meter reader

Sirius x Reader / Three meters

Get ready for sappy angst and bad interpretations of good characters…

Sirius Black loved many people. You, James, Remus and Peter. Most of his teachers, Peeves and even on occasion, he was known to admit loving his brother. He did not, however, love his father and he certainly didn’t love his mother.

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Jacob Frye x Reader

A/N: I blame Jacob for being an adorable fuck. I feel kind of bad though, I think I played Evie more than Jacob.

This definitely wasn’t your idea of fun, you sighed, lazily glaring at the twins from under your lashes. They were fighting about something or other, Henry awkwardly staring to the side attempting to break them up. He was doing quite well, at least until Jacob or Evie would add some snide comment then it’d start up again. You were forced to come here, to watch over the two of them. If you had any other choice, you would’ve taken it in a heartbeat. Alas, this was your punishment, to watch over the two stray Fryes. 

Why they’d decided to leave on a whim and hitch a train to London, you had no idea, and honestly, you didn’t have much care to know. You were just here to do your job and hopefully earn some of the trust you had lost after your last mission. In truth, you hadn’t technically lost any, you’d just taken the fall for another. A stupid choice, now that you think of it, but you can’t change the past. So now you were forced to listen to the twins fight nonstop over who’s idea it was to get to this point. 

It was both of theirs, that much you’d learn in the first 10 seconds. You were quite sure Henry had as well, but he betrayed nothing, his honest arguments calming the twins down more and more. It’d been like this for the past week, the two of them practically losing their heads when they discovered why you were there. Evie had been the perfect Assassin, not failing at a single mission and not compromising the Creed in any way. She’d been rather eager to show off her abilities, something she had every right to do. 

Jacob on the other hand, he’d been a handful. He ran off every chance he got, leaving you in the dust the second you tried to evaluate him. You’d had to chase him more than once, often warning him of his actions, but he didn’t seem deterred in the least. In fact, he seemed to almost enjoy it, laughing joyfully while you chased him all across the city. It was not, in any interpretation of the word, fun. You glared down at his black, leather boots as he walked toward you, the tap of his feet hitting wood fading when he took a seat next to you.

“So, are you ready to return to your home yet?” He asked, removing the black, shiny hat atop his head.

“I wish.” You breathed, shifting yourself so your head resting in his lap, eyes staring up at him. He froze, looking down with a raised brow.

“What are you doing?” He questioned, hands held awkwardly in the air like he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“You’ve made my life hell for the past week, I think you can handle being my damn pillow for the next five minutes.” His lips twitched, his amusement sparking your own. Okay, so maybe Jacob wasn’t THAT terrible. But you still didn’t like it when he made you chase him around the streets of London or when he made you sit and drink with him in some random pub for hours. Okay, maybe that wasn’t AS bad as you made it seem.

“Jacob Frye, Assassin and pillow.” He smirked, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

“You’ve got to admit, it’s got a nice ring to it.” You laughed, crossing your arms over your chest as you did so.

“Hey, it’s better than (Y/N) (Y/L/N), watcher of the Fryes.” You rolled your eyes good naturedly, smacking his chest lightly for dramatics.

“More like governess of the Fryes.”

“Ouch,” Jacob winced theatrically, “That kind of talk can really ruin a man’s reputation.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure the whole of London would be devastated to hear that the notorious Jacob Frye,” you gasped, “Has a governess!”

“The whole bloody city would fail.” He smiled, resting one hand so it lightly brushed through the roots of your hair.

“Ah, but I think you already had one before I arrived.” You joked.

“Greenie?” He questioned. You raised a brow, biting your lip to stifle a laugh.

“Greenie?” Your voice nearly cracked, the laugh threatening to burst out at any moment. He nodded seriously, looking curiously to you. You couldn’t hold it in any longer, releasing a long bout of laughter. “First Freddie now Greenie? Must you add ‘ie’ to everything?” He shrugged, chuckling lowly.

“Where’s the fun in calling them their boring, old names?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it’s their names,” you sassed, stretching out your limbs. Your muscles and bones groaned in delight, the feeling of laxness so satisfying. “How would you like it if I called you Jakey?” You questioned, sticking your tongue out at him like a child.

“Jakey? Really?” He didn’t look the slightest bit impressed with the nickname, both brows raised.

“Yes, Jakey, it’s really quite a wonderful name.” You giggled, relaxing once more in his hold. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded.

“On one condition, I get to choose your name.” You paused for a minute, not entirely sure if he should be given the privilege. God forbid he choose something as horrid as ‘Greenie’. But to call him Jakey? Especially in front of the Rooks? In front of Evie? You nodded quickly, smiling up at him.

“How about she-devil?” He asked, the hand not in your hair holding his chin up in thought.

“Hurtful.” You chided.

“No, no, too evil. What is that fruit you like?” He began snapping his fingers, tapping it against his head every few minutes. You were about to say something when he laughed. “Pumpkin, that’s it!”

“You’re going to call me pumpkin?” You inquired, lips straight and brow raised.

“Why, of course, pumpkin.” He looked much too smug in your opinion. With an eye roll, you lifted yourself up, barely pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw. Even with that small brush of lips against skin, electricity skittered down your spine. It was intoxicating. He froze on contact, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the action.

“Goodnight, Jakey.” You added, your voice sweeter than sugar. His eyes watched you closely as you retreated back into another cart of the train, your mind finally seeming to register what you’d done. You’d kissed him. Not on the lips, and not exactly romantically, but still, it was a kiss. That was definitely not part of the job description. Your feet were moving on their own accord, their fast pace nothing compared to your racing heart. 

That was not professional in any sense of the word. And wasn’t that what you were supposed to be? Professional? But you couldn’t be blamed for that one, not really. He’d brought it on with all his flirting and charming. Nope, not your fault, his, definitely his. But did he mind what you’d done? Too bad you were out of earshot to hear his sweet, soft murmur of, “Goodnight, pumpkin.”

Only Human (Dean x Reader)

Character: Dean x Reader (Neutral)

Word Count: 2,289

Warnings: Swearing. Minor Character Death. Blood. Brief Mentions of Self-Worth. 

Request: Your writing is stunning! Can I request a Dean/reader oneshot where it’s the morning time and you’re cuddling with him and he wakes up to find you crying because of a bad hunt from the night before?

AN: Hi, guys! How are you all doing today? I’d love for some of you to come by and leave a request! …or just come say hello. I swear I don’t bite. Plus, I'd really like to meet y'all. Anyways, I won't drag this on any longer. I hope everyone enjoys! Let me know what you think?

-Megan :)



Adrenaline rushed through your veins as you bolted through the front door of that creaky old house, shotgun in hand. Over your pounding heartbeat, you could barely register the sound of Bobby’s panicked shouting, trying to draw you back outside. You were supposed to wait for Sam and Dean to arrive. 

Not that it mattered…

There was a woman inside of that house… an innocent woman; and in that moment, listening to Sam and Dean Winchester’s requests had to have been the last thing on your mind. You needed to find the woman, needed to save her. You couldn’t let her die, not like this… not at the hands of a ghost. 

Years of training and practice had prepared you for this moment, had taught you where to search and what you could expect to find; but that didn’t deter you. You weren’t scared; no, this career choice left no time for terror. 

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vulpesvulpe  asked:

PK/Carey: A Long Hard Ride

Porn is not a job for the terribly picky, but everyone has their limits.

Everyone has things they won’t do, stuff they just can’t put up with. Carey has a niche but he’ll do a lot; he has a wide range of interests, as it were, but his contract still has a few key stipulations, a few important hell nos.

There’s got to be one against this.

His agent had said it’s a three-part thing, nothing crazy. Blowjobs for the first one, and they want a switch who’ll top and bottom for the second two parts. I told them you’re up for it for a little higher than the usual fee, and they’re said yes.

Carey had said great, because that’s right up his alley and Meter Reader Studios is supposed to be pretty legitimate and non-disgusting. Carey takes what work comes his way, but he was happy to get the chance to get over here for something.

And now this.

The set dresser is Anna from the suit-and-tie porn shoot he’d done last week. The cameraman is Mike from the group thing for Torrid, and Carey’s costar is descended from the goddamned heavens.

That’s not true: his costar is apparently a well-liked new face in the porn scene and Carey’s agent said he was a class act, but fuck, he could be a fucking fantasy.

Everyone has a type. People think they don’t, but they do. Some people are into more than one thing, but everyone’s got someone who dries their mouth and sends their blood slamming through their body, and Carey’s going to have a hard fucking time dignifying himself today.

He likes — look, he likes black guys, in general, and he likes the strength of this guy’s forearms and the width of his shoulders. He likes the obvious contours of his chest under his paper-thin t-shirt and he likes his ass in those fucking pants and he needs to stop staring.

People think Carey gets to spend his life fucking dream men. The Gallys love quizzing him about his latest shoots even though they refuse to watch any of it, and it’s not that Carey minds, because he doesn’t love his friends watching his stuff anyway, but he kind of wishes he could scroll through the parade of twinks and bleach blondes and hyper-waxed muscle boys just to prove a point to them. It’s not all that appealing most of the time; it’s not that hot, most of the time.

It’s not all guys like this, which is good, because Carey has a professional reputation to maintain.

Carey drags his eyes away from the man’s ass long enough to watch his face and he walks up. Yeah, professional. Great work, there.

His face doesn’t make it any better. He’s far too handsome for this job, really; he’s grinning at the cameras as they run through and adjust for lighting, and Carey watches with a building combination of raw lust and pure terror.

“You’re really good at that,” Carey says out of nowhere. Jesus fucking Christ, Price.

“Thanks,” his costar says, looking up. Fuck, he’s got nice eyes. “I’m PK Subban, man, it’s really nice to meet you. I’ve heard good things.”

Have you? Carey thinks. Shit, he should probably introduce himself.

“I’m Carey. Price,” he says. PK Liferuiner Subban nods, the muscles in the side of his neck flexing beautifully. “You could be a regular actor,” Carey continues idiotically. Oh, God, why is he like this? He is the most awkward fucking person in all of British Columbia. He needs to go dig a hole and just live in it.

PK laughs, perfect white teeth and broad gorgeous lips. “Wait until you see my dick,” he says, his eyes shining, and the last of Carey’s blood promptly leaves his brain.

“PK!” someone calls. “Let me see you for a second.”

Carey waits until PK is gone and then he scrunches his faces up and shakes his head until he’s sure all the stupid is out.

This is gonna be bad.

*Gets up on soap box*

I have a very important announcement for every United States citizen who is eligible to vote.  I am here to tell you about the discussion I had today with a Republican who was going to vote for the disgusting sleaze-bag that is Donald Trump.

I want everyone to listen to this conversation.  I want EVERYONE to understand the perspective of Republicans, and WHY they are voting for him. In this (rather heated) debate, I gained a very sobering realization of the type of people who WOULD cast their vote for Trump.

They are not all loud, racist sexist bastards you see on TV shouting and beating black women to get out of their rallies.  They are not all wife-beating misogynists who come home from work to beat their wives. They are NORMAL, everyday men and women who are just as sick of this shitstorm political season as everyone on this website.

The man in question is my co-worker.  He’s roughly in his sixties, has retired a few times but keeps coming back to work because he’s the type who can’t stand retirement for too long.  He’s the guy who got a job as a meter reader when he was sixteen and was set for the rest of his life working for the same company since then, earning good money and good benefits and a very lovely pension. He’s loud, he’s crude, he’s opinionated and flings around swears like confetti at a pride parade.  And he is just as fed up with politics as I am.  He is just as sick of our current choice of POTUS, and he’s, above all else, a smart, sensible guy who has been through far too much and has come out the other end VERY jaded and harsh.  

It was a mistake, but I instantly chimed up.  

“How could you possibly vote for a man that brags about his exploits of women?  How could you vote for someone who degrades and assaults women? Who is openly homophobic, racist, and general awful person?”

And he told me, very plainly and very matter-of-factly, “Because I lived through the Clinton scandals.”

I am sure you are all aware of the sex scandals of Bill Clinton.  We all got the footnotes; Bill lied about a marital affair, and was promptly impeached for the scandal.  I was too young to remember any of that so what I know of it was reduced to a five sentenced paragraph in fifth grade history.  I did not live it.  I do not remember it.

But he does.

He remembers watching on TV the scandals, how accusations came flying in left and right about how Bill Clinton was a rapist, how he assaulted and sexually harassed women. He was accused left and right of rape, of sexual assault.




An according to him, what happened to Clinton?

The Democrats stood beside him and defended him.  They shifted the blame on the victims, they told the angry Republicans that it was his personal life and to butt out.

So what did Republicans take away from this whole ordeal?

They no longer care about sex scandals of politicians.

Let me repeat that


Because Clinton did it and “got away with it” (if you call a massive 800 million dollar fine and impeachment getting away with it) BUT HEY those evil Democrats kept supporting him so it was OBVIOUSLY OK.

Is this what actually happened?  I don’t know. Like I said, I was too young to remember.

Was it remotely ok that Democrats continued to support Bill Clinton as he was accused of raping a 19 year old intern?  Of course not.


So it’s no wonder they don’t bat an eye at the surfacing accusations of Trump raping his wife/a young girl.  It’s no wonder they don’t cry out in rage when another women comes forth and accuses this disgusting man for sexual assault.

Because all they see is Michelle Obama standing shoulder to shoulder with Clinton, next to the same man that 20 years ago did the exact same thing, calling out Trump for his exploits, and they think “HYPOCRITE.”

Is this ok?

Absolutely not.






They were shown, time and time again, during the Clinton scandals that “it was his personal business and they shouldn’t care.”  So now Trump, facing the same accusations, the Republicans are turning a blind eye, saying “hey, it’s his personal business, and I don’t care.”

At this point I realized I was fighting a losing battle trying to appeal to his emotions of “WHY WOULD YOU SUPPORT A FUCKING RAPIST” so I tried to appeal to his sense of logic.

So I say, “What qualifications as President does Trump have over Clinton?”

Straight to my face, no hesitation, no doubt in his voice, he tells me “ZERO.”


I’m dumbfounded.  “Then how can you possibly vote for him?”


What policies?  Glad you asked.

NUMBER 1:  Tax breaks.

God, Republicans love nothing more than getting their taxes cut!  They hear Trump is cutting taxes, they froth at the mouth and go crazy! Yeah!  We’re sick of paying taxes!  No taxes!  I point out that with all the tax cuts, he also plans to cut critical government programs, LIKE THE FUCKING FDA.

GOOD! They cry. GOOD!!!  Cut all the government programs!  Trump’s the guy to get it done!  Trump’s the type of guy to completely gut all our ridiculous government programs!  Fuck the poor!  Fuck minorities!  Who needs health care?!  Who needs government aid!  Surely I, a wealthy white male with 40 healthy years working the same job with a healthy retirement package, cannot begin to comprehend how ANYONE can be well less off than me!  And if they are, it’s because they’re lazy moochers sucking up all the welfare!  CUT WELFARE! FUCK TAXES!

NUMBER 2: Tightening up the borders

Alright this is where it really got heated.  We of course all know how much Trump hates Muslims and Mexicans, and he’s appealing to our fear and paranoia with all the ISIS attacks.  Sure, he called all Mexicans rapists but wasn’t he right?!  Aren’t all those evil Mexicans coming over the border to rape our women?!  And what about all those filthy evil Muslims! They’re all terrorists too, what with all those ISIS attacks!  And of course Obama is to blame for all of it too!  Obama pulled all our troops from the Middle East, allowing those evil Muslims to spread all over the world and bomb the shit out of everyone!  Tighten the borders!  No Muslims!  No refugees! What if they’re evil ISIS bombers too?!

In time we both had to stop our discussion because we both had to get back to work.  We were both very passionate of our positions, and we both agreed that neither of us were going to change the other’s mind no matter how much we argued.

We both peacefully and mutually agreed to disagree, because we had a long day of work ahead of us and we needed to get to it.

If we were granted the time, I am certain we could have gone all fucking day.


Republicans don’t care about the sex scandals.  They just don’t.  A majority of Republicans are elderly white citizens who have been through the scandals of Bill Clinton and no longer bat an eye at the egregious things Trump is doing. Republicans love their money more than they love their fellow men, especially if it’s their fellow minority man/woman.  They don’t give a shit if critical government programs are cut, all they want are their big fat tax breaks.  They don’t care if there are thousands of war refugees desperately seeking asylum from their war-torn country, we don’t wanna risk allowing an evil suicidal Muslim into our country.


You can post on Facebook until you get writer’s cramp.  You can scream and rant on Youtube until your voice gives out.


The only way you can make a difference, the only for sure way you can make a difference is if you get out there and vote.

I am begging you.  On my knees, begging and pleading for every single one of you to get out there and vote.  This is no time for a protest vote.  This is not the year to vote independent, this is not the year to refuse to vote because you don’t believe in Hillary.

Please, for the love of your country, do not let this abomination called Trump be president. Do not give this overgrown, completely immature child the position of the face of America.  Do not let this sexist, homophobic, penny-pinching narcissist lead our country to ruin.






By Dora Malech

If by truth you mean hand then yes
I hold to be self-evident and hold you in the highest—
KO to my OT and bait to my switch, I crown
you one-trick pony to my one-horse town,
dub you my one-stop shopping, my space heater,
juke joint, tourist trap, my peep show, my meter reader,
you best batteries-not-included baring all or
nothing. Let me begin by saying if he hollers,
end with goes the weasel. In between,
cream filling. Get over it, meaning, the moon.
Tell me you’ll dismember this night forever,
you my punch-drunking bag, tar to my feather.
More than the sum of our private parts, we are some
peekaboo, some peak and valley, some
bright equation (if and then but, if er then uh).
My fruit bat, my gewgaw. You had me at no duh.

This poem deserves to be read aloud with a hint of laughter, a hefty dose of playfulness, and a recollection of that person who ‘got’ you, whose humor allowed you to navigate conversation like a love and laugh-filled relay race.
And whose lips you kissed both playfully and passionately.