#Fuck Gawker

[silver-dragonborn]

Alicent being more concerned about her reputation and trying to convince her grieving and traumatized daughter that she didn't know what she saw last night will never fail to drive me up the fucking wall.

[femmefitz]

The annoying bloggers are all sooooo fucking mad that people are making fun of them too. Like when u go to block them it's all they can talk about. Maybe you would have friends if you didn't throw the r slur around. Food for thought.

[keferon]

Chapter 3 of Blurr’s storyline in Mecha AU!

Previous chapter

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers.

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Under the cut⤵️

——————————————————

It's Swindle's birthday.

He thinks it is.

He's pretty sure.

Since he was taken into the program, it's always hard to tell. It's like time flows differently here. He had a calendar, but Brawl put it somewhere a while ago and then forgot where it was. And they're not allowed to have phones yet. Though Swindle assumes Onslaught managed to steal one from someone anyway.

Shit. Where's the calendar?

Swindle remembers the date, but can't remember the month.

There's a strange static tingling sensation in the back of his head. If he turns his head too fast, it'll grow into an unpleasant pricking pain.

The last time in the lab was disgusting.

He can't remember what month it is. He's not even sure why it bothers him so much. Not that birthdays mean anything within the walls of the program.

He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around with a meticulous eye. He's already checked the beds, desk, and nightstands...hah.

“Hey have any of you seen my calendar?”

Vortex, sitting on top of the bunk bed shakes the ash off his cigarette right down into Blast Off's lap.

“Nope.”

“TEX YOU'RE LITTERING ON MY BED.”

“I could have ..torn it up” offers Brawl from across the room.

Swindle turns on his heels and angrily rests his arms at his sides.

“You tore it?”

“I might have,” Brawl scratches the back of his head.

Swindle pinches the bridge of his nose

That's fine. Not that he cares that much. Not that any celebration at all would save the crappy day.

He has some new “experimental” medical procedure scheduled for later, which generally means suffering. Or if he's lucky, some critter will attack the city and instead of squirming on the slab, he'll have to go cuddle with huge nasty beasts. Which is slightly better than the actual procedures. He'd like that to happen. If only his head would also stop buzzing....

“Happy birthday to me” Swindle thinks, sticking his Mech hand under the plates of a particularly ugly monster and pulling something disgustingly oozing green blood out of there. He can see the faces of the random gawkers who didn't have time to evacuate. Ooh, some of them got that nasty stuff on their faces. Swindle has no time to feel sorry for them.

The monster did attack, but it's entirely possible that this monster ended the last meager supply of luck Swindle had. Because somewhere. Something. In his head begins to hurt again and the world in front of his eyes begins to slowly blur and..

ahh FUCK….

The monster grabs him knocks him to the ground and Swindle can literally feel in his bones that something's wrong, but the data from his Mech doesn't give him any useful information. Which isn't that uncommon. These things are glitchy as hell and aren't designed to recognize anything but the most basic popular malfunctions.

The word “error” shines mockingly in his face. Blurring in his eyes and reflecting in red on his uniform.

Error, error, what the hell is this error. He needs to know what's wrong so he doesn't accidentally kill himself, but all this bucket offers him is oops. You're in trouble teeheee~

He can hear the sound of Blast Off's giant cannon in the distance. And the loud rumble where Vortex and Onslaught are trying to get out of the ring of monsters.

His Mech is unresponsive. His damn machine refuses to move and Swindle isn't quite sure if it's the Mech that's the problem, because his head feels like a piece of raw rotten meat and maybe the error meant that what's broken is him.

The monster leans over him, trying to rip off whatever it can rip off and thank god this thing apparently isn't smart enough to realize that the Mech is controlled from the head because it's aiming straight for his chest.

He needs to get out. If he can't get this thing to move, he needs to get the fuck out of it before the alien gets him.

He manages to open the emergency hatch and quietly slip out and ohhhh the world is spinning, this is not bloody good.

He manages to take a few steps before a loud B A N G comes from somewhere above and IS THAT A TRAIN???? Who in their right mind would think of using a fucking train as a throwing weapon???? Is that Brawl? It's got to be Brawl. Oh, Swindle is so gonna kill him.

Because (sadly) in addition to the monster, the train and Swindle, there's also physics involved in this circus.

So while the monster is effectively brought to rest and knocked sideways with a hole in it’s head, the train stops its forward motion and starts its downward motion.

Right onto Swindle's head.

He just has time to think that dying from a train falling out of the sky is a pretty creative death. His legs are shaking, his head is buzzing and he only manages to take half a sluggish step in an attempt to avoid the inevitable when a loud “MOVE” comes to his ears and something yanks him to the side.

The tug sends fire down his spine and head. The ensuing landing reverberates with pain in his shoulder and sides. He barely has time to process the first two sensations until a moment later he hears a rumble so deafening that he thinks his eardrums are about to burst.

Swindle props himself up on his elbows and hisses in pain as the movement causes the back of his head to sting.

“Ah I'll fuckin' kill him...”

A voice comes above him

“Ouw dude. You okay?”

There's.. Some teenager hovering over him. And behind him is lying...the wrecked train...right where Swindle himself was standing a second ago.

The strange teen frowns worriedly and pulls Swindle upright and drags him somewhere else

“Come on, it's best not to be in the open during monster attacks”

“Ah” thinks Swindle ”right. Without Mech you're a pathetic tiny piece of chop begging to be stomped on by Brawl.”

He tries to focus on balance so he doesn't hang too much on this kid.

They find the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be the entrance to an underground bar.

“So” says the stranger, letting go of Swindle and shaking the dust off his hair ” You're a pilot! That's so cool, but you're kinda small for a pilot.”

Swindle sighs sullenly.

“I'll let you have that one comment about my height because you helped me, but next time you're dead.”

“Helped? I saved your ass.”

“Helped a lot” says Swindle grudgingly. “Thanks.”

The teen laughs and climbs into the bar. It's a mess everywhere, people clearly evacuated in a hurry and threw everything in haste.

“What's your name? Oh, or, wait. Do you guys use code names? I've heard pilots call each other by call signs, but half the time those call signs sound so dumb, I don't see how they can respond to that.”

He waits for the kid to cut off his flow of words to take a breath. Man, what a chatty boy.

“You can call me Swindle.”

“Kay” the kid pulls out a couple glasses ”I'm Blurr. Would you like something Swindle? I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at mixing cocktails.”

Swindle looks around the room suspiciously. The bar, even though it's underground, looks pretty good. Too good, in fact. The place is clearly not for the poor.

He walks over to the bar and climbs onto a bar stool. There's no one else in here but them, but the electricity is on so he doesn't doubt for a second that they're being filmed by a security camera right now. Maybe a few even.

Blurr throws him an expectant look.

Swindle pretends to go through his pockets. As if there could be money in them out of nowhere. Then he makes a comically confused face and spreads his hands.

“Oh, no, I think I left my millions at home. What's the cheapest thing you have?”

Blurr snorts.

“Ice is free.”

“I'll take the ice then” nods Swindle.

There is a loud rumbling sound above them. It must be Vortex having fun again bouncing on the aliens that have fallen to the ground, crushing their heads.

Swindle is just. He takes off his helmet, takes a glass of ice and presses it to his head enjoying the way the nasty buzzing recedes.

Blurr waits for the rumbling to recede before speaking again.

“But really. You're a pilot but...uh. Are you even old enough to drink?”

Swindle sends him his best grumpy look. It's not exactly a joke about his height, but it's damn close.

“Are you old enough to pour?”

“Sure,” says Blurr too fast for it to be true. If Swindle had to guess, he'd say the guy in front of him is no older than seventeen. The tattered jeans and the T-shirt with the F1 logo printed on it definitely don't help. And, hey, those headphones look very expensive. So do the sneakers. Kid's clearly from a wealthy family.

Blurr pulls out a bottle of syrup from somewhere and pours it straight into his mouth. Doesn't miss, which is amusing. Doesn't wince, which is frankly impressive. Swindle feels the unbearable sweetness just looking at him.

It suddenly hits him

“Hey, do you have a phone?”

“Sure,” Blurr pours himself more syrup. Swindle twitches.

“What's the day today?”

Blurr's mouth is full of an unimaginable amount of sugar, so he just pulls out his phone and turns its screen toward Swindle and oh...oh. He was wrong about the date. And the month, too. It's not his birthday. His birthday was a week ago...

Does that mean he must be nineteen now? Yeah, that makes him nineteen.

Blurr takes the phone back and slips it into his pocket.

“Your face looks funny.”

“I just realized it's my birthday today,” smiles Swindle.

“Oooooooohh~~~” rejoices Blurr ”Congratulations! It's kind of poetic that you almost died just today. Can you imagine how funny the numbers on your tombstone would have looked.”

Swindle chokes on air.

“That's certainly a very appropriate comment, thank you...”

“Sorry haha said without thinking.” Blurr reaches under the counter again and pulls out a bottle from there “Hey, they have more syrups!”

There's another loud rumble from upstairs.

Blurr presses his head into his shoulders and stares up at the ceiling as if hoping to see something through it.

Swindle puts his elbows and head on the tabletop

“Don't worry, it's just Brawl.”

Blurr doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling

“ You can tell that by the sound of falling concrete?”

Swindle lazily dangles his feet. The chair is high and even the toes of his shoes don't reach the floor.

“Brawl is the loudest. And the heaviest, too. He's always crashing into everything, throwing things and breaking things too. You can hear him a mile away.”

He pauses to listen

“And that kch-ooooooooomm is Blast Off's cannon. It's some super rare experimentally advanced one, so it sounds like something out of a space movie. He couldn't stop bragging about it for half a year when he got it.”

Blurr chuckles and leans his elbows on the counter, relaxing.

“ And this...uh...what's this?”

“That's Vortex, he's our local lunatic. Best not to listen too much to what he does, it's almost always disgusting in ways you would never even consider.”

Blurr makes a disgruntled face and is silent for a couple minutes.

“It's weird hearing you call them by their names. I mean, I kind of always knew Mechs were run by people but you guys are never seen, so most of the time it's just.. Huge robots and huge monsters. You know what I mean. I was actually surprised when I saw you get out of that Mech.”

Swindle just nods. Because, what else is there to add.

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”.

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his glum mood

“Oh, hey. If it's no secret, why did you go into piloting in the first place?”

Because he had no choice? He can't answer that, that information isn't for civilians.

Because he didn't know what he was getting into until it was too late? That's not vague enough either.

Because he was up to his neck in debt and barely into college before a smiling man showed up on his doorstep and offered him good money if he agreed to a couple tests...?

“I had to do it for the people.” Swindle decides to repeat a line of propaganda.

“Ohhhh.... That's...a good reason. The monsters are disgusting, of course. But the reason is cool.”

Swindle just. Holds his glass of melting ice, listens to Blurr's mutterings, and enjoys the peace. This random teenager is not his superior or colleague and has nothing to do with the organization at all. Swindle doesn't have to remember to salute or follow orders or fear being reported to his superiors.

He can just. Be.

Just him and his free ice and his saved for free life.

That's. Sweet.

Blurr's drinking syrup again.

...and a little disgusting.

—————————-

Brawl jumps out of bed, hits his head on a shelf hanging on the wall and drops everything on it onto Blast Off's head

“Swindle!!!” yells Brawl.

“Why are these books sticky???” shrieks Blast Off.

“You don't wanna know~” giggles Vortex.

Swindle sighs.

“You're alive!!!” ignores Blast Off Brawl's complaints. And a second later runs up and pulls Swindle off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

Behind them, Blast Off, with his face wrinkled in disgust, gathers all the dropped books back onto the shelf.

Swindle wheezes pathetically and slaps Brawl's arm with his palm, either to reciprocate the gesture or to beg for mercy

“Br...khaaaaah...Brawl I can't breathh.”

“OH. I'm uh. Here. Wait.”

Brawl puts him back on the floor and runs back to the shelf.

Onslaught, who has peeked into the room, puts a hand on Swindle's shoulder

“You've been gone a long time. Boss said you tried to escape.”

His tone isn't judgmental. And not pressuring. Not even questioning, but Swindle knows Onslaught wants more information. Swindle clutches a piece of napkin with a phone number in his pocket and smiles weakly.

“I've found a...friend? I think?”

Onslaught nods. In a manner that only he knows how to do. Not giving an opinion, not encouraging or condemning. Just taking in the information. Swindle admires him for that.

Behind them, Brawl pulls some piece of paper out from under the books that have just been put away and drops them again

“FUCK!” yells Blast Off. Vortex just starts hooting like a hyena.

“Hey Swindle I found the calendar!” yells Brawl waving the paper.

Swindle frowns in surprise.

“It's a different calendar...”

“I found you a new one.” nods Brawl.

“...Why...is it...it's torn in half?”

“It had stupid flowers drawn on it, so I ripped them off. And I accidentally ripped off more than I needed.”

“Ah,” says Swindle, clutching the calendar, ”That's...Thanks. I forgive you for losing the previous one.”

Behind them, Blast Off is trying to strangle Vortex with a jacket.

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

Blurr waves his arms happily like a hyperactive windmill.

“Swindle!!!”

Swindle smiles and adjusts his glasses

“Your party can be seen from across city.”

“I know~~” primps Blurr “Are you hungry? There was a snack table around here somewhere.”

“I didn't bring any money.” lies Swindle.

“Hey man, it's a party. Help yourself, it's free.”

“Оh.” Swindle's mood instantly brightens. “All right, then.”

“You look terrible” Blurr decides to share.

Swindle, busy shoveling food into his pockets, nods.

“I've had a rough week. Actually, it'd be cool if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here. I'm kind of not supposed to be here.”

He doesn't elaborate.

Blurr is a civilian. In his mind, a rough week is rude people or an exam or bad weather. Swindle's bad week is strap marks on his wrists and double vision. It's nausea from injections and sleepless nights because Vortex won't stop screaming in his sleep.

Blurr doesn't know that. With him, Swindle can pretend to be somewhat normal.

-----------

“Heeeeey“ says Blurr ‘I haven't seen you in a long time~"

“That” thinks Swindle ”is a pretty standard phrase for both of them.

Blurr looks older. Taller too. He was taller than Swindle before, but now that difference is starting to look almost comical. He's also flaunting a cast on his arm.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Didn't make a turn at training” waves Blurr off “It's no big deal. Wanna go find something to eat?”

Blurr is always trying to feed him, Swindle notices over time. Offers him drinks or snacks or whatever.

“ I like your uh..cap?”

“I got a promotion” Swindle smiles proudly “Me and the guys were made a special group...actually you're not allowed to know more than that, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say we are officially cool.”

He purposely adjusts his cap by the brim so Blurr can get a good look at it.

Blurr makes a delighted sound. Something between a “wow” and a giggle. He generally makes a lot of sounds all the time. Tapping his fingers on every hard surface, stomping in place like he's always late for something, laughing, whistling, clicking his tongue. A human orchestra.

__________

Onslaught sits down next to Swindle and clutches his hands in his lap in front of him. This makes the bed legs squeak pitifully. Onslaught has grown surprisingly large. He can almost rival Brawl in height already. Most people find that intimidating, but Swindle just thinks Onslaught is like a wall. A big, solid concrete wall that's so good to hide behind.

“Be careful with what you tell this guy.”

“Don't worry” says Swindle ”He's not the type of friend you tell secrets to. He's just a fun dude who's great to hang out with.”

Onslaught hums.

“And who feeds you for free.”

“If that's how you're trying to ask me to share, you're not doing a very good job.”

Vortex snaps his fingers as he walks past them

“Hey Swindler, the lab is closed for today. It's your day off.”

“Wha...”

Onslaught tilts his head.

“Vortex. What did you do?”

“I spat in their dna sample vault” proudly proclaims Vortex “and didn't tell them exactly where.”

-----———————-

Blurr frowns.

“Hey...are you okay?”

“No” thinks Swindle.

“My friend died” he says instead.

He's not okay. He feels like an animal caught in a beartrap, trying to chew off its own paw to get free.

Except the trap is closed around Swindle's head and it's not a body part he can afford to lose.

There's been a lot of talk. Even more rumors. Swindle listened but tried not to believe.

And then one of pilots, Shockwave… was taken to the lab and brought back a different damn man and it felt like Swindle had the rug pulled out from under his feet with hot coals underneath.

Because Swindle's boss, with his stupid, rehearsed smile, started writing reports about how “human personality flaws are something that can be fixed. That challenging behavior is something that can be repaired with tools.

Blurr freezes.

“Who?”

“Vortex.”

Because of course it's Vortex. Talented but difficult to handle. Powerful but uncontrollable.

They wanted a pilot who would be a beast on the battlefield and a loyal dog on base. And who else would be a more ideal test subject than him?

Vortex was being very rude that day, even by Vortex standards. Yelling and swearing and throwing things around. Kept saying that no shitty lab could make him “a fucking puppet.”

Scratching the stitches on his head until he started leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He went on a mission.

And never came back.

The reports said it was all the monsters' fault. That Vortex was unstable. That the accident had nothing to do with the new technology. But it was nevertheless suspended.

Swindle is both bitter and amused by this. Vortex would eat the same monsters for breakfast any other day. The bastard was unkillable.

“Oh my god” says Blurr “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He says something else. Probably comforting. About how Vortex died protecting people, maybe. About Vortex being a hero.

“Vortex,” thinks Swindle, ”loved life. He loved adrenaline and danger and pain and thrill and fear, but he never wanted to die. They did something to him. Something that made him go over the edge.”

Vortex got his head in the trap and ripped it off to escape it.

Swindle knows him and the others are next. And knows that no one but themselves can help them.

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

Blast Off seems...very quiet. He could never stop complaining about Vortex before. Yelling about the garbage. Resenting the unmade bed and the cigarette ashes.

Vortex's bed remains unmade.

Blast Off regularly cleans everything up, but never wipes away the little circles of ash from the places where Vortex used to put out cigarettes on the furniture.

Onslaught puts his hand on Swindle's shoulder and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough for Swindle to register the gesture as important.

Standing nearby, Blast Off lights a cigarette and leans on Onslaught.

“Ons told me about your plan. I want to join in.”

“What kind of plan? Can I get involved?” inquires Brawl.

Onslaught sighs.

“Repeat after me - I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“Good job” nods Onslaught “From now on, every time they ask you any - listen. Any! Question about us, you will answer them with this phrase.”

“Got it,” grins Brawl.

Swindle smiles.

“Gentlemen, it's time to violate all that is written, and rewrite all that is violated.”

__________________

Blurr lazily takes his eyes off the phone. He's wearing a racing suit and tons of hairspray. He's shiny and gleaming like a fine collectible figurine that should be on the shelf of an expensive exhibit. He's also bored.

“Sorry buddy, the interview is long over, if you have any questions you'll have to pay for the session.”

Swindle smiles.

“How about one tiny little question?”

Blurr makes funny big eyes.

“SWINDLE!!! I haven't seen you in a thousand years! You...oh I didn't recognize you haha sorry. Nice coat. You quit being a pilot?”

Swindle proudly adjusts his glasses. He's wearing a brand-new, ironed shirt that's exactly his size. Nice neat tie, expensive coat. Swindle isn't surprised Blurr didn't recognize him immediately. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. After all those years of wearing the pilot's uniform, he felt almost attached to it. And yet here he is.

“You could say I moved.” he winks snarkily, “Up. All the Mechs you see on the streets now are my Mechs~”

Blurr completely forgets about his phone.

“REALLY?? Oh man congrats to you!”

“Thanks” nods Swindle ”You want something to drink? I'm buying.”

———————-

Onslaught adjusts his tie. It's still, years later, a little strange to see him in a uniform instead of a pilot's suit.

“You do realize it's going to be hard to find a person like that, right? We need someone famous enough to be effective and dumb enough to want to save mankind instead of sunbathing on a yacht.”

Swindle adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair.

Someone outgoing so they can quickly befriend all the right people. Handsome enough to have their face printed on a poster. Smart just enough not to say too much. And not associated with Mecha program so they can't be accused of trying to get promoted through their acquaintances.

Someone who already has everything but still willing to put themselves at risk for the cause.

“You know, I think I have a possible candidate.”

[shadowmaat]

Not an accident

I've never been a waitress. My sisters were, and some of the stories they told me solidified the belief that I never, ever wanted to work in a restaurant.

I may not know much about how restaurants operate, but I know that large parties can be a hassle to deal with since an area needs to be cleared and tables put together and so forth. Also, y'know, making sure there's enough space at a given time. Frequently there's even a bit on the menu about calling ahead if you have a large party. For exactly those reasons.

And that's just for "normal" people. It's a whole different exploding ball game when you add in, say, political candidates. Not only is space an issue, but so is safety. You have to coordinate between your staff and the various security personnel to ensure everything and everyone will be safe. I seem to recall that when President Clinton was going to visit the bookstore I worked in at the time, we were warned in advance and I think a secret service peep swept through, checking on the other exits and making sure everything was good for the President's arrival. And again, that was just a bookshop in a small town.

Apparently "advanced warnings" are for sissies, because Vance and his entire entourage showed up UNANNOUNCED at a restaurant in Pittsburgh and expected to just be let in and seated without a problem. Vance. His PR team. His Secret Service agents. Local police. A camera crew. Reporters. Adoring fans and random gawkers.

The hostess rightfully panicked and said they couldn't accommodate them. It did work out eventually, but the damage was already done and ultraconservative news agencies, lickspittles, and Fascist attention-seekers were already railing against the restaurant and calling for a boycott.

I've heard some people suggesting that Vance's team hates him and is trying to set him up to fail, but I think that's far too optimistic an interpretation. I think it's far more likely that they deliberately set up the restaurant (and likely other places) to fail in order to keep pushing the "poor wittle us" narrative. Make Vance look like an underdog candidate. Make it seem like businesses are unfairly biased against him/his party. Outrage all the right-wing cultists who just need to be pointed at a target to hate.

What adds to this is that the Harris party apparently also visited a branch of the same restaurant and were allowed in without question. Of course the Harris party also warned the restaurant in advance and coordinated with them to make sure everything went smoothly, but when have details mattered to the Redcaps?

Either Vance's entire staff is so terminally entitled that it never occurred to them that showing up en masse unannounced might cause issues (entirely possible, despite this shit being part of their job description), or they were trying to destroy a restaurant's reputation because it had hosted their "competition."

I hope more people than ever flock to the restaurant. Particularly the one that got targeted. And I hope everyone leaves extravagant tips to make up for this political bullshittery and its fallout.

EDIT: I've been informed that Primanti's is a staple of the area and isn't likely to suffer much, but STILL. Absolute fucking right wingnut bastards.

[heavenlyyshecomes]

misc readings pt. 11

tech edition

It's not your fault you're a jerk on twitter, katherine cross, wired

Becoming human again: a reading list for the extremely offline, lisa bubert, longreads

The internet is rotting, jonathan zittrain, the atlantic

ambient cruelty, linda besner, real life magazine

Searching for lost knowledge in the age of intelligent machines, adrienne lafrance, the atlantic

Ghosts of the future: the smart home is a haunted house, julia foote, real life magazine

The internet is flat, charlie warzel, galaxy brain

How TrueCaller built a billion-dollar caller ID data empire in India, rachna khaira, rest of the world

Vivid hues: what does it mean to think of the internet as a color? anna rose kerr, real life magazine

Singapore’s tech-utopia dream is turning into a surveillance state nightmare, peter guest, rest of the world

The $2 per hour workers who made chatgpt safer, time

I cut the 'big five' tech giants from my life. It was hell, kashmir hill, gizmodo

Social media is not self-expression, rob horning, the new inquiry

The narcissism of queer influencer activists, jason okundaye, gawker

On losing perspective, or, why i don't give a fuck about geronimo the alpaca and nor should you, rachel connolly, novara media

The exploited labour behind artificial intelligence, noema

The class politics of the instagram face, grazie sophia christie, tablet

Google, amazon, and meta are making their core products worse on purpose, ed zitron, business insider

All advertising looks the same these days. Blame the moodboard, elizabeth goodspeed, eye on design

Seen by, megan marz, real life

[cum-a-calla]

you catch roman jerking off when he absolutely shouldn’t be but good luck if you think he’s letting you leave

Everyone should be home. The building should be all but empty, especially so fucking late at night. Maybe a couple of stragglers working hard, definitely the rest of the custodial staff - but otherwise, especially on this high of a floor? It should be hauntingly desolate at this point. Being part of said custodial staff is interesting, to say the least. Handsome pay. Access to areas that most people will never see, if even to catch the Roy family milling about living their lives. It’s heaven for a curious gawker, for somebody who can mind their business and keep their eyes and ears covertly open.

And so fate has brought you here, paused like a deer in headlights as you peer through the thick pane of glass separating you from Roman’s office.

From Roman.

Roman, splayed out on the modest couch in his office, one leg planted on the floor with the other flung over one arm of the couch, his head resting against the other. His body laid out. He looks blissful if not a little concentrated, lips parted… cock is hand. He fucks his fist with abandon, no phone held up or anything. No visual aid, just his closed eyes and whatever goes on in his mind.

You should turn away. You should retreat into another hall, scurry between some of the other cubicles and offices in the dimmed lights and pretend it never happened. That’s what a normal person would do. That’s what a good person would do, what somebody who didn’t feel a lick of fire in their guts would do. But seeing him like that fills you with… what? A strange, dangerous sense of desire? Is this - are you a voyeur? In fantasy, it’s easy to say you’d watch a gorgeous person masturbate, maybe even without their knowledge. Of course. Naughty, campy, pretend.

But in real life?

Before you can move your feet, Roman’s eyes flutter open and he sees you. His hand stops, his hips stop. A pin could drop and the both of you would likely hear it, the air stifling in its awkward, excruciating silence. You can feel your eyes open wide, your lungs absolutely devoid of air as you wrack your brain for excuses, for something to say, for apologies - as if he could hear you properly through the glass.

Roman smirks, and his hand is once more moving. Slow, steady, with renewed purpose. Every coherent thought dies away as he glides fluidly to a sitting position, watching you with his half-lidded eyes, his sexy, awful little half-smile to match. He holds you in his gaze like this and beckons to you through the glass.

Each uncertain step has you feeling more - more afraid, more numb, more excited. It's a secret sort of thrill, and it feels as though if either of you said a single word or even tried to, the spell would be broken. You're tingling, heart beating against the solid foundations of your ribcage. He rises to his feet and his thighs are gorgeous. Toned. Sparsely haired, smooth, the muscle shifting under his flesh, and you imagine kissing him there, dragging your tongue and lips up his inner thighs to meet where he fucks his hand.

You're separated by a pane of glass. In reality, physically speaking, you two are - what? - maybe three, four feet away from each other? But the window... it's more than a physical barrier. It may as well be a doorway to another world.

Roman's eyes wander your body, the little there is to see. You don't adhere to the same business-elite dress code as everyone else, being custodial staff. But where your pants fit to your thighs, where he can see the curves and planes of your body outlined in cloth, he takes it in. He stares at your face, your eyes. Boldly unwilling to look away. It takes all your nerve to stare back, eyes drawn inevitably to his leaking, flushed dick. Thicker than you could have guessed, curved so achingly beautiful as he strokes it with his shiny knuckles.

Roman comes closer and closer to the glass and smears the wet tip of his dick against it, shiny and pink and hard. He rubs it like that with a look on his face that could make you fall in love - all flushed and fuckdrunk, smirking, licking the edge of his sharp canine as he drinks in your stunned silence. His fingers aren't good enough after a moment like that, and he rocks his hips so that he can hump his cock against the window, palms pressed face level. He looks down at what he's doing for only a second before he's watching you again, and in your haze you've come closer to the glass, as well.

His brow knits together, the lines of his face so gorgeously defined, and the little smile melts into a look of agony. He grimaces as his cock throbs and he falls over the edge. Cum drips over the glass in milky, thick spurts, and you can hear the slightly muffled sounds of his voice drawn high and taut with pleasure, his frame shaking with each thrust.

After his little display, he casts his eyes away and you watch as if in a trance as he turns pulls his slacks up. He straightens himself, pumps a healthy few squirts of hand sanitizer into his palm from a bottle on his desk. He pulls his suitjacket on and strolls nonchalantly through the door, looking at you as he walks out as though nothing happened. He looks normal if not a little sweaty, raising his eyebrows at you and nodding toward the window. He's brisk, pretending to be in a hurry.

"Need the windows cleaned before you're done for the night. Thanks a million."

[stargazet]

rant incoming I AM TIRED OF YOU HOES BEING ALL "i wOULD give more comments but idk what to sayyyy🥺/my comments are just xy🥺🥺" HOW ABOUT YOU GO THINK OF A COMMENT OR JUST TYPE YOUR SILLY XY COMMENT ON 30 FICS WITH ONLY SLIGHT ALTERATION INSTEAD OF POSTING ABT HOW YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMENT.

it pisses me off to no end that most readers need to be coddled and begged for just a SPECK of a reaction. You wanting to leave more kudos on a fic does NOT keep fandoms alive. your "i would comment but" does NOT keep fandoms alive!! you keep giving us excuses upon excuses as to why NONE OF YOU can type up 5 coherent words, but you want longfics and you want well-written fics and you want consistent updates on fics and PLEASE just keep bringing us the fics. I dont care anymore if you're shy or feel stupid, GUESS WHAT?? I'm putting my art, my soul, my joy out into the world for you to see and you think you can excuse your silence with being shy and scared uwu🥺🥺

You know what they tell every artist of any kind when they just started their craft and are not good at it??? To practice, that's right. So get your heads out of your lazy asses and practice. I don't care how many comments keep sounding similar, ao3 is not the mindhive of an individual, WE WILL NOT NOTICE IF YOU SAID THE SAME THING TO 5 DIFFERENT AUTHORS, BUT WE WERE ONE OF THOSE 5 AND WE WILL NOTICE THAT.

And if you hit me with the "But if it's from the same author-" well that's the perfect time to practice making different comments, isn't it?!

Yall get HUNDREDS of posts encouraging you to do this time and time again, even posts that TELL YOU WHAT TO COMMENT, do you realize how embarrassing that is for you as a readership??? Artists not just giving you the art but having to fucking teach you how to respond to that art?? can't you people do nothing but mindlessly consume?? We work our asses off FOR FREE, hoping to inspire others, wishing to connect with our art, our fics, and you are nothing but a void. A black hole. It's frankly not just so disheartening and frustrating, it's quite disgusting if you think about it. Am i just feeding a machine? You sorry lot of gawkers can't even say fucking "thank you for making this." the 5 coherent words in question.

I'm SO tired of seeing you bitches give me excuses and empty promises and SO tired of not even being heard when i yell and scream and shout like I do now. The commenters are keeping you husks and ghosts fed for now, but one after the other, your artists will get fed up or discouraged and they'll stop posting. If you only want fandoms with 3 big creators, then ig you'll get exactly that. I bet it will be fun and not at all stagnant or turn into a mini cult where one guy keeps shaping the collective! But I hope when this happens, and it will if yall don't change your approach real fucking quick, that you'll at least remember that you all snuffed your artists little lights out, one by one, with your haunting silence.

And now open ao3 and get your greasy fingers onto that comment section or so help me god

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Obbligato

Chapter Twenty Nine

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Tiny, Crowley, and Sera the venue lady, both bands in the background, faceless fans

Word Count: 3162

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, mention of past Dean/Annie, friends who do not have the whole picture and are therefore quicker to judge each other aka drama

Series Masterlist

You exhaled and put your phone in your back pocket. Donna was dancing on the side of the stage closest to you, swaying with her guitar, ruby red lips smiling bright. It was a stark difference to the mindset the two bands had been in only an hour ago. God, everyone had been so scared. You felt like you should be doing damage control, but with investors and who’s-who’s brushing elbows in the VIP you had to save face. No one could know Dean had been missing.

Not even Bela.

Naturally, she found that moment to reappear. “Everything alright?”

You shook your head to clear your thoughts and smiled. “‘Course. Find anything good?”

She smiled wickedly at you and handed you a proper martini from the bar. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

Once you had a good handle on your cup, she held hers up and you clinked the glasses together. “Cheers.”

You took a big gulp and winced at the amount of olive juice, but the burn of the Gin more than made up for it. “Uh, yeah, cheers.”

Bela giggled and turned to watch as SPS finished their set. They were slowly wedging their ways into PT’s fans’ hearts and playlists. You had seen some chatter from the fan pages, plus Becky had posted a lot of supportive tweets about them once it was announced they would be along for the whole tour. It was easy to see them keeping in touch after this tour, they already felt like family.

It was only the second night and this tour was shaping up to be something memorable, something pivotal, maybe even historic.

“They’re killer,” Bela seemed to be reading your thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“You said they’re Canadian?”

“Well, mostly. They’re based in Vancouver, but Patience and Jody are from the U.S.”

“Huh. And it was Dean’s call to have them join on?” Bela played with her cocktail spear as she spoke, the stadium around you moved as a whole in the intermission.

“Well, he suggested ‘em. The suits make all the real calls.” You took another sip, feeling like she was going somewhere with this.

“Naturally. Well, that was— progressive of him.”

You felt your face drop in surprise. 

“What?!” She asked like you were the one being rude.

“Why did you say that like that?” You felt oddly defensive of SPS all of the sudden.

“I didn’t mean anything bad— I wasn’t disparaging the other band, Y/N. I was just saying— that it was a good mark of his character. It was meant to be a compliment— I swear.”

You exhaled. 

She reached over and squeezed your forearm. “You need to relax, love.”

You nodded, still a little dazed by the dred that had crept out of her best intentions. “I need a fucking nap, but this’ll do for now.”

Bela hummed in agreement.

The VIP attendees doubled the closer Phantom Traveler’s set loomed. You made sure to stay close to the edges and to keep Bela within Tiny’s range. The amount of gawkers that had needed to be escorted along were weighing at the back of your worries. But you trusted security to do their job, you had enough to monitor as it was.

You and Bela took a few selfies with the stage in the background while you waited, both of you falling into the trap of your phones until the lights signaled it was time for the show to start. From somewhere backstage Lee’s voice reached across the stadium and welcomed everybody for the night. The opening bars of ‘Black’ started, which meant Dean and Sam were starting this one off together and then everyone started to scream over the first verse and Dean’s husky opening. But between the love of the song and the dramatics of Charlie’s lighting you couldn’t blame them.

They were solid. Though Dean was ultra focused, less playful than the show the night before.

You weren’t the only one who noticed the change. “Looks a little pale up there, doesn’t he?”

You spun on your heels and smiled brightly at Crowley. “Hello! Sorry I didn’t see you come up. Bela, this is Mr. Crowley from the label.”

“Charmed,” Crowley replied, leaning down to kiss Bela’s outstretched knuckles. “Dick said you were lovely and you’d be sticking around, but I just had to see it for myself.”

“Did he? Well I’m glad to hear Mr. Roman is on Team Tal-chester,” Bela snarked back.

“Aren’t we all?” Crowley deadpanned. 

Oh, this was going to give you a migraine. Dean’s voice spoke to the crowd, but you couldn’t spare the attention to hear the introduction to the next song. You had to be focused on what was happening in front of you.

Bela asked about Gavin, who she had met in passing the night before. Crowley was as smug as ever, and gave little besides slight jabs and open ended questions back.

“How are things looking now that the tour has started?” You jumped on the first business notion that came to mind.

Crowley’s dark eyes danced from you and back to Bela, almost chagrined to talk shop. “Pre-orders of the album are up twelve percent since last week. But, uh, let’s talk ticket sales and press junkets on Monday, shall we? Don’t want to miss the rest of the show that we’ve all been waiting so patiently for.”

You gave him the grace to step away, maybe too easily. “Of course, I’ll be on the call from the hotel in San Diego.”

“Right. Well, goodnight ladies, I hope it is— fruitful for you both.”

You and Bela both plastered on your best smiles and waved nervously until he was out of sight. 

“What a git,” Bela muttered.

You couldn’t disagree, but suddenly you were hit with a burst of applause. Dean’s voice was crooning, holding a note from one of the new songs and then everyone stomped on the last note. 

“‘Pushing Through’ everybody,” Dean said simply and pulled back to let Lee take the front of the stage.

Kicking yourself for missing the live premiere, you nodded Bela closer to the ledge to get a better view of the stage, while hopefully minimizing your distractions. Tiny followed four paces back, large and lurking, ever present and professional.

Lee chatted the crowd up and then they slid into ‘Breakdown’ from their third album which was about a tour bus’ flat tire and also about how they first started noticing Sam’s struggle with the harder stuff. Pam kept the drums going as they moved into ‘Lost and Found’, their first ever single. The song that got them noticed by Crossroads in the first place.

By the time they dove into ‘No Regerts’, a tongue-in-cheek song that only made it on the same album as ‘Breakdown’ as a hidden crack track, Dean was looking more alive on stage. That irresistible smile was noticeable even from two levels up. Pam and Kevin walked them out of that song with an almost marching fanfare, spirits were up.

You tried to breathe and forget about Crowley.

‘Twigs and Twine’ set up nicely into a cover of ‘Funk 49’ by the James Gang, which everyone really had fun with. Dean ended up practically jiving with Pamela as she rocked out with the blocks. Lee added his own little drawls to the familiar riffs, which you knew meant he was having a blast. You slowly let go of the panic Dean’s absence had caused, but the knowing glint in Crowley’s eyes was harder to shake. The energy on stage was even drawing in the uppity-ups in VIP. 

You were so proud how the band had come together, yet again to give it their all.

For some reason, Bela continued to hit each of your raw nerves. Nothing she said or did was actually offensive, but somehow her very presence felt like a burden. When she gestured that she was going to go mingle during ‘Damned’ from their third album you just rolled your eyes, but nodded that you’d be okay where you were. Tiny was keeping her in his sights anyway, no reason you had to abandon the show to socialize with people you never fit in with in the first place.

Sam burst through the tail end of ‘Damned’ with a line both funky and familiar and the way Dean and Lee whipped their heads around you would have thought it was a shock. But you also knew that Sam knew better than to fuck with his brother’s setlists. They were just playing it up that Sam went from a song off the album that marked his darkest days to a feel good number from their first album. ‘So Co in So Cal’ was laid back and celebratory, a summer drinking song at its finest.

You raised your glass and danced in place, feeling the rhythm and loving the way the band slipped into the emotions of each song. Two songs later and before you realized it, they were welcoming Annie onto the stage for the last official number.

Bela returned as Annie was greeting the crowd, while effortlessly teasing Dean just like the night before.

“They’ve got quite the chemistry, don’t you think?” Bela’s voice appeared beside you.

“Yeah, but nobody can call your bullshit like family,” you agreed.

Bela smirked. “I know chemistry like that, Y/N, especially amongst performers. And those two have seen each other naked, nobody looks at each other with that kind of devilish mirth without having done the deed.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, that was ridiculous. She was like their aunt! But then the conversation the teens at the animal shelter had way back when popped into your mind about Sam and Annie having a fling. And as pissy as Cas’ niece was, she wasn’t a liar. Something like dread washed down your back and settled traitorously in your stomach.

 Bela just gave you a ‘I told you so’ look and turned to watch the duet.

You felt like you didn’t know Dean at all. Not that it mattered who he slept with, that really wasn’t your business. But Annie married Bobby. It was weird to set up your surrogate uncle with an old fling, wasn’t it?

Not to mention Sam. Wait which one went first? Did they share? Your brain spiraled into chaos scenarios and you needed air. You figured there was twenty minutes of encores to come, so you bowed out of the VIP and told Bela you were going to make sure the signing room was set up.

Smiling at the venue security as you went, the agenda for the rest of the night took over inside your mind. Autos and afterparty, the real private afterparty with the band’s inner circle. Making sure everyone knew when check out was and when to meet at the busses. Touring was like riding a bike, this time you just had to keep Bela on your radar and make sure her and Dean made nice with the fans. Everyone else you trusted. Not that you didn’t trust Bela, or Dean, for that matter, it was just the focal point. Their relationship’s success held your professional reputation in its grasp.

And Crowley knew it.

The venue had done a better job creating a flowing line for that night’s autographs. So you just carefully counted chairs and security guards to kill time. Sera burst in just as you heard the heavy thunder of stomping feet signal the true end of the show. You smiled at her and made small talk. She seemed ready to be rid of you, and the band, more than accommodating, but you didn’t take it personally. You knew how stressful it was coordinating these things. That she, too, had people she had to answer to.

The winners from the local radio station were escorted in first, followed by some of the higher ups in the fanclub, and people who paid through the nose for the opportunity. You smiled and nodded at the few who waved at you. Some of the fan club recognized you from a spotlight Becky did on you for her newsletter before the last tour. 

It was odd to have such an active and loyal group of fans in the social media age, but somehow PT inspired it more than most.

Then a wave of cheering and clapping broke you out of your thoughtful appreciation. Kevin led the way as the band smiled and high fived their way behind the row of tables. Sam must have just put on a tank top, though sweat dampened even the fresh fabric where it clung to his abs and between his shoulder blades. Pamela rocked a pair of shades that she probably grabbed off one of the security guards. A signature move of hers that she adapted after the one tour when Cas almost blinded her with the old shaving cream prank.

God, you missed him and all his pierced glory. 

Shaking your head, you waited as Lee posed for quick selfies with the group at the front of the line. That only left Dean. Spotting Bobby rounding the corner you made a beeline behind the band’s chairs.

“Where is he this time?” you demanded.

Bobby huffed. “Your bestie asked for a ‘quick mo’.”

You groaned. “Of course she did.”

But before you rifled up the nerve to go interrupt whatever they were up to, Dean appeared from the opposite direction of the dressing rooms with Donna and the rest of SPS behind him. He smiled at you like a petulant child and squeezed your shoulder as he slid past the fans and down to his seat at the far end of the row.

You exhaled and tried to keep your face optimistic as the opening band also gave you apologetic faces. The meet and greet passed in a blur. Just before the mingling portion was set to wrap up, Bela slinked in with a fresh wave of perfume and a killer’s glint in her eyes. You grabbed her by the elbow before she could interrupt Dean and Sam making nice with a set of four college-aged girls in matching PT swag. 

“Hey, just give them a few more minutes and we can all head to the afterparty together.”

“It is so dull waiting around, can’t I just pop in for some photos, too?”

You tried not to make a face, but Bela knew you too well to hide your annoyance from her.

“Come on, Y/N. It’ll be alright. Guards at every exit, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about the fans, I’m worried you’ll make a scene. Dean’s not the only member of the band, they all like time with the fans.”

“Make a scene? You do not want to challenge me to cause a ruckus, dear.”

You closed your eyes and bowed your head, releasing your hold on her arm. “That’s not what I meant, just leave him be for a few more minutes. Okay?”

Bela seemed to weigh her options and conceded. “Fine, but we’re taking my driver to the hotel and not bothering with the hired muscle.”

“We or you two?” you clarified.

“The happy couple,” she said with all teeth.

You nodded and gestured for her to head back the way she came, probably the dressing room, since the VIP had probably been cleared out by the venue staff at that point. Once the fans were escorted out of the space, you reminded the band to clear out the dressing room. Benny had a platform dolly waiting for their concert baggage and gear. 

You needed some air, so you decided to wait for everyone outside, which was better than trying to navigate the parking garage like a civilian. Naturally, Bela and Tiny spotted you as they stood on the curb beside a freshly detailed limo.

“Is he coming?” Bela bellowed, her words were surprisingly slightly foggy from the late night chill.

“Gotta clear out the dressing room,” you said as you approached, arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm.

Groups of people still littered the sidewalk and walked by, trying to decipher which car that was double parked was their ride. 

“You know you baby him too much, he doesn’t need a nanny. He’s a grown man,” Bela said, seemingly out of nowhere.

“It’s kind of my job, so—.” You shrugged it off.

“No, it isn’t,” she said firmly.

Christ, you were so over tagging along and it was only the second show she was scheduled to make an appearance.

“Listen, you know what’s been going on, it’s better for me to be ahead of anything than to play clean up.”

“Or you just like to be in everybody’s pocket.”

Your head snapped up to glare at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, Y/N. I’ve been around awhile and it’s not with everybody, all the time.--- I don’t know if it’s leftover guilt or what, but you literally insert yourself into every minute of Dean’s life. Even when you’re not there, you’re there. And no matter what you do, how hard you work, or how much you care it’s not going to bring Jo back.”

You recoiled like she slapped you across the face.

There were no words for how far she had taken it, how much it hit every single one of your insecurities. You were a busybody, a hanger-on. Nothing could fix the past. You had taken away any chance for Dean to be happy. You had killed your best friend.

But she hadn’t said what the worst of it. The dirty little secret that you weren’t able to keep from the likes of Cas or Bobby, the people who truly knew Dean. And that was how you felt about him, how much you wanted him to look at you the way Bela claimed he looked at Annie.

You tried to dispute it, but the words caught in your throat as the tears burned in your eyes. Tiny approached and cleared his throat, warning you of an approaching crowd. The nearest exit burst open and a rush of photographers appeared around the corner, as the band and their crew made a beeline for their waiting vehicles. Dean had thrown on a jacket, collar popped high as he kept the paps at arm’s length. 

You cleared your throat. “I don’t know what your problem is, but we put a lid on it for the rest of the night, got it?”

“Happily,” Bela replied, not looking at you but at the wave of reporters and flashing cameras as they followed Dean’s progress to the curb.

You watched dumbfounded as he kissed her hello, nodded over her shoulder at you, then held the door of the limo open for her to crawl inside. Tiny kept the vultures at bay and you followed him to a discreet SUV around the corner where Annie, Bobby, and Victor waited.

At least somebody cared that you had a ride.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

@beautiful-places-blog

@n-o-p-e-never

Chapter 30: Larghetto

[myakikijackson]

Riling Up the Dogs

Readers 18+ Only!

Warnings: This one's a little tame but there is some crude language and a wee bit of teasing.

*************************************************************

Four pairs of ravenous brown eyes were unabashedly fixated on you. Impishly smiling to yourself while slowly gathering the contents of your purse. You can feel the heat of their gazes on the curve of your backside just as you could hear them faintly muttering under their breathes.

“Mmmm, that’s nice right there.” Creeper said while shifting in his seat.

“I swear she does this on purpose just to fuck with us.” Angel hissed.

“It’s alright right.” Coco countered as if it had no impact on him. Flippantly taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Alright?” Ez questioned. “Just alright?”

“Yeah I seen better.” He shrugged. He stared down at his cigarette as if he were examining it.

EZ incredulously looking over at his crazy ass friend and smiles briefly at him before turning his attention back to you. “Try saying that again when you’re not salivating.”

“Yeah, that ain’t nothing bro, you know that Lola girl at the strip club, you know the one that come out on stage dancing around with that big ole lollipop, rubbin’ it on her gatita. Now that’s a nice ass.”

“Boy you know you ain’t seen no ass finer than that one right there.” Angel gestures over to the spot where you are on the floor on all fours fumbling with your bag.

With a satisfied smirk upon your face, you tell yourself, ‘It ain’t your fault these men can’t control their little wandering eyes.’ All you’re doing is picking up the items in your bag that had fallen onto the ground. Of course, they had a little help ending up there when you accidentally dropped your bag.

As you bask in your triumph you hear footsteps coming toward you. You stuff your compact mirror into your purse quickly and in your periphery, you see dirty old boots to the right of you. A hand is outstretched to you offering you help back up, you graciously accept it.

“Well, it's nice to know there are still some gentlemen left in this world.” You say loud enough for the four gawkers to hear. They immediately clear their throats and awkwardly shift their gazes making their blatant visual appreciation of your voluptuous curves all the more apparent. Coco just straight up jumped out of his seat and bolted out the door as if a bullet had just blasted right passed him.

You don’t even try to hide your smile.

“Be careful.” The man standing next to you warns. “Stop riling up my boys.” The deep voice says.

You give your best shocked pikachu face you could channel and were about to innocently explain to Bishop that you had no idea what he was talking about when he cut you off with a quick gesture of his hand, one you’d seen him do to the guys many times before when he’s done with bullshit.

“You keep presenting a starving wild dog with a nice juicy steak, eventually he’s going to take a bite. Whatcha gonna do when all four of them wanna bite?”

His words lingered in the air even as he walked away and left you alone to reevaluate your decisions. The tone in his voice was cautionary, unnerving…

You could feel the heat of their stares again, you survey the room and see them all watching you this time no looking away, no feigning, just sheer unbridled desire.

They hadn’t heard what Bishop had told you, but they didn’t need to. They could read your face, your expressions, your body language. They knew you’d been warned, and now pure raw unabashed need marred their faces, even Coco who had walked back inside was now standing by the door leaned up against the wall. His was the rawest stare of them all.

“...keep presenting a starving wild dog with a juicy steak…”

They wanted to take a bite out of you and the thought of all four them devouring you at once was terrifying and sinfully delicious.

Cigarette in his mouth, you slowly fix your eyes on Coco’s, there was a reason why you’ve always minimized eye contact with him or avoided it all together. For you it was something about a man who hides what he feels deeply underneath layers upon layers of bricks, cement, stone and for extra measure titanium, he’s hard to read, you can only guess most times with no certainty, on the rare occasion when drops his walls and allows his feelings or desires to show, its soul shattering.

For him it was months of you refusing to look directly at him. Looking on others, Gilly, Creeper, Bishop, whoever, so easily but denying him, not wanting to glimpse into his eyes for even just one second. But now in this one moment you were looking into his eyes for the first time, and he was going to fucking make you see him.

He shifted his stance like a tiger about to pounce on his prey. Oh, he was ready to take a bite, a big one and no one and nothing was going to stop him. He tossed his half-finished cigarette to with no regard to the floor and stalked to you with a sense of urgency. And you could do nothing but stand there like a deer in headlights. Yeah, this predator was about to take you down and once he did the rest of the pack won’t hesitate to join the feast.

Before you could say anything, he pulled you into him, grabbed your face with both of his deadly hands and kissed you hard.

Creeper and Angel nodded their heads in unison, wearing matching smirks. EZ was following Coco’s hands with his eyes as they reached down to squeeze that nice tight ass that had been the bane of their existence ever since they had the misfortune of meeting you.

“Look at me.” You felt as much as heard years of untapped raw emotion coming through in Coco’s voice. Restrained emotion. You were mesmerized by it, so consumed, so lost in it that you forgot to follow instructions.

A hard slap on the ass from him snapped you out of your little Coco hypnosis.

“I said fucking look at me.” Instantly your head shot up it was as if your body was incapable of disobeying this man. You locked eyes with the deepest, scariest, most passionate brown eyes you’ve ever seen.

“See me.” He whispered so softly that it could have been easily missed but you heard it clear. You nodded and leaned into him, ready to let him take you over, to invade your mind, body and soul be damned, you knew exactly what would happen the moment he’d walked back into the clubhouse. You snaked your arms around his neck kissing him deeply, holding on to him like you were about to fall down into a bottomless pit and his was your only salvation. The only thing you had to hold onto, your only lifeline. You wrapped your leg around his waist, and he backed you up to a table and set you on it.

The other guys were enjoying the show but instantly they saw it for what it was. The way Coco had kissed you, how he’d grabbed you, how you’d kissed him back, how he’d just claimed you in front of all. One by one they each got up and left the room. This wasn’t a four-man job.

********

More Coco? Yes, Please!

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen

TW: nsfw, angst

You wake up to the smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet in the skillet.

Usually such a thing would mean you are dreaming, and you need to wake your ass up before you’re late for work. But you roll over to look into your tiny kitchen, finding a sight fit for Playgirl Magazine before your disbelieving eyes.

Dear Penthouse, I can’t believe this actually happened to me…

Detective Tom Ludlow is in your kitchen, making pancakes…in nothing but a towel around his trim waist. His dark hair is combed back, still wet from the shower. His broad shoulders are something to write home about–Kansas farm boys had nothing on this beautiful specimen of masculinity.

Had the night before even been real?

As though he senses your return to consciousness–or maybe the weight of your gawker’s stare upon him–he turns to look at you. “Morning, beautiful.”

You blink with surprise, because he is talking to you.

“Hi,” you greet, clever as ever, and goddammit but are you blushing?

“Whacha looking at?” he teases, spatula in hand. The very picture of domestic bliss. God help you, but in that moment you were 300 percent ready to put a ring on this man.

“Just…the most best thing I’ve ever seen,” you admit, knowing you’ll kick yourself for it later.

However, the smile he pays you, smug yet somehow gentle–it fries your brain entirely.

“Likewise, sweetheart.” He crosses the short space with a few long strides to press his lips to yours. “You like pancakes with blueberries?”

You’d bought the ingredients–and promptly stuck them in the cupboards–for just such a purpose, thinking that someday, when you had time, and weren’t bone fucking tired from working 12 hour shifts days in a row, you’d make a point to treat yourself.

Funny, how that never happened, until Tom Ludlow came around.

Here you are, getting emotional about blueberry fucking pancakes.

“Yes,” is the only answer you can muster, and he kisses you so sweetly that it curls your toes.

His soft smile down at you will be the death of you. “Sleep well?”

“Like a well-fucked rock,” you tell him, winning a bark of masculine laughter. 

“Likewise, beautiful. Definitely likewise.” He vacates the couch to flip his pancake. You continue to stare, still dumbfounded.

“Tom?” you ask, still struggling to wake up.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Did last night…actually happen?”

“Sure did. Don’t you remember driving to Vegas? We got the best Elvis in the building.”

You blink stupidly for a few moments, before registering his absolutely shit-eating grin.

“Very funny. And the joke would be on you, if you married me on a drunken lark.”

“Why?” he asks, seemingly amused by your discomfort.

“I told you. I’m a fucking mess.”

“Far as I can tell? You’re fucking perfect, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” 

You’re not really sure why this pithy little compliment brings tears to your eyes, your lip quivering. Only a beat later does he notice, and he rushes over again.

“Hey, hey, no crying, baby, I’m sorry. What’s wrong? I was just joking.”

You swipe at your eyes with the heels of your hands, embarrassed. “You’re just..so sweet, and I actually fucking believe you, when you say this shit, ok?”

He blinks, but god bless, it only takes him a moment to assess, and act. He presses his soft lips to yours, then his forehead to your forehead, as though he can will you to accept his declarations through osmosis. “Believe it,” he tells you. “It’s true…well. Not the Elvis bit. We can do that next weekend if you want.”

You know he’s joking…but it still doesn’t fail to utterly melt your insides. This man who manhandled and harrassed you has turned out to be the biggest fucking softy, and you just might lose your shit.

You’ve already cried in front of him too many times, though, so you play it off and act like what he’s saying is no big deal. “Really? I think I’d rather have Michael Jackson instead.” 

You wonder if he misses being married. If he fucked his wife like he’d fucked you last night…you can’t fathom stepping out on him. But then you also know, that sometimes cops can also be married to their jobs. It could make for a difficult threesome. You imagine going without him, while he was working an intense case, would be absolute hell.

Tom snorts. “Whatever floats my lady’s boat,” he answers, flipping another pancake onto the stack. He ports them to the table with a flourish. “Come eat, sweet girl. You gotta work today?”

“Later. Unfortunately.”

He sticks his full lip out in a pout that should be illegal on a grown ass man. “Then eat quickly, because I’m not done with you yet.” he informs you with a wicked smirk that causes a brand new flood between your already sticky thighs. 

He turns, that broad, tapered back on full display, to finish plating breakfast, and you can’t not watch the tight muscle in his butt shift in the thin towel. You get this sudden strange urge to sink your teeth into him and latch on, and wonder if ancient cavewomen bit their partners to lay claims. Because that’s what Tom Ludlow works on—the part of your spongy brain that developed before speech and theory—the part that wants to bite and howl. 

Evolution is a bitch. 

Oh no, he can cook. And cook good. The pancakes he sets in front of you, drizzled with honey and topped with fresh blueberries, taste like a fluffy heaven in your mouth. Even the coffee is splendid, done up blonde and sugary just the way you prefer. “Tom, damn,” you compliment between mouthfuls. “You went out to get blueberries?” It’s selfish, but the thought of him leaving you alone even to run out and grab something for you makes your insides twist uncomfortably. 

“Oh, no, I borrowed some from your neighbor.” 

Of course at that moment you have an entire mouthful of coffee that you almost spray on his bare, beautiful chest. “What?!” 

He adopts a bemused smile. “Very nice lady.”

“Please tell me you had more than just a towel on?” 

“Less, actually.” 

He bursts into laughter and the astonished look on your face. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Ludlow.” 

“She asked me something really interesting.” He wipes a little honey off your top lip and sucks it into his mouth, making you dumb enough to forget you’re annoyed. “She asked me if I’m the nightmare?” 

“I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“You are a terrible little liar, you know that? I can see your tell from a mile away.” 

“Oh, what is it?” You smirk, shove a bite of pancake into your mouth. 

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” he threatens, playful and promising, sending a thrill through your chest. 

You grab a glob of honey on your finger and kitten lick it off, almost bold enough to make direct eye contact with him for more than five seconds while you’re doing it. “Or what?” 

He pops up from his seat, and your first instinct is run. Run away. You make it two steps before he has you grabbed around the waist and is dragging you back to his place at the table. 

Your squeals of nervous laughter crescendo into a moan when he pulls you down onto his big cock. It surprises you as much as it did last night, how well he fills and stretches you. Not a piece of your fluttery hole unpunished by his silky, maddening pressure. You immediately grind, eager for that pressure to shift and rub and build you, but he stills you with a mitt on your waist. 

Then his big hands bunch in the ruffled fabric of your sundress, which somehow you never managed to remove amidst both of your eagerness to get to other parts of you instead. Slowly he draws it up over your head, tossing it away somewhere across the room. Before you can even begin to think about feeling self conscious he makes a low sound of appreciation behind you, running his hands down your curves. 

“So fucking beautiful. I just wanna stay inside this pretty little pussy all day,” he tells you, smoothing his wet tongue across your shoulder. You arch into him, and he nips your skin for the retaliation. “Feel her throb while I tell you what I wanna do to her. Jesus, you’re soaked.” 

You try to squeeze your thighs together for precious friction on your clit, but he tugs them back open, chuckling at the pathetic attempt. “You wanna fuck yourself, baby?”

“Yes. Fu-uhck.” 

“Want me to pet that pretty clit while you ride me?” He kisses up your neck, into your hairline, tugs your ear between his teeth and you see white fire. 

“Yes, Tom. Yes. Please.” 

“Then eat your breakfast.” 

It’s impossible to focus on the delicious food anymore. The chunks of stuff getting forked into your mouth are no match for the small taste of him. It isn’t long before he’s done with silverware and hand feeding you, making you lick and suck his sticky fingers clean. 

“Atta girl. Keeping me all warm and cozy.” His mouth traces circles on your upper back that make you twitch and gasp while his heavy pointer and index finger rest on your tongue, sweet and salty-pleasure and pain-the desire to move trumping all of it. 

When his fingers trail up your side and land on your nipple, rolling and pinching, you clench your thighs shut again. He grunts at you, although you think it was meant to be a sound of disapproval before you clenched deliberately on his cock. 

“You want to cum?” 

“Yessss.” 

“Then open your legs back up.” 

You obey with a groan of frustration, widening your hips so that the tantalizing pressure is off your throbbing clit. That means all you can focus on is having him inside you, and that would be great if he would just fucking thrust. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He grabs your hips to hold you in place. “You’re busy.” 

“Could be important,” you say. 

“More important than this?” He grinds up, into your cervix, into all the sensitive soaked walls of your cunt, and the answer to his question is no. Absolutely not. There is nothing more important than him or his cock. 

“Tom,” you hiss. 

He sighs. “Alright. I’ll get it. Get dressed.” 

How empty you feel, when you slide off of his cock as you stand on trembling legs. He halts your progress by gripping your hips, pressing his mouth to the curve of your buttocks. You forget about the door, and everything else, turning in his arms so that he can bury his face in your cleavage. “These beautiful–” He kisses one breast cupped in his hand, “Naughty,” a kiss for the other, just beside your nipple, the tease, “titties are in so much trouble.” He sucks on your perked nipple with a pop, making you cry out. 

Knock knock knock.

“Someone’s fucking determined,” he grumbles against your skin. 

Reluctantly you manage to pull away from him, and you remember this state of the art technology in your door called a peephole. Naked as a jaybird, you peer through the tiny lens–and gasp at the sight on the other side.

This clearly interests Tom, his head canting at an angle in question. You shake your head, just knowing a perfect storm is brewing. “It’s no one. Ignore it,” you say quietly, hoping they don’t hear you on the other side, praying they have the sense to go away. You try to distract Tom again with kisses and by trying to pull him towards the bedroom, but dammit this man is solid as a fucking tree when he doesn’t want to move.

“Who is it?” he asks with a lifted brow.

Knock knock. “Y/n? I know you’re home.”

Goddammit.

What can only be described as a wicked grin spreads over Tom’s handsome features. “Oh. Let’s say hello, shall we?” 

[thewebcomicsreview]

Holy fuck the last week or so of Sinfest has been the most blatant anti-semitism I've seen in years.

In a weird way it's good that he's so mask-off now. In another timeline, Tats' brain only partially melted and he remained a popular webcomic attracting leftists with anti-Israel posting that contained some subtle pushing of his more radical beliefs. Instead he's so blatantly a nazi now that no one will read him except other nazis and a handful of gawkers making fun of him. He can't hide his power level, so he doesn't have any power now.

[ethicalvinyls]

jealous freaks at the bar

I was thinking about jealous Ellie today while I was in the car daydreaming so here is this. nothing special or long or anything, just a blurb.

800 words. 

reader envisioned is thick... I know Ellie loves her thick women. THIS IS NOT BIASED.  

Ellie hates people like this: The guys chuckling from across the room as they ogle your body, and the masculine lesbian doing the exact same –except she isn’t chuckling nor beside the men, she’s at the nearest table to your right. It doesn’t really make a difference where the girl is located, but at least she isn’t beside the cackling men.

Ellie does nothing about it, but you know she’s fuming on the inside. She can be a tad jealous, especially if there is a woman staring you down. With men she doesn’t have to tell them off, she just slides her hand down to your ass and firmly grasps it, following it with a kiss on your cheek. This drives them all away. However, Ellie can get a tad more territorial when it comes to gay women. It’s as if she actually has to compete with them (even though she doesn’t).

You sip on your drink as you watch them. None of them are appealing, especially the men because first of all, you’re gay as hell, and two, they have the skinniest of jeans on and you can almost make out the shape of their– You almost choke on your drink. Thirdly, the woman doesn’t appeal to you either because she’s dressed like Ellen DeGeneres.

You hear Ellie sigh and you turn to look at her, eyes softening as you drink her in instead. Her sigh wasn’t much of a tired one, it was more so an aggravated, burning string of air leaving her nostrils. She begins drinking her beer with such force that the glass almost shatters in her hands.

You lean down to reach her at eye level and ask, “What’s the matter?”

She places her beer down and looks over at you–elbows digging into the bar counter and her hands damn near shaking. How she’s become so angry is beyond you. You should probably take her anger a bit more seriously but you can’t. She looks fucking sexy.

“You know what’s wrong,” she whispers loud enough for you to hear.

You hum and look out at the people still staring at you. You lean into her ear, replying to her desperate need of reassurance. “Well they’re not the ones being fucked by me tonight, are they?”

Ellie scoffs. “How am I so sure?” she asks, although you know it isn’t out of distrust. She trusts you more than anyone she knows, but she wants you to fall into her trap. And albeit knowing about it, you do it anyway.

You push yourself off the bar counter and swivel around, grabbing her flannel and pulling her towards you. She rolls her eyes as you drag her deeper into the bar dance floor. You turn her around and place your hands on her shoulders. Then you sweep them over the curve of her neck and up to her face. Your thumbs glide over her lips and you almost want to shove them inside, letting her suck on them to cure her fucking horniness. However, you let her kiss the pads of your thumbs instead.

“You have nothing to worry about, baby,” you tell her.

Ellie rolls her eyes.

You pull her in and kiss her lips. It’s a peck at first, harmless to you but painful to the burning eyes. You continue pecking until Ellie grabs your ass as if it’s floating right off. You gasp and she kisses you harder. You squeeze her biceps and open your eyes in the direction of the gawkers.

The woman acts disgusted–as if she’s never openly kissed a woman in public before, and the men walk off with disappointment. It’s as if they thought Ellie was only your friend. Your best friend, as most oblivious folk call lesbian couples.

You hum into her mouth and quickly pull off. You look at her mouth for a moment–coated in your plum lipstick combination–and chuckle. Then you say, “They’re gone.”

She pulls away with a smile. “I knew the second you kissed me first,” she says seductively, like she might eat your face off (if she hasn’t already).

You hum and laugh as she shrugs her shoulders in a nonchalant manner. “So then why did you keep kissing me? I thought you were doing it to get rid of them?”

She wraps her hands around your waist then smooths them over your back. “I can’t just make out with my girlfriend?”

You chuckle. “You can! I just know you want something else.”

She shrugs and pulls you closer in. Her hand now wanders higher up your back to your tendrils of hair. She slightly tugs and kisses on your exposed neck. “I wouldn’t mind that fucking you were talking about.”

You try to act like you aren’t soaking your panties right now, but it’s hard when your sexy ass girlfriend is openly treating you like this.

“I wouldn’t mind either.”

“Here, or home?”

You smack her arm and she pulls away. “What?” she exclaims.

“Here?” you repeat, almost stunned. Almost.

“What about it?”

“You’re down?” you ask with a smirk.

She nods violently. “If you’ll be quiet?”

You hum. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you assure Ellie.

[sirsbasement]

The Recruiter Pt 2

She's been nothing more than glorified bench warmer. Despite letting that pig rape her ass on the green, she has gotten little out of it. What is the point of getting on the team if she doesn't get any field time. Even worse the staff look at her oddly, like they know, like he's told them about what he did. What she was willing to let him do to her to get what she wanted. How long would she have to wait to stop being objectified and used be all these men, she thinks to herself. The answer would turn out to be longer than she would like.

After another game, where she spent using her well muscled ass to keep the already sweltering aluminum bench warm, she leaves to the locker room. Her panties are damp from front to back, an uncomfortable trail of sweat connecting the two. The underside of her tits are stained with inactive sweat. She strips herself down, leaving her soiled clothes in a pile. She will get to the those later. Just a shower and then a nap. Maybe a drink. Fuck it, she doesn't get to play anyway.

Steam rolls off her naked body, hot beads of water drip down the crown of her head, down her neck, through long lengths of brown wavy hair and over her perky C cup breasts. The rivulets drip down her tummy, through the curve of her groin and drip onto the floor. Her eyes are closed, finally a moment to herself. She doesn't see them behind her.

They are on her like predator and pray, before she can even raise her voice in protest, one of them circles around to the front of her. He closes his hand on her throat to silence her. The other gropes at her ass. His hands are coarse and calloused. They grate on her wet ass like little wads of sandpaper. The man at her front starts fondling her too, a greedy hand cups her breasts and painfully twists a nipple. She would scream if she had the air to do so.

She opens her eyes, panicked. One of the men is not a stranger, the same greasy bastard how dragged her head through the grass while he filled her guts with his cum. The second man is familiar but not known, one of the gawkers. She has has seen him watch her, turn to stare as she walked by. A coaching assistant... physical trainer. She doesn't remember, or care to. She tries to fight back against them, but even the recruiter was too strong, the other man gives her no chance. They are still fully clothed, the still running shower drenching them in steaming water.

They start to pull the clothes away from their hold on their skin. Buttons are undone, zippers drawn down. The sound of shoes being kicked off. They are naked now, the three of them. The recruiter picks her up, one arm under each of the inside of a knee. Her cunt is dangerously close to his slowly growing erection. She is angled directly towards him. He would just need to lower her down on top of him. She realizes she can scream too late, the man behind her closes a powerful arm around her neck and uses it to pull her head back as he slams her cock into her unsuspecting ass.

She groans hard as the shaft penetrates deeper between her wet ass cheeks. It slowly disappears inside of her, inch after inch slowly slipping inside her asshole painfully. It's dry, at least the recruiter touched her cunny before he fucked her ass. Like hearing her thoughts, he does what she feared and lowered her around him. His cock penetrates easily, she didn't remember a single thrust in her ass getting her so wet, but it did. She knows she couldn't enjoy this. Not really. Right?

The two of them battle over her, each pulling in opposite directions, one pulling her throat the other pulling her pelvis. She is like a piece of meat to them, like a gazelle being torn apart by rival big cats. She feels each of them. Distinctly, sure, but she feels each of them together. She can feel the stiffness of their cocks pressing against each other in her body, through the single membrane that separates the two holes. Her pussy and her ass feel better she can remember either feeling before. She can't like having two men inside her. Right?

The two of them make grotesque music between them. The downpour overhead makes her already loud noises worse. They echo in the shower. Wet squelching from her holes, loud clapping of flesh on flesh. She feels how wet she is and knows it isn't water. It is disgusting and embarrassing, but she can't help but drive her hips in time with them. She pushes forward when the recruiter does and back then the other does the same. She's fucking herself on them, letting them use her body.

The two start pounding away more desperately. She can hear how ragged their breathing is getting. She realizes her own is getting strained too... the man hasn't let go of her neck. The corners of her vision start to blur. He's choking her out. The bastard. She drives harder at him, grinding her ass at him feverishly. She squeezes him too, using her grip to force him to push himself harder.

He tries to push her back, she's driving him too hard. She doesn't stop, harder she pushes herself against him. She feels his panic, and he tries to unsheathe himself from her. She grips onto him like a vice, keeping her hole wrapped around him. He cums hard, and fast and unplanned. She feels his grip loosen as he cums, and the color starts slowly returning to her. His load is unbearably hot, and heavy like he hasn't cum in days. It fills every crevice of her insides, she feels each concentric circle of her rectum flood with his seed.

Still he thrusts in her, pushing his load deeper and deeper inside. She feels his fluids froth and bubble against the friction. She is spent, having exhausted herself on one and neglecting the other. The recruiter ravages her pussy, using his arms to pull her over him like some cheap toy while his hips thrust.

She feels any ache building in her loins. This rapist is going to make her cum. She knows it, and is helpless to stop it. He leans into her ear, and she tastes his breath it is so close. "You're never escaping me. I will have all of you". She clenches, like he had pushed some secret button inside of her. Her clit thrums with pleasure. Her ass and her mound squeeze desperately against the meat inside of them. She cums so hard on their cocks she thinks she might pass out. She doesn't.

Like a door's being unlatches she feels her body open up as she cums, and the recruiter's cock batters against the opening to her womb. This is bad. She's too busy worrying about him cumming in her now that she doesn't realize he's too late. He stops thrusting and holds her locked against him. He spurts hot ropes of cum with such force she feels them splatter against the inside of her womb and collect at the bottom of it. They both let out hard groans that reverberate in the showers, as they empty the last few drops in her.

The one in her ass lets himself out first, and she feels his load slowly drip out of her loosened ass to dribble down her leg. The recruiter pulls himself out, and she can't help but clench her pelvic muscles to let his seed escape. He places her down on the shower floor, letting the water clean the filth off her.

The two walk out of the shower naked. The recruiter calls back to her "you start tomorrow" as he leaves. She can't help but smile at that. She couldn't have enjoyed that... could she?

[aprillikesthings]

A few links I've dug up while looking for things for my fic

(do I need to read these things for my story? .....not really. am I enjoying finding all this shit that I would've killed to read in 1997? uh yeah lolol)

a bunch of LENGTHY interviews etc with people involved with the Diggers

A short-ish article about businesses on the Haight during the Summer of Love anyway this one gets points for mentioning gay people in the Haight scene, and specifically a young lesbian who owned a clothing store.

I'm continuously surprised/amused by how much of this shit I know just from reading The Summer of Love (as in the Lisa Mason novel). I knew the Diggers and the HIP (Haight Independent Proprietors) did NOT get along, but I knew less about WHY. The Diggers were horrified by all the marketing of the Summer of Love, for good reason--it ruined the neighborhood and brought in all those runaways with no resources. All those kids needed food and shelter and medical care.

Anyway. It's also just nice to find articles online that aren't the same list of surface information: The Human Be-In and then Monterey Pop and then tens of thousands of people showed up along with just as many gawkers and by the end of the summer all the people that had made Haight-Ashbury so interesting had gotten the fuck out and the drug scene had gone from LSD and marijuana to speed and heroin, The End.

But also where the fuck did I put that book by Emmet Grogan because I still want to find out if Ruby Maverick was based on a real person, considering I'm basing my au's Aunt Casta on her. At this point I'd settle for a LIST of HIP members considering Ruby was a member in the novel, but I can't find one!

Anyway. There were also Diggers in LA, and here's a thing they handed out to kids who showed up in LA, taken from an article contrasting the LA Diggers to the SF Diggers:

Oh, and here's someone's thesis from 2012 about the Communications Company, which was run partially by Diggers/people associated with the Diggers; and put out leaflets/flyers/broadsides basically DAILY, some of which were just "here's where we're giving away food," some of which were poetry, some of which were journalism or protest; there's a ton of old-school scans of them here

like this one

(yes it is unfortunately hard to read, try opening in a new tab; they were all mimeographed)

ANYWAY one of the things I keep noting when I read people's stories is just how CHEAP everyone was able to live.

People could just....do shit. Rent in San Francisco was just so, so cheap. Christ.

Anyway true story, for a few months in 1967 the neighborhood of Haight-Ashbury had a higher population density than Manhattan. And remember, we're talking streets of like, three-story townhouses.

(I've poked around on zillow. A lot of them have been split up into astronomically expensive condos. I can't help wondering how many people living there wonder if their place used to have a dozen hippies crashing on the floor. I know all the houses now-famous bands/musicians lived in are listed various places.)

[minorfamilysupremacy]

it is insane to watch bible's actions nowadays. i will say, even back in kp era, there were one or two things he said that made him deeply unlikable to me, but like most i just ignored it. but holy hell has the facade dropped. the only thing he is now is a professional victim and you can tell he is SO pissed that his little show failed. these interviews or rather fluff pieces are just for bible to be sad on camera because it's the only way to stay relevant and ensure his fans continue to attack and blame build for everything, because despite it all, his fans couldn't be arsed to watch his show so this is all he has left. they will continue to beat the dead horse of "it was a thing that happened between two people", because anything else would mean they had to admit they chose the side of the woman who was sentenced to prison. oh and btw bible, weird how you never faced any repercussions for your social media posts about underage girls, rape, and transphobia... sure has its benefits being close to ponf hasn't it. god I hope karma comes for all of these people.

yeah, as an ex-stan i know i personally handwaved away a lot of stupid shit as his being young and having been catapulted into overnight fame and blah blah blah, but no. we got played for fools. dude's a piece of shit through and through and it's honestly kind of horrifying to watch. like, really, dude? pond is the fading star you want to hitch your wagon to? i'm just embarrassed watching him make a bigger and bigger ass of himself in every interview. it's always someone else's fault, he's always the victim, bloo bloo, crocodile tears (even more embarrassing since a lot of these interview questions are sent in advance so he can practice his fake waterworks).

and i think in his warped little mind, it IS build's fault that 4m is such a shitshow, or at least he's firmly convinced himself as such, because he and pond are glued at the asshole now and he can't let himself go against the party line. i've always thought sammon deliberately turned in a subpar product -- after all, did BOC ever say boo about the plagiarism accusations? because i sure don't remember it. and poi was punching way above her weight class by dragging in a much more respected writer when she was just trying to have a petty grudge match against her ex. i lost respect for sammon in the entire debacle for other reasons (i draw a hard line with animal violence, and the very vague details i know make it just sound gratuitous and lazy writing), but i was shocked she even stuck around to give them SOME kind of script. pond must have the best lawyers in thailand when he draws those contracts up.

but 4m was a shitshow not because of build, but because of poi and, more importantly, because of pond. pond sat back and dithered about which nong (gag, dude) he could wring more coins out of and tried, unsuccessfully, to play both sides like the loathsome little quisling he is. he did fuck-all to protect his talent and then he gambled on the 4m name still having enough appeal to gawkers to be successful, when anyone with two brain cells to rub together could have told you the project should have been scrapped with a quickness. (besides, if the version of the show we ultimately got bore ANY resemblance to its original vision, i sincerely question what was so tear-jerking about it. but i have a feeling what it was originally envisioned as is a far cry from the steaming pile we got.) the fact that they couldn't get anyone to pair with bible for ages is yet another red flag pond ignored, because god forbid he admit to any fuckups, and the coping about how jes is actually So Much Better and Lovely and Wonderful and their chemistry is So Incredible is...well, it's fucking pathetic. it's clowns all the way down.

and pond further bears responsibility for that fuckup of a 'rollout' of the show. how many countries did it get aired in, officially? seven? eight? half of those were places where explicit gay sex (which, as near as i can tell, is a good portion of the show to make up for the limp writing) is banned. european and american fans got entirely shut out from official support. i suppose that's probably because when build was in berlin, he personally spoke with the german government and explained that they needed not to air this particular show as an act of revenge, right?

but bible is never going to fucking look at the dumpster fire his life and career have become and lay the blame where it belongs, because he and pond are in this creepy symbiotic relationship where pond pimps him out to keep the business going -- seriously, jeff fucked off ages ago and mile is MIA with schrodinger's girlfriend, so they have no major talent outside bible to rely on -- and in return, bible gets shielded from repercussions outside of some well-deserved social media jeering. and both of them constantly pat each other's asses and soothe each other's egos and keep each other from any kind of introspection.

bottom line is, pond thought build was expendable at the time, because he was rolling in so much KP goodwill he thought the gravy train would never stop. turns out build wasn't expendable, so now pond's gotta choke the life out of the other half of the pairing to make sure he doesn't give up the grift (his constant european vacations don't pay for themselves, do they?), and that other half is more than content to play his simple-minded lackey because it's easier than having to fucking put a modicum of effort into anything.

karma will get them -- of that i have no doubt. there's too many rumblings of discontent, too many oldheads who have turned anti, not enough new people to stem the hemorrhage. man suang, for all pond's windbaggery, sank without a trace. THC is more notable for its controversy and rigging than anything else. DFF and 4m both couldn't sustain themselves through their entire runtimes and even people with no axe to grind with BOC were critical about the latter. they keep scrabbling for relevance in idiotic ways -- a sitcom with bible? a sitcom?! with what fucking comedic timing? -- or are late to the party -- they're supposedly planning a GL, which, by the time it gets to market, will just be one of many. gap was a while ago. GL isn't as much of a novelty as it was. and i mean, let's face it: do you trust this fucking studio with GL? i wouldn't trust pond to take out my trash without ripping the bag open, spilling it everywhere, and then making childish vague references about how SOMEONE he used to know paid off the hefty bag company to make his (pond's) life harder.

pond's all ego, greed, and stupidity. he'll trip over his dick (well, harder than he has already) soon enough. i personally can't wait to see it happen.

[jockmaxxed]

Tick tock~

Do you ever fantasize about phantom sensations brought on by hypnosis? Maybe I could walk you out in public, and you’ll think everything is normal, but then I say the word and you feel a mouth wrapped around your shaft, eagerly milking you right through your pants. There’s a crowd watching, but you can’t mind. You exist for the crowd to enjoy. To record. They’ll take that home and get off on the sight privately, without being a spectacle. I’ve joined the crowd, pretending to be another gawker. You’re just a performance. Something for us to enjoy watching, then send you on your way home.

fuck, this is hot! and i actually have thought about phantom sensations before, only briefly tho. but humiliation and embrassment are really hot fantasies of mine ~_~