#it's payday and I thought fuck it why not

[lostintime-liketearsinrain]

The looks you get when you buy a 1ltr bottle of Vodka at 7am on the way to work are hilarious 😂😂😂

[lovebugism]

Virgin!Eddie thoughts?

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | quid pro quo

summary: eddie muson is a virgin and doesn't want anyone to know (because being an adult who's never fucked anyone is a total reputation ruiner). but you, his favorite customer, are more than willing to change that. pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 6.5k (holy shit this was supposed to be a blurb) warnings: talks of virginity and masturbation, the word "tit" too many times, a handjob (sorta?) 18+ mdni a/n: you asked for thoughts but i had way too many of them for a single post so i might turn this into a whole virgin!eddie series that will only see the light of day if you guys are into this so... no pressure <3

( MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

You were Eddie’s favorite customer, though that went without saying. It was something both of you were more than aware of. Albeit it, it was a little strange, since he — the supplier of your weed — was essentially paying for your high. He doesn’t mind it, though. He never did. You made it up for him in other ways; and, no, it’s not as perverted as it sounds.

It’s actually much, much weirder.

It was your fourth time meeting with him but your first time without any money to give him in exchange. You’re all pink and fidgeting and feeling like a total loser as you shift on the hard wooden bench across from him.

Your gaze is tilted away from his and down at your hands where you twist the rings on your fingers — “I was supposed to get paid last Friday, but my boss is paying me weekly now instead of every two weeks, so he completely changed my payday on me, and he swears he told me about it, but he totally didn’t— anyway, that’s beside the point. I don’t have any money to give you, or like, at all. Genuinely. I’m gonna be lucky if I get to eat anything other than top ramen for the next few days.”

“Damn,” he laughs, not in amusement at your situation but rather pitying you for it. “That sucks—”

“That sounds like I’m guilt-tripping you, doesn’t it?” you keep rambling. “I’m really not. I’m just trying to be honest. I’m not, like, trying to do you over or anything. I swear. You probably don’t even care. You’re my drug dealer, not my friend, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't— I’m making a total fool out of myself, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” Eddie assures sincerely, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his lips. That’s all he can muster. He feels like the fool right about now because your words sting a little harder than intended. 

He always considered you a friend. Or, at least, a whole lot more than just a client. You’re the only customer he has fun with, who he can laugh with, who doesn’t just hang around long enough for him to hand you your drugs like everyone else does, who actually cares enough to make conversation with him.  

Maybe that’s why he chose to give it to you for free that day. 

Because he’s started to grow fond of you (and because he genuinely believes that you’re in a bad way and that money’s a little too tight for you right now. He knows all too well what that’s like.) 

But he asks you for a favor in return when you take the plastic baggie from him. It has him blushing with embarrassment like you’d been just minutes before. He can’t meet your gaze as he says the words, but he can feel the incredulous beam of it piercing holes into him.

“You, Eddie Munson, are willing to give me weed, for free, as long as I… help you pass your next English exam?”

You weren’t repeating it to mock him or to make him feel bad for being a third-year senior. You’re just actually shocked because you know a thing or two about the Munson’s. You know that his Uncle is working two jobs, and his nephew has resorted to drug dealing to compensate for their being strapped for cash. You also know that suppliers giving out anything for free is bad for business, so it’s essentially unheard of. 

And aside from all that, Eddie wanting to study — to want to try to be good at something rather than just winging it and hoping for the best — was almost as surprising as him wanting you to be the one to help him. You literally have Gareth, his best friend, in your English class, and he’s way better at it than you are.

You try to find what makes you somehow special but come up short.

“Is that, like, really weird?” he wonders meekly, scrunching his nose and peering at you through his lashes. His eyes are the color of chocolate syrup, you notice then. Like, exactly. And they have a sort of sheen to them beneath the sun, like he's trapped a star inside of them.

“Yes,” you answer with a laugh that's as light as air. “Considering you could’ve offered literally anything else. Like, I don’t know— groping my tits or something.”

It’s what you were half-expecting. Not because you thought Eddie was that kind of guy, but because that’s how it often went down, at least in porn. A busty (broke) blonde orders a pizza, a man with an enormous dick delivers it… It’s a tale as old as time, really.

Your words make him tense for the second time in five minutes. 

He almost wants to be offended that you’d think of him that way, but his yearning far overpowers his wounded ego.

He’s got a soft heart. That offer never would’ve crossed his mind, and even if it did, he’d never be stupid enough to say it out loud. But he didn’t realize how much he liked you until right then. It wasn’t just a friend caring for another friend, but a boy with a crush on a girl eons out of his league (with boobs he would happily touch if she’d let him).

He clears his throat and irrationally prays that you aren’t a mind reader.

“I’m down if you are,” he answers with a playful lilt to his voice that makes you giggle again. He’s happy to hear it. Your laugh is like being basked in sunshine. He wants to keep it in his pocket when he gets lost in the shade. 

That’s the moment that started it all — the strange friendship that formed out of practically nothing. Who knew what being poor, free weed, an historically low GPA, and a missed opportunity for tit-groping could do to two people?

From then on, all your weed was free. As long as you broke down all the themes in Of Mice and Men for him, of course. And then, when he ultimately aced that paper, he wanted to run his D&D campaign by you — “So, you know, it isn’t totally lame when I show it to the rest of Hellfire.”

“Of course, it’s gonna be lame,” you deadpan from across the rotting bench. “It’s Dungeons and Dragons.”

He goes red at that, a flash of pink blotched around his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He glows cherry with embarrassment and smiles faintly as he looks down at his hand, fidgeting with his silver skull ring. It’s cute. Too cute. The kind of cute that makes you grin to yourself without even thinking about it.

“I’m kidding, Eds—”

Eds. That was new, the boy remarks to himself. Not the nickname itself, perhaps, but the fact that you were the one calling him by it. You’re getting more comfortable with him. He likes that. It gives him a false hope; that one day he’ll be a friend to you and not just your dealer.

“—It sounds really fun actually,” you assure him with nod and a twinkling gaze that proves you sincere. “As long as you’ll smoke with me during.”

“I don’t really like to use my own product…” That was a lie. Mostly. He didn’t like to smoke his own stuff because that burned a hole into his profits. But that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. It was far too tempting to have a tin full of so much weed never more than just a few inches away.

Now he’s got a pretty girl in front of him, wanting to smoke with him, wanting to spend time with him. Hell’s freezing over as they speak and that certainly calls for a celebratory smoke session.

A smirk pulls at his pink lips and he tilts his head, bringing his ear to his shoulder, as he looks at you with a glimmering umber gaze.

“But I’m willing to make an exception. Just for you.”

Eddie swears you blush at that, but he catches only the shortest glimpse of your crimson cheeks before you duck your gaze to the table. The beam on your face is only half-washed away, however, when you turn up to look at him again. You look shy, almost, as you peer at him through your lashes.

“You’ll basically have to start from scratch too, you know that, right? I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Well, I’m glad I can be your first,” he quips.

You laugh again. It’s like the pinky-orange of a sunset. He could paint it if he had the right supplies. And a set of hands that were good for things other than rolling die and playing guitar.

It was his first time, really. In every aspect of the phrase.

It was the first time a girl’s ever offered to hang out with him and not the other way around. The first time a customer’s ever offered to share their weed with him. The first time someone’s ever wanted him to explain his favorite hobby and not care that he’s been rambling for the better part of an hour. 

He doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t shut up since he started talking, mostly because you aren’t giving him that look of annoyance people usually have when he hasn’t gotten the hint. Most couldn’t care less about goblins and villains and battles and knights and princesses — princess knights.

It’s more interesting than you ever hoped a board game could be, but less so as enchanting as the glow Eddie’s got about him as he rambles on and on about something that makes him so happy.

He’s beaming and he doesn’t even realize it. He has no idea he could light up an entire solar system with the smile on his face. You’d tell him if it didn’t feel totally inappropriate.

It takes two weeks to perfect the campaign, which isn’t at all long if you compare it to the year it took him to build it from scratch. When the Cult of Vecna (you pat yourself on the back for coming up with the name) is polished and Hellfire worthy, Eddie starts giving you weed... just because.

There’s nothing left for him to offer in exchange. And he isn’t going to turn his favorite customer down for anything.

“What? No tutoring? No D&D campaign?” you wonder with furrowed brows and a face contorted in confusion.

Eddie shrugs and swings the baggie full of greenery back and forth with the tip of his pointed finger. “Nope. I’m passing English and the campaign’s all finished — the guys love it, by the way. Thanks to you. You’ve helped me out with enough shit, so… just take it.”

“Well, now I just feel bad,” you reject with a scrunched nose, displeased at the idea of taking something and not doing anything for it in return. He can hardly afford it to begin with, much less without anything in exchange. “You're basically paying for my weed already. I can’t just take it.”

“You could,” the boy lilts with a sardonic nod. “My hand's getting a little tired here, sweetheart.”

You huff and reach across the bench for the plastic baggie. Your face is still twisted with an absentminded annoyance and your gaze still uncertain. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Cross my heart.”

“Fine.”

“Unless groping your tits is still on the table, of course,” he squints playfully over at you and then smiles softly at the recollection of the conversation from many moons ago.

It was supposed to be a joke. But you’re not laughing.

And when you nod at him, he isn’t either.

It’s got him nearly choking on air and sputtering for a response. “No, I was— I was just— It was a joke. I was just kidding.”

“I know. But, I don’t know, I’m down if you are,” you shrug. “That’s what you said before, right?”

And Eddie has no idea what to say to that. Of course, he wants to. There are a billion things he wants to do. He wants to graduate, he wants to play a show at the Madison Square Garden with Corroded Coffin, he wants to bend you over this table and fuck you silly.

He could do all those things if he were a different person, but he wasn’t. He’s just some guy who can’t pass an English class he's already taken three times, with a mediocre band that plays in front of about five drunks (if they’re lucky), who has a crush on a girl who’s offering to let him feel her up for a short-lived high. 

He repeats that last part to himself in his head a couple times. It sounds like a dream he had once. He pinches the skin of his wrist, just to make sure, and winces when it starts to hurt.

It’s real, you’re real, and that’s the scariest part. 

Because he’s never actually seen boobs that weren’t projected from a television screen through the grainy film of a VHS tape, or pictured in a crinkled magazine he stole from a gas station — let alone touched one. And the second he puts his hands on you, and you feel him shaking like a leaf and totally unsure of what to do, you’ll know that. 

That is, if he doesn’t come in his pants first.

He’s terrified that when you do realize that he’s a complete and utter, absolute and proper virgin, you’ll think he’s significantly less cool. And he can’t have that.

It’s bad for clientele. They’ll stop seeing him as the mysterious metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks but rather as some teddy bear who’s never actually been inside a woman.

He could probably handle the potential drop in income and the talks around school. Hell, he could even handle all the shit Jason Carver would spew at him if he knew. But the idea that you’ll stop wanting to hang out with him — he isn’t sure if he could take that.

He doesn’t notice that he hasn’t said a word until you’re speaking again. And even then, it’s all muffled like he’s underwater. 

“I can come over tonight, if you want.”

No, he thinks to himself. That’s far too early. I have to lose my virginity and learn everything there is to possibly know about sex first.

“I... I can’t. Hellfire,” he answers, almost slurring, still caught in a stupor.

“Tomorrow, then,” you challenge at his rejection. You cross your arms and lean over the table as you squint at him. The wind rustling through the trees carries the warmth of your floral-vanilla scent over to him, like a lullaby, or a magic spell.

As though he needed something else to make him all stupid.

Suddenly you're ten feet tall. Eddie feels like an ant. You could crush him if you wanted. You have all the power and the look you give him tells him that you know that. He fidgets on the hard wooden seat but can’t seem to break your stare. His voice is tight and a few octaves higher as he answers — “Yeah. Tomorrow sounds good. Great, even.”

“Cool,” you’re suddenly beaming. You stand from the bench and saunter off, tossing a look and a wave over your shoulder as you shout, “See you tomorrow, Eds!”

He has to jerk off after that one. He counts himself lucky that he made it to his van before he exploded completely.

Eddie has to become a sex god in twenty-four hours and he doesn’t know where to start. 

So, like any master procrastinator, he doesn’t. He just worries about it all night and the following day. He turns himself into a big ball of anxiety (if you touched him, he'd probably shock you) and it’s left him in the sort of worry that doesn’t let him sit still for too long.

Wayne’s sitting in his recliner, trying to eat his late lunch before he heads off to work the graveyard shift. It’s hard to enjoy his sandwich or the latest episode of Miami Vice playing on the television ahead of him when his nephew keeps bouncing in and out of the room. Making brief conversation, rearranging the knickknacks on the coffee table, coming in just to stand in place for a few minutes before leaving again to rustle in other parts of the small trailer. 

At one point, he comes in with the fucking vacuum and nudges at the man’s work boots until he kicks his feet up. Wayne’s never seen him do a chore in his life.

“What the hell has gotten into you today, boy?” the man complains through turkey, cheese, and bread.

“Nothing. What are you talking about? I’m perfectly normal.”

He’s never been normal a day in his life either.

Eddie disappears out of the room a second later with the whirring of the vacuum in tow. Wayne shakes his head to himself. “Boy’s gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles and takes another too large bite.

It’s unlike Eddie not to tell his uncle things, especially things weighing so heavy on his chest that they're starting to feel like pure steel. But his uncle doesn’t ask any questions, and Eddie’s grateful.

How the hell is he supposed to tell Wayne that a cute girl is coming over and that he’s jacked off three times at the thought of her?

Once in his bed, the first thing he did that day when he woke up from a dream about you that felt a little too real; the second in the shower when the cold water wouldn’t kill the boner he’d gotten; and the third in his bedroom, in the shirt he’d peeled off hardly ten minutes beforehand when he got into a bath. It made him feel dirty again though his skin was perfectly clean.

Wayne would think he was joking. At least with the “cute girl” part. He’d probably pat him on the back for the second one — “oh, to be young again,” he'd mumble to himself while simultaneously deciding to leave well enough alone.

Eddie’s so nervous he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

You’ve got him practicing what to do in the mirror, trying to plan the conversation, ironing out the wrinkles of what might happen. “Hi—” he starts but then shakes his head and clears his throat. His voice is deeper as he continues, “Hey, how are you doing? Oh, that’s cool, I’m good too— shit, this is so fucking lame.”

He wonders how you’ll go about it. If you’ll offer first, or if he needs to ask. If you’ll make small talk or if you’ll just straight up take off your shirt. He’d take either, honestly.

He jerks off one more time, just for good measure, after Wayne’s left for work. He’s already tired and his dick is practically raw with how much it’s been tugged at, but he hopes it’ll stop him from getting hard the second you walk through the door. And he figures with the amount he’s come that day, he’s a whole less likely to do it in his pants when he touches you.

You knock on the door at 7 o’clock sharp, like you planned it down to the minute.

He straightens out his leather jacket when he stands abruptly from the couch. He rushes to the door and then hesitates with his hand on the rusted brass handle — because he doesn’t want to seem too eager, right? 

He leans to the side to look in the dirty glass mirror hanging by the coat rack, brushing through his curly locks in attempts to tame them. Then he shakes his head so they’re wild again.

He finds you standing on his porch in a tight-black sweater that dips down at your chest; the pendant of your necklace sparkles under the yellow nightlight perched on the outside wall. It’s paired with a white nylon skirt that stops at your thigh.

He’s only seen girls on TV in the suede boots you’re wearing — the kind that’s tight up to your ankle with a short and chunky heel. They match the color of your skirt. He wonders if they were expensive and how much you’ve worn them; they look brand new, like you’ve brought them down from the top of your closet just for him.

You’ve got a stack of thick tapes in one hand and a brown paper bag of snacks in the other.

“What… What’s all this?” he wonders, not displeased at your effort but shocked by it nonetheless.

“Thought we could have a movie night,” you shrug then slide by him and into the trailer. He shuts the door behind you and watches from afar as you set the sack down. It’s not quite flat on the bottom so it topples over and spills some of its content onto the coffee table — red hot chips and sour gummy worms.

“You mentioned that you’d never seen Fast Times a couple weeks ago, so I decided to go rent a copy at Family Video, right? And then I started talking to Robin and she started showing me all the new movies that just came in, so I got a little carried away—”

You're rambling, he notices, almost like you’re nervous.

It makes him feel slightly better, knowing this obviously wasn’t your first time hanging out with a guy (or being touched by one, if he ever got to that part), but that you were nervous nonetheless. Like you wanted this — whatever this was — to go well just as much as he did.

Eddie puts the tape into the VHS player when you’re headed back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand. You sit it on the table before plopping yourself in the middle of the couch — the boy across the living room has no idea you spent the two-and-a-half minutes it took to cook the snack debating on where to sit.

You feared sitting too far on one side might spook him from sitting next to you, that he’d think you didn’t want to sit next to him. So you place yourself snuggly in the middle of the decade-old sofa and hope you don’t seem too eager.

Your heart sinks to your ass when Eddie sits so far on the edge he’s practically sitting on the arm of it.

You muster a smile and try to make a joke of it. “I don’t have cooties or anything, Eds.”

“Promise?” he lilts. The way his voice shakes is purely for comedic effect. Obviously.

“Cross my heart.”

He hopes that by playing it off, you won’t notice how anxious he is about sitting next to you. But when he plants himself beside you, just close enough so that the rough fabric of his jeans scratches your knee every time he fidgets, it’s a little like sitting next to a rock. You spend the first half of the movie wondering if he’s nervous too or if he really just didn’t want to sit this close to you.

The film keeps playing and he keeps snacking — eating chips and Oreos and popcorn in a rotation before combining all three and marveling at the taste; “You’ve got to try this!” he exclaims to you with raised brows and wide eyes. He eventually forgets to be nervous.

That is, until Fast Times hits 53 minutes and 5 seconds.

The smooth bass of Moving in Stereo plays lowly in the background as Phoebe Cates rises from the pool water, clad in a small red bikini. The chlorine-laced drops of water glisten off of her tanned skin. “Hi, Brad. You know how cute I always thought you were,” you quote quietly along with her.

Your eyes are as glued to the television as Eddie’s when she starts to unlatch her top, like it’s the first time you’re seeing it too. You joked to Robin once that you couldn't wait until they made this movie in 3D.

Eddie gets hard as a rock, then. In every sense of the phrase.

“She’s hot, right?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers. He clears his throat when the word comes out too tight. “Totally.”

“That’s how I knew Robin was gay, you know? We watched this when I slept over at her house one time and I woke up in the middle of the night and found her playing this scene over and over again,” you confess with a laugh and hope your best friend won’t be too angry you told him this. “She was sitting, like, two inches away from the screen.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. And when we made out afterward, that really sealed the deal—”

“Holy shit—” he sputters before he can stop it. “—Are you joking?”

Please, say yes before I come in my jeans, he thinks to himself.

“Why?” you challenge, shooting him an arched brow over your shoulder. “Does that change anything?”

“What? No! Of— Of course not!” It just makes you, like, ten times fucking hotter, that’s all.

“Good,” you nod and then turn back to the television. You move on quickly, and Eddie’s grateful. You keep telling the story like it’s one you tell all your friends.

“I asked her why she was watching it without me, and she said she got bored, but I already knew why she was watching it, you know? I guess I just wanted to hear her say it. So I just came out with it — ‘If you want to look at a pair of tits, I’m literally right here.’”

Eddie’s so entranced by your words it’s like you're telling him a bedtime story. He’s looking at you so intently, his gaze locked to your profile like he’s trying to commit it to memory. And when you finally turn to look at him again, he can’t seem to turn away, to even pretend like he wasn’t just hopelessly staring at you.

“So, then it became this whole thing, right? Like, I’ll show mine if you show yours. And then she got all awkward and nervous and lost in her head, kinda like you right now, and then I leaned in…” you trail off quietly, doing it in time as the words leave your mouth. So teasingly and breathtakingly slow. Eddie finds himself drifting closer to you, too, like a bayman to a siren’s call. “Just like this… And then I—”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence.

Eddie’s already kissing you before he realizes what he’s doing. Your noses knock together, the tip of his crushed against the side of yours. The sweet flavor of your strawberry chapstick evades his mouth when your lips press together.

He’s as shocked as you are.

He’s wanted to kiss many pretty girls in his life, but this was the first time he's actually ever done it.

You feel his face burn red against you when he realizes what he’s just done. He tries to pull away from you, but you keep him there with a hand on the back of his head; deepening the kiss and telling him that you want this — that you’ve always wanted this — without actually saying the words.

Refusing to separate from him, you maneuver yourself to face him more as press yourself against his side and tuck your knees beneath you. You caress the rough pad of his tongue with yours all the while, one hand balled in the shoulder of his t-shirt and the other anchoring itself to his curls.

You wait patiently for him to take action. To grip your waist. To lay you back on the couch. To climb over you and take what’s his.

He never does.

He hardly even touches you. He’s got one palm on your hip, but it’s so featherlight that it’s barely even there. His other hand is clutching the pillow on his lap with a white-knuckled grip, like he’s fighting to contain himself in some way. But you want him to let go. To lose himself with you.

The cushion had been there for most of the movie, something to keep in his absentminded hold and get crumbs all over. You wonder, now, if it’s a shield for something else.

Your lips click wetly when you part from him. A small smile forms on your mouth when you notice a string of spit threatening to connect the both of you. It breaks apart, landing cold below your mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Are you hard?”’ you wonder through bated breaths, coming right and just saying it.

Eddie’s eyes go somehow wider and his mouth falls agape. “Uh… No?”

Giggling, you ask, “Is that a question?”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s the answer?” you pry.

“Honestly?” he starts with a heavy breath and heavier eyes, still trying to joke. “Whatever makes me sound super cool and mysterious and sexy.”

“I’ve always thought you were all those things,” you confess with a soft laugh, twisting a strand of his hair with the tip of your finger.

“…Really?” he can’t help but wonder. Those words are about the most shocking thing that’s happened so far this evening.

“Yeah,” you nod, then tease: “Because you've never lied to me.”

So tell me the truth, he can hear the words jumbling around in your head. So does. He swallows thickly and then admits, voice cracking halfway through his confession, “I’m so hard that it fucking hurts, sweetheart.”

You’re smiling like the Chesire Cat at that, big and sly and mischievous. You have all the power and you know it.

“Can I make you feel better?” you whisper to him, lilting like you're taunting him. You mean it, though, and he knows that because you’re already tugging at the pillow in his lap. You don’t fight to snatch it away completely. You leave just enough room to allow him to say no. But his grip on the thing relaxes and allows you to slide the cushion slowly from his crotch.

He can’t say the words because his tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth and his throat is closing on him. So he just nods, peering at you with eyes hooded with ecstasy.

You go back to kissing him, then, unhurriedly this time. You allow yourself to feel all of him, to hold his face in your hands and explore all the bits of him you never got the chance to before now. You do it more so in an effort to get him to relax, to forget to be nervous, but it only half-works.

He gets more comfortable with himself with time. The hand on your waist finds a more confident purchase there and the other climbs up to your face, cradling your jaw while his ringed fingers get lost in the strands of your hair. Then he starts to kiss you back harder, more earnestly than before, like he’s trying to prove something. Trying to tell you everything like this than with words he can’t seem to say out loud.

He forgets to be nervous again when your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle — the kind with the funky edges, the kind you know goes together because there’s only two in the whole bunch like it. He stops worrying if he’s doing it right.

His breath is warm and heavy as it fans against your cupid’s bow. He’d rather take in small pieces of oxygen like this than stop kissing you now. You feel the same way as you straddle his thigh, careful not to move with too much haste that it knocks your lips apart.

Eddie’s legs part for you on instinct. When you settle more comfortably against him, he can feel the warmth radiating between your thighs through the thick fabric of his jeans. He wishes he was naked right now, more so that you were, so he can feel all of you, bare against his skin.

But he takes what he can get for now. And tries not to burst completely at the thought that the only thing separating you from him was the thin layer of your cotton underwear.

It’s hard not to think about your own pleasure like this. You could so easily move your hips against his thigh, let the rugged fabric of his jeans and your panties do all the work against your clit and bring you to a swift release. You want to. You’re sure Eddie would want you to if you asked him. But it strangely seems less important now.

Because you know you’re minutes away from making Eddie come so hard his legs shake. And you always wanted to know what he looked like when he came.

Your hand worms out of his hair and down his neck. Your fingernails trail lightly over his skin, leaving visible chill bumps in their wake. Your palm falls down his chest and stomach, smooth like drops of summer rain. The print of his Def Leppard tee is rough and cracked with age. You wonder how long he’s had it, how often he’s worn it, as your hand settles again. This time on his belt.

For a split second, he’s anxious about you seeing his dick. What if you think it’s too small? He thinks to himself. What if you think it’s too ugly? But then he realizes you’re not even trying to take off his jeans. You just rest your palm over the rough material of the denim and grip him through it.

A groan crawls up his throat and out of his mouth. His head falls backward and lands against the back of the couch.

He’s bigger than you thought, and warm against the tender skin of your hand, even through his boxers and his pants. It’d be ever warmer if you were feeling the real thing, you discern, but you figure you’ll save that for another time. Because even though it’s not the real thing and there are so many layers separating your fingers from his cock, Eddie’s letting out small and breathy moans that tell you that you’re touching him just right. The more you squeeze, the louder he gets.

“Is this okay?” you whisper to him.

“Are you kidding?” he retorts with a breathless laugh. “I feel like I’m in heaven right now.”

“Just wait until you come,” you giggle. It makes him moan again. His eyes fall shut because he knows he’s moments away from feeling what it’s like — not to come, obviously, but for it to be from your hand and not his. 

You massage him through his jeans, feeling him grow somehow harder with each caress of your fingers. Peering down at him, you can see his jaw clenching, the way it moves his temples, and the muscles in his neck straining as he climbs the peak of pleasure.

“If you think this feels good now, just wait until you're inside me,” you purr to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls shakily at your words. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious or not. He wants so much to believe that it’s a promise, though. The idea that he could unbuckle his belt right now, free his cock from its restraints and slip your panties to the side and take you, just like this, with you on top of him and riding him for all he’s worth, that nearly does him in.

But he’s fighting to keep it at bay. To let this moment last as long as he can. Because it’s entirely likely that he’ll come and you’ll never want to do this again. It’s even more likely that he’ll wake up from this way too vivid fantasy he’s concocted in his brain. How good can dreams get until they’re nightmares again?

The hand on your hip darts to wrap around your wrist.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, gaze sober and sincere.

Eddie breathes out a tremble sigh of relief when you slow your motions against him. “I just…” he breathes heavily. And swallows. “I really don’t want to come in my jeans.”

You’re smiling again at that, pleased at how good you're making him feel. Like the pleasure is foreign to him. He can feel your grin as you lean down to kiss him. It’s a chaste peck, like you're just sprinkling yourself there so it can linger the rest of the night. 

Your kiss is far more fervent against his neck, wetter and more passionate. His skin has a faint taste of salt, like he’d been sweating. And he was, for the entire day that he anticipated your arrival, though there was never an ounce of him expecting this. You bite at the strained tendon and marvel as he shudders beneath you.

“It’s okay,” you leave your promise against his skin. “I’ll wash them for you after. Like a good little housewife—”

It was a joke and he knows it because you’re laughing at the absurdity of your words, at the reality of them. You’re probably the only person in the world giving your drug dealer a handjob for free weed and then offering to wash his damp bottoms when he comes in them — calling yourself his fucking housewife. But, for a reason he can’t explain, that’s what gets him.

Not marrying you, perhaps, but the idea that he could have this feeling forever. That you could bring him to complete and utter, blinding bliss and then take care of him while he comes back to earth. 

You give him an especially tough squeeze that sends a moan spilling roughly from his throat. His hips jerk up to their own according, his thigh jamming into your clothed pussy — he swears he hears you moan — and his toes curl in his boots.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he comes. He grasps your wrist and presses you further against him. His grip is almost too tight but you don’t mind it, not when you can feel the denim growing damp with the evidence of his orgasm.

Eddie doesn’t feel anything for a while after that. It’s just pure pleasure for several long moments. The fuzziness of his climax, your hand pressed against him, your warmth still pressed against his thigh.

But then the high fades away like a rolling summer cloud and he starts to feel the wet patch forming in his clothes. The fabric of his thin boxer starts to stick to him and he almost feels gross, like he’s a teenager again who can’t so much as look at a woman with needing to come.

But then he sees the way you look at him, grinning like a cat who got the cream — because, in some ways, you are. You look like you're proud of him. Like you’re secretly wondering how many times you can do that before it’s too much. He wants to find out too.

You plant another kiss to his lips. Just because you can.

“Take your pants off, Munson,” you mumble against his mouth, kissing him one more time for good measure before pulling away again.

“Oh— shit— wait, really?” he sputters. “I thought you were joking about— about me being… I— I don’t know if I have any condoms.”

He totally does, in an unopened box under his bed, collecting dust. 

You don’t need to know that, though.

“I meant for washing them so you can change,” you laugh at his embarrassment. The sound somehow makes him feel better even though you’re slightly making fun of him. You shrug and arch a brow at him, lilting, “But… I’m down if you are.”

have any more virgin!eddie thoughts? or just thoughts about my writing/requests in general? leave them here if you want! ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

[gorgeousgreymatter-x]

An excerpt from my unfortunately likely very belated birthday fic for @wynnyfryd my beloved:

It’s not like there’s a definitive set of tracks that Eddie’s on the wrong side of, but there’s something about being in Loch Nora, driving through the suburbs of these rich-y rich neighborhoods that made his skin crawl. Like he’s wearing a huge neon red sign that says I’m not supposed to be here. But there are a few things he’ll venture out to Doucheville for.

The main one being money.

Okay — the only one being money. But who was he to turn down practically double his normal rates simply because Heather Holloway was too prissy to meet in the woods? Whatever, for that much extra cash he’d throw in home delivery just this once.

Of course, because nothing in Eddie’s life is fair or easy, it backfires. Not in the lack of payday kind of way, he thinks, patting the thick roll of cash newly stuffed into his back pocket. That part had gone just fine. Heather had played her part of the stuck up cheerleader and Eddie the scummy drug dealer and yada yada everybody went home happy.

It backfires more in the almost crashed his van into a tree and died simply because he’s a horny idiot kind of way.

Because the universe apparently decided that Eddie, who’d literally promised himself that he was no longer going to be an obsessed freakazoid over Steve goddamn Harrington, must be tested, must truly suffer. Why else would right now be the exact moment in time he drives past the guy while he's clearly on a run and sporting a pair of nearly indecent length running shorts coupled with a — jesus h. christ — a Hawkins High Marching Band t-shirt cut into a crop top revealing a gloriously thick treasure trail. And muscles. So many muscles.

The universe clearly wanted Eddie to die.

And now Eddie has to sit here, rubbing awkwardly at the bruise he definitely feels blooming on his forehead from the unfortunate whack it’s taken against his steering wheel. Because, as mentioned — idiot. He has to sit here while Steve fucking Harrington peers into his open window with this unfathomably sweet look of concern on his stupid angelic face that makes Eddie, for a moment, kinda wish he was dead. Especially because his brain decides, “There was a squirrel!” is the best thing to blurt out when Steve asks if he’s okay. The hasty, “I mean, I’m fine,” Eddie adds after definitely helps sell it a lot. He can tell by the way Steve’s brow is all furrowed in a stupidly cute stupid way.

“I dunno, man,” Steve says (and Eddie definitely does not stare as he watches a single bead of sweat drip down the slope of Steve’s throat, over those pair of freckles Eddie absolutely hasn't thought about sinking his teeth into), "I kind of have a lot of experience with head injuries and that looked like it hurt. Are you sure –"

"Why do you care?"

Steve's worried expression crumples into something steely that just makes Eddie feel like even more of a dick than he knows he's already being. "I just know how shitty concussions can be, sorry for worrying about you, I guess --"

Fuck. Eddie sighs. It would be so much easier if Steve was the jerk Eddie'd always thought he was instead of what he's really turning out to be, which is such a fucking sweetheart that Eddie can't help but want to do a lot of really, really not sweet things to him. "Shit, no -- I'm being an asshole. Maybe chalk it up to that possible head trauma you're worried about?"

Steve is quiet for a moment, but then that look of cool detachment disappears, and he smiles, all gleaming white teeth, and it feels like watching the fucking sun splitting through storm clouds or some shit. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Eddie blinks and sees that Harrington's got his middle finger up, flipping him the bird with such a smug little smirk on that pretty face that Eddie can't help it. He laughs. "Cute."

"You really think so?" Maybe it's the heat. That's gotta be it, Eddie thinks, watching how Steve's cheeks flush, watches as it spreads down past his throat, past those tufts of chest hair poking up teasingly past the stretched out collar of his borrowed t shirt.

The t-shirt Steve had so clearly borrowed from Robin. Robin, who was supposedly Harrington's girlfriend. The image of Robin from earlier in the cafeteria that day wearing Steve’s letterman jacket flashes across his mind and he has to bite him own tongue to stop himself from wincing.

Eddie's gonna throw up. Maybe he does have a concussion after all.

[emberenchanted]

For Keeps (1/3)

Title: For Keeps

Characters: Dark!Carol Danvers x Female Reader

Summary: Carol sees you. Carol wants you. Carol gets what she wants. 

Series Warnings: extremely dubious consent, strap-on (r receiving), sex (oral, vaginal), anal fingering, Dom!Carol, orgasm denial, spanking, violence (not really towards reader), manipulation, forced relationship, rough sex, Ma’am kink

Note: All three chapters of this fic are already written. This is my very first (and maybe only) fic I’m posting on Tumblr. So if you like it, please let me know. All forms of feedback welcome. Comments and reblogs especially. 

18+ ONLY

Chapter 1

Carol was not happy. Though perhaps that was an understatement. As Carol stomped down the front steps of Mel’s Tavern and shoves open the door, she was honest enough to admit she was pissed. After a long week, an absolute shit week, all Carol wants to do on her Friday night is go to Thor’s brothel, have too much Asgardian liquor, and take out her frustrations on one of the pretty little whores in his employ. Instead, she’s in Mel’s trying to figure out why he hadn’t made his monthly payment for the 2nd month in a row. Though to be fair, this visit was less about finding out why he’d not made his payment and more about reminding him why he needed to make his payment. Carol wasn’t a therapist or a social worker, so she didn’t really give a shit about the why. 

Striding into the poorly lit, smoky bar, filled with gaudy tchotchkes and an unfortunate looking crowd, Carol quickly glances around the room looking for Mel. She wants to get in and out of this dive as soon as possible. However, Mel was nowhere to be found; he was smart to make himself scarce knowing that he’d missed payday, but dumb as fuck to make Carol wait. To be fair, he probably didn’t know he was making Carol wait. He most likely thought he was simply avoiding one of the lesser Avenger goons. Unfortunately for Mel, he wasn’t the only “security client” who’d neglected to pay his dues in the Avengers’ territory recently. That, plus Steve’s suspicion that there was a mole in the family meant that Carol had been drafted to figure out what was going on and to fix the problem.

Carol strides to the doorman, black low-heeled boots clicking on the grungy and slightly sticky tile floor. In her bespoke all black pantsuit, she cut a striking figure. Short dark blonde hair curled around a strong jaw on one side; the other side razed into a short undercut. The doorman stands up quickly when he sees her. 

“Ma’am,” he starts, before Carol puts up her hand.

“Where’s Mel?,” Carol interrupts. “If he’s in the back, go get him. If he’s not, tell him I’m here and that the longer I wait, the more pissed off I’ll become. Got it?”

The doorman nods sharply before turning on his heel and heading toward the closed off offices in the back of the bar.

Carol rolls her shoulders once to relieve some tension before walking over to the bar; she finds the least sticky chair and takes a seat before tapping her index finger on the bar top two times to get the bartender’s attention. That was when she saw you. 

You hadn’t noticed her until she’d sat at the bar, but you recognize the confident way she situated herself in the room as someone used to wielding authority. Seated so she had a clear view of most of the room and all of the exits, the woman leaned back into her chair, eyes flickering around the room until they stopped on you. You meet her gaze. As her intense honey brown orbs pin you in place, you begin to feel a bit shy; your heart pounds loudly in your chest and you lower your eyes. You curse yourself silently and tell yourself that she was just like any other customer. A hot customer. A really fucking hot customer. You would just do your job. Deep breaths.

The woman seems to notice your discomfort and her eyes glitter as they flicker up and down your body, pausing at your hips, waist, and the slight swell of your breasts visible over your black tank top. 

You shift uncomfortably and tug at the hem of your tank, desperately wishing that you’d thought to put on your jacket before your shift. Your outfit was by no means revealing, but the way she was looking at you made you feel like she could see right through your clothes. Her eyes meet yours once more and she gives you a gentle smirk that makes your breath catch. Your hands immediately come together in front of you, fingers twisting around each other as you meet her steely gaze. 

You stand up straight, lift your chin and walk over to the bar, fiercely hoping your demeanor doesn’t betray your nervousness.

“Hi, welcome to Mel’s. Can I get you something?,” you ask the woman, voice squeaking just a bit.

“Well hello there, baby,” she drawls in a sing-song voice, head tilting slightly as she gives you another long onceover; she doesn’t try to hide it, her eyes dragging the last few inches from your mouth to your eyes slowly. “Give me a shot of Crown, neat. Ok?”

“Yes, ma’am!” you quickly puff out, already retreating to fetch her drink. 

Carol’s smile widens at the address and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, her night is turning around. As you turn around to grab a whiskey glass and pour her shot, Carol’s eyes crawl over the curve of your waist and delicious looking ass. Yes, indeed. Her night was looking up.

   As you pour the drink you think about how...excellent the customer’s voice is. Husky and soft, it slithered into your ears and made you briefly wonder what that voice would sound like in bed. 

You pour a healthy shot of the whiskey in the glass and set it in front of the blonde woman, before quickly stepping back. She raises the glass slightly in your direction before slowly sipping her drink, her throat bobbing as she swallows while staring directly into your eyes. Her wet, pink tongue slips out to lick a drop of whiskey lingering on her plump bottom lip. Your eyes are glued to the motion and your face gets hot when you realize she’d watched you watching her. 

In all honesty, that was probably a bad thought. You didn’t know who she was, but all the other employees, and the few customers, seemed a bit on edge ever since she walked in. You weren’t quite sure why, but it almost seemed like Tony, the doorman, was scared of her. Which was outrageous. Tony was 6’5 and built like a Mack truck. But still, you knew that whoever she was, you should be cautious.  

“Come here, baby,” she mutters, resting her elbows on the bar and leaning forward. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, and your eyes wildly look around the room seeking anywhere else to direct your attention. 

Your eyes settle back on the blonde woman when nobody else will meet your gaze. Not even Fred, the local drunk who spent most evenings begging for “just one more drink, love.” Traitors.

You shuffle toward the woman and start to reach for her now empty glass. “Do you want an open or closed tab?,” you ask.

She smiles up at you, revealing even, white teeth before winking and saying, “It’s on the house.”

Your brow furrows, confused before you peeked at Tony, who nods at you grimly.

“Oook,” you say, still slightly confused as you reach for the empty glass to place aside for the bar back.

In the three months you’d been working here, you’d never given anyone or seen anyone given a drink “on the house.” Mel wasn’t necessarily stingy, but you didn’t want to press your luck and drinks were priced so reasonably that nobody ever complained. But, if Tony was saying it was on the house, you had to take him at his word. 

Her hand snakes out and catches yours before you can remove the glass. 

“What’s your name?,” the blonde woman asks softly, thumb gently stroking the web of skin between your thumb and index finger. You start to jerk your hand away, but her grip tightens around yours, holding you in place. You freeze, eyes and mouth parting as your breath comes faster and you nervously wait for something, anything, to give you a clue to what she wants you to do. She looks at you curiously before releasing your hand and sliding back in her seat, back resting against the high-backed chair. 

“I’m Y/N,” you say, breathing a bit more evenly now that she’s no longer touching you. 

“Y/N” she repeats, the name rolling off her tongue melodically. “That's pretty. I’m Carol. How long have you worked here, Y/N? I’ve never seen you before.”

“Three months, but I’m not from here,” you blather nervously. 

“Oh yeah?,” she smiles coyly, “where are you from, baby?”

You feel heat rising in your cheeks at the endearment, and you softly tell her where you're from.

“That’s fun. How do you like our little city?” she says, extending her arms wide open. “Have you seen all the sights?”

“No,” you reluctantly admit. “I came out here in a rush so I’ve mainly been focused on finding work and a place to live. Haven’t had time to do the tourist thing yet.”

“Hmmm,” she ponders, smiling gently while drumming her short red nails on the bar, “I’d love to be your tour guide, baby, if you’d like that. Take you to see the sights, take you to dinner. Do you work tomorrow?”

“O-oh,” you stutter, surprised that she’d managed to direct the conversation into an invitation for a date so quickly and smoothly. “Umm.”

“Do you work tomorrow, baby?,” she presses again.

“No, I uh, don’t. But I’m not--” you start. 

“Great,” Carol interrupts. “That’s just what I was hoping to hear. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you tomorrow with something planned for us.”

You were taken aback. Yes, she was gorgeous and made you feel flushed and nervous (you supposed those were butterflies?), and would probably-- no, definitely-- show you a good time, but you weren’t sure you wanted to get wrapped up in whatever was going on here. But she’d already slid her phone across the bar and was beaming up at you expectantly. You figured that one little outing probably wouldn’t hurt. It’d been a while since you’d been out and Lord knew you hadn’t had time for anything fun and relaxing since moving to the city. You’d been far too busy scrambling to survive. Your hometown was expensive, but nothing like this. 

As you reach for her phone you send a silent prayer that wherever you go with her wouldn’t be too expensive so you could insist on paying for yourself without cannibalizing your weekly food budget.

As you input your phone number, the woman, Carol, leans back in her chair and glances around the bar again before once more leaning towards you. Your eyes fall to her cleavage and your thoughts take a turn before you snap your eyes back up to her to find her laughing gently.

“Such a good girl,” Carol husks as she retrieves her phone from you and slips it into her trouser pocket as she stands. 

She didn't touch you this time; you were already overwhelmed and semi-regretful and she looked like she didn’t want to give you any reason to try to run away from her. “Now, go get me another drink while I talk to Mel,” Carol instructs before and turning around sharply.

You’re thrilled to have something else to do, to focus on, so you didn’t notice the fearful look on Mel’s face as Carol strides up to him. 

Carol didn’t exactly work for Steve and the Avengers, but she did operate out of their territory when she was stateside, and lately her business dealings found her on the East Coast. Staying with the family was just easier, and that sometimes meant getting caught up in their issues. She normally didn’t mind doing Steve a favor...but it’d been a hell of a week, and up until she’d seen the little cutie at the bar squirm so prettily under her scrutinizing gaze, she had not been happy to be doing this particular favor.

Well, Carol thinks, whores aren’t the only way to work out aggression. Looks like this God forsaken place would provide her two types of entertainment tonight. 

Carol’s exchange with Mel is brief. She bulldozes over his stammered greetings and demands to know why he hadn’t been paying his security fee. Mel insists that he had been paying, he definitely wasn’t avoiding the family, and that someone new had come around and told him 3 months ago that there was a new payment method. He’d been leaving his payments in an unmarked envelope taped under a nearby bench. Someone had been picking them up, since Mel had made two payments this way and the first was gone when he went to make the second. 

Hmmm, Steve will definitely be interested to learn that. Carol muses to herself. 

“Ok, Mel,” Carol says to the stammering man.

“Ok?,” Mel repeats, hope creeping into his eyes as he looks timidly at her. 

“Ok,” Carol reiterated, “I believe you. Which is the good news. The bad news is I don’t give a fuck who you say you paid, because bottom line is we don’t have our money. The money you owe us. So you have until next week to get it to us.”

Anger flares in Mel’s eyes before Carol puts a hand on his shoulder “Ah ah ah, Mel. I can just tell that I am zero percent interested in hearing whatever you're about to say. You pay by next week or I can break your other leg, too.”

Mel blanches and whimpers out, “too?,” just in time for Carol to slip her hand from his shoulder to the back of his head before slamming him nose-first into a nearby table. The crack is audible above the shitty music playing in the background. As Mel reaches to try to push himself up from the table, Carol brings her fist down on the fingers clinging to the edge of the table, breaking three on impact and then turns to forcefully kick one leg out toward Mel’s knee, forcing it backward with an audible CRACK! Mel’s scream cuts through all the chatter and music, a macabre soundtrack in the dingy bar.

Once that was done, Carol slides Mel into the booth she’d just brutalized him at and turns back to the bar.

You were cowering in a corner, back pressed as far up against the bar as you could, eyes frantically searching for an exit, body shaking, and breath huffing quickly. You’d finished prepping Carol’s drink just in time to see the breathtaking display of violence. You feel nauseated and scared and hot and dizzy, your stomach heaving at the bloodshed. You can hear your heart beating in your head as you watch Carol stride over to you, her eyes glittering in excitement and something that looked suspiciously like arousal. 

She knocks back the drink you have waiting for her, before looking directly at you. You try to look anywhere but at her, but she was still all you noticed.

“Look at me,” she says firmly. Your eyes flicker up towards her at the command. “You answer when I call you tomorrow, ok baby?”

She waits for your weak nod, before smiling brightly at you and walking out the door.

Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for reading this far. Let me know what you think!

[theplumsoldier]

ain't no rest for the wicked / a whore's company

summary: joel miller pays you (a sex worker) to keep him company in a bar

pairing: joel miller x sex worker!female reader

a/n: this is my entry in the #pascalsnetwritingchallenge with the song prompt ain't no rest for the wicked ft. joel miller (pre-apocalypse) as always comments are appreciated <3<3

warnings: 18+ MDNI; sex work (and talk thereof, vulgar language, references to sex, reader's a single mom, sick child, mention of ex boyfriend

word count: 2,4k

You tucked your belly in and pursed your lips before you propped yourself into the slot beside him. You tucked yourself close enough for him to feel you, and he seemed to stir awake from his daydreaming - or whatever it was going through his pretty head.

"Don't think I ever saw a man look as lonely as you do now, darlin'."

His eyes were wide still, bewildered and startled as if you had woken him from a dream. His lips curved in a shy smile and you thought for a second you might have actually saved him from a nightmare instead.

His warm eyes slid over you, but they were still kind when he realized what you are—who you are, he reminded himself, because who am I to objectify anyone?

The longer he looked at you, the more you became aware of his smile. He really did look lonely and it wasn't just that he was alone in a bar.

Fuck.

You made quick thinking so that he might not brood too much on your words. The last thing you wanted was to spend your night feeling inclined to listen to some man feeling sorry for himself.

"Care f'some company?"

"M'not sure I'm a lot of fun, doll."

"That's okay. I am."

To your surprise, after a couple of what looked to be particularly decisive seconds, his mien seemingly switched and something sparkled in his eye.

"Ya know what—okay," he decided. "I'm Joel."

You took his outstretched hand and held it in yours instead of shaking it.

"I'm Pat."

Joel had stretched his hand, not only as an introductory gesture but also so that he might make some space between you. He would feel more comfortable speaking to your face than the tits you currently had perked in his face.

Joel squeezed your hand. "What's your real name."

You squeezed his hand back, although the rough calloused skin made you doubt he could feel it.

"What kinda names ya like?" quizzed you cleverly.

He made a sound. Something between a harsh chuckle and a dubious snort, whatever that may sound like.

You scorched closer to him, confidently resting your hand on his thigh. You wondered if he worked out. His thighs were muscular and the way his arm flexed you couldn't help but think he would look better with his clothes off. He probably had a nice firm ass, too.

"Ya know, I bet I could make your evening a whole lot nicer," you seduced, tracing small circles on the walked jeans that clung to his leg.

Joel bit back a smirk. "S'that so?"

Humming deeply your eyes graced down his body, although he had already understood your innuendo.

"F'you pay that right price, o'course."

The comment did not appear to fend him off.

Joel knew he wasn't going to pay you for sex. Although his brother had told him once that every man ought to try it, the thought did not arouse him one bit. Not at all, actually.

But looking at you, he wondered what company you could offer him anyhow. Surely you must be hiding something under this professional facade.

He wondered what your humor was like, if you had any, and if it matched his. He became curious about whether you were opinionated and if so, what those were. He wanted to quiz you, ask why you did this kind of work, but he thought that was something none of his business. Joel pondered whether you would tell him that if you had a smart mouth on you if he asked anyway. He hoped you did because he presumed there must be some real creep-encounters for someone like you in this world.

Suddenly he asked, too curious for his own good and too insensible on the payday: "what's your rate, Pat?"

"Five hundred bucks."

Oh.

Joel didn't know what he had expected. He didn't know what was a fair price for such an escapade, and he was both staggered by the amount - he couldn't recall the last time he had indulged and spent more than a hundred dollars on himself - and surprised that you didn't charge more. He didn't have to take another look at you to know you easily could.

He thought you should.

You watched, growing impatient as he hummed, but then he fished up his wallet and dug around.

A victory, you thought, when he moved the curled-up wads into the hand you had placed on his thigh.

If he had been paying for sex with you, he would have felt he robbed you.

"Take a seat on tha' other side."

You frowned suspiciously at the man but were quick tighten your fist around the bills.

"What?"

"I'd like to know ya," he replied.

Is he fucking with you?

You had tried something like this before; an arrogant man trying to protest your job, thinking himself so high and mighty that he might rescue you. A damn fool he was.

"I swear, if you're one o'those bastard thinkin' you're better than me—" you said with gritted teeth.

Joel quickly retreated, moving back as if he was letting you leave and lifting his hands in surrender, realizing he had given offense. "No, no—I... M'sorry, I didn't mean to offend ya."

You gave him an incredulous look and crossed your arms.

"Sorry, ma'am," he fumbled politely but he looked embarrassed. "Keep the money, I—"

"Oh, I will."

Joel bit his lip.

He registered how stupid he has been. It had been presumptuous to decide you needed the money, that it would save you a little while from doing this sort of work; he didn't stop to think that perhaps you had chosen this occupation, not out of fear for the alternative, but because you wanted to.

The thought didn't sit right with him, but he cursed himself for accidentally labeling you while trying to do just the opposite.

Joel's need for being liked encouraged him to explain: "I thought I'd do something good by paying your price without needin' your service, ma'am and I seem to 'ave insulted you 'nstead, I'm sorry," he jabbered inarticulately and you let him, somewhat baffled.

The feeling of your heart fluttering had become so unfamiliar to you that you feared a stroke was in order. When you discerned the sincerity in his apology, you couldn't help but buckle under to his chivalrously ignorant charm.

"So you don't wanna fuck me?" you teased.

He looked flabbergasted and you laughed loudly as he stuttered to find the words.

The perplexed expression tugging at his aging wrinkles blurred into a sad pout when you stood. Triumph settled in his chest when you sat on the other side.

"I'm just fuckin' with ya, cowboy."

You often found that humor helped in awkward situations, and although you got a kick out of making men feel uncomfortable, you just couldn't bear watching his depressed eyes anymore. You hadn't really been mad with him. It was just that you — on more than one occurrence — had found yourself in the company of an arrogant prick on a high horse who'd like to fix you as if you were some delicate little thing in need of rescuing. Even if those customers had been right, you were not keen on having to rely on them for the good in their hearts.

Joel seemed to ease up though.

"So this how you usually spend your Friday nights? Keeping whores company."

"Thought I'd try something new," he smirked when he leaned back with a glint in his eye. You had to stop yourself from falling into their abyss.

You cocked a brow and leaned in with a wry look. "Don't shoot the messenger, but ya ain't very good at it."

Joel chuckled.

He bought you a drink then, and you quickly found Joel was an entertaining conversationalist. He was easy to open up, had jokes practically trickling out his sleeves and he was nice on the eyes, too.

Hours passed and drinks were emptied. You could tell he was holding back—whenever your laughter died out and there was only a silence between you, he would look at you with such inquisitive eyes, that you told him he could ask you whatever he wanted.

You figured it was only fair since he had told you so much about himself: his family, his work, his dating life, and quite frankly you enjoyed his company. You couldn't remember the last time you had been out like this—not looking for customers and simply having a good night out. It made you feel like you were on a date and to your surprise, you didn't hate it.

He was careful in his questioning and seemed genuinely interested in your work. His presence was incredibly serene and you hesitated only for a moment before deciding on telling him you also had a kid of your own. A sick one, with heaps of medical bills to be paid.

Joel was quite fascinated with you by the time you had told him more about yourself and he found that you had more in common than he would have guessed.

You told him about the dreams you had had when you were younger, how you were convinced you were going to play a special role in this world, be someone who would make a difference, and how all those hopes vanished when your boyfriend had left you alone with a kid without a single word.

"Damn fool," Joel had groaned.

It was around then Joel discovered you had talked for six-fucking-hours, but only because the bar's patrons were dwindling and they were closing up shop.

It was typical for you to be home around 2 o'clock or so, but you had been so caught up you hadn't even noticed it was past 3.

As you exited the bar together, Joel chuckled to himself in revelation. "Must've been a boy last I was out this late."

His comment made you grab hold of his arm and stare bright-eyed at his wristwatch. A little past three in the morning.

"Shit! I should've been home an hour ago," you panicked and it took Joel a second to realize why.

Earlier you had told him your neighbor babysat for you while you worked, someone you also considered your closest friend, and he suddenly felt very bad for holding you out so long. He imagined your friend would be worried sick by now, recalling the story you had told him about the time someone had roughed you up and you had passed out in an alley, returning home bruised and battered.

Joel hailed a cab, feeling compelled to make sure you got home fast and safely.

You gave the driver the address of the Chinese deli on the corner of your street and settled in the seat, Joel's hand lingering comfortably above your knee.

Through the night, you had noticed Joel touching you in one way or another—on your arm, on your shoulder, on the small of your back, and so on, although only when it felt so natural that you hadn't noticed before you subconsciously leaned into his touch.

It scared you a bit, being flushed with warmth under his warm calloused hands. All the same, you felt safe in his hands, like no one could ever hurt you again; and if they dared, they would answer to him.

Joel squeezed your thigh when he noticed your trepidation, only then becoming aware that his hand was on your thigh. He hadn't realized when he had put it there, but a thought reminded him that physical touch was his love language.

It was certainly too early to be in love, he reminded himself, however, he knew that if he would see you again, after this impending adieu you were racing toward, he would have to bite his tongue to not let the words slip. In his family, they threw the words around like smiles—it felt so natural to say them when he was in the company of someone he relished being with.

Joel decided he would ask you if you would like to see him again, and when he proposed the idea with his head stuck out the window like a dog, you spun on your heel, probably a little too eager.

"A date?" mused you, trying to see the romantic gesture rather than flashbacks from those you had gone on with your ex back in the day.

Joel's head tilted and you couldn't help but grin, amused with the way he looked like a dog longing to be petted and praised.

Your gaze flickered up to your apartment and saw that the lights were on only in the living room.

"Gimme your phone, cowboy."

He vehemently did and you typed in your number, saving it to his contacts along with your name and a smiley.

"I don't expect you to pay for my company next time 'round, but I do expect ya to pay the check and hold the doors for me," quipped you.

"Nothing less, ma'am."

He sat back contentedly with a proud smile and the driver switched the gears to move off of the curb.

Joel reacted: "Wait, wait, wait!"

He looked back at you, pushing his head halfway out the window again, and grinned stupidly.

"Can I kiss you?"

An uncontrollable laugh slipped from your lips, and you took his face in your hands. Joel swore his eyes bulged comically out of his head in pure adoration for your laugh, but his sheepishness was momentary for you happily pulled him into a sweet, sweet kiss.

After a moment, you pulled back, gazing softly down at him and he thought you looked so mesmerizing in the dim street light.

"Bet that's the most expensive kiss you've ever had," you teased.

Joel shrugged as if to say "it was worth it". He enjoyed the way you joked around your profession, you seemed to tackle a lot with humor.

When the taxi pulled back into the street, Joel swallowed his heart back into place and he finally looked down at his phone.

He smiled in such a boyish way and pronounced your name.

"What's that?" grumbled the driver.

Joel couldn't rid himself of the smile dancing on his lips. He could still taste your lipgloss.

"Nothin'," he responded dismissively, eyes still fixed on his phone. He didn't have to move in the seat to know he had gotten a hard-on from kissing you.

The driver hummed, then said, "so, ya gonna give me an address or somethin'?"

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 23

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 23.

His breath came hard—harder than it should, but he had no time to think about that.

His knees slid in the gravel, already dropping the rifle to grab at their jacket and pull them onto their back.

“Stardust?” his voice came out soft and full of dread. He exhaled hard to try to clear it, to force something easy and certain there in its place. “Are you okay?”

Stardust groaned and blinked up at him.

He ran his hands over their head and neck, looking for injuries. “Did…Did you get shot?” he hated it even as he asked it, imagining one of those bullets straying. He patted down their sides, looking for blood and finding his hands covered in fluorescent colors. “Stupid fucking paint… I can’t…”

Stardust grabbed his hand, squeezing. “I’m okay,” they coughed, sitting up.

He exhaled so hard he almost fell over onto his ass in the gravel. “Okay.” He nodded. “You’re okay.” They spat blood and nodded too, rubbing the spot on their cheek where they’d taken a punch.

All that fear turned suddenly into a fury so painful his eyes burned. They’d literally stood between him and a gun. They’d thrown themself at that mercenary with no chance of winning. “What were you thinking? Why would you rush him like that?” Yelling felt good.

They stared back at him, so surprised that it only made him angrier. “It was our best option. We had a better chance of taking them out if I—”

“Better chances? Are you cracked? You could have made a run for it!” Rory was on his feet. He got there quickly and his vision filled with spots, but he kept his glare fixed on their face, on the splatters of pain, the stain of blood in the corner of their mouth, and the splotch of bruising that looked like it would eventually cover the whole side of their head.

They were on their feet too, hands out as if they needed to stabilize him. He pushed those hands away. The last thing he needed was their help!  “You’re shot!”

“What?” He followed their gaze down to his chest and the red rolling over bright paint. “Yes, I got shot. It’s a flesh wound. But you shouldn’t care!” And he wasn’t going to let them change the topic either. This was exactly the problem!

They reached for him again, their face so full of worry that he couldn’t even feel the gunshot anymore. It was the lesser of his pains.

“I thought you wanted to be a bounty hunter, Stardust?”

“What are you talking about? We have to get you on the ship. I think I have a medical patch—”

He pushed them away. No one took care of him. Rory took care of himself. “A gun for hire doesn’t use themself as a fucking human shield! Don’t you ever do that again!”

They froze, staring at him.

He needed them to understand. He needed to see that soft, beautiful light in their eyes go out because this was going to get them killed—and killed for him.

Their expression finally hardened but it wasn’t the way he’d wanted. It was…conviction? “We’re partners. I’m going to look out for you. You would have done the same for me.”

“Partners?” he spat the word, even as his head felt light. “No! We are not partners. You are my bounty, and we are going to get that treasure and then split. We are not friends or…or anything else. Don’t get confused just because I save your ass. You are just a payday and that is why I keep you alive!” That pain in his chest was the gunshot. Definitely the gunshot. Only the gunshot.

Their expression didn’t change, their mouth in a hard line and their gaze as hard as stone. “You don’t mean that.”

He pointed a gloved finger in their face, his other hand finally going to his side and pressing his palm into that wound. It didn’t hurt as much as it felt like a loss, like he was hollowing out. Maybe that was better right now. He didn’t like what he was saying, but he needed to say it. He needed to make them believe it. “I will drop you the second I get my share of this, Stardust!”

“You’re so full of shit…” They rolled their eyes, finally pulling something from one of their pockets and stepping closer.

“Stop fussing over it!” he barked when they tried to grab his arm and get a look at the injury. They were acting like this was normal—like what the two of them had was normal. “I’ve had worse and it’s none of your damn business!”

They finally snapped out of that stoic patience. “You’re just pitching a fit because you got scared, Cosmic!” they spat the nickname they’d given him. “We’re fine, so get over it!”

“No, I’m not mad because I was scared. I don’t get scared, and you don’t fucking know me,” he said, vision blurring at the edges and head swimming. His breath was coming faster, heart pounding. He looked down at his hand on his side and all the red soaked into his glove and rolling between his fingers.

Stardust took a step back and put both hands on their hips, chin cocked. “You’re going to faint.”

“Fuck you, I am not going to faint.”

They smirked and didn’t budge. “You’re going to land on your pretty face and I’m going to have to drag your dumb ass back onto the ship…”

Rory scoffed, but he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. “I’m not the one who…” He swayed and blinked, but couldn’t quite see. “Oh shit…”

-

Stardust let him fall.

The wind rolled hard across the landscape, dropping several degrees as the light fell away.

They crouched and rolled him onto his back.

Through their optic implant they remotely connected to the ship, unlocking the security systems and starting the prep for start-up and take-off.

Hands on him, Cosmic’s vitals popped up on their visuals in electric blue. Blood loss and traumatic injury warnings flashed. He groaned and they hoped he’d just stay out until they were back in space. They had to unzip his jacket to lift his shirt and get a look at the wound. The bullet had gone through his side and from initial scans didn’t seem to have hit anything vital. They ripped the synthetic skin patch from their emergency kit open and stretched it over his side to cover both wounds. It sizzled in contact with blood and sweat, cleansing the area and dissolving into him.

He groaned again, head rolling back on the gravel.

Stardust sighed. “And I thought primers were fucked up…” They pushed his hair out of his sweaty face, his eyes flicking behind his lids. They hoped whatever he was thinking—whatever dream was playing out for him—was something good. “Asshole,” they muttered, not unaffectionately.

After zipping up his jacket, Stardust hooked their arms under his and lifted his shoulders against their chest. They dragged him inelegantly back to the waiting ship.

[lilac-den]

Ooooh spicy

Pls begging for crumbs

"What do you want to eat?" "Bend over"

I simp for Dolos & Maverick but honestly, anyone or either AU is fine too lmao whatever hits your inspiration ✨

Maverick x MC Snippet!

This is pre-tragedy!

"Fuck, I'm beat."

I close the door behind me with a sigh, a hand raising up to run along the side of my head.

"Welcome home, [Name]."

I open my eyes to find Maverick raising a brow at me, an open book in his hands and on his lap. I close my mouth for a moment, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Shit," I start, "sorry, Rick. I thought you're asleep."

Maverick sighs, shaking his head and soon closing the book. "That's alright, [Name]. Truth be told, I just haven't been able to stay asleep."

This got me piqued, my sock-clad feet now touching the floor as I align my shoes straight at the entryway before turning back to Maverick. I walk closer to the couch he's sitting at, frowning. "Did you have a nightmare?"

A scoff escapes him, his blue eyes darting to the side behind his glasses as a hesitant smile comes to his face. "Very much the opposite, unfortunately."

So it wasn't a nightmare? "Why is it 'unfortunately'? If it's the opposite, then you must've had a good dream, right?"

At this, Maverick's snow white cheeks turn slightly red and he makes a fist to cough into it politely. "Let's not discuss further on this matter." He gestures to me. "Why are you only home now? It's eleven in the evening."

Home. It's still unbelievable that all of us - Me, Maverick, Rydigan, Ittania and Enid - are living under the same roof, even though it's been three days. "Some customers were being asses at the workplace and I ended up working overtime."

The white-haired man begins to stand, putting his book onto the coffee table in front before making his way to me. He lifts a hand, brows furrowing with concern as he cups one of my cheeks and inspects my face. "You weren't harmed or assaulted, are you?"

I can't help but smile. It's not uncommon for employees or workers of the lower class to deal with violent or unhinged customers, especially those working in places of considerable importance to certain individuals. Like convenience stores for gangsters, pharmacies for drug addicts or even the bar for the perverts. There's even been known incidents of some establishments getting sued by customers looking for special treatment and even when the owners of such establishments or the one who complaint try to win the court, both sides still end up at a loss due to the exorbitant pay to their lawyers or, in most cases, debts from various factors like the store owners with the loans and paying the bills or the customers with their pre-existent debt that led to them scamming in the first place. It's a lose-lose situation.

I lean into Maverick's palm, closing my eyes. "I'm fine, Rick."

I can feel his thumb brushing along my cheek, a movement that makes my lips curl upwards.

"Must you work in that area?"

I open my eyes and find myself faced with that look on his face again.

"How else would I pay my share of the bills?"

"You know everyone here would be willing to pay for you. We're four people."

I frown heavily on that. "And I'm the fifth. I don't want to let you all carry the financial burden. Besides, I rather not let you guys spend money that can be put into your savings on something that I can pay for myself." I grab his wrist and gently move his hand off my cheek, just so I can hold it instead and give a reassuring squeeze.

Maverick squeezes my hand in return. "But the idea of you being out so late..."

"Hey." I try to move into his line of sight after seeing his gaze lowering, putting up a soft smile. "I still made it home just fine. Besides, working overtime could mean a bit more money and given how payday is on the way..."

A soft laugh escapes Maverick and he shakes his head, an amused smile on his face. "You seem to forget that it's also-"

His words cut off at the vicious 'GRRRRWWWWLLLL' noise filling the space between us and, realizing the almost violent growl is coming from me, Maverick has the audacity to give out a 'Pfft!' noise before turning away, trying to hold in his laughter.

I can't help hissing. "Oh, don't you dare laugh, you little shit!"

This just ends up making Maverick start laughing, a wide grin spreading upon his face. If he isn't laughing over my plight, I would have admire such a beaming smile on the usually stoic face. "Ha...! I'm so sorry, [Name]. That was impolite of me."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, please. You have done much more impolite stuff."

"I'm simply a model of virtue."

"A model of bullshitting is more like it."

I turn around to face the kitchen, my back facing that snickering bastard. I hook my fingers together and stretch out my arms in front before raising them up to the ceiling. I groan, my muscles contracting and my back straightening until I let out a moan of relief from doing so.

"So," I grunt out mid-stretch and relax my arms to place my hands on my hips, looking over the kitchen, "What do you want to eat?"

I figured maybe, given how Maverick still has the energy to laugh, he might feel a bit peckish for a midnight snack. It wouldn't be the first time.

What is a first time for either of us is what he responded with.

"Bend over."

I whip around, my wide eyes meeting Maverick's own appalled expression. He looks as if he just ran over an animal or found himself face-to-face with a bus. Before I can even ask, Maverick is already turning away to move towards the hallway of bedroom doors, his ears a bright red hue.

"I think I'll head for bed, [Name]."

"But Ri-"

"Good night, [Name]!"

With his voice nearly growling at the second word, he storms his way to his bedroom and close the door shut. I can even hear it being locked.

But even with him out of my sight, I still feel warm around the cheeks as his answer hangs over my mind like a looped audio.

I'm not even sure which kind of hungry I'm in right now.

[redphienix]

I don't really understand why the already extremely niche genre of heisting games is currently being front run by "futuristic" heists when the entire idea runs counter to the appeal of heisting.

Heisting games at their core are about big well thought out hits on banks and mcguffins in worlds where it "Makes sense" for that to be possible. It's about STEALING **THINGS**.

I mean. Most heists are based on movie heists which are almost all based in the 80s and 90s because those are periods of time in which Super Mega Finger Print Eye Scan Bio Lock safety measures don't exist, and 99.99% of assets are PHYSICAL- as in, cash, or jewelry, or drugs- physical things you can hold in your hand-something for you to STEAL that would be irreplaceable if stolen.

The shift payday 3 and the upcoming den of wolves or whatever seem to be so focused on- of "Modernizing" heisting, or in den's case future-izing, doesn't make sense.

Today everything is digital, it's all credit cards and fake assets that a bank says exist.

You CAN steal in this environment, but let's be honest, it's lame.

Modern "heist level" theft is just corps scamming poor people or companies stealing hours.

You have to apply a layer of fiction that makes it fail the "makes sense" aspect of a hit by saying "Oh, this CRYPTO WALLET is worth TEN BILLION and we'll be able to sell it EASILY" I don't care. Where's the cash. Where's the Thing I'm stealing. I know crypto idiots get scammed all the time, but where's the physical item I grab and it's money, I'm phishing a password, where's the fun thing I'm taking.

I go in and plug a usb in or steal a hard drive and then get told it was a major super big successful heist- who cares, where's the Thing I stole.

We live in a time of so many safeties put around assets, so much value being digitized- so as a dev you have to justify why stealing something can even be done when it's just numbers in a database we have no access to, and then the justification often falls apart because if we have access... then take it all? How is our ownership being respected when we make such a hit when we stole /nothing/?

We went from stealing millions of dollars worth of gold to stealing the credit card info of everyone with a PSN account and I'm supposed to say both of these scenarios are equally fun in a heisting game.

So you end up with scifi concepts like cracking bio-locks to steal an SSD that is somehow not backed up anywhere and has the sole copy stored in a physical safe at a warehouse because?????

And then with dens, we're getting into scifi brainhack level territory and the objects we steal are being further obfuscated from reality- LET ME STEAL THINGS.

MAKE THE FUCKING GAME IN A PERIOD OF TIME WHERE THINGS EXIST THAT CAN BE STOLEN.

IT'S A HEISTING GAME, I WANT TO STEAL **THINGS** NOT *IDEAS* AND *BIZARRELY ONE OF A KIND UNBACKED UP CODE* AND WHATEVER ELSE NUMBER-IN-COMPUTER NONSENSE.

Sigh.

I hope den is good. GTFO was fun.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

How's librarian reader doing after getting almost mugged

"This fucking city. If it's not robberies it's spur-of-the-moment monsoons," you grumble, wringing your hair out over a garbage can.

"Someone is having a no good very bad day," Babs said stirring her coffee.

"Week. Month. Decade... whatever," you huff, going to get your own hot drink as you bundle up your hair. Grateful that the building wasn't freezing.

"Robberies though?" she asked. Tim had been... quiet about it in his report but. She knew that he'd run into you.

"For as much good as it would do them. I have 17 dollars to my name until payday... But thanks to Red Robin I can keep it for Ramen for a couple more days."

Babs snorted. It was absurd. Jail time trying to take some cute little college girl's 17 dollars. "Ramen is not food," she scolded.

"Listen. Ramen and some apples are about all I can afford," you tell her. "Rent here is ridiculous."

"That's the mob for you," Babs said sympathetically. She was dying to ask. Tim's cheeks had turned absolutely crimson when he'd told her about it. And it was obvious it was more than feeling awkward about it. Fuck it, she thought. "So what did you think about Red Robin?"

"He was fine- I don't know why everyone says he's the boring Robin. He was funny." You look at her confused."As for what I think about vigilantes," you shrug. "Everyone needs a hobby I guess."

[j1p2k]

MK1 Guest Character: Blizto

Thank you: Geeky4ever2016 and everyone that helped me with this.

Intro 1: When Blitzo pushes his opponent back, he spins around and pulls out his gun. Blitzo then smirks and waves his gun, as if saying “bring it on.”

Intro 2: When Blitzo is pushed back, he stops himself by clawing the floor. Looking up in anger, he gets up and pulls his gun out.

Outro: Blitzo using stolas grimoire to get home and as he jumps into the portal he flips off his opponent and by extension us.

Fatal Blow: Blitzo pulls out the My Dick bazooka and fires. It misses, but the explosion sends the opponent to Blizto, where he proceeds to stab them repeatedly.

Fatality 1 (Deep I.M.P.-side): Blitzo takes out the Grimoire and summons a portal on the ground, behind his opponent. Blitzo shoots them down into it, cutting them off at the legs.

The opponent looks up to see they are in I.M.P. headquarters, surrounded by Moxxie, Millie, and Loona, who brutally murders the opponent.

Fatality 2: Blitz uses his gun to shoot his victim’s arms and legs before shoving his gun down their throats and fire it inside.

Friendship: He reaches under his jacket (looks like he is reaching for his gun) when he pulls out a pony and sits down and starts playing with it

Quitality: Blitzo just turns around and wipes his hands. “Well… That was a surprise.” “Well… A payday is a payday.”

Intros:

Ashrah: Once I kill you, I shall be redeemed. Blitzo: And once I kill you, I shall be home sleeping.

Blitzo: Wait… The Princess was right? Ashrah: What are you talking about?

Blitzo: Fuck damn! I am hot. Blitzo: I'd totally fuck myself.

Blitz: Oh Satan, tell me I’m not fucking hallucinating again! Blitz: You and me both.

Blitzo: You’re with that whore? Blitzo: Do you insult my wife, Verosika?

Blitz: Everyone hates your guts too? Blitz: Yep, though it’s mostly mutual.

Baraka: I'm not afraid of dying, servant. Blizto: Oh good, an easy job this time.

Blizto: You ever shove those blades up someone’s ass. Baraka: No, but you can be the first.

Ermac: We are many. You are one. Blitzo: The one that’s going to kill you all.

Blitzo: Do you ever fuck yourself? Ermac: Why would we ever do that?

Geras: You can't kill me. Blitzo: Yeah, like I haven't heard that before.

Blitzo: So you shit sand? Geras: No. I am sand.

General Shao: A twig like you thinks he can hurt me? Blitzo: You know the last fucker on my list said that.

Blitzo: Well fuck! You won't believe how many people that want you dead. General Shao: They will be disappointed.

Havik: I want you to cause chaos throughout the realms! Blitz: Fine, only if you pay me too.

Blitzo: Wait, there’s an entire world of chaos? Havik: No rules. No limits. All possibilities.

Blitzo: I must say, you’re the most talked about “hero” in Hell. Homelander: Who? I’ll kill them!

Homelander: No one can stop me! No one! Blitzo Aw, you goanna throw a temper tantrum?

Homelander: I will rip out your spine, smash your brains, and eat your heart. Blitzo: You know, that seriously turns me on.

Johnny Cage: Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Blitzo: Well… I was on TV once.

Johnny Cage: Your father was a piece of shit too? Blitzo: Just a piece? He was the whole fucking pile.

Johnny cage: You know you remind me of a character I played. Blitz: You’re that shitty actor in those fucking b list movies?!

Blitz: Sheesh here I thought I was bad at performing Johnny cage: Tell that to my Emmy awards.

Blitz: “Over 50 people in Hell are paying us to put a bullet through your brain.” Johnny Cage; “Katie? Priscilla? Belle! She hated me.”

Kenshi: I turned away from my life of crime. Blitzo: Tell that to the people that paid us.

Blitzo: How the Hell can you fight blind? Kenshi: Sento sees all.

Kitana: Quin Chi’s minions will not threaten Outworld. Blitzo: What the fuck are you talking about?

Blitzo: 10000 years, and still fucking hot? Kitana: And you don’t have a chance.

Kung Lao: You face the great Kung Lao. Blitzo: “Great” my ass.

Blitzo: Fuck! What is in that special tea? Kung Lao: Madame Bo’s secret recipe.

Blitzo: You got the ego bigger than a barn. Kung Lao: You will be crushed by it.

Blitzo: Is that a razor brimmed hat? Kung Lao: Ha ha! Yes, it is.

Blitzo: Yeah, fire doesn't really hurt me. Liu Kang: What about godly fire?

Liu Kang: Did Quan Chi send you? Blitzo: What is quan cheese?

Li Mei: You won’t get anywhere close to the royal family. Blitzo: Sure, what another dead body anyway.

Blitzo: Oh come on! What the fuck did I do? Li Mei: Do I have to list your crimes against Outworld?

Blitzo: You know, I’ve fucked uglier women then you. Mileena: And you will be the vilest thing I’ve killed.

Mileena: You are insufferable. Blitzo: My ex says the same thing.

Nitara: I will suck you dry. Blitzo: Let me get my pants off first.

Blitzo: Do you suck cock as well? Nitara: I will never degrade myself to that level.

Blitz: So your the fucker who tried killing his own kid Omni-man: I had no choice.

Omni-man: Who paid you to kill? Blitzo: No one! This one's on the house!

Peacemaker: Your killing spree ends here! Blitzo: Gee fucking a hypocrite much?

Blitzo: For someone who "loves peace," you sure kill a lot. Peacemaker: I kill anyone who treats peace.

Quan Chi: You and your servers will serve me. Blitzo: Sorry you crazy maniac but we don’t “serve” anyone.

Blitzo: We don’t work for free. Quan Chi: You will be rewarded ten times over.

Blitzo: You're one ugly fucker! Reptile: Some acid will make you uglier.

Blitz: Man it takes some bad luck for someone to fuck you. Reptile: After this battle the only unlucky one will be you.

Reptile: What do you want with the Saurians? Blitzo: Some new snakeskin boots.

Raiden: You face Earthrealm’s champion. Blitzo: Can I get an autograph before you die?

Blitzo: You know, my phone could use a recharge. Raiden: My lightning isn’t met for stuff like that.

Rain: I knew this day would come. Blitzo: People were beating down the doors to hire us.

Blitzo: A little Rain doesn’t scare me. Rain: It will cause a biblical flood.

Blitzo: I'm fireproof asshole! Scorpion: There's more to me then fire.

Scorpion: Bi-Han is my business, not yours. Blitzo: But we're running a special on family members.

Subzero: Hell will freeze, before you kill me Blitzo: Yeah, yeah, same line, different guy.

Subzero: Any last requests? Blitzo: Yeah, can I get a scotch on the rocks.

Blitzo: Someone in Hell wants to see you again. Subzero: Who is this person?

Shang Tsung: Even the forces of the Netherrealm come after me. Blitzo: You won’t believe the price on your head.

Blitzo: So many sinners want you dead. Shang Tsung: *laughs* I’m sure they do.

Sindel: Who sent you to kill me? Blizto: Someone with deep pockets.

Blizto: You know, my ex was a singer. Sindel: Sorry, I don’t do performances.

Blizto: Don’t you know smoking kills? Smoke: Yeah, you.

Blizto: Nice trick. Do you do children’s parties? Smoke: I’m not a magician.

Smoke: Quin Chi should have sent better minions. Blizto: Hey! I was just getting some drinks!

Blizto: You know, I could use you on my team. Takeda: You'll have to kill me first.

Takeda: The Red Dragons are my prey. Blizto: You're not the one under contract.

Blizto: Does your Empress eat you out? Tanya: You are disgusting.

Tanya: What demonic monstrosity spawned you? Blizto: Hey! No one talks about my mother that way!

Story Mode Final Boss

Liu Kang: And they call me the Chosen One. Blizto: Yeah… Well, I am pretty awesome. Liu Kang: You have done more than enough. Allow me to end this

Blizto’s MK Tower Ending Well… shit! First, we are hired to kill some shit face actor, leading us into “entering” fucked-up kung-fu tournament, then “landing” in some shitty war for the “fate of the universe.”

Oh well, at least we got a job from a “god” of all things, and he’s playing shit tons for us to track down and bring in these two sorcerers, some egoistic former general and his right-hand man, and others in alive.

Oh well, if we end up having to kill them. Tough luck.

[bainofjustice]

Kitty's Notes On Episode 2 Of The Payday Web Series

It is really funny to me that they made a “previously on” part for a web show and to recap a episode that clocks in at 6 minutes 

It's funny that Dallas & Houston have time for a very small argument. Also helps set up the insane amount of tension the web show portrays them having

The editing/camrea is so choppy like this isn't a review but omg I had to write that down

Okay it looks like Wolf keeps zip ties on his belt, makes sense both for the game stuff of tying up civis and also is probably helpful for his mechines

Chains and Houston demask INSIDE A FUCKING VAULT post running out of ammo and while they do tell the civis present to not look this is just such a bad idea especially because the vault is basically surrounded by cops 

But also the bromance between Houston & Chains is real, like they're in a bad situation and they plan it out

Also it seems like Dallas and Wolf are the main movers of goods within this heist, I'm not sure they're the best picks but with the limits the gang had at the time I suppose they aren't the worst, it just feels like in general the plan doesn't cater to the real talents of the gang. Which tbh is probably because the web show is meant to be a ad, so they wanted more action which required mostly gun fights and they didn't do fight scenes in a intelligental way 

Also I just realized for some reason Chains is using a damn hand gun meanwhile it's Houston with a assault rifle, which really doesn't seem catered to their skills

I just remembered a little later after writing the above that Chains mentioned being out of ammo for his own assault rifle so not as bad as I thought, still wonder why they didn't switch at any point, like it worked out but yeah

One thing I do like about the action scenes is that the gang uses more than juet guns and use melee attacks as well

Houston is able to flat out flip a guy over and steal his gun, I feel pretty confident in saying Houston has probably taken some hand to hand combat lessons.

Also it appears that both Dallas and Wolf are using assault rifles which makes sense given their roles in the heist.

WE GOT A WILHELM SCREAM!!!

In better lighting it seems Wolf actually has a shotgun which is even better for him actually 

We see the escape driver when Dallas and Wolf are ambushed at the escape van, he appears to be at most middle age, white, brown hair, slightly fatter build and wears a black hoodie with a band or event tee-shirt under the hoodie, grabbing a pic to see if I can locate the shirt later.

We see several of Vlad's men during the ambush including who we later learn seems to be his right hand / personal bodyguard

Vlad's intro is so funny to me, like he holds the gang at gunpoint and stalls their escape and this actually manages to end with him getting the gang to work with him, like I am sure that Bain or Vlad carefully planned this part but it could have easily gone wrong if for example Wolf shoot someone without thinking it through, or if a officer managed to follow them to the van, especially since everyone unmasks!

Houston Vc: Do you know these guys?.    Dallas, who is being held at gunpoint vc: does it look like I know these guys?

1. Vlad decides to shout “Bain” while explaining he is a ally, 2. He calls Bain in this instance “Mr Bain” which I find to be a fun detail of characterization and also to how at the time the only people sorta comfortable enough around Bain to be confident when saying his name and such is the core members of the Payday gan

Ah and then Dallas has to go back uncover which requires faking a injury, which he lets Houston do the honors of punching him, only adding to the family feud they seem to have in the web series. Also this one punch is enough to knock Dallas to the ground.

Also funnily Dallas or should I say, “Nathen Steele” is the one to call in the first world bank heist

Bain vapes! We see him vape, we also hear him in game talk about smoking cigars, so either he does both or in my opinion more likely he lies about the details of his smoking habits even to the gang.

We can see that Bain wears a leather jacket with a design on the back & front when in his lair, the design most looks like fire to me but it's very dark, I would love to someday see some behind the scenes footage or something with the costume.

[andopandor]

Rebound/Be Round

A gay gainer story

---

"He's fucking shallow. Fuck him," Emmett mutters to himself as he downs yet another beer.

The bartender watches the dejected university student sympathetically from behind the counter. With his job, you learn to recognize the characteristic signs of heartbreak. Emmett is a young man of average height, with brown eyes and a bit of a beer belly. Handsome, if a bit disheveled at the moment. At Emmett's request, the bartender dutifully brings another pint.

Emmett gratefully accepts the drink and glances around the bar, hoping that nobody he knows will see him like this. He sees a tall, broad-shouldered man around his age sitting in the corner, messy brown hair and a day's worth of stubble on his jawline. Emmett tries to figure out why the man looks so familiar...

---

Across the room, Jack is drinking after a long day on the construction site. It's Friday, and payday, and he's taken the opportunity to get a little drunk. He looks up and notices a man staring at him from the barstools. Jack also needs a moment before realizing it's Emmett, his best friend from high school. He'd grown some facial hair and a bit chubbier, but he had the same warm eyes and cute face.

Jack stands and finds his way through the crowded bar. When he finally reaches the counter, he smiles widely. "Hey buddy! It's been way too long," he says. "How's life treating you these days? Still studying engineering?"

They had gone separate ways after high school, when Emmett left town for university while Jack continued into trades. They'd kept in touch on social media, but only barely.

Emmett sighs, a sadness in his eyes that's unfamiliar to Jack. "Oh, you know, same old, same old," he says, half-heartedly returning Jack's smile. "Just been buried in textbooks and papers lately." He gestures vaguely at the bar and the beer in front of him. "Needed a break, I guess."

Jack leans in, looking concerned. "Hey, you know you can talk to me about anything, right? I mean, I know it's been a while since we've chatted, but you're still my oldest friend. What's really going on?"

Emmett glances around the bar before finally meeting Jack's eyes. "It's just... things with Mark. He broke up with me."

"Oh," Jack says, surprised. "I'm so sorry to hear that, man. When did that happen?"

Emmett shrugs, looking down at his beer. "A couple of days ago. I thought things were going well, but yeah, no. He was seeing someone else behind my back."

Jack winces. "No way man. You're smart, attractive, funny... He's seriously giving up on the perfect man."

"It's just... he said..." Emmett hesitates, but Jack encourages him to continue. "It's just he said I was gaining too much weight." He takes a long sip of beer, trying to push the emotions back down. "I mean, I know I've put on a few pounds since first year, but come on. I've always been a bigger guy. It's not like I've changed as a person."

Jack's face darkens. "What a piece of shit. You deserve so much better." He puts a hand on Emmett's shoulder. "You know I've got your back, buddy, right?" He looks at his friend thoughtfully, trying to find the right words to comfort him. "Besides, the weight... looks good on you," he finally says, blurting out the words without quite meaning to. "You've always been bigger than the average guy, and it's, uh, it's attractive." He flushes. "I mean, not that I'm into, you know... just... never mind."

Emmett looks up at Jack, slightly confused. He searches Jack's face for any sign of insincerity, but there is none. "Thanks Jack, I appreciate it," he says, eager to move past the awkward moment. "It's just been tough lately, you know?" He takes another sip of beer. "But it's nice to have someone to talk to about it."

Jack nods, thinking. "Hey, I know it's late, but do you maybe wanna grab dinner? We have a lot to catch up on. Besides, you shouldn't be drinking alone at a time like this." He gives Emmett a reassuring smile. "My treat."

"Sure, dinner sounds great... I am getting hungry. Thanks, Jack."

"Great! There's an amazing Italian restaurant just down the block."

They both finish their beers and head out into the cool evening. As they walk to the restaurant, Emmett already begins to look a bit more cheerful. Jack steals sidelong glances at his old friend. He would never say it out loud, but Emmett does seem a lot thicker than he was at their graduation.

---

The Italian restaurant is bustling with activity, the scent of olive oil and garlic filling the air. The men find their way to a cozy booth in the back and glance over the menu, considering what to order. Emmett's stomach rumbles as he reads. Jack pretends not to notice, but assures Emmett that he can order whatever he wants - it's payday after all.

But when the waiter arrives, Emmett only orders a side salad. Finding this strange, Jack orders the Chef's Special, which includes three different kinds of pasta and nearly half a loaf of garlic bread.

Emmett seems shocked by the size of the order. "You sure you can handle all that, Jack?" he asks with a chuckle.

Jack only grins. "Oh, I've got a big appetite tonight, Emmett. And I figure if I don't finish, I can ask a friend for help."

As they wait for their food, they continue to talk and catch up, laughing and teasing each other like old times. For both of them, it had been a long time since they felt this comfortable around someone. Jack hadn't realized how much he had missed Emmett.

Halfway through his meal, Jack pushes his plate away, unable to eat another bite. Emmett had finished his salad long ago. He looks longingly at Jack's plate, still piled with food.

Jack laughs. "Please, help yourself! I'm finished."

Emmett gratefully pull's Jack's plate over, beginning to dig into the delicious pasta. "Thanks Jack," he says between bites. "I haven't been eating much since... well, the breakup. But this food is really good."

Jack leans back in the booth, watching Emmett eat with a satisfied smile. "No worries, buddy. You don't want to waste away just because of that jerk. You deserve to have a proper meal and to feel good about yourself again."

Emmett shrugs, but continues devouring the pasta.

"You know," Jack says, then hesitates. He never would say this sober. But he's not. "I think you're perfect just the way you are. And I'm not just saying that because of what Mark said. One of these days you'll meet someone who appreciates you for you."

Emmett looks up from his food, giving Jack a skeptical look. "Maybe," he admits, "but I doubt it." He sighs. "I mean you're like the only one who thinks that. Too bad you're straight..."

Jack looks into Emmett's eyes, considering. The noise of the restaurant around him fades away.

"Actually," he says, taking a deep breath. "I'm bisexual."

Emmett pauses mid-chew. "Really??"

Jack nods, swallowing hard. "I've never really told anyone. But... you've been honest with me and I wanted to be honest with you." He gently touching Emmett's hand. "I know you're still getting over Mark, and if you're not interested, that's okay. But I just wanted to tell you."

Emmett stares at their joined hands for a long moment, then up at Jack eyes. "I mean..." he trails off, trying to process this information. "I mean I've kind of always had a crush on you , you know."

Jack smiles shyly. He leans in closer. "And I mean it when I say you've gotten so much hotter since we graduated," he says, glancing down at Emmett's belly. "It's really fucking sexy actually."

Emmett feels a blush creep up his neck. He searches Jack's eyes, finding only honesty and desire. He takes a shuddering breath. "You really mean that?" he whispers.

"I really do," Jack says, his voice low and husky. "You're so gorgeous, Emmett. And I've kind of been fantasizing about something." He leans in even closer, whispering. "I wanna feed you."

Emmett nods slowly, strangely excited by Jack's desires. He had always been concerned with keeping thin, but now... a thrill runs through him. "You'd... you'd want to do that? You'd like me.. that way?"

"Yeah," Jack says, touching Emmett's thigh under the table. "I want to see you eat, to see you grow."

Emmett swallows hard, feeling heat pooling in his groin. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay, let's do it." He takes in the surroundings, trying to compose himself. "But c'mon Jack, not now. We're in public."

Jack laughs. "Fine," he says, leaning back. "My place is just a few blocks from here."

---

After Jack settles the bill, Emmett follows Jack back to his apartment. The warmth inside him abates the cold night air. The pasta settles comfortably in his belly, and, for the first time, he isn't worried that he's eaten too much. As they step into Jack's living room, he can't help but notice how it's much cozier than Mark's bleak minimalist apartment.

Jack turns to face Emmett. "So," he says, noticeably excited, "are you ready to eat?"

Jack has never really cooked for another man before, but he's eager to show off his culinary skills. He fries up some bacon and creamy chicken with mashed potatoes. He also throws a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, for good measure. The aromas fill the air, making Emmett's mouth water in anticipation.

"There you go," Jack says, placing a plate in front of Emmett and sitting down across from him.

"Uh... can I get a fork?" Emmett asks.

Jack smirks. "No. That's my job." He uses his own fork to scoop up some food from the plate. "Open wide."

Emmett dutifully opens his mouth and takes a bite of bacon, savoring the taste. It's very tasty, and he can't help but feel pleased knowing that Jack prepared this meal just for him. "This is amazing," he manages to mumble between mouthfuls.

Jack beams. "I'm glad you're enjoying it." He continues to feed Emmett as the chubby man rubs his belly contentedly.

Many bites later, Emmett moans. "Okay, I'm stuffed. I really couldn't eat anymore."

Jack coaxes another scoop of mashed potato in Emmett's mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Seriously," Emmett groans with his mouth full. He pats his bloated stomach. "I'm packed ."

Jack nods. "Okay, fine," he says reluctantly. "You can go lie down on the couch to digest. I'll join you in a minute."

Emmett stumbles into the living room, feeling rounder and heavier than he's ever been. He collapses into the soft couch, stomach aching but satisfied. He releases a belch and massages his belly, unbuttoning his jeans to give it some more room.

Several minutes pass, and Emmett begins to wonder where Jack is. Soon enough, the brawny man comes into the room with a tray of fresh cookies. "I hope you have room for dessert," he smirks.

Emmett knows he shouldn't but... they look and smell so good. "Ughhh," he groans. "Just one, okay?"

Jack settles beside Emmett. God, he looks big, sprawled out on the couch like this. Jack massages the man's hairy belly where it peeks out from above his jeans. With his other hand, Jack gently touches a cookie against Emmett's lips.

Emmett savours the warm soft dough on his tongue. "Alright, this is fucking delicious," he sighs.

"Thanks," Jack smiles. "You know, I just... like taking care of you." He glances up at Emmett and brushes a crumb out of his beard. "I never want to stop caring for you."

Emmett's heart skips a beat. "I don't want you to, Jack," he whispers. He reaches out, tracing a finger along Jack's jawline.

Jack closes his eyes, leaning into Emmett's touch. "Good," he breathes, his voice low and husky. "Because I want to do so much more than just feed you."

Jack moves his hand down the trail of hair leading towards Emmett's crotch, feeling Emmett's dick grow hard against his belly. They lean closer to each other, their lips mere inches apart.

"Show me." Emmett whispers.

The men's lips lock in a heated kiss, desperate from years of pent-up desire. Their bodies press against each other, Jack's sculpted by manual labour and Emmett's swollen with beer and high-calorie food. Jack's hands roam up and down Emmett's shirt, grabbing his lovehandles and playing with his bellybutton.

Emmett moans against Jack's lips, feeling new sensitivity in his engorged gut. Every inch of him tingles with pleasure as Jack's hands explore his figure.

Jack pulls away from the kiss for a moment, panting heavily as he gazes at Emmett's enlarged stomach. He undoes the buttons of Emmett's shirt and tosses it aside. His fingers are cool against heated skin as they trace circles around his navel. And then lower, down the curve of his belly.

"God, you're so hot," Jack murmurs, continuing to tease and touch. His fingers venture lower still, wrapping around Emmett's aching erection. Emmett moans deeply as Jack begins to stroke.

"That's it," Jack whispers. "Let me take care of you." Emmett feels Jack's breath hot against his chest as the man begins to kiss his neck, his nipples, his belly button. All the while continuing to stroke Emmett's cock. He feels about to explode.

Just when Emmett thinks he can't take it anymore, Jack lips are back on his lips, Jack's eyes staring deep into his.

"Cum for me," Jack whispers. Emmett reaches orgasm and shoots over his bloated belly.

Emmett collapses back against the couch, spent and satisfied. He sighs. "That was... amazing."

Jack kisses Emmett again. "We're not done yet."

"We're not?"

Jack laughs. "There are still eleven cookies left."

[strbymacaroon]

✿ S1 E1: Your New Normal! ✿

✿ Roomie Series!: Eren Yeager x Reader!

❥ S1 E1. 13:00 mins remaining, 4360 words.

❥ Previous Episode: S1: Pilot!

❥ Y/n now forced to adapt to her new life, tried to understand who she was before. With… a few inconveniences in the way.

.•° ✿ °•.

°•. ✿ .•°

You soon came to realize that the whole house layout changed. Actually, you were in a completely different house! You don’t even know how, it just happened. You blinked and– poof! Different. Well, that’s not exactly what happened, but that’s what it felt like. You just went to bed and woke up to a completely different room. 

The ceiling was incredibly tall, a small chandelier decorated with crystals hanging above you. Your bed was huge, a King to be exactly. A white and pink canopy tied to the post, some cute fairy lights strung along the top railing. 

Your floor was hardwoods, a massive white fluffy rug covering it. A few candles were lit, the scent of vanilla in the air. Jesus, alternate you had money to burn. 

In-fact, even your clothing were different. A short, silk, white, thin, gown resting over your frame. Knee high black socks, and some matching black lingerie.  You nodded at yourself. At-least alternate version of yourself had style. 

Sexy style. 

So, that’s where you were. 

In your room. 

Your dream room. 

You always told yourself, once you had the money you were going to decorate your room. And, in this world, where you do have the money, you did exactly that. Your room was luxurious and big. 

Decorated in whites and decor, your bed soft with some silk bedding, flowing curtains covering your floor to ceiling window, and that was the simple things. That didn’t include the balcony, restroom, and closet.

Yeah, balcony. Restroom. And the closet. 

You glanced at the time, which was a clock conveniently on your vanity. 7:30. You should have class in a few hours. Resting not too far from the clock was a planner. 

“That should be helpful.” You grabbed the pink book, opening it to this week. 

— Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday —

Payday!: Monday! (Send Dad a thanks, also dinner Sunday!) 

Classes: 12-3 on Mon. Tues. Thurs. (Easy classes.)

Free Days!: Wed. Fri. “Party Days! ❤︎︎”

Arts stuff— Wednesday. Sometimes Sunday. 

Check on Roger, Wednesday. ⇝ Important!!

Roger? Who the hell was Roger? 

You felt your stomach drop. 

..a sugar daddy?..

You shook your head, slapping your cheeks. Chill, Y/n. You glanced back at the calendar. Your schedule was so much more— free. Apparently you didn’t work a job anymore, and didn’t have as many classes. What do I major in? Is it the same thing? Hopefully. You worked your ass off becoming a nurse. 

You sighed, sitting in the chair. Glancing at the lavish mirror in-front of you. Seeing as the strap to your sleeping gown fell off your shoulder. 

Was I always that pretty? Or did I swap bodies with..

Your phone rang, making you jolt. You reached for it, reading the caller I.D. 

‘Daddy <3’ 

You blinked, smiling to yourself. Yeah, that’s who you needed to talk to right now, your Dad. I wonder what he’s like in this world? Generous, obviously. You slid your finger over the phone, holding it to your ear. Smiling, “Hey, Dad! What’s up?” 

You walked to your balcony, pulling it open. Feeling awed by the view. To add to that growing list, you also lived in a two story house across an ocean. A fucking ocean. What the fuck..

“Jean,” the person corrected, and you felt your stomach drop. “But, I'm not opposed to that when I come over.” 

You could feel your face burn. “Oh, that’s.. I thought you were someone..” You thickly swallowed, running your hand over the couch. Another silk thing in your growing collection. You sat on the couch, enjoying the view. “But, why did you call? Are you good?” You had no idea how to talk to Jean. You didn’t know how you acted here. 

“I’m good.” He told you, “Eren just said you were acting weird at practice, so I wanted to check up on you.” You couldn’t miss the strain in his voice. “Since when did you start talking to him?” 

Man, I must really hate Eren. “Uhm, since yesterday?” you were unsure how to respond. “I mean, he is my roommate. Wouldn’t it be weird if I didn’t talk to him?..” 

“I don’t know, you’ve done it your whole freshman and sophomore year. What’s different now?” He asked, shuffling a little. 

“I feel different.” You laid back on the couch, in slight disbelief. You were talking to your boyfriend– Jean. A fictional man from Attack on Titan. “I–I feel different.” You repeated. 

“How different?” He pressed, almost like he was confused. 

“Different enough.” You told him, feeling your eyebrows mush together. What was with that question? You pressed yourself off the couch, your mouth moving before you could think. “Eren was talking about me?” A part of you wanted to change the topic anyways. 

Jean laughed, “No.” There was a slight moment of silence, “And yes. He always talks about you.” You could tell from Jean’s tone that wasn’t a good thing. “He talked about you differently.” 

You blinked a few times, “Oh.” He shit talks you. 

Jean laughed again, “Oh indeed.” 

Your jaw dropped, peeking off the balcony. Is that a pool?! I have a pool?! You smiled, lifting your foot to the railing. “Hey babe, I think I need to call you back.” You told him. Confused on where the pet name came from, but forgetting about it quickly. Glancing at the built-in slide. 

“You think?!”

“Yup!” You ended the call and tossed your phone back on the couch. Lifting yourself over the railing and smiling. Jumping into the pool. 

You lifted your head up, running your fingers through your hair. Letting out a loud laugh, “This place is awesome!” 

You turned to the slide door being frantically opened. 

Eren was glaring at you, blinking in utter confusion. “Y/n, what the hell are you doing?!” 

You giggled, smiling at him. “Swimming?!” You shouted, “We have a goddamn pool, why in the world wouldn’t I swim in it?” You said, dipping under the water and popping back up across the whole pool. 

Eren smiled, remembering your sudden attitude change. He quickly gripped the bottom of his shirt, toying with it and walking to the pool. “Is it cold?” 

You tilted your head, looking at him with long lashes. Quickly looking at his outfit, some plaid pj pants, a tight black shirt. “Why don’t you come in and find out?” You played, pushing a wave of water in his direction. Watching as he dipped his bare foot into the water, his skin littering in goosebumps. 

“Jesus, you jumped into this shit?” He looked up, glancing at your balcony. “From there?” He pointed up. 

You giggled, nodding your head. “You’re telling me you don’t want to jump off my balcony?” 

He shook his head, “You never let me play with the idea when I throw pool parties.” He pulled his foot back out, “You always say your room is off limits.” His eyes moved to the water, trying to glance at what you were wearing. It didn’t look like swimming clothes to say the least. 

In-fact, Eren’s never seen you in swimming clothes. “What are you wearing?” He asked, tilting his head. 

You shrugged, “What I slept in.” You shook your head quickly, “But, that doesn't matter. Come join me in the pool.” You outstretched your arms, almost like you were waiting for a hug. “Let’s have fun!” You gave him a kind smile. 

Eren shivered, “Let me go change.” He turned on his heel, his back turned to you. 

You booed at him, swimming to the edge of the pool. Placing your arms on the edge and resting your chin on them. “Don’t be boring ‘Ren, just get in with your sleepwear.” You tilted yourself back, lifting one of your legs into the air. Revealing the sheer black stocking, “That’s what I did.” 

Eren blinked at you, his eyes dipping up and down your leg. Watching as you lowered your leg into the water again. He smiled, thickly swallowing. “‘Ren? Is that a nickname?” He didn’t know if he liked it. 

You rolled your eyes, pulling yourself out of the water. “Way to change the subject.” You pulled your hair over your shoulder, ringing it out. 

Eren glanced at the way your white dress clung to your skin, sheer from the water. He turned away, clearing his throat. “I said I’ll get in, just let me change!” He shouted, starting to rush into his house. Like hell he was going to miss his chance to slam you into the pool. He didn’t know if it was to mess with you, or get back at you. 

“I’ll probably already be out by then.” You yelled over your shoulder, standing up and looking for a towel. Quickly removing your socks and ringing them out. 

You threw your hair back over your shoulder. 

“Y/n!” 

You turned to the sound, utterly confused. Before you loudly laughed, “I thought you said you were going to change?!” You shouted up, smiling as you sat back down. Dipping your legs into the water. 

Eren ignored you, just grabbed the bottom of his shirt and lifted it over his head. You felt your eyes widen, your jaw dropping. Holy shit, Jesus take the wheel.

Eren laughed at your reaction, “I know.” Cocky bitch. He tossed it to the side, “Should I take the pants off too?” 

You rolled your eyes. Absolutely. “Gross, like I'd want to see your shriveled dick.” I’ve dreamed about it, actually. You leaned back on your palms, enjoying the show. 

Eren shook his head and jumped off you balcony, and it felt like he was flying. Something euphoric he hadn’t felt in awhile. Well, without the help of... 

He popped back up from the water, right in-front of you. 

You smiled, “It’s fun right?!” You teased, tossing your socks to the side.

Eren smiled back, “Mhm, a lot of fun.” He grabbed your ankles, making you look at his hands. His hands. They wrapped around your whole ankle. God. “I don’t know why you’re letting me do this now.” 

“Because,” I’m making the most of this, you thought. “We only have two more years. Let’s enjoy the time we have.” You responded. 

Eren nodded, “I agree.” And, he pulled you into the pool, dunking your head under the water unexpectedly. 

You popped back up, clinging onto him as you tried to breathe. Choking on the water, “Fuck! You bitch!” You coughed, secretly watching as Eren slowly freaked out. 

“Shit, I didn’t mean to–” 

You dunked him under the water, laughing loudly. He popped back up, jaw dropped. “You little– faker!” 

You giggled, “Get used to it, ‘Ren. This is how it’s going to be like everyday.”

Eren suppressed a smile, he didn’t mind that. Not one bit.

•° ✿ °•.

°•. ✿ .•°

You wrapped the towel around your body, walking out of your restroom into your room. Enjoying the way all the expensive lotions, perfumes, and conditioners felt on your body. Money did buy happiness. 

You opened your closet and your jaw dropped. It was practically another room. Littered in shoes, dresses, clothes, jewelry, and— “Lingerie?” You blinked, letting your hand grab the fabric. Soft. So this is the shit you sleep in. 

You walked back, glancing at your designer— everything. Practically everything had a expensive logo decorating its already expensive design. 

How much money does my Dad send me?!

You turned on your heel, peering at the table in the middle of the room. They were backpacks. “Which bag do I take?” You ran your fingers over a simple black backpack, looking at the logo. Gucci. 

Jesus fuck, you could be carring someones semester tuition right now. You turned your attention to the jewelry, grabbing some earrings and a matching necklace. Holding it to your skin. Were your ears pierced?.. 

You placed them back down on your vanity, looking at yourself. In fact, you looked different. Not entirely, your face was the same, it was just your body. In fact, it was your dream body. You wrapped your hands around your boobs, giving them a small squeeze. 

“Hell yeah.” You giggled to yourself. You could get used to this.

You grabbed a dress, trying to glance at the design. You didn’t like it. It was beautiful, just showed way too much skin. You weren’t used to that. You weren’t used to any of this. 

Or Eren Yeager. 

Fuck. Eren Yeager. 

You felt your stomach fly, a sappy smile coming over your lips. You were in the same house as Eren Yeager. Hell, you lived with him! Who else could say that? 

No one, but you. 

You wiggled, quickly spinning as your eyes landed on another vanity. You smiled, skipping over to it and looking at everything. 

You had a small speaker there, if you were correct— it was an Alexa. 

“Alexa?” 

The top of her lit up blue, while she replied— “Mhm!” 

You smiled, “Play some music for me, please.”

“Of course!”

You nodded your head, moving your hips to the Doja Cat song playing. Then, moving back to your closet. Skimming your fingers through your racks of clothing. It felt like you were in a mall! 

You grabbed a lacy black bra, slipping it over your body. Along with some matching panties. Enjoying the way it complemented your body, before grabbing a light gray zip-up jacket. You kept the jacket over your shoulder, revealing your shoulders. 

Some sweats would look nice with this. You looked around, only to come to a small realization. 

“I don't have sweats!” You sighed, pouting slightly. 

You paused, looking at what was in your closet. Nothing. This style was completely out of your comfort zone. You grabbed a skirt, holding it to your hips. Discarding the jacket you were wearing. 

“Miss L/n?” You turned over your shoulder, peering at who called your name. A random old lady?..

You blinked a few times, “Yes?..” 

“Are you picking out your outfit today?” She asked kindly, her gloved hands cupping each other. 

“Uhm..” you looked around yourself, “Am I allowed too?”

She giggled, “Of course you are dear, but if you don’t mind me asking— why today? Anything planned?” 

You blinked, eyes skipping up and down her attire. A simple black dress, a small white handkerchief wrapped around her head, and some white gloves to match. If you didn’t know any better —which you didn’t— she looked like a maid. 

“None at all, just— uhm.” You looked around the room, “Looking around.” You cringed. Such a bad lie. 

She blinked at you, “You seem to be in a pleasant mood.” She walked into the closet, “How about this, you go down stairs and eat with Mr. Yeager.” She giggled, “Don’t tell him I told you this but, he requested for me to send you down.”

You felt a smile on you face. Placing your hands to your face and looking to the side, “Did he?” 

She turned back, seeing how you were smiling. “Oh, don’t tell me Miss. L/n.” She teased, placing a gloved hand above her growing smile. “You and Mr. Yeager—” 

“You don’t need to say that.” You cut her off, trying to change the subject. You could feel your heart beating quickly. The fact that you and Eren could be something was—

She grabbed the jacket on the floor, folding it into her hand. “And, I’ll pick out the outfit. Like always.” She gave you a kind smile. 

You nodded, taking a step back. She turned her back to you, searching through your clothing. “There’s another gown on your bed, if you wish to wear it.” 

You looked down, seeing you were just in your underwear. Your face burned in embarrassment, “Yes, thank you.” 

She paused, her head turning to the side. Peering over her shoulder. “Uhm, you’re welcome, dear.”

.•° ✿ °•.

°•. ✿ .•°

You turned around, doing a small spin. “I don’t know about this, it feels.. weird.” I feel weird. 

Your legs exposed with a short skirt, and your top a simple long sleeved crop top. Your shoes were some pink Nike’s that matched with your white shirt. 

Eren laughed, shaking his head. Keeping his position on the couch. “It’s what you always wear.” He told you, pulling out his phone and searching for something. 

You pouted, sitting down next to him. “Ugh, I’m going to go out and buy some sweats.” You complained, grabbing your phone and opening Amazon. Hopefully you wishlist traveled with you.

“You know what sweats are!?” He said, and by his tone you knew he wasn’t joking.  

God, alternate me sucks.

“Shut up.” You plainly said, seeing that it did. You smiled to yourself, doing something you never thought you would. 

Proceeding to checkout. 

Eren leaned on you, his head resting on your shoulder. Does he not know what personal space is?

“Is that a cosplay?” He asked, pointing to your phone. Completely oblivious to what he just laid out for you. 

You smiled, “It’s a Halloween costume..” you turned to him, “How do you know what cosplay is, ‘Ren?” 

He backed up, blinking a few times. “My ex used to do it.” You hated how fast he answered that. You didn’t know if he was lying. But, something was telling you he was. 

 I wonder what he cosplays? 

You felt your phone buzz, making you glance at it again. 

‘Daddy <;3’ 

Ugh. 

“Jean’s calling you.” Eren voiced, looking at you. “He always calls you.” 

“It’s because I’m his sugar mommy.” You said with a serious tone, not taking your eyes off your phone. 

Eren was silent. “Everything make so much more sense now.” 

You shoved him playfully, throwing your phone on the couch beside you. “Gross! I can’t believe you’d think that!” 

Eren fell to his back, resting on his forearms. “What?! You’re loaded, Y/n, you can’t blame me.” He replied, “Shit. I’d do anything to be your sugar baby.” 

You laughed loudly, “Really?” You said sarcastically, “What about?…” you looked around trying to think of something. Fucking me until I cry. “Answering any questions I have.” 

“Really? That’s it?” Eren thought you were going to make him your slave for a day. 

“What? Do you want to be my slave for a day, or something?” You tried to sound as monotone as possible. But, you could admit the idea was very exciting. 

Your anime crush, doing anything you want. 

Money does buy happiness. 

Eren smiled, “Anything for you, Y/n.” 

You shivered. 

Eren noticed. 

You turned away, hiding your burning face. Your heart was beating like crazy. I seriously need to wife Eren up. 

You sighed, blowing a piece of hair out of your face. “You’re so boring ‘Ren..” you stood up and started to walk away. Eren quickly grabbed your wrist, yanking you back into him. You hit his chest. 

“Don’t even think about it, it’s about damn time I actually talk to my roommate.” He smiled, placing his chin on your shoulder. Peering at you, “It gets so lonely here.” You never noticed how much bigger he was than you. 

In fact, was he always this touchy in the anime?

You mumbled, turning away. Trying not to show how utterly embarrassed you were by the situation the two of you were in. “Ew, get your dirty hands off me.” Keep touching me. 

“No.” Eren laughed and you could feel his chest vibrate against your back. “I don’t think I will.” 

You relaxed, giving up. “Fine.” Curse this man’s attractiveness and strength. “But, now you're not going to be my sugar baby.” 

Eren whined dramatically, “Boo, you whore.” You could feel him jolt. “Oh, are you still coming to practice with me?” Eren asked, his lips close to your neck. You shivered. He noticed again. 

“That was the plan.” You tried pushing yourself off him, but he didn’t let go. Is this how he is with everyone? 

He smiled, his teeth biting his lip for a second. Like he was excited, “I think you’re going to love it.” Eren sure did.

Actually, what the hell was ‘it?’ You don’t even know what sport Eren plays. What if he didn’t play a sport at all. What if he was in a cult? And you were just blindly saying yes?!

Actually, if Eren told me to kill myself, I’d do it.

“Will I?” 

“Nope!” He replied, finally standing up and walking to the door. Grabbing his keys and smiling at you. “Anyways, I’ll swing by the house and drive you at—“ he clicked his tongue a few times, “—3:30, that’s fine right?” 

You blinked a few times, isn’t today my free day?

Eren noticed your confused expression. “Today’s your party day,” it was almost like he was informing you something you didn’t know. Which, you didn’t. Eren was also giving you a weird look. You recognized that face, it was the one he gave you when you acted differently from your alternate self. “So, don’t go to one tonight.” 

You smiled, nodding your head. “I knew that I was just—“ you paused for a second, “—testing if you knew that.” You internally cringed. 

Eren pressed his lips together, suppressing a laugh. You’re so awkward now, he thought. “Of course.” 

You heard him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. Jesus, it was either you marry this man, or kill yourself trying to do it. 

.•° ✿ °•.

°•. ✿ .•°

You never knew driving with Eren could be a surreal experience. I mean, there was that one time you got into a car with a guy you considered— just a friend. Only to come out with your face hot and heart beating like crazy. 

Your heart decided at that moment, you didn’t see him as— just a friend. As Adrien Agreste likes to say with Marinette. 

But this, this was on another fucking level. You could feel your whole body burning. Your heart was beating out of your chest, you could hear it in your ears. 

Jesus, you couldn’t even hear the radio blasting. 

“Do you wanna’ get food after this?” He asked, seeing how tense your shoulders were. “I can pay.”

You blinked a few times, “Huh?” You thickly swallowed, “Uhm, yeah. Food sounds nice.” You simply said. 

“What do you feel like having?” Eren looked at you for a second, seeing as your eyes were trained outside the window.

“Chick-fil-A.” You responded, before quickly snapping your head to Eren. “No! I take it back.” You smiled, “I’ll buy, I know this amazing ramen place.” Eren was about to speak when you cut him off, “Think of it as my first duty as your sugar-mommy.” 

Eren laughed, eyes moving back to the road. Trying not to get too distracted by the conversation. “Can’t wait.” 

You giggled, bright eyes slowly moving away from him. Looking back outside. Counting the cars that passed by. 

Eren however, still wanted to talk. 

“Are you excited?” Eren asked, his hand moving over the wheel as he parked the car into an empty space. 

“Maybe?..” you slowly responded, trying to see where you were. The college's football stadium. Did Eren play football? Wait, how was it going to work? You couldn’t play football.. Maybe, he was going to set you up as a manager?..

Eren opened his door, and shut it behind him. You were going to do the same, when he quickly locked the car. Walking to your side, unlocking the car, and opening the door for you. 

You laughed, “Idiot.” Before stepping out, “Thank you, Eren.” You placed your hand on his shoulder, before fixing your hair. 

Eren watched as you started to walk forward, the place you touched burning. He thickly swallowed, “Uh, I—I already talked to my director about you joining, and he said it should be fine.” Eren said, trying to catch up to you. His hand placed on your waists, and leading the way. His head turned to you, “But, I’m so excited! It’s gonna’ be nice having you at practice with me.” 

You smiled, grabbing his arm and squeezing it. “It sounds nice.” You softly replied, pulling yourself away and looking back at the field. 

You could feel your heart drop. 

Oh no, not this again..

You promised to leave this very ‘sport’ back in high school. Hell, it wasn’t even a sport! It was goddamn torture, and child labor. You looked at Eren, seeing the way he was smiling at everyone. “Eren, you do?..” 

“Marching band!” Eren smiled, grabbing your hand and pulling you close. “I’m in the drumline.” He whispered, pointing at the percussionist. 

That’s actually so sexy, what the hell?

You looked at him, mouth agape. “You do marching band?!” You blinked at him. 

Wait, does that mean you get to see him in the uniform?! 

There really is a god. 

You could feel Eren’s hand squeeze around your waist for a moment, before speaking. “I’m so happy, now we can spend more time together.” He whispered. 

You could feel your lips part, your hand moving over his. Your face burning with embarrassment. “Eren?” You softly said, hand tightening around his. 

His eyes dipped down to your lip, before looking back into you. “Y/n?” He said with a slight laugh. 

Your lips parted, before closing. Tell him you like him! “Eren, I—I really li—“ 

“Y/n?” 

You flinched hearing your name. You could see Eren turn pale. His hand pulling away from you so fast, you couldn’t register it. 

You turned your head over your shoulder, confused by what— or who, would’ve caused such a reaction from Eren. 

You could feel your blood run cold. 

In front of the two of you, stood someone taller than both of you. Hands stuffed into his pockets, hair slicked back with gel, and a tight black long sleeved shirt, with gray sweatpants. His lips brought into a slight scowl. 

“What the hell are you doing here at my practice.” His eyes danced to Eren, “With him?” 

You couldn’t even register his question. The words leaving your mouth without thought. 

“Jean?” 

Your boyfriend. 

.•° ✿ °•.

°•. ✿ .•°

[what-yadoking-likes]

More Payday/Pokemon crossover thoughts:

Jimmy has a Ditto. This is a reference to Hardcore Henry (can you tell I haven't seen Hardcore Henry?). I'm tempted to give him one of the 'bear' Pokemon (think Ursaring, Beartic, Bewear), purely because I keep thinking of Cocaine Bear and Jimmy likes cocaine...

... is my analysis of Jimmy dumb? Am I diminishing him into a caricature of himself? Am I doing him a disservice?... Ahhh well, this list is just for funsies anyway.

I've said this before, but Dallas has a Braviary as a reference to his mask because MURICAAAAAA. An Audino for interesting setups and the potential for a Medic Bag reference.

Houston is the resident ghost, but somehow ghost-type Pokemon don't seem that Houston-coded to me. I could see him having something like a Decidueye for the sneaky aspect and the assassin/speedy boy aspect. Maybe a Meowth to help him out with those debts, dude.

Wolf has a Drilbur, BUT he never evolves it. Why? Because I fucking hate how Excadrill looks.

Hoxton has a Houndoom.

Rust has a Granbull who rides in its own little sidecar alongside Rust's bike.

[possumcollege]

Does the prospect of tailored, AI generated media where "YOU are the star" sound like a fucking nightmare to anyone else?

Everything about AI has the stink of depersonalization all over it. Maybe it's the ptsd talking, but the idea of watching a character with my face and voice doing things on TV is disturbingly close to the times when I couldn't recognize my own face in a mirror.

Like a dissociative episode with a laugh track.

Sounds like the narcissistic brainchild of someone who can't internalize anything that isn't literally about them.

"Everyone must want this too right? Especially people who aren't as interesting as me!"

I'm viscerally haunted by the presence of my own body on a daily basis. The thought of seeing it accurately scanned and pasted into a movie or skinned onto a more dashing frame makes me ill.

As does the way producers and executives want to use tech to circumvent fair labor practices, fair contracts, residual compensation, copyright law, employment benefits, and human performers to bring their absolute dogshit ideas to light.

AI devs want it to do everything "just like a person" when there ARE PEOPLE to do those things. The problem to be solved is that PAYING and supporting humans costs them money. Employees who don't want to be worked into the ground to bring their dream to life feels like someone eating their lunch.

So they imagine a future where we drive to a building, sit in a cubbie, wearing headsets so our hovering torsos can occupy a fun, budget-friendly, office of the mind for $15/hr 12hrs/day, sleep in the office during crunch time, and praise them for all their great and generous brain ideas!

AI kills jobs by convincing investors that it's cheaper than human workers, and that the remaining human workers will mostly be there for QC, which they don't consider skilled labor. We're the safety net for their machine.

By the time the consumers start realizing actually, AI support sucks, its products are either creepy or trash, and its judgment is dangerously inadequate, the developers have got their payday and aren't legally liable for the mess we made with their tools.

AI is wonderful for separating workers from profits, producers from criticism, manufacturers from liability, and people from each other. We don't share the profits because we just helped keep the Boss' machine from falling over. Our reward is pretending to be the person on a screen before we go back to work.

When we're the star of our own bizarre google-ads-ass media, we're robbed of the opportunity to see ourselves in someone who is not us. It makes us more of a puppet in someone else's play. Our Selves become another product we get to pay someone else to show us.

Why the everlasting fuck should we want to copy/paste ourselves into a product made by an industry that no longer places value on human creative labor? When the brains at the helm of these industries are stone blind to the reality of human experience?

These are the beautiful dreams of people whose lives are so irreparably insulated and disconnected from consequence and the reality of other people that they see "other people" as a problem to be solved.

I don't want a thing from those people.

[certifiedblackmesasweetvoice]

Okay so I have a thought (spoilers for Half Life VR But the AI is Self-Aware btw)

I remember when I first watched through HLVRAI and saw all the shit that happened to Gordon, yadda yadda yadda, you know how it goes

And watching it the first time was a little fucking jarring, you know

Like you have to listen to fucking Gordon groaning in pain and being betrayed by his friends and then having to battle Benrey, it's awful

And then the second time I watched it, knowing what I was in for, I realized

...the name of the series is Half-Life VR But the AI is Self-Aware.

This is a video game series.

Gordon is being played by a person in the real world.

Why is all of this so greatly affecting him?

"Oh Wayne said that Gordon just had to pretend to be in pain or scared for the sake of the AIs!"

Aside from the fact that at least two of the AIs know that they aren't real (Coomer and Benrey, though by the Payday 2 stream I imagine all four of the AIs know that they're video game characters), a huge chunk of Act Three Part 2 is Gordon, by himself, in pain and freaking out over the betrayal. NO ONE was around him - not Benrey, not Bubby, not Coomer, not even Tommy was close enough for him hearing Gordon to be a concern. He sounds like he's actually in pain in this portion, like he is actively wincing and groaning and just overall having a shit time.

Now, I'm not saying that the player (because it doesn't specify that Wayne and the person who "found" the AI are the same person, the description for the playlist just says "a streamer" discovered the game) somehow got sucked into the game or anything like that because like, clearly he wasn't - Coomer straight up says later in that video that Gordon has "a world in [his] dreams", meaning that the player can still exit the game and interact with the real world.

But I do have to wonder what the description meant by saying the AI "[changed] [the streamer's] life forever".