#cashpoint

[byalexmarkham]

Cashpoints in Avenida del Puerto #valencia_enamora #valencia🇪🇸 #valencia #cashpoint #yellow #streetphotography #streetscene #byalexmarkham #alexmarkham (at Valencia) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiZmOpRt4GL/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#valencia_enamora #valencia🇪🇸 #valencia #cashpoint #yellow #streetphotography #streetscene #byalexmarkham #alexmarkham

[terakopian]

Stuck in the middle, watching money come and money go. #easycomeeasygo #parking #parkingticket #cashmachine #cashpoint #pet #economy #observations #humor #humour #dog #juxtaposition #streetphotography #dailylife #canpubphoto #bw #monochrome #blackandwhite #blackandwhitephotography #lumix #lumixgx9 #m43 #leicadg15mm #summilux #lumix #lumixpro @lumix @lumixuk @lumixjapan @lumix_de @lumixusa @lumix_france @lumix_fotografia @lumix_ch @lumix_nl @lumix_italia @lumixnordic (at Ealing, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CeoYc_fIDVd/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#easycomeeasygo #parking #parkingticket #cashmachine #cashpoint #pet #economy #observations #humor #humour #dog #juxtaposition #streetphotography #dailylife #canpubphoto #bw #monochrome #blackandwhite #blackandwhitephotography #lumix #lumixgx9 #m43 #leicadg15mm #summilux #lumixpro

[tundrafloe]

Noel: “You don’t have any responsibilities when you’re on tour. You’re in a tour bus, you get given money to eat and live and you get food. You don’t have to do anything or go to a shop or see a cash machine or anything.”

(Gay Times, 2015)

#noel fielding #julian barratt #noelian #mike fielding #howard moon #vince noir #howince #journey of the childmen #the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #booshlr #Sunflash at a cashpoint!

[3rdmeasurement]

sent my phone off to get fixed today praying it doesn't cost too much

#unfortunately this has confirmed my insane need to save money to the point of hardly ever treating myself in case i need to money in an #emergency. so yeah #haven't checked my bank balance in a few days but think i might have enough to cover it anyway (since it might not be fully covered under #the warranty). need to go to a cashpoint tomorrow anyway so it's not a bother

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Hi everyone,

I got an inbox asking to share some tips for financing when you’re autistic. I found a helpful guid from the National Autistic Society:

Budgeting

The first step to managing your money is to work out a budget and stick to it. Budgeting will help you:

* keep track of what you are spending

* help you to avoid going overdrawn on your bank account by spending money that you don't have

* decide whether you can afford to buy something that you would like

* deal with debt by planning repayments that you can manage

* work out how much money you may have to save. 

Bank, building society or post office accounts

Most people now have one of these types of account. The benefits of these are: 

* it will keep your money safe

* you can pay bills more simply by direct debits or standing orders

* internet banking is now widely available. This reduces the need to visit banks and other services that autistic people may find difficult

* benefit payments can only be paid into an account

* you can have a debit card, making it easier to pay for purchases and you can shop online 

* you may be able to earn interest on the money you have

* you can pay bills by direct debit or standing order, which are sometimes rewarded by a reduction in what you pay for services

* you can use your cashpoint card to access money easily from cash machines in the UK and sometimes abroad

* your bank or building society may be able to give you an overdraft or loan.

Debit, credit and store cards

There are a number of different cards that you can use to make a payment. These include:

* cashpoint and debit cards

* credit cards

* store cards.

Borrowing money, making payments and debt

It's easy to think of a loan or overdraft as free money, but it’s actually expensive as you have to pay back the original amount plus interest. Try to only borrow money when you need to and repay it as soon as you can. There are many ways of borrowing money, including:

* borrowing money from family or friends

* having an overdraft

* taking out a personal loan or secured loan

* applying for a credit card.

The full article will be below, as it goes into more detail. I hope this helps many of you.

National Autistic Society

#autism #actually autistic #autism and finance #how to manage financial issues #tips on financing #how to save money #feel free to share/reblog #National Autistic Society

[juneknight]

Slow Degrees

Chapter One |

“Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.” — Voltaire

OR: the fic where Steven is a practically a blushing maiden and you corrupt him step by step.

About this: fem!un-named original character/Steven Grant. Explicit. 5k

You walk with a purpose that sets you apart. 

This Saturday, the British Museum is crowded. People meander from one spot to another, their steps slow and eyes on the exhibits. Bloody good on them for using the weekend to experience some culture, but it’s bloody terrible for you: side-stepping prams, dodging couples with clasped hands lest you burst through their linked arms, nearly tangling yourself in the leash of one toddler whose mother gives you the stink-eye. 

The gift shop is even worse somehow, and then you see that the stuffed animals are having a two-for-one sale and you feel liable to scream. Fate is like a teenager on the bus, sticking out its foot for you to trip over. But you haven’t come all this way for nothing. Without any sense of pride, you thrust yourself through the ring of children blockading the stuffed animals and begin to wade through the synthetic furs and empty marble eyes. 

“No, no, no,” you groan under your breath. You spot a black stuffie in the arms of a girl no more than six and have to struggle not to snatch it from her—not that it would do you any good. When she turns, you see that it isn’t the animal you’re looking for. No tall, sleek ears nor a long muzzle. You can’t help but look up towards the heavens and mutter, “Why are you punishing me?” 

“Can I help you?” 

You whirl.

“Maybe,” you admit while you fish your phone from your pocket, glancing at the nametag pinned to the employee’s lapel. “Donna. Don’t ask why, but I’m desperately looking for this stuffed animal.” 

She glances at the phone and steps around to the other side of the 360-degree-display. Face twisting, she points to an empty section wedged between stuffies resembling alligators and hippos. She gives you a look of contrived sympathy cultivated through years of customer service no doubt. “Sorry,” she says. “Looks like that’s been a popular one.” 

“You’re out?” you ask, fingers itching to grab her by her business-casual blouse and shake her. “You’re positive? Because I need this; I’ll pay double, triple whatever the marked price is. I’m desperate.” 

“I can see that,” says Donna dryly. “But—” 

“I’m sorry,” another voice breaks in. “Maybe I can help?” 

Your eyes track the sound of the soft accent. Standing just a few feet away, boxes of indeterminable tourist-trap merchandise in his arms, is a man. The first thing you notice about him are his eyes—tired. Dark brown, dark bruises beneath that hint at many sleepless nights. The next thing you notice are the curls: inky, charmingly chaotic. A small, wary smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he glances between you and Donna, shifting on his feet to try and make the load in his arms more comfortable. 

The last thing you notice: he is so absolutely handsome. 

“You, help? Doubtful,” Donna says, just as you say, Absolutely. 

You tilt your phone towards him. His face lights up in recognition, and for a moment, the seed of hope in your heart blossoms, threatening to break through soil. He’s going to be able to help you. You can feel it. But then his eyes move past you towards the display and his smile falls. 

“Oh, no,” he murmurs. “Let me just pop these behind the counter and then I’ll help you look, yeah? There might be one hiding amongst the others. Kids don’t always set them back where they’re supposed to.” 

“Steven,” says Donna, voice tight with disapproval. “The display is empty.” 

“Please,” you grit through your teeth at her. “I said I would pay, didn’t I? I have eighty pounds on me, and if you direct me to a cashpoint, I can withdraw even more.” 

In the face of your insistence, Donna gives in, though you can tell by the thin press of her lips that she isn’t happy about it. Rolling her eyes, she waves a dismissive hand at the both of you and turns away, stalking off to some other part of the gift shop. 

“Pleasant, isn’t she?” You glance at Steven, your mood already lightening at the earnest kindness on his handsome face. “Are you her boss?” 

“Am I her—oh god, if only she’d heard you say that.” 

Together, you and Steven scour the display from top to bottom, but to no avail. 

“Can I ask, why the urgency?” he calls, elbow deep in stuffed scarab beetles. “Not a lot of people offerin’ to empty their bank accounts for Egyptian-themed stuffed animals.” 

“It’s for my nephew,” you admit. “He has autism, and he’s absolutely fixated on Egypt right now. Has been for years, really. Last time they were in London visiting me, my sister bought him that stuffie, and apparently he’s grown quite attached. Yesterday, she called me about an electrical fire at her building in the flat below hers. I guess they won’t let anyone back in until they know it’s safe, not even to get their effects. They’re staying with our mum in Leeds, but he’s taking it so hard, being in a different place and all that without anything familiar. She asked me if I would try to find another of these loveys for him and send it through the post overnight, but she couldn’t remember the museum she’d bought it at. You know how many museums there are in London?” 

“Too many, by your count I would imagine,” he says in sympathy.

“Spot on. Do you have any nieces or nephews?”

He smiles, eyes looking a little distant and wistful. “I’m an only child. Always wanted a sibling though. I guess my mum had her hands full enough with me.”

Usually, small talk is a form of torture, but you can’t help but want to press, to know more about him. Already you have begun squirreling away facts about him. His name is Steven, with a V. He works at a gift shop in the British Museum. He is an only child. “Were you rotten when you were young, then?”

“Aren’t all teenage boys?” He smirks, a quirking of his lips that makes him look years younger. Mischief makes a home in him, you can tell. But you can also tell that he isn’t rotten, not at all. Not many grown men would wade through stuffed animals for a stranger. Bruised, maybe, like an apple that has been dropped too many times by careless hands. But aren’t those apples just as sweet as any other?

“You don’t strike me as someone who has ever misbehaved a day in their life,” you tease. All at once you realize that both of you have stopped rifling through the toys. Perhaps it is just in your head, but electricity bounces between you two, charging the air until your hair feels liable to stand on end. Your voice has dropped on instinct into something smoother, warmer, the voice you usually reserve for flirting. Steven doesn’t blush per say, but his mouth can’t seem to close and he looks a little warmer than he was a moment ago. 

A little girl jabs her sharp elbow into your side, working her way in between the two of you to get access to some falcon shaped animal on a lower tier of the display. The look she casts up at you suggests that the ache in your ribs is entirely your own fault. 

“Well,” Steven says, clearing his throat. He can’t meet your eye. “Unfortunately, it looks like we’re fresh out of your nephew’s favorite.”

The moment and whatever charge had been growing between you two has popped like a soap bubble. Your eyes burn. How will you have the heart to call your sister and tell her that you’ve come up empty handed? 

“There’s one last place I could check,” he says. “But if Donna finds out I took you, she’ll have me sacked for good. Come on then, let’s be quick.”

It is cooler in the stockroom, wall-to-wall Egyptian goodies hibernating under the fluorescent lights. Out of respect, you linger just inside the doorway, unwilling to take advantage of his generosity by looking around in an area where customers clearly aren’t meant to be. 

Steven disappears for a long time behind some boxes—knocks over a stack of overpriced, bagged gummies that you nearly enter the room just to help him pick up—before reappearing looking even sadder than before. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

You try and scrape together a smile for his sake; he looks about as devastated as you feel. After the three other museums you had visited across the city today, one would think you would be used to the disappointment. “It’s certainly not your fault. Not unless you’ve got a stash of Bastet stuffies you’re hoarding at home. There are a few more places I can—“

“Sorry, so sorry—Bastet? You showed me a picture of Anubis.”

You blink. “No. Here, look—says right here on the website that this is Bastet.”

“Bastet takes the form of a cat or sometimes a lioness depending on what dynasty you’re—well, anyway, that’s not a cat, is it? That’s Anubis, a jackal. Website must have it wrong. You never saw the stuffed animal?”

“Once, the day they bought it, but it’s been ages.”

“Could he be mistaken about the name then?”

“I’d trust him more than I’d trust myself when it comes to such matters.”

“Then,” and he pulls from between the counter an extremely similar stuffed animal to the one you showed him on your phone, except the ears are curved and feline, the muzzle not nearly so long and thin, “this is your goddess. Cheers.”

You clutch your heart, flooded with relief and triumph so keen that a happy shout bubbles up in your throat, just barely able to be swallowed. “Thank you so, so much, Steven. I really can’t explain how much I appreciate you going above and beyond for me. It’s going to make a big difference to my nephew, that’s for sure.”

The praise flusters him, that not-quite-warmth growing high in his cheeks as he looks away, unable to meet your eyes. The angle only emphasizes the sharp line of his jaw. On instinct, you glance at his hands which fiddle with a nearby mountain of ankh-shaped erasure. No ring. 

He takes you back to the gift shop and rings up the stuffed animal, only charging you the normal price despite your insistence that you would pay more. Passing you your receipt, he gives you a smile and the most endearing wave you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s in your head, the sweet sadness you see in him. The reluctance he has to part ways. If it is, then oh well. You’ve never been one to shy away from a risk when the reward could be so sweet. 

You pluck a ballpoint pen from his side of the counter, turn over your receipt, and scribble down your name and number. “If you’re interested, I would love to take you out sometime. To repay you.”

He looks at the number with wide eyes. “Oh, that’s—really, you don’t have to. It’s my job, innit?”

Firmly, you slide the number back towards him. “If you’d rather not, just toss it. After I leave though. Then, if you don’t call, I can just pretend you lost it.”

Without another word, gift bag in hand, you turn and begin to sift your way through the busy shop. You spot Donna by a stand of puzzles and make sure to stop and point to Steven, insisting, “He deserves a raise!” Her face twists as if she’s swallowed something sour. Her own tongue, hopefully. 

Before you’ve even made it out of the building, you have your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, calling your sister with the good news. 

*

Days pass, and then a week, and then two. Sometimes Steven crosses your mind: when banners go up advertising a new exhibit opening at the British Museum, when you spot a man of similar build ahead of you in line at the coffee shop. He never calls, which you understand. Perhaps he has a partner or you misread the situation. You try to just be grateful that he helped you find what you were looking for, and you put the handsome gift-shoppist from your mind. 

Until he does call. 

Another Saturday, though this one doesn’t find you with blisters on your heels from running all over London. Instead, your feet are curled up beneath you, a bowl of sugary cereal balanced on your lap while you alternate between spooning breakfast into your mouth and scrolling through the news on your phone. It’s a bloody morbid way to start the day, thanks to the state of the world, but it’s a habit that is hard to shake. 

All at once, a news story about the latest political drama disappears, a strange phone number lighting up the screen. 

“Really,” you mutter to yourself. “Telemarketers even on Saturday? Don’t you people bloody rest?” 

Swiping to answer, you tuck the phone to your ear and noisily slurp a bite of cereal. “City morgue,” you chirp. 

Silence on the other end, and then Steven says: “Sorry, I must—did you say city morgue?” 

You choke, inhaling milk and sugar and nearly upending the bowl on your lap as you scramble to set it on the table beside you. Wiping milk from your chin with the back of your hand, you clear your throat as quietly as you can. 

“Steven? Is that you?” 

“Oh, it is you! I thought I recognized your voice, but then I thought maybe you’d given me the wrong number on purpose which, well, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it? Would be strange for a person to go around offering fake numbers, they usually just give them out to creeps who won’t take no for an answer, don’t they?” 

“They do, and you are far from that.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I? It’s just that I can’t believe I actually called you. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it, got the number memorized by now. But when I picked up my phone, I swear I was just thinking about calling my mum like I usually do on the weekends, and somehow I must have dialed your number instead–” 

“Would you like to hang up so you can call her?” you tease. 

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, pleasantly surprising you. 

“Yes,” you agree easily. “But I’ll be the one taking you to dinner. I offered, didn’t I?” 

The two of you agree on a time that evening, considering neither of you have plans (and you’ve waited long enough for dinner with the gift-shoppist, thanks very much). 

Before you say goodbye, you tell him: “Steven? I’m really glad you called.” 

“Me too,” he breathes. 

After hanging up, you can’t help but spread yourself out on the sofa, stretching like a satisfied cat who has caught the canary and drank all the cream and whatever else cat’s enjoy doing. Thank you, Steven Gift-Shoppist’s mum, you think to yourself. 

*

“Lookit you,” Steven says, standing from the table when the maitre ‘d leads you across the dimly lit restaurant. It has a cozy atmosphere, perfect for couples with secluded tables tucked into nooks to give the illusion of privacy. Steven’s eyes trail over you from head to toe, lingering on the soft curves of your waist, the dress that clings to your figure. You’re showing a little more leg than you’re used to, but it’s worth it for the way his throat bobs at the smooth expanse of skin. “You look amazing.”

“So do you!” And he does—dark slacks and a form-fitting dress shirt, the collar open to reveal a glimpse of his tan throat. You see the chain of a necklace, though it disappears inside the fabric. His curls may be tamer by a fraction. Gods, he really is handsome, you think. How are you going to get through this dinner while thinking about setting your teeth into the warm, soft skin of his neck? Or tangling your fingers in his hair so that you can guide his mouth between your legs? 

It’s been too long since you’ve had sex, and far too long since you’ve had sex with someone who you felt so attracted to. A part of you—the part not including the bits between your legs—cautions you against coming on too strong. 

Slow and steady, you think, while he kisses both of your cheeks. He smells softly of cologne, and you have to let a measured breath out of your nose. Easier said than done. 

“I almost thought I had the wrong place,” he admits while helping you into your seat like a gentleman from an old black and white film. “Never been somewhere so fancy.”

It ends up being one of the best first-dates of your life. Steven’s humor is witty and sometimes biting, his education not formal but nonetheless robust. If there was any doubt that he was interested in you romantically, it fades in the face of his sweetly clumsy flirting. How a man so attractive and enjoyable could be out of practice dating is beyond you, but you’ve never been one to question a good thing when the universe drops it into your lap. You talk about every topic under the sun (that’s appropriate on a first date), and with every new detail you learn about the man, you find yourself being more and more charmed by him. 

Between the appetizers and entrees, you pull out your phone to show him a picture of your nephew asleep among a sea of blankets with Bastet tucked under one arm. Steven lights up, even looks a little choked. “Not often do I get to make an actual difference to someone with what I do,” he says. “Just a cashier, aren’t I?” 

“I’d like very much to see you again,” you say while he walks you out of the restaurant on his arm. There are only a few minutes until your cab arrives, so the two of you linger beneath the restaurant’s awning watching the busy London nightlife pass you by. 

“Really?” Steven asks.

“Of course.”

“I—I would like that too. Very much.” 

You shiver a little from the cold, goosebumps blooming on your exposed legs. Steven tucks you closer to himself, suffusing you with his warmth. The wine simmers sweetly in your belly, so you can’t blame the way your head swims on him entirely. But you feel a little drunk on him as well. The smell of him, the feel of his body beneath the thin dress shirt, the burning heat he throws off. When you glance toward him, your breath brushes against his neck. It’s his turn to shiver. 

It rests on the tip of your tongue to invite him back to your place. You’re a modern woman, if the connection was right, you would have no qualms about sleeping together on the first date (and Gods is the connection right). 

By your sides, his fingers brush against your own. Keeping your eyes on the busy London street, you take note of how very still he has become, as if he is holding his breath. Another brush, his calloused thumb brushing over your knuckle. Turning your hand over, he lets his fingers lace with your own. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

Here you are thinking about getting his trousers off, and he’s trying to scrape up the nerve to hold your hand. 

Slow, then, you think. You meet his eyes, dark like ink in the dim light, and he grins. Butterflies spread their wings in your tummy. I can do slow. 

*

But it isn’t just slow, is it? 

It’s glacial. Your fourth date arrives, and short of holding hands and the breathless, closed-mouth kisses he bestows on you before he sees you safely into your cab, there has been no forward momentum. 

There are benefits to the pace, though; the intimacy is divine. Tonight finds you both swimming beneath a blanket in his apartment, fingers tangled together while you watch a French drama. Steven has the subtitles on for your benefit, though you wouldn’t mind him translating, murmuring the lines to you in his warm voice. 

As the movie progresses, your positions meld together until he is mostly reclining with you nestled into his side. His every breath moves your body, his hand resting on your own, thumb making sweet passes over the pounding pulse of your wrist. 

The movie begins to pass in a blur, subtitles blending together. All you can think of is Steven beside you. The obscene warmth of his body. The masculine, clean scent of him. You angle your face upward into the hollow of his throat, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not close enough to kiss him. 

You sigh shakily, breath fanning across his skin. His throat bobs. A kiss couldn’t hurt, right? Your lips positively buzz with the urge to feel his skin beneath them.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you think, leaning in so that your softly-parted mouth can brush against his throat. Steven keeps clean shaven, but you have the feeling he’d be able to grow an amazing beard if the stumble beneath your lips is any indication. You’re close enough to hear the sound of him swallowing, his jaw clenching. 

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. 

“You’re killing me,” he whispers back. But he tips his head back to rest it against the couch, baring more of his throat to you. 

This time you press a kiss to his pulse. When you feel his heartbeat hammering beneath the thin skin, you nearly groan. His smell here is potent, the clean scent of his cologne, faded throughout the day. It’s enough to make your head go light and fuzzy. All of the sudden Steven gives a punched-out noise above you, and you realize that you’ve lapped your tongue against the hollow of his throat. 

“God in heaven,” he says. The hand which had been resting against the armrest clenches into a tight fist. 

“Should I stop?” you ask. Part of you is only teasing him, but part of you needs to know the answer. You’ve been working so hard to take things at Steven’s pace, but you were beginning to think that he needed you to make the first move. Either way, you didn’t want to be strongarming him into this; you wanted him to be a whole-hearted participant.  

“I–do you want to stop?” 

“Honestly? No. Not unless you’d like to, in which case, yes.” 

“In what world would I want you to stop?” he laughs breathily. “I mean, your mouth—oh god, I shouldn’t have said that. Now all I’m thinking about is your mouth.” 

“Is this the first time you’ve ever thought about my mouth?” you murmur. 

Steven goes stiff. You draw back, sure that you’ve made him uncomfortable. The flush on his face, clear even in the dim lighting of the flat, tells you that it isn’t that. He’s embarrassed. When he speaks, he stammers over his words: “I—do you mean?—well of course it, I mean—” 

You let him circle around the subject for only a few moments before your smile fades away. Is this normal shyness? You’ve had many partners in the past (though it has been longer than you’d like since your last), and you had never classified yourself as a blushing virgin. You couldn’t classify any of your past partners in that category either. But part of you wonders if Steven’s hesitance isn’t more than typical first-time-with-a-new-partner jitters. 

“Oh, no, I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Steven says when you draw back. “I just, I’m not sure what the right answer is, love—”

“No, no, you haven’t offended me, honest.”

That’s how the two of you end up cuddling and talking about your past sexual histories. Steven seems to find it easier to talk when you’re facing away from him, nestled in the hollow between his body and the couch, both of you watching the lights flare and dim just outside the flat window as cars come and go on the street. 

“What was your first time like?” you ask him.  

“I—well, to be honest, I don’t really remember.” 

You glance up at him, looking for any tells that he’s lying. But Steven isn’t even looking at you; his eyes are still on the window. Distant, brows a little low as if he’s racking his brain. Is it even possible to forget your first time? you wonder. Even if it was the most lackluster, boring occasion, don’t most people remember something? 

“Maybe it’s best that you’ve forgotten,” you jest weakly. “My first time wasn’t all that special.” 

“It wasn’t?” 

“Not really. I don’t even think I began enjoying sex until I was much older.” 

“Does it bother you that I’m not very experienced?” he asks. 

“Not at all. Does it bother you that I am?” 

He smiles. “Not at all. Someone has to know what they're doing, eh?”

“I know plenty that I’d like to do,” you tease. You test. 

Steven swallows, his eyes dipping down to your mouth for a moment. “Yeah?”

You hum. Shifting a little, you move to rest on top of him, your forearm braced against the armrest that his head lays on. Earlier, he said that you were killing him, but you don’t think he has any idea how much he’s killing you as well. Just having him beneath you, curls a mess, mouth parted as his breathing picks up, eyes unable to linger anywhere that isn’t your mouth. He already looks on the verge of being fucked out. 

“I am absolutely going to wreck you, you know that?” you murmur. 

Then you relax into him, letting your body rest against the hard, warm planes of his own. He’s already hard, shockingly erect and sizeable even beneath the restricting denim of his pants. His eyes slip shut at the pressure of your hips against him, at the crush of your breasts against his chest. Leaning down, you cover his mouth with your own. He meets you eagerly, all tongue and gently nipping teeth, tasting so sweetly of the dessert you had shared at the end of your dinner. When he groans, it vibrates through your body landing squarely between your legs. 

“God I want you,” you pull back to whisper against his lips. 

“I want you too,” he whispers. “I think I’d like to take things slow, though. Savor you. I don’t ever want to forget this.” 

“I like the sound of that. Should we stop, then?” 

“Bloody hell, no. Kiss me again.” 

So you do. And you do. And gods, you do. Your mouths are swollen, lips raw from the kisses you share. When you trail your burning tongue across the sharp angle of his jaw, Steven moans, a sound that has you groaning as well into the hollow of his throat. Besides the sound of your wet, slow kisses and the heaving breaths you share, the flat is silent. 

Opening your mouth, you drag the sharp line of your teeth across the stubble of his throat gently, and his hips jerk upwards, hard cock dragging along your lower stomach. 

“Ohmygod, do that again,” he gasps. 

You whine, shifting upwards so that the next time you drag your teeth against his skin, his cock presses against your aching center. It’s enough to have you gasping, toes curling in your socks. God, you’re wet. You can’t remember the last time someone made you this wet from foreplay, even, much less just some sensual kisses. But every reaction of Steven’s is so raw and honest and wrecked that you can’t help but tighten the muscles in your thighs, lean up and grind down against him hard. 

“Fuck, oh—oh fuck!” Steven’s hands grip at your thighs, knuckles turning pale. 

“You’re so hard for me, love,” you breathe just to watch the way his eyes squeeze tightly shut. You drag your clothed pussy along the hard line of him, relishing in the muted friction against your clit. You’ve never been the kind of person to hold back from something that feels good, so you let your body chase the feeling, grinding yourself against him again and again just to feel the zap of pleasure. “Gods, I’m so wet for you.” 

“You are?” Steven gasps. 

“Soaked, can’t you tell?” 

“I—” 

“Won’t be surprised if I soak your trousers. How the hell are you this bloody sexy? Your cock feels so good and you aren’t even inside me—” 

“Love, I—” the frantic lift of his voice combined with the sharp surge of pressure where he grabs at your waist has you freezing, lifting yourself up and away from him even if your cunt aches at his absence. 

“What is it? Are you alright?” 

His grip on your hips tightens as he urges you to rest your weight against him again, the cords in his neck standing in sharp relief. “Fuckfuckfuck don’t stop, oh fuck I’m cumming, I’m so sorry—“

“Fuck,” you breathe, resuming the ocean-like drag of your hips over his spasming cock. He’s cumming. From just a little dry humping. Like a teenager. 

God, you’d never been so turned on in your life.

#steven grant x reader #steven grant x oc

[changing-my-username]

Visa Cash App Paypal Venmo Mastercard American Express Cashpoint Natwest ATM Voucher TSB RB (But The RB Doesn't Stand For What You Think It Does) F1 team

#F1 #formula 1 #formula one #rb

[eggmarmalade]

Watched a man on the street today, probably about my age, panic down the phone because he'd been made homeless but whoever he was talking to couldn't give him any help while he waited for his accommodation and benefits to start in about 10 days. Next phone call couldn't help him either. Watched him break down crying as the third call said no and abandoned my café breakfast to take him to a cashpoint and get out the £20 he'd been trying to ring round for to secure a room.

He broke down crying on me and told me his story. His name is Antony, he was made redundant short notice about a month ago and tried to do the right thing in telling his landlord payments might be a little delayed while he sorts out benefits and his landlord kicked him out on the 28 day shortest legal notice. He applied for benefits and housing but that has been caught up in bureaucracy and red tape. He's desperately trying to find somewhere temporary until longer term accommodation starts in 10 days. All 4 homeless shelters in the city are full and won't take him.

I gave him £40 in the end, and my best advice to get some food and sit and write a list of all the things he needed to sort out.

I feel so hollow. The system here in the UK has completely failed him. I'm sad. I'm angry. He did everything right, but he's on the street anyway.

I feel so lucky, and so grateful. Money is tight at the moment but I have a roof over my head, a support system, my boyfriend and my cats.

I don't really have a conclusion, other than to urge people to engage with local politics and push for change. This shouldn't happen. Don't wait until it affects you to engage.

#uk #politics #british politics #uk politics #homelessness

[infinitedungas]

today i am thinking about the time i went to the gym at university and someone secretly took a picture of me on the treadmill and put it on yikyak (remember fucking yikyak???) to mock me

i am thinking about the absolute floor-dropping-out horror i experienced when i got back to my room and logged on to yikyak to see if someone had snapped a picture of the campus “cloud dog” today and instead saw myself, red and sweaty and frazzled, at the top of the feed... and below it, comment after comment after comment saying “whale alert” and “no amount of running is gonna banish that blubber” and “i’d kill myself if i looked like that, idk how these people go out in public”

i am thinking about the way i commented - anonymously, because that was how yikyak worked - “this is an immensely shitty thing to do and you should be ashamed of yourselves” and watched it get reported for harrassment and taken down within 10 minutes, while that photo of me and the stream of abuse hanging off it stayed up for what felt like eons.

i am thinking about the next few days after that, where i didn’t leave my room even when i had classes to go to, where i couldn’t bring myself to eat because even the thought of putting food in my body brought a tidal wave of shame.

i am thinking about how absolutely fucking terrifying it was the first time i went back out onto the campus, and found myself wondering which of the people passing by me had seen the photo. had commented. maybe even had posted it. that girl over on the bench, maybe she’s the one who said she’d rather die than look like me. that guy by the cashpoint, he looks like a gym bro, maybe he took the photo.

I am thinking about the fact that after a while i also stopped trusting my friends, no matter how much positivity i got from them in person, because the anonymity of that stupid app meant that any one of them could be secretly laughing at me behind my back. it stopped being a question of if they were mocking me, and became a question of how many of them secretly found me completely repulsive and pathetic.

i am thinking about the fact that sometimes, nearly a decade later, i go out in public and wonder how many people on the street are looking at me and thinking, how disgusting. how can they go out in public. surely it would be better not to exist at all than exist like that.

sometimes i think i’d like whoever took that photo to feel what that’s like. other times i think i wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

#tag edit: please do not reblog this #i should've posted this vent post privately #but i was dumb and i didn't and now it's getting notes #and tbh that's stressing me out a lil #i'd delete the original post but i figure if i leave it up then people can still see my tags asking not to reblog pls #people who find it via tags/search anyway #tw: fatphobia

[zentraex]

Chapter 6 - Hands

Masterlist

Since yesterday, Tomura doesn't seem to want to leave my side.

"Are you sure that you want to go with me?" I ask with a raised eyebrow. The men before me gives me an irritated look.

"Why the hell do you ask me so often!? Would you be ashamed, if you were seen in public with me, or what?"

I can clearly hear his annoyance in his voice. Every time, I offered him to accompany me to the market, he refused. Why does it bother him so much now?

"No! It's just quite unusual..." I confess. "Normally, you don't want to go with me."

He doesn't seem to be able to object to this, as he clicks his tongue.

"Let's just go, okay!?"

"Of course," I answer him with a cheeky grin on my lips and open the door. The moment we leave the stairwell, Tomura grabs my hand. All his five fingers give my hand a strong squeeze and stay in a strong and rough grip.

Totally shocked, my eyes widen and my gaze drifts to the men next to me, who seems to ignore me skillfully. Since his face is covered by his black hood, I fail to get a look from his expression.

What is wrong with him lately?

To be honest, I have no idea how to react to this. Should I retract my hand? We aren't in a relationship, why is he doing this?

Too deep in thought, I don't even realize when we arrive at the shop. Wanting to grab the object I need, I try to free my hand from Tomuras grip - only for him to nearly break it.

I gasp for air in pain and glance at him speechless.  As we make eye contact, everything seem to halt in me. The look in his eyes says all: a warning.

Slowly, panic starts to rise in me.

Huh? What's wrong with me?

My left hand is still free.

Calm down.

People are giving me weird looks already.

Shit. Why is my heart beating so fast?

With a trembling breath, I snatch the flour with my left hand and go ahead. Feeling too curious, I give Tomura one last look. He seems pretty satisfied.

Was he always like this?

The purchase continues normally. As we reach the cashpoint, Tomura just puts the cash on the desk - so fast that I couldn't even react.

"Why are you buying everything? Wait, I'll give it back to you," I say as we exit the market.

"I don't want your money. You're poor enough," he answers and walks into the direction of the city center, while dragging me with him without any problems. I didn't know, he had other plans. Is that the reason for him accompany me?

No matter of hard I try to suppress my panic - it stays. No normal thought can replace it.

My gaze drifts to our inverted hands.

"Stop looking so frighted," Tomura sighs and halts. "I'm just holding your hand, what's so bad about it?"

"Nothing..."

He raises a brow, expecting me to continue.

"You just seem so determined to hold my hand. I get the feeling that you would be furious about me letting yours go..." I mumble and rub my arm with my free hand. The sound of my heartbeat drowns all the other noises, while my gaze is glued to the ground.

"A date."

Huh..?

When Tomura catches my confuses expression, he clicks his tongue.

"People who are on a date are usually holding hands. Never heard of it?"

"Yes, but since when are we on a date?"

How is that a reason for silently threaten me?

"Since we left your apartment. Wasn't it obvious!?"

This is the first time that Tomura avoids my gaze.

The only thing I can do, is to shrug exhausted. Why didn't he told me about it? Is he too shy to ask?

Well, I know he is bad with feelings...

"Tomura, I can't read minds. My quirk is something different, you know?"

His eyes lit up and a smile, which reaches his eyes, spreads across his face, as I mentioned my quirk. His hand draws mine to his mouth and gives it a slight squeeze. "I know," he mumbles joyful before giving the back of my hand a soft kiss.

Suddenly, I feel how warmth spreads across my face. My eyes widen and my heart beats even faster as before. My mind goes blank and all I can think of is, how cute he looks right now.

_

The tension between us is gone by now. My lips are permanently curled up, while talking to him. There is much going on in the city center and it doesn't take long for us to stop by a video game shop.

"Oh! I know this game!" I shout joyful and point at the game: "It Takes Two."

Tomura glances bored at the cover. It's probably not his taste at all. When I saw the trailer for the game, I thought it was pretty cool. I also have a console, but since it's a game that you play with a partner, I never bought it.

Too deep in thought, I don't notice how his eyes drift to my glittering optics. That's why I jolt when he drags us into the shop and puts the game on the counter.

Excited, I look around and gaze at all the rows of games and merchandise. I love shops, who make use of all the space they have.

When we leave the shop, my ears catch the sounds of the news, talking about my residential area. I halt instantly.

"We took notice of the big amount of missing and death reports. Apparently, somebody saw one of the League of Villains members, dragging a corpse. We asked the pro-heroes about their plans to protect the life of the civilians."

"A big amount of missing and death reports? At my residential area? OH GOD!" I exclaim loudly, which causes some passengers to give me weird looks.

"Don't worry too much," Tomura starts speaking behind me. "Nothing will happen to you."

"What makes you so sure of it? What about you? Imagine something happens to you!" I continue to panic. Since I'm talking to Tomura, I turn around to face him: only to see a fat smirk on his lips.

#yandere shigaraki yandere shigaraki x reader x reader yandere mha yandere tomura yandere tomura x reader yandere x reader

[clatoera]

I mean idk what music these guys are listening to in post war panem but let’s assume for a minute if it’s anything like the stuff we listen to Cato has free range to point at Cashmere every time a song mentions the word ‘cash’

That also includes references to cashew nuts, cashpoint machines and idk what else

Cato honestly can't throw stones because he lives in a glass house (clove: nutmeg, cinnamon, anise etc) and he is just lucky noone has started calling her that in revenge

#arwbfb tag #cato and clove #arwbfb reactions

[redpensandplaywriting]

Enjoy this piece of creative writing I came up with as part of my Master's degree! It is, as my wife says, very atmospheric.

At eight minutes to seven, I find it. I suppose you could technically say it’s around the corner, but I stand by my judgement that there are far too many corners on this street for that to be any kind of useful instruction. The ATM is set into the wall next to a dairy, and neither of them look like they’ve seen any kind of TLC in this century. The dairy is, in a word, dilapidated; the machine itself down on its luck. If ATMs were people, this one would be the old drunk in the back corner of the pub, the one who hasn’t washed in a week and is moments away from toppling over. In defiance of all reason, the dairy is shut—I’ve never known a dairy to be shut before 9 pm, but the building is dark behind the barred windows, lit only by the harsh fluorescence of the drink fridges.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #my writing

[enkisstories]

Daniel: "I have a bad feeling about this..."

Caroline: "Tut-tut! If one of us stands watch, the other can study the panel perfectly undisturbed. What's it to be?"

Daniel: "I don't want to stand in the sun like a life-sized target. Panel-hacking it is."

Caroline: "Go on! This isn't any different from using a cashpoint!"

Daniel: "...without knowing the PIN."

Caroline: "Well, yes. Admittedly."

*tap, tap, tap*

Daniel: "I've bypassed security - you can go in now!"

Caroline: "See? That wasn't so bad. How does it feel to be in the game again?"

Daniel: "This is a game to you?"

Caroline: "A competition. After the First Order cut us off from half our business partners, we have to recoup our losses in any way we can. They owe us, Daniel. John, me, Emma and now you, too."

#sims4journeytobatuu #simblr #battleforbatuu1

[is-the-post-reliable]

government doesn’t know about cash. withdraw it, keep it in a stockpile, if they ask where it went say you spent it. sucks, but works

hey, thanks for the advice. unfortunately even if I wanted to do this, I can't easily get to a cashpoint to withdraw money regularly because of mobility issues. (Plus I already get a little bit of income from my art, and if income from hobbies exceeds 1k/year then it becomes taxable, and then I would risk losing benefits.) So it's a bit of a complicated situation

#ask #anon

[rurpleplaysmuttingtonac]

Here it is (finally!) This is a revamped version of Go Fresh Grocery, which wasn't supposed to take me all day yesterday, but it did!

It was supposed be a large store but became a small shopping centre instead! But I'm really pleased with how it came out. There will be a lot of pictures for this one, so let's start with the exterior shots.

There's quite a few pictures so I'll put it under the tab.

You know I have too much time on my hands when I designed the upstairs at the back of the shop where nobody will see it, as the area is covered by trees. 🤣

I got the impression that as it serves the majority of Fenton West, the store had to be bigger, include car parking and so I thought 'Why not utilise all that advertising real estate on the walls?' Hence, all the adverts.

There is a driveable space on the other side of the building which also has a path to a small garden area where I have some vending machines and a functional Starbucks vendor.

Heading back to the front door of the building, we have a small lobby where all the trolleys are parked/collected, before we head into the main hall and the self-checkouts are right in front of you. Job seeker's board on the left along with a phone stall, photobooth and cashpoint.

This is a small, part-time run bookshop which teens can get the latest magazines or book releases. You can also buy postcards here and inquire more about the local universities choices.

To the right of the bookshop is a small flower/seeds shop, again, part-time open.

Then the main area features the fruits, vegetable and other fresh produce as that's always the main feature as soon as you walk into supermarkets (or here in the UK it is). You can also get fresh smoothies, made to your tastes here as well.

Then there's the small bakery.

Across the way is the dry food shop.

Then through here is the butcher, who also sells fresh fish.

Back down the main hall is the frozen foods.

And lastly, there's a small toy shop for young children.

Floorplan for those who are interested. Seriously, this took me all of yesterday and I was so drained afterwards!

Was far too pleased with myself for this bike storage area 🤣🤣🤣

#Muttington BTS #Fresh Rush Grocery #Renovating West Fenton

[morfey]

I cycled into Backa Palanka and got some Serbian Dinar from a cashpoint. This enabled me to have a drink at a bar and get some shade from the sun.