#Buy Liquidation Stock

[brandedsurplus]

Cheapest Branded Men Shirts- Original garment warehouse | ValueShoppe

[mirandahamilton]

ugh honestly i am so ready to simply renounce my friendships with all of my male coworkers. i am SO TIRED of being their MOTHER!!!!!!!!

[bunnyb34r]

It's soooo satisfying getting the clearance section smaller and smaller 😩

I'm so fucking sick of looking at these PJs that we still have 900 of. Sick of the Chamagedon hoodies (sold like 200 last week. We've had them since November, no one wanted them til they were $3 (understandable) but now Corp will be like oh!! 200 sales in a week?! We must buy MORE next order for fall!). Soooo goddamn sick of the baby onesie/pant sets oh my god. Usually I like to stock and recover them but not when they're a mess every goddamn day bc people are fucking feral when it comes to clearance shit.

Like yes! It IS exciting that all this shit is like < $5 but for the love of god stop destroying the stacks!! 😩😩😩😩

I just want them all GONE. I wanna focus on the spring shit bc it's honestly cute this year. I just want to be DONE.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Amazon annihilates Alexa privacy settings, turns on continuous, nonconsensual audio uploading

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in SAN DIEGO at MYSTERIOUS GALAXY on Mar 24, and in CHICAGO with PETER SAGAL on Apr 2. More tour dates here.

Even by Amazon standards, this is extraordinarily sleazy: starting March 28, each Amazon Echo device will cease processing audio on-device and instead upload all the audio it captures to Amazon's cloud for processing, even if you have previously opted out of cloud-based processing:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2025/03/everything-you-say-to-your-echo-will-be-sent-to-amazon-starting-on-march-28/

It's easy to flap your hands at this bit of thievery and say, "surveillance capitalists gonna surveillance capitalism," which would confine this fuckery to the realm of ideology (that is, "Amazon is ripping you off because they have bad ideas"). But that would be wrong. What's going on here is a material phenomenon, grounded in specific policy choices and by unpacking the material basis for this absolutely unforgivable move, we can understand how we got here – and where we should go next.

Start with Amazon's excuse for destroying your privacy: they want to do AI processing on the audio Alexa captures, and that is too computationally intensive for on-device processing. But that only raises another question: why does Amazon want to do this AI processing, even for customers who are happy with their Echo as-is, at the risk of infuriating and alienating millions of customers?

For Big Tech companies, AI is part of a "growth story" – a narrative about how these companies that have already saturated their markets will still continue to grow. It's hard to overstate how dominant Amazon is: they are the leading cloud provider, the most important retailer, and the majority of US households already subscribe to Prime. This may sound like a good place to be, but for Amazon, it's actually very dangerous.

Amazon has a sky-high price/earnings ratio – about triple the ratio of other retailers, like Target. That scorching P/E ratio reflects a belief by investors that Amazon will continue growing. Companies with very high p/e ratios have an unbeatable advantage relative to mature competitors – they can buy things with their stock, rather than paying cash for them. If Amazon wants to hire a key person, or acquire a key company, it can pad its offer with its extremely high-value, growing stock. Being able to buy things with stock instead of money is a powerful advantage, because money is scarce and exogenous (Amazon must acquire money from someone else, like a customer), while new Amazon stock can be conjured into existence by typing zeroes into a spreadsheet:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/06/privacy-last/#exceptionally-american

But the downside here is that every growth stock eventually stops growing. For Amazon to double its US Prime subscriber base, it will have to establish a breeding program to produce tens of millions of new Americans, raising them to maturity, getting them gainful employment, and then getting them to sign up for Prime. Almost by definition, a dominant firm ceases to be a growing firm, and lives with the constant threat of a stock revaluation as investors belief in future growth crumbles and they punch the "sell" button, hoping to liquidate their now-overvalued stock ahead of everyone else.

For Big Tech companies, a growth story isn't an ideological commitment to cancer-like continuous expansion. It's a practical, material phenomenon, driven by the need to maintain investor confidence that there are still worlds for the company to conquer.

That's where "AI" comes in. The hype around AI serves an important material need for tech companies. By lumping an incoherent set of poorly understood technologies together into a hot buzzword, tech companies can bamboozle investors into thinking that there's plenty of growth in their future.

OK, so that's the material need that this asshole tactic satisfies. Next, let's look at the technical dimension of this rug-pull.

How is it possible for Amazon to modify your Echo after you bought it? After all, you own your Echo. It is your property. Every first year law student learns this 18th century definition of property, from Sir William Blackstone:

That sole and despotic dominion which one man claims and exercises over the external things of the world, in total exclusion of the right of any other individual in the universe.

If the Echo is your property, how come Amazon gets to break it? Because we passed a law that lets them. Section 1201 of 1998's Digital Millennium Copyright Act makes it a felony to "bypass an access control" for a copyrighted work:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/24/record-scratch/#autoenshittification

That means that once Amazon reaches over the air to stir up the guts of your Echo, no one is allowed to give you a tool that will let you get inside your Echo and change the software back. Sure, it's your property, but exercising sole and despotic dominion over it requires breaking the digital lock that controls access to the firmware, and that's a felony punishable by a five-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine for a first offense.

The Echo is an internet-connected device that treats its owner as an adversary and is designed to facilitate over-the-air updates by the manufacturer that are adverse to the interests of the owner. Giving a manufacturer the power to downgrade a device after you've bought it, in a way you can't roll back or defend against is an invitation to run the playbook of the Darth Vader MBA, in which the manufacturer replies to your outraged squawks with "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

The ability to remotely, unilaterally alter how a device or service works is called "twiddling" and it is a key factor in enshittification. By "twiddling" the knobs and dials that control the prices, costs, search rankings, recommendations, and core features of products and services, tech firms can play a high-speed shell-game that shifts value away from customers and suppliers and toward the firm and its executives:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

But how can this be legal? You bought an Echo and explicitly went into its settings to disable remote monitoring of the sounds in your home, and now Amazon – without your permission, against your express wishes – is going to start sending recordings from inside your house to its offices. Isn't that against the law?

Well, you'd think so, but US consumer privacy law is unbelievably backwards. Congress hasn't passed a consumer privacy law since 1988, when the Video Privacy Protection Act banned video store clerks from disclosing which VHS cassettes you brought home. That is the last technological privacy threat that Congress has given any consideration to:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

This privacy vacuum has been filled up with surveillance on an unimaginable scale. Scumbag data-brokers you've never heard of openly boast about having dossiers on 91% of adult internet users, detailing who we are, what we watch, what we read, who we live with, who we follow on social media, what we buy online and offline, where we buy, when we buy, and why we buy:

https://gizmodo.com/data-broker-brags-about-having-highly-detailed-personal-information-on-nearly-all-internet-users-2000575762

To a first approximation, every kind of privacy violation is legal, because the concentrated commercial surveillance industry spends millions lobbying against privacy laws, and those millions are a bargain, because they make billions off the data they harvest with impunity.

Regulatory capture is a function of monopoly. Highly concentrated sectors don't need to engage in "wasteful competition," which leaves them with gigantic profits to spend on lobbying, which is extraordinarily effective, because a sector that is dominated by a handful of firms can easily arrive at a common negotiating position and speak with one voice to the government:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

Starting with the Carter administration, and accelerating through every subsequent administration except Biden's, America has adopted an explicitly pro-monopoly policy, called the "consumer welfare" antitrust theory. 40 years later, our economy is riddled with monopolies:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/17/monopolies-produce-billionaires/#inequality-corruption-climate-poverty-sweatshops

Every part of this Echo privacy massacre is downstream of that policy choice: "growth stock" narratives about AI, twiddling, DMCA 1201, the Darth Vader MBA, the end of legal privacy protections. These are material things, not ideological ones. They exist to make a very, very small number of people very, very rich.

Your Echo is your property, you paid for it. You paid for the product and you are still the product:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Now, Amazon says that the recordings your Echo will send to its data-centers will be deleted as soon as it's been processed by the AI servers. Amazon's made these claims before, and they were lies. Amazon eventually had to admit that its employees and a menagerie of overseas contractors were secretly given millions of recordings to listen to and make notes on:

https://archive.is/TD90k

And sometimes, Amazon just sent these recordings to random people on the internet:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2018/12/20/amazon-alexa-user-receives-audio-recordings-stranger-through-human-error/

Fool me once, etc. I will bet you a testicle* that Amazon will eventually have to admit that the recordings it harvests to feed its AI are also being retained and listened to by employees, contractors, and, possibly, randos on the internet.

*Not one of mine

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/15/altering-the-deal/#telescreen

Image: Stock Catalog/https://www.quotecatalog.com (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alexa_%2840770465691%29.jpg

Sam Howzit (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:SWC_6_-_Darth_Vader_Costume_(7865106344).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[brightdigigold2023]

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[brandedgarmentswholesalers]

Buying Surplus Clothes in Bulk: How to Get the Best Deals

Are you looking to buy surplus clothes in bulk? Whether you are running a thrift store, a boutique, or just looking for some affordable clothing options, buying surplus clothing can be a great way to save money and get quality products. But how do you go about finding the best deals? We will give you some tips on how to buy surplus clothes lot in bulk and get the most bang for your buck.

Research Your Options

Before you start buying surplus clothes in bulk, it is important to do your research. Look for companies that specialize in selling surplus clothing and check their online reviews and ratings. You can also look for trade shows and industry events where surplus clothing vendors will be exhibiting. This can give you a chance to see and touch the products before you buy.

Consider Your Needs

When buying surplus clothes in bulk, it is important to consider your needs. What sizes do you need? How many pieces do you need? These are all crucial factors to check on before making a purchase. By knowing your needs, you can avoid buying too much of one thing and not enough of another.

Check for Quality

Just because you are buying surplus clothing doesn't mean you should sacrifice quality. Before making a purchase, inspect the clothing for any defects or damages. Check for tears, stains, and other imperfections. If the clothing is damaged, it may not be worth buying in bulk. You will also want to make sure the clothing is made from quality materials that will hold up over time.

Negotiate Prices

When buying surplus clothes in bulk, you may be able to negotiate prices with the vendor. If you are buying a large quantity of clothing, you may be able to get a better price per item. Don't be afraid to check for a discount or find it at a low price. You may be able to save a significant amount of money by doing so.

Have a Plan for Storage

Once you have purchased your surplus clothing, you will need a plan for storage. Make sure you have enough space to store the clothing and keep it organized. You may also want to consider investing in storage racks or shelves to keep the clothing off the ground and protected.

Before you start shopping for surplus clothing lots, make sure you know what types of clothing you need. Are you looking for specific sizes, styles, or brands? Knowing what you are looking for can help you narrow down your options and find the best deals on the clothing you need.

Research your suppliers

Not all suppliers of surplus clothing are created equal. Do your research to find reputable suppliers with a good track record of delivering high-quality clothing at competitive prices. Look for reviews from other retailers who have purchased from the same suppliers to get an idea of what to expect.

The whole point of buying surplus clothing lots is to save money by purchasing in bulk. Make sure you are taking advantage of this by buying as much as you can afford at once.

When you receive your surplus clothing lot, be prepared to sort through the items and organize them for sale. Some items may need to be cleaned or repaired before they can be sold, so factor in the time and resources needed to get your clothing ready for the sales floor.

Buying surplus clothes in bulk can be a great way to save money and get quality products. By doing your research, considering your needs, checking for quality, negotiating prices, and having a plan for storage, you can get the best deals on surplus clothing. So start shopping and find the perfect pieces for your store or personal wardrobe!

[axxa-the-allikatt]

This turned out longer than expected, but I just can’t resist slutty boys 😩.

***

Imagine,

Slutty boys, who love love love wearing cunty outfits whenever the two of you go to a party.

Slutty boys, who adore the fact that you’re so comfortable with them wearing gorgeous, yet quite revealing outfits out in parties, because you’re confident that you’d win if you ever threw hands with someone who was looking at your boyfriend the wrong way.

Slutty boys, who need to go shopping at least once in two weeks, because that sexy red dress that they wore last Sunday? That was so yesterday’s style.

Slutty boys, who go straight to that one store that has the most sexy dresses and lingerie, which also costs you about a human kidney, but hey, who would you spoil if not your gorgeous boyfriend?

Slutty boys, who always, always, ask your opinion about any revealing clothes, because if you don’t like it, then there is no point whatsoever in them buying such an outfit.

Slutty boys, who excitedly pick out the most jaw dropping gorgeous outfits, ones that fit their body so beautifully, pressing so perfectly against their hips and thighs.

Slutty boys, who make a show of presenting their outfits to you, walking out of the trial rooms in a slow pace, giving a little twirl once they reach you, before pressing their body against yours, asking you whether you like this outfit.

Slutty boys, who purr against your neck, as you tell them they are the most stunning, sexy thing you’ve ever laid your eyes upon. (And not a word of this was untrue. Heck, you would find them sexy if they wore baggy jeans and a t-shirt, a dress like this was making you almost go feral.)

Slutty boys, who only giggle and look up at you with feigned innocence, when you push them into the trial room, and lock the door behind you. What do you mean they were turning you on? They were totally not rubbing their hips against yours in a very suggestive manner.

Slutty boys, who, soon enough, lose all their cockiness, when you almost rip the dress off them (almost. that thing coat a fortune in itself), before pressing them into the wall, their back facing you, as you pull down their pretty, now soaked panties, leaving their thigh high stockings on.

Slutty boys, who let out a sinful moan as you shove the panties into their mouth. You had established a long time ago that they were a screamer, and the last thing you needed right now was the store workers to hear what was going on inside the small room.

Slutty boys, who hold onto their dear life, trying to grip onto something, anything, as you get down on your knees behind them, spreading their soft ass cheeks, and give a tentative lick to the ring of muscles, which clench under your warm tongue.

Slutty boys, who can barely stand, their wails and moans muffled by the panties, as your tongue coaxes the pretty pink hole, just enough for you to slide it inside.

Slutty boys, who barely last a few minutes of your tongue exploring their insides, their walls clenching painfully around your tongue, as they cum with a frightful shudder, the thick white liquid coating the mirror as it drips down to the floor.

Slutty boys, who sit still and look pretty, as you make them sit on the dressing chair and pull out a fresh panty out of your bag, (you always carried a pair of them, because knowing how needy your boyfriend was, and how little self-control you had, you were bound to end up in this situation at least once or twice a day), and slide them back on, pressing feathery kisses against their inner thighs.

Slutty boys, who you end up fucking after every dress they try on, then end up buying every single one of them, because how could you resist.

Slutty boys, who smirk and wink at the staff near the cash counter, who undeniably have heard everything that went on in the dressing room, traumatised looks evident on their faces.

Which turns you on again. Who wouldn’t be, when their gorgeous, slutty boyfriend flaunts their hickeys and cum stained stockings so shamelessly?

***

[usoppshoneydew]

"Affection And Focaccia"🥖🥖🥖

S: You're only stopping by Simon's bakery because you have a new recipe in mind, that's all. It's not as if there's any other reason to visit your burly Baker.

Pairing: Baker! Simon x Black!F! Reader

Tw: none/ it's fluffy

Wc: 2.9k

Notes: It's just more Baker!Simon; reader owns a general store across the street from Simon; This is proofread but there may still be mistakes🥖🥖

“Good morning Simon!” Your cheerful voice mingles with the chime above his door, and lifts his previous quiet like good yeast to a better bread dough. Simon glances up at you from the cinnamon rolls he's piping frosting onto,with a small smile hidden behind his mask.

“A little too good, if ya ask me.” He teases as you walk up to the counter, poking fun at all your energy so early in the morning. You roll your eyes and gently plop a cup of coffee by his register. A cold brew just how Simon likes it, the dark liquid and ice swishing lightly.

“Don't act as if you don't start the day even earlier than I do.” You suck your teeth and say before moving to the display case. Simon just blows an amused huff and puts down his piping bag to take a grateful sip from the cup, letting out a deep hum as thanks. You shuffle and focus on slices of carrot cake, instead of letting his voice and that hum register in your ears. You purposely avoid looking at his face once he pulls his mask down, feeling as if it'd be invading his privacy, even if he was the one to pull it down in front of you.

“Yeah, but I'm still not awake. Energy hasn't caught up to me yet.” he mumbles around his straw, insinuating that he'll be as cheery as you later today, making you both laugh. Simon lets you take your time looking for whatever confectionery you came in for this morning and takes a moment to do some looking of his own. Your shop didn't open for another hour or so, meaning you were still in your casual wear. It's nothing but a sweater and jeans but Simon still struggles to take his eyes off you. Well, even in a grocers apron and uniform to Simon you look incredible, but there's something about your comfortable clothes. It's like he gets a glimpse of what you're like outside his bakery and your general store. It makes him want to see more of it. When you look up and meet his eyes, Simon doesn't flinch, just lets you take in the honeyed way he's looking at you and glance away on your own.

“What's got you gracing me with your presence so early today?” Simon continues with ease, knowing there's heat building under your pretty, pigmented skin, even if he can't see it. You recover from catching Simon shamelessly checking you out, and manage to answer him.

“Gonna be closing the shop early today so I thought I'd buy lunch for later.” you explain and Simon puts it away in his mind that he shouldn't look forward to seeing you later like he usually does. You continue to scan his bread shelves, lip poked out slightly in concentration, and Simon watches this fondly before speaking up.

“Your usual then, miss?” He inquires while placing the freshly iced cinnamon rolls behind the display, even though it's obvious you're looking for something else today. You rub your chin and do one more once over of his stock, making Simon wonder what you could possibly be looking for today, before turning around.

“Actually I wanted some of your famous focaccia today sir.” You hum and walk back over to the register.

“But I don't see any?” you finish and look at him with questioning eyes making Simon curse in his head. It made sense that you were confused. Simon's bakery always has focaccia stocked. The flavors and varieties change but the bread itself is a pretty much constant item in his store, simply because it's simple to make while simultaneously being his best seller. It's just his luck that the first time you come in for some, is right after the men had a late night drinking and Johnny woke up this morning and ate the first thing he could find. Simon lets out an imperceptible sigh, his broad chest only rising and falling slightly.

“ It's cooling on the rack now. Got a bit of a late start on it today.” Simon explains, deciding to take the blame rather than throw his friend under the bus. Johnny's already paying for drinks next time as payment. You nod with a silent ‘oh ok’. It wasn't that big a deal, not at all, you could just get something else, but to Simon the fact that you came here this morning looking forward to something and he couldn't give it to you, was unacceptable.

“ That's fine. I'll just go with what I always get then-!” You start, your expression dropping slightly in understanding, but a drop at all was all he needed. You stop when Simon dusts his hands off on his apron and walks over to the small door in the counter. You feel your heart pick up in speed when he pulls up the short slab,opening up the lobby to the rest of the space.

“ If you've got a minute, I can cut a slice for you in the back.” He offers and steps to the side to invite you behind the counter. You falter for a moment, knowing it's not necessary to invite you into the kitchen just to cut you a piece of bread. For anyone else, he'd probably just head to the back and come out when he's done, but Simon never misses a chance to invite you behind the counter and you never miss a chance to accept. You meet his eyes for a short second, long enough to catch that honeyed gaze again, and give him a small nod.

“That sounds good, thanks Simon.” You agree with a cool smile, masking any feelings that were toeing over the border of a fun crush on a coworker. Simon gives you enough space to scoot past him and into the backroom, and settles some of the overexposed feelings in his own chest before following you.

The front of Simon's bakery is a sight in and of its own but it doesn't rival the kitchen. You're not sure how he got a hold of such a beautiful set up, but Simon’s back room has a large window that washes the space in bright sunlight, and somehow it fits the large, brooding man. You'll never forget the first time you ventured back here( after being given the ok the day before) and stumbled upon him. Face serene and content, sunlight washing over his broad frame, and music playing softly while he prepared his goods. Besides that, he has his steel island in the center, along with his rows of stainless steel ovens and racks. Then there were the homey touches like his corkboard with hastily scribbled on sticky notes and a little ghost keychain from your store. With the smell of baking bread always floating around, it created such a pleasant place to sit.

“I'll cut it in half so it cools faster.” Simon informs you while sliding past, the cologne Kyle bought him for his birthday that he didn't start wearing until recently, brushing your nose during the short second he filled your space. He walks over to the large island and it's only then that you notice the large trays of focaccia bread resting in the center, the bread puffy and golden brown.

“So, got a new recipe in mind?” Simon makes conversation, while washing his hands and replacing his gloves. You set your purse down next to the small radio playing music at a low tune. Through the fire by chaka Khan, a choice that would surprise you if you hadn't already heard him listening to 70s music in the past.

“ Yeah! I saw this sandwich idea on TikTik, that I wanted to try out. I bought the meat from Johnny's place a while ago and want to use it soon. Can't let it go bad.” you explain as you make yourself comfortable on the tall wooden stool by the radio. Well, as comfortable as you can on a stool. Simon pauses for such a short moment that if you weren't already trying not to look at the way his shirt sleeves stretched around his biceps, you would've missed it.

“Ah, alright.” Simon responds shortly, understanding everything but one obvious detail in what you'd just said, and you notice. Simon doesn't even have to look up from where he's using a bread knife to slice a part of the focaccia in half, letting more heat escape. He knows your wide eyes are watching him and the corners of your lips are quirking up into a suspicious smile. You both sit in silence for a millisecondonger before you open your mouth.

“Do you know what TikTik is-?” You start and can hardly get the words out before Simon lets out an irritated groan. You burst out laughing, leaning back on the stool, and Simon just shakes his head, fighting off his own smile.

“Oy, I've heard of it alright? Just haven't got around to downloading it.” he defends himself and if you didn't know any better you'd swear you can hear a bit of a pout in his voice. You let your giggles taper off as Simon just shakes his head again, this time with an air of fondness because he can't help soften like butter when you laugh.

“Kyle and Johnny are always talking about that damn app. So what? They've got recipes on there too?” Simon inquires further, before looking for something extra that he could send you off with. Johnny only ever showed him things that left him with less brain cells than he had before he watched them, and Kyle tended to send him things he didn't entirely understand. You spread your legs a tiny bit and rest both your hands on the chair between them.

“ Mmh hmm! People can post anything. Art, recipes, book recommendations, baking.” You add with emphasis and do a small gesture towards what looked like a tray of buns that Simon had pulled out sometime during this conversation. He hums thoughtfully while pulling a plump piping bag full of custard out of his industrial refrigerator. Simon's told you before that custard separated in the fridge when it's not cooked right, and judging by the way the bag is full to the brim with fluffy pastry cream, that's not something he has to worry about.

“Baking hm? Maybe I should download it then.” he mumbles in response before picking up a bread bun and stuffing custard inside. If it'll give him something else to talk to you about, a reason to interact outside of the few hours he sees you during work, Simon was game. You could send him anything you found funny or endearing and he'd welcome it. He glances up at you, noticing you hadn't responded to him and startles when he sees your face scrunched up in, what he guessed is disgust.

“Nah don't bother. There's some nice things about it, but it's really just a time waster.” you respond with a shake of your head. An image of Simon turning into one of those guys that make thirst traps with food, makes a visible shudder run up your spine. No matter how fine he looks in an apron, nothing would make up for the level of cringe guys like that create. Besides, something about the thought of Simon wasting his time away on his phone like the rest of you mere mortals, made you disgruntled. Something desolate shades over Simon's eyes then, immediately making you regret shutting down his idea.

“Could use something like that. Can't find enough things to do these days.” He murmurs deeply and you pause. That made sense. Simon has told you before that he served in the military. He never elaborated on what he did or what rank he got to be, but how protective he was of the information made you feel it was probably something important. He's retired now, but you don't have to be a rocket scientist to know that serving in the military likely leaves you with things you'd rather not have enough time to dwell on. You bite at your fingers, hating the tide this conversation had turned, and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“ If you need to waste time just hang out with me. You know I'm never doing much.” you suggest casually and Simon glances up at you in surprise. You hold his gaze and nod with a small shrug. It had been said in hopes of lightening the mood, but you meant what you'd said.

Aside from the time you spend with friends and family every now and then, you spend most of your time either in your flat or your store. That or in Simon's bakery of course. You're the kind of person that likes company. You don't have to speak with one another or fill the space. You just like to be in the presence of people you care about while doing your own thing. There was something about just knowing they're there that made you feel content. The thought of Simon relaxing in your living room with a book while you paint in the corner by your window, the night air keeping you cool, flashes in your mind, and the image alone makes your heartbeat a little faster. You meet Simon's eyes and he feels his face heat up behind his mask, but he surprises you by shaking his head.

“That wouldn't work.” He responds to you quietly and your heart drops. It looks like you were wrong to think that your company would be something he'd want outside of work, or that you could ease some of the thoughts clouding his mind. You rush to apologize when Simon walks up to you and places your bagged bread and cream bun in your lap. Your breath catches in your throat at his close proximity, his chest right in your face, but Simon looks down at you unaffected.

“If it's with you then it wouldn't be a waste, now would it?” He says softly while squatting down to your level. You're stunned silent as he brushes one of his fingers over your combed baby hairs. Oh. That was a good argument. You gaze at one another for a moment longer before you nod again and roll your eyes a little.

“Well, if you need some way to spend your time, you can spend it with me.” you reply quietly and run your thumb along the seam of his mask. You look into his eyes for permission and your heart jumps when he nods lightly. You breath softly, and right as you're about to tug his mask down, the loud chime of the bakery door rings into the room. Both you and Simon glance at the kitchen door as familiar voices fill the front of the shop.

“Dammit, completely forgot we were open.” Simon grunts before standing up, his broad body filling your vision for a second. You try not to feel too flattered that he was so invested in your conversation, he'd momentarily forgotten about his store. That wasn't necessarily a good thing after all, but it doesn't stop the butterflies you feel. While Simon pokes out his head to tell who you're sure is the town's elderly mothers, that he'll be out in a minute, you grab your purse and bag of pastries. You gently tap his back while sliding past him to get through the door, and Simon looks away from the chattering ladies to glance at you.

“Here Simon,let me pay you for the bread real quick, then I'll get out of your hair.” You whisper before grabbing a few bills. You try to hand them to him but Simon just wraps his large palm around yours. You meet his deep brown eyes as he presses the money back towards you, stepping closer and blocking you from sight of his customers.

“ It's on the house. Just save me a drink later, yeah?” he suggests instead, referencing the strawberry milk he always buys from your store, and what was a laugh turns into a small gasp when Simon leans into your space again.

“I'll take you up on that offer from before though.” he whispers against your temple with a hand at the small of your back, before leaving to handle the line of elderly women, who have gone suspiciously silent while waiting for their daily bread and gossip. His cologne is barely leaving your senses when you suddenly remember to breathe. You clear your throat quietly, never more grateful that the heat behind your cheeks isn't visible to the many, watching eyes behind the counter. It doesn't matter though because they'd seen everything they needed to.

“Excuse me ladies! I'll be seeing you later.” You excuse yourself politely before making your way to your own business, knowing that the ladies would be swarming your general store for answers later. Simon watches you leave with a small smile, looking forward to the interactions to come, until he hears someone clear their throat. Simon looks up to see a number of eyes looking back at him expectantly.

“Ahem, is there something you want to tell us Simon? Starting with a ‘you’ and ending with a ‘were right’?” Mrs. Thomas asks with an arched eyebrow, the other woman behind her wearing matching expressions. Simon takes a deep breath to prepare himself. He has his work cut out for him now.

A/n: I thought up some random dialogue for Baker!Simon and forced myself to write an entire fic around it. It was giving me way more stress than necessary, so I decided to stop nitpicking and just finish it. It's not perfect, I'm not crazy about it, but it's not bad either. Thanks for reading!🥖🥖🥖

🥖Taggies: @cookieswithay

[toyboxterror]

Hiii!! So I was wondering if you could write a Shin x reader where the reader gets kidnapped? Or when they found out he is an ex assassin? Thank you!!

Shin's S/O Finding Out that He's an Ex-Assassin and Getting Kidnapped Headcanons

Contains: Gender-neutral reader, no pronouns used on reader, angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending, bad bad baaaad grammar (english isn't my first language T_T).

Author's Note: this was such a good idea and i love it. i hope you enjoy it!

Even before the two of you started dating, he didn't mind too much about his identity as an ex-assassin. He isn't proud of his past, but his main insecurity lies in his esper ability. It's the main reason why many people don't want to be involved with him, making him believe that he was meant to die alone in this world for most of his life.

He would still try to conceal his past as an ex-assassin from you, unless it's unavoidable then he would come clean to you (for example, he got caught fighting an assassin trying to jump on you). He didn't want you to get roped into the dangers and from witnessing the brutal scenes whenever he tried to protect you from the other assassins behind your back. He wanted to protect your innocence from the dark, cruel world of assassins. However, sometimes he couldn't hold back his emotions and make hostile comments if he saw someone crossing the line in hurting or upsetting you. [1]

A customer accidentally bumped into you as you tried to move some stocks away at the store. His hot coffee was spilled all over your green apron, protecting most of your clothes underneath. But some of the liquid still got onto your skin. It stung like hell, making you hiss in pain.

Despite it being the customer's fault, he still glared at you in irritation, as if you're a pile of garbage blocking his way. “Watch it, moron! Are you blind!?” He spat at you.

“I'm really sorry, sir!” You bowed to him, thinking it's better to just apologize and get over it quickly instead of prolonging it by picking up a fight. The store was already in a bad state with not many customers visiting anymore. You didn't want to inconvenience the Sakamoto family further.

The grumpy middle aged man clicked his tongue in response. “Whatever. You're lucky that I'm in a hurry right now, or else your manager would be hearing about this and get you fired.” He looked at you condescendingly for the last time before leaving the store with the groceries bag in his hand.

You looked down at your apron and the mess on the floor. It was early in the morning and you already smelled like coffee. You felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned around and saw, like an angel sent down from heaven, Shin holding out his handkerchief for you with a sympathetic look. “I have a spare apron and shirt in my room that you can use. You should change, I'll do the cleaning.”

You gratefully accepted his handkerchief and wiped the remaining coffee from your arms. “Thanks, you're my savior. I'm sorry about all this.” You said in relief.

He shook his head and smiled at you reassuringly. “It's fine. It's not your fault.” His soft smile vanished in an instant and he cracked his knuckles as he glared at the culprit who was still walking away through the glass door. “If I was here earlier, that asshole would be dead by now.”

You were taken aback by the sudden change. He was always nice and gentle around you, and sometimes even awkward but never violent. Seeing this side of him really surprised you. You blinked at his serious expression before letting out a laugh.

“You're so funny, Shin!” You playfully hit him on the shoulder. You never thought a guy like him would make jokes like that. “I'm gonna change now. Thanks again, I promise I'll buy you some pork buns later.”

His expression went back to his normal, awkward one as he snapped out from his own thoughts. He rubbed his shoulder where you lightly hit him and watched you leave. “Uh… Yeah.”

You didn't know he was mostly serious about it at the time. He was thankful that you're not able to read his mind.

At the beginning of your relationship, he will lay all his cards in front of you. He would tell you all about his mind reading power and that he used to work as an assassin. He wanted you to know what kind of trouble you're getting yourself into if you accept him in your life. He's giving you a chance to turn around and walk away so you could continue living your normal life, without someone who can read your mind and intrude your privacy most of the time.

He would be relieved and think he's the happiest man in the whole world if you accepted him for who he is. He would pull you into a tight hug and kept muttering “thank you” under his breath. He swore to himself that he will protect you with his life, no matter what.

Dating Shin means you have to accept his family in your life too, and they see you as a part of their family. When Shin isn't around to help, he would entrust his family to protect you and keep you safe.

The first thing he did was to seek out Sakamoto. He'll ask what's the best action to take and to help him track your location down. If the situation is more tricky and dangerous than he could handle, he won't hesitate to ask for Nagumo's help as well. He's willing to humiliate himself by kneeling before anyone that could help and beg, if that's what it takes to find you.

When you get kidnapped, Shin would panic and his face turns pale. One of his worst fears finally came true. He wouldn't be able to think straight. Millions of imaginations of you being tortured, or something worse, prodding into his mind. He needs to take a moment to compose himself and think logically. He doesn't want to worsen the situation with the wrong move or impulse actions.

He wants to give your kidnappers hell of a beating. The more injuries and pain you got from the kidnappers, the more he wanted to kill anyone who's responsible for your well-being. But he won't do it, for you and his family's sake. He needs someone like you or his family, such as Sakamoto, to help him shake those thoughts away and remind him that the most important thing to do right now is to help you. He imagined you were really scared, cold as well as alone somewhere right now, and you needed him more than ever.

Once the situation is over and you're safe in his arms once again, he'll take you to Granny Miya to make sure you don't have any hidden injuries even if you insist that you are fine. If you're severely injured and beaten up, he will help in patching you up and taking care of you. Regardless of your well-being, he will be clingy. He will sleep near your side whenever he can, afraid that you'll get hurt again if you're out of his sight and reach.

After the incident passed for days or weeks, it would still haunt his mind. He couldn't help but feel responsible and blame himself for everything. He felt weak for not being strong enough to protect you.

He started to think it's safer for you if you two part ways. You getting hurt because of him is more painful than you leaving him. He often found himself typing a long text message to you in the middle of the night, asking for a break up for various reasons he could think of, with most of them being made up. He would then feel ridiculous and delete the whole text. He tried to sleep it off and avoid thinking of the incident so he wouldn't get more nightmares of you.

After you're healed up and the both of you feel a bit better, Shin would be less affectionate and more distant because he still feels responsible for you getting kidnapped. He would train his strength and skills harsher whenever he got free time, giving so little time to none for you. But he would still be attentive and tend to your needs when you need help whenever he's around and tuning into your thoughts out of habit.

His family would notice his new behavior and the odd tension between the two of you. They would try to cheer him up, get him to talk about what was bugging him, and give him comforting words with some advice.

Sometimes he would reach out to you and open his mouth like he's about to tell you something really important. But then closed it and smiled at you, as if he changed his mind. He was still scared of how you would react. (He would dust something off from your shoulder and said that there was a stray string stuck on your clothing to cover it up)

It's better for you to take the first move to get him to talk it out. Ask him if you could meet up where you two could be alone together with no one to bother you. He knew what you wanted to talk about and he couldn't avoid you forever. He would hesitate, still not feeling ready to have a real conversation with you, but still not be able to say no to you.

When you finally get to be alone with him, approach him gently and reassure him that you want to face his problems together to persuade him to open up. He'll start to ease up and talk about his insecurities, how he thinks it's for the best if you break up with him while avoiding your gaze.

Remind him that you still care about him and love him as a whole. Tell him that you know what you signed up for when he told you about his past. Your life won't be easy and the same as before, it's rough but you are happier with him. Your mundane life became brighter and there was never a dull moment with him and his family. As long as you are with him, you believe you could overcome any hardships that stand in your way.

Give him some physical affection too, like holding his hands or giving him a hug. But not too much, because he still needs time and space to mull over your words or he would get overwhelmed. It was his first relationship and still learning to handle it after all.

In the end, he felt like he was the luckiest man to have you as his partner. He is grateful to have someone like you staying on his side.

References:

[1] Something similar happened where Shin asked if he could kill a guy for knocking over Sakamoto's meal in one of the chapters during the Entrance Exam Arc.

[brandedsurplus]

Breaking News | ValueShoppe ka hua khulasa | original branded garments ...

[seat-safety-switch]

"Doctor, you have to help. My broth is so thin, and flavourless." cries another patient.

I have been working at Dr. Soup's Soup Hospital for the last couple of weeks. Normally, by now, I would have already been fired for stealing office supplies or general sloth. Something about the good doctor, however, motivates me to keep working. He came up one morning in the unemployment office's ads, and I figured I'd take it.

It's not hard to see why a soup hospital would be needed. People take their soups very seriously. Perhaps it's a recipe from great-grandma, and being able to consistently make it is the only link from the present day back to that idyllic past. Maybe they just want to have something good to eat on a cold day. We don't know, and importantly, we can't judge. If your goulash sucks ass, he's there to fix it.

Even though he drives a pickup truck (a Dodge Ram-en, get it?) I don't hold it against him. He genuinely uses it to pick up large amounts of soup that are in distress and carry them back to his hospital, where he applies strategic spices and sometimes even exotic homemade broths to bring the flavour back to the liquid-lunch-but-not-that-kind crowd. They deserve it, really, and are always grateful to the doc for saving their food.

If there is something I don't like about working for Dr. Soup, it's the casual racism. No, not against cultures. That would be too normal. No, what he hates is stew. Too thick, he tells me. Pick a side, we're at war, he complains whenever we're at the medical supply store, buying paprika. One day I'll ask about curries, but it will have to wait. My parole officer is going to drop by for an inspection sometime this week, and I'd really prefer for him not to go home with third-degree burns and a recommendation that I get sent back to prison. I can't go back there, now that I've tasted this beautiful life on the outside once more. They don't even use chives in their stock.

[whoopsyeahokay]

Alphabet Soup

summary: prompt fill. the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.

pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating (not on you). cybersex. spit as lube. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🧿

Alphabet Soup - V

V is for Wally's very inappropriate use of company time. Bud Binns, grandson and owner of Reggie's Auto Repair, is in the garage, under the belly of another vintage car, hard at work and none the wiser.

The expo's in town, part of Split River's annual autumn fair that celebrates community spirit and agriculture. Wally couldn't give less of a shit, but car enthusiasts from orbiting towns have descended in droves and Wally likes the money. He's been up to his elbows in grease and oil since Monday; no time for himself. For homework. For football. For you.

He deserves every break he takes and Bud, so grateful for Wally volunteering his valuable time, shoos him to the break room with a gruff, "ya got fifteen minutes, kid." And, taking full advantage of the windowless room with the lock, Wally hunkers down on the couch and video calls you. He's pent up and frustrated and misses the way his name sounds when you moan it.

You answer after two rings, either having anticipated him or missing him, too, as you're wearing the wine-colored lace set that makes his mouth water. Barely-there bra, crotchless panties, stockings that bulge the flesh of your thighs above the band and make Wally's cock twitch. Your phone already set in the tripod Wally sent you from Amazon for exactly this reason.

"Hey, baby," He purrs, undoes his jeans onehanded, and cups himself. Legs spread wide. Massages his balls as he watches your body arch and curve while you ride the mount he slipped into your room when Janet wasn't looking. The dildo isn't as girthy as he is, but he doesn't want it to be—calling the shots for what toys you buy because he's got a thing about being the biggest cock to stuff your cunt. "You miss me that bad, huh, sweet girl?"

You moan, cheeks cherry red, plush lips parted around his name, a vision of hot desperation for him.

"What are you thinking about, baby?" He wants to know, cock hardening in his hand as he watches you sink and lift on the dildo. "You thinking about how good I make you feel?"

"I always think of you, Wally," And, fuck, yeah, that's it, pretty girl, show Wally how you like to be fucked. "Only you."

Wally leans into the back of the couch, holding himself, not ready to give in to his need just yet. "What're you thinking about, baby? Tell me what you're picturing. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

He swallows hard when you start describing the fantasy, your tits bouncing as you begin to ride the toy harder, faster, then slow and sensual, leaning back to show off where the dildo disappears inside you. His mouth goes dry as you move, his voice tense when he murmurs, dark and rough, "You like thinking about the way I feel inside you, baby girl? You think of it a lot, don't you?"

Grits his teeth, groans quietly, closing his eyes for a few seconds to rein his control. His cock throbs in his hand, flushed and dribbling; fuck, you're slutty little noises, the way your body moves like liquid metal, "Say my name again, baby. Just like that." And, finally, he spits in his hand and teases over the tip, uses pre to slick himself up so he can fuck his fist how he wants to fuck you. He hisses, a hot shiver running through him; that intense, euphoric flush through his entire body. The way you say his name drives him insane.

It's—fuck, God—it's so good. His eyes are glued to the screen, to you, to your hips, your tits, your face. Every sound you release makes his jaw tick as he loses himself.

"Need you so bad, Wally," You whine in pleasure, reaching for something offscreen. A buzz. A gasp. Holding the vibe against your clit as you bounce on the dildo. He can hear the juicy squelch of your pussy around the toy and he groans, eyes rolling back, skin tingling.

"Fuck, baby, your pussy's so wet for me." Wally licks his lips, eyes heavy and eclipsed with desire, "Show me how pretty you are when you come for me, baby."

You keen, "Wish it was you, Wally." His mind goes fucking blue screen when you choke, "You'd make me come so hard..."

"Yeah?" He pants, his hand moving faster, "You want me to make you come, sweet girl?"

He watches you watch him, sees how needy you are for his cock, and a smile flickers across his face. His head is swimming, chest heaving, so ready to come just from watching you, but he tries to hold it together, tries not to succumb to the urge. Not yet. Not until you do.

"Yeah...fuck, that's it. Ride it, baby..." Wally's flushed, head starting to spin. From the need, from wanting you, from how fucking good you are for him, his perfect little porn star. Oh, God, he hears a whimper, a moan, your body trembling as you cry out. A hushed groan, "Yeah? Are you coming for me, baby?"

And you shake, head tossed back, body rigid except your hips which grind the dildo inside you as you come apart. He strips his cock faster as he watches you, has to close his eyes, shit, he's so close, he just needs—

"Say it again, baby... I'm so close... Say it again. Say my name..."

You do, a sweet, breathy sob forming the syllables that send him crashing over the edge. Comes all over his fist, groan ripped from his chest, head falling back against the couch, holy fuck, baby girl, he already can't wait to do that again.

"My perfect girl," He praises between breaths and slopes you a lazy, satisfied smile.

But there's no time to bask in the afterglow, his fifteen minutes done, and he needs to get back to work before Bud comes looking. He ends the call with a promise to Snap later, it'll be worth it, baby. Stay up, okay?

Wally washes his hands, fixes his jeans, and saunters into the garage in the best mood he's been in all week.

🧿___________________________

MASTERLIST

also available on AO3!

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B T K A F P V R M S D C I J H W N O E X G L Y U Q Z

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Everyday homeowners are human shields for Wall Street’s Internet of Shit slumlords

The American Dream, such as it is, used to be two dreams, one based on work and solidarity, the other on asset appreciation and disconnected individualism. We killed the first one.

As the New Deal gave way to the post-war social safety net, Americans discovered two paths to social mobility: they could join a union, and they could buy a home. Joining a union meant that your wages would rise with productivity, and that the democratic ideal that you were meant to approach once every two years at the ballot-box could follow you into the building you spent more waking hours in than any other: your jobsite.

Labor unions used their political power to win labor rights, so that even workers who weren't a union couldn't be arbitrarily fired, or maimed on the job with impunity, or harassed or abused. And while the labor movement was mired in the same racist legacy that every American institution brought forward out of genocide and slavery, where racialized people started unions of their own or demanded representation from the unions who nominally represented them, they thrived.

Then there were houses. On the one hand, owning your home insulated you from the petty tyranny of the landlord, the threat of eviction, rent hikes, indifferent or dangerous building maintenance, and all the other miseries that arise when you think of a building as your home and someone else thinks of it as an asset, and the board is tilted so that they win every argument.

But homeownership wasn't just sold as a way to get out from under scumbag landlords: it was primarily sold as a way to build intergenerational wealth. Your house wasn't just a place to live: it was an asset, and it appreciated.

And if the dividends of labor protection were unevenly distributed between white people and racial minorities, the dividends of home ownership were almost entirely hoarded by white families. Federal policies – redlining – combined with racist lending at the local level, meant that Black families and other racialized groups were stuck in tenancy, while white families build wealth thanks to federal subsidies:

https://web.archive.org/web/20170220005558/https://www.demos.org/sites/default/files/publications/Asset%20Value%20of%20Whiteness.pdf

Those were the two American dreams: a good job and your own home. We killed the first one, and the second one devoured us whole.

Without a strong labor movement, wages stagnated. Corporate power waxed, and with it, the power to pollute, to poison, to maim and to defraud. The labor movement wasn't strong enough to stop Reagan from killing free UC tuition when he was governor of California. It wasn't strong enough to hold back spiraling health care prices. It wasn't strong enough to block the business lobby from neutering antitrust and ushering in four decades of market concentration, market capture and corruption. Workers couldn't save their defined benefits pension and were railroaded into market-based 401(k)s, forcing them to play the stock casino against their bosses, ever the sucker at the poker table.

With stagnant wages and out of control medical, educational and end-of-life bills, homeownership – the thing you do as an individual, where your gain is someone else's loss – became the American secular religion. Your house wasn't just a place to sleep and keep your photo albums: if it appreciated enough, you might be able to liquidate it on your deathbed and pay off your eldercare, your healthcare, your kids' college debt, and leave enough left over for your kids' downpayments.

And so every American who had a home became the enemy of every American who didn't – including one another's children. Every home built threatened your own property values. The racist, batshit American school funding formula, which sees schools funded out of property taxes, meaning the richest kids get the best schools, turned out to be a great way to increase your property values.

Protections for tenants, meanwhile, threatened the entire American way of life – the American dream itself. Every protection a tenant got – protection from eviction or rent hikes, the legal right to a safe and well-maintained home – reduced the value of every home in town.

After all, the better a landlord has to treat their tenants, the less money a landlord can make from a rental property. The less money a landlord can make from a rental property, the less they'd bid on a house like yours if it went up for sale.

And since anyone planning to buy your house to live in it has to outbid a landlord who might want to rent it out, giving tenants any protection threatened everything – the one asset you owned, which was your plan a, b and c for paying off all that health, education, and assisted living debt:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Today, the house-as-asset scam is breathing its last. There are millions more people who need homes than there are homes available. Sure, homelessness is a fantastically complex problem, but you could address every aspect of it – addiction, mental illness, joblessness – and millions of people would still be homeless, because there aren't enough homes for them to live in:

https://headgum.com/factually-with-adam-conover/myths-about-homeless-people-with-dr-margot-kushel

70% of all inflation in 2024 came from the cost of housing; a quarter of that came from illegal collusive behavior by landlords to hike rents:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/up-to-a-quarter-of-rental-inflation

Wall Street landlords have raised gigantic war-chests and are buying up homes at a rate never before seen, converting every available single-family home in many cities from an owner-occupied home to a rental. Private equity and hedge fund landlords have elevated charging junk fees to an absurdist theater project: you pay a "convenience" charge for paying your rent in cash. But also for paying your rent by direct transfer. Oh, and also for paying in cash. When Wall Street is your landlord, your home is a slum, dangerously undermaintained, sometimes lethally so:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords

Capitalists hate capitalism. The best thing to sell is something your customer can't live without, and that no one else has for sale. That's why "the market" loves private prisons so much:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

The vast sums Wall Street is putting into buying up all of America's available housing stock is a bet that they can establish regional monopolies over having a home, and charge all the market can bear.

That's the plan at Invitation Homes, a company that was just targeted by the FTC for a slate of eye-watering crimes against the tenants in the 80,000 single-family homes they've acquired:

https://www.ftc.gov/news-events/news/press-releases/2024/09/ftc-takes-action-against-invitation-homes-deceiving-renters-charging-junk-fees-withholding-security

Invitation Homes purchases homes as they come on the market, and they're also a leading customer of the "build-to-rent" housing industry, a fast-growing segment of new housing starts.

Writing about the FTC's enforcement action against Invitation Homes, Matt Soller brings in Starwood Capital Group, who manage Invitation Homes properties, and own 14,000 more homes in the sunbelt. Invitation and Starwood hate the anti-monopoly movement, and Barry Sternlicht, Starwood's billionaire CEO, really hates FTC Chair Lina Khan:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/monopoly-round-up-corporate-slumlords

The FTC complaint lays out a suite of just comically sleazy things ways that Invitation abuses its tenants, starting with false advertising. The company lists its houses at relatively low rents, then charges a large fee to apply to live there. When you pass the application process, you're told the rent is actually much higher, and if you walk away from the deal, you forfeit your application fee. That scam's netted Invitation $18m since 2019.

Stoller really hates junk fees, calling them "convenience fees without any convenience, service charges without any service performed." He lays out Invitation's long list of junk fees, which honestly sound like a list that Chatgpt would spit out if you prompted it for fifty junk fees that wouldn't pass the giggle-test: "utility management fees" "Lease Easy bundle fees," "air filter delivery fee," "smart home technology fees," etc etc.

"Smart home technology fee?" Yeah, Invitation's gone in hard for Internet of Shit smart home tech. The SVP who oversees Invitation's smart home fee program was ordered to "juice this hog" (you guys, juice doesn't come from hogs).

After decades of recruiting everyday American homeowners to demand anti-tenant policies that benefit giant corporations, American tenants have few rights on paper and even fewer in practice. That's left the door wide open for Invitation to abuse their tenants in a myriad of dismal and unimaginative ways: stealing their deposits, trashing their credit reports to retaliate against complaints, illegal evictions, busted appliances, mold, vermin, insects – the whole slumlord playbook.

As Stoller writes, there's a twist: "this landlord isn’t just a random slumlord, it’s one of the biggest Wall Street players in housing."

There are vast fortunes to be made in converting the human right to housing into an asset class, but those fortunes end up in the hands of a very small number of billionaires. On their own, they wouldn't have the political power to dismantle protections for tenants.

Realistically speaking, most kids who grew up in their parents' owner-occupied homes are going to end up tenants, thanks to undersupply and housing inflation. But those kids' parents have spent decades demanding policies to make their homes as valuable as possible – including mortgage tax breaks (but not rent tax breaks!), looser eviction laws, and less enforcement of what few protections tenants have.

Middle class homeowners are the useful idiots and human shields of the billionaires who are determined to force every American under 40 raise their kids in a rented slum full of spiders, ratshit and black mold, which will still cost 60% of their take-home salary.

That's why the FTC's action against Invitation Homes is such a big deal. And as Stoller points out, Chair Khan is really just implementing Kamala Harris's campaign promise to get Wall Street out of the landlord business.

Wall Street's raid on your bedroom and kitchen has inspired a generation of "finfluencer" copycats who buy and flip apartment buildings, sucking ever-larger amounts of cash out of them until they're unfit for human habitation, with mountains of rat-infested garbage ringing their crumbling walls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

Any future worth living in is going to get housing right. We need to stop thinking of housing as an asset and realize that it is, first and foremost, a human right. That's the premise of my 2023 solarpunk novel The Lost Cause, which just came out in paperback:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865946/thelostcause

You can't protect yourself from rising seas or rising healthcare bills through individual home-ownership. Solidarity – the kind of solidarity that once powered the union movement, and that is powering it again – is the only way to defeat the housing profiteers. The New Deal wasn't perfect, which is why whatever we do next has to be bigger, further reaching, and more inclusive than what FDR did almost a century ago.

The only minority that should be excluded from the next New Deal is billionaires.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/01/housing-is-a-human-right/#rentier-tech

Image: Sam Valadi (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/132084522@N05/17086570218/

Carlos Delgado (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wall_Street_-_New_York_Stock_Exchange.jpg

CC BY 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

re-watched the video again this morning and oh. my. god. can i stop finding this man attractive?

he is the ceo of a stock market app and the big controversy that app had - turning off the buy button during the gamestop thing - wasnt even due to the presumed reason of him being in big finances pocket, it was because his stupid stock market app is stupidly designed.

whenever folding ideas/dan olson releases a new video, i always know im gonna learn about some insane new thing that makes me question reality for at least ten minutes.

and uh, the most recent one did too, like reddit financial apes are maybe the most chronically online people i have ever heard of in my life, but somehow that was easier to process than finding out the ceo of robinhood is kinda hot.

like i do not want to find vlad tenev attractive, hes the ceo of a stock market app. also his interior design is abysmal. but hes also kinda hot.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

it's very bad no good cupcake baking time for the hotel crew (save them) (charlie did you think this throu-) (NO)

Charlie: “I have! The most brilliant plan for a group bonding activity!”

Angel Dust: “Oooh~ Bondin’ or bond-”

Vaggie: “You live here for free.”

Angel Dust: “Buy my silence, Vaggity Fair, cause’ it sure ain’t free.”

Vaggie: (groans) (slips him a twenty) “Go on babe, what’s the mission statement?”

Charlie: “We should all bake CUPCAKES together!!”

Hotel Crew: "......"

Husk: “…Why.”

Charlie: “Beeeecaaaause it’d be so SWEET!”

Vaggie: “And you also live here for free.”

Husk: “Not of my own free will I don’t.”

Charlie: “Aw c’mon Husk, please? Baking is probably KINDA like drink mixing, right?”

Husk: “It’s not.”

Vaggie: (SIGHS) (slips him a twenty)

Husk: “I’ve got cooking sherry around here somewhere, I think.”

Alastor: “How thrilling! Extreme heat sources, flammable liquids, and so many little bottles and vials that couldn’t possibly get mix up with anything in the pest control cabinet!”

Niffty: “Hee hee hee…. Rat poison~”

Vaggie: “Twenty bucks and you LOCK that cabinet, okay?”

Niffty: “Thirty and a new knife set!”

Vaggie: (has given up) “Fine.”

Niffty: “OKAY!”

Charlie: “We need to go shopping anyway. We’ll need flour and sugar and uhhhh flavory things of some kind probably and um, those little paper thingies- the cup cake… skirts?”

Alastor: “Glad to see how prepared our intrepid leader is for this marvelous expedition!”

Charlie: “Cup cake… dollies…?”

Vaggie: “I’ll handle it. You remember how to pre-heat the oven?”

Charlie: “NOT with actual fire!”

Alastor: “Aww.”

Angel Dust: (handing back the twenty) “I want a new pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs. Mine broke~”

Vaggie: “I don’t want to know.”

Husk: (handing his twenty back too) “Beer.”

Vaggie: “Beer? You run the hotel BAR.”

Husk: “What, you think I nip stuff under the table at work?”

Alastor: “Oh there isn’t much thought needed when it comes to you, I’m afraid.”

Husk: “You think I LIKE that I do that? That’s the stupid hotel’s shit, can’t relax sneaking shots that aren’t mine, racking up a tab like that. This beer is gonna be only for me.”

Charlie: “Husk…”

Vaggie: “Great whatever, guilt free beer for the alcoholic.”

Alastor: “How touching. And I require-”

Vaggie: “What YOU need is a-”

Charlie: “Happy place!”

Vaggie: “-which I’m not picking up for you. I’ll get more cleaning supplies too while I’m at it.”

Charlie: “More? Vaggie, have some faith! We’re all adults here! It’s not gonna be THAT messy. We just need to measure things, maybe chop some stuff up first-”

Niffty: “KNIVES.”

Charlie: “-put all in a- blender-? A blender would work for mixing, right? Then pour the batter in the things and into the oven! Which I WILL remember to preheat this time. Without fire.”

Vaggie: “Good point.”

Charlie: “See!”

Vaggie: “We should stock up on first aid stuff too.”

Charlie: (pouting) “We’ll talk about it on the way.”

Vaggie: “Sweetie, thanks for wanting to help carry groceries, but I really think we need to divide and conquer here.”

Charlie: “Huh?”

Vaggie: “Husk is already halfway to the wine cellar.”

Charlie: “He wh- Husk wait! You can’t help make friendship cupcakes if you’re blackout drunk!”

Angel Dust: “Toots that’s the whole idea.”

Vaggie: “Fifty bucks if he’s still conscious when I get back. I’ll need him in the kitchen later if we’re gonna get through this alive.”

Angel Dust: “Spend it on getting’ him a really NICE beer and you’ve gotta deal.”

Vaggie: (eye twitch) “Why is all my money turning into drugs and sex toys?”

Niffty: “And KNIVES!”

Vaggie: “The one silver lining…”

Alastor: “You know, if you won’t extend simple shopping list courtesies to me, then I suppose I shall have to go shopping myself as well.”

Vaggie: “Keep your shopping on the other side of town from me or I’m coming home with a flat screen tv.”

Alastor: (annoyed channel switch sound) “….Noted!”

– LATER –

Hotel Crew: “………….”

Oven: (DING)

Vaggie: “…”

Vaggie: “….cupcakes are done.”

Charlie: “Oh yay. Whoo. Hoo.”

Hotel Crew: “…….”

Vaggie: “If no one takes them out they’re gonna burn.”

Angel Dust: “Let ‘em.”

Husk: “Little fuckers deserve to fry.”

Charlie: (exhausted) “No one deserves to burn for all eternity.”

Niffty: “Yeah! I wanna RIP THEM APART and STAB THE CRUMBS.”

Alastor: “Well that’s two votes for burning and two for rescuing, to a certain extent. I myself would like to try out these DARLING cupcake toppers that I found while out doing my shopping completely alone.”

Vaggie: “Oh my girlfriend’s dad shut up. You won’t die just because no one was listening to you for ten minutes.”

Alastor: “In any case, that makes three for rescue and two for burn, with you as the undecided vote, Vaggie. Choose wisely~!”

Vaggie: (sighing) “Someone hand me the oven mitts.”

Husk: “They’re in the fucking blender.”

Angel Dust: “What’s left of ‘em.”

Vaggie: “Fine. Someone move the pile of dirty dishes off Charlie so SHE can be our oven mitts.”

Charlie: “It’s so peaceful under here…”

Vaggie: “The friendship cupcakes are dying, babe.”

Charlie: “UggghHHHHHH ‘kay. Coming.”

Angel Dust “That’s what she sa-”

Vaggie: “KNIVES.”

Angel Dust “-cough cough cough! I didn’t say nothin’, I got a piece of walnut shell stuck in my throat!”

Alastor: “Usual night for you then, hmm?”

Husk: “Who the fuck put in walnuts?”

Vaggie: “Who cares. If they shelled them then it’s at least better than the coconut thing.”

Charlie: “Did we add anything that wasn’t nut related?”

Vaggie: “Uhhh.”

Angel Dust “Nope!”

Husk: “Is that the only thing you were keeping track of.”

Angel Dust “Hey I know my strengths and I’m stickn’ to ‘em!”

Charlie: “Speaking of strength and sticking… um…”

Hotel Crew: “……….”

Charlie: “They’re bubbling.”

Vaggie: “Yeah.”

Charlie: “Or, breathing?”

Vaggie: “Yeah…”

Charlie: “Is that normal? It feels kinda… not normal.”

Vaggie: “It’s. Impressive.”

Niftty: “They’re ALIVE!” (knife) “For now.”

Charlie: “Well I guess we shouldn’t REALLY judge them until we’ve actually seen what they taste like-”

Angel Dust “Not it!”

Husk: “Fuck no.”

Alastor: “I’m terribly afraid that I am on a diet.”

Vaggie: “You eat rotting deer carcasses.”

Alastor: “And THEY aren’t still moving when I chow in, ha ha!”

Charlie: “Okay well, I guess I’ll just…”

Vaggie: “Wait. You’re probably immune to half the stuff that’d kill us.”

Charlie: “Right, so I should-”

Vaggie: “You’re not a good example of what happens when a non-demon princess person eats these, sweetie. If wanna test for uh, quality control, it shouldn’t be with you.”

Hotel Crew: “…..”

Vaggie: “….hand me a cupcake.”

Husk: (edges out of the splash zone)

Charlie: “You don’t have to do this.”

Angel Dust: “But you totally should! After I get my phone out though, hold on a sec-”

Vaggie: “I’m standing right in front of Radio Head over here so don’t even THINK about recording this.”

Alastor: “Aww my dear little angel-”

Charlie: “Alastor.” (calm smile) (horns out) “Her name is Vaggie.”

Alastor: “-Vaggie, yes, I would almost be willing to make an exception to my own morals for you.” (grins at angel dust) “Almost.”

Angel Dust: (lowering his phone) “I was jus’ takin’ a selfie. You know. Since I’m covered in sticky white shit anyway.”

Husk: “This fucking sucks.” (shakes his paws)

Vaggie: “No. THIS does.”

Vaggie: (bites cupcake)

Hotel Crew: “……………..”

Vaggie: “….hm.”

Hotel Crew: (STEPS BACK)

Vaggie: “It’s… well it’s kinda…”

Charlie: (cringing) “Break up worthy??”

Niffty: “PAINFUL?”

Vaggie: “It’s.. Fruity..?”

Hotel Crew: (stares at still moving cupcakes)

Angel Dust: “No. Fuckin’. Way.”

Husk: “Since the fuck WHEN did they have fruit in them?”

Angel Dust: “They didn’t! I swear I checked!”

Charlie: “Are they, um, edible?”

Vaggie: “Well I wouldn’t sign them up for a baking competition but I’m not dying either, so.”

Charlie: (excited) “So we did it? We all made actual cupcakes together?”

Vaggie: (smiling) “We did it. Mission cupcake completed.”

Charlie: “HAHA YUS!” (fist pump) “FRIENDSHIP POWERRRRRRR!!!!”

Alastor: “Now now now, no cupcake is fully complete without a lovely floral topper!”

Angel Dust: “Ain’t THAT the truth~”

Alastor: “Which I bought. Alone. Without any second opinion to rely on.”

Vaggie: (rolls eye)

Charlie: “And they’re so cute! Thank you Alastor- you picked wonderfully. Everyone, get decorating!”

Niffty: (drooping) “No stabbing?”

Vaggie: “You can poke ‘em each with a knife to check that they’re done.”

Niffty: “HEHEHEH.”

Vaggie: “Poke them with the knife ONCE Niffty- hey- NO- don’t leave it inside-”

Angel Dust: “That’s what-”

Husk: “Will be on your gravestone if she fucking hears you.”

Charlie: “Awww~ Now they’re adorable AND delicious!”

Husk: “Don’t.”

Angel Dust: “I didn’t say nothin’!”

Vaggie: “I actually kinda wish you’d go back to sex jokes instead of whatever you’re doing to that cupcake”

Angel Dust: “There’s more than one kind of oral performance in the world~”

Vaggie: “Say that and then look at what Niffty’s doing to her cupcake.”

Husk: “Unholy fucking shit!!”

Niffty: (GLEEFUL CACKLING)

Charlie: “Okay well, we clearly each have our own… unique ways of enjoying these cupcakes. Some more uh, graphic and concerning than others-”

Angel Dust: “Why the fuck are the insides RED like that?! Who put in red dye???”

Charlie: “-but the point is we all came together to make these sweets! Which. Taste like strawberries?”

Vaggie: “I didn’t buy strawberries.”

Charlie: “A-at least it and the redness go with the rose themed toppers!”

Angel Dust: “Yeah, I mean, is it weird that out of this whole maybe-living cupcake thing, the professional spun sugar parts are the ones with the funkiest taste to ‘em?”

Vaggie: “….”

Vaggie: “Alastor. Where the fuck did you buy the rose themed cupcake toppers.”

Alastor: “Hmm? Does my private, SOLITARY shopping FINALLY interest you?”

Vaggie: “Where you literally on the other side of Pentagram City from me.”

Alastor: “I do believe that is what you requested, and I, being a proper gentleman even to someone who might be considered a less than proper lady, was only too happy to oblige!”

Charlie: “Vaggie are you okay? You’re looking kinda pale.”

Vaggie: “I’m.”

Vaggie: “Alastor did you get these rose themed toppers-"

Vaggie: "-in Cannibal Town?”

Angel Dust: “WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Alastor: “I did.”

Angel Dust: “FUCK!!!”

Husk: (hairball noise)

Charlie: “Oh no.”

Alastor: “Dear Rosie gave me quite the discount. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”

Charlie: “Oh. Nooooooooo-”

Alastor: “I think it utterly darling of her~”

Niffty: “Alastor, hey hey!”

Alastor: “Yes, murder of my eye?”

Niffty: “I stabbed my cupcake topper heheheh WHO did I just stab????”

Charlie: “NOOOOOO-”

Alastor: “I believe it was an unsatisfactory husband by the name of Bill.”

Niffty: (grinning) “A BAD boy?”

Alastor: “Not bad enough to escape Rosie’s Emporium intact but yes, in a manner of speaking.”

Niffty: “Oooh.”

Niffty: (snatches up another cupcake and hugs it) “For my collection.”

Charlie: “GAAAHM NOT HEARING THIS! I DIDN’T HEAR IT!”

Angel Dust: “GREAT CAN YA MAKE IT SO’S I DIDN’T EAT ANY OF IT EITHER!??!”

Alastor: “Not to your tastes, Angel Dust? And here I though you enjoyed have strange men in your mouth.”

Charlie: “DO WE KNOW HIS ADDRESS SO I CAN SEND AN APOLOGY LETTER???”

Alastor: “I suppose his business card might still be in the hand Rose tore off him-”

Charlie: “AAAAAGH!”

Vaggie: “Hostia. You really can’t not be the center of attention for five minutes can you.”

Alastor: “I can, truly I can and very happily! It seems however that YOU cannot withstand the consequences of your own, short-sighted actions.”

Charlie: “Um guys-”

Vaggie: “Oh yeah? You’re not the only monster here, dumbass.”

Charlie: “We’re getting a little off topic-”

Alastor: "But as I am the only one not mired in glorious self-pity, certainly I am the most impressive specimen here.”

Charlie: “Okay this is going a bit-”

Vaggie: “Impressive HA! Fuck your empty grin and your stupid suits. You’re not even the one with the highest body count.”

Angel Dust: “Are we talkin’ sex stuff orrr-?”

Vaggie: (takes topper off her cupcake and pops it in her mouth)

Hotel Crew: “………”

Vaggie: “What?”

Charlie: “Vaggie, um. Person.” (points) “Person food.”

Vaggie: “Sweetie, you know how murder crazy exorcist are. You really never thought we didn’t lick a little blood off our weapons now and then, to feel extra badass about slaughtering people sometimes?”

Charlie: (dazed) “I’m thinking about it now.” (covers cheeks)

Niffty: “BLOOD!”

Angel Dust: “Oh ew. Oh you're getting off on that- Oh that’s just-”

Charlie: “Part of her past, a thing EVERYONE has.”

Angel Dust: “BLEH.”

Husk: “Also step one to seeing her shitfaced.”

Charlie: “Ha haaa…” (claps hands) “Okay everyone- that’s a wrap on today’s bonding activities! I uh, I think we can save the clean up until we’ve all recovered from the actual cupcakes a bit, right Vaggie?”

Vaggie: (shrug) “Whatever.”

Husk: “About damn time.” (sighs) (walks out) “I’ll get the fucking vodka.”

Niffty: "HEE HEE." (carrying cupcake over her head) "TO THE COLLECTION!"

Angel Dust: “Hold up baby! I wanna get shitfaced too after this!”

Charlie: “Well I think it’s all very interesting! Angel stuff is interesting, isn’t it Alastor?”

Alastor: “Yes. Quite.”

Vaggie: “Uh-huh.” (slumps and drops cupcake) “Bill tastes boring as hell, by the way, maybe let Rosie know before she sells anymore of these.”

Charlie: “Oh? Maybe THAT’S why she gave such a steep discount?”

Alastor: “Perhaps.”

Charlie: “Awww cheer up Alastor. You can bring her some of our cupcakes as a thank you, now that we uh, we’ve um, had our fill of them already.”

Alastor: “Hmph.”

Vaggie: “Think I’ll head up now.”

Alastor: “While grabbing a drink along way, hmm?”

Vaggie: “Yeah. Why not.”

Charlie: “Vaggie-” (catches her hand) (squeezes) “-grab one for me, too? I’ll be right behind you.”

Vaggie: “…wine from the cellar then, huh?”

Charlie: “I’m having whatever you’re having.”

Vaggie: “Sweetie, you hate the shit I drink.” (small smile) “I’ll get us something from the cellar. Meet you up there.”

Charlie: “In a heartbeat.”

Charlie: “….”

Charlie: “Alastor.”

Alastor: “Oh don’t scold me for her baggage, dear, I don’t make her carry it.”

Charlie: “I’m not scolding. I just- I get that you have this whole-” (air quotes) “-annoying big brother who hates being ignored thing going on with Vaggie, and while it IS kinda sweet-”

Alastor: (microphone feedback) “Excuse me?”

Charlie: “Could you turn it down a tiny bit when it comes the exorcist stuff?”

Alastor: “I do not-”

Charlie: “I know I know you don’t mean to make her all droopy like this, it’s boring for you, totally a killjoy-”

Alastor: “There is NOTHING enjoyable about that woman!”

Charlie: “-So maaaaaaybe back off a little when things get too serious?”

Alastor: “NO!”

Charlie: “Think about it okay?” (pats his shoulder) “Anyway, thanks for sticking around for the friendship cupcakes, see you at the next hotel bonding session, Dadastor!”

Alastor: “At the next-”

Alastor: “………”

Alastor: (hissing) “DADastor!?”

[yeyinde]

hoooooo boy. m!mc anon here - your response was extremely interesting and i am a little obsessed with your brain (i’d like to study it, you truly come up with the most delicious ideas)

but i also have to say that out of all of tf 141, that idea for soap was actually so delicious that i had to physically put my phone down for a while. respectfully, that is the hottest thing i’ve probably ever read. even more feral soap?? forcefem?? phew. amen.

thank you for giving me more material to zone out to in the middle of the day (praying hands emoji)

ahhh thanks!!! i started to drag on more about m!Reader and Johnny, but. this happened lmao. so here is some nasty Johnny picking up m!Reader in a bar.

forced!fem. switch Johnny. m!reader is described as being very masculine presenting. but in the flavour of Will Graham's whole aesthetic

All things considered, it's a little clichè.

Older man (—ish, you amend mentally, remembering the birth year on his driver's license when you chanced a peek over his forearm as he rifled through his wallet: 1982—millenial) hits on a younger man in a crowded sports bar. Opens the conversation with haven't seen you around here before, and let's the defined chisel in his jawline do the heavy lifting in place of a personality. Adds a wink to that line, too.

Thighs pressed tight against each other on the stool. Arms brushing. Speaks purposefully when it gets rowdy so he has to lean in close, stubbled jaw grazing your cheek as he mock whispers his lacklustre response to a question you didn't ask. Buys you beer. The expensive kind, too. Laughs when you ask what he's drinking and orders something that makes him seem like he's more of a man than you are.

For a brief period between intermissions—when it gets quieter and he conveniently sneaks off to the washroom—you debate picking up the heavy innuendos he's trying to put down. It could be worse, you think, staring at the only other potential lay you've been entertaining over the last two weeks.

You could be getting mediocre sex from a guy who keeps sending you unasked for pictures of his cock and hole. One you keep dodging by adding an appropriately enthused wow, all this and it's only 10am on a Tuesday to every "yep, that's a dick" image he sends in place of a real conversation.

The sarcasm gifting you yet another unasked for picture of his hand around his cock. Sure is, baby. But—

"be better if ye were 'ere wit' me."

You startle, phone cracking off the edge of the counter. "Shit—"

The person over your shoulder peels away for a moment. "Ah, sorry. Ack—is yer phone alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," you breathe, tapping on the screen. It flicks on. You're graced with another picture of his ballsack. The caption—

"need yer cock s'fuckin' bad—"

You cut him a sharp glance over your shoulder. It's rude. You're a little annoyed at having your travesty of a sex life aired out for every obnoxious wannabe cowboy to overhear, but the irritation is stemmed by the fill of liquid hazel—and flecks of blue, you think; a pretty blue ring around oxidizing copper.

Larimar. Marbled with umber. Framed around glossy white streaked with small rivers of red. Tinged slightly yellow—undoubtedly from the pack of cigarettes you find stuffed into the breast pocket of his red, gingham button down when you tear your eyes away from him. The look too intense. Too much.

Taking stock of everything else about him is just as flustering. The gingham draped loosely over him. Wrinkled sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Collar opened until the last few buttons around his navel. He's wearing a black shirt beneath that glues to his skin, pulling taut around his sternum and collarbones. A gold chain with a thick, heavy cross sits in the valley between, swinging when he rocks back on his heels.

Thick thighs stuffed into jeans that stretch to fit. The bottoms tucked half-heartedly into a pir of black, leather boots.

The shirt shifts when he moves, pulling tight around his broad shoulders as he lifts the last swig of a beer bottle to his lips. Beneath the coarse, black hair that dusts over the pale, peachy skin of his forearms, the back of his hands, his knuckles (Jesus Christ), his muscles flex. Bunching tight under veined flesh.

It makes sense to follow the trail to those sucking lips, but you catch a flash of pale pink, the sweep of a blood-red tongue through the hazy brown of the translucent rim of the bottle and feel your heart lurch in your chest.

You try to swallow but your throat is dry.

He makes a noise as he drinks. A sucking slurp, the plop of his lips unglueing from of the mouth of the bottle. A quiet, groaning ahh whispered under his breath.

It pulls your eyes up, forcing you to fill in the rest of this puzzle, and you know, even before the same dense cropping of hair that covers his arms (hands, fingers) starts to show at the black hem of his Henley that you made a mistake. A grievous one. He's handsome.

Defined jaw. Implish lips. An angular nose. Thick, full brows. The same pale, peachy skin sloping up his neck, chin, cheeks, and forehead before disappear into dark brown, almost black, hair. An untrimmed mohawk. A scar on the side of his head, cutting clean along his temple and stretching back to his ear. The hair around it is sparse. Shaved. The gorge of his scar a dark pink inside. Healed, but—

Raw.

A little like the rest of him. Rougish, in a way. Fractured.

His hair is matted down on top. Toussed along the unblemished, overgrown side, but flat on his crown.

The mystery, however, is solved when he flicks a ballcap onto the table beside you with a crooked quirk of his mouth. All teeth. White, sharp.

The man slips into the stool your date was occupying with a sniff, the smooth ridge of his nose bunching up. Displeasure drapes itself over his expression, a little rumple in his brow. "Screamin' Jesus. Dunno wha's thicker. His cologne or his come-ons."

The barb is unexpected. You try to hide your snort behind a grimace, rubbing the tip of your nose with a rough finger. He catches it, though. The pinch in his brow smoothing out as he grins wide, vicious.

Your heart lunches. Stutters uncomfortably in your chest. "You watchin' me or something?"

He turns in the seat, knee bumping into your thigh. Crowding you easily as he folds over the tabletop, elbow dropping to the table with a muted thud. His cheek slides into his palm, head tilting as he considers your words. The implication.

And then he grins wider. "Or somethin'."

Cocky. You scoff, but it just makes him look more amused.

"Tha' yer type?"

"Hmm?"

He motions to the nearly untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. Then to your phone.

"All talk," he enunciates each word, letting his accent pull taut around the syllables. "An' no action."

"No action? You don't think buying me beer and sending dick pics, begging for a fuck, is no action?"

"Aye—" he reaches for the beer he placed down beside his cap, and takes a generous swallow as you pretend the shift in his throat isn't making you a little light headed. He peels away with a grunt. "Ah do."

"Yeah?" You scoff, bringing the nozzle to your mouth to quench the ache in your throat. The soft preen coiling in your chest. Stupid words like, so what about it, pretty boy? wanna take me home. "What would you do instead?"

"I'd split yer pussy open on my cock in the loo. Let everyone in this bar hear ye moanin' fer me—"

You choke, barely have time to put the bottle down before you're haccking into your fist. He has the decency to pat your back as you wheeze.

"Ain't got a pussy," is what you settle for after a beat, voice hoarse. Wrecked. The way he shudders at the sound is unmistakable. Your neck feels hot. Itchy.

"Oh, sure ye do," he leans in close, warm breath fanning over your cheek. "A nice, tight little pussy fer me to fuck—"

"I'm a man." You feel a little stupid saying it. As if any part of you could be mistaken for slight. For soft. Feminine. You work with your hands. Grew up in the backcountry. Fishing before you could talk. Chewing tobacco before you hit puberty. Your old man made sure to pound that notion into your head before you even know what it meant to be a child. "I don't know what kinda games you're playing, but—"

"ahm no' playin' games," he shrugs, leaning back. It gives the idea of space. Distance. But his hand finds its way your denim-clad thigh, nails skimming the inside seam of your jeans wear the material is softer, worn down from friction. Too high to be appropriate.

You should move. Snap at him to take it off. Growl the words out if you have to do.

(Punch him, maybe. But he looks like the sort who would like that too much, you think. Rough. Dirty. Not afraid to fight back with his teeth if he needs to.

come on, baby, hit me harder—)

Your knee jerks. His grip tightens. "I got a cock. Not a pussy."

He makes a face at that. His full bottom lip juts out, angling to the side in confusion. "Ah ken? Ahm plannin' on ridin' that cock tonight, aye. The one yer little date is so desperate fer—"

"Jesus—" you wheeze, cock thickening in your jeans. Men aren't—

They're not usually so forward with you. It's nudging innuendos. Beer. A whispered wanna get outta here when the bar is about close and no one else is around to see it. You know what you look like. And it's not—

Soft.

"Easy," he taunts, grinning. "Don't choke so soon. 'aven't even go' ma cock out—"

You're not entertaining this. Absolutely not. He's—

Well. You're not sure what he is, but he's not normal. Not right. And you're not that desperate.

(maybe)

But the words die in your throat when his bright eyes glance down at your empty bottle, a frown forming over his pretty, pink lips like you not having anything to drink right away was somehow the most inconvenient thing to him.

"Get ye a drink?"

"Sure," you say, nodding. Then: "thanks."

It's softer. Gritty. The word scrapes over your throat in a way that almost hurts.

You blame it on the beer you drank before. Sloshing around your empty stomach and making you feel wildly off-kilter. Tipsy, maybe. Too drunk. Vulnerable to kindness (however threadbare it might be) when you usually get lewd pictures and beer you didn't ask for.

He flags the bartender down with a flick of his wrist. Keeps his eyes listed toward you as he leans over the counter, whispering something in his ear that you can't hear. Unease knots in your stomach. Cold fingers linking together, pressing frigid knuckles to your soft lining.

You look away when he drops back into his seat, hand finding its way back to your thigh. Gripping tight. Possessive. It curls around you. His warmth, his touch. The smell of him—sweet wheat, lemongrass; something earthy, like the damp, wet scent of mid-autumn; maple leaves stuck to the pavement after a late night rain shower—and you breathe slowly through your nose, both eager for the smell and sick of it. Sweet maple. Tart pumpkin. Your fingers twitch. You fold them into fists, glancing down at the spread of his hand on you.

His knuckles are red. Blotchy. Raw. The skin on his middle finger is cut across the wrinkled folds of his joint. The knick is deep. Almost a circle if not for the way it tears on the side, streaking outward. The outer edges of the crater are white. The inside pink before it turns to a deep red in the middle. Clotting already.

Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth. Unhinging your jaw takes more effort than you can expend, and you pant, a little, when your mouth finally pries apart. The words thicken on your tongue.

What happened—

The bartender comes back, his shadow falling over the counter. You jerk your head up, blinking at him as he places something down in front of you.

Something pink.

You swallow again. "Uh, what's this?"

"Sex on the Beach," the man answers, waving the bartender off. "Pretty drink fer pretty little thing."

"You wanna get punched? Because this is how you get your teeth knocked out—"

"Oh, baby," he purrs, accent rolling over the words in a way that goes straight to your cock. "If that's what yer intae, ah don't mind gettin' a little bloody fer ye. Might make suckin' yer pretty little cock easier."

Little. Your throat aches. Your mouth is dry. The beer is gone, cleaned empty bottles cleaned up by the bartender. Trying to swallow only makes the sting in your throat more prominent and does little to relieve the burn.

In front of you, the pink drink sits mockingly. Beads of condensation drip down the glass.

It's not even the stupid implication of a man drinking a cocktail that keeps you from reaching for it, but the fact that he ordered it for you with that in mind. Pretty drink fer a pretty—

Your throat clicks. Flesh glueing together when you swallow. Peeling away painful when you breathe.

Fuck it, you think. It doesn't mean anything. Not to you. Not at all.

When you reach for it, his head jerks over to you. Staring, unabashedly, as you bring it your lips and take a sip.

He groans. The hand on your thigh tightens. "Good girl."

It heats you up. Buzzes in the back of your head. You should get out of here. Leave. Go home and sink your head into your pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until all these terrifying feelings are snuffed out. Smothered. Tucked back into a box you didn't realise you had—

"Wanna come home wit' me? Let me fuck yer pretty pussy until I cum?"

The swell of anticipation in your chest makes you flinch. "I told you—"

"Ye want it, don't ye?" His hand moves higher up your leg, bleeding warmth through the denim. "Want me to make fuck ye. Make ye cum around ma cock. Bet ye have th' sweetest little cunt—"

"Fuck—" you shiver. His word wrap around your hindbrain, a soft touch that makes you feel hot. Itchy. Your heart pounds. You wonder if he can hear it. "I don't—"

"Gonnae let me taste it. Sit tha' pretty arse on ma face, aren't ye? Ride me until ye cum."

"I can't—" you force the words out of your throat, feeling the scrape against the soft tissue inside until it hurts. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but—"

"ahm tryin' tae take a pretty girl home—" girl. Girl. You shudder, feeling sick. Nauseous. "'ave her spread her pretty legs fer me..." he leans in, lips brushing your warm cheeks. "Let me ride that pretty cock until she cums—"

"Stop it—"

His hand finds your cock, thick in your jeans. Pressing tight against the zipper. "Gonnae fuck me so good, aren't ye? Not gonnae let ye cum unless it's inside me—"

"You're—ah, fuck—" his hand rubs over your bulge, eyes hooded, heavy, as you twitch. A wet spot grows, dark and unmistakable against the cool blue denim. "A—anyone ever tell you that you're kind of a freak?"

"an' yer a messy girl—" another pulse. The patch grows. It shouldn't turn you on. This sort of talk—it's not something you've ever been interested in before. Ever tried. Outside of porn—big, barrel chested men crushing another in their arms, growling about how they're gonna knock them up—it never surfaced. Never reared. "Gonnae let me clean ye up?"

You should say no.

It's on the tip of your tongue. No, leave me alone. Get the fuck off of me. Say that shit to me every again, and I'll—

His hand slides up, fingers curling over your clothed cock in a way that knocks the thoughts from your head, leaving nothing behind but an empty space. An ache. An itch. Something that needs to be filled.

Your phone chimes. Another text. You don't have to look down to know what it is, but his hand slides over, fingers dropping to the sleek, black surface. He pulls it to him with the pads of his index and middle finger. You should stop him. Grab it back. Leave—

"Need yer thick cock inside o'me," he narrates, mouth ticking up in a terrifying smirk. All teeth. A dogtoothed grin. "Now, there's a thought."

He dips his chin, tongue poking out from between his lips as he types something back in response. You can't see what it is from this angle, but the pinch in his brow, the glimmer in his eyes—you're sure this guy, potential candidate; looming mediocre lay, will have you blocked in five minutes. When he glances back, a tendril of something darkly satisfied brimming in the amber of his eyes, you amend it to right now.

You huff. "Shouldn't take things that don't belong to you."

The man stares at you for a moment, the corners of his eyes creasing in that same soot-stained amusement he had when he ruined your chances with the too-pink tip of his tongue hanging out. Satisfied dog. It's unnerving.

You think it scares you.

Or—

It should.

Whatever he finds as he fossicks through the fragments of your shattering composure, it seems to make him purr. His pupils expand. His nostrils flare. He leans in again, and you taste ash on your tongue. "M'ready tae leave."

It's not a question. The with you rings out like a gunshot in the back of your head.

You should say no. It's been on the tip of your tongue this whole time. No. No. Leave me alone. Go away—

But each time you try to pry apart your clenched jaws to say it, the look in his eyes make you think dogs and their bones.

You swallow this rancid thing in the back of your throat down. Make a jerking movement with your shoulder—a shrug, maybe. The twitch of your aching cock gives you away.

"C'mon, wannae fuck tha' little pussy o'yers," he rasps, words a tangled growl in the thick of his throat. Accent eliding. Slurring together. "Or ah'll have tae drag ye back tae the bathroom. Fuck ye in the shall. Make yer pussy cum on ma cock—"

You shiver. It's disgust. It's anger. It's—

His hand peels away from your thigh, reaches for your phone. He leans toward, and shoves it into the back of his pocket.

"what ahm I gonnae do tae ye?"

You know what he asking for. Feel the heat smoulder inside of your veins, burning up your neck. Be a man, you think. Be a man. Tell him to fuck off. Punch him. There's nothing soft about you. Nothing delicate. He's crazy. You're not—

His stare is paralyzing. You feel dread thicken in your stomach.

(dread, you think; your cock jerks. The front of your jeans are damp. The sticky drag of them on your groin calls you a liar.)

"Ahm no' askin' again, hen."

Your jaw unlocks easy this time. Opening with a quivering sigh that makes him groan low under his voice, eyes fixed on you. Drilling holes into your head. Needling his warped desire into your mind.

"You're gonna," your voice shakes. Heat sears your skin. It feels you're going to melt. "You're gonna fuck my—my pussy—"

The noise he makes is sinful. Liquid. Rich. A groan that breaks into a thrilling moan. Your stomach knots. Churns. You'd be sick if you had more to drink.

"C'mon—" he jerks his head toward the door, eyes blazing. "Gonnae ye exactly what ye need."

You go. Stand when he does, chin dropping to your chest in humiliation when your cock jerks at the idea. Sliding your jacket off your shoulders, holding it in your trembling fists as it covers your pelvis. The unmistakable need there for everyone to see.

Fuck yer pussy so good, he growls, ripping his wallet open and shoving a fistful of neat, straight notes on the counter. "Ain't gonnae need anythin' else when ahm done wit' ye. Gonnae be beggin' fer my cock inside ye—"

You should run. And when he steps back, motioning for you to move first, it feels like he's giving you the perfect opportunity to escape. To flee. You want to. You should.

But you don't. Something holds you back. Makes your teeth sink into your tongue. Jaw hinging shut. Snuffing out the words rotting in the back of your throat with a swallow.

You follow him quietly as he paws at you, rutting his cock against your thigh, whispering in your ear about all the terrible things he's doing to do. A better, more sensible man would've run, something holds you back.

The same thing that makes you ignore the reason why you haven't asked about his bloodied knuckles or wondered where your date is.

You know the answer already, don't you?

"Ahm gonnae fuck ye so good, hen. Won't be thinkin' about anyone else when ahm done wit' ye—"

It's what you've been looking for since the beginning.