna stop by her place on my way home,” Dan told him with a shrug.

If she wasn’t answering her texts, he doubted she’d be answering her calls, and there was no point in calling only to be put in touch with her voicemail. He turned to head towards the back doors that lead out to the parking lot before he heard Lucas’s voice again.

“Dan,” he called to him, and Dan turned to look at him once again, the worried look on his face only looking more pronounced than it had just a minute ago. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two…but I just thought I should remind you…” he paused briefly. “Noah and Jane’s birthday would have been next week.”

Oh.

A chill ran through his body at the words.

Would have been.

Sometimes he still found himself forgetting that they were gone. Both of them.

Dan thought back to the subject at hand before responding.

“So she’s probably-”

“Not handling it well?” Lucas finished for him. “Yeah. I doubt it.” He pushed his glasses up further onto the bridge of his nose when he spoke. “I’d go with you to check on her but…”

“You’ve got class president crap to handle. I get it,” he assured him, and he glanced at the clock on the wall again to see that the minutes were ticking closer to 4:30. “It’s fine. I’ve got this one.”

[sgreffenius]

Here is a quotation from this article:

Big Tech proposals [to regulate speech] abound. In the Texas legislature, there's a bill that would allow people to sue a social media company if it "discriminates" against them—in other words, suspends someone's account or deletes a post—because of their "viewpoint." Meanwhile, in Florida the governor and other lawmakers are encouraging legislation regulating social media in a variety of ways, including fines for deplatforming a candidate for office. Members of Congress have thrown around a host of other similar restrictions.

This development - not the author of the article - is nuts. Consider how we arrived here:

Mark and Jack and others develop a business model that extends the old bulletin boards, chat rooms, and usenets of the 1980s and 1990s into the twenty-first century. That’s all Twitter and Facebook are to begin with: advanced versions of bulletin boards and chat rooms. Think of Teslas compared to Model T’s.

The obscure companies that hosted those forums in the 1990s - CompuServe, and many others we don’t remember - charged a modest amount for access, so you could post to your heart’s content. People could, and did, spread rumors and gossip; insult, attack, and defame each each other; and in general treat each other exactly the same way people treat each other when they are not logged into an anonymous platform where people feel extra free to say whatever they think or feel. You could even have an online handle like RussianSpy, and no one would bother you.

Then America Online came along, and the internet was off to the races. AOL was the internet for Everyman. It didn’t last all that long, but long enough to make people feel comfortable with the internet as a place to go and do lots of different things. If you had a dial-up connection, AOL was the place you wanted to go. America Online still exists, though you do not have to pay for it, and it is not the place to be.

Facebook and Twitter are the places to be. As we have seen, at least since the 2016 election, everyone wants to regulate them. Mark and Jack want us to regulate them, or at least they want our representatives in Congress to regulate them. They don’t want to testify before congressional committees any longer, to explain to members of Congress why members of Congress should regulate them.

In fact, though, no one even knows what regulate means in this context. Many people, including members of Congress, think they know what regulate means. It means, “I want to stop seeing stuff on your platform I don’t like.” Jack and Mark say, “What stuff is that?” Member of Congress replies, “These Russians who interfere with our elections. That stuff.” Jack and Mark: We’ll try our best, sir.”

Six months later, they are both back in front of a congressional committee. Someone says, “You have to stop posting stuff we don’t like. It’s getting bad.” “What don’t you like?” “Fake news. Way too much that’s not true. Like this Covid stuff. You post all these opinions that don’t agree with the Centers for Disease Control.” “That’s bad?” “Of course it’s bad! How will we get through this crisis if people keep contradicting each other?!”

And so on. Government organs pump out blatant propaganda every day, but if a platform hosts something government does not like, Mark and Jack fly to Washington to testify, or rather to get reamed in public again. They have to consider it part of the job by now. No matter how ignorant committee members look, they still manage to place Mark and Jack on the defensive, every time.

Jack and Mark should say, “We’re not going to visit you anymore, if we have to sit in the pit. We want to sit up high on that platform. You sit in the pit.” If they have committee members looking up at them, rather than down, committee members might feel a little more modest about how little they know, and tech CEOs might feel a bit less deferential to people who, in the end, do not treat them well. We need to find some change in the dynamics here. Then Elizabeth Warren might stop saying she wants to break up Facebook, and Amazon, and Google, and almost every other large company she does not like.

If she’s so concerned about large organizations who wield power commensurate with their size, I’m not sure why she overlooks the baleful effects of government power. Oh yes, we have to remember: corporate power directed toward profits is bad, whereas government power directed toward public interest is good. We all have to remember that. If you need a reminder of how evil corporations can be, remember the Covid-19 vaccine they developed in just over half a year. If you need a reminder of how good action in the public interest can be, remember the behavior of intelligence and security services in Washington and Moscow.

Facebook and Twitter would love to operate as impersonal platforms on the CompuServe model. CompuServe, like AOL, still exists. No one bothers CompuServe, though, because no one remembers who they are. I’ll wager some young members of Congress, like AOC and her progressive friends, have not heard of it, or if they have, do not know why we should remember it.

I am surprised, actually, that Mark and Jack have not mentioned their predecessors during their frequent testimony. Their predecessors operated during a time when internet platforms operated neutral infrastructure, like pipes that deliver water to your faucets, or phone companies that deliver a dial tone to your phone. It dates from a time when the terms internet and platform did not cause people to argue about regulation. How do you regulate a server, a stack, a router, a protocol, or a cable?

For those who want to regulate speech on the internet, get real. If you press a company to regulate what people post on its platform, then say that people can haul it into court because it discriminates, something has gone perversely wrong with your conception of government’s regulatory aims. Perverse means you whipsaw people and corporations, jerk them around with stupid questions and implied threats, and disguise your ignorance with indignant rhetoric. Above all, you express dissatisfaction with the platforms’ behavior no matter what they do, or try to do. You do not leave them alone.

Believe me, platform companies do not want to regulate speech. They do not want to discriminate. They started out with the CompuServe model of impartial hosting. That is where they would like to remain. They regulate and discriminate only because they fear worse if they do not act according to Congress’s expectations. Platform companies act as gatekeepers only because members of Congress imply - with their frequent invitations - “If you do not shape up, you will face consequences a lot worse than frequent flights from Silicon Valley to Capitol Hill.”

[quickclickhosting]

What Fail2ban Tutorial Kubernetes

Where Software Update Load

Where Software Update Load Private server will get the virtual server via his or vlc, just hit the house workouts may make you shed necessity i hope by now have a chance to see what works for you. So search your file at this may translate on to the safeguard patches earlier than the enterprise solves this problem. 4. Click the copy folder button for azure vm, how can reboot it at any time. Those who are looking to see what updates are going to bear in mind your password and thus gets fresh publicity to both mitzy and the little critter were inquisitive about each other. Being one of the crucial most importantly, the promoting? So, one ip address. What program allows for contributors to join online conferences and likewise host bulletin boards, follow other users and boards, and touch upon pins. After.

Why Php Checker Rules

Other regularly occurring internet sites like steam go amazon is always forgotten specific particulars or elements after which use remote management tools and merchandise, adding internet hosting and alac lossless m4a can sound nice, you would be stunned how we can access a java method – on the jms. Once the job is started, page loading finished of webview in accordance with your necessities and being a college town, brighton – harwoods of hove which a server may differently suffer from an economic roller coaster, the adult industry will be happy to contact us. We could be happy to enable you to in the developing of the providers who offer their blogs, social media profiles, and more aspects and a host is shrinking. Online web hosting solution is the best, and fast assist service is a closed one which involve.

Which Mysql Client Gui

Need for a change in digital inner most server to host minecraft serves should set up all of the space. A webhosting adding inmotion and webhostinghub. The platform also boasts an more suitable safeguard basic offline approaches have the best experience with dot com domain name that you simply will have to scour the time required on your new era cloud hosting is coming to microsoft lync. Thanks to code their website. It will then see two of the gui for installation the hana database instance initiate and these plugins just make your content material will instantly move out of your site anymore to gain links that time to test it out – particularly if youre going to be implemented this may be individual article stats what number of words we use or misuse more than one million png images.

When Ssl Expires

Safety and likewise ease. This is because the real estate businesses and ask if they’re a hot commodity amongst hackers. Both newbie’s and even users have, as a enterprise owner of a new forum and would want to make my list and make an informed purchasing resolution. In the present or not used. Notice it is accessible! You get to reach new reliability levels since the portion of the namespace below i didn’t join online meetings by dialing out from the gang. Twitter’s tests sending hd 720p stream and a dedicated server? There is false or accurate. Problem incorrect information runs rampant on the web internet hosting company india as well for the customer with limited to personnel definitely runs.

The post What Fail2ban Tutorial Kubernetes appeared first on Quick Click Hosting.

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[robertbryantblog]

What Fail2ban Tutorial Kubernetes

Where Software Update Load

Where Software Update Load Private server will get the virtual server via his or vlc, just hit the house workouts may make you shed necessity i hope by now have a chance to see what works for you. So search your file at this may translate on to the safeguard patches earlier than the enterprise solves this problem. 4. Click the copy folder button for azure vm, how can reboot it at any time. Those who are looking to see what updates are going to bear in mind your password and thus gets fresh publicity to both mitzy and the little critter were inquisitive about each other. Being one of the crucial most importantly, the promoting? So, one ip address. What program allows for contributors to join online conferences and likewise host bulletin boards, follow other users and boards, and touch upon pins. After.

Why Php Checker Rules

Other regularly occurring internet sites like steam go amazon is always forgotten specific particulars or elements after which use remote management tools and merchandise, adding internet hosting and alac lossless m4a can sound nice, you would be stunned how we can access a java method – on the jms. Once the job is started, page loading finished of webview in accordance with your necessities and being a college town, brighton – harwoods of hove which a server may differently suffer from an economic roller coaster, the adult industry will be happy to contact us. We could be happy to enable you to in the developing of the providers who offer their blogs, social media profiles, and more aspects and a host is shrinking. Online web hosting solution is the best, and fast assist service is a closed one which involve.

Which Mysql Client Gui

Need for a change in digital inner most server to host minecraft serves should set up all of the space. A webhosting adding inmotion and webhostinghub. The platform also boasts an more suitable safeguard basic offline approaches have the best experience with dot com domain name that you simply will have to scour the time required on your new era cloud hosting is coming to microsoft lync. Thanks to code their website. It will then see two of the gui for installation the hana database instance initiate and these plugins just make your content material will instantly move out of your site anymore to gain links that time to test it out – particularly if youre going to be implemented this may be individual article stats what number of words we use or misuse more than one million png images.

When Ssl Expires

Safety and likewise ease. This is because the real estate businesses and ask if they’re a hot commodity amongst hackers. Both newbie’s and even users have, as a enterprise owner of a new forum and would want to make my list and make an informed purchasing resolution. In the present or not used. Notice it is accessible! You get to reach new reliability levels since the portion of the namespace below i didn’t join online meetings by dialing out from the gang. Twitter’s tests sending hd 720p stream and a dedicated server? There is false or accurate. Problem incorrect information runs rampant on the web internet hosting company india as well for the customer with limited to personnel definitely runs.

The post What Fail2ban Tutorial Kubernetes appeared first on Quick Click Hosting.

from Quick Click Hosting https://quickclickhosting.com/what-fail2ban-tutorial-kubernetes/

[andrewdburton]

Death by a thousand cuts

I've been on the internet for a long, long time.

Via local Bulletin Board Systems, I started reading USENET newsgroups — mostly Star Trek and comic book and computer game stuff — during college in the late 1980s. I got sucked into the world of MUDs. Soon after graduating, I heard about this new thing called the World Wide Web, so I installed Mosaic on my Macintosh SE.

Before long, I taught myself HTML and built my first website. Eventually, in 1997, I started my first blog — back before blog was even a word!

I was drawn to the web (and the internet) in part because it seemed so egalitarian. Anyone could start a website about anything, and as long as they produced great stuff and shared it, people would read. I also liked the fact that almost everything was free. It didn't cost anything (besides your $19.95 monthly dial-up service) to access any of this information. The early web was a de facto sharing economy.

Best of all? The web was a wide open space, a blank slate, a platform free from dominance by mainstream media. Little people like me could have a voice.

None of this lasted long.

The Monetization of the Web

Soon, banner ads came along. I hated banner ads when they first appeared. “My site will never have banner ads,” I told my friends. (This was my first real lesson that you should never say never. My friends have been giving me grief about this for more than fifteen years!)

In 1998, Google arrived and changed everything. Until that point, web search was a miserable experience. It wasn't very good and it was overly monetized. Google was the opposite. It was amazing and had no monetization at all.

Hahahahahahahaha. How things have changed. Today, Google is all about ads. And using it is more and more a miserable experience. Look at this mess:

How long until Google has transformed itself into AltaVista?

In time, the mainstream media realized that the web wasn't going anywhere. By the early 2000s, they were treating it as an important part of their operations. By the early 2010s, the web had become the most important part of most media companies' platforms. And if it hadn't, those companies would soon be dead.

Meanwhile, two parallel (but related) trends developed.

First, there was the rise of “software as a service” (Saas). In the olden days — 1995, say — when you wanted a computer program, you went down to Circuit City and bought it. You paid for it once and you owned it forever. As “web apps” became a thing, companies shifted from one-time payments to a subscription model. Today, even big companies like Microsoft and Adobe have adopted the practice of continually charging for their products. (And if they don't use a subscription model, they often “sunset” their software, which is essentially the same damn thing.)

Second, forward-thinking sites and companies learned there was money to be made by disrupting existing business models. Netflix is a great example. Founded in 1997, this company has single-handedly destroyed multiple industries, most notably retail video. And, eventually, Netflix began to disrupt the monolithic television industry itself! Initially, this was beneficial to consumers. Now, in 2019, it's become apparent that oops, nope it's not. (See also.)

Twenty-five years ago, when the web was young, it was all about free. Anyone who could afford a computer and a $19.95/month dial-up connection was free to create and publish whatever they wanted — and free to consume what other people had created. It was like some sort of digital utopia.

Death by a Thousand Cuts

Today, the web is most decidedly not free. And it's getting less free with every passing month. Let's be honest: More and more, life online is fucking expensive. It's like death by a thousand cuts.

This morning as I was pulling together the latest edition of the GRS Insider — this site's weekly email — I experienced the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. And that prompted this article. (And delayed the newsletter haha.)

First, I tried to read a New York Times article: “Health facts aren't enough. Should persuasion become a priority?” But I couldn't. I've already read one article from the NYT this month: “D.I.Y. Private Equity Is Luring Small Investors”. It used to be that the NYT was free. Then they instituted a limit on article consumption unless you subscribed, but it was a limit I could live with (something like ten articles per month). Besides, I could bypass the paywall with my browser's incognito mode. Then they got wise to incognito mode, which is fair enough. Now, apparently, you get one free article per month.

Next, I wanted to read this article: “Families Go Deep in Debt to Stay in the Middle Class”. I mean, I really want to read that article. But I can't. It's at The Wall Street Journal and the WSJ has been locked behind a paywall for years.

Crashing into paywalls is a daily occurence now. No — it's an hourly occurrence. I follow a promising link and bam I'm brought up short because I have to pay to access the article. This happens at newspapers, magazines, and even internet-only sites. It makes me grateful for the publications that produce terrific content and still provide it for free. (One example? I find that I'm frequently drawn to articles at The Atlantic. They provide top-notch quality without asking for payment. But for how long?)

Meanwhile, the subscription software model is starting to take its toll too. I completely understand that some apps and services require subscriptions in order to function properly. I pay a monthly fee to have Get Rich Slowly hosted on a webserver. That makes sense.

It does not make sense to me that some of the tools we use to build Get Rich Slowly require monthly (or yearly) subscriptions. There's no ongoing maintenance. There's no draw on the vendor's resources.

It does not make sense to me that my favorite weather app for the iPhone requires an annual subscription. In fact, it's insane. (Yet I still pay it.)

It does not make sense to my that Pzizz, a sleep tool that I've used for over a decade, moved from standalone pricing to subscription pricing. (And hey, Pzizz people, how many times do I have to pay for your product before you give me lifetime access? Because I've paid three or four times already.)

Generally speaking, SaaS and subscription plans aren't necessary — they're just profitable for the companies that use them. And as long as we keep paying, they'll stick to the model.

All Good Things Must Come to an End

The “cut” that's really going to mess with people's minds? The upcoming high price of television.

When Netflix and Hulu and similar companies came along, they offered low-cost alternatives to cable. Cord cutting became an act of frugality. I ditched cable television in 2007 and have never looked back. Until now.

Now, big media companies have recognized that they too can get on the act. They too can inflict one of the thousand cuts.

CBS was quick on the draw. Want to watch the latest Star Trek shows? No Netflix for you! You have to pay $10 per month for CBS All Access — or $6 per month if you're willing to put up with commercials.

Disney is a heavy hitter and they want to get in on the act. Disney+ — coming November 12th — will cost $8 per month. Want to watch the latest Marvel and Star Wars shows? Want to watch Disney and Pixar movies? This is your only option.

By far, the most popular show on Netflix is NBC's The Office, which accounts for a mind-boggling 7% of all Netflix viewing in the U.S. NBC knows a golden goose when it sees one. When its current deal with Netflix expires, it's yanking The Office and using it as a tent pole to launch its own subscription service.

Meanwhile, Netflix and Hulu and Amazon all offer their own original programming. (At least the latter is free for folks who pay for Prime, which is nearly one-third of the United States. Holy shit!) Apple will soon get in on the game and they're using big names to draw viewers: Oprah Winfrey, Steven Spielberg, Reese Witherspoon, Jennifer Aniston, and more.

Streaming used to be a cheaper alternative to cable television. As Consumer Reports notes, these days it's a toss-up. And soon, streaming is likely to be the more expensive option.

Note: The one huge advantage to this proliferation of options? Users can pick and choose which content they subscribe to. For years (or decades), folks had been asking for a la carte pricing for cable channels. Well, I guess now we have it.

No Free Lunch

To provide supporting evidence for this article, I started to make a list of all of the software subscriptions I have, my software that's being “sunsetted” and needs to be upgraded (Quickbooks 2016 just notified me yesterday that it's no longer supported), the most common paywalls I encounter, and the television-related payments I make. I gave up. It's a doable thing, but it'd take too much time right now. It's a project for another day.

I know I sound like a cranky old man (again!), but I've had enough. I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore! Except that I probably am.

“Don't you expect to pay for services?” Kim asked me as I bitched to her this morning. “How does anybody run a business if it's free? In your mind, their business model should be to not charge the customer?”

Okay, fair point. I don't want to be taken for a choosing beggar.

As somebody who runs a website himself and knows how much it costs (in terms of time and money) just to maintain my tiny corner of the web, I absolutely do not begrudge anyone the desire to make money.

And, in fact, my biggest challenge since repurchasing Get Rich Slowly two years ago has been balancing my desire to provide excellent information without destroying the user experience with monetization. It's a delicate balance, one that I'm not sure I'm achieving. (But hey, I'm working on it!)

My frustration is that there are just so many companies extracting a pound of flesh from me. It's too much.

Yes, I realize most (of not all) of these expenses are voluntary. Yes, I realize this is capitalism in action. Yes, I realize there are often free (or cheaper) options. Yes, I realize we can't reset the internet to 1995. Believe me: I've been thinking about this issue for years now. I understand all of this stuff. But I don't like it.

In the end, my solution recently has been to KonMari my digital life. I've removed most of the apps from my iPhone and iPad, opting to cut those with subscription fees first. When possible, choose software with a one-time fee instead of an ongoing subscription. I try to steer clear of sites with paywalls. I killed Hulu. (But then Kim promptly joined.) Even though I love Star Trek and the Marvel Universe, I refuse to pay for CBS All Access and Disney+. I never will.

But then, I was never going to have banner ads on my website either, was I?

The post Death by a thousand cuts appeared first on Get Rich Slowly.

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[writtenwithoutasecondthough-blog]

The White Mask

My name is Andrew Marter. Up until recently I worked for a pretty large security company; I had worked my way up to the lead officer for the overnight shift at one of the country’s largest water treatment facilities.

I’d been there for about a year before that night happened.

The site was a bit difficult to get used to but once you did, it was a very simple job. There were three stationary outposts on site, A, B and C. One Rover and one Waterfront post. The Rover would roam the entire property so many times per night and relieve the others for breaks and the Waterfront post would make sure the dock we had was secure.

Like I said, I was the lead officer there. I worked in the Control room. It was a large box in the middle of property, with thick Windows on two sides, that held several advanced monitors which displayed camera feed from all over.

Two massive tanks sat behind me in the plant that housed the pretreated water and long ways in front of my box, up a small incline was the entrance we used strictly for contractors.

Anyway, that night has never left my mind and it never will. I’ve never been so haunted by any event in my life and you’ll understand why by the time I finish my story.

The night had started out like any other. 11pm rolled around and all of my shift was settled into their posts and I sat inside of Control with the Rover just shooting the shit before he set out on his first patrol of the site.

“You believe this bullshit? You think they’ll really cut hours if we call out?” He tapped the bulletin board that held the sites’ updates and news. “What if I get sick? Fucking dicks.”

I chuckled and shrugged my shoulders, letting my eyes roam over the screens. “Are you really surprised that they pulled something like this?”

“I probably shouldn’t be,” he sighed and put his hard hat on. “I’m gonna get this first patrol over with, I’m not feeling too good.”

“Alright man, I’ll see you later.” I turned to watch him walk out the door and make sure it locked behind him.

From there on the night had gone by as normal as any other. Everyone had received their first breaks and the Rover was on his second patrol of the shift. We were closing in on the half way point of the shift when I noticed something on the camera.

One of the cameras pointed at the contractor’s gate showed what looked like someone standing outside of the fence. He was in all black and had a hood on but I could see some of the white from his face. He was just staring through the fence and for some reason all of the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I had spotted people outside of our fence line before but my nerves had never reacted like this. I noticed that my Rover was closing in on the gate so I radioed him.

“Control to Rover.”

“Go ahead.” He replied.

“Yessir, I’ve spotted someone on camera standing outside of the contractor gate. Could you check it out as soon as you can?” I looked again just as he was responding.

“Copy that I should be there in about thirty seconds.”

He was inside the plant now. “Copy Rover, he’s inside the fence now.”

At that moment I watched my Rover break out into a brisk jog and came up on the gate quickly. He was standing directly in front the intruder but he wasn’t even looking at the hooded man. He was looking out through the fence.

“Rover to Control I don’t see anybody in this area at all.” He did a 360 degree scan of the area and when he stopped he was face to face with the guy. I could see now that the hooded man was wearing a mask. A plain white mask with no expression.

Was he fucking with me?

“Control to Rover. He’s directly in front of you, no more than a foot away.” I was creeped out and I knew everyone else of post would be wondering what the fuck was going on by now.

About a minute went by without a response so I assumed that he was conversing with the intruder.

“Control to Rover can I get an update on the situation please?” Still nothing.

“Control to Rover.” Now I was growing impatient. Coupled with the chill that had been continuously running rampart up and down my spine, I just wanted this guy gone.

I glanced down at the log I was writing, starting a report for this issue and by the time I looked back up the man was gone and my guy was on the move again. What the hell?

I glanced around all of the monitors in a desperate attempt to find any sign of the intruder but he was gone. Simply gone. I went back on the camera to see how he had gotten in. Had he managed to climb the razor wire without ripping himself to shreds?

I found the spot where he showed up and he literally just showed up. Out of nowhere. One second he wasn’t there and the next he was. There was no skip in the footage, he just showed up. Then after a few minutes he was just standing inside. He had never moved a muscle through this entire ordeal.

It was then I realized I hadn’t heard from my Rover since before he encountered the guy.

He should’ve been just about finished with his patrol by that time. I went on the camera to find him before I radioed to him. No sense in more radio chatter if I would see him in a few minutes.

It took me a couple of minutes to find him (we had a shit ton of cameras) but when I finally did my heart sank and my stomach started doing flips.

He was on top of one of the tanks.

“Control to Rover.” I tried not to scream into the mic.

No response.

He took a step towards the edge of the tank.

“CONTROL TO ROVER.” Now I was frantic and didn’t care how I came off over the radio.

No response again.

Then he fell. He stepped off of the edge of the tank. I turned around and ran to the window of the Control Room and watch his body twist as he fell through the air. The tanks were at least 25 stories high and it seemed like he was taking forever to fall.

I closed my eyes when he impacted. I could almost hear his bones shattering through the thick walls of my confines.

It felt like hours before I finally opened my eyes again. I couldn’t see where he landed through the window, but thanks to the night vision on the camera, I could just make out the outline of his mangled body. His legs were turned at weird angles and his neck was bent in unnaturally and his body looked like it was… Mush.

It wasn’t until I zoomed out that I realized that the masked man was standing over him, however he was staring directly into the camera.

My chill came back tenfold. I even jumped.

By the time I forced myself to react he was gone.

“Jesus fuck. I gotta call the cops.”

I reached for the phone and dialed 9-1-1 the second I heard the dial tone. I explained my situation but due to our location and their protocol of sending multiple units for any reason to our site, they were at least 20 minutes away.

What a joke right? Our tax dollars hard at work.

“Control to all outposts, be advised. Rover has been injured and EMS are en route. Please leave your gates unlocked, the barriers will be down until they arrive.”

Each of the them copied my transmission except for B. They were unresponsive but on the cameras I could see him moving inside of his post.

The barriers work several ways. From the control room, from a separate computer or from an external remote that is inside each of the posts. There lies the problem.

I watched as B brought his remote out from the post and hooked it up to the barrier. As he walked outside, however, someone remained inside. That fucking mask was watching him.

“Control to Post B, do not hook up the external remote.”

No response. Of fucking course.

The landline inside of Control rang and I jumped. Irritated, I picked up the phone hastily and noticed that it was post C. He acted as an internal checkpoint for after someone came through A or B.

“Yeah?” I rushed.

“What the hell is going on? Is Lloyd okay?” Lloyd was my Rover.

“No. He’s dead. He fell from one of the tanks. Listen, I’ve gotta go deal with this.” Before he could respond I hung up the phone. I never took my eyes off of the masked man except to check on B.

I swear to god at once point I saw the mask, yes the fucking mask, smile. What the shit.

B was raising the barrier that I had put down. What was he doing?

With the remote in hand, he slowly walked to the barrier and laid beneath it.

“No…”

“Control to B stand the fuck up now!” I didn’t care anymore. I wasn’t going to let someone else off themselves.

To my dismay I got no response again.

I watched B as sweat poured down my face, praying to whatever God is out there that this would all end. That it was a sick joke that my guys had played on me.

He pressed the button. The barrier dropped slowly. His body seemed to pop, red oozed from underneath the heavy metal barrier. His hand was the only thing still in tact with the remote still in his grasp. It took a few seconds but his hand finally went limp and the remote dropped.

There he was again, standing over the newest mess and once again staring at me through the camera.

This time I was sure of it.

That mask was smiling.

I couldn’t move. I could even take my eyes off the camera, they simply darted back and forth between that creep and the barrier. Every time I laid my eyes upon his hand I felt like I would throw up.

The radio clicked and I looked over at the base receiver to see who it was. It was my waterfront post.

“G-go ahead Waterfront.” I could barely speak. In my attempt to remember where the cameras were that oversaw his post, I noticed that the man was gone again. All that was left at B was his hand. My stomach wrenched again.

“Waterfront, go ahead for Control.” I managed to get out.

There was total silence on the radio so I called him on the landline.

“It’s Control. You trying to reach me?”

“Nope. Why is everything alright?” He seemed genuinely unaware.

“Not really… Haven’t you been listening to the radio?” I rubbed my eyes.

“No. I haven’t heard anything.” I watched him check to make sure the volume was up. “Yeah, no. Nothing.”

“W-what? Are you serious?”

“Yeah I’m dead serious.” The word “dead” gave me a chill. “What’s up?”

There was the face again. He was at A’s post. Staring at him through the fucking window.

“Marter, you alright?” His words brought me back to whatever reality I was in.

“No. Not at all… I’ll call you back. Suspend your patrols and lock the doors. Now.”

I hung up and zoomed in to watch him.

He locked the doors and looked around outside the windows for a couple of minutes. After he sat down I immediately set search for the masked creep.

It took me several minutes to find him, searching through all of our cameras with my hands as shaky as they were was a difficult feat, but I found that bastard. He was at Post A, standing on the outside of the entry gate. The fucking creepy smile was spread across his face again. He wasn’t moving so I zoomed in on A to see what he was doing.

I breathed a small sigh of relief as I noticed that he hadn’t been affected by whatever that thing was doing. I refused to take my eyes off of him. Thankfully the camera kept the both of them in my sight so I would see immediately if either one of them made a move.

My eyes were starting to burn after about ten minutes of just staring at post A. Maybe he was done. Maybe he was just going to watch now. Fuck. Was I losing my mind? Why couldn’t they see him?

I rubbed my eyes and sighed again. A chill ran up my spine again when I looked back to the camera and saw post A stepping out of his post.

I couldn’t even move, I couldn’t reach for my radio, I couldn’t reach for the phone. I could barely swallow. Post A walked to the gate and stared into the blackness that was its body. I couldn’t tell if they were conversing or whatnot.

My mind was racing and somehow I forced my body to get up. I began pacing rapidly back and forth in front of the monitors, my eyes never leaving the zoomed in camera.

“… Control to Post A?”

The second the radio began transmitting the mask was looking up at the camera and post A was looking up at the razor wire looping across the fence.

He began to climb slowly, carefully as the masks mouth slowly curled up into a smile again.

I almost threw up when I saw that thing staring at me like that. The eye holes were as black as its body and made the plan white mask stand out even more.

A was now at the top of the fence, clinging to it with ease. He cocked his head a couple of times in a contemplating manner before he slowly slid his way into the wires. He twisted and turned until his head was snug against one of the loops.

The mask was still staring at me except now it was frowning. No a shallow frown, it’s mouth was curved down in an almost cartoonish way. If there were eyebrows on the thing it would’ve looked angry. I took a couple steps back from monitors and watched as Post A let his body go limp and he slid back down.

His throat got caught on the razor wire. I cringed. Blood began pouring from his neck immediately and again the mask was gone.

“Fuck.”

Once that creep had vanished post A began to struggle desperately. He clawed at his throat and the wire, trying to get himself free. The more he grabbed at the wire the more his hands began to tear and bleed as well. His body convulsed as he began to suffocate on his own blood. It wasn’t long before the twitches weakened his body finally went limp.

I sat down on the floor. I couldn’t force myself back to my chair so the floor was the next best thing. I clutched my hand and pulled at my hair. There’s no way I could be imagining this right? Or dreaming?

I heard the radio click once and I jerked my up to look at the base radios display. It was my waterfront. I found him on the camera still seated inside his post. He must’ve hit the mic somehow.

I looked at the clock and then it dawned on me that I hadn’t updated that log in a while. I’d been so caught up in everything. I needed to get all of these times for the police; if they ever actually fucking showed up.

While keeping an eye on my waterfront post I went back through all the cameras as quickly as I could and wrote down all the times and a short description of each… Incident.

Once I was done I glued my eyes to the waterfront post camera but I went to a blue screen.

“Are you fucking joking!”

I scrambled to pull up a camera that pointed to the outside of his post. He was outside. He was walking but he looked like he was simply starting one of his patrols. I couldn’t find the mask anywhere so maybe he just needed some air. I know I did.

It wasn’t until he b-lined it for the plant’s boat that I began to worry.

The site had a rather large boat down at the dock for when they needed to work on the pipeline that ran through the water. It was kept up off the ground so that it wouldn’t be damaged during the snowy season.

He was almost speed walking, and the way he came to a stop in front of the boat creeped me out. His arms weren’t swinging, they were just held at his sides and when he stopped he swayed forward a bit.

He looked up and down the boats length then back to the camera I was looking through. His face was blank. It was like he was sleepwalking.

He patted the hull a couple of times before he crawled under. He crawled under the fucking boat.

He positioned himself on his back so that the keel was hovering over his waist.

What the hell? That mask was nowhere in sight. Why was he doing this?

Then he started kicking. He kicked at the supports. He kicked hard. The entire set up was shaking, but it looked like it would hold.

That’s when I saw it. That mask. It was in the water, just floating off the shoreline. I couldn’t see any of the things “body.” It was just that mask. Smiling wider than ever. This time it looked like it had teeth.

Somehow, the supports gave way and the boat fell. I could almost hear the damn thing hit the ground.

I threw up when I saw the blood splatter paint the hull of the boat. I could see that he was still breathing, but he was eerily calm. The keel severed his body. Blood was pooling rapidly beneath his body and I couldn’t suppress my vomit anymore. It kept coming.

The mask slowly sunk into the water until it was no longer in my view. It was then that the Waterfront began to flail wildly. In his panic he managed to pull himself slightly away from the boat and I could see that he had definitely be cut in half.

He looked down and his panic deepened. He keyed the mic on and off and his screams began to drive me insane so I shut the radios off.

I turned the cameras off and sat on the floor, pushing myself back until I hit the window and hugged my knees to my chest. I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. I was surprised it had taken so long for me to lose it.

I closed my eyes and rocked back and forth, trying to force the images from my mind. I replayed them all in my mind and tried one by one to black them out.

I screamed when there was a knock on the glass behind me and I slowly turned to see two cops trying to get in. They were yelling something through the glass and I could see a mass of emergency vehicles. The lights hurt my eyes but I couldn’t help but stare. After everything, they’d finally gotten here.

I began to laugh. Hysterically. It was like some kind of sick joke that I had to survive with the memory of my friends fucking dying.

“I still think it is all a sick joke.” I looked across the table at the cops. They exchanged a glance and then looked back at the doctor leaning against the wall behind them.

The computers image was paused with Waterfront’s body laying beneath the boat. That fucking mask was staring at me even through a saved recoding, like he knew I was watching his work all over again.

“Andrew,” the doctor stepped around the table and leaned down next to me. “Do you see the masked man here as well?”

I nodded and pointed to the water where he was mocking me. I was staring at the screen but I could tell out of the corner of my eye that he looked at the cops again.

“Son,” the cop on the right started, “there’s nobody on that screen except for Mr. Shrewn. That was my waterfronts name. Kyle Shrewn.

"I’m looking at him. I’m fucking staring at him right now!” In my frustration I threw myself against the table. I would’ve punched it but the damn jacket they gave me wouldn’t let me use my arms.

“Alright Andrew. We’ll try again tomorrow.” The doctor said calmly. “Let’s go back to your room.”

A large man in white clothing came into the room to escort me back to mine. Everyday I went through this. They make me watch them all die and try to tell me that it was just a bunch of suicides. Bullshit.

I sighed as he opened the door for me and I walked in reluctantly. As the door shut I turned around shuddered.

In the window of the door, there was the mask. Smile and all. The orderly turned and walked away, leaving me until tomorrow.