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get $750 to your Cash

[mostlysignssomeportents]

"Efficiency" left the Big Three vulnerable to smart UAW tactics

Tomorrow (September 22), I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. Tomorrow night, I'll be in person at LA's Book Soup for the launch of Justin C Key's "The World Wasn’t Ready for You." On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

It's been 143 days since the WGA went on strike against the Hollywood studios. While early tactical leaks from the studios had studio execs chortling and twirling their mustaches about writers caving once they started losing their homes, the strikers aren't wavering – they're still out there, pounding the picket lines, every weekday:

https://www.cnbc.com/2023/08/09/how-hollywood-writers-make-ends-meet-100-days-into-the-writers-guild-strike.html

The studios obviously need writers. That gleeful, anonymous studio exec who got such an obvious erotic charge at the thought of workers being rendered homeless as punishment for challenging his corporate power completely misread the room, and his comments didn't demoralize the writers. Instead, they inspired the actors to go on strike, too.

But how have the writers stayed out since May Day? How have the actors stayed out for 69 days since their strike started on Bastille Day? We can thank the studios for that! As it turns out, the studios have devoted so much energy to rendering creative workers as precarious as possible, hiring as little as they can getting away with and using punishing overtime as a substitute for adequate staffing that they've eliminated all the workers who can't survive on side-hustles and savings for six or seven months at a time.

But even for those layoff-hardened workers, long strikes are brutal, and of course, all the affiliated trades, from costumers to grips, are feeling the pain. The strike fund only goes so far, and non-striking, affected workers don't even get that. That's why I've been donating regularly to the Entertainment Community Fund, which helps all affected workers out with cash transfers (I just gave them another $500):

https://secure2.convio.net/afa/site/Donation2?df_id=8117&8117.donation=form1&mfc_pref=T

As hot labor summer is revealed as a turning point – not just a season – long strikes will become the norm. Bosses still don't believe in worker power, and until they get their minds right, they're going to keep on trying to starve their workforces back inside. To get a sense of how long workers will have to hold out, just consider the Warrior Met strike, where Alabama coal-miners stayed out for 23 months:

https://www.thenation.com/article/activism/warrior-met-strike-union/

As Kim Kelly explained to Adam Conover in the latest Factually podcast, the Alabama coal strikers didn't get anywhere near the attention that the Hollywood strikers have enjoyed:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvyMHf7Yg0Q

(To learn more about the untold story of worker organizing, from prison unions to the key role that people of color and women played in labor history, check out Kelly's book, "Fight Like Hell," now in paperback:)

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Fight-Like-Hell/Kim-Kelly/9781982171063

Which brings me to the UAW strike. This is an historic strike, the first time that the UAW has struck all of the Big Three automakers at once. Past autoworkers' strikes have marked turning points for all American workers. The 1945/46 GM strike established employers' duty to cover worker pensions, health care, and cost of living allowances. The GM strike created the American middle-class:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-18-uaw-strikes-built-american-middle-class/

The Big Three are fighting for all the marbles here. They are refusing to allow unions to organize EV factories. Given that no more internal combustion cars will be in production in just a few short years, that's tantamount to eliminating auto unions altogether. The automakers are flush with cash, including billions in public subsidies from multiple bailouts, along with billions more from greedflation price-gouging. A long siege is inevitable, as the decimillionaires running these companies earn their pay by starving out their workers:

https://www.businessinsider.com/general-motors-ceo-mary-barra-salary-auto-workers-strike-uaw-2023-9

The UAW knows this, of course, and their new leadership – helmed by the union's radical president Shawn Fain – has a plan. UAW workers are engaged in tactical striking, shutting down key parts of the supply chain on a rolling basis, making the 90-day strike fund stretch much farther:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2023-09-18-labors-militant-creativity/

In this project, they are greatly aided by Big Car's own relentless pursuit of profit. The automakers – like every monopolized, financialized sector – have stripped all the buffers and slack out of their operations. Inventory on hand is kept to a bare minimum. Inputs are sourced from the cheapest bidder, and they're brought to the factory by the lowest-cost option. Resiliency – spare parts, backup machinery – is forever at war with profits, and profits have won and won and won, leaving auto production in a brittle, and easily shattered state.

This is especially true for staffing. Automakers are violently allergic to hiring workers, because new workers get benefits and workplace protection. Instead, the car companies routinely offer "voluntary" overtime to their existing workforce. By refusing this overtime, workers can kneecap production, without striking.

Enter "Eight and Skate," a campaign among UAW workers to clock out after their eight hour shift. As Keith Brower Brown writes for Labor Notes, the UAW organizers are telling workers that "It’s crossing an unofficial picket line to work overtime. It’s helping out the company":

https://labornotes.org/2023/09/work-extra-during-strike-auto-workers-say-eight-and-skate

Eight and Skate has already started to work; the Buffalo Ford plant can no longer run its normal weekend shifts because workers are refusing to put in voluntary overtime. Of course, bosses will strike back: the next step will be forced overtime, which will lead to the unsafe conditions that unionized workers are contractually obliged to call paid work-stoppages over, shutting down operations without touching the strike fund.

What's more, car bosses can't just halt safety stoppages or change the rules on overtime; per the UAW's last contract, bosses are required to bargain on changes to overtime rules:

https://uaw.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/Working-Without-Contract-FAQ-FINAL-2.pdf

Car bosses have become lazily dependent on overtime. At GM's "highly profitable" SUV factory in Arlington, TX, normal production runs a six-days, 24 hours per day. Workers typically work five eight-hour days and nine hours on Saturdays. That's been the status quo for 11 years, but when bosses circulated the usual overtime signup sheet last week, every worker wrote "a big fat NO" next to their names.

Writing for The American Prospect, David Dayen points out that this overtime addiction puts a new complexion on the much-hyped workerpocalypse that EVs will supposedly bring about. EVs are much simpler to build than conventional cars, the argument goes, so a US transition to EVs will throw many autoworkers out of work:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-20-big-threes-labor-shortages-uaw/

But the reality is that most autoworkers are doing one and a half jobs already. Reducing the "workforce" by a third could leave all these workers with their existing jobs, and the 40-hour workweek that their forebears fought for at GM inn 1945/46. Add to that the additional workers needed to make batteries, build and maintain charging infrastructure, and so on, and there's no reason to think that EVs will weaken autoworker power.

And as Dayen points out, this overtime addiction isn't limited to cars. It's also endemic to the entertainment industry, where writers' "mini rooms" and other forms of chronic understaffing are used to keep workforces at a skeleton crew, even when the overtime costs more than hiring new workers.

Bosses call themselves job creators, but they have a relentless drive to destroy jobs. If there's one thing bosses hate, it's paying workers – hence all the hype about AI and automation. The stories about looming AI-driven mass unemployment are fairy tales, but they're tailor made for financiers who get alarming, life-threatening priapism at the though of firing us all and replacing us with shell-scripts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

This is why Republican "workerism" rings so hollow. Trump's GOP talks a big game about protecting "workers" (by which they mean anglo men) from immigrants and "woke captialism," but they have nothing to say about protecting workers from bosses and bankers who see every dime a worker gets as misappropriated from their dividend.

Unsurprisingly, conservative message-discipline sucks. As Luke Savage writes in Jacobin, for every mealymouthed Josh Hawley mouthing talking points that "support workers" by blaming China and Joe Biden for the Big Three's greed, there's a Tim Scott, saying the quiet part aloud:

https://jacobin.com/2023/09/republicans-uaw-strike-hawley-trump-scott/

Quoth Senator Scott: "I think Ronald Reagan gave us a great example when federal employees decided they were going to strike. He said, you strike, you’re fired. Simple concept to me. To the extent that we can use that once again, absolutely":

https://twitter.com/American_Bridge/status/1704136706574741988

The GOP's workerism is a tissue-thin fake. They can never and will never support real worker power. That creates an opportunity for Biden and Democrats to seize:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/18/co-determination/#now-make-me-do-it

Reversing two generations of anti-worker politics is a marathon, not a sprint. The strikes are going to run for months, even years. Every worker will be called upon to support their striking siblings, every day. We can do it. Solidarity now. Solidarity forever.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/21/eight-and-skate/#strike-to-rule

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Do You Wanna Touch Me?

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) Pairing: Marcus Pike x Sex Worker Female Reader Words Count: 4,200 Summary: After getting his heart broken, Marcus Pike takes an assignment in Amsterdam. What started as an exploration of the red light district turns into choosing you, the most beautiful art he's ever seen. Warnings: sex work, erotic dancing, hand job, masturbation, fingering, oral (m receiving), reader wears makeup and a dress, marcus tries to escape his heartbreak, van gogh mentions, reader is college aged, dieter bravo exists in this universe

A/N: This was written for @baronessvonglitter's Fuck-tober birthday celebration. I was assigned Marcus Pike and "Do You Wanna Touch Me" by Joan Jett. Happy birthday Adriana!!! 💕

Here are the songs I refer to in the fic: “Do You Wanna Touch Me” by Joan Jett “Bed Chem” by Sabrina Carpenter “Streets” by Doja Cat “God Is A Woman” by Ariana Grande “Cinema” by Harry Styles “The Night Me and Your Mama Met” by Childish Gambino Masterlist

---

Marcus doesn’t do things like this. He’s a good man, a good son, a good brother, a good friend, and most of all, a good agent. And yet, he still walks down the cobblestone street that’s bathed in red lights.

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What in the world is he doing here? Curiosity, loneliness, being so fucking horny he can’t focus on the case ahead. You’re a good man he tells himself as he ventures deeper into the crimson alleys, the shadow of shame following closely behind him.  

“Hey handsome. Today’s your lucky day.” A blonde man winks, handing him a gilded envelope. “You’re invited to Galerij.” 

Marcus blinks down at the golden envelope, looking up to find the blonde stranger already gone from his sight. He opens the envelope, revealing a simple invitation with gold embossed text. 

Galerij, Amsterdam’s hottest art pieces. €400

He’s a damn FBI agent, and yet he’s too intrigued and desperate for a distraction to say no. He should know better, his badge weighs heavily in his pocket. He plugs the address into his phone with a sigh and makes the quick walk to the address listed, silently atoning for his sins as he passes the Oude Kerk church. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with any of the police officers situated, they might sense his shame. 

“You’ve arrived at your destination,” the robotic voice intones. He looks up at the plain brick row home that stands out amongst the surrounding buildings covered in neon lights with windows full of girls in different levels of undress. 

A small gold sign hangs above the unassuming black door. GALERIJ

He inhales deeply and pushes the door open. A bell jingles. Inside, an older looking woman with slicked-back blonde hair and a sharp black suit sits behind a desk. 

“Nederlands or English?” she asks, her tone clipped.

“English,” he answers, his throat tight. “Please.”

“Invitation?”

“Oh, uh, here,” he hands her the invitation. 

Without any more acknowledgment, she gestures to a black leather chair near an intricately carved golden door. “Please take a seat.”

A bit of trepidation blooms within him as he sits down, but when he looks around, he realizes that this isn’t some seedy back-alley brothel. It can’t be that bad if the walls are covered in mahogany and the floor is marble. 

The woman makes a quick phone call, speaking in a hushed voice. His palms grow sweaty. What the hell is he doing? This was supposed to be a quick exploration of something that’s always fascinated him… legal vices. Yet now, he's gripping the armrests as the same stern woman brings over a clipboard and card machine. 

“Cash or charge?” 

“Oh, cash?” he replies quickly, fumbling for his wallet. There’s no way he’s going to use a credit card around here, too many chances of his secret adventure getting revealed on a statement. 

“400 euros.” 

He opens his wallet and unfolds his money. 100, what are you doing? 200, what are you doing? 300, Marcus, seriously, what are you doing? 350, no seriously what are you doing? 400, damn, you’re really doing it. 

Stern woman takes the money and hands him a gold pin with a simple G etched onto it. She hits a small gold bell on her desk, a singular ring sharply echoes across the small room. 

He pins the pin to his chest, reminding him of all the times he used to pin the old Met Museum badge to his lapel when he was a young college student in New York. This is so much more different than that, he reminds himself. 

The golden door opens after a moment. 

A beautiful older woman in a dark burgundy skirt and matching jacket walks out with a smile lifting her dark red lips. 

“Welcome to Galerij. I am Maud, the curator.” she greets, offering her hand. “What would you like us to call you here?”

He rises and shakes her hand. 

Can’t do Marcus, can’t do Pike, can’t do Agent. He thinks of that one actor everyone tells him he looks like. “Uh–Bravo.” 

“Very well, Bravo,” she opens the door, moving aside allowing him to walk through. “Welcome to Galerij.”

He steps into a stark white room. The floor is shiny concrete, a singular white table with two white wishbone chairs sit in the middle of the room, a stark contrast to the entrance room on the other side of the wall. Not exactly what he was expecting. The agent in him can’t help but think this would be a perfect place to kill somebody. 

Maud motions for him to sit across from her. “Here you will make your decision on what piece you’d like. Gay or straight?”

He sits down, her question is a reminder as to why he’s really here. “Straight,” he answers, his nerves beginning to creep around him. 

She nods. “All of our pieces are tested, clean, and practice safe sex. Your piece will tell you what they will and won’t do once you make your choice. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

“You will have twenty minutes, your time will start once you enter your gallery. A bell will ring every five minutes, your final bell will ring twice symbolizing your last five minutes. Do not be late. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Of course no photos or recordings. We ask you to not even have your phone out. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

“Are you ready?” she asks with a smile on her face.

“I am,” he answers. His heart is pounding. 

She nods and presses a button, a shrill buzz echoes through the room. A hidden door opens and a large muscle and tattoo clad man with buzzed black hair and a nose ring walks out carrying a red velvet-covered book. He hands it to Maud, before standing behind her like a silent guardian.

His heart races faster than he ever thought it could when she  opens the book and pushes it towards him. 

GALERIJ with the day's date is stamped on the thick page. 

His fingers tremble as he flips to the first page revealing a photo of an olive skinned and brown haired woman clad in dark blue lingerie with delicate yellow stars embroidered all over it lying on top of swirled silky blue sheets. She’s absolutely stunning.

“This is The Starry Night.”

He nods, turning the page. 

A pale skinned, petite woman with shockingly white blonde hair wears a light blue bra and lace panties while laying atop white flower petals. She’s just as beautiful as the first woman. 

“This is Almond Blossom.” 

He turns the page. 

A dark skinned, dark haired woman sits against a yellow wall wearing two sunflower blooms over her ample chest. Her smile is wide, just like her eyes lined with bright gold glitter. She’s gorgeous 

“This is Sunflowers.”

They all look like they just walked off the runway, all beautiful and alluring. He wonders what–or who–the next piece will be. He smiles to himself when he realizes they’re all named after Van Gogh. Of course he’d find himself in an art themed brothel… he just can’t escape work. 

“Before you see my fourth piece, please know she’s a little different. You cannot touch her, only watch. Don’t let that sway your decision, she is our most popular piece.” 

He braces himself as he turns the page. 

He loses his breath when he sees you. There you are, sitting cross-legged against the same color wall as Sunflowers. He can just see a glimpse of your nipples under your sheer indigo bra. Your green lined eyes leer at the camera. He thanks all the stars in Starry Night for his chance to even get a look at you. He’s lost in time at how your skin glows against the golden wall. 

“Wow,” he breathes out. 

“I believe you made your decision,” Maud says with a knowing smile. “This is Irises.” 

“Yes,” Marcus swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Irises please.”

She nods and closes the book. “Pieter, let Irises know.”

“Okay Bravo,” Maud says with a smile and stands. “Pieter will come and get you when Irises is ready. Please do enjoy my gallery.” 

“Thank you Maud,” he says, wiping his sweaty hands against the fabric of his jeans. 

The fading sound of Maud and Pieter’s steps and a door closing leaves him all alone in the sparse room.

He hopes he looks good enough for you. His dark blue jeans are presentable enough, his plain gray v neck is clean, he thanks himself for spritzing himself with a dash of cologne before leaving his hotel. He knows he paid the equivalent of close to $450 for you to like him, but he still wants to impress you. 

He checks his watch, five minutes have passed. He’s too afraid to bring his phone out, so he just stares forward, nervously tapping his foot.

This wasn’t his plan at all, he was just going to explore and sightsee, nothing more. No drugs, no sex, just curiosity. 

The door opens. Pieter appears. 

“Irises is ready,” he announces, his accent thick. “Follow me.”

He tentatively trails Pieter through the door walking down a hallway lined with doors. Ornate golden frames hang with Van Gogh pieces in each one. They reach the door with Irises hung next to it.

“Twenty minutes,” Pieter says flatly, opening the door. “Sit in the chair. Do not touch. You watch.”

Marcus nods, his heart slamming against his chest. His knees almost buckle as he steps inside the room. 

It’s dark, save for a single spotlight shining down on a small stage, a lone purple velvet high back chair sits waiting for him in the middle of it. His shaky legs take him up the three steps before he lowers into it, hands clenching the wide armrests, trying to control his breathing. 

He shouldn't be here–-he knows that. It’s too late for regrets now.

The click-clack of your heels echoes through the room when you step onto the stage. He’s too nervous to turn his head to see you. His body tenses, anticipation coiling all of his muscles tight. When you finally step in front of him, he has to remind himself to breathe.

You’re beautiful, the light catches on the sheer fabric of your dress. He can just make out the curves of your body, naked under light lavender chiffon. Your eyes are lined with deep purple eyeliner, ending into a cat eye at the corners. Your ruby red lips curl up into a knowing smile, almost as if you can see his desire for you. 

Four thousand miles away from home and he’s just found the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. His cock begins to thicken, the shame of his paid for voyeurism adventure dissolving from his mind. You’re finer than any masterpiece he’s ever had to investigate. 

“Hi Bravo,” you purr, your voice smooth and teasing, “Do you wanna touch me?” 

He nods and coughs nervously. “Y-yes. But, I can’t.”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across your lips. “Good boy.” 

His back tightens, a wave of heat flows down his spine and settles in his lap. For too long he’s disallowed himself from feeling this type of pleasure. Too busy, too sad, too heartbroken. What led him here feels like a blur. An exchange of glances, a subtle wink, an invitation. The black door, €400 out of his wallet, a white room, an open red velvet book, the long hallway, Irises. He allows himself to enjoy the experience just as you send him a wink.

You’re like his own little gallery show standing in front of him. A piece of art he doesn’t just want to see–but memorize.

—

You’ve only been doing this for a few months now. It really is the perfect side hustle to support yourself while finishing your art degree. You’ve been enamored with Van Gogh’s art since you were a child, a lifelong dream realized when you were accepted into the student exchange program at the University of Amsterdam. You made it possible, and now, working two nights a week in between coursework, you're making more than most of your friends earn in an entire week. Of course, only a select few know what you really mean when you say you work at a very exclusive gallery.

It’s a good job. Maud takes good care of you, vetting those who enter her establishment with her keen client recruiters on the streets. Pieter is always a buzz away, though you’ve never felt danger. Everyone needs an escape, some just agree to pay a premium for it. They call it the oldest profession for a reason. 

Bravo. He’s your last customer tonight, and they sure did save the best for last. You watched him approach on the security camera, a smile formed when you noticed how much he resembled your favorite actor, you had plans for him. His wide shoulders, broad body, thin beard, and perfect head of hair almost made you think it was him, if it wasn’t for his eyes flickering around the room nervously. There’s no way Dieter Bravo would be anxious in this type of situation. 

You press play on the stereo. A quick drumbeat starts, your steps keep tempo with it as you come back to stand in front of your client.

Turning around and bending over, your hips dance to the beat of the song as your hands roam along your curves, lifting your dress to give him a peek of your thighs and ass. A low groan rumbles behind you.

“Do you like what you see?” you ask, slowly turning to face him, moving your hands up and down your body.

“Y-yes,” he stammers, his nervous eyes wide and plush lips parted. 

Those same nervous eyes watch as you bunch the fabric of your dress up and take it off, tossing it aside. He eyes you, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes exploring all of you like you’re a painting hanging in a gallery. 

You cup your breasts, feeling the velvety warmth of your skin beneath your fingers as the purple of your nail polish brushes against your hardened nipples. Slowly you tilt your head down and let a trail of spit fall to one nipple. 

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask, pinching and pulling the sensitive peaks of your nipples. “Mmph–mmhmm,” he groans, nervously shuffling in his seat. 

Bending forward and placing your hands on his knees gives him the perfect view of your breasts. A long sigh comes from him, his eyes planted on your tits. You like what you’re doing to him, you never start your dances off this close to a client, but you can’t resist him.

When your hands trail up to his thick thighs, the bulge of his pants makes your mouth water, tempting you to move towards it. Not yet.

Leaning closer, you nuzzle against the warmth of his neck. He smells delicious… like eucalyptus and maple syrup. His quickening breaths puff out against your hair. You taste his skin with your tongue, licking your way up to his ear.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask along with the song.

“Y-yeah,” he stutters. 

Pulling away, you wink before turning your back to him and delicately sit atop his lap. Sinking down against his broad chest, the heat radiating off him burns hot against your back. The song changes just as you feel the poke of his erection against your ass.

A poppy beat soundtracks your movements as you grind yourself against the heft of him, falling back, placing your head against his wide chest. Reaching back, your hands tangle in his soft hair, humming sweetly along to the sound, letting a few lyrics slip out of your mouth.

“I bet you we’d really have good bed chem”

Your client follows directions very well, staying perfectly still, gripping the armrests so hard the golden skin around his knuckles turn white. You rub yourself against the rough fabric of his jeans, getting off on the quiet whimpers he leaves in your ear. 

RING. The fifteen minute bell rings.

“And I bet it’s even better than in my head”

You rise off his lap and bend over clasping your hands around your ankles, giving him the perfect view of your ass and dripping core. The song fades out, a deeper, sultrier drumbeat begins. 

“Like you, like you, ooh, I found it hard to find someone like you” 

Your body gently sways along to the slow, sultry beat, and when you flip your head back to glance at him, he lets a low groan out. Placing your hands on the floor, you walk them out ahead of you before you’re on all fours, spreading your legs wide to show him even more of your glistening pussy. 

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask, settling on your stomach, snaking a hand between your wide spread legs. 

“Y-yes,” he huffs. 

“I know you do Bravo,” you tilt your hips up hovering them above the ground, “let me show you how I like it.”

Your middle finger enters your soaked entrance as your thumb gently dusts light circles against your clit. Your hips move in beat to the heavy rhythm of the song. 

“Oh god,” he pants, when you stick another finger in, the chair creaking underneath his tensity. 

RING. The ten minute bell rings.

Choreography, that’s the business term for what you’re doing. It’s all timed out, you hear these songs at least ten times every work day. Though you never sit on your clients as close as you did with Bravo, you never taste their skin like you did with Bravo. He deserves more than the same memorized steps, something better than the repetition you offer all of the others. 

The song changes, signaling you to start your new routine, you ignore the cue, rolling onto your back, arching slightly, your eyes meet his. His hands remain clamped on to the armrests, fingers digging into the velvet. He’s trembling with restraint, beads of sweat glistening on his skin. His erection swells, the tight fabric of his pants tenting. 

“Do you wanna touch me Bravo?”

“I do,” he whines, the lines of his neck straining as his head thuds against the back of the chair. 

“Okay, okay baby,” you sit up, turning to crawl towards him. Your eyes don’t leave his. 

“And I can be all the things you told me not to be

When you try to come for me, I keep on flourishing”

Kneeling on your knees in front of him, you unlock one of his clutched hands, moving it to the soft skin of your breast. 

“N-no touching I thought,” he stammers, his hand laying flat against your skin.

“I make my own rules, it’s okay Bravo,” you allow, grabbing his other hand and placing it on you.

He groans when he cups your breasts in his hands. You watch the tendons of his strong hand tense and release as he cups your breasts and massages them in his hold. He’s mesmerized by his movements, like he can’t believe you’re allowing him to touch you. 

Your hand teases its way up his leg to the warmth of the apex of his thighs before gripping him, thick and hard underneath the constraints of his jeans. 

“Oh fuck,” he growls. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so beautiful.”

His words of adoration fall out of his mouth, eyes still locked on your tits covered by his hands. 

You unbuckle his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans as the choir sings God is a woman. 

The song changes.

“You got, you got the cinema”

Your eyes light at the sight of his cock, standing tall and thick, precum leaking from the engorged tip. It’s just as beautiful and wide as the rest of your client. 

Bravo lets out a garbled groan when you wrap your hand around his length, slowly pumping him along to the song. Up, down, up, down, the sexy beat soundtracking your movements. 

RING. RING. The five minute bell rings. Your client doesn’t seem to heed the warning, only focusing on his thumbs swiping back and forth against the peaks of your nipples and your hand stroking the smooth silk of his cock.

“Touch me Bravo,” you rise, lifting a foot up on the armrest, keeping hold of his pulsing dick in your hand. “Give me two of your fingers.” 

His eyes gaze down to your dripping cunt, watching himself as his hand sweeps down your body before parting your folds. 

You got, you got the cinema

You got, you got the cinema

Your hips undulate to the tempo of the song as he sticks two of his long, thick fingers into your heat. 

“God damn,” he mutters incredulously, “you’re so wet.”

The song changes. 

A steady and slow funky guitar plays along with a soulful choir. It’s soft and romantic, exactly what you like to close down your shows with. You’ve never ended a show like this, your hand wrapped around your client’s wide cock, and your pussy clenching around two of his thick fingers. His thumb begins sweeping back and forth against your clit, he may have found himself at a brothel in Amsterdam, but your client has done this before. Perfect movements, perfect angle, you stare down in reverie at the focus he holds, watching himself touch you. His adoration of your body heats your core, lighting an orgasm just as beautiful as the song that plays. 

“Fuck baby,” you pant, “I’m gonna cum.”

He blinks up to you, brown eyes staring intensely into yours when you bite your lip and send a gush of wet against his fingers. Your legs turn shaky, as your clit pulses against his thumb that blesses your sensitive bub with just the right amount of pressure. Moving his hand from between your thighs, he holds it up, marveling at the sight of your juices shining against his skin. You send him a smile as your leg drops to the floor, the rest of your body following, kneeling in front of him. He still stares at his hand, watching the strings of your orgasm stretch across his widely spread fingers. 

“Smear it on your cock for me,” you say, planting both hands on his thighs. 

He groans and nods before rubbing the remnants of your orgasm on his shaft. He shouts an indistinguishable sound when you lick a line up to his tip, tasting yourself and the salty tang of his precum. Your lips envelop the fat tip of him, sucking and slobbering your way down the thick length of him. 

The song ends, the playlist repeats. The same quick drumbeat of the first song plays loudly. 

You suck him to the beat, flicking your tongue against his tip with each “YEAH!” of the song.

RING. RING. RING. The final bells ring, signaling that your client should have left by now.

Bravo locks up. Your mouth unclasps from his cock.

“It’s okay,” you assure, “we have a word for–”

A heavy knock lands against the door. 

“Driehoek (triangle) Pieter! I’m good in here, thanks!”

Three rapid knocks–softer now–signal Pieter’s departure.

“You guys really have it all fig–oh god,” he moans, when you take his cock back into your mouth.  

His strong legs shake against your body as your cheeks hollow, taking him into your mouth faster and harder, his hips thrusting up to meet your mouth. Drool leaks out of the sides of your mouth, your eyes stare up at him blinking back tears as he reaches the back of your throat. You don’t know if he’s ever allowed himself this much freedom, it feels like you’ve unlocked something deep within him with the way he’s snarling and grunting “Irises” over and over.

“G-gonna–yeah–yeah–cum,” he gasps, hips stuttering and chair creaking as he spills into your accepting mouth. 

Bravo, client. Bravo.

—

He can’t believe he just did that. He just–he–he just– came in the mouth of a complete stranger–nay–a prostitute. You told him you’ve never done something like that with a client as you tossed him a towel… and the funny thing is he actually believes you. 

You shuffle back into the see through lilac dress as he zips his jeans back up. You really are the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, even if your purple eyeliner is now streaked from the tears that sprung in your eyes from gagging on his cock. Wow, that did just happen. 

You leave a kiss against his cheek and open the door for him. Pieter escorts him out the back entrance with a knowing smile. 

He walks back to his hotel, a new man with a clearer mind. Marcus really doesn’t feel the shame he expected he would. He knows a fine piece of art, and you just might be the finest he’s ever seen. 

[mimiriko]

You are increasingly becoming aware that bringing the exact amount of change to the vending machine was a risk. A risk you never make because this particular machine is notorious for malfunctioning and dropping snacks.

It’s near midnight. A lone breeze brushes past and ruffles your nightwear, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You could go back to your room, but there’s a tender soreness in your legs from the days work. It’s too troublesome for the mere purpose of sweetening your mouth.

But your chocolate…

“You’re still up?”

A figure shadows you. You look up to your right, and see the moon in the form of bedhair. Sometimes, he forgoes his glasses when everything is casted in black and slightly easy on his eyes, so you’re met with blue rimmed with snow peering down at you.

“Hungry,” you respond, focusing back on the task at hand. Cautiously, experimentally, you tip the machine further right, small uniform shakes to loosen the kitkat stuck on the edge, an arrow away from a bullseye. Satoru stretches next to you, idly releasing the kinks in his neck. “I wanted to sleep early today,” he bemoans, slumping to your side and stays put, even with you floundering with his weight.

“Quit it!” you yelp, tightening your grip on the machine. You’re finally making progress and he decides to set you back three steps.

“Suguru told me i’m getting eye bags,” he prattles, rubbing at the aforementioned place, “I cannot have eye bags. Imagine that! My perfect sky blue eyes and dull skin underneath. It will ruin my whole look.”

Almost there…you feel yourself going cross eyed from staring at the kitkat for so long. The hook of metal around the corner of the package is slipping, just a little jostle away from setting your chocolate free.

But you stop.

You notice it’s suddenly quiet.

The reflection of the display glass allows you to see him staring just as you are, attentively watching if you make it out of here happily or suicidal. You straighten a bit, weirdly put on the spot.

“Hey…why don’t you just—“ his hands shoot out, shaking it ten times rougher than you.

Your alarms blare. “Wait wait wait—”

Your kitkat is set free.

And you watch it drop to the row below it, on top of a juice box.

“Oh.” He says shakily, a nervous giggle following. “Whoops.”

You turn your face to his side profile, and he pointedly looks ahead. His neck is bared to you, unblemished and devoid of accessories. A solid mark left on him would paint a good picture, an outline of your teeth. It might be the first mark he has ever gotten.

You think of Yaga-sensei, and his strict protocol for punishment when a fight breaks out. Especially when it disturbs others, because you’re definitely sure his screams will bleed to the top floors. You’ll make sure it does. Shoko will give you a celebratory hug for finally giving it to him, but will be disappointed that you would have to miss your lunch together. Utahime from all the way in Kyoto will mail you a gift and you’re pretty sure even Mei Mei would send you some cash.

As if sensing your malevolence, he quickly backs away. “H-Hold on! Look—“ he digs in his pocket hastily and pulls out a note. With sweaty hands he inserts it into the machine, and takes your hand palm up and places another kitkat in your hold.

You stare at it, and then at his pockets. “Give me another.”

You end up walking back to your dorm with handfuls of chocolate and a broke Satoru holding more just for you.

[catboybiologist]

Hi! I'm Sierra. Time for a pinned post refresh.

Otherwise known as CatboyBiologist, or @hi-sierra (my SFW blog [this one is SFW too, but less so]). This page is remaining active, but if you want to find me somewhere else, I use the same username on reddit, Instagram, co-host, and tech.lgbt. This is me:

Trans woman, PhD student in molecular biology, boymoder, shitposter, freediver, hot girl on your phone, hiker, rambler (this post included), tgirl tummy tuesday supplier and enjoyer, former femboy, bane of bioessentialist fuckwads who try to use biology to validate biogotry, flaming bisexual, 196 nanocelebrity… whatever was the first thing that brought you to my blog, I hope it’s enough to get you to stay! I post selfies, hornyposts (minors and people who are averse to that be warned), stuff about the ocean, posts about my growing sense of wanderlust, my adorable lil tortoise, tutorials for transfemmes and GNC people, rambles about science, documentation of my own transition, rambles about transness, rambles about the eroticism of programming a machine to feel arousal, rambles about nature, and random shitposts. Please send me pictures of cute animals in your life!

If you wanna support my science career and my transition, consider dropping a tip here! PhD salaries are notorious for being negotiated to be exactly the cost of living…. And then forgotten about for years as inflation drops that below minimum wage. So I’m always a little strapped for cash. Anything helps!

Links to some of my tutorials and relevant resources under the cut:

I'm tracking my transition, and some people have said they found this helpful! This spreadsheet is generally updated monthly:

Usually, I write a little journal to go with it when it updates- you can find that under the #trans journal on my blog.

If you're interested in checking out some of the things I'm trying to write, here's a post with links to individual stories I'm making:

https://www.tumblr.com/catboybiologist/741010247774306304/writing-consolidation-post?source=share

My femboy guide, written well before I started HRT, but still has relevant info:

A "boyboob" tutorial, aka how to make it look like you have cleavage in an outfit that looks better with it:

A quick and dirty guide to taking better selfies, with a specific emphasis on people who may have stopped hating their body recently due to transition:

And here's a few of my personal favorite little rambles and posts about my transness, in no particular order:

CW for transphobia on this one:

A massive shoutout to @foldingfittedsheets for this amazing art of the lil borgir holding a trans flag:

I adore this so much <3 if you want to support their art, her commissions are open and really sweet!!!!

And of course, a massive shoutout to @whalesharkcat for this lovely pixel art of my tortoise:

I still love this so much, and will continue to into the future <3

For preHRT selfies, search the femboy tag. For post HRT selfies, use the "trans selfie" tag. I've been on HRT since August of 2023, so I'm still very early in the process! Day to day, I present male, but I plan to change that around the 1 year mark.

I guess that's about it! One final note is that I've been alluding to video/podcast style things for a while now. With my aderrall prescription, I've actually put in a lot of research work that might lead to 1-4 of those, so that might actually happen in the near future! No promises of course, life always catches up to you.

And if you liked my previous pinned post better, here it is:

Anyways, if you read this far, thanks for sticking around and bbyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[purelyfiction]

is it too soon to do this yet? - jake 'hangman' seresin x f!reader

Word Count: 1,977 words

Summary: this aint for the best, my reputation's never been worse so, you must like me for me. we can't make any promises now can we babe? // is it cool that i said all that? is it chill that you're in my head? cause i know that it's delicate. is it cool that i said all that? is it too soon to do this yet? 'cause i know that it's delicate.

Content Warning: fluff!! possibly insta-love for those put off by that.

Author Note: first: i wrote something?? on time??? second: for @ohtobeleah 's galentines writings :))) unedited/unbetaed we die like idiots

you had been here for a good time. your friend was getting married and her bachelorette was taking place in this quiet coastal town near a naval base. had that been part of the appeal? absolutely. who didn't want to watch a bunch of walking red flags as they did their daily trainings on the beach?

a little dive bar friday night with a shoddy jukebox, cheap beer and countless sailors - it had been the most fortunate surprise when you'd walked in with no other plans but to show off your sashed friend.

luckily for your group, sailors were suckers for a good bride to be and her girl crew. even luckier for you since you'd been playing DD for the last three days of the five day trip and you were finally able to take a damned sip of alcohol, which you rightfully deserved. glass in hand, you approach the jukebox to survey the music choices as the other girls were served shots (you wanted a drink not a hangover). you're about to pick out a song when you realize the machine hadn't been modernized and it still took cash. sadly, you spin back to the bar but not before dousing the man behind you in the makings of your whiskey sour.

"fuck, i am so sorry-" a hand grips your arm and he shakes his head.

"no, no, don't worry, i'm just upset on your behalf. what a waste of good whiskey." you look up, green eyes charming their way into easing your guilt. "I was gonna offer you a song, but ugh- maybe i ought to offer you a drink instead?"

he ends up buying both.

and as your friends sing along to the ancient song on the jukebox, you sit with this lone aviator and get to know him. long after your friends have retreated to the airbnb.

it was funny to think that was almost a six weeks ago. you'd flown to california for one week of fun and never went back, thanks to a rouge cowboy with eyes that matched the jumpsuit he donned to work each day.

you'd been crashing at an short-term rental since your friend's bachelorette, save for the weekend of the actual wedding, when jake had been your plus-one. everyone had relished in how the string of fate had connected you like this.

they'd also spoken of how insane you were. to uproot your entire life for the sake of what was supposed to be a one night fling. but it didn't bother you. not when the expansive reach of his hand had guided you through crowds that night. had danced with you and made a part fool of you both. i am a fantastic dancer, i have no idea where these guys are getting the idea i'm a trainwreck. his voice so easy and content on the drive back to the hotel that night.

now here you were, cooking for the two of you in his apartment as you waited on your boyfriend to get back from work. the label was maybe a week old at this point, but it fit him like a damn glove. so much so you'd started reaching out to potential leasers to sublet your apartment back home. maybe you were rushing into this. your job had been fine with you staying out in california longer - you were remote anyways, that had been the main perk of the job. but moving? for a man you'd known maybe a month?

the door slams shut and the entire apartment shakes. jake's place was small, tiny even, so you're greeted with his tense expression the minute you look up from your spot at the kitchen counter. "hey baby, how was-"

"fine." he grits the word out, dropping his duffel to the floor and disappearing down the hall. the bedroom door shuts with a click instead of a bang this time.

this wasn't boding well for you. you had a grand plan to make dinner, watch movies and have a nice and easy night in together, maybe talk for a bit. you'd wanted to discuss going to see an apartment this weekend. you didn't want to move in together, but you needed to look for a place of your own instead of crashing here so much. if this was going down that road. yet, the pilot seems to be in the worst mood to have that kind of discussion.

when he finally comes back to the kitchen, he slinks in behind you and presses a quick kiss to your head. "how was that call you were dreading." he's changed out of his uniform, a pair of sweatshorts on his waist, a dark t-shirt on his shoulders as he glides to the fridge. the tension is still carried in his frame even if he isn't outwardly acting as if there is something bothering him.

"ugh, it was - it was fine." now you're shutting off just like he was. it might be just you mirroring his actions, or maybe it was more. uncertainty? uneasiness? doubt?

the crack of teeth on an apple pulls you from your mind. you look to the fruit in his hand as he steps out to the living room on the opposite side of the kitchen wall. "i- dinner is almost ready, you know."

the tv stirs to life, echoing off the walls of the bachelor pad. the lack of decorations or real furnishings had been one of your reasons for wanting to pull the trigger on the move. to have some of your belongings back in your life, some familiarity.

"yeah, i'll eat." finally you're over it. you're not taking this from him, not when you had shit on your own mind that needed to be addressed. turning the burner off you step out of the kitchen, coming to the coffee table and snagging the remote. with it switched off, he looks at you with offense. "i said i'd eat what is the big deal?"

"what is going on with you?" your hands come across your chest as hangman snags the apple with his teeth as he dives into his pocket for his phone.

"nut-ing" the word comes out odd since his jaw is unable to move. you raise your eyebrows at him, which earns a similar reaction from the blonde. groaning he pulls the apple from his mouth. "rough day at work. got my ass handed to me by my superior, everyone talking shit because i flew better than anyone else- just in a piss poor mood. i'm sorry." you stare at him with concern now. it was just a bad day? then why was he suddenly as secure as a vault? locked away with high tech security and an obnoxiously long passcode.

"that's not all of it." you pry, slowly coming to sit down next to him. but when you do, he immediately stands up.

"yeah it is." he moves over to the kitchen again, tossing the apple core away. frustration eats at you again, tilting your head as your tone sharpens as he starts to step down the hallway.

"are you going to talk to me like your girlfriend or just like some bitch you're keeping around? cause right now it feels more like the second one." he freezes and his head drops back.

"look, i don't do the talking about emotions thing, i don't do the-"

"oh bullshit." you stand and march down the hallway, coming to stand behind him as his head sinks. "you put your heart on your sleeve when i saw you cry at dane and avery's wedding. and when you laughed to me about your childhood dog when you were drunk the night before at the rehearsal. or how you just seemed to stare at me with no concern in the world when we went out for ice cream last week - you do emotions. you do them and you feel them more heavily than most people i know." he slowly spins to look at you. "so start talking." the command is softer than the rest of your words.

finally, he relents. you sit on the couch with bated breath as he explained that he doesn't have the social life he had presented to you that first night. that his coworkers all think he's an asshole, that he's a dick and he isn't the kind of person to be friends with. "up until now, i didn't think i was the kind of person to be a boyfriend, let alone a friend."

it stung a little. jake as little as you had known him, had been one thing - confident. reassured in his personality and his work. he had this charisma around him that lured you in without him needing to really try. "i don't know how you believe that." you speak softly, pushing hair out of his face as it falls, gel from this morning weak from the impact of G-force pressures and california humidity. "you're a fun guy. you always make me laugh. i feel so.. safe around you. it's hard to imagine anyone else not appreciating that like i do."

jake's laid back on the couch now, looking up at you before looking at the ceiling. "yeah, well i guess the reality is that i'm easy to hate, hard to love. an acquired taste."

"that couldn't be further from the truth." it slips out so easily. green eyes perk up in curiosity.

"angel, i'm- to make it quick, i'm a menace. people know my callsign and they know my reputation. a selfish dick looking to get to the top and on top of women. hell, i don't know why you've stuck around as long as you have, so clearly somehow i've rubbed off on you."

your legs shift as you try to adjust on the couch to look at him better. "jake, i'm not going to be that girl. it would be a little weird if i was that girl, i mean, it's been what, a month?" he's slowly raising onto his elbows when you start in your ramblings, "but, you just- you take me by surprise in the best way, at every turn. yeah, sure they have some idea of you but it's not jake. it's not the guy who's impulsively buying karaoke machines to have idiotic nights in, or the guy who's sneaking pictures before anyone can notice because you're sentimental. or even the guy who hides the tears in his eyes at the end of how to train your dragon-"

he points at you with an amused expression, "you saw the way that dragon curls around him, he saved him." you can't hold back the laugh.

"my point is: hangman is so, so far from jake. cause i mean, i love jake, he's... he's my guy. and i don't get what's so hard to love about that." you give a small smile until it computes in your head what you've said. "i ugh..." jake keeps a coy grin on his features, leaning into his chin now that he's rolled onto his stomach, knowingly catching onto what you've said. "is it cool that i said that? i mean i- we can pretend that i didn't and forget this ever happened-"

he cuts you off with a soft press of lips to your own. the taste of apple juice still lingers on his chapped skin, before he pulls away. "it's cool." he offers, a hand coming to take your own.

"i promise i won't say it again." there's a mad blush on your face and jake just laughs.

"ah, don't you go promising nothing. let's just go finish dinner, yeah?"

and jake takes his rightful place next to you at the stove, towering over you as his head bounces along to the music you've put on, glancing at apartment listings that you pull up.

[khaire-traveler]

So, my friend just left their job at a certain chain of grocery stores that starts with a W and decided to share some interesting facts with me. I thought y'all might find it interesting, too.

W has had a major problem with theft since introducing the "no plastic bags". People keep putting things in their personal bags at the self checkout or even leaving them purposely in their bags at the cash registers (and most cashiers don't actually check for hidden items if other bags are inside of the main bag or if it's not obvious).

They've applied new locks to certain items that hang because people would just pull them off of the old locks. They're actually planning to introduce more security measures in the future - specifically, putting many items behind locked glass doors.

W's self checkout now has features where it can detect a ticket switch (scanning another product in place of the actual product) and a mis-scan. Pretty interesting stuff! Apparently, though, it's not always 100% accurate, and if someone were to scan the second ticket in such a way that the camera above couldn't see it, it may not be able to detect it. The machine, however, can tell when two VERY different items do not match (ex: scanning a pair of expensive headphones as a fruit). If it detects a problem, the attendant can pause the transaction and review the footage of the last item that was scanned. Definitely a helpful security feature!

The greeters at the front of the store are trained to only check a receipt if there are unbagged items. Along with that, if they see a bag or backpack, they'll check receipts then, too, and will look inside of the bag if the customer allows it. Crazy thing is that you can deny having your receipt checked! They can't and won't do anything if a customer just walks past them, and if they try to stop a customer leaving, W can get sued.

The only W personnel who are allowed to deal with shoplifters and the like are the Asset Protection Team™. No one else is allowed to touch a suspected thief, nor are they allowed to accuse a customer of stealing. If a customer is accused of stealing and forced through a receipt check yet hasn't stolen anything, W legally has to compensate them for the hassle upon request (with proof, such as camera footage, the request simply can't be denied, though W may try to prolong the process).

W employees are required to clean up spills immediately upon seeing them. I'd say most employees will just leave the spill, grab the equipment, then come to clean it up in reality, but they're supposed to "guard" the spill until they can find another associate to help them clean it up. I'm just saying, but this seems like a really unfortunate distraction that could take an employee's attention away from other matters, such as if there's suspicious activity nearby and someone was purposely creating some kind of distraction. These spills do make their jobs harder, however.

One of the biggest issues that I heard about was people scanning the quantity of certain items as less than there actually were (specifically at self checkouts). Pastries and fruits are a good example of this. Some people will enter one cookie but actually have 3, for example. I think the items this happens most often with are cookies, donuts, avocados, bananas, lemons, limes, mangoes, cantaloupes, and any items that like those that don't require a weight to purchase. This is the case with most grocery store self checkouts, however.

Although many of the cameras W places within random store aisles are fake, those that are placed near expensive items tend to be legit cameras. There was a post that circulated online about how these cameras tend to be fake, and due to that post, you'll now see lots of thieves get caught on cameras that they assumed were not real. It's so wild when you see those videos on YouTube! Those videos literally expose the identities of the people who steal to potentially thousands of people across the world and establish shitty reputations for said people. Other stores are made aware of their identities and can more easily prevent the stealing!

Speaking of those videos, it's very silly to watch those thieves try to hide things in their coats or bags just to discover that the items don't fit. It's almost as if they didn't check beforehand to make sure they'd have enough room, especially without it being noticeable! I mean, don't they practice in a mirror or even have a loved one who checks to see if it's obvious? That's so wild to me!

While associates who are at registers and self checkouts aren't allowed to intervene if they see or suspect a thief, they do have to immediately alert the managers and asset protection. It's pretty wild to see this process in action and watch how quickly the team can move! I've even heard of asset protection being allowed to tackle customers they believe are stealing, although I've never seen this in action. I kind of feel like tackling a thief, especially one you're not sure is actually a thief, would be a good way to get W sued, you know?

I feel like SOOOOO many thieves get caught by giving themselves away, tbh. I guess this isn't something my friend told me, but I've seen it happen so many times in security footage videos on YouTube where the person stealing will look around them as they're grabbing the item, quickly put the item into wherever, look around again, and use a lot of nervous body language as they try to exit the store. Like, the best thieves I've seen have always acted very confident - being aware of their surroundings before grabbing the item, grabbing the item very casually, finding a casual way to slip it into somewhere as they walk away, and walking out with the confidence that they know exactly what they're doing and absolutely nothing is wrong. They seem to walk with their backs straight and their heads held up a bit, almost as if to say "I'm not worried". Either that, or they walk with a very relaxed stride, like that of someone who's just walking into W and walking back out for no reason in particular. When they put too much thought into how they walk, however, it becomes much more obvious. A dead giveaway is probably when the thief acts fidgety, seems paranoid, displays signs of being very nervous whenever an associate is nearby or watching them, and walks very rigidly. You also tend to see good thieves going to checkout lanes that are the furthest from an employee or are in a spot in the middle. Pretty interesting!

Please share this if you'd like! This information is very important for us customers to be aware of. Hopefully, we can spot security threats ourselves and report them to employees of any store! I'm sure many of these things happen at other stores besides W.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Rough and Rowdy Ways

Day #22 - AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Van Tour, Known Destroyers of Hotels, Motel Desk Clerk Steve Harrington, Meet Cute

One more dingy room, one more motel that's just a little more rundown than the last. It's been a long few years on the road, each one getting harder and harder. They have upswings, and downswings, and right now, they're definitely down. Playing smaller venues in the middle of fucking nowhere, more often than not. 

They aren't famous, more infamous than anything, because there's been a few incidents over the years that have put them in the papers for less than flattering reasons.

Damages, lawsuits. 

Rough and rowdy.

Assholes.

That's the name they've made for themselves. Gareth is still on probation from the last hotel trashing, and that was the straw that broke the camel's back, making all the major chains put the kibosh on them staying anywhere decent for the near future.

Most of them have their pictures hanging up, like they're outlaws. 

Eddie sees an old, falling apart neon sign with an arrow promising a motel. He's not sure it'll still be there. It's a toss-up, for sure, as shitty as that sign looks. 

But when they see the gravel turn-off, there is a solitary car sitting in the parking lot. Something that looks too nice, too expensive, for a place like this. 

But, they'll have to try their luck and see if they can slide under the radar, pay cash, give fake names, and go unnoticed. Move on down the road tomorrow. 

There's a guy sitting behind the desk, and he looks out of place in this shitty, unkempt place. He's very kempt. The most kempt person Eddie's seen in days.

Gareth immediately rings the bell, and Eddie wants to throttle him. That's never a good way to make a first impression. And they are the ones needing something here. 

"One room, please," Gareth says. 

The guy looks them up and down, and then shrugs. Pulling two sets of keys off a peg behind the desk. 

He has pretty eyes. Very pretty eyes, pretty everything, really.

"Twenty dollars. Room four," he offers, like he doesn't give a shit if they burn the place down. Maybe he doesn't care. "Name?"

"Edward Jones," Gareth says, mashing their names together.

"Sure you are," the guy says, and they both look at each other, "just sign here."

"What's that mean?" Gareth asks.

"Edward D. Jones? The financial advisors?"

It's not ringing a bell. They carry their money in a duffle bag. They definitely don't have any advisors.

"Coincidence," Gareth says, and Eddie thinks it might actually be, because he's not sure Gareth would know that either. 

"Checkout is at noon," he says, and then picks back up the book he was reading.

Transaction over.

Eddie paces the room, and the rest of them are getting annoyed. Goodie has already kicked him twice as he's walked by, and Gareth is sassing him.

Just. That guy. Steve, his name tag said, but that might have been as fake as Edward Jones.

"I'm gonna go get ice," Eddie declares, and the rest of them all seem to sigh in relief that he and his nervous energy are leaving the room.

Eddie carries the cheap plastic ice bucket up to the counter, "Steve?"

Steve looks up, so maybe that is his real name.

"Where's the ice machine?"

"It's broken," Steve answers.

"Oh. Damn," Eddie says, leaning up on the counter, trying to encroach on his personal space, just a little. Steve doesn't back up, not an inch, which is impressive. This usually works to make people uncomfortable. "I really need some ice. It's so hot."

Steve is looking at him, straight in the eyes, "Is that so?"

Eddie smiles, and isn't sure what he expects might happen, but he'll shoot his shot. There's no harm in it, he'll never see this guy again, come tomorrow.

"I have an ice machine in the back, if you want me to get you some. It's not really for the guests."

"Well, I appreciate that. I won't tell any of the other guests," Eddie says, a little sarcastic, because he's pretty sure nobody else is here.

Steve rolls his eyes, and grabs the brown bucket, pulling it across the counter and disappears through the open door behind him. 

Eddie follows.

He's pretty sure he's not supposed to, but Steve didn't tell him to wait at the counter.

Steve lifts the lid and grabs the metal scoop, filling the bucket. When he turns, he catches sight of Eddie and the bucket goes flying, ice spilling all over the floor.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry!" Eddie says, holding his hands up, just realizing that he may look threatening. He forgets that sometimes. "I'm not, I won't. Fuck. I'm sorry."

And then Steve laughs, a nervous giggle that makes Eddie smile, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I wasn't thinking. I'm a musician. Eddie."

"Jones?" 

Eddie laughs, "Munson. That's my best friend, Gareth Jones. A coincidence, I think."

And Steve smiles, just a little, "Okay, just. This place brings in the freaks and weirdos," Steve says.

And Eddie points at himself, eyebrows raised.

"Little bit," Steve teases, and Eddie grins.

"Let me help you pick up the ice," Eddie offers, getting down on his hands and knees, swiping it all towards himself. Then Steve is standing over him with a broom.

"This might be more efficient," Steve says, sarcastically and Eddie laughs as Steve sweeps up the mess.

Eddie's palms are black from the floor. And somehow it's not the dirtiest place they've ever stayed.

"Is there a sink?" Eddie asks, showing Steve his palms, and Steve nods towards the little bathroom off the breakroom.

There are personal items all over the sink, and a small, corner shower. Does Steve live here? Eddie suspects someone does, if it isn't him.

Steve is leaning in the open doorway, watching him, but in a curious way, not in a suspicious way, Eddie thinks. Which is good. Great.

"Do you live here?" Eddie asks.

"Unfortunately," Steve says, smirking.

"Wanna run away and be a roadie?"

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

[torahoes]

(IDOLiSH7) Torao Mido - La'Stiara Rabbit Chat

Please note that I am not a professional translator. If you come across any mistakes, feel free to let me know and I will make the necessary corrections.

Touma Inumaru:

Touma Inumaru: Toraaaa

Touma Inumaru: Remember the other day when we talked about going for a drive soon now that the weather’s getting nicer? I found a day off next week 👍

Torao Mido: What’s this? Are you that eager to go on a drive with me?

Touma Inumaru: Oh, would it be better if it’s not so soon? 🤔 If that’s the case, I guess we can just do it another time

Torao Mido: Huh?

Touma Inumaru: Eh?

Torao Mido: Just say you want to go! You said "soon", so next week is perfect, isn't it!?

Touma Inumaru: So that day works for you!? Why can’t you just say you want to go like a normal person!

Torao Mido: If you want to go, I can join you.

Touma Inumaru: Geez, fine, fine! I really wanna go to the beach with you, Tora! 😆

Touma Inumaru:

Torao Mido: The beach, huh. Not a bad idea

Torao Mido: I know a quiet, peaceful spot in Kamakura that doesn't get many visitors. It’s the perfect place to enjoy the view of the ocean.

Touma Inumaru: That's our Tora! 👍 I wonder if they sell Ramune somewhere near the beach… or maybe it's out of season already?

Torao Mido: Ramune? Like the candy?

Touma Inumaru: Not that kind; I mean the one Haru was drinking the other day!

Torao Mido: Ah, the one he said he received after helping out the neighborhood association with his grandma?

Touma Inumaru: Yup, that! Ever since I saw him drinking it, I’ve been craving it too 😆 Drinking it outdoors just makes it taste even better!

Torao Mido: Why do they have a marble ball inside them?

Touma Inumaru: Huh, good question…

Touma Inumaru: Why do they…? Maybe it's because the clinking sound makes it feel refreshing… or something...?

Torao Mido: Well, it did make a nice sound…

Touma Inumaru: Right? Sometimes they sell bottles without the marble, but it's just not as exciting 🤩

Torao Mido: Can you take the marble out?

Touma Inumaru: Nope, you can’t! When I was a kid, my friends and I tried so hard to get it out~~! Man, this brings back memories! 🤩✨

Torao Mido: I looked it up. Apparently, it's there to seal the bottle and keep the carbonation inside

Touma Inumaru: Is that so?!?! The marble actually has an important job, huh

Touma Inumaru: We’re definitely buying ones that have the marble ball! You’re coming shopping with me, Tora! 👍

Torao Mido: Got it. For food, let’s go to that restaurant you recommended before. That’s in Kamakura too, right?

Touma Inumaru: Sounds good, let’s go!! Their seafood rice bowls are insanely good 🤤

Torao Mido: Is it a ticket machine place?

Torao Mido: I should bring cash too. I’ve learned that many older places often don’t accept cashless payments

Touma Inumaru: Tora~~! You adapt way too fast LOL

Touma Inumaru: Nah, it’s the kind where you just place your order with the sweet old lady there. But you’re right; they only accepted cash 😳

Touma Inumaru: Man, you’ve really settled in, Tora!

Torao Mido: Well, there’s nothing I can’t do.

Touma Inumaru: But still, here you are talking about ticket machines and stuff, yet in "La’Stiara" you were looking all cool and glamorous holding that jewel… it's so unfair! 😆 ‼️

Torao Mido: "La’Stiara" has been close with my family ever since I was a kid, and we've been in their care. I doubt there's anyone better suited for this than me.

Touma Inumaru: Seriously!?

Touma Inumaru: So while I was desperately trying to get the marbles out of Ramune bottles and getting excited about pretty pebbles I found lying around, you were already holding actual jewels… 😳 ‼️

Torao Mido: It’s not like I wanted them. I was just supposed to have such things.

Torao Mido: But

Torao Mido: What kind of “pretty pebbles” are you talking about?

Touma Inumaru: Hmm, well, they don't compare to the jewels we held in our photoshoots, but sometimes you find these really clear and beautifully colored stones just lying around! 😳 ✨

Touma Inumaru: Or even ones that are super smooth and shiny! ✨

Torao Mido: Interesting…..

Touma Inumaru: Wanna go look for some next time!? We can invite Haru and Mina too!

Torao Mido: Think they'll come?

Touma Inumaru: Of course they will!! Stuff like this is fun no matter how old you get! 😆

Torao Mido: Is that so?

Torao Mido: Guess I’ll give it a try then

Touma Inumaru: Awesome! I’m happy I've got even more plans with you guys now 👍

Touma Inumaru: I mean, I never would've imagined this was even possible considering how we used to be!

Torao Mido: Touma, you get emotional about this kind of stuff a lot, huh?

Touma Inumaru: Yeah, but can you blame me?!! 😂 Tora starts liking the stuff we like, Haru eats sweets like they’re the tastiest thing ever right in front of us, and we go to the cool restaurants Mina finds together!

Touma Inumaru: What could possibly be better than this? 😂

Torao Mido: Yeah, maybe you’re right

Torao Mido: I think I get how you feel now, Touma

Torao Mido: I have a feeling the pretty pebbles we find together might be worth more than any jewels.

Touma Inumaru: Tora…

Touma Inumaru: I’m reaaallllyyy looking forward to our drive!!!

Touma Inumaru:

Torao Mido: Yeah. I am too

Torao Mido:

The End.

[mangofanarts]

Dapper asked Bad why did he suddenly want more neighbors and Bad's reply was that it was always good to have more neighbors, that they should get out more enough. And then Dapper's response after that was "we've always been fine with no neighbors." It just makes me want to scream because Bad wants neighbors so that they'll take care of Dapper when something terrible happens to Bad.

And Dapper noticing that it's weird for his dad to want neighbors because it is- weird! It's so very weird for Bad, someone who has lived in an underground dungeon before, making it specifically very far away so that no one could go near it - wants neighbors. Dapper knows so much about Bad because of the information that Bad tells him and Dapper is aware of how paranoid his father is of other people. What's up with this sudden shift in his dad? Why is he doing that? He says it's good to have more neighbors and to get outside more but they've never really had neighbors before on the other side of the island. His dad also doesn't really seem to care that much before about getting outside either. Dapper mentions it herself that it feels weird.

When Dapper mentions that, Bad quickly tries to make another excuse for why he wants neighbors. It's for money, of course! For business, Dapper! For cash money! Which Dapper seems more willing to accept, but not quite yet with the excuse as he says "Isn't Spawn for that?" and then Bad agrees, that Spawn is for that too. But then moves the topic away by showing Dapper his create machine.

[psithurista]

approach shift - epilogue

pairing: Peter Parker x f!reader (TASM/Andrew Garfield version) length: 2.3k rating: explicit 18+ warnings: PIV (protected), sneaky little non-descriptive pegging reference, disGUSting fluff

Peter Parker is a weirdo. A hot, distracting, irritating weirdo. And you can’t afford distractions right now. So there’s only one thing to do.

a/n: I'll keep it quick: I'm so sorry this took so long, but I just wasn't quite ready to finish it off haha. It's been two years almost to the day since I started writing this (and they've been fucking crazy years) so it feels very strange saying goodbye to these adorable losers. I once again can't even start to express how happy it's made me seeing your reactions to this fic, and I'm endlessly grateful to everyone who took the time to leave a comment or reach out to say hi. I hope you like this last sweet little snippet! x

series masterlist

SIX MONTHS LATER

“We need to get up,” you say, making no move to do so.

He turns his face from where it’s smushed into the pillow to speak, his eyes still closed. “You first.”

You groan. 

You have no idea what time it is, and your phone is out of reach, but the light through the curtains is blinding like near-noon and Bear’s supposed to be here at 10 to pick you up, so you’re almost definitely cutting it fine.

“Peter.” Your legs are tangled with his, his thigh between yours. He huffs morning breath sleepily into your face in response, reaching a hand out to pat your cheek. 

“Shh.” He shifts, pressing his thigh harder between your legs, skin sticky on skin. You know he’s doing it on purpose; he knows exactly where he’s pressing you. You make a quiet, satisfied noise, then pull away regretfully. 

“Bear’s gonna be here soon and you need to be dressed. She’ll freak if she has to see your ass again.” 

“Mmm. Yeah. I’m up.”

You sit up, and the slow weight of his arm slides off your waist. The bedroom door is open to the living room where you can see the debris left over from your at-home date the night before: the bowl still on the couch with a handful of unpopped kernels still rattling in the bottom, the fairy lights web-stuck across the ceiling still glowing gently and the blown-out candles stuck in pastel wax puddles to the coffee table you’d rescued from the curb a few weeks after moving in together. It’d been unbearably funny watching Peter’s elaborate performance of pretending to struggle under the weight of it on the way back home.

He drags himself out of bed, and you hear the coffee machine gurgling while you start pulling out clothes.

It’s hot and stuffy; the air’s stopped working again sometime in the night, so you screech the window open and prop the broom handle under the frame to keep it there. It’s a precarious solution—more than once, the window’s fallen shut while you’ve been at work, forcing Peter to awkwardly perform a frantic outfit change behind the dumpster in the alley so he doesn’t run the risk of running into one of your neighbours in the elevator. But the rent’s affordable for a pair of research scientists with a dash of supplementary freelance photography cash on the side, and the occasional bags of free food from a grateful shop owner after a thwarted hold-up.

“Should we call about the air?” you wonder out loud through the open door.

 “Don’t worry about it, it’ll be quicker if I just get up on the roof and fix it again myself,” Peter says, his voice stretching out into a yawn halfway through. He appears in the bathroom doorway, still naked, two mugs in his hands. 

You gasp in appreciation as he passes one to you. “God, I love you,” you murmur, taking a sip.

He grins dazedly at you in the mirror, his cheeks flushed. “Is that all it takes, huh? A crappy cup of coffee?”

You turn and slide the mug onto the counter so you can wrap your arms around his waist. “No. You’re cute, too. That helps.”

He kisses you, his thumb and index finger framing your chin. “M’not cute,” he says against your lips, leaning his too-warm body along yours. “M’intimidating as hell. Ask anybody.”

You’d only gotten as far as underwear before he’d interrupted you dressing, and it already feels like there’s far too much in the way between you. “You’re gonna make me late,” you say, reaching down to dig your fingers into the taut swell of his ass. “Gotta get ready.”

“Okay, so keep getting ready,” he says, mouthing at your neck. “You’re the one groping me.”

He’s right; now you’ve started, you can’t seem to stop. You press your hands to the small of his back, drawing him closer. You can feel his cock beginning to harden where his body is pressed against yours, and his tongue comes out to touch at your pulse. He makes a tiny noise in his throat as you slip one hand down between your bodies to wrap loosely around his rapidly-growing erection.

You stroke him once, gently, and he huffs. “I don’t see how this is helping,” he says. 

You hum your response, your resolve melting away as he strokes the back of his knuckles down your spine, making you shiver. “Maybe…” you say.

He ducks his head to kiss first one breast, then the other, your nipples standing hard and sensitive. “Maybe?” he prompts. His fingers brush your hip, coming around to rest just below your navel.

“Maybe, if we’re quick…” you say, biting your lip, pushing your hips upward to try to encourage his hand lower.


“Babe, I can be so quick,” he says, half-groan, half-laughter. He thumbs your labia, spreading you open just a little, so he can touch your clit. “Too quick, even, if you want. Some would say it’s a talent.”

You grin at him, letting go of his cock. “Bed. Now.”

He swings you up into his arms so fast your head spins, practically flinging you onto the bed. 

You sprawl out in front of him, your arms thrown back as he peels your underwear off. “Holy shit,” he says, running his hands down your sides, staring at the expanse of your body. His jaw is slack with longing, and the sight of his adoration never fails to make fresh heat flood your face, even after seeing him staring at you like this so many times.

He kneels down over you, sucking two fingers into his mouth as he does. You hitch your knees up to give him a better angle, and he gently presses a firm thigh between your legs. “How do you wanna…?”

“Condom,” you tell him, running your fingers through his hair, making his eyes roll closed with pleasure. “No mess.”

He holds your lower lip gently between his teeth, and slowly pushes his two slick fingers inside you. You shift your hips up, and he withdraws them both again, using the slip of your arousal to work against your clit. He kneels up a little, so he can palm your breast with his other hand as he bends down to lick the inside of your thighs.

“Oh,” you breathe. His fingers stop circling to push back inside you, just as his tongue works a hot, messy kiss over your clit. You grab handfuls of his hair to try to keep up with the pace he’s setting, but the feeling of your fingers against his scalp only makes him work faster, a weak groan vibrating down through his tongue.

He bends his head lower, so he can lick around where your wetness has started to gather on his knuckles as he keeps pumping leisurely, in and out. It’s so wet you can both hear it, and he works faster, angling his fingers higher, until you’re writhing.

“Peter…come on, please,” you beg, yanking hard at his hair. 

It works to break his concentration, and he scrambles up, leaning down sideways so he can dig around in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. It’s filled with an assorted mix of toys and, stashed further back, Peter’s wrist canisters. The logic had been that anybody who broke into your apartment would be too freaked out by the toys to keep looking in the drawer, but it also meant Peter had to dig through a dizzying array of plugs and lube every time he went out.

You turn your head to the side and see the wistful way he glances at your strap-on, and you click your tongue. “We’re in a hurry, remember? Later.”

“Mmm. I’ll hold you to that,” he says, kissing you again as he rolls the condom smoothly over his cock.

He leans back, propping a pillow under your hips to give himself more leverage. As he sinks inside you, you hold your breath, letting it out slowly.

He groans above you, easing just a millimeter out and then back in, like he can’t help himself. It feels devastatingly good; he’s thick and beautifully hard right against where you need him, and thanks to his mouth, you’re wet enough that you’re ready for him to start moving immediately.  

You hook your ankles together behind his back to pull him in deeper, and he sinks home, fully seated balls-deep inside. You clench your muscles, just to feel as much of him as you can, and he grinds his hips against yours. 

You can feel the tension in his limbs as he draws back and starts to move. You’ll never, ever get sick of how he feels inside you, you think, your mouth open. He’s fucking you so good; his strokes long and firm and perfect.

He cups your ass with his hand to lift your hips even further, shifting the angle once again, and your breath stutters sharply in your throat as the head of his cock catches your g-spot.

“That’s it, right?” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. “Right there? That’s it, babe, c’mon, show me, I wanna see…”

You can’t even respond, your fingers gripping his biceps like his body is your only lifeline. It’s so good, and you’re getting so close, you just need…

“Fuck,” you gasp, high-pitched and panicked as you come, hard and blinding. 

He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he fucks you harder, chasing down his own release as you clench and melt around him. It only takes a few more moments before his cock jerks inside you and he curses, collapsing the hot weight of his body on yours.

You pant together, sweaty and spent. His cheek is crushed to yours, and he turns his face just enough to kiss any part of you he can reach—the top of your shoulder, your forehead, the tip of your ear.

When you manage to drag your eyes open, you find his huge doe-brown eyes already looking at you. “Good?” he whispers, kissing your shoulder again.

You smile at him, feeling drunk and dizzy. “So good,” you tell him.

You’re still wrapped up in each other like idiots when he jolts hard as though startled. You’re confused for about half a second, before the buzzer from downstairs goes off. 

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, scrambling out of bed.

“You get ready,” Peter says, somehow already dragging on a pair of sweatpants. The speed and dexterity with which he’s able to dress never ceases to amaze you. “I’ll stall.”

You’re stepping out of the fastest shower of your life when you hear the squeaky door to your apartment opening.

“Hey, Bear,” Peter’s voice says.

“Hey, Parker. Your shirt’s inside-out,” she says. 

You lean the naked top half of your body around the bathroom door to wave at her. “Hey, sorry, I just got out of the shower. I need like, three minutes to get dressed.”

She clicks her tongue, but doesn’t look overly annoyed as she flops onto the couch. “It’s hot as shit in here,” she says cheerfully, swinging her feet up onto your coffee table. 

You can hear her and Peter chatting as you hurriedly get ready; he asks her about Krista, she asks him about his aunt. Unsurprisingly, Bear and May had hit it off in a huge way at your birthday after May had excitedly demanded to know everything about the play Bear was auditioning for.

You give yourself a quick once-over to make sure you look presentable before you duck out into the living room. Peter and Bear have moved onto once again arguing about music; Peter’s on Blur’s side, Bear’s on Oasis’. 

You give them both a sideways look. “I’m not getting involved in this,” you say, checking to make sure your keys are in your bag. “But I’m just saying, in a real fight, Liam Gallagher would kick Damon Albarn’s ass any day of the week.” Peter grins at you from behind the counter, where he’s attempting to clean the disaster left in the kitchen from dinner last night.

“Oh, my God,” Bear says, looking you up and down. “Why do you look so worked up? Were you guys just fucking? Like right now?”

 Peter can’t turn away fast enough to conceal his snort, and you make a face at her. “It’s called caffeine. Come on, we’ll be late.”

Peter waves at her. “Say hi to Krista.”

“You should come with us, next time you get a night off work,” Bear says, helping herself to a stick of gum from the packet on the bench.

“Bye,” you say, leaning in to wrap your arms around Peter’s waist. “Be careful,” you add quietly, leaning up to kiss him.

He grins. “Always am.” He kisses you back, slow and gentle, before letting you go.

Bear shakes her head. “You guys are so gross. Later, Parker.”

Peter trails you to the door so he can close it behind you. Bear’s a few feet ahead of you, and you don’t mean to linger, but you can’t help but look back one last time as you go.

Peter’s leaning in the door, a dish rag over his shoulder. His hair’s chaotic from where you’d run your fingers through it, and his cheeks are still a little pink with warmth. 

As you watch, his eyes crease at the corners. “Love you,” he mouths, too quiet for Bear to hear. He still has the cutlery in his hands he’d been drying before you walked out; two knives, two forks. 

You can feel your face splitting into a smile you’re sure must be even goofier than his. You hold his gaze, and as Bear drags you away, you’re missing him already.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

heyyy. Just had a thought about what would tan would be like on reader's birthday but they aren't together. So readeranf the twins are friends so what kind of stuff would they get her. Feel like tan would get something really meaningful and sweet that is something that he must really listen to what reader says in general to know. And when he gives her it he's reaally awkward and a blushing mess cyz he's worried she won't like it and he's saying stuff like'you can return it if u don't like it' 'its a stupid gift so u probably won't like it'. Love ur stuff recently :))

my baby hi!! sorry this has taken me longer to reply to than I usually would. been a little busy last couple days!! I got a little carried away and I couldn’t stop coming up with things😭💌

TAN GIVING READER BIRTHDAY GIFTS.

but

this guy is so thoughtful that no one can tell me otherwise!! he's a good listener, especially when you think he's not paying attention AND he's got cash to flunk which helps aid his gift-giving abilities so so so...

he's a bit of a snooper, so if he sees a tab open on your laptop or computer and it's a shopping website, he'd quickly click on it and take a picture so that he can remember what it is. maybe he deletes the items from your cart so you can't buy them for yourself

if you and the twins are shopping, and tan sees you eye up something, he'd make a note to pick it up (he's come back in a few hours or next day)

it depends on what things you like - ie flashy designer gifts or gifts for things you need/ can't buy. but he doesn't want to disappoint you so he'd get you something within that category (in that safe sweet spot)

maybe he mistakes things, so if he thinks you like a certain candle scent, he'd get it for you in air freshener form, not knowing that you know there's a difference in the smells (hence why you've never bought it for yourself) so he thinks he's being sweet (he is) but you don't really like the smell, but he's so thoughtful that you say you love the scent name (that makes sense right?)

he goes overboard and definitely puts lem's gifts to shame (even though he got you perfect gifts (I feel like lem just knows what you want and like, and the presents have funny inside jokes))

he tries hard to find the balance between a friendly and romantic gift - not wanting to overstep that line 

maybe your washing machine broke? so he buys you a new one, but a model better than your one before. maybe you mention how your floor seems empty? so he buys you a rug to match your space (would probs ask lem for advice) maybe you mention how you're running low on a lip gloss you like? but he doesn't know the shade name, so he gets you all the shades in that brand/ line so you can pick and choose when you want (it's your go-to one and you have it out often, hence why he knows the brand - he can read the logo) clear, pinks, purples, reds, browns, oranges - he'd get them all 

maybe you mention how you want to liven up your bedroom to match the season? so he buys you new bedding with colours to match your room (again, he asks lem to help) maybe you had your eye on a pair of shoes or boots but they're way out of your price range? guess what? he's had them boxed up and in his wardrobe the whole time (ready to give you on your bday) maybe there's a foreign snack you like but it's near impossible to find? so you bet when he's away for work he hunts around the shops to see if he can find any. ALSO!!!!! if he can, he'd buy loads, like I mean loads and pay to mail them back home so he can give it to you for your bday (dying)

and when it comes to actually giving them to you, he's all nervy and anxious bc he doesn't want you to hate them, so he puts it out there that he's uncertain about what he got you (even though he knows he did a good job) ALSO he really really values your opinion!!! so he says things like "I got the receipt at home if you don't like it" "that one's stupid. I thought it was alright in the shop, but I dunno" "you're hard to buy for (lie) I'll get you better stuff at christmas (or whatever it is you do or don't celebrate)" “I won’t be offended if you swap it” (or return/ refund)

and the reason you have a slight scowl is not bc of the gifts, but bc of what he's saying. like they're PERFECT gifts and he's saying that they're not 

so you're like "how did you even know I wanted that?" and he says how he has his sources yadayada

he's such a cutie pie <3

[dirtysvthoughts]

𝓟 𝓡 𝓘 𝓥 𝓐 𝓣 𝓔 𝓓 𝓐 𝓝 𝓒 𝓔 𝓡 - CHAPTER ONE

pairing: gang leader! soonyoung x stripper! reader

word count: 2.3k

general tags/warnings: smut, pwp, female! reader, mentions of violence, m*rder, and blood, stripper things, a steamy lap dance, reader gets fully nude, big dick! soonyoung, pet names (pretty girl, baby, etc.), reader falls for soonyoung, sex w/o condom (remember if they can’t wrap it, protect yourself please), kinda a slow burn for the start of the series!

playlist songs: everything you want - pap chanel, streets - doja cat, naughty girl - beyoncé

notes: ITS FINALLY HERE BABESSSS!! i’m so excited to share this series with y’all and i hope you enjoy it! <3 every chapter will include up to 3 songs inspired by the events of the story!

soonyoung sits alone in a dark corner of his faction’s warehouse, only a few spotlights illuminating their large meeting space - deep in thought. tonight, it was just him and his five most trusted guys, finishing what might’ve been their most difficult job yet.

soonyoung is the leader of one of the most infamous gangs in the region, known for their ruthless ways. they’ve murdered, gambled, brawled with other rival gangs. many of their incidents have ended in extremely close calls, with someone either near death or two steps away from handcuffs. but they didn’t care. this was they way of life they chose. anyone that dared come in their way, they eliminated them without hesitation.

“double check the duffel bags, and make sure not one bill is missing," soonyoung says as he gets up, going to wash away the rest of the blood remnants from his hand. their job tonight was taking out another gang’s higher ups, they and they put up a hell of a fight. soonyoung genuinely wondered if the close calls he got in that knife fight were even worth they amount of money they were promised. “i swear to god if he fucks up my income again, that’s his ass,” he grumbles, hoping that this would be over with faster than he thought.

when he finishes, he approaches the table where the rest of his comrades were. “well?” he says, watching one of the guys as he puts the last stack of paper through the money counter, the familiar sound of cash rustling through the machine.

“that’s it - all $40,000 from tonight’s job, boss,” one of the guys say, wiping his forehead, hissing when he brushes against a slight gash. soonyoung smiles for probably the first time all day, relieved that finally, he could get to do what he wanted to do.

“alright boys, gather up the bags and shut all of this shit down - i got the perfect place for us to spend some of this cash,” he presses a button opening a garage door as he walks out first, heading to a black suv.

——

“club illusion?” another one of his guys say as they pull into the club’s parking lot, viewing the neon purple and green signs. “not to question you soonyoung, but why here?”

he rolls his eyes and scoffs i’m the passenger seat, surprised at how not everyone was connecting the dots. “word is, they have the best and prettiest dancers here, and they might have some dealers here, heard they have the strongest shit too..” soonyoung says as he jumps out the car, fixing his jacket as he walks forward, everyone else exiting the car packing around him for protection.

the group walks past everyone in the long line, complaints and shouting starting to get louder the further they reached the entrance. but before soonyoung can sneakily bypass to get inside, one of the bodyguards stops them.

“yo, i’m pretty sure you see this line - what makes your think that you’re better than everyone else?” soonyoung smirks as he shows the patches on his jacket, signifying his affiliation and ranking. the guard’s eyes widen for a second, but he slips back into his demeanor.

“listen,” he says in a low tone for only him and the guard to hear, “i’ve had a long day, and i would really like to relax.. and you don’t wanna see me not relaxed,” the guard glances at the other men, meeting their menacing stares, and looks back at soonyoung.

“drop your weapons in the bin,” the guard says. soonyoung places his hand on the guard shoulders, smirking at him as he walks past. “wise choice,” he says as he drops his knife in the bin, the others following suites, chuckling as they walk past, some of them flicking him off.

—-

blue stage lights flood the club’s main floor as people sit on the tables and lounges, dancers in skimpy outfits, twirling on the poles and shaking their asses to the heavy bass. cash scatters some of the stage platforms, dancers teasing their audience by sexily covering themselves with it. the air smells hazy, a tinge of weed lingering in the atmosphere.

“forget i questioned you boss - we definitely needed to come here tonight,” he smiles, nodding his head at a dancer he made eye contact with. “i’m not leaving until i fucked one of these girls and have them screaming my name,” he says starting to drift away from the others.

“you guys are free to go where you want,” soonyoung says, eyeing his surroundings quickly. “if you run into any body, let me know and i’ll handle it.”

as the guys separate, soonyoung walks forward, observing the sights around him. as his mind takes it all in, the dj drops a beat and comes back on the mic.

“what’s up, club illusion!” the dj yells and the crowd responds appropriately. “we got some great dancers in the building and they got bills to pay, so show ‘em some love!” the audience cheers and more people continue to toss their cash on the stages.

“now coming to the main stage, one of club illusion’s sexiest, seductive dancers - welcome to the main stage, ms. sageeeeee!!” the crowd screams wildly as the lights dim and they focus on the main stage, soonyoung’s eyes immediately taking what was in front of him.

the music starts, the familiar “oohing” of the streets silhouette remix playing with through the speakers.

and that’s when he sees you.

you confidently strut on stage, your black, glossy 8 inch pleasers striding one in front of the other, your strappy black bodysuit practically exposing all of your backside. once you reach the pole, you roll your head to the right and slide your hand up your body.

“put your head on my shoul-” the music switches and you go into a side spin, the crowd continuing to go crazy as you transition and hold a pose upside down.

as the song progresses and come to end, soonyoung can’t your eyes off you for one second. he’s enamored by you - your movement, your presence, not to mention how sexy you looked in that barely-there bodysuit. you strike a final pose on the pole as the music fades. the audience continues to scream, bills covering the front of the stage.

after holding for a few seconds, you transition off the pole and gather your money, one of the bodyguards helping you down the steps when you’ve finished.

and that’s when you notice him.

from across the room, he looked like just another man in the club, but close up, you couldn’t deny how hot you felt when your eyes met each other’s. his all-black fit from his distressed jeans to his oversized jacket, his height, his black hair - he looked too good to be true.

as you begin to part ways, you wave and wink at him, hoping you caught his attention. he smirks at you, letting him know that the message was received. you blush inwardly as you turn back around, praying that he would at least rent out a section on the main floor, if not a v.i.p. room.

——

as soon enter the dressing rooms backstage, you’re met with showering compliments from some of the other dancers. you thank as many as you can as you reach your spot, freshening up in case you get called back again.

as you scroll through your social media after a few minutes, one of the bottle girls comes in to the room and approaches you. “sage!” she calls you, your head snapping up to meet her eyes. “oh hey, min! what’s up?” you say putting your phone down.

“there’s some guy that keeps asking for you in one of the vip rooms, he looks kinda cute too,” she smiles nudging at your shoulder. “you better hop on that before someone else does,” she walks away heading back with her empty tray. you pause and think before you finally make a decision.

“wait, min - which room is it?”

“should be room 3!” min winks at you before going back to the main floor.

—

you’re never nervous about vip room experiences. so why now? why do you feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest?

you’re embarrassed at your conflicting emotions. never once has a customer gotten you flustered. but then again, your customers don’t usually have an air of mystery and attraction hanging over them.

you breath out a huge, but silent sigh and pull yourself together. no matter how attractive the man downstairs was, he wasn’t gonna start making your falter.

you push the curtains away as you enter the dimly lit room, silently thanking the gods that min’s guess was right. there he was, sitting on the couch across from the pole platform. his eyes were on his phone, but now they’re completely focused on you. even closer, he still had you writhing. how could one human being look so insanely hot?

“so, you’re the man from the main floor,” you twirled your hair strands, smiling at him, walking toward him with your left arm crossed against your chest. “i heard you requested me by name. no one’s ever really done that before here,” you now are in front of him, getting dangerously closer to each other’s bodies.

“well they should more often, baby,” he says as he runs his fingers through his hair. “you’re too fucking phenomenal not to be called out by name.”

if you weren’t flustered earlier, you were definitely flustered now, desperately making sure it wasn’t showing on your face.

“speaking of names, you now know mine,” you sit next to and face him on the couch, crossing your legs. “but i don’t know yours.”

“soonyoung.”

“soonyoung,” you repeat, smiling to yourself. “i like that.”

“well soonyoung,” you say getting up from the couch, standing in front of him, slotting a leg between his. “i don’t normally give my customers choices, but i like you. do you wanna see me on the pole again? or would you rather you and i get a little closer?” you say as his hands begin to touch your body.

“i think you know where i wanna go with you,” he caresses your cheek, “i wanna see you dance on me, for me, pretty girl.”

—-—

your back faces his chest as you grind into him, his hands simultaneously roaming your thighs and playing with the straps of your bodysuit. beyoncé’s naughty girl plays through the speakers, your waist rolling in rhythm to the music.

you push your ass further on him, making sure you can feel all of him as he gets harder under your touch. “you know you can take it off right?” you say as you turn your neck toward his face. “in fact, why don’t you take it off for me?” you bite your lip hard as his hands reach further up, fondling your breasts.

after some time, he does as you ask, slowly taking off your bodysuit. you help him out as the material goes down your legs, and once it’s fully off, you toss to the front of the room.

“you’re so gorgeous,” he groans as he traces your folds, and it takes everything in you not to moan out loud. instead you muster a sigh as you turn around to have your body face front.

“if i told you i wanted to fuck you, right here in this position, how much would it cost me?” he places his hand near his jeans, hoping you were feeling the same way he did.

you pause to think about your options. “mmm, $500 sounds good to me.”

without hesitation, he pulls out a large wad of cash, thumbing through the bills and giving you a little bit more than $500. you swear he read your mind because before you can even ask, he opens his mouth.

“think of it as a nice tip,” he winks at you as you stuff the bills in your heels.

you slowly bring him in a kiss. he separates from you first, but you quickly bring him back in, kissing him with more fever. he unbuttons his jeans, zipping them down as his boxers come into view. you think you’re ready, but you’re still visibly stunned when he pulls his dick out. his thick length and veins on full display.

“damn, soonyoung,” you say biting your lip, nearly drooling. “you’ve definitely proved you have big dick energy.”

he laughs as he starts to pump himself for you, more pre cum beginning to gather at his tip. once he’s finished, he beckons you with his finger.

“make me feel good, my pretty girl,” he says as you sink down on him, both of you groaning out at the same time.

“sh-shit, soonyoung, fuck!” you hiss, holding onto his broad shoulders. “you’re so big and i feel so full,” you feel like you might cum already with his he was sheathed inside you.

when he finally starts moving, you feel like you’re seeing stars. the way he pounds into you, you can feel the coil in your stomach get tighter. after a few more minutes of him penetrating and you moaning soonyoung’s name, you finally feel it.

“o-oh, soonyoung, ‘m gettin’ close, shit, ‘m cl-clo, ah!” you nearly scream as you come all over his lower half, part of your juices on his black denim.

“well, uh,” you giggle, looking down at him. “that was something,” you brush your hair away from your face, finally looking in his direction. he smiles back at you, putting his dick back in his pants.

you pull each other for one last kiss, wanting to feel his touch just one more time.

“something tells me that it might be a minute before i see you again.”

“you never know, pretty girl. yeah i have busy job, but i can definitely make the time for you.”

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Bad For Business: Level Three

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.5K] An enemies to lovers au. Arcade coworkers, who love to hate each other, get too competitive about Dig Dug and share a mutal annoyance for the kids that like to pester them. Choose your own adventure by picking an option at the end of the chapter. “What do you mean, it just stopped working?” 

Standing under the broken aircon unit was not how you wanted this shift to go. Especially on the hottest day of the year. 

Especially with Jason Carver and Steve Harrington. 

It was hotter than ever inside the empty arcade, the rows and rows of machines doing nothing more than pumping heat into the room from their whirring fans. The jumpy, happy tune from Mario Bros. was starting to make your eye twitch and you hadn’t seen a customer the entire time you’d been working. Normal people were at the community pool, the richest of Hawkins relaxing under their own air conditioning, on their floats in their private swimming pools. 

“I don’t know!” Jason fumed, rounding on Steve with more anger than necessary, seeing how he was the one to cause the ancient thing to die. There was a broken off broom handle sticking out of the vent. “I just tried to get the thing to aim towards the desk more!”

You were standing too near Steve, bare arms brushing, pressed close behind the desk as the boy swore, skin glistening and doing everything he could to not look at you. You’d taken your stupid staff shirt off an hour ago, a too thin camisole thing underneath, cropped and letting everyone know that you definitely weren’t wearing a proper bra. 

Your skin was flushed, a little damp, your hair sticking to your neck and sweat beading at your chest, clinging to the space between your vest and your shorts. Steve definitely wasn’t looking. 

“You impaled it,” you muttered, staring up at the sputtering fan. “You absolute fucking moron.”

It was the straw that broke the sweaty camel's back, because Jason’s nostrils flared and he dropped the second half of the broken broom onto the floor. He held up his hands in defeat, face red with heat and anger. “I’m out. I’m done,” he told you before rounding on Steve. “Sort this shit yourself, Harrington. And maybe teach your girl some manners whilst you're at it.”

No one spoke as he stormed through the empty arcade, the lights flashing on the machines no one played. The door opened for just a second as Jason slipped out, a bright flash of blue sky and sunbeams over the black walls, the neon signs and ultraviolet light. There wasn’t any breeze, no wind that came in, nothing to soothe the heat that lingered heavily in the air. 

“She isn’t my girl!” Steve shouted the same time you yelled feebly, “I’m not his girl, jerk.”

But the door had already slammed shut and Jason’s car could be heard ripping out of the parking lot. An almost silence followed, the hum of the machines, the stuttering of the barely alive aircon unit, Steve’s strained sigh. And then, a click. 

Deafening, final, ending in darkness.

The lights went out, the sickly yellow overhead fluorescents, the flashing neons on the machines, the screens and even the green numbers that usually flashed on the cash register. With no windows in the old unit, well, you couldn’t see shit. 

“You’ve got to be fucking joking me,” Steve muttered and he cursed when he moved, bumping into you as you both tried to find the edge of the desk and the same time. “Fuck, you’re on my foot—”

“That’s ‘cause you’re in my way,” you huffed, arguing weakly, an edge to your voice that sounded a little like panic but you weren’t going to tell Steve that. You weren’t a fan of the dark, especially the kind that made your own hand invisible in front of your face, the kind of dark that made you doubt your own vision. “Move, Harrington.”

“Move where?” Steve growled back, his hip bumping against your own, the edges of knuckles grazing against your ribs, against too much bare skin. It was suddenly so much warmer. “I can’t see shit, princess, what am I supposed to do?”

You tripped over something, a cable, a part of an old machine that Murray liked to keep, who knows, but it sent you into Steve’s side with a noise of objection. You swore, grabbing at anything you could, cringing when it happened to be Steve’s arms. He’d long rolled his shirt sleeves up, the cotton folded up to his shoulders, the lines of muscles there slick with sweat, more distracting than ever now you could feel them. 

“Christ,” the boy chastised, “you’ve got as much grace as a baby giraffe, here—“ Steve didn’t finish his sentence, he just reached out to grab at you, hands on your waist, fingers skimming over the hand of your shorts as he righted you. 

You were still holding his shoulders and you were close enough that you could see the outline of his features, the faint slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, even in the dark. Neither of you said anything, not right away. And then you were both pushing back, hands leaving each other, hips and elbows and ribs bumping into cabinets and stray stools. 

“Where’s the fuse box?” Steve asked and he sounded further away now, like he was moving towards the office door, wherever it was. Something clattered to the floor and you heard him curse and then kick it. “Murray’s gotta have a flashlight somewhere, right? Probably stashed with his not so secret weed that he ‘confiscates’ from the kids,” he snorted. 

Another thump, a small bang and then Steve’s hands found the office door, a pleased and triumphant sound leaving his lips as the hinges squeaked. The noise suddenly pushed you into action, a nervous anxiety gripping you as you tried to take a step forward, squeaking when your foot landed on a stack of papers that slid under your sneakers. 

“Harrington!” You yelped, stumbling forward clumsily. “Steve? Jesus Christ, Steve!” 

The door squeaked again, and although you couldn’t see him, a burst of cologne and sunscreen filled the space in front of you. Hands found yours, fumbling, awkward, as clammy with sticky warmth as yours were. 

Suddenly the heat was cloying, suffocating. You felt tightly wound, head scrambled, throat dry. “What’re you doing?” 

“Helping you, dummy.” Steve snorted, beginning to lead you around the desk, your free hand skimming along the wall, skating over the frayed edges of old posters and forgotten thumbtacks. “Unless you wanna stay here and amuse yourself. Argue with the wall or somethin’, you’re good at that.”

“Shut up.” There wasn’t much heat behind it, your words nowhere near as harsh as they’d usually be, ‘cause you were clinging to Steve’s hand as he led you back to the door. “Asshole.”

The office was just as dark as the rest of the arcade, the old computer on Murray’s desk as dead as the rest of the machines. You let go of Steve’s hand when you found the edge of the lunch table, the legs wobbling as you made contact with it and you could feel Steve behind you, around you, the sound of drawers opening and closing filling the quiet room. 

“The fuck is this flashlight?” You heard him murmur, and then, “shit, wait, yes!”

A beam of light flooded the small room, orange-yellow and a little weak but it made your eyes water and squint and the sudden burst of colour. Steve must’ve reacted the same, hissing as his eyes stung, both of you stumbling. 

Shoulders bumped, elbows knocked, hands brushed. Again. 

You were closer than you’d realised, toes almost touching and Steve was all tight jeans and bare arms, lines of muscle you usually didn’t pay attention to wrapping around strong forearms. His hair was a mess, wilder than usual, sticking to his forehead and over his eyes, cheeks pink from the heat. 

You watched him swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes flickering down to roam all too obviously over your frame. Tight shirt, cropped, slick skin, peach flavoured lip balm that he’d watched you reapply in the tiny mirror by the lockers that morning. Silence stretched on, a yawning, all consuming thing that seemed thicker than the heat, warmer than the summer outside. 

You licked your lips, salt on your Cupids bow and you watched Steve’s gaze follow the movement. The flashlight fell, bouncing on the worn carpet and the beam flickered across the wall, Steve’s trainers, your bare legs. Steve’s head knocked against your own as you both bent to pick it up, swearing softly and the boy winced, knowing he hurt you more than you hurt him. 

“Shit,” his voice was quiet, low and a little rough. “Sorry.”

You were still too close, knelt on the floor with the boy, heads dipped together and you were desperate to shrug off the unfamiliar feeling of softness, the genuine apology from Steve making your chest stutter and still. 

You let Steve grab the flashlight, muttering a “whatever,” in order to brush off the moment. You watched him stand, turning quickly when he flashed the beam back down to see you still on your knees before him, tits pushed together in your stupid little vest top, a bead of sweat rolling down your neck and into the dip between them. 

He wasn’t looking. He wasn’t looking. 

So he left you in the dark as he pushed away the leftover coats that the rest of the staff had left since winter, pulling at the handle of the fuse box, letting clatter noisily against the wall. “C’mere for a second,” he said gruffly, not looking at you at all. “Hold this, yeah?”

“Manners are free, Harrington,” you tutted, “don’t be a bitch.”

Steve still wasn’t facing you, but you were pretty sure he was rolling his eyes. “You wanna stay stuck in the dark? In this heat?” He asked, he handed you the flashlight. “Least you can do is hold this, princess, don’t break a nail now, god forbid.”

You snatched the light from him, shouldering into his space just to piss him off, too close and too warm, cologne and sunscreen and chlorine scent hair from an early morning swim, peach scented chapstick and sweat. You hated it. You hated that you didn’t hate it all. 

“Come on, sparky,” you nudged Steve, an elbow to his side, the flashlight pointed at the circuit board, showing rows and rows of switches and wires. “Fix it. Don’t break a nail, sweetheart.”

Steve glared at you, brows stitched together and his brown eyes honeycomb in the light. He looked like he wanted to argue, to snap back at you and bite, but instead he pressed his lips together and turned back to the fuses. 

His fingers lingered over the switches, pausing to read the peeling and faded labels under each one, hesitating before he flicked the plastic. Some did nothing, the arcade remaining in darkness, in silence. Steve mumbled under his breath, a grumble that made you want to laugh but you kept your lips pressed together, the light still held aloft for him. 

You were silent as you watched him push at each one, plastic flicking up and down, doing nothing. You grimaced as Steve started to play with some of the wires, pushing them back into the board with a little more force than made you comfortable, as if he knew what he was doing, as if was suddenly an expert in hard wiring and electrics. 

“You’re gonna blow us up,” you warned, slapping at his hand when he kept prodding at things he didn’t know about. “Steve, Jesus, stop it!”

The boy tsked, budging up closer to you, only to try to shoulder you out of the way, shaking his hand loose from your attempt to grab him. It was a childish scuffle, one you’d definitely had before with Steve, over stolen bags of chips, the last can of soda, the set of keys that worked properly. But this time it was in the dark, skin still slick and the air too heavy and he was so fucking close, hands sliding over the bare skin on your stomach, your sides, his hair tickling your cheek as he poked at your ribs, trying to make you give in. 

And then, all at once, Steve’s hand pushed at yours and the flashlight fell again, the beam flickering off just as something in the fuse box sparked and popped. 

You yelped and Steve swore, both of you clambering backwards, away from the possibility of a full on fire, grabbing at each other like that would help. There was a beat of silence, one second, two second, three, just the sound of you and Steve breathing a little heavy - and then the lights came back on. 

You blinked, squinting into the too bright strip lights and it maybe took you both too long that you were still clinging to each other, your fingers twisted in the front of his shirt, Steve’s wide, warm hand pressed to your lower back, his frame slightly in front of yours… like he was trying to block you from any danger. 

He sprang away from you when your eyes met, your nose scrunched as you tried your best to act annoyed, like your heart wasn’t rattling in your chest, like you couldn’t smell Steve’s cologne on your own skin. You pushed back just as hard, ass bumping with the table, forgotten lunch boxes falling to the floor. 

“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled, ducking to hide your warm cheeks.

Steve scoffed, running a hand through his hair and looking anywhere but at you. “What’re you even talkin’ about? I fixed it, didn’t I?”

“That was a fluke,” you laughed, more haughtily than you’d ever sounded but god, you were still too warm and you could feel the leftover pressure of Steve’s hand on your back. “You pressed some buttons and hoped for the best, get real.”

Steve glared, snapping the fuse box shut and leaning against it, arms crossed. “S’real cute coming from the girl who didn’t want me to leave her alone in the dark.”

You weren’t sure how you ended up toe to toe again, how you’d managed to cross the small office, chin lifted defiantly, cheeks warm. “No one would wanna be left in the dark!” You tried to reason, words feeling clumsy in your mouth because Steve was smirking, looking far too amused. “It’s not like I wanted to be beside you. I would’ve followed Jason, Jesus, don’t flatter yourself, Harrington.”

Steve just shrugged, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek to stop his grin. He sighed all dramatically and poked a finger to your cheek, laughing when you huffed and slapped it away. “Keep telling yourself that, princess.”

“You’re so full of yourself. I would’ve been fine without you.”

Closer still, toes touching, noses too close, the heat still clinging to you both. 

“I saved your ass,” Steve teased. “Admit it.”

“No you didn’t, asshole.” You were unreasonably annoyed about how relaxed Steve was, cocky and lazy as he leaned against the desk.

The boy grinned. “Yeah? Wanna fight about it?”

The sound of the games resetting saved you from replying, the electronic cacophony of alarms and theme songs breaking up whatever was about to happen. You left Steve in the office and spent the rest of your shift with your T-shirt back on, sticky skin and unable to look him in the eye. 

[jusmango-shake]

That isn't very cash money of you, Cupid.

Pairing: 03!Donnie x Reader

Fictype: Songfic

Mood: fluff, crack(?)

WARNINGS: self deprecation, SSWEARING 😎, corny feelings Ew romance yucky, reader is in denial, mention of poison(metaphorically)

🥭: I'm SO SORRY FOR GOING OFFLINE FOR SO LONG, I hope y'all can accept this... (Totally not because I suddenly had a billion ideas for Don and had to write them xP)

★Stupid Cupid you're a real mean guy,

I'd like to clip your wings so you can't fly.

I'm in love and it's a crying shame..

And I know that you're the one to blame.

As you laid down on your bed, tossing and turning as you struggled to fall asleep. A faint glow of pink visible in the almost pitch black room.

You sat up, groaning while you rubbed your eyes. Taking your phone off of the desk it was currently charging on.

“Real dick move, brain.” you grumbled, looking at the current time.

12:45 PM.

You squinted, the light from your phone almost blinding as your eyes adjusted. The blush finally visible on your face.

Rereading your conversation with Donatello on the handy T-phone he so kindly gave to you, the corners of your lips curving up ever so slightly as you recalled your memories with the Purple Turtle.

He had been running rampant in your mind throughout the week, and you had been yet to catch him.

You sighed, laying back down as you faced the ceiling. You had to accept the fact you liked him sooner or later, why not be in denial for a bit longer?

★Hey hey, set me free!

Stupid Cupid stop picking on me.

Maybe it was because you had a thing for smart guys, or maybe it's because of his stupid dorky smile, maybe it was because he only had said smile whenever you were around, or maybe—

You blinked, burying your head into your hands as you groaned. Your friend looked at you with growing concern.

"You alright?"

You waved your hands dismissively,

“Yeah, I'm doing great.”

"You ssuureee?"

“i'm very much sure, thank you.”

"Maybe it's that Donatello guy you keep mentioning."

“shut up— no it isn't,”

Your friend has gotten increasingly closer to you, wiggling their eyebrows as they shoved you playfully.

“—Oookay maybe it is.”

"Tell me more?"

“no.”

★I can't do my homework and I can't think straight, I meet her every morning 'bout half past eight.

It wasn't very well hidden, practically everyone in your friend group knew something was up.

You'd randomly message them that you wouldn't be able to make to the hangout followed by some bogus explanation.

Sometimes when they made their way to your house they'd see you sneak off somewhere.

Once you'd almost been caught entering a manhole just to get to the lair, or to Donnie to be more specific.

You did not like it whatsoever.

★I'm acting like a lovesick fool, You've even got me carrying your books to school.

Conversation flowed smoothly as you helped Donnie carry some spare parts from the junkyard, he ranted about some machine he would make with said parts.

At this point you felt as if time itself had stopped, all you could hear was the sound of his voice echoing off the buildings as you two walked through the alleyway.

The road was quite crowded near the garage, it would've been impossible to get in without getting caught. Manhole it is I guess.

You hadn't even noticed that you've already arrived at the manhole cover.

You absentmindedly followed his figure and he knelt down to take off the cover, looking at you expectantly.

He cleared his throat before gesturing to the open manhole.

“wh— oh, uh.. my bad.” you murmured,

"I'll go down and you hand me the parts, sounds good?" He smiled, if only he knew the effect that had on you.

“..yeah.”

You watched as he placed the spare parts on the ground, then moved to go down the ladder.

Once he gave the signal you grabbed the bucket next to the hole, a rope tied to it so it would be easier to get stuff down if it was too heavy or big to get down normally.

You placed as many parts as you could fit in the bucket before grabbing the rope and slowly letting it down the long hole.

Once Donnie was done getting all the parts out he tugged lightly on the rope, letting you know he was done.

After repeating that process more times than you could count, you slowly ascended down the ladder. Once again carrying the spare parts while you made your way to the lair, Donnie humming some tune he heard while Mikey was watching the Television.

You didn't like how you could practically smell Donnie from how close you two were, maybe it was because he smelled like sewer or maybe it was because of the fact it made your heart race. Probably both anyway.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he started talking.

"Hey, (Nickname)?"

“uh— yeah? What's up?”

"I just wanted to thank you for helping, it means a lot to me." He beamed up at you.

You looked away, already feeling the heat creeping up onto your face.

“Psh.. it's no Biggie, it's the least I could do as a... Friend.”

It hurt to say that, partially because it was true.

Donnie chuckled, nudging you playfully.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad to have you as a friend then."

That hurt even more, and this time, it's because he could never see you more than just a friend.

★Hey hey, set me free!

Stupid Cupid stop picking on me.

Your heart raced whenever you even just thought of him, and it broke just as fast. You knew deep down that he'd never like you back, (did you though?). if Cupid really did exist, he's cruel.

You clutched your beating heart as you hid behind a wall, trying your hardest to calm it down before going back to meet Donnie again.

All this from just grazing each other's hand? Maybe you really were pathetic, or maybe you're just touch starved. Could be both.

You knew Donnie was just sitting there watching TV, completely unaware of what power he had over you. You felt bad lying to him, you usually told him everything. But not this, it's not worth losing him over some feelings. Right?

★You mixed me up for good right from the very start.. Hey now, go play Robin Hood with somebody else's heart!

When you first met Donnie, it was like an arrow went straight through your heart. Maybe you're over exaggerating it, maybe.

It's like the arrow was laced with poison, slowly infecting every part of your body without you knowing it, and lastly, it infected your heart.

You always had a feeling you liked him from the start, maybe it was the fact you couldn't accept liking him more than just platonic liking.

It got harder and harder to push back down into the deep depths of your heart. The last straw was when it finally hit you straight in the face, you loved him. And you couldn't do anything about it, neither could you decide whether he'd reciprocate or not. It was killing you slowly, just like poison.

★You got me jumping like a crazy clown,

And I don't feature what you're putting down.

By no means did you think you even slightly deserved him, Donnie's a really sweet guy. He deserved more than some person who can't even come to terms with their own feelings.

Still didn't stop your heart from doing a backflip into a cartwheel into a handstand flat-back though.

Every time you saw him, your heart just decides to do a whole workout routine inside your chest, the butterflies in your stomach don't help either.

★Well since I kissed her loving lips of wine,

The thing that bothers me is that I like it fine~

Hey hey, set me free?

Stupid Cupid stop picking on me!

It did not give you any sense of pride to admit this but, on more than one occasion, you have fantasized about kissing Donnie. It embarrassed you to no end. (Stupid teenager hormones)

Maybe one day Cupid would decide to have mercy on you, and finally let you move on. Doesn't seem like he's going to, though.

Maybe for one day you could stop being such a weirdo for Donnie? Just for one day?

★You got me jumping like a crazy clown,

And I don't feature what you're putting down!

The fact that you always felt happier whenever you were just with him, even being in the same room could dramatically change your mood didn't help at all.

You hated always wanting to be near him, his entire existence feeling like a drug to you. Time always seemed to fly faster than when you weren't with him, you could never get enough of his rambles, anything he made amazed you, you hated it. You hated being in love.

And you hated the intense feeling of dread whenever you even thought of confessing to him, being rejected by all means was not on your to-do list. Neither was ruining your perfectly good best-friendship with Donnie.

★Well since I kissed his loving lips of wine,

The thing that bothers me is that I like it fine.

You got so caught up in your train of thought that you hadn't even considered the fact Donnie liked you back, maybe it's a defense mechanism set up by your brain so you couldn't dig an even deeper pit.

Donnie watched you do your homework as you fail to notice his longing, he's loved you for a long time already. But by his logic you would never like him back, who would wanna date a green sewer turtle? Living in the sewers is bad enough. What about being a mutant?

He quickly corrected an answer you had written down, his arm coming up from behind you to take a hold of your hand. He erased the previous answer and wrote the correct one.

He knew he couldn't hold your hand like this for too long or it'd be suspicious. Though the both of you craved each other's touch.

You were the only person who would actually listen to his rambling instead of just nodding along and pretending you were. You would ask questions that would spark new conversations, you came to him for answers. You looked for him when you needed help.

You genuinely enjoyed his ramblings. You enjoyed his company though he had nothing more to offer than just knowledge and machines he had made. He didn't even need to talk sometimes, you would just watch him do whatever he was doing. Offering help when he needed it.

Donnie only snapped out of it once you had begun waving in his face.

“—nnie, D? DonTron? Donatello? The turtle in purple? Donasaurus? Downtown Donsville?”

"Yeah—? Sorry I was- uh zoned out."

“could you help me with uh— number twenty five?” you scratched the base of your neck.

"Twenty five—? Didn't I already explain it to you? Like, eight times?"

You laughed sheepishly, turning around to face him.

What you expected was a look of disapproval. as much as Donnie loved explaining things, no one wants to repeat themselves. what you hadn't expected however, was that Donnie was actually much closer than you thought.

As soon as you turned around, you were met with Donnie's lips. You had accidentally kissed him.

As you pulled away, two fingers on your lips while your whole face flushed a shade of red.

Butterflies erupted in your stomach as you avoided Donnie's gaze like the plague, what if he hated it? What if he doesn't wanna be friends anymore?

Your thoughts were immediately shut up by Donnie clearing his voice.

"I'm sorry if this isn't the right time but— can we do that again.?"

Your eyes shot up to meet his and you took in the significantly darker shade on his face. You thought of what he'd looked like flustered, it was even better than you'd imagined.

“i— Yeah, I guess..?”

You held your breath in as he leaned in closer, your face scrunched up as you felt his breath fan over your face.

You peeked through one of your eyes when you felt him move away, a bashful expression mixed with a hint of sadness behind it on his face.

He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, glancing over at you.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to, ya kno."

Shit— that's not-

Before you could think of anything else, it was like someone pressed autopilot in your mind.

You quickly spun around in the chair, extending your hands to his face. You gently cupped his cheeks as you leaned in,

Donnie's eyes opened in shock as he felt your lips softly kiss the edge of his lips, you had missed his mouth entirely.

You pulled away anxiously, your face heating up at the fact you completely ruined the moment by missing his lips.

Your eyes frantically searched his eyes, trying to catch some semblance of a hint that everything was fine and that Donnie doesn't hate you.

Unfortunately for Donnie, he was too dumbstruck and lovestruck to form a coherent sentence.

The only thing he managed out wasn't even a word, all he did was shoot out a lazy smile.

You sighed in relief, happy that at least he enjoyed it.

While you turned back around to continue doing your homework, you were interrupted by a familiar green hand.

"Maybe one more?"

★Hey hey, set me free

Stupid Cupid stop picking on me.

A few days afterwards, he finally confesses, and by confesses I mean he builds a robot out of spare parts to confess for him. Partially because he's too shy to do it himself and also because he wanted to impress you as well.

And after that was just a hazy blur of study dates and lovey dovey stuff, as Mikey so kindly put it.

You held Donnie's hand as you two watched the stars on top of a random building, you listened as Donnie pointed out every constellation he could see and facts about every star that was apart of each one.

"Did you know that Sirius is the brightest star we can currently see? With our bare eyes?"

You chuckled, gently caressing Donnie's hand with your thumb.

"But I'd have to disagree with it, yknow why?" He added, sitting upright as he gazed down lovingly at you.

“No, why?” you sat up as well, looking at him questioningly.

"Becauseee.. you're the brightest star I've ever seen." He grinned at you.

You grinned back, a light blush adorning both of your cheeks.

“You're such a cornball, Donnie.”

"Yeah, but I'm your cornball."

“Donnie!”

"What?"

You two laughed, smiling lovingly at eachother.

★Hey hey, set me free

Stupid Cupid stop picking on me.

[fanaticmorelikefantastic]

Welcome Home : Hobie x fem!reader

This is my first fic for @the-kr8tor 's Octobie event! I'm really super excited and I hope you like it :D

Synopsis: Everything sucks and then you get cat distribution systemed to Hobie.

Tags: Hobie/reader, Hobie/fem!reader, Reader is from another country, I just assumed she was american, American reader, Supposed to be in the 70's?, Just pretend it's an au if anything sounds funny about it, Hurt/comfort, wee bit of angst, crying in the rain, etc.

Note: I tried my best to write it as a hurt comfort, but I'm not sure if it turned out that way. First snippet of a series of oneshots about an American immigrant reader and Hobie! das it :)

It was a dark, but not very stormy night. London, always a gloomy one, this city was. Not that I’m any better. Through a series of events, I found myself in this here alleyway, looking for answers. Riddle me this; how does one find a man, who is a spider, who is a man? You call me, that’s how. The dame came into my office, just wanted to know who her saviour was, she said. Told me she would hand over a handsome sum of cash if I could find him. Money makes the world go round, after all. Course I agreed, I was tight-strapped this month and something had to pay that rent.

The first step to knowing about the wanted is to know about the wanter. In this case, that would be me. In reality, there was no damsel bursting into a private eye’s office, there wasn’t even a large wad of cash. Just a girl, a masked hero, and a handwritten thank-you note. 

London was nowhere near the pearly and refined city it was advertised to be, especially not in this soot stained, half muddied alleyway. As for why I was found in said alleyway, several days ago, I had gotten into some trouble with some sort of crooked cop, but before anything extraordinarily unsavory could happen, I was saved in one fell swoop by a man in some strange costume. I believe that living out of hotels was taking a toll on my mental state, and living at all was taking a toll on my wallet. So, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to find who he was and thank him. A simple thank-you, that’s all, and maybe I would ask him if he was hiring.

My search took me from one end of the city to another, and eventually into this alleyway. They called him ‘Spider-Man’ or ‘Spider-Punk.’ Strange names, but I’m not too sure what I expected of a man who runs around dressed like such. At some point in my thread of conversations and inquiries, I was led to Camden, then to this very alley. Supposedly, he shows up here often, but apparently not today. That’s fine. It’s okay. I had only started my search because I had nothing better to do; I was just taking a break by doing this. Against my will, this spot made me start to think of… everything. My moving here, my lack of a job, my lack of a  house, that awful place that I had left behind, my dwindling visa, it all seemed like too much; it all was too much. I leaned on a dusty hvac machine, back heavy with worries, listening to the quiet shrills and screams of some not-so-far away concert. The music had deep, billowing bass and a powerful guitar. It was like no other music I had heard before, and it called to me somewhat. Unfortunately, the rotten worms in my head were louder than the music right now. Barely overshadowed by the crackling of my thoughts was a low rumble curling in the clouds above. I sighed when I heard a clap of thunder. The  muffled concert in the distance began to stop playing its heavy and low tones when the mouselike droplets evolved into a storm. I hated the rain. Not all rain, just this rain; this rain that marked the demise of my journey; this rain that reminded me I was only ever stupid and naive; this rain that told me to give up, pack my bags, and go back home; that I should have never left my country in the first place; that was the rain that I despised with all my heart. This wretched rain had gotten on my face. Yes, surely, it was the rain that was ruining the makeup I worked so hard on this morning. It was ripping up that stupid letter of mine and causing me to dig my face into my hands. All of this was blamed on the rain, who was innocent of all save for soaking my hair. 

I stayed like that for a while, next to the smoother gray wall, huddled over, soaked in mostly my own misery. My own waterfalls made the rain feel like a light shower. If nowhere else, I felt allowed in this alley. That I could cry and sob and be angry and scared and cold and nobody would care because they don’t expect to see sane people in an alleyway to begin with. I most certainly do not. The tears and rain that coated my palms made them almost suction to my face, but in the midst of my dolor, I heard a voice from somewhere beside or near me.

“What’s wrong lovie?” My head dragged up from my hands after the sound of a limoncello voice hung itself in the air. After a lousy wipe of my eyes, I was able to properly see the man who cared enough about a stranger’s tears to stop and ask what they cried for. That dingy street lamp flickered its light around him like a halo. It took me a moment to register the man, his dewy chocolate skin and glossy hazelnut eyes. His face was studded with silver stars, and despite his sharp expression, he held a certain softness about him. He held a bright red umbrella, funny, he didn’t look like the type. He was a tall man for certain, craning over so he could cover me. His presence made everything stop for a moment, a still, small, and quiet recognition fell on these two strangers in this back alley of London.

“Who are you calling lovie?” My voice was like a crisp, wobbling paper. I stood up to speak with him, but by the time I was at my full height, my waterworks were, once again, in full swing. He panicked a little, holding his free hand out in the way one would to try and calm a dog you’ve never seen before.

“Woa, woa, what's the matter with you? ‘s  everything alright?” I’m not quite sure what made me do it, maybe I’ve lost my mind since coming to this place, but I stood there and sobbed out everything that happened to me during my time in London. Words, and feelings, and thoughts and actions kept spilling, tumbling, out of my mouth like bricks collapsing through the bottom of a broken forklift. That whole time, he listened, actually, truly listened to the ramblings of a stranger who he’d just met in some shady back alley while it was raining. Once again, I held the feeling that everything about him glowed. 

“Well, have you got any place to stay tonight?” He spoke very softly to me.  

“If I did, I wouldn’t be hanging around here, would I?” I shivered like a wet rat, parts of my hair stuck to the nape of my neck. He laughs through his nose before shrugging off his studded black leather jacket and placing it around my shoulders. The lining was warm. 

“Well, let’s get you washed up. You look a bloody mess.”  He gave my shoulders a light tap.

“Am I bleeding?” I tapped my face a little, checking for anything warm. He gave me a funny look in response.

“Th’ name’s Hobie by the way. Hobie Brown.” I did my best to wipe my face off before telling him my name. I reached out my hand, and he gave it a quick shake.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

I followed him around the streets like a lost puppy, clutching the coat he gave me like it was a lifeline and occasionally looking at his silent face. The pavement we passed on was glossed over with the continuing rain. We passed building after building, some separated, some connected, and others so close they might as well be. I was certainly very close to someone who could, within reason, be mistaken for a building. If I ever began to wander too close to the edge of the umbrella, a steady and gentle hand would kindly guide me back to my spot beside him. We made our way to a canal style river thing in the middle of the city. He pointed my gaze toward a houseboat floating and rolling on the water. It looked like somewhere a retired pirate would live. 

The interior was surprisingly cozy despite its somewhat bare furnishings. Various knicknacks and things nestled themselves in unassuming spots around the place. The moment I set foot in the door, I felt right at home.

“Leave your shoes at the door, ’ll take that too.” Hobie. Hobie waited for me to unlatch my shoes and stand straight before taking his coat from my shoulders. I never noticed him put the umbrella away, but it’s gone, and his shoes are neatly set to the side on a not-so-neat towel. I don’t know what to say as I watch him take my shoes and line them right next to his, so I stand in the doorway and watch him wander out of view then right back in with some dry and clean clothes. He hands them to me with both hands, so that’s the exact way I receive them as I try to unclog my throat for words to flow through. I look back up at his face. He’s waiting so patiently for me to find my words, with that same sternly soft expression.

“Thank you.” The words came out a little too quiet, so I said it again. 

“You’ve been nothing but kind to me, even though we just met and I-” My voice broke again when I started tearing up. 

“Oh no, no, come on, love. You on’t have to cry.” Quickly, He thumbed away my budding tears, his palms warm on my face.

“I know, but I’m just- I’m so grateful, you know?” He did. He knew. I could see it in his shining gray eyes that he knew. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have waited for me to stop my crying. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have wiped away every stray tear himself. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been so quick to open his home to me. If he didn’t, he would have never lent me that coat of his. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have handed me these clothes that I’m holding.

Once I got myself together, I was directed to the bathroom. Surprisingly, (according to him), there was warm water to shower with, and I did so happily. When I stepped into the living room I felt like I had on brand new skin. Hobie had the stove on and open while he stirred some milk into a second cup of tea. He turned around before I could even properly enter the kitchenette, as though he already knew that I was there. 

“Feelin’ better yet?” He handed me the cup he was holding with a smile, a deep and pretty blue. I held it and relished in the warmth of the cup from both his hands and the tea. 

“Wasn’t sure if you liked sugar, so I didn’t add any.” I wanted to cry again. He was overwhelming in all the best ways possible, but I had already put him through enough of my tears tonight, so I sucked them back in.

“I don’t” I smiled at him before taking a sip of what could very well be the best tea of my life. 

“If ‘s not uncomfortable, you could stay ‘ere till you get your own base of operation.” He was leaning on the counter, index tracing the edge of his own cup while speaking. Instead of this tea, I wish I could drink the color of his eyes as they’re looking at me. I'm suddenly smiling a lot right now.

"I will, if you'll have me."