#sex work au

[potatomountain]

Kinktober- *739 masterlist

For Kinktober I'm happy to participate with 8 fics (technically 7) of a sexworker au that delves into more dangerous, or out-there kinks. Each member of Ateez with their own oneshot (roughly 5-10k words each) x reader.

General warnings: Mentions of safe words, the color system, blood, bruises, toys, paid sex, use of pet names, degradation, praise- and in some: depictions of violence, blood, and torture.

Synopsis: with sex work legal, it was as readily available as texting *739, filling out the form sent, and setting a time and place with an easy charge to your credit card. Even the more hefty kinks could be fulfilled with a professionalism that was respected, and could be addicting.

Members:

Yunho - cnc/choking

San - pet play/toys

Jongho - manhandling/rough

Yeosang - temperature/wax/ice play

Mingi - threesome/dvp Dropped!!

Seonghwa - food play/messy/mommy: droppd!!

Wooyoung - femdom/bdsm: will be late [so will drop in November]

Hongjoong - blood/knife play: Drops Hallow's Eve, the 30th

If you would like to be added to the taglist, leave a comment or ask.

Current taglist: @justhere4kpop  /  @warpedspirit /  @candypop1611  /  @spooo00oky @sanniessnails / @gugggu6gvai / @starillusion13 / @tunaasan / @lavishloving / @h-nji / @tearfulsparks78 / @minkysmilk / @certifiedmoa / /

If you would like to check out other of my works

If you are doing Kinktober as well, let me know and i will happily tag in your kinktober masterlist here!!!

[thecloudstan]

The Rest is Shadows

Chapters: 3/10 (for now) Word Count: 11,618 Fandom: Final Fantasy 7 Remake Pairing: Cloud Strife/Rufus Shinra Rating: Explicit

Cloud Strife, under a stage name, has quickly become one of Andrea Rhodea's star performers and escorts at the Honeybee Inn, and whose attention should he snag other than THE Vice President of Shinra Electric Power Company, Rufus Shinra. Remake universe canon divergent au in which Jenova does not exist, the Wutai war is long since won, there is no impending threat from Sephiroth, and Avalanche as we know it is in its infancy. Cloud is 21, Rufus is 30.

Read on ao3

I grew anxious with this and have the urge to share part of what has been completed. No posting schedule for now, but I would say what's posted is about 1/3 of the final vision. Enjoy, and thank you <3

[sephirthoughts]

Rufus/Cloud sex-worker AU excerpt from very rough draft cause I'm not sure if I have their dynamic where I want it yet

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he bent down to unlace his boots, ‘unintentionally’ offering the man a full view of his pert posterior, including the expanse of bare thigh, between jazz shorts and stockings. 

“What are you doing?” the man asked.

Cloud turned halfway to look at him, while still bent over. “Hm? I’m taking my shoes off. Don’t want to dirty up your nice white clothes.”

“Fine. Just get on with it and get over here,” he replied testily. “I don’t have all night.”

“Sure thing, daddy,” Cloud smiled sweetly, while rolling his eyes internally. Apparently this guy wouldn’t know the cutest ass in Midgar if it sat directly on his face. Well, it was his loss.

With his boots now off, he padded back over to the sofa and slid in behind his intractable client, with his slender thighs spread, to squeeze the man snugly between them. 

The guy’s neck felt like a bag of rocks. How stressful must his job be, to rack up this kind of tension? He dug his thumb into a particularly tough spot, and the man let out a stifled groan.

“Oops, sorry daddy,” Cloud said. “Did I hurt—”

“No. Harder,” the man interrupted. “It…it feels good.”

“You got it.” 

Cloud worked his freakishly strong fingers into the man’s neck and shoulder muscles, thinking he’d tap out and tell him to stop at any moment, but the more viciously he dug in, the more the man melted against him, till he was fully reclined against Cloud’s chest, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. 

Cloud’s hands glided over his shoulders, onto the tops of his pectoral muscles, just below the clavicle. Mmm. Nice body under there. Looked like this rich prick actually bothered to take care of himself. Probably had a personal trainer and everything. So, why the fuck was he coming to a brothel in the Sector 6 slums for a neck rub?

Unconsciously, his hands slipped further down, and he was now fully massaging the man’s pecs, through his grey silk shirt. When his fingertips grazed absently over the raised nub of an erect nipple, the man’s hand snapped up and caught his wrist, giving him a start.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

Blonde eyelashes fluttering, a confused, sleep-rough voice. Holy shit, this asshole had actually fallen asleep. Cloud had to suppress a laugh.

“Sorry, daddy, I didn’t mean to—”

“Why do you keep calling me daddy?”

“That’s just what we call male clients.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Alright. What should I call you?”

The man hesitated. “Sarruf.”

Cloud tilted his head to one side. “Seraph? Like an angel?” 

“No, it’s not—ah! Fuck!” 

“Look, now you’re getting all tense again,” Cloud scolded, grabbing him by the neck and working his fingers into the knots again, without asking permission. “If it’s that easy to set you off, maybe you should try reducing some of your stress, Seraph.”

“It’s…Rufus,” the man said, through his clenched teeth. “Just…ngh! Just call me Rufus.”

“Alright, Rufus. This may be none of my business, but—actually it is my business. You’re my client and this is literally my job. Your neck pain is probably from stress. It can cause stiffness and muscle pain and all kinds of other physical symptoms.”

“What makes you think I have stress?” Rufus rejoined. “You know nothing about me.”

“You’re right, I don’t know anything about you. And even I can see that you seriously need to relieve some tension. It just so happens that I am very, very good at relieving tension.”

“What are you suggesting?” Rufus asked warily.

Cloud let go of his shoulders and slipped his hands around his waist, onto the taut plane of his abdomen, sliding them slowly down, till his fingertips just barely poked under the waistband of his hakama pants. “You’ll have to trust me.”

[tiffanytoms]

do you have any fics that are sex work aus? or recs? ty!

Hey!

The only one I can think of is @scriibble-fics masterpiece Bought where James hires Lily and they fall in love. Like Pretty Woman but a whole lot darker 😂 (and waaaaaay better!)

If anyone else knows any other ones, please let me know as well!

Does stripper count as sex work? I think I read a one shot once where Lily was a stripper, but I can’t remember… Then there was another story where Lily was a dancer for the Moulin Rouge, but I think that one was abandoned.

Sorry I’m not more helpful!

[sukea69]

Ough now I'm thinking abt modern au hashimito where mito has to go to this work presentation/talk/evening/party thing and she's fucking dreading it, so she decides to treat herself by hiring an escort. That escort is hashirama

[spitinsideme]

pomnis favrouote hobbies include standing seductively in doorways and having a grabbable waist

(comedy horror au !!)

[shih-coulda-had-it]

and how extensive was this practice

[panphilosopher]

Fic Idea: Chaggie/Chaggily child AU except it's Vaggie's child when she was a human. (TW: sex violence)

The idea if Vaggie's human origin still happens.

During her time as a sex worker, Vaggie could accidently be impregnated. The idea she didn't realize she was pregnant until at least the beginning of her early second trimester.

Since abortion is illegal in El Salvador and cultural upbringing, Vaggie could be reluctant to have abortion until decided to carry it.

I cannot think of a name, but I'm calling Vaggie's child Mirabel (lol).

Being disowned by her own family fuck Vaggie up psychologically, and decided to raise her (likely have a girlfriend who helped her).

Vaggie absolutely loves her daughter; she dotted her, she was her moon and sun. Gave her endearing names.

Tragically struck; when Mirabel is between 3-5, Vaggie was killed (either to sex violence, struck by vehicle, gang related death, etc).

Vaggie ascended to Heaven (likely having a traumatic life and still caring for her daughter), but Vaggie was devastated because that meant she separated from Mirabel.

Worse, and this part of my headcanon, time is irrelevant in the afterlife. I get the idea from The Good Place; look up Jeremy Bearimy. That's meant Vaggie will not see Mirabel for hundreds of years.

Every year in the afterlife time, Vaggie will have a somber celebration for Mirabel. I would like to say around September to October. Is Vaggie way for her to grieved for not raising her daughter.

Vaggie was also recruited into the Exorcists early, ascended into an angel.

The fic would follow the canon route: Vaggie did the extermination, spears a sinner, and Lute cut her eye and ripped her wings, Charlie would find her, and both fell in love, opened thr Hotel, battle the Exorcists and won. Also, down the line, Emily would fall too and enter a poly-relation with Vaggie and Charlie because I ship Unholy Trinity.

Like three months after the battle, Vaggie and Charlie hold a somber birthday for Mirabel (Vaggie told Charlie when they started dating).

All the hotel residents wondered who birthday is it, and Vaggie tells them its for her daughter.

Cue everybody is going "WHAT" "YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER" and Emily screamed, "Why didn't you tell me?!".

Even Charlie gasped before saying, "Why am I gasping? I already knew that."

I see Vaggie as a very closed person, won't tell people her past unless she trust them, and seeing she openly celebrating her daughter's birthday means she does now. Also, she likely didn't realized she hasn't tell Emily yet.

Now, here comes the angst: a few days after Vaggie's fell (or forced fall), Mirabel ascended to Heaven.

I don't think Vaggie and her former partner will have a healthy relationship. Not fault for either of them: poverty, homophobic society, and that Vaggie being a sex worker. Vaggie decided to keep Mirabel just add another fight between them.

After Vaggie died, her former partner gave Mirabel up to an orphanage. I do see her feeling guilty and likely giving donations to the orphanage, but that's it.

I will see Mirabel being a selfless girl: the big sister of the orphanage, gave her dinner portion to the children who's nearly starving, is known around the town for helping people, things like that.

She vaguely remembered Vaggie, only remembered that her mother loved her, the pet name, and I believed a nursery song that Vaggie sang to her.

Mirabel likely died around 15-17, and I say either to traffic accident or a bullet stray from a gang shoot-out.

After arriving in Heaven, Mirabel will look everywhere and try to find Vaggie. However, she doesn't know her name and not realize she isn't in Heaven.

A month after the failed extermination, Lute discovered Mirabel, and being the sadistic bastard she is, recruited Mirabel into being an Exorcist, making her an angel too.

She gives half lies about Vaggie: being an Exorcist but was killed during the failed extermination by Charlie's paramor. Since Vaggie never actually introduced herself during the Redemption Hearing, and that Mirabel vaguely remembered how Vaggie looked like (especially her afterlife/her fallen angel form if take fanon route).

Cue Mirabel trained and searched for her mom's killer, not realizing her mom is alive and said killer is her mom.

[phoenixyfriend]

something something one of those those "Jango falls for Courtesan/Stripper/NightclubSinger/TrophyWife!Obi-Wan" AUs...

But instead Obi-Wan actually being a sex worker, he's undercover and still a Jedi, and either:

They split ways and run into each other a few months later with Obi-Wan in full Prude Beige Knight mode OR

The situation goes pear-shaped while they're still flirting and Obi-Wan has to break cover to grab a senator and jump out a window and suddenly this half-dressed glittery Person is batting away shots with a lightsaber and there's a bratty twelve-year-old who ALSO has a lightsaber threatening people with I Will Eat Your Liver if they keep staring at his dad's ass just because the sequined sheathe dress tore in a sexy place

[nateezfics]

he looks so vampy in these photos;; i’m so in love

[threefeline]

Another snerson

[lucradiss]

Existing in more than one fandom space is like having more than one group of friends but both of them being so wildly different that any overlap at all would be like getting shot in the head

[sukea69]

Founders sex work aus bc why not

Izuna: cam shows and streaming. Lots of effort to connect to a client base, lots of costume and set design stuff going on. Does some stripping also

Tobirama: sells videos. Does not take requests. Does not talk to his audience.

Hashirama: escort :-) it costs more than ur life to actually fuck him

Madara: he either does acting that occasionally peers into the erotic (but he doesn't focus on it), or survival sex work. Streetwalking to make sure he and his family stay fed and housed

[gardenoflupins]

Assassin AU / @wolfstarmicrofic / 874 words

CW: sexual conversation

“You look bored, how about I take you to bed instead?” Sirius whispers in Remus’s ear.

Remus jolts, spinning to look at Sirius with wide eyes. Sirius suppresses a smirk.

Sirius had been hired to kill Lyall Lupin’s son, Remus Lupin, and he was going to be paid a hefty amount for it.

He knew that Lyall worked at the ministry. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hired to kill one of its members. His client harboured strong animosity towards Lyall and wanted to kill his son out of spite. That made Sirius’s job easier. Killing an important government official was always a hassle. He’s sure mini Lupin would have become just like his father anyway.

Sirius completed his assassinations in various ways depending on the context. Sometimes he’d go to their homes and kill them directly. Other times he’d poison them. His favourite technique, however, was to seduce them. It left them vulnerable and unassuming.

Sirius had been watching Remus the past hour to get an impression of him. So far, the man seemed reserved and awkward. Sirius decided on his seduction technique because Remus kept glancing at him and Sirius knew what those looks meant.

Remus’s entire face goes red at his words and he stutters unintelligibly. Eventually he laughs nervously and Sirius takes that as cue to lean towards him.

Remus shoots his hands up to stop Sirius from moving, hands on Sirius’s chest.

Perhaps Sirius had read him wrong. He looks into the other’s eyes to get a better feel of the situation. Remus’s eyes were still wide but he looked innocently confused.

“Unless you prefer the old fashioned way where I take you out first,” Sirius says, undeterred.

“I— oh god,” Remus replies, “I’m so bad at this, please don’t put me on the spot.”

This pulls a surprised laugh out of Sirius. “No need to be nervous, I can lead and take control,” he says with heavy implication.

Remus wets his lips, eyes darting around before they fall to his feet. He drops his hands to his sides.

He says nothing.

Doubt creeps into Sirius. Had he read the situation wrong? Was Sirius not what Remus wanted? It left him feeling unnerved and slightly agitated.

“Not interested, then?” Sirius asks calmly.

Remus continues avoiding his eyes, face flushed. “I am so terribly embarrassed,” he responds softly.

Understanding dawns on him and Sirius has to bite down on his lip. “One of the shy ones?”

Remus’s eyes flicker up at him then back down. “Unfortunately.”

Sirius leans against the bar, remaining close to the other. “It’s alright, I’m good at coaxing eye contact when I’m sleeping with someone. I’ll reward you with lots of praise, I promise.”

Remus chokes and snaps his head up to Sirius, his eyes going impossibly wide. “You—“ He takes a deep, shaky breath. “You can’t just— say things like that.”

Sirius pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, trying to hide his smile. He was leaning into his role as the seducer but it came easily to him. Remus was someone he would have slept with outside of work. Sirius’s eyes linger on his lips and he watches Remus swallow nervously at Sirius’s attention.

Remus’s breaths were coming out short, mouth slightly open and skin flushed.

Sirius moves to gently pull him in by the waist. “Don’t you want to taste me?”

His eyes flutter shut and he groans in response.

To Sirius, it was the sound of victory.

“I— Please,” he breathes out.

“Good boy,” Sirius murmurs, fingers rubbing delicate circles on his waist. “That’s it.”

Remus opens his eyes and Sirius is thrown off-kilter at the tender gaze. “I can’t. I want it— badly, but my father won’t allow it.”

Sirius blinks. His curiosity ignited. “Why not?”

Remus glances away bitterly. “He doesn’t want anyone to see me.”

This answers nothing and leaves Sirius with more questions. Seeing this, Remus offers him a kind smile. “Thank you for the offer, you’re quite gorgeous.”

Sirius feels a bit tingly. He won’t lie and say he wasn’t intrigued (in more ways than one) but he had a job to do. He didn’t need to seduce Remus to be able to kill him.

Someone pulls Remus rather harshly out of his grip. Sirius looks at Lyall Lupin’s sour expression.

“I’ve finished discussing with the others. Let’s go.” His hand is firm on Remus’s shoulder.

Skilled in picking up pieces of information, Sirius’s eyes cut to where a small group of men are leaving the bar. His gaze comes back to Lyall who is scowling at him while sending concerned looks to his son. Remus isn’t looking at either of them.

Sirius takes in Remus’s scars and he feels like he is seeing him for the first time. The scars closely resembled the ones his current client had.

The puzzle started forming in Sirius’s mind. It was just out of reach.

Lyall protectively pulls Remus away and Remus sends Sirius a mournful look.

Yes, it looked like Lyall was harbouring a secret regarding his son and Sirius would be damned if he didn’t figure it out. He had a feeling it had everything to do with the man that hated Lyall.

Fenrir Greyback.

[cuoredimuschio]

a little start of something that may end up being Something, expanding on this post about eddie teaching steve to play guitar

(3.1k - no upside down, but still set in the spring of '86)

now on ao3 | part two

---

Jenna Burke is the girl of Steve’s dreams.

Yeah, yeah, he’s made that claim before. A few times. 

About Nancy. About Robin (he was half-right that time). About a dozen girls in between.

But Jenna’s different. Jenna’s the real deal.

They haven’t even been out on a date yet, but he knows. He can tell. He can feel it in the air every time she comes in to bring back her rentals. Which she always does when he’s working. Never on Tuesday when he’s off.

And let him just say, real quick: he knows how crazy that sounds. How crazy he sounds. But there’s something there, some kind of connection that sparks every time their eyes meet, something just waiting for the right moment to happen. And honestly, he’d have to be even crazier than crazy not to be completely mad about her. 

Because she’s everything anyone could ever want. She’s everything that Steve has ever wanted, and more. Intelligent, funny, sincere, kind, movie-star cool but still firmly planted down on Earth, confident, artistic, athletic, a heavenly laugh, a knockout smile, sun-kissed freckles, hair like caramel honey, gorgeous enough to blow Phoebe Cates clear out of the water: he could go on. 

And he has. 

He’s talked Robin’s ear off about her, shift after shift after shift, until she threatened to cut his tongue out, julienne it, and feed it to her cat if she had to hear one more time about Jenna’s dimples and how the left one is just the slightest bit bigger than the right one—as if she wasn’t ten times worse when she was crushing on Vickie. Steve was once treated to an entire sermon about the way the fluorescent lights of the band hall reflected off her pearl barrette. But anyway, that’s beside the point. The point being that, threats of violence aside, even Robin’s had to admit that Jenna is—by all accounts and in every way—perfect.

There’s just one problem.

Steve is not the guy of her dreams.

She’s always flirted back with him—or at least, she’d always seemed amused by his attempts to flirt. Always met him halfway, played along and giggled at all his jokes and lame lines, definitely checked out his arms when he leaned on the counter, even twirled her hair a few times. He could’ve sworn it was all there, every sign lit up green and pointing to ‘go’. But when he’d finally laid it all on the line and asked her if he could take her out for dinner and a movie on Friday, she’d hit him with the worst eight words in the English language: you’re really sweet, but you’re not my type. 

And what is her type? Springsteen, Bon Jovi, rockstars and their wannabes, apparently.

“There’s just something about a man with a guitar,” she’d said, her sea-shine eyes dancing with starry mischief. “Drives a girl wild.”

Then, she’d taken her movie, dropped a smile and a twiddly wave over her shoulder, and swept out the door with Steve’s heart stuck to the bottom of her Keds, leaving squelchy, sappy stains on the sidewalk with every step. And that was that. A beautiful flower, nipped before it could even bud. He couldn’t even really be surprised, shouldn’t have expected anything different given his recent track record.

It wasn’t until he was locking up that night, ready to go home and wallow, chalk up another failure in the books and look for comfort at the bottom of a beer or two, that it had hit him: the obvious solution, the one she’d handed right to him, with a wink and a nudge. 

He’s not the guy of her dreams, but he could be. 

All it’d take is just one little change. And he’s more than willing to make it.

Which is why he’s now slinking back to his old stomping grounds, picking his way through the grey, gnarled trees huddled behind the track, and hoping with all he’s got that Eddie Munson didn’t get busted at some point in the last year and move to another neck of the woods. And that he’s in a generous mood.

Steve should probably explain. Because ‘obvious solution’ and ‘Eddie Munson’ don’t often belong in the same metaphorical sentence. But desperate times call for desperate measures. 

There’s just no way Steve can teach himself to play guitar. He wouldn’t even know where to start, and he’s always learned better when he has someone to watch anyway, when he can see, step by step, what he needs to do before he does it. And Munson…Still doesn’t seem like the obvious choice, granted. But he was always hanging up those messy, handmade posters for his weird band, plastering them all over the school, talking big about their gig at The Hideout every Tuesday; even though Steve had never caught one of their shows, never heard Munson play a single note, he figures if an actual bar hired them and let them keep coming back, week after week, he must be pretty good. 

Plus, with that whole rock-n-roll, long-hair-denim-and-leather thing he’s got going, he’s honestly not too far off from Bon Jovi. Steve’s not sure either party would appreciate that comparison, but the fact is, Eddie Munson is the closest thing to a rockstar that Hawkins has to offer. If he’s going to learn from anyone, Munson’s his best bet.

It’s quiet as Steve approaches the clearing—nothing but the birds squawking up in the branches and the weak crunch of the leaves under his feet. It’s so quiet, too quiet, and all wrong. Because ‘quiet’ and ‘Eddie Munson’ have never belonged in the same sentence either; they don’t even belong on the same planet. If he was here, Steve probably would have heard him before he even got out of his car. So he must’ve switched spots or maybe he’s busy with his nerdy club. This was always a pretty damn long shot, but preemptive disappointment closes around Steve’s stomach anyway.

He almost turns around. It’s a good thing he didn’t.

Because he steps out into the clearing and there Munson is: holed up at that same rotting picnic table, squatting on the bench, hunched like a gargoyle as he scribbles into an old, tattered notebook, stopping every few seconds to gnaw on the end of his pen, twisting his hair around and around his finger. It’s warm enough that he’s ditched his signature vest and jacket, thrown them down on the table and pushed his sleeves up, showing off a select few of his ghoulish collection of tattoos. Steve can hear now that his watch—the same dorky kind Dustin wears—is beeping, softly, incessantly, but Munson doesn’t seem to hear it. And he doesn’t seem to realize Steve is there either, too absorbed in whatever he’s cooking up in his notebook, mouthing something to himself over and over again.

Steve clears his throat. “Hey, Munson—”

“Fucking sh—” is all the further Munson gets before he topples; he flails, arms striking out, trying to keep his balance and save himself, but gravity wins this round, and he lands, hard, on his on his back in the dirt.

Not off to a great start. 

Steve steps forward, a hand ready to help him up, an apology brewing on his tongue, but Munson pops right back up, breezily brushing dead forest junk from his shirt. His eyes widen slightly when they land on Steve, a brow starts to twitch up, but he tosses on that smarmy, showman smile and slips into his usual act seamlessly.

“Ah, salutations, your majesty.” He doffs an imaginary cap and tucks his arm in against his stomach, bowing so deep the tips of his frizzy hair brush the leaf litter. It’s a damn shame, to have a killer mane like that and not even know how to take care of it; he clearly overwashes it and uses the exact wrong shampoo for whatever his hair type is; his curls are so limp he looks like a cocker spaniel after a night left out in the rain. “Long time, no see. To what do I owe such an auspicious honor? What brings you back to my humble shop on this fine afternoon?”

Alright, here goes nothing. 

“I need a favor,” Steve says. Short, simple, and to the point. 

That brow inches up a bit higher. “Well, unless ‘a favor’ is what the cool kids are calling an eighth these days, I regret to inform you that you’re a bit S-O-L, sire. My supply—” He raps his knuckles on top of his battered lunchbox “—ain’t what she usually is at the moment. Had a bit of a Spring Break blowout sale on Friday, everything must go, you know how it is. But…” He wedges his hands in his back pockets and sighs, as if Steve’s really busting his balls and twisting his arm here. “If you know what you want, I can try and get it for you, but I make no guarantees, and it probably won’t be ‘til next week.” His eyes pick their way up and over Steve, all the way up from his shoes, and a smirk spreads, like a fungal infection, across his lips. “Usually don’t take special orders, but I can make an exception for the king.”

He says ‘king’, but it’s pretty obvious he means something more in the realm of ‘jackass’ or ‘douchebag’. And that the offer’s not exactly coming out of the kindness of his heart. So, things aren’t boding well for Steve. 

But whatever, he doesn’t need Munson to like him; he just needs Munson to teach him. And besides, he can’t really blame him for being less than enthusiastic about helping Steve out; it’s not like he would be Steve’s first choice either, if he had a better option. Or any other option, really. The guy’s weird. And loud. And abrasive. And a lot. Not to mention, they have next to nothing in common, and he means ‘next to’ as in ‘on the negative side of’. 

“I’m not here for drugs,” he says.

Munson’s face darkens, something hardened in his eyes that almost makes him look as dangerous as concerned parents say he is. 

“Then you’re in the wrong place.” He drops back down on the bench and picks up his pen again, pulling his notebook close. “Despite what your lovely friends like to say about me, I don’t offer those kinds of services. I’m not that desperate.”

It takes a second for Steve to realize exactly which friends and which services Munson’s referring to, but when it clicks, a bucket of gooey heat dumps over his head, searing his ears and turning his stomach. “Jesus Christ, you really think I’d—No. God no. Believe me, if that’s what I wanted, I wouldn’t be coming to you of all people. I wouldn’t need to.”

Munson props his chin in his palm, and now his eyes literally twinkle, catching a shard of the patchwork light that falls through the scraggly canopy, as he leers up at Steve. “Tell me, Harrington, have you ever asked somebody for a favor before? ‘Cause I gotta say, this is a unique approach.”

Right. Probably shouldn’t be insulting the guy who he’s throwing himself at the mercy of. 

If only Munson weren’t so damn good at being so damn annoying.

“Look,” Steve says, gingerly sliding onto the bench across from Munson, praying his jeans will protect him from getting a splinter up the ass, “I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Let me try again: you play guitar, right?”

“Yeah?” Munson narrows his eyes and slams his notebook shut before Steve can spot much more than a few choppy doodles. “What, does his majesty require entertainment for one of his soirees?”

“No, I want you to teach me.”

That brow disappears up behind his bangs. “How to tie your shoelaces or…?”

Steve pauses, takes a deep breath, pictures Jenna’s beautiful, smiling face. She’s worth it, he reminds himself, do it for her. “No,” he says again, nice and calm and level. “How to play guitar, asshole.”

“Why?”

“Uh, because you know how to play and I don’t?” He’s totally doing this on purpose, being deliberately contuse or whatever the word is. And Steve can’t help himself. “I would’ve thought someone who’s been in school as long as you would understand the concept of teaching by now, but I guess maybe that explains why you still haven’t graduated.”

“Get fucked,” Munson snaps, but it’s dull, all bark and no bite, more of a reflex than anything. “I meant why do you wanna play guitar, dickhead.”

“Oh.” Yeah, okay, Steve deserved that one. He’s burning bridges, and fast, but Munson hasn’t walked away yet, which means he’s still got a shot. And he’s gonna take it. “Jenna Burke.”

He can’t even say her name without cracking a smile. That’s how he knows it’s real.

Munson is decidedly less enchanted. He twirls his pen once, twice between his fingers and starts sketching a spider web around his knuckle. “Care to elaborate?”

“I’m into her. She’s into guys who play guitar.” Steve pauses, letting that information sink in. “Can you put those pieces together on your own or do I need to spell it out for you?”

Something surprisingly bitter curls up in the corner of Munson’s mouth. He laughs, but it’s not really a laugh at all. “Nah, I hear ya, loud and clear, your majesty. And the answer to your humble request,” he says, “is no.”

Steve blinks. “What? What do you mean no?” 

He hates—a little bit, a lot—how much he sounds like a spoiled child, but this isn’t just not getting some stupid toy he wanted on Christmas; it’s potentially missing out on the love of his life. He needs this.

“I mean no,” Munson repeats, nice and slow, dragging out the ‘o’ and puckering it off. “N-O? Commonly known as the opposite of yes? As in ‘not fucking happening’?” He tilts his head to the side. “Huh, I would’ve thought somebody with a brain in their thick skull would be able to understand such a simple concept.”

Steve crosses his arms; definitely not helping himself on the ‘spoiled child’ front, but it’s the best way to stop himself from punching—or strangling—that smug smirk off Munson’s smug face. “Why not?”

“How many reasons you want? ‘Cause I can give you a few.” He sticks up his middle finger, adorned with a flying pig’s head. “One: learning guitar takes a shitton of practice, patience, and passion. It’s not something you just pick up one day to impress a chick. It’s serious shit. If you’re not doing it for the pure, honest love of the music, then you have no business even breathing in the same room as a guitar. And it’s my sworn duty as a defender of the faith to hold the line and keep the rabble—” He jabs his middle finger in Steve’s direction, in case it was unclear who the ‘rabble’ was in this scenario “—back from the gates.”

“Jesus, who do you think you are? Some kind of musical messiah?” Steve scoffs. He shouldn’t, he needs Munson on his side, but something about the guy just gets under his skin and itches. “How about you get off your fucking high horse for two seconds?”

“Hey, man, you came to me. If you wanted sympathy, you should’ve knocked on a different door. And I wasn’t finished, alright? Two,” he says, lifting his other middle finger, “I have no interest in helping you get your rocks off. I, frankly, don’t give a fuck about the state of your rocks. And call me uncharitable or inhumane or whatever you like, but I think your little fella will survive if he has to stay in your pants this one time. Three—” He raises his left pinky “—I don’t fucking want to. It may not have occurred to you, my liege, but I have better things to do than listen to you butcher Hot Cross Buns over and over again until you inevitably give up because you’ve never actually had to work for anything in your life.”

Again, Steve probably deserves that, but still. “Jesus, man, you don’t have to—” 

“And four,” Munson says, even louder. He lifts his right pinky, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “No, actually, that pretty much covers it. So if you’re done wasting my precious time—” He pushes up from the table and sweeps his arm toward the tree line, his smile more plastic than Barbie’s “—you can kindly return to the Hell from whence you came, your majesty.”

“Munson, come on. I’m sor—”

“Buh-bye! Thanks for coming!” He turns his back, as if not being able to see Steve will make him disappear faster. “Don’t let the door kick you in the ass on the way out!”

Fuck. 

Steve blew this. 

He blew this so hard. In every way he possibly could’ve. 

But there has to be something he can say, something he can do—

“I’ll pay you,” he blurts, before his brain can catch up and think better of it.

Munson stills. Just for a second before his I-don’t-give-a-shit act kicks back in, but it’s enough. Steve knows he’s got him on the hook. Now he just has to reel him in. 

“Twenty bucks a week,” he offers, wincing even as he says it. “I just need you to teach me the basics and help me learn one song. That’s all you gotta do. And after that, we go our separate ways, and we never have to talk to each other again.”

Munson mulls that over for a second, a long second, fingers fiddling at his split ends, before he spins around. There’s something almost hungry in his eyes: the kind of hunger you see on a stray dog waiting by the dumpster behind a butcher shop. “Make it thirty.”

Two years ago, Steve wouldn’t have blinked at that number, would have forked it over happily. Now, it hurts, physically. Now, he can barely get the word past his gritted teeth, but he finds a gap and shoves it out. For Jenna.

“Done.” 

He can’t, technically, afford it. Not on his skimpy paycheck. But he’s been saving up, squirreling away whatever cash he could spare so he can put this town in his rearview someday; it’ll set him back a few months, maybe a year, but he can dip into his savings a bit, maybe pick up a few shifts to cover the extra. It’ll be fine. Jenna’s worth it. More than.

“Well, shit, Harrington.” Munson shakes his head, and he doesn’t look or sound any more enthusiastic about the whole situation—he actually looks kind of seasick—but he sticks his hand out. “I guess you’ve got yourself a deal.”

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Adam lost the V card when he was fucking 17.

Thanks to fucking Steve.

Poor baby 🥺

And the worst part is, Adam would think that is what love is. No one told him any different.

Also, he did sleep with Valentino ONE TIME. Adam was so high he barely knew he was there. He's grateful the memory is blurry and that he didn't feel anything but waking up to a thank you card and $3000 dollars on your night stand........

Alastor gave Val his key.

Also the Vees are stupid rich so $3000 to them is like $20 bucks to us.