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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

#King of Cups #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x fem!reader #din djarin fanfic #din Djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars fandom

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frightfurtabby · 3 years

Text

Himikiyo Week 2021 Day 2! Bookstore Ambience

// Likewise with yesterdays entry, amino crossposting to be added later. i feel this one’s pretty damn cute

later edit- all links will be collected later in an individual post that will act as a guide/directory.

Word count: 1837

Link

AO3- https://archiveofourown.org/works/34138636

Amino- https://aminoapps.com/c/danganronpa/page/blog/himikiyo-week-day-2-bookstore-ambience/d3DX_eE8Sbum1JjvngPBwrwNV6mNR1eD7WR

A first date, depending on who you asked, was either more nerve wracking or less so than you expect. Kiyo wasn’t sure which they’d agree with but nonetheless they were fretting. Pacing back and forth in their office at the university. A cute teacher from another department had ended up inviting them out on a date, like a date date. They’d been on the job for a few years now but hardly socialized much outside the other anthropology staff who were understanding of at least some of their eccentricities.

Then just before the start of the previous semester the college hired a new batch of professors including one taking a spot over in the English department in a room in just the opposite hall. So they would see her often in the mornings downstairs in line at Coffee place, usually she was to the back of the line and they’d cross paths when Kiyo was going up with their usual order. The first sighting was like this, and entirely by chance as the anthropologist had to turn to answer a colleague briefly and eye contact was made with the cute redhead in line just over the other’s shoulder, Himiko Yumeno.

They soon hit it off, spending time talking to each other in between class periods in one room, the other, or in the previously mentioned cafe. About work, future plans, what they did in their spare time. Kiyo was always busy doing work, research generally and most of their interests revolved around it and there were days in a row just immersing themself in study. It was like that for as long as they could remember, though what in particular they were fascinated by changed over time.

Legends of monsters, legends of heroes, artifacts left behind, Asia, North America, Africa, they’d deep dive into something and come out the other end being aware of enough to teach their students in extreme detail. Little did they know at the time but in a moment of serendipity just before they met Himiko they felt a pull toward researching the history of magic. And then it turned out that she was interested in that as well.

There were very few days they didn’t find a chance to talk. They had a shared routine every day, and now was a step up.

Kiyo adjusted their collar and tie before straightening out the skirt a bit more and wondered if it was all a little too formal and they were overthinking this. They did tend to do that kind of thing after all. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too much of an issue, Himiko was definitely understanding of that kind of thing, they knew that much already. There were also the times they’d complained of that trait and she called it “adorable.”

It was to a bookstore with a cafe in it, so they didn’t need to be terribly formal. Kiyo remembered that it was taking place at around 8 tonight and looked over at the clock and realized that it was much sooner than they thought. She would be showing up any moment. Time went somewhere while they were lost in thought so they quickly put on their shoes, grabbed an umbrella just in case and headed out to the bus stop that was only a few blocks away.

The couple met while Himiko was sitting on the bench still, tapping away at her phone to text Kiyo to make sure everything was alright.

She looked up after hearing footsteps and sighed in relief. “You never seemed much like the type to show up late.”

“My apologies.”

“You also never seemed like the type to straight up ditch either, so…” she blushed and looked over down sheepishly. “I was getting a little worried something happened and you couldn’t pick me up as soon.”

“I got a bit distracted. I-” their explanation started as they took a break with her to sit and rest, arm wrapping around her shoulders.

“Was trying to make yourself extra cute for me?” the redhead teased, putting an arm around them right back and leaning in cutely..

“I… yes, I won’t deny that.” It was a cloudy evening and the autumn breeze blew downed leaves past where they had sat and began to cuddle on the bench. “You know how it is sometimes.”

“Yeah, I remember the time you genuinely didn’t grasp that the poetry I had been showing you for your input was, in fact, about you.”

Kiyo chuckled. “Oh god yeah, that took me a few to even have an inkling of it going on. I just might be the most useless lesbian ever.”

“Mmm, you’re useful for warmth sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?”

“Hehe, y-you know what I mean. Like right now, it’s a bit chilly but you being here makes it not so bad.” The first date was finally here, after they had planned it to be a day they were both free. So the woman was going to savor every moment of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The couple approached the doors of the date location holding hands, under the umbrella. Skin made cold by the walk over in spite of hands sharing warmth. Small flecks of rain along the top of the umbrella dripped down. Inside, Kiyo instantly felt the warmth of the building. It wasn’t a long trek at all, if it was they would have done this by car. Everything around here was luckily close to the campus, including home.

The umbrella was put back in its holder, so as not to drip all over the place. It would be rude to do so.

Kiyo turns and gives Himiko a peck on the cheeks. “Food and coffee first, darling?”

The shorter woman nodded and smiled. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

It was just to the back left corner from the entrance. Rows and rows of enticing books had to be passed by before you could reach it, but who would come and not buy anything? Romance, sci-fi and fantasy, Manga and light novels too were all present.

After ordering, they got one booth to share, and sat down at the same side. Kiyo’s umbrella, bag, and jacket sat on the ground on the very inside corner. Everything they had ordered would be coming up, and luckily there wasn’t that much of a line on evening’s like this. The barista was even a student from university and had recognized them. It was awkward at first but Kiyo joked that it would be interesting to see which class would become fully aware they were dating first.”Let’s turn it into an experiment. Who has more Gossips attending their lectures?”

And they were glad that put her more at ease. It felt nice gently rubbing Himiko’s shoulder with their hand as she leaned in and placed a kiss on their cheek.

“Well, I sure hope it’s not mine. That’d be a pain.” she said to play into the gag a bit more. “Besides, it’d be fitting for your class.”

Kiyo feigned offense, mock gasping “Hey now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, just you observant types over in anthropology, always wanting to know everything you can about how people work. I can see that tendency being correlated.”

They had told her previously they thought about doing more research for a paper about something like that after listening to some of their colleagues, ironic though it may be, gossipping about student rumors.

“Point taken.” Kiyo returned her smooch with their own, directly on her forehead.

The coffee and tea arrived first. So the talk continued with the added benefit of drinks. Himiko changed the subject to books on her to-read list. “You know there’s this new book I’ve been thinking of assigning in a future quarter, I’d have to read it first.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s about this girl that finds out that she has magical powers and gets some training, eventually she encounters a strange, beautiful spirit and they fall in love. I always feel like courses need a little more gay love. Oh, and the author is too, so the representation is genuine.”

KIyo nodded and listened. “That’s very good. Perhaps we’ll get a couple copies? I’ll pay. I’ll also be getting a few things that have been on my list for a while.”

They held hands, sat so close. Hans resting between both of their legs. It was such a good time to fit in cuddling any time there was a little lull in the action of the date. Some time to lazily place kisses.

Right on cue the meal arrived. Breakfast for dinner was a classic, from the bacon egg and cheese on croissant to the pie slices as a dessert. Reluctantly, they separated to more easily eat and drink.

“This is as good as it usually is, mmm, actually, it’s even better.” Himiko said, taking their hand again.

“I agree. I don’t know if coming alone will cut it for me any more.” Kiyo leaned in and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Shall we move on to the next leg, or savor this moment some more?”

The food was finished or wrapped up for later.

After a few more minutes cuddling in the booth, the couple looked through the aisles closer to the cafe portion first and Kiyo’s stack started, growing through each section until they had to split the load and have Himiko carry some.

“Sheesh, I thought you were only getting a few.” she complained, intending it to be lighthearted.

“My list is quite long.” Kiyo replied with a chuckle.

“Guess this is why you needed the bag then. If this was only a few I have to imagine it’s as long as you are.”

“Oh my~” the tall one replied, complete with suggestive eyebrow wiggling.

“Kiyo! Not like that, I meant your height. Did Iruma from the Engineering department teach you that one?”

As that line of discussion thankfully ceased the couple came to the one Himiko was looking for, it was up front on the display close to the cashier. She picked up one copy and put it on her pile and handed the second over to Kiyo.

“We could have, like, a little book club date. Just the two of us.” If only it weren’t so difficult to nuzzle close due to all these books, she thought.

“I think I’d enjoy that. Your company is always a pleasure darling.” They briefly leaned up close, cutely brushing against her before leading the way to check out.

Himiko blushed. “Yeah this was nice, we should do it more often.”

With a couple of coupons Kiyo kept in their pocket the price was cut down, but still cracked 12,000 yen. They stuffed the back full and carried it over their shoulder. Umbrella similarly along their back for if it would be needed again.

Arms wrapped around each other, the couple walked out and noticed the rain had stopped for now, and it would be dry on the bus trips back home.

#himikiyo week #himikiyo #himiko yumeno #korekiyo shinguji #college professor #au #bookstore #first date #writing #fanfic #danganronpa #danganronpa v3

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wouldduskwood · 3 years

Text

Descendants of Despair Part 44

During the drive back, Jake began casting awkward glances in my direction. I hoped he wasn’t regretting what had happened. I definitely wasn’t. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me. “What is it?” I asked. “Uh...I probably should have asked this before we had sex for the first time...but…” he paused and raised an eyebrow. “You’re concerned I might get pregnant?” I asked, grinning at his discomfort in asking. Jake nodded without taking his eyes off the road. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Look, it isn’t that I am opposed…but…” I put my hand on his thigh and squeezed it gently. “We are hardly in the position to provide a good home for anyone. I have the contraceptive implant in my arm. It works for around 5 years, so I have a good 3 years left on this one...look...I am very real about what can happen when a woman is out alone. I won a lot, but I also lost some. Even though I had moved off the street...I hadn’t forgotten it...this gave me some peace of mind.” I replied warily. Everything in my life had revolved around the horrors I had faced growing up. Now, safe with Jake, it was easy to forget until I was faced with a situation like this. Jake’s hand gripped mine. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he declared. “No matter what.”

I struggled to form an answer, so instead kissed Jake’s cheek lovingly. He turned and smiled at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. We drove the remainder of the way in silence. As we arrived back home, Jake took my hand and led me through to his set up. Sitting on the floor with an arm around me, he caressed my hair as he checked everything that had happened while we had been out. Finally, satisfied we were safe, he glanced in my direction. “You look exhausted. How about we shower then we need to get some sleep so we don’t make mistakes tomorrow.” I nodded warily and allowed Jake to lead me through to the bathroom. We showered together, embracing each other as we washed. Finally, as the water began to cool, we got out, dried off and dressed for bed.

I fell asleep as soon as I lay on the floor in Jake’s arms, waking to the sun breaking. Jake was still snoozing, his arms wrapped lightly around me. As I moved, he woke quickly. “Mmh, everything okay?” he whispered as he kissed my head. “Yeah… nervous I guess.” I mumbled. “Trust me, I am too…” he acknowledged. “We will get the camera work done this morning. All going well, I will have eyes in there by this evening. If not, we abandon and...I dunno...forget Phil?” Jake grinned hopefully. I pushed him lightly, feigning anger at him then pulled myself out of his arms and began to get ready.

We left not long after we had woken, too edgy to stay around the house and complete the menial tasks of cleaning and laundry that we usually occupied ourselves with in the mornings. I dressed in the business suit we had managed to obtain during an outing one day and tied my hair back in a bun. Some glasses with fake lenses completed my business ensemble. The drive towards town seemed quick as I barely had time to get my thoughts together when we were pulling up a street away from the police station, far enough that the cameras wouldn’t pick up our car from being in the area and close enough to jam the signal. I sat quietly, allowing Jake to work and internally panicking.

This whole situation was out of my depth. Usually, when I needed something, I came up with a quick plan then barrelled head first into action. Being able to think on my feet and adapt to situations was what had kept me alive at this point. But now, Jake’s concern for my well-being was beginning to leach into my own concerns. Suddenly happy with my place in life, I wasn’t willing to lose that. “Okay, done.” Jake sighed as he leaned back in his seat. “Now, they may try and solve the problem themselves or they may contact a real firm to fix them. I guess we just need to wait and see.”

I nodded warily. Wait and see was always a tough game. We occupied ourselves by attempting small talk. It wasn’t always an easy task as the situation meant we were trying to remain light and breezy... but most of our lives before now had been anything but that. After a while, we started kissing instead. It was a lot easier than talking and made us both feel connected. Finally, after what seemed like hours, our decoy phone began to ring. Jake cast me a quick look, his eyes wide. He handed me the phone and I swallowed sharply before answering.

It was only a few minutes of my life, but it felt like an eternity, under Jake’s anxious gaze. Finally, I hung up the phone and handed it back to him, completely ready to throw it at him. “It’s set up, I’ve got access in half an hour.” I stated as calmly as I could. Jake nodded warily and sat back in his seat, his eyes closed and breathing heavy. I looked at him helplessly, unsure what to say or do to make the situation any better. Finally, he took a deep breath, turned to face me and smashed his lips against mine for a moment. Then, he turned his back on me. “You have everything you need. Go.” Jake said coldly.

I knew why he did it, but it was still unnerving. Not a good way to start. Walking towards the prison, I rehearsed over and over the routine we had established. Upon reaching my destination, I found I had never been more intimidated by a building than this one. It wasn’t the security or the fact that the building was swarming with police and criminals. It was the sudden realisation that I was completely alone in this and nothing from my past could entirely prepare me for what was coming. Being with Jake had lowered my defenses.

‘Confidence is key,’ I told myself as I made my way through the security, flashing the ID lanyard Jake had put together. I couldn't believe the idiot didn't check to make sure the ID was genuine. Making my way to the desk, I signed in, only partially listening to the complaints they were making about the downed cameras. Rather, I spent the time analysing my surroundings, looking for easy escape routes and things that might potentially stand in my way. I followed my guide through a couple of corridors and found myself in the security control room of the prison. Screens flicked between various angles, all showing black. The angles changed every 10 seconds or so, shown by a location and camera ID displaying under each blank picture. “Okay, I will just need a bit of time to work through the system and find the bug.” I stated firmly, placing myself in the seat usually occupied by security.

I logged into the network, using the details they had so haphazardly provided me. To begin with, I opened a simple command shell programme, hoping that the string commands I typed would be enough to fool them into thinking I was doing the job they had employed me for. Sitting back in my chair like I was in for a long wait, I looked towards my companions and said; “Now I just have to wait for the programme to pick up on whatever is going on. It may take a while. If you have other work that needs to be done, I can stay here and man this. This system is out of commission until it runs through anyway so all I can do is sit and stare at the screens.” I said, aiming to infuse as much conviction as I could in my statement. My unassuming form coupled with a look of boredom was enough to have them look at each other then agree to leave me to it. I knew that I wouldn’t have long alone, so I had to act fast.

Taking a USB from my pocket, I quickly plugged it into the back of the system and sent Jake a message that I was ready to go. I watched as Jake’s hack appeared on screen, various scrolling strings of complex code appeared with a task progress bar. I watched impatiently as the code ran, hoping that we would have enough time to get through before I was sprung. Around 10 minutes later, I received a message on screen claiming success. I quickly penned a message to Jake to let him know his application had been a success and I had completed my part of the mission, then I hid all traces of the application as best as I could just as the security team arrived back. Thankfully, Jake reinstated the camera network just as they arrived.

“Good timing,” I smiled. “It looks like it was just a failure from overloading. I have fixed that and given it a bit more leeway in case of overload in the future.” I shook their hands then led the way out, trying not to run as the cameras would now pick up on my face. As soon as I left the station and was clear of their cameras, I took off running to one of the escape routes I had practised. My phone began buzzing and I answered it quickly, while running. “Which route are you taking?” Jake asked urgently. “A.” I replied hastily as I jumped. “I’ll be at the fire escape when you arrive.” He announced and my line went dead just as I heard something behind me and turned to see a figure running over the building I was on. Without thinking, I jumped onto the final building and headed straight down the fire escape, landing just as Jake arrived.

Rushing into the car, I closed the door quickly behind me. “Drive,” I growled. Jake cast me a concerned look but followed my instruction. I turned to see whether my pursuer had kept up but couldn’t make out anything as we were travelling too fast.

“What happened?” Jake snarled. “I thought everything had gone well?” “Someone was waiting…” I stuttered.

Part 45

#duskwood jakexmc fanfic #duskwood jake x #duskwood jakexplayer #duskwood jake x player #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood fanfic #duskwood #duskwood jakexmc #fanfiction #fanfic #jake x mc #jakexmc #hackerman

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

Steele Resolve

Over 300 billion years into the future.

"Get out," Dallas told Darkwing.

He eyed her suspiciously, then she shoved him—captain of this ship—out of his very own cabin. Punching the control button by the door, the panel slid shut in between them in a flash, shutting out both him and the glaring light from the corridor.

She stifled a laugh as the hypersteel barrier muffled his yapping—something about being a living god, among other things, rattling on as he audibly turned and wandered away, babbling all the way to the Avian's cockpit.

Dallas waited till he was far enough away, then listened at the door even longer. Ensuring she heard no signs of the cat, the psychotic robot, that disgusting engineer, or—most importantly—the girl.

The ship's star-drive churned, causing all surfaces to subtly vibrate while it steadily propelled the combat vessel through space. It meshed with the rushing of blood in her ears. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the cabin, generated only by arrays of glowing buttons, some of them steady, others blinking.

Half a minute felt long enough.

She slid into the swiveling chair that was bolted down onto the floor in front of a quantum entanglement communicator terminal.

The assassin tilted her head back and forth and her neck cracked both times.

With the routine of a spy, she slung out her trusty old ballistic revolver, flicked a concealed switch with her thumb, and slapped the archaic weapon against an open palm.

Then—again. And a third time.

A scrambler chip clicked out of the gun's grip.

She slipped it out and quickly inserted it into one of the terminal's slots. Tapped the power buttons and fired up the device.

The soft blue glow of the screen in front of her illuminated the entire dark chamber she sat alone in. A sigh of impatience escaped her as she awaited the loading bars of the chip's overrides to reach completion on-screen and guarantee her the use of a secure channel.

Meanwhile, a window popped up, listing all recent encrypted text messages she had received from her contacts over the course of the past time units. One of the message subjects read, "DIE BITCH", sent by a certain "Dragon." Many others reflected the bridges she had recently burned and flattered her with other colorful threats and creative insults. Fueled by professional pride, and mixed with a newfound sense of liberty, she smiled to herself and dismissed the entire window with a languid swipe.

Clickety-clackety-clickety-clackety—

Her fingers hacked away at the keyboard with an uncanny speed and precision. Hit the key to transmit with excessive force, a sound of polymers and metal snapping together that cut through the quiet, stale air of the captain's cabin.

Her heart began to race as she awaited response. The ensuing seconds dragged on like molasses, even if they were only few.

A screen, cropped out within the screen, flicked open and displayed a sea of static. The silhouette of her handler turned visible, emerging from within the visual noise, but never fully surfacing in full definition. Masked behind a helmet that emitted an ominous cross-shaped red glow, cast in shadows by a hood.

An agent of the Holy Lahasan Empire.

"Steele? You now also owe me some explanations," said her handler on the other end of the connection, that shadowy silhouette speaking to her from far across the galaxy, distorted by the distance and dampened by the mask.

Dallas leaned back into the chair, unknowingly sinking into it like the many times that the captain had done before, sinking into a spell of deeper contemplation.

She clicked her tongue and finally replied, "Things did not go quite as planned. There were some—complications."

"According to my intel, Agent Reeve was disintegrated in a blast caused by archaic explosives."

Dallas' mien darkened, turning into a frown. "All due respect, but Rourke was an asshole, and—"

"With all due respect, your personal opinions need to leave, exiting through the nearest airlock right now. Not only are you living on borrowed time for your treason against the Empress, but you have a jarring track record of valuable agents dropping dead around you."

"That sounds like your problem, not mine."

The handler's voice dropped in volume, slowed down to a grim crawl. "You remember the cortex bomb I had implanted in your spine, right?"

She scowled at the screen, unable to find any eye contact, instead focusing on the red glow of the cross.

"Come on, I'm too valuable to you. You wanted the best tracker in the universe, which is why you pulled me out of cryo-prison."

"And I am constantly re-evaluating that decision."

Dallas held her tongue. Her chin jutted out and she fidgeted in her seat until her fingers encountered the calming cool of the stainless-steel surface of the old lighter, hidden in her pocket.

"Moving on. Report your progress on retrieving subject K70001-34966."

Dallas decided to play it cool.

She had to play her cards right.

"What a mouthful. We are talking about some girl. Don't you wanna abbreviate that name a bit?"

"No."

Hesitating to answer, she patted her jacket down until she retrieved a palm-sized silvered case from another pocket. She pressed a button on it, and it clicked—also analog and mechanical—triggering its finely-engraved lid to swing open.

Removing a thin cigar from the other three inside it, she lit it up, puffed a few times, and then blew a mouthful of smoke towards the QEC's monitor. The agent awaited her response, but she regained some confidence just in the thought that constantly tested his patience to the point of annoying him.

He had to put up with her.

Threats aside, she was, in fact, the best woman for the job.

"I've gotten pretty damn close. I think it's a matter of weeks, or even days now."

"Be more precise," growled the handler.

"Look, I found out how she's getting around, alright? By stowing away on other people's ships. I'm closely on her trail now. We almost had her too! Sadly, for Rourke, he got killed in that explosion by some idiot that had nothing to do with the job. There was a shootout at this place on—"

"Most of that was in the report. Share more pertinent details, or get to the point," he ordered.

"It's just a matter of time till I can bring her in."

Now he remained silent, processing her meager report. It must have been better than nothing.

"You had best not disappoint. You know we—"

"Yes, yes. Borrowed time."

He said nothing.

Dallas' nostrils flared, blowing smoke out of them.

She squinted and smirked, then asked, "I offed Youssell for you like you requested, right? That wasn't exactly on the books, was it?"

This time, the agent failed to respond.

"Right, and now you're having me track down and retrieve some kid that you lost in the first place."

Though the hood, and helmet, and eerie mask with its cross-shaped glow fully concealed his face, she could practically hear him gritting his teeth as he replied, "Because of your meddling, Steele."

"Well, you have to agree that it's a bit—uh, how to put this—a bit outside of my usual expertise to find people and get them back alive. So, you'll have to kindly stick a thumb up your ass while you wait and give me some time to improvise and succeed. I mean, you do want the kid alive, right?"

More silence followed. Dallas blew more smoke at the monitor, wishing she could be blowing it into his face.

"So, my word—you're getting her alive—or you'll find me as a corpse floating through open space. That is a promise. But if you want this to work out, you'll have to trust me." Saying that, her smirk widened as she feigned every ounce of confidence she could put on display.

With an abrupt flash, the screen within the screen winked out of existence, and the static noise from the scrambled transmission went dead. The handler had ended the communication without giving Dallas any further notice.

"Oh, my. Lovely. Fuck you too, Prince Charming."

She basked in the cold blue glow of the terminal's screen and puffed some more from her slender cigar. She tried to focus on thoughts about how to proceed—of where to go from here. But instead of finding clear ideas and reaching decisive plans of action—something she was usually adept at—pesky memories kept welling up instead.

Thoughts also regularly circled back to the cortex bomb implanted in her spine, but the older memories eventually overshadowed them.

* * *

"I will not ask you again," said the inquisitor.

His hand crept towards a button on the wall outside the cell.

The girl trapped inside, identified on the monitor next to the white energy barrier as "Delinquent K70001-34966", drooled and writhed on the cold metal floor of that cell. She did not respond to the inquisitor's threat.

He pushed the button once more, causing the girl on the floor of the cell to convulse under waves upon waves of searing pain that washed over her, illuminated by bright yellow, crackling energy. Each surge of electrical discharges caused her to spasm until she threw up. Then she collapsed again, one cheek resting in the tiny pool of vomit. Covered in sweat, she lay there, curled up in a pathetic and helpless heap.

This was the umpteenth time that he had used the interrogation interface to torment the young woman trapped within.

The shock trooper standing guard by the inquisitor looked on in disbelief. Her gaze bounced back and forth in between the inquisitor standing outside the cell, coldly and callously operating this abominable torture device; and the helpless young woman who groaned pitifully as she twitched on the floor of her cell, not once having answered his questions, and not once having begged for mercy.

"I missed the memo on the M.O. of how you handle these things. But it's far from palatable," the guard said to the inquisitor.

The masked inquisitor turned to confront the assassin posing as a guard.

"Memo? Palatable? What the devil are you blathering on about?"

VLA-VLAM!

The barrel of the energy rifle in the hands of the false guard glowed.

She had shot the inquisitor twice in quick succession.

One to the chest to send him reeling, the other to the head to take him out.

To her chagrin, his masked helmet with the glowing red cross emblazoned on its front had absorbed some of the shock from the energy weapon, and he stumbled backwards, reeling—but still quite alive.

Damned energy weapons, Dallas Steele thought to herself, encased in the hijacked power armor of the guard. And this was why you can only count on ballistics, she thought next, even though time had slowed to a crawl.

He was too slow on the uptake though, too slow to raise his weapon and retaliate in time. She jacked up her weapon's cadence with a flick of her wrist, unloading a full salvo into his center mass.

VA-VA-VA-VA-VLAM!

The inquisitor collapsed into a lifeless body in the narrow corridor outside the holding cell, the metal of his armor clanked against the hard floor.

She approached him, poked him with the muzzle of her rifle, and confirmed on her helmet's HUD that his vital signs were bottoming out.

Next, she punched the cell barrier controls. The white force field between her and the girl flickered, then it dissipated entirely.

Hunching down over the young woman inside the cell and holding out an armored hand in offering to help her get back up on her feet, she simply commanded, "Get up."

K70001-34966 took her hand, trembling, feeble, and weakened. The false agent helped the young woman limp along through the narrow corridors, using the powered armor's strength enhancements to effortlessly brace the girl's entire weight as she stumbled alongside her.

A voice crackled, coming in over the false guard's armor-integrated headset, "Agent Heinlein, report in. We registered a weapons discharge in the holding area, and Inquisitor Valstrum is not responding. His vital signs are tanking. What the hell is going on back there?"

"Uh, it was some sort of, uhm, equipment malfunction," Not-Agent-Heinlein lied through her helm's intercom. "Investigating it right now."

"We registered seven discharges and you are moving from your post. What kind of—"

"Factory code zero-zero-zero," she quickly talked over the operator, cutting the communication off with a hard reset of her intercom, and shutting him out.

She dragged the girl along as she picked up the pace.

K70001-34966 was pretty out of it. Drooling, bare heels sliding with squeaks over sleek metal floors.

The dozen or more shocks must have rendered her groggy. No matter—she had nothing to do with the mission anyway. Dallas just had to take a moment to silence that pesky consciousness that was knocking on the mental door, begging to be let in from the prison inside the back of her head.

Once they had reached an emergency escape pod, Dallas shoved the girl inside, causing her to tumble forward and fall back down onto the floor, not unlike she had been in the holding cell. Leaving her no time to recover, the false guard shuttered the docking mechanism and ejected the pod. For a brief few seconds, she saw the girl looking back at her helmet-clad face, going wide-eyed with surprise. A jet of steam shot in between them, obscuring that glimpse.

The next moment, the angular pod jettisoned off at breakneck speed as its boosters activated and it shot off into space, hurtling towards a thriving terrestrial planet pockmarked with a brightly lit complex of clustered urban zones. And all around it, the Sea of Stars.

The intercom in the hallway crackled, whined, and then the operator shouted at her over it, "There will be a court martial—"

VA-VA-VA-VLAM!

Four shots had ripped through the corridor and caused the exposed intercom console to explode into a shower of sparks and fizzing.

The false guard ripped her helmet off in annoyance. Her face was covered in a sheen of sweat.

This job was a bust. She would have to cover her tracks. She would have to kill every single person left on this ship.

As two scout troopers rounded the corner, Dalla popped out of cover to greet them with bursts of hyper-charged plasma shots, cleanly removing the head of one of them in the first burst, and ripping the other apart, cleaving his upper body from the rest of him.

One of them had reflexively shot back with a salvo of his own. The powered armor could only absorb so much impact and energy.

Her leg and ribs throbbed, she coughed and grinned and mostly gritted her teeth to ignore the waves of pain, surging from those uncomfortably hot spots, wondering for a moment if it was worse than what the girl had gone through.

Dallas limped away through the claustrophobic corridors. Her breathing had turned raspy. A maniacal laugh emerged from her throat, ending in a hacking cough.

She had never fucked up a job this badly. She was a killer, sure—but she had some rules. Some principles.

No kids.

That was her only condition.

Why did they have to be torturing a kid aboard of this damned transporter? She wanted to kill the guy who had fixed her up with this "milk run".

Her vision blurred. Next, she coughed, blood splattered on the panel by the door. She punched the controls, it slid shut in a flash. She limped away, towards the droning and deafening noises emitted by the engine core.

Tried to make sense of the engineering console and all its blinking lights and inane strings of letters and numbers that said rather little to a woman of her trade.

The outlines of the blast door glowed brightly as someone tried to force the doorway open, using a fusion cutter, from the other side. Trying desperately to get inside to stop their murderous stowaway from sabotaging their star-drive.

Dallas gave up in her failed effort at trying to override the engine's security protocols.

She aimed the plasma rifle at a set of power couplings, closed her eyes and turned her head away. Pulled the trigger.

VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VLAM!

Sparks and metal pieces flew all over the place, causing her to flinch.

The weapon not only glowed, but steam also rose from its barrel now.

"Critical system failure," a monotonous computer voice announced over the ship's intercom speakers. It continued to repeat the warning, over and over again. The bright white lights went out, replaced by red lights rhythmically rotating and casting everything in an eerie state of emergency.

A revolving alarm sound began to bleat, piercing Dallas' already throbbing skull. The edges of her eyesight blurred, closing in quickly.

They got inside, but the next moments turned into a haze.

A rush of unfiltered instinct—killer instinct. A perfect storm of honed reflexes, augmentations, and pure skill. A ballet of carnage.

Three more bodies hit the floor, clanking, and clattering, and groaning. One of them even yelled for his mother before she snuffed him out with a sudden stomp from her armored boot.

She remembered leaving bloody handprints whenever she pushed herself off the walls of the corridor, methodically making her way back to the escape pods, locking each and every blast door behind her as she progressed, shutting out the sounds of pursuers, of troopers in powered armor chasing her through the transporter's winding hallways.

Just before she lost consciousness, she remembered seeing the ship shrink. Smaller and smaller, as the escape pod she had jettisoned herself with flew farther and farther away from the imperial transporter.

Only moments after the vessel transformed into bright explosions and space debris within the blink of an eye, her eyelids weighed a million tons and she blacked out.

The next thing she remembered, she was on some forsaken planet's surface with a breathable atmosphere, staring down the barrels of high-powered pulse rifles of MilSec soldiers, surrounded by Imperial attachés.

They already had her wrists wreathed in the purple glow of energy shackles, lifting her up and dragging her off, taking her into custody.

"Hello, boys," she said, groaning, then cackling until it was clipped off by her pained coughing.

Unbeknownst to her then, her future handler stood there, amid the attachés. The ominous red cross glowed from the front of his masked helmet as he watched the grunts do the heavy lifting, peeling her out of the damaged suit of armor and confirming that the emergency gel would prevent her from dying.

At this point in time, she did not know him yet, but he recognized her. Had seen her mugshot as a wanted criminal more than once.

Looking back, she knew. In that moment, he already formulated plans for her.

But first, she had to go into cryo. After that, installing the bomb in her spine would follow.

—Submitted by Wratts

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ohnosoph · 4 years

Text

Slow your roll there Thomas Middleditch fans, new and old...

TW: Abuse, emotional/mental manipulation, gaslighting, body-shaming

You might wanna sit down for this. :-/

I’ve noticed that there’s been some more Silicon Valley/Jake and Amir hype happening (most likely as a result of the fabulous Middleditch and Schwartz Netflix special) and for those of you that are new here, welcome but proceed with caution.

In truth, the amount of recent fandom revolving around Thomas Middleditch has honestly left me dumbfounded. Because not to be that person but...

...he’s pretty awful.

And given how rampant cancel culture has become, I’m GENUINELY surprised how most of y’all let this fly for so long. Or even worse, let it slip past you in the first place.

And to that I say---no more.

Thomas and Andrée:

Thomas around 2010-2012 was romantically involved with a fellow comedian/actress named Andrée Vermulen.

They eventually broke things off and he started dating his now ex-wife Mollie (who I’ll get to). It wasn’t until June of 2016 when Andrée came forward about how Thomas (who she chose not to name, maybe due to the fact that he had a very popular HBO comedy on at the time and wanted to avoid any drama) pressured her into getting breast implants. He preyed on her self-image issues, saying he was a “boob guy” and instilling the idea within her that her natural breasts weren’t ‘good enough’. She got the procedure, which he’d initially offered to pay for but then demanded afterwards that she pay him back for it. The implants caused her both immense emotional and physical trauma as you can go onto read about in her original Instagram post.

(This goes without saying but please do not send any hate towards Andrée, she’s very clearly put all of this behind her and I honestly feel bad drudging all this up.)

After getting a removal surgery, she decided to keep the implants and donate them to the Museum of Broken Relationships in Los Angeles. She originally wanted to send them to Thomas but decided that it would be more cathartic to give them to a place where her story could be told over and over again and shared with others who may have needed to hear it.

God bless that woman. :,)

Thomas and Mollie:

Since many fans chose to sadly ignore the whole Andrée situation, it flew under the radar. But it was admittedly pretty hard to ignore the onslaught of websites and blogs when last year in September...this was everywhere you looked:

Now, at first glance, it seems pretty harmless. It was 2019 after all. Non-monogamous relationship dynamics such as polyamory and open relationships seemed to be pretty widely accepted and still are.

That was never the issue.

The issue was Thomas single-handedly committing one of the most preventable, egregious acts of foot-in-mouth syndrome I and many others have ever seen.

In short, Thomas waited until AFTER he and Mollie wed in 2015 to express his desires to “get non-traditional” with their relationship.

What a prick.

He goes onto describe himself as being a very sexual person which again, isn’t a bad thing. The fucked up aspect is where he basically acknowledges that Mollie is a private person and then airs out ALL of their dirty laundry in a Playboy article that I can’t help but feel is a publicity stunt.

Not in it’s legitimacy. But just as a way to get his name back in the airwaves following the bomb of a Godzilla movie that he starred in and to drum up interest in the last season of Silicon Valley that would be premiering later that year. Either way, I highly recommend reading the full article as it gives you a better idea as to how Thomas sort of dragged Mollie into all of it.

Meanwhile, there are plenty of women who have come forward online (most of these are unconfirmed however), saying that they were approached by either the couple or just Middleditch following his improv shows for group sex.

There was also the time a photographer friend of his posted on IG a photo of a scantily clad woman (I’m sorry for not including the post he was replying to, I genuinely forgot the person’s @ and will try to find it if I can) and THIS was his response:

Just...why?

It wasn’t until this past May, when he and Mollie, who had been married for 5 years, filed for divorce over “irreconcilable differences”. **insert pikachu surprised face**

Thomas has since expressed regret over his Playboy interview, saying that it was a “painful learning experience” but wasn’t it also JoJo who said “too little, too late”.

Yeah, sure seems like it.

TO CONCLUDE;

You can by all means still be a fan of Silicon Valley. I’m currently sat five feet away from my season 4 “Changing The Way Things Change” poster on my loft wall. You can by all means still like Richard. Who doesn’t miss that anxious, awkward lil bean? You can still be a fan of Jake and Amir. You can still like Doobs. And Solar Opposites and Captain Underpants and anything else he’s known for and been a part of. And hell, you can still be a fan of Middleditch and Schwartz and even...still like Thomas (why would you tho??).

But if you do choose to stand by Middleditch and actions and his future projects, please don’t at the same time feign support for abuse victims and when you are LITERALLY supporting a known abuser and manipulator.

That’s all.

Stay safe out there.

- Soph <3

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cowboisss · 4 years

Note

Please can I request a mega smutty nsfw with micah x fem reader? :) I wanna read something where the reader has had a bad, abusive ex and after a bad happening in a bar or something, a guy upsets her by coming on too strong and Micah is there for her ;) he tells her how much he likes her and that he'll treat her right! Much better than her horrible ex. Not so dominating but still Micah being his sassy self haha and maybe he can also beat the shit into the bar guy :P haha

Never Again - Micah x Reader

A/N Thank you so much for this request! I never get any requests with Micah so writing this was very refreshing as a semi-secret-rat-lover. I know you said super smutty but to be honest I think I’ve lost my smut writing motivation, for now at least. I tried very hard to go further but it was really hard for some reason and I don’t know why.

I hope me stopping it so early doesn’t make it too bad, and I will keep a draft of this open in case I ever feel like I can go back to it. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it!

also sorry for being a butt in regards to writing this in a reasonable amount of time i have no excuse plz forgive me

***

“I’m heading in to town for a drink, anyone else want to ride along?” You asked, eyes scanning the faces around the campfire. No body seemed particularly interested, that is, until your eyes met Micah’s. He smirked, dramatically standing up and stretching his arms before sauntering over to you.

"I'll come with ya, doll, if you'll let me buy a drink for ya," he drawled, to which you rolled your eyes. However, seeing no reason to deny him as no one else seemed too interested, in addition to the free drink you'd get, you agreed to let him accompany you.

You two rode into the small town just as the sun began its decent into the horizon, casting a warm glow on the buildings and giving the atmosphere an ethereal feeling. Even Micah looked good in the lighting, something you were shocked to find yourself thinking. But once that thought crept inside your head, you caught yourself staring at him for what seemed like an unreal amount of time. He, too, caught you, and when his eyes flicked to meet yours there was an instant of almost sweetness you could have sworn you saw on his face, before it was replaced with a knowing smirk and a motion to lead inside the bar. Quickly, you averted your eyes and slipped through the doors, almost feeling as if Micah were staring at you too as he followed you inside.

The saloon was like any other saloon—the rowdiest place in town and packed to the brim with people looking to escape through the worst aspects of hedonism that the town could offer. Micah and you quickly found your spots at the bar, whiskeys in hand and eyes avoiding each other like the plague. He was the first to break the silence.

"So how come you ain't got someone you're sweet on?" He asked, taking a drink while he finally glanced at you from the corner of his eyes. You shrugged.

"I've got a... a bad history with relationships..." you murmured, quickly downing your own glass and signalling for another. It wasn't something you liked to talk about, and you hoped he would get the hint.

Thankfully, Micah Bell isn't as dumb as he seems, and he dropped the subject, deciding instead to comment on the horrible wallpaper that decorated the saloon, eliciting a snort and a chuckle from you.

"I'm serious doll, look at it! It's like a dog vomited on the wall an' they decided to just go on ahead and smear it everywhere to make it even!" He gestured wildly at the wall, and you laughed aloud, barely paying any mind to the stares that came from those around you.

"Perhaps, Micah, but it's still better than whatever poor dead animal Pearson has laid across the camp table," you joked, laughing as you recalled the faces of most everyone the day he dropped it across the table with the face of a proud mama. Micah boisterously laughed right along with you, shaking his head.

Slowly, the two of you stopped laughing and settled for drinking in comfortable silence, content to simply watch everyone else go about their nights. It wasn't long before he looked down at his now empty glass with a sigh, then pushed himself off the bar.

"I gotta take a piss, I'll be right back," he said, and you nodded as he walked off, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You were still reeling from your sudden revelation about Micah, wondering where his charm was coming from, or if it had been there the entire time.

You were pulled from your thoughts, however, by a hand suddenly on your shoulder.

"Micah, don't just-" You froze as you turned around, and it was not, in fact, Micah's hand on your shoulder. Instead, a burly, very drunk man towered above you, a sly grin on his lips. Your face paled, and you were pretty sure your eyes widened like a small animal.

"Hey darlin'..." he slurred, moving his hand to instead lean against the bar, effectively blocking you from the exit. You furrowed your eyebrows, trying desperately to regain any sort of composure you had had before.

"Not interested," you said curtly, turning your head and hoping that you wouldn't have to pull out your revolver. The gang had just moved camps, after all, and you didn't need another shootout on your hands.

The man frowned, grabbing your chin and making you squeak as he forced your eyes to look at him, bad teeth and all. Your heart immediately started racing as you were brought back to your past, and suddenly the sound of shouting and broken bottles and black eyes filled your thoughts. What little composure you had regained now flew out the window, as you gulped, hands instinctively moving to cover your face.

"Normally ya look at someone when theys talkin' to you," he growled. "Especially with eyes as pretty as yours..." You felt your breathing speed up, and you were about to reach for your gun when the man was suddenly pulled back, and you saw Micah throw him away from you.

"And normally 'not interested' means not interested, ya damn fool," Micah said, back straighter than usual and face set in a scowl.

"I'll do as I damn well please, thank you very much," the man replied, making his way back to you. He didn't get very far, however, before his face collided with Micah's fist and he stumbled back cursing, holding his face in his hands as blood seeped from his nose.

"That was a warning shot, now get outta here before I throw you out!" Micah growled, readying his fists for a fight. The man glanced between you and Micah several times before he decided it wasn't worth it, and slinked off. The whole bar let out a collective breath and everyone resumed their previous occupations, while Micah quickly tended to you to make sure you were okay.

"You alright, doll?" He asked, looking you over for any injuries. "You just about froze up there."

You nodded, taking a long drink of whiskey, but saying nothing. Micah frowned, turning to the barkeep and paying for a room for the night.

"Come on, let's get you outta here," he murmured, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and guiding you up the stairs to the rooms. You gently sat on the edge of the bed, grateful for the quiet of the room in comparison to the loud bar down below. Micah sat in a chair across from you, watching to make sure you were okay.

"You didn't have to help me back there, ya know. I had it under control," you said, trying to feign strength but failing miserably with the wobbling of your voice. Micah snorted.

"Yeah, okay. You had about as much control over that situation as a rock has over the weather, no offense," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "Just thank me and I'll consider not telling everyone at camp," he joked, to which you chuckled weakly.

"Alright, thank you," you said, feeling the tension in your body slowly begin to fade away. Micah smiled, a real, genuine smile, and sat back in the chair.

"I hope you don't mind me askin', but why did you freeze up like that?" You began to protest, but he stopped you. "An' don't deny it, I saw it in your eyes. That's why I stepped in. After all," he grinned, "you had it under control." You rolled your eyes, almost preferring the snarky Micah to the concerned Micah. It was easier ignore your budding feelings that way.

"You sure do ask a lot of questions, Mr. Bell," you commented, a small smile growing on your lips. "But if you must know, he reminded me a little bit too much of my beau of yesteryear... He was less than friendly with me on the best of days and on the worst, well..." You sighed. "Let's just say I didn't get all these scars from shootouts with the law."

"Oh."

Both Micah and you were silent for some time, the muffled noises from the saloon doing little to break the tension. Eventually your eyes met from across the room, and you saw something in his that you couldn't recognize. A softness, almost a longing, and one you couldn't ignore.

"You know..." His voice caught in his throat. "Any man that does that to a woman ain't no man at all. At least not if she weren't shootin' at him first. You're real pretty and if anyone wanted to hurt you... then he didn't really like you in the first place." You raised your eyebrows.

"Did you just call me pretty, Micah Bell?" You watched as his face turned red, and he scratched the back of his neck.

"Yeah, well, you are, so..." His eyes went wide. "I mean, I hope I ain't- I ain't coming on too strong, but I uh- I like you. You're pretty." Your lips quirked up into a soft smile.

"I think I like you too," you said, "but I don't think I can know for sure until I've kissed you..." Your soft smile turned into a sly grin as you slowly stood up, and he perked up almost immediately, eyes on the edge of disbelief. Crossing the room in an instant, you had his full attention, and you stared deep into his eyes as you rested your hands on the armrests of his chair. There was a beat of silence, of held breaths, before your lips gently pressed against his.

You pulled away after a mere moment, and Micah looked up at you with absolute adoration in his eyes.

"Are you sure now?" He asked.

"Positive."

Before you knew it he stood up and kissed you again, hands coming to cup your cheeks as you ran your fingers through his hair.

And just like that the world melted away.

The bed approached far quicker than you anticipated, and when the backs of your knees hit the frame you easily slid onto the sheets, lips still locked with Micah's as he followed you down. He pulled away to look into your eyes with a longing that you could only imagine yours matched.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted that," he said, breathless.

"Well, there's more where that came from," you replied, hands slowly unbuttoning the collar of your shirt, and his eyes got even wider, if that was possible. As soon as your neck was exposed his lips attached themselves to it, kissing and sucking and definitely leaving marks. His hands replaced yours and made quick work of the rest of your shirt, your skirt and undergarments following not far behind.

When your shirt was finally gone he started kissing down your neck to your chest, until his mouth found your nipple and you let out a gasp as he began sucking on it. He teased the other one with his fingertips, gently running the pads of them in circular motions around it before brushing ever so lightly over top. You arched your back to follow his touch, and you could have sworn you felt him smirk lightly at your movements.

And he didn’t stop that smirk all night.

#rdr2 #micah bell #nsft #micah x reader #ask me anything!#again im so sorry for cutting it short #i dont know why i cant seem to write smut right now #also sorry for taking so long but im slowing getting through my requests #pls dont hate me

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multifandomimagin3s · 5 years

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Snippet; Erron Black x Reader Smut

AN: This is a little piece of the Erron Black x Reader smut that I’ve been working on. This is the more SFW section, but I’ll post the entire fic, including the sexy times, soon!

Summary; Erron has been sent to hunt down the reader, but she isn’t going down without a fight...

It was supposed to be a simple job: hunt down the target and bring them back. He’d done jobs in the past that felt almost impossible, to the degree where he’d considered packing up and leaving. But money was always a great incentive. Erron found himself cursing his hedonism, since the money he was being promised was beginning to be eclipsed by sheer frustration. You were one of the hardest targets he’d ever had to chase - and he’d followed different assassins and criminals from realm to realm, all for the bounty on their heads. It was getting ridiculous.

There had been a few close calls where he almost had you in his clutches, but yet again, you slipped right through his fingers. It was as if you were toying with him, like an overly confident mouse nipping at the cat’s paws. He had an odd amount of respect for you - there weren’t many people would dare taunt a mercenary in such a way. But, he would not return empty handed. He was Erron Black, and if he wanted to uphold his reputation, then he needed to finish the job.

You were a thief, he knew that much. And apparently, a very good one at that. According to Kano, you owed a lot of people a lot of money - most of it was either stolen, or was worth its weight in stolen artefacts. It was evident that you’d pissed off a lot of dangerous people, which in turn made Kano interested to make your acquaintance – should you live long enough. It was impressive to say the least, and even more impressive that you hadn’t been caught. Erron would have probably complimented your skills had you not been evading him for the past fortnight.

“You lost, stranger?” Erron stopped in his tracks, slowly turning his head to peer at you over his shoulder, from the corner of his eye. In that moment, with half his face concealed by a bandana, paired with the shadow that was cast from the lip of his hat over his steely gaze, he looked threatening. Through the grape-vine, there were stories of the gun-slinger’s skills were remarkable yet repelling, which is why you’d taken to avoiding being in the line of fire when he began to hunt you down.

“Not lost, Darlin’...’M lookin’ for someone,” His answer was very vague but held a sharp edge, as he stared you down. He wasn’t an idiot, years of working in Outworld had made him very wary – anyone could kill if they put their mind to it. And nine times out of ten, they would try. So, naturally, he was going to be standoffish.

It was important to act aloof and friendly; he couldn’t find out who you were. You plastered a kind smile across your lips: “Who? Maybe I can help you, I know a lot of people around here.” You played coy. Of course you knew who he was looking for, you’d only just managed to shake him off your trail a couple of days prior. But you weren’t going to let him know that - the thrill is in the chase, not the capture. And you’d much rather be alive, not beheaded at the hands of someone you’d wronged.

Well, ‘wronged’ isn’t the correct word. It wasn’t as if you were using the money you’d taken for selfish splurges. If anything, the people you’d stolen from were the selfish ones. They sat in riches, living decadent lives, watching the poor suffer and wither away. It was wrong.

“Maybe, maybe not - but, no offence, Sugar, I barely trust the people I know - let alone someone I’ve just met,” He pivoted slowly on his heels, taking a few slow steps towards you, the sandy gravel crunching under his boots. There was no denying it - he was a very attractive man. In any other situation, you probably would’ve considered dating him but, for now, he was a threat. A very handsome threat, but a threat nonetheless,” Besides, I wouldn’t wanna drag a pretty, little thing like you into the line of fire.”

“As charming as you are, you don’t need to worry about me - I can take care of myself,” You retorted, arms akimbo,” You just looked like you could use some help, but if you don’t want it then, fine.”

Erron mulled it over in his head, brow quirking in curiosity at your outburst, eyeing your form cautiously. You didn’t appear to be all that threatening, but then again, looks can be deceiving. He knew that all too well - many of the women that he’d been with in the past were beautiful, and angelic; the same women were quick to kick his ass. You were much the same – he could never resist a pretty face – but that gave him all the more reason to be cautious.

“Have you seen someone roamin’ around these parts; wears a kind of grey unitard, a hood - steals stuff?”

“This is Outworld, there are thousands of people here - there are probably hundreds who dress like that,” He clicked his tongue at your blunt response. It was true, he needed to be more descriptive. You needed to know how to lead him off your tracks.

“Not like this one, you ain’t,” You stared at him incredulously. It was important not to let on that you knew what he was talking about - he wasn’t stupid. One wrong move, or expression, and it could be all over,”They have abilities – powers.”

“Powers? Like what?”

He half-shrugged, his guns jangling slightly as they jostled in their hostlers,” Don’t really know, they can control metal – which isn’t handy for a gunslinger. “

Ah, of course he would remember that. The last time he found you, he’d succeeded in backing you into an alleyway, with a dead-end; in retaliation you had pulled away his weapons from his grasp with your powers, using the butt of his rifle to knock him out cold. Erron pulled down the lower half of his mask briefly to show you the bruised and battered skin of his left cheek; the impact must have been spot on. You feigned shock, sucking in air through your teeth,” Oh, she got you good, didn’t she?”

He paused momentarily, readjusting his mask. A glint danced in the centre of his eyes, a brief chuckle leaving his lips: “Yeah, you could say that,” Well, yeah - he’s the one with the busted face, after all,” You might’a seen her pass through here - she glows green when she’s using her powers, so that ought to make ‘er stick out.”

You shook your head,” Nah, I haven’t seen her -“

“Now, why is it that I don’t believe you?” He was quick to cut you off. Your brows scrunched together in confusion. He couldn’t have figured you out so quickly, could he? He cocked his head, eyes boring into yours; his stare was blank, it was like you were looking into the eyes of a predator.

“Excuse me? I’m trying to help you -“

“You said ‘she.’”

“What are you talking –“

“How did you know I was looking for a woman?”

Fuck.

He chuckled as he noted the recognition in your eyes. Your jaw clenched, facial expression morphing from confusion to displeasure.

“Finally - I have been chasing your ass for weeks – but fun’s over, and I gotta take you in, Babydoll.”

You grinned with a sardonic chuckle,” Yeah, that’s not happening - sorry to burst your bubble.”

Erron reached for his gun, but was cut short when you jumped forwards, landing a hard punch into his gut. He let out a grunt, making a grab at his holster – only to find it empty. An emerald, ethereal glow emanated from your form, irises glinting a vibrant green. Normally, powerful women were his type - especially ones with a little spice to them. If it weren’t for the fact that he needed to get paid, he would probably be fawning over you.

“C’mon, Darlin’, this isn’t personal - my ass just wants to get paid,” He tried to bargain, as you spun his revolver around your index finger, the other tucked away into the sash-waistband of your loose, beige trousers.

“Wow - how convincing; and here I thought we had a little something-something, since you’ve been chasing me around for so long,” You pouted, mockingly,” You know how the saying goes - ‘treat them mean to keep them keen’ - but, I think that’s run it’s race.”

“Business is business, Sweetheart - man’s gotta live,” He took a slow, cautionary step forwards,” You should get that, we’re the same.”

You scoffed,” We are not the same – you are a mercenary, and I’m a thief, we aren’t even in the same playing field.”

“You’ve killed before too, can’t deny that.”

“I’m from Outworld, of course I have – being soft in this world will do you a lot more harm than good.”

The mercenary swung his rifle round over his shoulder, resting the butt in the crook of his shoulder, pointing it at your form. You rolled your eyes,” Erron, we’ve been down this road before – it’s how you ended up with a bruise the size of Texas on your face.”

He huffed,” I know – but I’m just tryin’ to warn you, Darlin’ – I suggest you come with me, before someone else gets to you, there are plenty of people out there that would love to see you hurt, and they aren’t nearly as nice as I am.”

“Aww, how precious,” You jutted your bottom lip out. His eyes narrowed,” You’re worried about me, well, bless your heart.”

His finger twitched on the trigger, it caught your eye instantly. You were obviously chipping away at his self-control. The green glow that surrounded your form began to swirl upwards, growing in intensity as you prepared for his next attack. Erron remained still, gaze lingering on the way your palms began to take on a neon green shade,” Now, I don’t want to hurt you –“

You chuckled bitterly, a ball of energy levitating in the palm of your hand,” Yeah, don’t worry about that too much, Sweetheart.”

#mortal kombat #erron black #erron black smut #mk #mortal kombat smut #mk 11 #mkx #not my gifs

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bondibee · 5 years

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Athena pt 1

Hey I wrote a chelldos thing that got way out of hand and disastrously long so I’m splitting it into 2 parts. In which Chell goes on vacation and GLaDOS expresses her insecurities in possibly the worst way.

Chell had been gone for five months. She was back now, but that didn't change the fact that she had been gone, and that she’d left glados alone in the facility for nearly half a year. GLaDOS had made it clear how much Chell's absence hurt her the minute she returned, jumping into her arms and kissing her and crying like a fool. Looking back now it was embarrassing, and painful. For all of her outpouring of emotion, what had Chell done? Picked her up, spun her around, sure, but what else? What had she said? They spent an -admittedly very nice- night together, but the next morning Chell was nothing but smiles and eagerly presented photographs of the surface. For all of her excitement, GLaDOS only felt pain. Hadn't Chell missed her? Had she really just been having the time of her life up there, without her, while GLaDOS pined away like some pathetic widow?

Months of loneliness had not treated her well. GLaDOS was never designed to be left to her own devices, and maybe it showed. She knew she was more cruel to Atlas and P-body when Chell wasn’t around, but that didn't mean much, they just found themselves exploding a little more often. During the months of solitude she worked more than ever, trying to distract herself with science and research and whatever else she could think of to occupy her time, but the empty days stretched on excruciatingly slowly. She was lonely, and she was bored. She missed Chell, and she missed testing with Chell. She missed testing with a person in general, and eventually her boredom and isolation turned that sentiment into a little project.

The project itself was fairly simple. She had perfected the simulation of human bodies, at this point she'd gone through 4 herself, each one better than the last. She had spares on top of that, lined up in a pretty row in the lab adjacent to the central chamber. They were easy enough to make, but all identical, empty shells. It would be a fun little project, she thought, to make one that looked different, and to give it a purpose of its own. So, over the next few weeks she created a new test subject from scratch. Not like her, nothing else was quite like her, and not like Chell either. It could think in its own way, solve problems, be creative to a point, but it wouldn't try to run. It could communicate and understand language, but It didn't talk, it didn't need to. All it needed to do was listen.

There was no other reason she made it mute.

GLaDOS only considered aesthetics briefly, mostly just trying to make something that would be good for testing. The body she created had to be athletic, strong, capable. She made the new cyborg female, gave it brown hair, brown eyes. It was taller than her own human body, which was necessary for it to be of average height. She figured it was attractive enough, not that she was thinking about all that.

If it looked familiar, it was just because all humans looked mostly the same.

Athena, as she called it, was pretty good at testing. It wasn't the fastest or the smartest, but it was good enough. It did almost seem to have a personality of sorts, similar to the cooperative testing bots, but how much of that was just GLaDOS spending too much time watching it and assigning moods to its mannerisms was up for debate. It could be endearing, the way it peered cautiously over ledges or always opted to tiptoe around turrets instead of kicking them over like Chell did, but far more important than that was the fact that Athena was, effectively, mortal.

If it was injured, it would bleed. It could be killed, in any number of ways. This was an obvious improvement over the bots, who were largely useless no matter how much Chell liked them. Of course, GLaDOS had made over 40 Athenas now, but she always had more. This meant it wasn't quite as meaningful when they died, no matter how spectacular a death they suffered (and they did suffer. They were quiet, but they knew how to scream.) there would be a replacement. But, at least it kept GLaDOS occupied in Chell's absence.

Mostly.

Athena was interesting, but it was just a toy. GLaDOS loved Chell. There was nothing she could do to even begin to fill the role that she left in her life. Chell was so much more than just a test subject, or even a lover. GLaDOS may have hated to admit it, but her world revolved around that woman. She was everything. Athena, in comparison, was nothing. It was of no more value to GLaDOS than a turret or a cube or a coffee mug or anything else.

But... that didn't mean Chell had to know that. As the weeks stretched on, and GLaDOS only grew lonelier and spent more sleepless nights clinging to Chell's pillow, her anguish slowly turned to anger. How dare Chell leave her like this? For so long? It was selfish of her. She could be doing anything up there on the surface. She could be hurt, or in trouble, or lost, or... she could have met someone else. That last thought made GLaDOS see red every time it crossed her mind, but she began to dwell on it. Eventually she almost cemented it to herself as fact. Chell had met someone else, of course she had. She was beautiful, strong, smart, who wouldn't want her? And why would she say no? After all GLaDOS was all the way down here, she couldn't object, and she would never know. Or so Chell thought.

Well, GLaDOS would show her. If Chell was up there tomcatting around, showing no regard for her feelings, she could stand a taste of her own medicine. Athena was somewhat desperate to please its maker, GLaDOS had programmed it that way so it would be motivated to solve tests, but that drive to please her could… be interpreted differently. It wasn't, but it could be. If GLaDOS just… didn't get rid of it after Chell came back, if she kept her new toy around and acted like she was just a little more excited about it than she really was, what would that do to Chell? It would teach her a lesson, is what.

To say that GLaDOS had fallen for her own con would be inaccurate. Of course she didn't have any feelings for Athena other than a loose pride felt for a successful invention. It was nice to look at, but she probably only thought that because of the vague resemblance it bore to someone else. GLaDOS didn't like humans much as a general rule, and she certainly didn't find the vast majority of them attractive. That being said, the one human she was fond of had been away for months, and GLaDOS got lonely. She didn't go make out with the thing or anything like that, but there were probably times when her attentions lingered more on Athena’s body than the actual test it was solving, and maybe a few of the things she said to it were less than professional.

But, all that meant was that it wasn’t entirely unnatural to continue on with her plan after Chell returned home. The next morning- well, the next evening really by the time she finally got away from Chell’s painfully welcoming arms and had had some time to rest from the morning’s activities- GLaDOS left Chell to unpack and returned to the central chamber to do some work. She sat down in her chair and woke up Athena, who rose quickly from its stasis chamber, bright-eyed and eager to test.

“Good morning,” GLaDOS said. Athena smiled brightly at the camera. “Well, it's actually 4:45 pm, but you don't know any better, do you?” Athena just tilted its head to the side and kept smiling. “Well, hurry up.” Athena nodded, and trotted over to the nearest elevator.

GLaDOS watched half interested as Athena worked its way through test chambers, dropping lazy comments about its performance as she did.

Eventually GLaDOS felt familiar footsteps traveling down the hall outside, and was almost embarrassed at the way her heart leapt when she remembered that Chell was home. She wouldn't let herself come off as excited, though. Not after she already made such a scene last night, oh no. She was still angry. Chell might have been here now, but she wasn't for almost half a year. All those months of pain weren't just going to vanish from memory because she finally decided to come swaggering back to the facility. So when Chell did walk into the central chamber, wearing fresh clean clothes with hair still wet from the shower, GLaDOS didn't look up immediately. She kept her eyes on the monitor in front of her for a few seconds before looking over to Chell, then she smiled.

“Oh! Thank goodness you found some decent clothes. You look nice.”

Chell smiled bashfully, shoving her hands in her pockets as she walked over. “You do.”

“Aww, stop.” GLaDOS closed her eyes as Chell leaned in to kiss her, her heart fluttering in her chest with mixed emotions at the familiar gesture.

Chell pulled away almost shyly, as if they hadn't kissed plenty already since she got back. She ran her fingers along GLaDOS’s lapel as she spoke, her voice still quiet but somehow bolder than GLaDOS was used to hearing it, “So… want to see rest of the pictures I took?” she smiled and looked up to meet GLaDOS’s eyes.

GLaDOS started to return the smile, but then it faltered. “Well, I would but, I'm actually in the middle of something…”

Chell furrowed her brow and leaned in closer to get a look at GLaDOS’s monitor, despite the core’s feigned attempt to keep her from doing so. When she saw Athena on the screen, Chell's eyes went wide. For a moment GLaDOS felt some rising thrill in her chest, this was it.

“Is… Who is that?” Chells tone was measured, her words cautious and carefully chosen. GLaDOS could imagine what she must be thinking, her gray eyes affixed on Athena as it moved across the screen.

“Oh! That.” GLaDOS sat up, excited to share, “I've been calling it Athena.”

“It … is… she a human?” Chell looked to GLaDOS now, concern painting her face.

GLaDOS rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat. “Oh please, one human is enough. It's a cyborg. Like me. We have a lot in common, actually,” GLaDOS paused and leaned over to speak into the microphone. “Athena!” She said, “Look over here.”

Athena did so, raising its warm brown eyes to the nearest camera and smiling. It gave a little wave.

GLaDOS laughed softly, and gestured for Chell to look at the screen. “See?”

Chell furrowed her brow, studying the orange jumpsuit-clad woman on the screen. She shook her head after a minute, “Im… confused.”

GLaDOS raised an eyebrow, “Confused? Oh come on, you're smarter than that. I needed something to do while you were gone. Athena has been a… side project of mine.”

Chell nodded slowly, “Huh…”

“Are you satisfied? We really shouldn't be stopping in the middle of a test like this.”

“Oh right, uh…” Chell backed off, swinging her arms awkwardly, “I guess I'll… go finish unpacking.”

“Good, sounds good.” GLaDOS leaned back over to the mic and told Athena “Stop staring at me, go back to work.”

Chell nodded and clapped her hands together, and eventually she left.

It was late by the time GLaDOS made her way back down to Chell's apartment. The hallway outside her door was full of junk she'd brought down from the surface, cluttering up the place and spreading germs and curious levels of radiation throughout the facility. GLaDOS scowled and kicked a tin box, inadvertently scattering a few dozen bottle caps over the floor. She heard a muffled curse from behind the apartment door before it opened.

Chell looked out into the hall at the mess, and then up at GLaDOS. “Oh!” She smiled, “Hi honey.”

GLaDOS gave a tight smile back, and looked back at the hall. “What is all this?”

“Uhh…” Chell shrugged, giving a little ‘it’s not important’ gesture before slipping past GLaDOS to start scooping up bottle caps. “Uhm… Oh, actually, I got you some things.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.” Chell nodded, and started rummaging through bags and crates. She pulled out a sizeable collection of guns and weapons, strange plants, trinkets, a lot of junk that GLaDOS wasn't exactly interested in, but a few things did catch her eye.

“I dunno. I thought you might think some of this stuff was…” Chell shrugged, “Interesting.”

“I see…” GLaDOS knelt down beside her, and let Chell show her some of the things she'd brought home. Some of it was actually fascinating. GLaDOS could think of plenty of possibilities for some of the new weapons, already thinking of modified turret schematics, but she wasn't totally able to focus. Earlier, after Chell left the central chamber, she had started to feel bad about the whole Athena thing. Chell had kissed her, just like before. She came to see her of her own volition. GLaDOS had thought that maybe she should let the whole thing go, but… as she turned an old dusty soda bottle over in her hands, those doubts faded away.

The reality was that every one of these things, every little piece of the surface that Chell had saved and carried back with her, was of value. They all had a story, a history. At some point Chell had found them or bought them and picked them up with her own hands, out there, in the dust and the dirt and the rain. They were proof that she had lived. GLaDOS was jealous.

Jealous of what? It was muddled. Perhaps she resented Chell for her freedom. For her willingness to leave, for how easy it was for her to live a new life and return as if it had only bettered her, as if she had no lasting tethers to this place and leaving it brought her no pain. GLaDOS couldn’t just leave like that, she didn’t have the luxury. For her every yard she strayed from the facility felt as if she was being separated from her very soul, as if she was being torn away from a part of herself. Even when Chell carried her into the wheatfield on their anniversary and she felt the sun against her skin for the first time, all she remembered feeling was fear.

GLaDOS’s mood only got worse after Chell brought her inside and they lay on Chell's bed together to look through the remaining pictures on her camera.

GLaDOS had given her the old DSLR herself, before she left for her trip. Back then she thought it would be fun to do this, to see all the places and sights Chell had seen, to live her adventure vicariously. But, it wasn't. It was painful. GLaDOS had missed so much. It wasn't that she had missed out on seeing anything on the surface- it looked bleak and miserable, nothing but ruined buildings and seedy shanty towns- but she had missed a part of Chell's life. What had Chell learned during all this? How had she changed? A lot happens in five months. What had happened to her? GLaDOS didn't know. She never would, not really. Not like Chell's new friends did.

Among the pictures of forests and blasted out roads were many shots of the same small group of people, mostly candids, though a few were posed. Chell appeared rarely in the pictures, obviously the one behind the camera most of the time. GLaDOS hadn't anticipated this. She had worried about Chell getting injured (which she had, quite severely, she had the fresh scars to show for it,) or dying up there. She worried that she would never come back. She worried about her falling in love with someone else. But she hadn't thought about Chell just making friends, about her living a normal life.

That was something she could never compete with.

A cold fear ran through glados when Chell showed her the first picture of the group, introducing them all by name, though GLaDOS didn't remember them. She was distracted by her own thoughts. Chell would realize, soon enough, that she missed them. That she missed living like that, more than she had ever missed living in aperture.

More than she had ever missed GLaDOS.

And she would leave.

GLaDOS no longer felt bad about Athena. Instead she just felt a cold, numbing fear. She clung to Chell’s waist and laid her head on her chest, and said nothing as Chell scrolled through the photographs. She just thought. Chell didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong, and if she did she didn’t bring it up, gently stroking GLaDOS’s hair. Eventually she put the camera down and wrapped her arms around the core’s body, wordlessly pulling her into an embrace. Even pressed this close to her skin, GLaDOS felt distant, as if Chell was now somehow removed from her.

It was with a renewed vigor that GLaDOS returned to the central chamber the next day. She was unhappy, her chest tight with a swirling mix of envy and frustration that she didn't quite understand. She sat in her throne and woke up Athena. Chell had her friends. She had her life, her freedom, her options. GLaDOS may not have had all that, but that wasn't to say she had nothing. She had this. Her mind, her skills, her patience. She could make Chell regret leaving her, regret making her feel so awful and small. And she would, but it would take time. Looking at Athena now GLaDOS felt a surge of hostility, but not toward the unsuspecting cyborg. No, she wouldn't take this out on it, quite the opposite really. Athena was about to be happier than ever. As the not-quite human made its way into the first test chamber for the day, she leaned into the mic and wished it good luck.

It was just little things like that, at first. She made a point of being nice to Athena, being a little more encouraging than she usually would. Whether or not the android actually noticed was hard to discern, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Chell noticed, and she did. She had come into the central chamber that same day around 10 am, hands in her pockets and hair pulled back messily at the nape of her neck.

“You weren't in bed,” came Chell's quiet voice, still rough from sleep.

“Well, I wasn't going to just sleep the day away,” said GLaDOS without looking up from the screen that held her attention. “I have work to do.”

Chell huffed softly and made her way to the middle of the room. GLaDOS only looked up when she got to the stairs that wound up to the glass platform her throne was on. The test subject walked over wordlessly and leaned on the side of GLaDOS’s chair, looking over her shoulder at the array of monitors displaying the camera feeds from Athena’s current test chamber. She was quiet for a moment, looking over the test, probably trying to solve it in her head, before her eyes locked on the orange clad figure on the far left screen. GLaDOS noticed the obvious defensive shift in her body language, shoulders tense, that little twitch of her brow. She looked up at Chell with feigned curiosity, asking just what was bothering her? Chells brow furrowed.

“So… that thing…” she said, voice low and steady.

“Athena?”

“Sure.”

“what about It?”

“It's … not human?”

“Well, biologically I'd say it's about… 75 percent human. But really it's a robot, on the inside.

Where it matters.”

Chell hummed quietly, still leaning with her elbows on the side of the chair but obviously uncomfortable. GLaDOS watched her eyes track Athena across the screen like a predator, and felt a strange sense of pride at how well Chell was playing into her scheme.

“Do you want to know anything else about it?” She asked, “Really it's quite fascinating.”

“...Why did you build it?” Chell finally broke her gaze from the screen to look GLaDOS in the eye as she asked that.

GLaDOS looked at her like she was asking what color the sky was. “Why? It's a testing robot. I built it for testing.”

“You have testing robots.” Chell said gruffly.

GLaDOS rolled her eyes, “Chell, those two are… nice, but… they're mostly useless. You were gone for a long time, I couldn't just halt the march of progress while you were away.”

“Well… I'm back now.” Chell said, her tone almost hopeful.

A part of GLaDOS was instantly excited at what Chell was implying, actually a part of her was practically euphoric, but she couldn't let Chell know that. Instead she smiled coyly, and said “So you are. Want to see if you have any of those six brain cells left?”

Chell rolled her eyes but stood, giving GLaDOS a brief nod before hopping off the central platform and heading out the door to get ready.

#love as a construct #chelldos #I almost died trying to finish this dumb thing #bondibeewrites

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ice-cream-under-stars · 6 years

Text

Lost and Found (Jumin Han x Mc)

Chapter 1 (1,877 words)

Description: If black cats were a negative omen, did that mean white cats were a positive one? Of course, Mc never believed the superstitions revolving around cats, but it was a fleeting thought that had crossed her mind as she found herself mysteriously joining an organization which involved the owner of that equally mysterious white cat. Mc didn’t quite know the odds, but she knew they were low. However, she wasn’t sure if she believed in coincidence either...

Author’s note: Heya! I’m not very far into this (only in the middle of chapter three) and i have a very loose picture of where this is going so I’m not sure how long this fic will last. Anyways, for now, here’s chapter one! I usually regret posting my fan fictions later on but lets hope that doesn’t happen with this one hehe.

This fic is sort of an au. It still loosely follows the og Mystic Messenger timeline, with some changes. One being that I’m going to slow down the flow of things. That way Jumin and Mc will have more time to develop feelings for each other. So i guess you could call this slow burn?? Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and if there are any grammatical errors, sorry!

Next chapter

Chapter 1

Meow! Mc made her way to the door of her apartment building. Meow! Before she could enter, her phone began to buzz in her pocket. Meow! She furrowed her brow and looked around. No cat in sight. After a shrug, she proceeded to read the text message she had just received. Meow!

“What the—” Spinning her head around once more, Mc spotted a white Persian cat primly sitting not more than ten feet away. “Hey, kitty!” she cooed, kneeling down and holding out her hand. “Come here, baby.” The feline took her time, zigzagging toward Mc. She warily sniffed the hand offered before rubbing her face on it and purring. “Aww you’re just a sweetie. What you doing out here all alone, hm?” Of course, the response was purring. Mc scanned her surroundings again, only to find the street void of people. She returned her attention to the fluffy fur-ball, who was now on her back, playfully kicking and biting Mc’s hand. “I wonder how long you’ve been out here,” she mused. “Not long, I’m guessing.” Her coat was still relatively pristine. Mc proceeded to scoop up the cat and enter her apartment building.

Once inside her unit, she put the Persian down and made her way to the kitchen. Grabbing a chair, she placed it under an array of cabinets, moving aside the spices to grab the can of cat food in the back. Glancing at the can, Mc felt a small wave of sadness wash over her. She demounted from the chair and retrieved a tin bowl that hadn’t been used for a month now. After she dished up a few scoops, she placed it on the floor and waited for the feline to eat. She didn’t. Well, not at first. She sat there a moment, staring at it, then at Mc. “Go on.” Mc scratched the cat’s head and gradually ran her fingers down its back. That is when she dove into the meat; however, the moment Mc stopped, her (apparent) master chirped a series of short mews. Mc smiled. “Ah, so you won’t eat unless you’re pampered while doing so? Spoiled much?” But, not being able to resist that cute furry face, she obliged.

Next, Mc showed her new guest where the litter box was before plopping herself and the cat on the bed, both falling fast asleep.

The following morning, Mc asked around the area to see if they owned a white Persian cat, and showed them a picture. No luck. She knew it wouldn’t be that simple, seeing as she had never seen the cat before.

Thirty minutes passed before she returned to her apartment. She noticed the food she had left out before leaving that morning was licked clean out of the bowl, and it’s devourer lounging on the bed, bathing herself. “Oh, so now you’ll eat without me petting you?” Mc retorted, feigning annoyance.

After eating her own breakfast and taking a shower, she heard a knock on her apartment door. “You have a key, you can open it yourself!” she lazily shouted from atop her mattress. There was some fumbling before a woman entered. She had cropped hair that looked like milk chocolate and smooth light-brown skin.

“Well, excuse me for wanting to be polite!”

“Sav, our friendship is way past politeness.” Savannah collapsed onto the bed beside Mc and simply shrugged.

“Hey! Why is there a ton of fur on your comforter?!” Mc tore her gaze away from her phone.

“Uh so I sort of picked up a cat last night.”

“Wait, wha—?! Where is it? You got over Minnie already? I thought you said—“

“No, no, no! She found me last night and she was alone and I couldn’t leave her so I’m just letting her stay here until I find the owner.” As if she had been summoned, the feline in question hopped onto the bed and curled up next to Mc, completely ignoring Savannah. She rolled her eyes,

“Typical cat. So—,” a yawn interrupted her, “how do you plan to find this mystery owner? How do you even know she had an owner? Or what if the owner was being abusive, so the cat ran away.”

“Uh, that’s definitely not the case. Jeez, Sav, this isn’t some tragic pet movie.”

“But how do you know that for sure, hmm? For all you now, you could be trying to return her to the hell she just escaped!”

“Look at her coat. It’s extremely healthy. Look at it. She’s clearly groomed regularly and gets the best food. No one who cares about their cat wouldn’t abuse their cat.”

“Eh, wasn’t that a double negative?” Sav interjected. Mc put her foot on her friend’s head.

“The point is that I need to find the owner. They’re probably worried sick. Like— just imagine if the owner was a little girl. Hm? Sav, would you want some twelve year old girl to be crying and worried sick about their dear lost kitty cat?” Sav sighed exasperatedly.

“Fine,” she groaned. “So, what are you doing to find this twelve year old girl?”

“Well I already checked most of the other units in this building, and I just posted a pic on Instagram and Tumblr asking if anyone had lost a cat that looked like this one.”

“And?”

“Well, I just posted it. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have tons of followers like you who see my stuff instantly.”

“O—kay... so what do you plan on doing in the meantime?” Mc sat up.

“I guess I’ll continue to ask around locally. Wanna join me?”

“Ehhh what’s in it for me? A good conscience knowing I just saved a twelve year old girl from the depths of despair?”

“Well, that, and I’ll buy you a Starbucks.” Sav bolted up.

“Deal!”

Their inquiry proved to be unfruitful. That day, which had previously been planned out as a day they would hang out together before Savannah had to leave the city for a shoot, was spent up almost entirely looking for the owner of the mysterious Persian. It was four in the afternoon when Sav began to complain. Honestly, it surprised Mc that she managed to last that long.

“This is not how I imagined today was gonna go.”

“Me neither,” Mc mumbled. “How about we grab some dinner? Or do you need to head back and pack?”

“Who do you take me for? I’m already packed.”

“Alright, let’s get some dinner then, Miss proactive.”

The next day also unearthed no evidence as to who owned the cat. Mc decided to spend the day inside watching Netflix and YouTube, but kept a wary eye on her social media sites. She had made multiple posts, but the few replies she had gotten were along the lines of “Aw, cute! Hope you find the owner.”

The weekend ended. Mc had begun to think that she would have to keep her new feline friend until, on Monday morning, she woke to find that Savannah had called her three times and texted her five times. “Call me.” “Mc wake up!” “Hey its abt the cat.” “Call mehhh.” “Hellooo?” Mc bolted upright and dialed her friend.

“Finally! Don’t you have work today?!”

“Never mind that! What’s this about the cat?”

“Right, right. So you know how you said it could be owned by a twelve year old girl? Turns out she’s a twenty-seven year old man.”

“Wait, what? How do—”

“And guess who that is?”

“Uh—”

“Ju-min Ha-n!” Silence ensued. “Yo— please tell me you know who that is.”

“Uh, well—” An exasperated sigh came from the other side of the phone.

“Seriously, Mc, how do you live in the same city as the corporate heir to one of the most famous companies in South Korea and not even know who he is?!”

“What?! If he’s as important as you say he is, how the heck does his cat end up on the streets? Are you sure? How do you know she’s his?”

“I saw an online news article. Can you believe he had a news article put up about his missing cat? Usually people just post papers around saying ‘MISSING CAT.’” Mc replied thoughtfully,

“He obviously cares for her a lot.” Mc paused. “I can relate.”

“Anyways, he said he’d reward anyone who found her and returned her to him unharmed. The amount is uh... steep.” Mc brushed passed her friend’s statement.

“Send me the link to the article.”

“I cant. The photographer is here and ready to begin the shoot. Sorry! Just look up ‘Jumin Han, cat’ and you’ll get plenty of results. Talk later!”

Savannah wasn’t lying. There was more than just one article covering the topic. Mc clicked into the top website and scrolled down to the contact information. There was a phone number and an email address. Mc decided to dial the number right away. She hadn’t truly thought about it, as she was not apart of the high class world, but she subconsciously was expecting Mr. Han himself to pick up. She was startled when a female’s voice sounded on the other end.

“Hello, this is Chief Assistant Kang speaking.”

“O-oh... um... hello.” Her surprise was evident in her tone, but fortunately, the woman seemed to not notice or care.

“Do you know the whereabouts of the feline belonging to Mr. Jumin Han?” So formal. Mc could detect the weariness in the voice. In fact, the statement was monotone, as if the speaker had relayed it more than a million times that day.

“Hello? Miss, if this is a prank call I will hang up.”

“No! Please don’t hang up!” Mc sighed and continued. “I think I have Mr. Han’s cat.”

“‘Think’ or ‘know’?” She still didn’t show any type of surprise or urgency in her voice. This chick’s probably heard a lot of claims of having or seeing the white Persian; what with that reward, Mc mused.

“I’m pretty sure. I’d say she looks the same as the pictures in the ads. And her demeanor and coat scream ‘pampered.’” The woman’s voice grew more attentive.

“And where is the cat now?”

“Here with me at my apartment. I found her wandering near my apartment building and after she took a liking to me I took her in.”

“And how long as she been with you?”

“Since Friday night. I would have contacted you sooner but I had zero clue who she belonged to.”

“Could you provide any proof that you in fact do possess my employer’s cat?”

“I can send you a photo I took.”

“That will do. Send it to the email address on the website you got this number from. Goodbye.” Click.

Mc did as instructed. After ten minutes lapsed, she received a reply. It’s contents were along the lines of:

“Mr. Han has identified the cat in the photo as his own. As soon as possible, please, bring her, safely and comfortably, to—” and an address was added. Mc glanced at the time. It was almost 5 p.m. and that meant rush hour. Taxis would be difficult to come by; but when the C&R corporate heir’s cat was in need of returning to her owner, how could one refuse?

#my work #my fanfics #jumin han x mc #jumin han fanfiction #mystic messenger #mystic messenger fanfic #jumin han #jumin x mc fanfic #i put a keep reading barrier on this post but because mobile tumblr sucks it doesnt show up

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winetae · 7 years

Text

⇾ dick n’ go (m)

⇁ female reader x seokjin

⇁ smut, crack || shopping for dicc!au

⇁ male objectification, superficiality, fuckgirl!reader, dirty talk, and cocky!jin if that isn’t your thing

⇁12.8k

. . .

After trooping through a series of horrendous first dates and mediocre hookups, you were convinced you would never find a man capable of satisfying your needs. Your friend recommends you try a slightly unconventional method to remedy your bad luck.

↳ alternatively: seokjin has a five star dick and you decide to give it a go

a/n; happiest birthday to my porn watching partner in crime, the one who sends me pics of Seokjin Bulges and occasionally of hairy toes !! i love you (ps; ty to everyone who encouraged me to finally finish this semi autobiographical piece;;)

“ — remarkable churn rate,” he boasted, the corner of his lips twitching into a satisfied smirk. “Of course, I’m aware this might not be of any significance to you, but it’s quite outstanding considering the circumstances.”

The soft glow of the candles cast shadows on his face, accentuating the tall bridge of his nose and the length of his eyelashes. He was classically handsome, with a strong brow and full lips, broad shoulders and a posture that belied his confidence.

At first, it had been easy to fake interest. His good looks had been enough of a distraction, but by the main course, your glass of red wine had become much more riveting than his one-sided conversations that all seemed to revolve around him. It wasn’t that you were turned off by cocky men. In fact, you liked someone who was confident in himself and his abilities. Confidence was generally an attractive trait in a partner, but tonight you couldn’t help but be put off by his behavior. It was becoming increasingly difficult to feign enthusiasm over his endless list of accomplishments, especially when he threw in a condescending remark your way every now and then.

This time you couldn’t even blame the dating agency for a faulty match-up. There had been no fluke of any kind; suited in crisp Tom Ford and polished Italian leather, he was exactly as described on paper—which had been all the more infuriating. Admittedly, when you had first met him tonight, you had swooned a little, not daring to believe your luck. With his slicked back hair and tailored suit, he was a sight for sore eyes.

In hindsight, you should have known better than to get your hopes up, especially if you considered your track record with men.

“Ah… Congrats.” You managed a strained smile while surreptitiously reaching for the bottle of Pinot Noir.

Regret started to pool in your gut. Signing up on a dating website hadn’t been the wisest move, you now realized. Had the wooing process always been this tiring? Maybe you were rusty, having been out of the game for too long. It hadn’t even been that long since your very public break-up with your ex-boyfriend.

A bitter taste lingered on your tongue when you let your mind wander back to the events leading up to the separation. All the missed calls and flimsy excuses should have alerted you, but instead of trying to talk things out, you had ignored the growing rift in your relationship. Now, you could only look back on those times with distaste. Truthfully speaking, there had been good times—great times, even—and maybe if things had ended cleanly then you wouldn’t be so worked up over the split. The break up would have been easier to digest if he hadn’t been such a prick... The worst part was he hadn’t even had the decency to deliver the news in person, as if none it had ever mattered to him like it had to you; no matter how you looked at it, it felt like two years of commitment had gone down the drain...

You gulped down the remnants of your drink, hoping to wash down the resurfacing memory, but not even the fancy wine bottled in 1982 could help you dial back the resentment that boiled beneath your skin. What kind of dickshit ended a relationship by changing their Facebook status to single?! It was a slap to the face that still stung no matter how many Netflix series you binged or pints of ice cream you devoured. Clearly, he had no respect for you... And that realization hurt more than the break-up itself.

After a week of wallowing in self-pity, watching reruns of That 70’s Show and eating pack after pack of spicy Doritos, your friend had managed to pull you out of the obligatory post-breakup moping stage. Realistically, you weren’t ready or interested in jumping head first in any kind of new relationship, but your friend had insisted you needed to get over the asshole you had been committed to for the better part of two years. You didn’t like the term ‘rebound’, but that was essentially what you were looking for by signing up on dating websites.

Meeting new people would be fun, she had promised. Yet here you sat squeezed into a dress one size too small, concealing yet another sigh by stuffing your face with one of the offered breadsticks.

You were well aware you wouldn’t find the love of your life tonight. Your expectations hadn’t been high to begin with but your date was so dreadfully boring, for lack of better words, that you couldn’t help but be disappointed. There was no chemistry between the pair of you; whenever you sought to deviate the conversation to a new topic, he steered it back to his subject of interest. You had quickly realized there was no common ground: you were an art history major with no knowledge in marketing or communication; he planned to have a kid before the age of 35 while you were just looking for some mindless fun... You could blame it on the age gap or the fact he had a stable working job and you were still finishing off your studies, but you were evidently in different places in your lives with different goals and desires.

Restlessness was beginning to creep up your legs and it took a huge amount of self-restraint not to check the time on your phone.

Putting aside your differences, it would have still been nice if your date paid attention to you instead of talking over you at every turn. Still, you tried to stay optimistic despite the lack of chemistry. Maybe he wanted to impress you or perhaps it was all just nervous rambling. You could overlook his desire to monopolize the conversation for now.

Well, if anything, at least you were getting expensive wine and a free meal out of this. You glanced down at your plate and then at his, noticing he hadn’t even gotten halfway through his medium rare steak. Why was he taking so long to eat the steak?! you silently despaired. Maybe if you glared at it for long enough, he would get the hint and cease his meaningless chatter.

“Oh, are you still hungry?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Should I call the waiter back?”

“NO, no!” You raised out your hands, waving them around in panic. But in your hurried attempt to dissuade him, you hadn’t noticed you had attracted the unwanted attention of the people nearby.

“That won’t be necessary,” you repeated quietly, slightly embarrassed by your outburst. You tucked your hair behind your ear self-consciously, trying to calm yourself down. The last thing you wanted was to create a scene.

“You must have quite the appetite to have finished so quickly.” He stared pointedly at the lone arugula leaf you hadn’t been able to pick up with your fork. You felt your cheeks flush at the insinuation, teeth tugging your bottom lip in vexation. Maybe he was just clumsy with his words and didn’t mean anything by it, but something about it didn’t sit well with you. Wanting to give him the benefit the doubt, you plastered on a smile.

“I’m fine,” you forced out, the corner of your lips twitching from the strain. “I’m full now, anyway.”

“Are you sure? You were staring at my dinner quite, er, intently.” He prodded at his meal with the silverware, voice laden with skepticism. Hand slowly curling into a fist, you tried not to look too affronted.

“It’s okay!” he pressed on, misinterpreting your silence. “Don’t be ashamed! I like a girl with an appetite. Models these days are all bones—nothing to grab onto. I find women like you more attractive.”

He made grabby hands to illustrate his point, gaze swooping down to ogle the peak of cleavage on display shamelessly. Your outfit wasn’t even that revealing—a modest black dress with a sweetheart neckline— but the way he leered at you as if you were a slab of meat on a platter made your insides twist with disgust. Rather than making you feel sexy and desirable, the intensity of his appraisal made you feel like you were being coated over in a layer of slime. You bit down your retort, nails digging into the palm of your hand to distract yourself.

“Oh?” you intoned dryly, shoulders hunching up defensively.

“Most definitely,” he nodded, taking no note of your evident discomfort. “I like it when a woman is a bit bottom heavy.”

“Excuse me?” This time you couldn’t hide the sheer incredulity that colored your tone, brows arching.

Your eyes fluttered to a close as you took a steadying breath, not trusting yourself to keep your expression in check. Was he being serious? This had to be some kind of joke... You refused to believe someone could be that dense. Even if he had meant his comment as praise, the way he went about to compliment you didn’t flatter you in the least. Sure, people were allowed to have their preferences but something in the way he spoke and delivered his speech made your skin crawl with mortification.

Either way, you knew you couldn’t sit through this dinner for any longer than you had to. You saw no point in letting the date drag on indefinitely since it was clear that it wasn’t going to be working out.

The five course meal wasn’t exactly cheap but you would pay your share. You’d even take on his portion of the bill if it meant you could go home right away. Sure, it would leave a small dent in your wallet, but you refused to stay and listen to him drone on for another two hours.

“I think I’m feeling sick, actually,” you excused yourself, clutching your stomach in a dramatic fashion, but even to your own ears, it sounded like a feeble pretext. “I’m really sorry for cutting this short, but I need to lie down... I’ll pay for dinner, don’t worry about it.”

“Nonsense,” he cut in right away, looking affronted you would dare to suggest such a thing. “You’re right, the food here isn’t that good anyways.”

“That wasn’t what I—”

“It was a pleasure dining with you tonight.” He wiped his lips with the white chiffon, his voice dropping to a seductive octave so suddenly you could only gape up at him. “Would you be interested in joining me for tea back in my loge?”

You froze, eyes subconsciously darting around, refusing to meet his unexpected suggestive gaze. To be frank, you might have been tempted by his offer for ‘tea’ before his failed attempt to wine and dine you. But after having suffered through two hours of his presence, your only wish was to never meet him again.

“Ah, um,” you floundered, looking for a way out. “I really don’t think I’m feeling too well… But thank you for the offer, Minwoo.”

“Minhyuk.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “It’s Minhyuk.”

“Mmh? That’s what I said,” you fibbed, averting your eyes and silently cursing yourself for your inattentiveness.

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole as it became apparent that no amount of apologies could salvage the situation. Guilt churned in the pit of your stomach, discomfiture rendering you rigid. Sure, Minhyuk or whatever had been a proper asshole but you still felt bad for forgetting his actual name. It had happened to you once before, back when you had first started dating, and you could still remember the bone-crushing humiliation and awkwardness as he had confused you with some other random girl. Back then, you had sworn never to subject anyone to the same situation, so for it to happen now... You were disappointed in yourself but there was really nothing you could do about it.

Needless to say, your mistake had made things painfully awkward between the two of you. His ego had taken an undeniable hit that no amount of apologies could probably fix. Minhyuk did not even bother to conceal his sigh of relief when you called for a taxi cab to drive you home. In any other situation, you might have been offended at how quickly he tried to get rid of you, but you were equally desperate to escape your date.

You didn’t miss Minhyuk in the slightest but for some reason your mind kept wandering back to your failed date at the most inconvenient times. Like a broken record, the memory of that night kept replaying in your mind on loop. He was like pesky fly you couldn’t shake off—a low buzzing in your ears distracting you from everyday activities.

Why were the men you dealt with such dickheads? You silently cursed your horrible luck with the male species as you spread butter over your toast, crunching into the slice of bread with more force than necessary, teeth clanking together.

You hadn’t expected dating to be so exhausting. Being with your ex for so long, you had fallen into a complacent routine of sorts; it had stopped being exciting, but at least it was comfortable and familiar. You knew each other’s likes and dislikes and would adjust accordingly to each other’s personalities. Restarting the entire getting-to-know you process just seemed way too bothersome to deal with. Maybe Minhyuk or whatever hadn’t been the right guy for you, but in all honesty you didn’t want to enter the dating pool at the moment.

What you needed was someone who was on the same wavelength as you—someone around your age that was only interested in having a good time. After the emotional rollercoaster you had previously been on, the last thing you wanted was to jump into another relationship. You told yourself there was no use rushing it. But just because you were giving up the idea of dating for the time being, didn’t mean having some occasional fun was prohibited.

Being single was a good thing.

Over the next couple of weeks, you kept repeating this phrase, hoping the mantra would convince you of its truth. Weren’t you supposed to be living your glory days right now? What was the point of settling down when you could be having stress-free fun whenever you wanted? Relationships just seemed like way too much work, especially when finding the right guy was a task in itself. Dating websites and blind dates set up by your friends just seemed like such a hassle you didn’t have the time to deal with... But honestly speaking, masturbating wasn’t as fulfilling as getting laid on the regular. That was one particular aspect of your old relationship that you missed. You didn’t need to be in a relationship to be happy and satisfied. But even though you technically didn’t need a functioning cock to get off, who were you to turn down a good fuck?

So the logical thing to do was to take a page out of the fuckboy manual and stock up on a giant box of condoms. It felt nice to flirt around when you knew you didn’t have to commit to anything. Guys were surprisingly easy to rile up and they all seemed desperate to prove their own worth. And although you had your doubts over the validity of their claims, you let yourself be convinced once or twice by their smooth and practiced lines. But every single time, the ending had been either anticlimactic or disastrously bad.

Youjin, a classmate you were friendly with, seemed to take pity on you when you recounted your latest attempt at hooking up. She had invited you over to her place for a round of consolation drinks and you had never been more eager to down a shot of alcohol in your life.

“He had a nervous jizz? Did you even get to see his dick before he creamed his jeans?” She patted your shoulder in sympathy before handing you another shot of tequila.

“Nope. Nothing. Couldn’t even tell you if he had hairy balls or not.” You shrugged, a nonchalant expression settling over your features. “I groped a feel before he, uh... creamed his jeans. Dunno. Kind of felt underwhelmed.”

“Size doesn’t matter.” Youjin reminded you with a nudge. “It’s how he works his machine that counts.”

“Machine?” You stifled a snort behind your hand. “Well, Jungkook’s engine failed him. I touched his dick over the jeans for maybe ten seconds? He didn’t even last long enough for me to take his belt off. I don’t know who was more embarrassed but he kicked me out of his room before I could really say anything.”

“Look on the bright side... Maybe this means you’re that good. You must have magic fucking fingers.” She wiggles her hands in your face, her sparkly manicured nails on display. “What made you think hooking up with someone in the same class as you was a good idea anyway? Isn’t this the basic rule of fucking... No shitting where you eat.”

“I don’t know... Convenience? He was there and it seemed like an easy fuck, you know? I just want a nice lay. And I thought I would have a good time! We’ve been texting for a while and he kept saying he would make it worth my time... You’re right, I shouldn’t have trusted him. He looks like he just grew out of puberty... I shouldn’t have trusted him.”

“Oh yeah, there’s no doubt you need to get dicked down. My doctor said good sex is one of the primary contributors to good health and inner happiness. But things will just get super messy if you keep hooking up with guys you see every day. What if Jungkook ended up your partner for next month’s presentation? Do you know how fucking awkward things get when you’re trying make a powerpoint presentation on rococo furniture with a guy who has had his mouth on your nips? I’ve been there, okay, and not only does it make you question all your life decisions, but it fucks up your grades. So it’s a lose-lose situation you’re better off without.”

Youjin’s solution to your problems was bringing you to the nearest night club. Her reasoning was that any guy you picked up there was also probably looking for a quick one night stand. In her books, club hookups were the easiest way to have a good time without resorting to fucking your classmate.

“Wear a slut skirt!” Out of reflex, you caught the article of clothing that flew your way. It was a short, leather piece that promised to mold to your every curve. “And pin your hair up—it looks really nice like that!”

“Calm down,” you huffed. “We’re just going to the club.”

“So? Who knows, you might find the love of your life tonight!”

“Let’s be realistic, the chance of that is slimmer than winning the lottery... “ You shimmied into the tight skirt, smoothing over any creases, silently admiring the way it made your ass look bigger than it usually did.

“Never say never. Did you know Nicole Richie met her husband in a club?”

“Who?”

“Nevermind, just put on the fucking skirt, okay? Hmm, do you want me to lend you my old push-up bra?”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” you deadpanned, your raised eyebrow twitching. She didn’t have to bring up the fact she had miraculously gotten a cup size bigger than you last summer. You looked down at your breasts with a frown, silently cursing. Why couldn’t the weight you gained go to your boobs?

In the end, you did borrow her padded push-up bra. You would have been a fool to turn down an instant breast lift offer. No one would know the difference anyway, not unless you let them paw at your boobs. And with your luck, an accidental grope on the dancefloor might be the most action you would get tonight.

The club Youjin brought you to was swarmed with college kids that were all looking to dance away the stress of the upcoming exam season. Leaving you to your own devices, she gave you a good luck pat on your shoulder before going off to order a martini at the bar.

It didn’t take long for someone to approach you but you shrugged them off, not interested in hooking up with freshman kids that probably just learned how to roll on a condom. If you were going to hookup with a fuckboy tonight, you wanted him to be the most experienced guy in the club.

You didn’t have to wait too long for someone to match your criteria to bump into you. He exuded a certain a charisma the other guys hadn’t, the dark of the room making his smooth skin look like molten gold.

“Your friend is gorgeous,” he yelled into your ear, one of his hands sliding down to rest on the small of your back. You had to lean forward until you could make out the words he was mouthing over the heavy bass; his breath smelled like whiskey and coke but not unpleasantly so.

From up close, you could see the way he eyed over Youjin dancing up a storm on the other side of the room, pearly white teeth biting his plump lower lip as his eyes lingered on her ass. You could hardly blame him—even you were entranced by the way she flipped her long, glossy hair and the smooth movements of her hips she synchronized in time with the beat of the music.

Youjin was the best dancer you knew. For the longest time she had tried to teach you how to slut drop but after many failed practice sessions in front of your bathroom mirror, she had signed you off as a lost cause. In your defense, you weren’t a terrible dancer... But next to her? You looked like a waddling penguin that was learning how to walk for the first time. Hence why you never had any luck pulling guys if you stuck by her side.

“Can you talk to her for me?”

Tilting your head, you contemplated his request. Neon green spots of light danced over his features, making his jaw look sharper than it probably was. He looked harmless enough, but it was hard to tell for sure...You would never judge someone by their face. Even if he looked like he was incapable of harming a fly, you weren’t duped into believing he had any innocent intentions behind his actions. After all, this was a night club filled to the brim with testosterone—a place for people to find an easy lay—so there was no room to misunderstand his question.

“Why can’t you ask her?” He was a grown ass man after all... You couldn’t understand why he didn’t just ask her himself. Playing the part of the messenger was just so tiresome—this wasn’t prom and you were too old for this kind of silly game.

He turned to look at you properly for the first time, the corners of his mouth already quirked up into a charming smile. Your gaze was instantly drawn to his plush lips, shiny and inviting. You tried to shake yourself out of your trance, eyes snapping back to meet his knowing stare, but he made nonchalance difficult. You had always had a weakness for soft, pouty lips. Certain he was the type of guy that would use that piece of information against you to get what he wanted, you fixed your gaze on a safer place—the shiny spot of skin between his eyebrows.

“Huh, you’re pretty too!” His mouth stretched into a smile, eyes slanting into crescents.

“Thanks,” you replied, dryly. Unfortunately, your sarcasm wasn’t conveyed properly and he seemed to take your words at face value. Thinking you had warmed up to him, he slid closer to you, the hand resting on your lower back pulling you flush against his hard chest.

He leaned in closer still, face crowding near yours, so you felt the warmth of his breath against the sensitive skin of your neck. For one drawn out moment, you thought he was going to lean in and kiss you, but instead he yelled into your ear, “say, if you ask your pretty friend for me, I’ll hook you up with my friend. You’re just his type!”

He pointed over to a guy with a plain white shirt and a black cap on, grinding into a girl’s ass a few steps away from you. You bit off a scoff, not believing what you were hearing. Did he really think you were willing for some kind of trade off? His friend wasn’t ugly in the least, but you still felt a bit offended for thinking you could be passed around.

“I’ll speak to my friend for you. You’re totally his type.”

There was no hiding your disbelief at his audacity. You risked a glace back in his direction to check if he was being completely serious, and you almost laughed out loud when you saw no trace of deception on his face. He must have been really interested in Youjin for him to beg you like this.

He was handsome enough that you were sure he wouldn’t have any trouble attracting other people, but he seemed fixated on your friend. If you hadn’t been slightly intoxicated, you would have told him straight away to deal with it on his own, but the alcohol burning in your veins made it harder to think properly.

“I don’t think he needs any help in that department!” You pointedly eyed his friend, who was still attached by the pelvis to his dancing partner.

“He’ll drop her for you, trust me.” His unwavering confidence made you falter, and he took advantage of your few seconds of shocked silence to call over his friend. You couldn’t believe he would actually leave the girl he was with just to join the both of you.

There was a slight pause as you both sized each other up. The first thing you noticed was that his simple white t-shirt was almost see through, made transparent by his sweat. Despite your better judgement, you found yourself eyeing his defined muscles that were perfectly displayed under the thin layer of fabric. When your eyes met his, he shot you a knowing wink, his abs flexing under the disco reflected light.

He was acting like your typical campus fuckboy. Guys like him were easy to figure out. You had frequented them enough to know they had a one-track mind and were programmed to function according to the eat-sleep-fuck cycle. He was your ideal candidate to take home because you knew he wasn’t looking for anything serious tonight.

“So, do you dance?”

“Not really...” He leaned in closer to hear your answer over the booming bass. He was close enough that you could smell his aftershave, the clean scent a welcomed reprieve from the sweat-infested room.

“It’s okay, I can teach you.” A hand fell to your waist to bring you closer still. Distantly, it registered just how fucking built he was. He looked like the type that had a gold gym membership just so he could walk around campus with sleeveless tops and show off his body to the student population.

Pressing his strong body against yours, he gripped your hips and guided your movements. The first guy long forgotten, you slowly relaxed under his hold, swiveling your hips in time to the beat. It was easy to let your mind drift off, your thoughts consumed by images of your dance partner fucking into you with the same fluidity he was showcasing now. He was a bit shorter than the men you usually went for, but his thick thighs and sensual grinding were winning you over. Besides, he moved his body like Magic Mike and that was something you weren’t about to pass up.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Youjin shoot you a thumbs-up, mouthing words that suspiciously looked like ‘get that dick’ but it was hard to tell for certain. Maybe she was right... One night stands like this were simpler to deal with than attempting to get into bed with your classmate. For one, you wouldn’t have to feel awkward every time you walked into class and made accidental eye-contact.

All you wanted was to get laid properly. Finding a fuck buddy was too much trouble and there was no guarantee that would be a success, either. In most cases you had heard of, one person always ended up catching feelings and that was an additional mess you didn’t have the time to take care of.

“Want to walk me home?” You asked coyly, eyelashes fluttering, your palms sliding up his chest seductively. His eyes darkened, mouth crashing into yours in response.

You didn’t even make it to the exit door, clearly too impatient and horny to wait until you reached a mattress. The entire thing was messy and rushed—teeth clanking against each other, swollen lips bitten red. You felt like a hormonal teenager all over again but you were too caught up in the moment to be embarrassed by your actions.

His large hands gripped your waist, and you had no choice but to follow his movements, shuffling backwards until your back met the dank wall of the bathroom stall.

“I want to see these pretty lips around my cock,” he groaned, hands slipping under the hem of your skirt to grab a handful of your ass. “I love it when girls get their lipstick all over me. S’fucking hot.”

“I’m not going to blow you.” You shook your head, trying to hold your ground despite his insistent kisses up the side of you neck. “No offense, but you look like I might catch something if I let you put your dick in any of my holes.”

If you hadn’t been inebriated you might have phrased it better. Whatever. You didn’t really care about his feelings when it was obvious all he wanted from you was to get his dick wet for a couple of seconds before busting a nut. Making out with him was already a big health hazard, you didn’t want to risk anything more by getting fucked in a smelly bathroom stall.

“Fine.” He shrugged like it was a common occurrence to have girls push him away because they were worried of him carrying diseases. “How ‘bout a handjob?”

You shrugged, not really objecting to the idea. Given the choice, you would have still preferred to give him the handjob with gloves on or something, but you figured you could forego the extra precaution just this once.

It didn’t go as smoothly as you expected to (although no bathroom hookups had ever been plain sailing in your personal experience). Your manicured nails made it hard to maneuver around in the cramped space; this became apparent when you awkwardly fumbled with the zipper of his jeans for a second too long. Huffing with impatience, he swatted your hand away, “here, let me.”

His dick, like the rest of his form, didn’t hurt to look at. Knowing your luck, you had half expected him to whip out a fungus covered penis, but to your relief it looked acceptably normal.

You spat into your hand, coating his length with firm strokes until he hardened completely under your touch.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his small hand coming up to cover your own to speed up your movements. “Yeah, just like that. Spit on it again, fuck.”

You obliged even though the entire thing was messy; his precum mixed with your spit helped your hand glide over his shaft in quick strokes. Slick sounds interlaced with heavy breathing filled the small bathroom stall. The obscene noises spiked up your level of arousal and you let out a dissatisfied whine to remind him to take care of you, too.

You jumped as you felt his hand creep up your flank, his slim fingers reaching for your bra. Belatedly, you realized he was about five seconds away from discovering the most padded bra made by man so you hurried to dissuade him.

“Not the boobs.” Your right hand paused mid-stroke so you could make sure he got the message. “They’re, uh, they’re sensitive right now.”

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes, instead shoving the same hand down the waistband of your skirt without any warning. His plump lips swallowed down your surprised squeal, a groan making its way into your mouth.

His fingers trailed the trims of lace on your underwear, hooking under the hem to trace over your heat. He didn’t waste any time, sinking his fingers into your wet center to curl inside, vainly trying to find your g-spot. His thumb traced over your bundle of nerves a little too roughly and you squeezed his length in response. The muscles in his arms flexed as he plunged his digits into your slick heat. You closed your eyes, trying to grow accustomed to his relentless ministrations.

“What the fuck?!”

“What?” The sheer disgust in his tone jolted you back to reality, your head banging into the wall with a dull sound. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

He brought up his hand so you could see the way his small fingers glistened with your juices and b—

“Couldn’t you have told me you were on your period before making me finger you?”

“Ummmmm.” Admittedly, you weren’t being very eloquent but it was difficult to gather your thoughts when there was fucking blood on his hand and under his nails. You were way too freaked out to think about this calmly. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. What the...

“It’s not my time of the month...” You frowned as he went to wipe off his hand with toilet paper. “I’m not due until another week and half. What the fuck...”

Now that there wasn’t a haze covering your vision, it was easier to analyze the situation logically. And without his fingers hammering away against your walls, it was easier to notice a sting near your sensitive skin. It was starting to dawn on you that the asswipe had actually fingered you too hard, making you bleed. You were about to screech in horror but he continued on, interrupting your inner screaming.

“Yeah, right. There was fucking blood! I know I’ve had a few drinks but look!” He waved around the soiled toilet paper to prove his point, ignoring the way you coiled away in revulsion. “You’re disgusting.”

You couldn’t believe the actual nerve of this shithead. Incensed, you had a hard time keeping your voice down, wanting nothing more than to shove his head into the disgusting toilet bowl to shut him up.

“I don’t have my period! You’re the one who tried to claw out my vagina!” Inwardly, you seethed. “Get the fuck out of here while I’m still being nice.”

“Whatever.”

You sent a text to Youjin informing her you would take a taxi cab home. The night was coming to a premature end but you were too angry to go find someone else to take home. You weren’t in the right mind to trust anyone else with your vagina at the moment, not when it was apparently in danger of being clawed out.

youjin [01:13 am] homerun? ;)

She was so far from the truth that it was actually kind of sad... You were starting to think you were cursed. Why was it this troublesome to find someone who would give you a satisfying experience? Why were the guys you met so inadequate?

All of your experiences were getting progressively worse and you weren’t sure what to blame your bad luck on. You weren’t a bad person... You paid your all of your bills and picked up your dog’s poo when you took him out for a walk. Why was karma being a petty bitch and fucking you over?

At your return, your roommate raised an inquisitive eyebrow, eyeing your disheveled form in concern. Upon noticing your despondent expression, she nodded in understanding. “Was it really that bad?”

“I mean… It could have been... worse. Oh, who am I kidding, it was fucking awful." You cringed, catching your refection in the mirror overhanging the foyer. The corner of your eyes were smudged with kohl and your hair looked like a greasy mess. “Shit, I look like a wreck. Let me shower, yeah? I smell like piss and beer."

You needed to wipe down the gross layer of sweat that covered your body and check your vagina for any irrevocable damage. Thankfully, after a quick inspection, everything seemed to be okay and functioning properly but you still couldn’t trust Thomas or whatever his name was. You spent ten minutes cleaning your hands with soap, scrubbing every possible surface to make sure you weren’t going to catch anything else.

What you needed was a full body cleanse. You flinched as your toes made contact with the cold tiles, hands blindly reaching for the shower knob. Ice cold water rained down your back but you clenched your jaw and endured it, hoping it would distract you from the worries plaguing your mind.

Soon enough, steam enveloped you, heat soaking into your skin, muscles slowly unwinding. However, it became apparent that the comforting spray of water wasn’t enough to dispel any of your concerns.

Honestly, what was the use of having a nice dick if you couldn't use it properly? Why would men boast about their skills when it was obvious they didn't give two flying fucks about their partner's sexual pleasure? Why were men so selfish? You weren't even asking for much... Was one orgasm really too much to ask for?

"Men are gross," you whispered to yourself bitterly, reaching for the peach scented body wash. Perhaps it was time to finally invest in a nice vibrator, because if your recent experiences were anything to go by, you wouldn’t be getting off any time soon.

You didn’t even have it in you to be angry. The frustration over your lack of success had slowly ebbed away and left only room for doubt—doubt in yourself and your ability to not attract assholes. There are so many men out there; you refused to believe they were all one and the same. Still, your experiences so far had proved you otherwise and your optimism was beginning to dwindle.

After making sure you were completely clean, you wandered off to the living room, wrapped in your fluffy bathrobe. You flopped down on the couch, your dripping hair making a mess on the furniture.

“I’m cursed,” you bemoaned, words muffled because you had face planted into the cushions. “Dicks hate me.”

“Why are you always so dramatic?” your roommate scoffed, not even bothering to sound sympathetic, attention focused on a rerun of Project Runway.

“I’m serious.” You sat back up, attaching your hair so it would stop soaking the back of your nightshirt. “I think men are allergic to me.”

You recounted all of your failed encounters, not leaving out that one time a guy had ‘accidentally’ rimmed you while trying to eat you out. What a nightmare. You still got full body shivers whenever you remembered that horrific experience. At the end of your heated monologue, you couldn’t help but get a little emotional, lamenting your string of failures.

“Listen to me... Let’s get one thing straight—you are not the problem. All those guys were self-centered assholes who thought they were hot shit. Not everyone is like that, you know. Are you seriously going to give up on dick because of a few bad experiences?”

“I’m not interested in dating,” you insisted, ignoring her. “But I never said I wasn’t interested in dick. I just... want one that knows what it's doing. Does that make sense? I don’t want to have to deal with period scares or guys that try to sneak in a bit of butt action when you’re distracted."

“Oh?” She visibly perked up at your words, trying to assess how serious you were being. "You know... There's an app for that."

"I've tried dating websites... But it's exhausting, and I'm not ready for any emotional inv—"

"Not that," she cut in impatiently, reaching for her purse and rummaging inside.

“A sex toy seems like the better option.” You pointed out, reluctantly giving into the idea. “I don’t really like the feel of silicone but—”

After a few taps on her phone and a triumphant “hmmfph” sound, she thrust her device in your face. It took a few short seconds for the screen to come into focus; the proximity nearly made you go cross-eyed.

“Dick n’ Go?" Doubt seeped through your words. "Why does this sound like a bad porn movie? How does this even work...” You trailed off, not convinced by her idea in the slightest. It was hard to trust someone who liked to put cucumber slices in the water pitcher just because ‘it looked aesthetic’.

“It’s like the upgraded, safer version of Tinder. You’re guaranteed to land someone who knows what he’s doing. Trust me... If Stevie and I hadn’t gotten back together, I’d probably still be using Dick n’ Go all the time. This is the best invention of the 21st century. Everyone should be using this!”

You looked down at the her phone suspiciously. How did she expect you do jump onto the Dick n’ Go bandwagon when it had such a terrible name...

“Just give it a try!” she persisted, nudging you with her elbow. “No offense, but it can't get any worse."

“Okay,” you relented. “But only this once! And if this fails, then I’ll just accept my fate.”

You waited for the app to download on your own phone, inwardly cringing at the phallic illustration used as the logo.

Glancing over the questionnaire, you filled out the form with the requested details. The beginning seemed fairly normal—requiring your basic information such as your name and age. You didn’t think much of it, but as you slowly made your way through the rest of the questions, worry and heavy doubt started to sink in.

Calling your friend over, you motioned at the screen in front of you. “Why are they asking me the penis size I prefer? Is this some kind of joke...”

Your friend’s manic cackling did nothing to soothe your growing apprehension. “I’m telling you, this app is fucking genius. Revolutionary. Just take it seriously for now… You’ll see. You really won’t regret it.”

You considered her advice and figured it wouldn’t hurt to try, even if the application method was a bit…weird and unconventional. Signing up didn’t implicate commitment of any kind, so you could always back down if things didn’t work out.

Once you finished completing all the necessary information and choosing a nice picture of yourself (cleavage included), your nerves started getting the best of you. A strange feeling seized you right then—a premonition of sorts.

As the first picture loaded onto your screen, you almost dropped your phone in shock. After the initial surprise had worn off, your attention focused back onto the first person’s profile. Instead of being greeted with a flattering picture of his face, a large, limp dick hanging between a pair of sturdy thighs showed up.

The format reminded you a bit of tinder but as you flicked through the different profiles, it became apparent that every possible match had pictures of their dicks instead of the usual bathroom selfie or cute snaps of them out with their dog.

“Some of this is a bit…” You faltered, shooting your friend another dubious glance. “Are you sure this is okay? Why do they have listed ‘vigorous humping’ as an option?”

“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Personally, I like the ones who are good at ‘powerful thwacking’ but to each their own.”

You pretended like you hadn’t heard her last comment, thumb still flicking through the dick pics. It was your first time seeing so many penises at once and to say you were overwhelmed wasn’t an exaggeration.

“Why would anyone agree to this? Isn’t it a bit... How can they be okay with strangers judging them off their dicks alone?”

“That’s because there’s nothing that strokes a guy’s ego more than a dick compliment. You see the stars next to their names? You have to evaluate their performance after you take a ride. You think guys who are shit in bed would sign up on this app? Their puny egos wouldn’t be able to handle getting zero stars.”

You figured it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try.. Especially if mutual satisfaction was 100% guaranteed. Trying to find the best rated dick took a bit longer than expected, but you finally landed on a profile that seemed more than acceptable. Not only did he have a good reputation but the dick was actually nice to look at.

you [03:01 am] is that a fake dick

Granted, it probably was not the best conversation starter, but you weren’t exactly a dick dating expert. In your defense, how were you supposed to start a normal conversation when the only information you had about your partner was how well endowed he was? No matter how you looked at the situation, it felt like you were having a conversation with an actual dick.

Feeling embarrassed, you turn off your phone. The app seemed a little too ridiculous for your tastes and the next day you had already forgotten all about it. Too busy nursing a hangover and tending to your aching vagina, you didn’t give Dick n’ Go any second thoughts until a message pinged in during the night as you were getting ready for bed.

jin [11:12 pm] 100% real lol

jin [11:12 pm] why? afraid you can’t handle it

At his speedy answer, you could only scoff, fingers suspended over your keyboard as you debated whether or not to humor him. He sounded like just another campus fuckboy, way too overconfident in his own skills, when the reality was probably very far from his claims. The recent events had made you even more wary of guys who bragged too much because their actions never lived up to the expectations they had built.

But the five gold stars next to his name seemed to be winking at you, teasing you further. You hadn’t come across any profile with over three stars, so the full marks did pique your curiosity. Despite your better judgement, you wanted to know if he was really as good as his description suggested... Didn’t five stars imply he was the closest thing to a Sex God? You tried to imagine being with someone who never received complaints in the bedroom but everything just seemed too unbelievable to take seriously. Instead of feeling intimidated by his reputation, doubt clouded your thoughts. Surely someone couldn’t be that good. Right?

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, you chose to continue the conversation. There was no harm in humoring him for a bit longer, you convinced yourself. But just as you started typing out a response, you backtracked, realizing how foolish you were acting.

you [11:14 pm] i can handle anything just fine

you [11:14 pm] ur way too full of yourself...

There. Hopefully that would be the end of that, and he would leave you alone now.

You didn’t even know why you had agreed to do this; clearly, this arrangement was full of obnoxious men with over-inflated egos. Still, somewhere deep down, curiosity gnawed at your insides. The big “What If” lingered in the back of your mind as you stared at the darkened screen of your phone full of expectation.

jin [11:17 pm] you’re the one who talks big.. you think you can handle what i give you? hha

jin [11:18 pm] it’s ok..

jin [11:18 pm] it’s cute that you think you can

you [11:20 pm] seems like u’ve got me all figured out

you [11:21 pm] we’ll see who is right

At first, you chose to indulge him just because it was entertaining. But the more messages were exchanged, a strange thrill buzzed through your body as you anticipated his replies.

Once, you had made the grave mistake of opening an incoming picture in the middle of a lecture, only to be greeted with the image of his erect length, pink and shiny with precum. Thankfully, no one had seemed to notice Jin’s dick, but you had been ready to crawl out of the lecture hall in embarrassment. And not because someone might have seen Jin’s impressive erection. You didn’t really care about that. What you would have a hard time admitting was that a single picture had gotten you so worked up, concentrating in class had become impossible.

Jin—that arrogant prick—had somehow known how affected he had made you. Since then, he hadn’t hesitated to tease you further over the next few days with various pictures of his dick. Now, you never knew what kind of image you would be met with. It could be anything from a tame picture of his jean clad covered bulge to a short five second video of his hand stroking his shaft, his thumb swiping the tip to collect a bead of precum. Once, he had even had the audacity to moan your name right before he came, white dripping out of his spent member.

No one could blame you for being wary whenever you opened his messages. But in the safety of your own room, you allowed yourself to open his latest message. In all honesty, you had waited all day to finally be able to view the sent picture in privacy. You clicked on the image, enlarging it so that it lit up your screen. Without conscious thought, your lips parted in surprise.

The first thought to cross your mind was 'what the heck... he could at least try to make his catfishing believable'. His face defied the norm... With perfectly symmetrical features, your eyes didn’t know where to focus its gaze. You took a moment to stare at his plush lips before snapping out of it, typing out a furious response, fingers moving so quickly you had to backtrack to correct your typos.

you [11:54 pm] r u kidding me??

you [11:54 pm] send me your real face ;(

jin [11:54 pm] what makes you think i'm not? lol

you [11:55 pm] no normal person looks good in the bj angle!!

jin [11:57 pm] the bj angle? lmao

You paused as the three gray dots appeared on your screen once more. He left you no time to answer back; the short buzzes against your palm signaled the onslaught of incoming messages that arrived one right after the other, illuminating the dark of your room.

jin [11:58 pm] you'll have to get used to it

jin [11:58 pm] i like eye contact when i get head

jin [11:58 pm] you're imagining it right now arent u? ha

jin [11:58 pm] are you wet

There was something amusing about his overflowing confidence. You weren’t sold quite yet, but there was no harm in continuing the conversation.

you [11:59 pm] u really think you can get me wet over text??

you [11:59 pm] you'll have to work harder for that

jin [11:59 pm] mmh i like a challenge

jin [12:00 am] but it's okay to admit it too

jin [12:00 am] i won't judge

Now that you knew what he claimed to look like, the entire thing became a little less ridiculous and a bit more real. You weren’t just talking to a faceless, talking dick... There was an actual person attached to it. Said person just happened to be abnormally handsome...

It would be incredibly stupid of you to believe him. But his account was verified. That had to count for something, right? You were about to type out a response when he continued on.

jin [12:01 am] in fact

jin [12:02 am] i like it better that way, when i get you to admit you're hungry for dick

you [12:04 am] i'm not... so good luck with that

Instantly, you regretted not responding with something more witty. Your words sounded hollow and unconvincing. He probably knew as well as you did that you were interested. Why else would you keep messaging him after this long? He was the only one you talked to on the app, the only who truly caught your attention and curiosity.

Gnawing your bottom lip between your teeth, you wondered what he would answer. For a fleeting second, you wondered where all of this would take you... It was easier to imagine yourself actually going through with all of this now that you had a face to match to his name.

jin [12:06 am] i think you are

jin [12:06 am] why else would you join dng? you need a nice dick to satisfy you

jin [12:07 am] you love cock

Your mouth dropped open as you read over the latest messages. The words bothered you because deep down you knew he was right. You were a thirsty slut who wanted a good dicking down. But he didn’t have to be so crude about it... Although maybe etiquette didn’t matter when you were part of an app called Dick n’ Go.

you [12:09 am] ur right..

you [12:10 am] i love cock

you [12:10 am] but only one that knows what it’s doing

jin [12:11 am] sounds like a challenge

jin [12:12 am] i don’t have 5 fucking stars for nothing ;-)

Maybe agreeing to setting up an arrangement was a bad idea. In all honesty, you had been very unsure about everything. During the nights leading up to this day, you had doubted your choice many times but Jin had never failed to reassure you. He reminded you that you were free to cancel anytime or step away from the entire thing.

The thing was... You weren’t worried that it would somehow go terribly wrong. Your real worry was that you would never be able to go back to your normal hookups after this. How were you ever supposed to be the same again? Jin was reputed to be a sex god. Going from horrible fucks to the best fuck of your entire life was too steep a jump and you weren’t sure you were ready for it.

Your worries weren’t unfounded.

The first thought to cross your mind was “how the fuck is someone like him real?”. Now, you had seen your fair share of handsome men in your life, but he really took the cake. Equipped with symmetrical features, doe eyes and the softest looking pair of plump lips, you had a hard time believing a face like his truly existed. You blinked quickly, trying to pull your attention away from his draw-dropping face, only for your attention to fall on his shoulders.

How the heck could someone’s shoulders be so broad?! He looked like he could carry two people on each side and still have room for more. You were glad he wasn’t gifted with the ability to read minds. He might have been put off by the amount of internal screaming that was currently taking place, and the last thing you wanted was for him to run away.

“Not what you were expecting?” he chuckled.

“I, um,” you stuttered, not sure what to do with yourself all of a sudden. For some ridiculous reason, you felt your pulse race as his gaze perused your form.

Snapping yourself out of your mindless reverie, you tried your best to appear unaffected when he took off his hoodie. The thin cotton shirt underneath hugged his body tightly, showcasing his broad shoulders and rippling back muscles. You wanted to swim on his back. Or let him backstroke on your body... Really, you weren’t a difficult person; you welcomed either option.

“I look good, don’t I.” The way he delivered the phrase showed he didn’t expect an answer, the corners of his lips already curled into a haughty smirk.

His confidence made you narrow your eyes in response. The sight reminded you of all the fuckboys you had encountered in the past few weeks. They always bragged and boasted, their words fueled by the same excessive confidence. It always started out the same way—with empty promises and self-praise—but this time you weren’t going to let yourself be fooled. You didn’t care if Jin was the most handsome human being your eyes had every laid eyes upon. The point of this entire arrangement was for you to get an earth shattering orgasm and you weren’t going to settle for anything less than spectacular. He was rated five stars on his profile for a reason—now was the time to prove it.

“Listen, Jin,” you said with faux sweetness coating your words. “It doesn’t matter what you look like... Looks don’t matter if you’re going to end up leaving me unsatisfied. So don’t think, even for a second, that you can roll over, let me do all the work and then leave me high and dry.”

“Unsatisfied?” He parroted, brow furrowing like he had no idea what the word meant. “Sounds like you’ve never been with a real man before.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong on that front but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know he was right. The last thing he needed was an ego boosting.

“You talk too much...” Scoffing, you crossed your arms to showcase your annoyance. “Guys like you usually don’t even know where to find my clit. It’s sad. You really shouldn’t build up expectations like that, only to disappoint when it’s time to get your dick wet.”

An offended squawk escaped his plump lips. “Hey now. First of all, unless your pussy is a jungle down there, you can rest assured finding your clit won’t be an Easter egg hunt. Who do you think I am?”

He ignored the mild look of indignation that crossed over your features. Instead, he took a seat on the queen-sized bed, his legs falling open invitingly. With difficulty, you kept your eyes trained on his face even though they itched to wander down.

“Come sit on Daddy’s lap.”

“Fuck, no,” you grumbled at once, ignoring the way his gruff tone shot arousal through your stomach. “I’m not calling you Daddy or Papi or whatever else you’re probably into.”

He shrugged, otherwise not budging an inch. He looked at you expectantly, confident that you would give in. “If you want to cum tonight like a good girl, then I suggest you take a seat.” He patted his thighs for emphasis, your eyes immediately drawn to the enticing bulge that was nicely showcased in his tight jeans.

That arrogant fucker did look good, you admitted inwardly, scowling slightly as you did so.

You sat down gingerly, trying to keep your composure in check. The ever-permanent smirk on his face revealed he hadn’t missed your audible gulp when you made contact with his strong thighs.

“So far, I’m pretty unimpressed...” You lied, shifting around on his lap just you could feel how comfortable your makeshift seat was.

His fingers twitched at your side, his nails scratching your exposed skin and sending tingles down your spine. “Maybe you’re so accustomed to messy and drunken college fucks that your expectations are a bit skewed. You know... Just because you’ve had sex a handful of times doesn’t mean you’re experienced.”

He chuckled, the low sound rumbling in his chest. You tried to ignore the way the vibrations made goosebumps prickle the surface of your skin, doing your best to keep the most indifferent expression on your face.

“Did you think that just because we decided to meet up today, you’d get your orgasm handed to you on a silver platter? I don’t think so, babygirl.” He shook his head in amusement.

Momentarily distracted by the unexpected petname, it took a bit longer than usual for words to form on your tongue.

“Then what—”

“You’re not getting my cock until I know you want it.”

“I don’t think I would be here if I didn’t,” you shot back, your patience slowly running out. You weren’t known for being the most forbearing person. But then you were suddenly struck down by something your roommate had said—something about how getting a dick compliment was the same thing as Christmas day coming early. Did he really expect you to beg for his dick? That wasn’t so different from the fuckboys you were used to. Really, all guys were so similar. They all wanted to be told they were the best before getting to cum.

Jin must have taken notice of your mildly revolted expression because he gave your ass a squeeze.

“You’re so spoiled...” He chastised, clucking his tongue like he was scolding a child. “You’re too used to fucks that last five minutes on a good day... No wonder you’re so irritable. Hmmm... Do you know what I usually do with little girls like you?”

Little? He couldn’t have been that much older than you... You rolled your eyes only for them to blow open, not expecting the stinging smack on your left asscheek. The force of the swat made you jolt forward, the denim of your shorts rubbing against your clit, sending small zaps of pleasure down your spine.

“Let me guess... You punish them,” you glowered.

“Punishment?” Jin hums in contemplation, his large hand rubbing the place where he had hit you, soothing away the ache. “That’s not what I would call it.”

He leaned in close so that his breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of your ear, “listen closely. I’m not going to feed you my cock until I see you drooling for it.”

You bit your lower lip, trying to gauge how serious he was being. There was no denying you wanted him to fuck you, but you weren’t sure you could handle whatever he had in store for you.

Jin’s features softened, seemingly sensing your hesitancy. “It’s okay... Just follow my lead. I’ll make you feel good, okay? You just have to prove that you want this as much as I suspect you do.”

“And how do— I mean, what do...” You stammered, genuinely at a loss for words. The guys you were usually with would have already stripped out of their jeans, but Jin looked like he wasn’t going to move an inch.

“You’re really tense, babygirl.” Jin massaged your neck, his thumbs rubbing out the tense muscles in soft circles. You felt yourself turn limp and pliant in his lap, head drooping down as he worked out the kinks in your neck. “That’s it, just relax for me. Are you ready to be a good girl now?”

You nodded mutely, letting his soothing voice guide you. Something about his voice made you trust him; you felt confident he wouldn’t let you down. One of his hands tilted your head down so he could slant his plush lips against yours. Immediately, you melted against his mouth, the softness of his lips silently inviting you to press into them. But despite your most fervent efforts, his kisses stayed languid, refusing to match your pace. Frustrated, you moved in closer, molding your body against his, your fingers carding through the hairs at his nape. To your dismay, he pulled back, a satisfied look covering his features.

“See? This is a good start. Keep moving your hips like that.”

With a start, you realized you had been grinding desperate little circles into his lap, your hips searching for much needed friction.

“J-Jin.” Your words came out as a soft plea, your gaze hooded with desire.

“Do you need a little help?” He smiled at you sweetly, taking pleasure in seeing you slowly fall apart at the seams.

His hands slid up under the hem of your shorts, squeezing the flesh and urging you to continue the smooth rocking movements. With every undulation, you felt your arousal grow until your entire body was consumed with pure, unbridled need. The slow burn was different from what you were usually used to but not in a bad way. You were slowly losing your mind, your hips moving more and more frantically as you tried to rub the burning ache away.

Jin pinched your ass, effectively stopping your movements before you could get too carried away. The sharp bite went straight to your core, the ball of arousal in the pit of your stomach coiling tightly. You were distinctly aware how your damp panties were stuck to your folds and how wetness dripped down your thigh—proof of your rampant desire Jin had coaxed to life.

“If we took your shorts off right now and continued, you would make a mess of my jeans, wouldn’t you?”

Jin slapped your ass again as he waited for you to answer him.

“Y-yes! I’d make a mess all over you.” Trying to ignore the heat that bloomed on your cheeks, you stuttered out your reply.

“And why is that? Hm?” He remained still, his hands unmoving at your side, patiently awaiting your response. The answer he expected was clear to you but for some reason the words wouldn’t come out—stuck in your throat.

You gasped, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. He was bouncing his leg up, making you lurch forward with every jerk of his knee. Every time you slammed back down, the pressure on your clit increased tenfold and your eyes became glassy as pleasure inflamed your insides.

“Oh g-god, fuck, I—”

“Why are you such a mess for my cock, huh? Why do you think you got so worked up easily? I didn’t even have to do much and you’ve become putty in my hands.” He maneuvered your body around so that you brushed up against his covered erection. Soft whines and mewls escaped your lips when he pushed your hips down further against him. It was hard to fathom why he wouldn’t just fuck you already and extinguish the throb between your thighs.

“I don’t know. I’m not— I just...” You inhaled deeply, trying to lift the haze of lust that muddled your thoughts. “Please, can I have your cock now? I’ve been good.”

“Hmm... But that’s not what I want to hear, is it? Do you remember what I told you over text?” You blinked slowly, your mind drawing a blank at his question. How did he expect you to answer such a vague question? “No? Well, let me refresh your memory. I recall you saying that you weren’t cock hungry, but I think we both know that’s not true, is it?”

There was a pause of silence as you tried to weigh the pros and the cons. At the end of the day, he wasn’t wrong. But it was embarrassing to admit it out loud.

“Fine, I’m cock hungry. I love cock. Can we fuck now?” you huffed out, refusing to meet his smug stare.

“Hm. Somehow I had imagined it sounding a lot sexier when you said it...” The space between his brows creased as slight disappointment marred his features.

“Life isn’t a porn movie, Jin.”

“We met through an app called Dick n’ Go,” he quipped back, rolling his eyes. “It was worth a shot.”

With surprising strength, he lifted you up by the waist before setting you down on the bed. Instantly, you missed being pressed up against the hard planes of his body and having his large hands holding you closer to him. The pale blue cotton sheets creased under your weight as you shimmied backwards.

“Clothes off.”

His tone made you shudder with anticipation. You could tell he was done with foreplay for now; the obvious bulge in his jeans reminding you he was probably equally affected as you. His eyes were dark, hunger etched onto every part of his expression. You scooted back on the bed until your back met the headboard, your hands busy with ridding yourself of your garments.

Jin, on the other hand, took his sweet time taking off his belt; the metal clink echoed in the silence of the room, shooting shivers down your back. Your want for him was almost palpable—you could feel the desire sit heavy on your tongue. His gaze never left your exposed body, trailing over the slim column of your neck, the curves of your waist and your rosy nipples. You smirked, letting your legs fall open so he could sneak a peak at your glistening core. He swallowed thickly, peeling off his shirt and kicking away his jeans, too aroused to care about composure anymore. Every man had their own limits and you were glad Jin was reaching his if that meant he would finally stop playing around.

As he crawled onto the bed, you expected him to start fucking you right away but instead he dove headfirst between your legs.

“Jin, what are—” But he kept your legs wide open with a steady grip on your thighs, ignoring your weak cries of protest. He went straight to work, his tongue taking an experimental lick before pressing more insistently against your folds, deftly avoiding your clit. Any disapproval promptly died in your throat, your body succumbing to the overwhelming pleasure he gave you.

You had been worried he would slobber everywhere and maybe try to lick down lower like your previous experiences, but his tongue movements stayed consistent and languid. He seemed to know exactly how to move, how much you could take. Any coherent thought was wiped out with every skillful swirl and swipe of his tongue against your slick center. Your mewls of pleasure became progressively louder as your body succumbed to his insistent licks.

Threading your fingers through his soft locks, you attempted to bring his face closer to your core. Need pulsed through your veins as you wriggled around, canting your hips in time with the swipes of his tongue. Eventually, everything within you snapped. The intensity of your orgasm took you by surprise, not expecting the strength of the pleasure as it crashed over you over and over again. Your toes curled and your back arched, every one of your muscles tensing as the orgasm took hold of you.

Slowly, you came back to reality. Blinking away white spots from your vision, you tensed up again when your eyes landed on Jin’s satisfied expression. He looked absolutely sinful—his hair messy from your tugging, his face wet from your arousal.

“Good?” Jin asked, licking his lips dry, his chin still shiny from your wetness.

“Mmh.” You nodded, too fucked out to give a more intelligible reply. Your limbs felt heavy, your tongue too big for your mouth. But there was no denying the glorious satisfaction that settled deep in your core. “Fuck me now?”

“You’re insatiable,” he scolded lightly. It was hard to take him seriously when his eyes gleamed with something close to endearment. Still, despite his words, he wasted no time lining up his erection with your waiting center.

You took a moment to appreciate how utterly gorgeous he was. When you looked at Jin, you knew you were looking at a man. His forehead shined with a sheen of sweat, his chin still wet from your juices. And his fucking shoulders. You had never really paid attention to other people’s shoulders before, but you somehow knew that no one else’s shoulders could ever compare to Jin’s.

“Ah, fuck,” he grunted above you, frowning slightly as he eased himself in slowly. “You’re so wet, I’m sliding right in.”

You bit your lip, trying to remember how to breathe. It was hard to accommodate his impressive girth, but the stretch felt so good you couldn’t help but let out a long moan. Jin slowly thrust the rest of his length in, one of his hands gliding over your smooth thigh only to hike it up over his hip. He kept his grip steady before pushing back into you, drawing out another pleased sound from your lips as he reached impossibly deeper within you.

“Look,” he grinned between heavy pants. Wiping the side of your mouth with his thumb, he wiped your spit over your cheek. “I told you. You’re drooling all over yourself because of my cock. Cute.”

If you had been more self-possessed you would have rolled your eyes and shot back a witty remark. But at the moment, you were having a hard enough time remembering your own name... Every fluid roll of his hips into yours rubbed the insides of your walls deliciously, your walls clenching around him as you neared your release. You couldn’t believe you were already so close to crumbling apart again, not when it usually took so much effort to get you off.

“Are you gonna cum already? Mmh fuck, good girl. Make a mess of the sheets and then I’ll feed you my cock like I promised.” He picked up the pace of his thrusts, intent on making you fall apart one more time. Jin reached down to circle down on your clit with precision, timing the swipes of his fingers with the rhythm of his hips. The rapid flicks against your sensitive spots felt too good; you couldn’t help but grind into his touch for more friction.

You shook and moaned, pleasure striking down upon you without any warning. A cry of ecstasy fell from your lips, your nails scratching down his back as you tried to ground yourself to reality. Jin groaned loudly as your walls clamped down around him, squeezing out his own orgasm. Feeling him cum in spurts inside you made a shudder ripple through you, prolonging your high. You felt like you were floating; your limp and spent body still vibrating from the aftershocks. Every limb was thrumming with pleasure.

Jin rolled over next to you, his chest rising and falling from the exertion. His hair was matted with sweat, his body cloaked in a thin layer of perspiration. But as you eyed the pink flush on his cheeks, you inwardly admitted that he was probably the most handsome person you had met in your life.

But not only was he devastatingly handsome, but he had given you the fuck of your life. Instead of the usual fast-paced hammering you had been previously subjected to, Jin had taken his time and built your orgasm brick by brick. It was difficult to accept guys like him actually existed in this world...

“If you want seconds, you just have to ask.” He caught your gaze mid-appraisal, a cocky smirk settling on his lips.

“You just came.”

“My refractory period is quite short, actually. And I can usually last a lot longer my second time.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, his hand already sliding down to play with your dripping center. You shied away from his touch, still too sensitive.

Well, of course he would have the stamina of a pornstar... This guy was just too good to be true. You half-expected to be woken up from a very lucid dream and be brought back to the cold, harsh reality. Guys like Jin were a rarity. And after tonight, you probably would never meet him again. You would only be left with a distant memory and new standards that would be impossible to meet.

Regret churned in your gut. What was done was done. You tried to focus on the positive side of things... You did just have a mind-blowing orgasm. That was something you ought to be celebrating and not moping about.

“It’s okay, I can go get you cleaned up right now. We can go for a round two next time.” Your eyelids felt heavy but you smiled at him in thanks when he got up to get a wet towel for you.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep but when you woke up, the morning sunlight filtered through the sheer drapes. Basking under the warm rays of light, you stretched out your sore muscles.

Last night had been a dream, hadn’t it? The space next to you on the bed was disappointingly empty and void. Maybe you had just dreamed everything up, after all... Releasing a sigh, you slowly got up, hand reaching over the bedside table to check the time on your phone. Frowning, you rubbed the sleepiness from your eyes, fingers wrapping around a slip of paper after fumbling around blindly.

It took a moment for your vision to sharpen into focus but when it did, a lazy smile pulled at the corners of your lips. Next to a scrawled phone number was signed off ‘call me for round two xx your favorite five star dick guy’. And, well, who were you to turn down a good fuck?

#happy birthday mommy wonka;;#accept the seokjin di cc aka the greatest gift of them all #bangtanwriters-net #kkreationsnet #kwriterskollection #bts smut #bts scenarios #seokjin scenarios #seokjin smut #kpop scenarios #i need to go back and edit the last scene but yay :'')

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weekendwarriorblog · 4 years

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The Weekend Warrior 9/11/20 – I AM WOMAN, BROKEN HEARTS GALLERY, RENT-A-PAL, UNPREGNANT AND MORE!

Thankfully, we’re getting a slower week this week after the past few weeks of absolute insanity with so many new releases. This week, we also get a nice string of movies about women that are mostly made by women directors, so hopefully these won’t get lost in the shuffle of theaters reopening.

To be perfectly honest, I went into Unjoo Moon’s I AM WOMAN (Quiver Distribution) – this week’s “Featured Flick” -- thinking it was a doc about ‘70s pop sensation Helen Reddy. Imagine my surprise to discover that it actually was a narrative film with Tilda Cobham-Hervey playing the Australian singer who moved to New York in 1966 after winning a contest, expecting a record deal but only winding up with disappointment. Once there, she’d meet journalist Lilian Roxon (Danielle Macdonald, being able to use her real Australian accent for once) and Jeff Weld (Evan Peters), the man who would become her manager and then husband. Once the couple move to L.A. with Helen’s daughter Traci (from her previous marriage), things began to pick up at the same time as Reddy starts dealing with issues in her marriage and friendship with Roxon.

Listen, I get it. To some (or maybe all) younger people, including film critics, Helen Reddy represents the cheesier side of ‘70s music. I only know her music, since I was a young kid who listened to AM Top 40 radio for much of the ‘70s, but by the end of the decade, I had already switched to metal, punk and noisier rock. As you can tell from watching I Am Woman, Reddy is a particularly interesting music personality, particularly once you realize how hard she struggled to get into the business with a husband who only feigned to support her after dragging her to L.A. for “her career.”

There were many takeaways from watching Moon’s film, but one of the bigger ones is how amazing Cobham-Hervey is at portraying a woman that few of us may have actually seen perform even on television. I’m not sure if Cobham-Hervey did any of her own singing or is lip-syncing the whole time, but it doesn’t matter because she instills so much joy into the performances, especially the two times she sings the highly-inspirational title song live.

Although there isn’t a ton of major drama in Reddy’s life, most that does exist revolves around her relationship with Wald, who is depicted by Peters as an out-of-control coke-sniffing monster. Those in Hollywood may have dealt with Wald as a movie producer or during his stint as Sylvester Stallone’s manager, and only they will know how exaggerated this performance is. Far more interesting is Helen’s friendship with Macdonald’s Roxon which would inspire her to perform the song “You and Me Against the World.” (Seriously, if you want a good cry, throw that song on after watching I Am Woman.)

Moon does a great job with the material, whether it’s recreating New York in the ‘60s – often using music to set the tone of the period -- or by framing Reddy’s story with Phyllis Schlaffly’s fight against the ERA, as depicted in FX’s mini-series Mrs. America. Still, it never loses track of Reddy’s journey and her role as a mother to Traci and slightly less to Wald’s son, Jordan. The movie ends with a wonderful and tearful epilogue, and I will not lie that I was tearing up more than once while watching this movie.

I Am Woman may be relatively uncomplicated, but it’s still a compelling relaying of Reddy's amazing story bolstered by an incredible knock-em-dead performance by Tilda Cobham-Hervey. It’s also one of the most female-empowering film I’ve seen since the Ruth Bader Ginsburg movie On the Basis of Sex, starring Felicity Jones.

This week’s primary theatrical release is Natalie Krinsky’s THE BROKEN HEARTS GALLERY (Stage 6/Sony), starring Geraldine Viswanathan as Lucy, a young woman who works at a gallery who is still obsessed with her ex-coworker/boyfriend Max. On the night of her disastrous break-up, Lucy meets-cute Nick (Dacre Montgomery from Stranger Things), who later inspires her to rid of her hoarding issues by creating the “Broken Hearts Gallery.” This is a place where people who have broken up can bring the remnants of said relationship by donating the mementos they’ve maintained from their partners as sentimental value.

I’m a big fan of Viswanathan from her appearance in Blockers and TBS’ “Miracle Workers” series, as she’s clearly very talented as a comic actress, but I couldn’t help but go into this with more than a little cynicism, because it does follow a very well-worn rom-com formula that can be traced right back to When Harry Met Sally. Yup, another one. Much of this movie comes across like a bigger budget version of a movie that might play Tribeca Film Festival, and I wish I could say that was a compliment because I’ve seen a lot of good movies at Tribeca. But also just as many bad ones.

The problem is that The Broken Hearts Gallery isn’t very original, and its roots are especially obvious when it starts interspersing the recently-heartbroken giving testimonials. It’s also a little pretentious, because rather than the real New York City that would be recognizable to anyone who lives there, it’s more of a Millennial woke fantasy where everyone is a 20-something LGBTQ+ of color. Even so, the main trio of Lucy, Nick and Nick’s business partner Marcos (Arturo Castro from Broad City) do keep things fun even when things are getting predictable.

To be honest, I’ll be perfectly happy to see Viswanathan become the next Meg Ryan, because part of the reason why I warmed up to the movie is because I thought she was quite great in it. (I hate to say it but she’ll definitely need a simple name to remember to make that happen. I’d like to suggest G-Vis… as in G-Vis, she’s awesome!) There’s no question she’s the best part of the movie, but it also thrives from some of the other women cast around her, including Molly Gordon, Phillipa Soo and (surprise, surprise!) Bernadette Peters. (At times, I was worried Lucy’s friends would get particularly annoying, but you’ll warm up to them as well.)

Krinsky’s movie is cute, and while it certainly gets a little overly sentimental at times, there are also moments that are quite heartfelt, so basically, it’s a tolerable addition to the rom-com genre. The fact that the characters are so likeable kept me from outright hating the movie, especially once it gets to its corny and somewhat predictable ending. Another thing I like about Broken Hearts Gallery is that at least it’s making an effort to have some sort of theatrical presence, including drive-in theaters.

Next up is Jon Stevenson’s RENT-A-PAL (IFC Midnight), a rather strange and very dark horror-comedy. It stars Brian Landis Folkins as David, a lonely 40-year-old living with his elderly mother suffering from dementia, who has been using the services of a dating service called Video Rendezvous. This is the ‘80s after all, so it involves getting VHS testimonials from various women. One day, David finds a tape labelled “Rent a Pal” and he decides to check it out. It turns out to be a video of a guy named Andy (Wil Wheaton aka Wesley Crusher from Star Trek: The Next Generation) who David begins having conversations with, but once David gets his chance to have a real relationship with a nice woman named Lisa (Amy Rutledge), he’s been dragged too far down the rabbit hole with Andy’s evil urgings.

This was recommended to me by my own personal rent-a-pal, Erick Weber of Awards Ace, who saw it weeks ago. I totally could understand why he would have liked it, because it’s pretty good in terms of coming up with an original idea using elements that at least us older guys can relate to (especially the living with your Mom part which I had to do a few years ago). I wasn’t sure but I generally thought I knew where it was going, because David’s trajectory always seemed to be heading towards My Friend Dahmer or Maniac territory. What I liked about Folkins’ performance is that you generally feel for him right up until he gets to that point. I also really liked his innocent relationship with Lisa and was hoping things that wouldn’t get as dark as where they eventually end up. I also have to draw attention to Wheaton’s performance, because as one might expect if you only know him from the “Star Trek” show he did as a kid, this is a very different role for him similar to Seann Michael Scott in last year’s Bloodline.

Either way, Stevenson is a decent writer and director who really pushes the boundaries with where Andy takes his new friend, and it’s especially great for its synth-heavy soundtrack that reminds me of some of John Carpenter’s best scores, as we watch David’s inevitable descent into madness. You’ll frequently wonder where it’s going, but for me, it just got too dark, so I only really could enjoy it up to a point.

A little cheerier is UNPREGNANT (HBO Max), the new film from Rachel Lee Goldberg, who directed the recent Valley Girl remake, although this time she’s adapting a book written by Jenni Hendricks. It stars Haley Lu Richardson (from Split and Support the Girls) as 17-year-old Veronica who discovers that her dopey boyfriend Kevin has gotten her pregnant. Since women under 18 can’t get an abortion in Missouri without a parents’ consent, she goes on a road trip with her estranged childhood friend Bailey (Barbie Ferreira) to New Mexico to get the job done.

It’s more than little weird seeing this movie come out in the same year as a much more serious version of the same movie in Elyza Hittman’s Never Rarely Sometime Always. That aside, Goldberg and her cast do their best to make this something more in the vein of last year’s Book Smart, although that’s also a fairly high watermark for any movie.

Because this is a road trip comedy, it tends to follow a fairly similar path as other movies where they meet a lot of strange characters along the way, as they try to get a ride after being busted cause Bailey stole her mother’s boyfriend’s car for the trip. For instance, they meet a friendly couple who tend to be pro-lifers who want to change Veronica’s mind, and the best side character is Giancarlo Esposito as a conspiracy theorist named Bob.

I guess my biggest problem with the movie is that it just isn’t that funny and feels fairly standard, but at least it has a decent ending to make up for the predictability of the rest of the movie.

Now streaming on Netflix is Maimouna Doucouré’s French coming-of-age film Mignonnes aka CUTIES, a film that premiered at Sundance and then stirred up quite a bit of controversy last month due to its marketing campaign, but is actually not the pervy male gaze movie which it may have been sold as. It’s about an 11-year-old Sengalese girl named Amy Diop (Fathia Youssouf) who wants to join the school’s “cool girl” dance group, known as the “Cuties,” even though it goes against her family’s Muslim beliefs. Amy learns to dance so she can be part of the dance team and take part in a dance competition, but you know that this decision will led to trouble.s

Cuties got a lot of backlash from for the trailer and Netflix’s decision to release Doucouré’s movie, which is about a young girl discovering her sexuality, although it isn’t really something lurid or gross but actually a very strong coming-of-age film. I haven’t seen the trailer, but I can only imagine what scene it focused on that got people so riled up, since there are dance scenes that felt a little creepy to me. Other than that aspect of the film, Cuties is as innocent as a Judy Blume book. I mean, how else do you expect kids to learn about real life than movies like this? (Unfortunately, the movie is TV-MA so young teens won’t be able to watch it.)

The big problem with the Cuties is that they’re actually kind of bratty and bullies, almost like a younger “Mean Girls” girl gang, so it’s very hard to like any of them. They’re also trying to act way older than they really are, and you can only imagine what dark places that might led, as you worry about Amy getting dragged down with them, just because she wants to have friends and feel popular.

Despite my issues with Cuties, Maimouna Doucouré is a fantastic filmmaker, and this is a pretty amazing debut, especially notable for how she’s able to work with the young cast but also make a movie that looks amazing. That said, Cuties is a decent coming-of-age film, although I feel like I’ve seen better versions of this movie in films like Mustang and The Fits.

Also from France comes Justine Triet’s SYBIL (Music Box Films), starring Virgine Efira (who appeared in Triet’s earlier film, In Bed with Victoria) as the title character, a jaded psychotherapist who decides to return to her passion of writing, getting her inspiration from an actress patient named Margot (Adèle Exarchopoulos), who she becomes obsessed with. I don’t have a lot to say about this movie other than it wasn’t really for me. As far as French films go, a movie really has to stand out from the usual talkie drama filled with exposition, and though I thought the performances by the two women were great, I didn’t really care for the script or the pacing on this one. After playing at last year’s Cannes, Toronto and the New York Film Festival, Sybil will be available via Virtual Cinema through Film at Lincoln Center and the Laemmle in L.A. as well as other cities. You can watch the trailer and find out how to watch it through your local arthouse at the official site.

Now seems like as good a time as any to get into some docs…

Liz Garbus and Lisa Cortés’ doc ALL-IN: THE FIGHT FOR DEMOCRACY (Amazon) follows Stacey Abrams through her run for Atlanta Governor in 2018, but it also deals with the laws that had been put in place to try to keep black voters from taking part in their right as Americans to be able to vote. I’m not sure what’s going on with me right now, but I generally just don’t have much interest in political docs right now, maybe because there’s so much politics on TV and in the news. I also have very little interest in Abrams or even having the racist history of the American South drilled into my head by another movie. I was born in 1965, my family didn’t even live in this country until 1960, and I’ve spent my life trying to treat everyone equally, so watching a movie like this and being preached to about how awful African-Americans have been treated in parts of the South for hundreds of years, I’m just not really sure what I’m supposed to do about it here in New York. I guess my biggest problem with All-In, which is a perfectly fine and well-made doc – as would be expected from Garbus – is that it lacks focus, and it seems to be all over the place in terms of what it’s trying to say… and I’m not even sure what it is trying to say, nor did I have the patience to find out. I thought Slay the Dragon handled the issues with gerrymandering far better, and I think I would have preferred a movie that ONLY focused on Abrams and her life and political career than trying to make a bigger statement. All-In will open at a few drive-ins (tonight!) and then will be on Amazon Prime on September 18.

I was similarly mixed on Jeff Orlwosky’s doc, THE SOCIAL DILEMMA, which debuted on Netflix this week. This one looks at the addiction people have for social media apps like Facebook and Twitter, and how the information of what people watch and click on is collected into a database that’s sold to the highest bidder. Basically, it’s your worst fears about social media come to life, but my issue with this one is that the filmmaker decided to hire actors to dramatize parts of the movie, showing one family dealing with social media and phone addiction, which seemed like an odd but probably necessary decision other than the fact that the topic is so nerdy and so over my head that maybe it was necessary to illustrate what’s being explained by programmers. Again, not a terrible doc, just not something I had very little interest in even if it is an important subject (and I’m probably spending too much on social media and essentially more of the problem than the solution).

I saw S. Leo Chiang and Yang Sun’s doc OUR TIME MACHINE at Tribeca last year, and I quite liked it. It follows influential Chinese artist Ma Liang (Maleonn) who collaborates with his Peking Opera director father Ma Ke, who is suffering from Alzheimer’s, on an elaborate and ambitious project called “Papa’s Time Machine” using life-sized mechanical puppets. I don’t have a ton to say about the movie but it’s a nice look into the Chinese culture and traditions and how the country and art itself has changed between two generations.

One doc I missed last week but will be available digitally this week is Michael Paszt’s Nail in the Coffin: The Fall and Rise of Vampiro about semi-retired professional wrestler Ian Hodgkinson aka Vampiro, who is a Lucha Libre legend.

There’s a lot of other stuff on Netflix this week, including THE BABYSITTER: KILLER QUEEN, the sequel to the Samara Weaving-starring horror-thriller, again co-written and directed by McG (Charlies Angels: Full Throttle). This one stars Bella Thorne, Leslie Bibb and Ken Marino, as it follows Judah Lewis’ Cole after surviving the satanic blood cult from the first movie.

I don’t know nearly as much about the British comedy series The Duchess, other than it stars comedian Katherine Ryan as a single mother juggling a bunch of things. Julie and the Phantoms is Netflix’s latest attempt to be the Disney channel with a movie about a young girl named Julie (Madison Reyes) who decides to start a band with a group of ghosts (hence the title). It’s even from Kenny Laguna, who is best known for the Disney Channel’s biggest hits High School Musical and The Descendants.

Other stuff to look out for this week include Kevin Del Principe’s thriller Up on the Glass (Gravitas Ventures), which is now available On Demand, digital and Blu-Ray; the Russian dogs doc Space Dogs (Icarus Films) – available via Alamo on Demand; Phil Wall’s doc The Standard (Gravitas Ventures), and Andrei Bowden-Schwartz, Gina O’Brien’s tennis comedy All-In (on Amazon Prime and VOD/Digital) and Sam B. Jones’ Red White and Wasted (Dark Star Pictures).

Next week, more movies not in theaters!

By the way, if you read this week’s column and have bothered to read this far down, feel free to drop me some thoughts at Edward dot Douglas at Gmail dot Com or drop me a note or tweet on Twitter. I love hearing from readers … honest!

#TheWeekendWarrior #Movies #Reviews #TheBrokenHeartsGallery #IAMWoman #Unpregnant #AllIn #Cuties #rentapal #Netflix #VOD #streaming

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stevenuniversallyreviews · 7 years

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Episode 55*: Shirt Club

“This sounds like a very abstract problem.”

For fear of echoing Buck Dewey’s condescending assessment of Steven’s drawing, there’s just something endearing about a cartoon about making art. Animation as a medium is remarkable for how many types of artists are involved: for instance, Steven Universe exists as a collaboration between visual artists, writers, songwriters, actors, singers, composers, and instrumental musicians. It’s a crew that by necessity has a passion for art in many forms, and episodes like Shirt Club let this passion shine. (See also: James Baxter the Horse from Steven Universe’s big brother Adventure Time.)

Many of the artists behind Steven Universe have multiple roles: most famously, its storyboarders are also its scriptwriters. Some boarders even pull triple duty, like guitarist Jeff Liu and voice actor Lamar Abrams, who brings Buck to life. It’s fitting, then, that Shirt Club revolves around guitars and Buck as Steven navigates his way through the perils of publishing his art.

As sincere as this episode is, it’s also ridiculous. The final sequence of Steven as a faux assassin straight up shooting Mayor Dewey in the chest is absurd both as a situation within the show and as something that was allowed to be on the show itself, but sure enough, Steven Universe manages to give a lone gunman sniping spree an emotionally fulfilling resolution.

This scene proves a core lesson of the episode: just because something’s silly doesn’t mean it’s not art. Buck hits the nail on the head when praising Steven’s drawing for its sincerity and naïveté, even if he’s being a wad about it: the Guitar Dad shirt is awesome because it’s a pure expression of a kid looking up to a parent, even if that expression won’t win any medals for aesthetics (and because it won’t). Steven Universe doesn’t need to prove its artistic merits, and the episode is wise to avoid this path and devolving into meta defensiveness, but I appreciate how its structure demonstrates its message.

That Buck recognizes Guitar Dad’s merits but sees its meaning in a negative light speaks volumes about his own relationship with his father, as well as the general adolescent obsession with irony. And let’s face it, Buck is mean in this episode. The other teenagers laugh at the shirt, but don’t necessarily laugh at the subject: Sour Cream is a bit of a jerk to Greg, but Jenny seems to honestly appreciate him even if she thinks he’s funny. Lars is easily swayed, having no opinion on the shirt but seeing the value in at least pretending to appreciate it (which certainly lumps him in with real-life folks who feign an appreciation for art for impress people, if you’ll allow me an overanalysis). But Buck is cruel in a way that’s uncomfortable, but not totally out of character.

In Lars and the Cool Kids, Buck is the most enigmatic of the Cool Kids, as per his mirroring of Garnet. As he repeatedly pulls the rug out from under Lars with a straight face, it’s hard to tell how much he’s intentionally messing with the guy. The same goes for his ordering salad at the Big Donut after examining its salad-free displays. He plays it so cool in both situations (and in general) that some of it has to be an act, and he’s perceptive enough that he has to notice Lars’s barefaced need to please, but he’s such a closed book that we can’t get a read on what’s in his head.

We see more of him in Shirt Club than ever before, and while he’s always been friendly to Steven, we really don’t know him all that well. His father’s an obvious sore spot, and seems to be the only thing that can make him completely crack, whether from embarrassment or being genuinely touched (or feeling remorse or feeling more embarrassed, a tear from this guy could mean anything). It makes for a fascinating “villain” when compared to our emotionally open hero, and he’s really the only kind of antagonist an episode like Shirt Club can have.

Regardless, the fact that Buck is still somewhat out of character (he’s utterly kind to Steven everywhere else in the series) is worth noting, because this is one of the last collaborations between storyboarders Lamar Abrams and Hellen Jo before the latter left Steven Universe. While this team is responsible for some terrific episodes and my all-time favorite scene of the series (the ending of Winter Forecast), they’re also behind House Guest and Fusion Cuisine, which are essentially about evil twins pretending to be Greg and Connie.

For whatever reason, the Abrams/Jo team seems to enjoy bringing out the worst in beloved characters (or inventing negative traits out of nowhere) in ways that wildly diverge from their typical depictions. It allows for drama within a contained story, but in a way that clashes with the consistency of the series; with the exception of Island Adventure and its lesson that emotional and physical abuse is okay sometimes, these kinds of character-nuke episodes are my least favorite. Shirt Club is the best of these divergences by far, in that I can actually deduce Buck’s rationale and because he’s a mysterious character by design, but it’s still an unfortunate trend that happily gets ironed out as the show continues.

(Bear in mind that beyond letting us watch the snow fall, Abrams co-boarded The Answer and Chille Tid and When It Rains, and while it may be a coincidence that each contains a breathtaking scene of a character coming to grips with a scary new environment, I tend to think that he’s really good at framing them. He’s also the only boarder to work on every Onion episode; even if Onion Gang is a dud, Onion as a character certainly isn’t, and I get the feeling we mostly have Abrams to thank for that. I want to give no impressions that this isn’t a brilliant animator.)

Mayor Dewey and the Crystal Gems are here for comic relief, and oh boy do they deliver. Jo and Abrams are brilliant at giving the Gems incongruous background tasks: in Watermelon Steven it’s reading the paper, and here it seems to be assembling IKEA furniture. Their criticisms of Steven’s art and unwillingness to help his strange problem highlight Shirt Club’s casual tone, and they get little moments of self-parody without dipping too deep into meta humor: Garnet’s twinkling shades during a pregnant pause certainly counts, but Amethyst and Pearl’s escalating concerns about Steven’s shirt problem takes the cake.

Mayor Dewey is incredibly, but not unbelievably, lame. Between his outdated slang and his blatant desire to connect with youths (without putting in any actual effort) it’s easy to see Buck’s disdain. Bill’s speech about losing his speech is overshadowed by Steven setting up his sniping position, but is worth paying attention to for Joel Hodgson’s masterful meandering.

And despite his selfish and thoughtless intentions, actually seeing Buck and Steven making shirts is a bunch of fun. It evokes Steven and Greg’s adventures in rocket science from Space Race, but with the wrinkle of Buck demonstrating actual knowledge of the craft to contrast with Steven’s silliness. While the distribution and interpretation of art once it’s complete makes up the episode’s conflict, the creation process itself is joyful and pure, as it should be for a kid making art.

Buck comes around at the end, of course, apologizing to Steven and offering to take guitar lessons. But honestly, the nicer he is to Steven, the weirder his behavior here seems, whether or not he’s a mysterious guy. The best thing I can say about Abrams/Jo character-nuke episodes is that there’s only three of them, and finishing Shirt Club, from that lens, is a huge sigh of relief.

Future Vision!

The Good Lars not only shows Buck wearing the Guitar Dad shirt, but showing off what he’s learned! And he’ll continue to play guitar as one of Sadie Killer’s Suspects, a band that will eventually be managed by Greg himself.

I guess you could read it that way…

On the one hand, watching this after Joy Ride makes Buck’s cruelty even stranger. But on the other, getting to know him better there, and Bill better in Political Power, makes an examination of their relationship a nice coda.

Tonally, Shirt Club simply doesn’t fit where it’s intended to go. Open Book and Story for Steven at least have their dramatic moments that fit the simmering tension of post-Marble Madness Season 1, but Shirt Club’s lightness thoroughly deflates the momentum. The Gems casually building furniture makes no sense in this time period, and Pearl and Amethyst’s list of fears don’t even hint at them worrying about Homeworld.

Still, the reordering leaves us with pre-Jailbreak Garnet, which is a little confusing without context. (I certainly prioritize this minor continuity error lower than harming dramatic tension.)

Regardless of your opinions about the order shift, I’m happy to say that Shirt Club is the last of it! No more asterisks!

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Buck’s strange meanness doesn’t tank Shirt Club down to the bottom, but it does make me less inclined to rewatch what’s an otherwise wonderful episode about art. It’s a shame, but there’s still a lot to love when you get shirt!

Top Fifteen

Steven and the Stevens

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

The Return

Jailbreak

Rose’s Scabbard

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Winter Forecast

On the Run

Warp Tour

Maximum Capacity

The Test

Ocean Gem

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Future Vision

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

No Thanks!

4. Horror Club 3. Fusion Cuisine 2. House Guest 1. Island Adventure

#shirt club #steven universe #su #steven universally #review

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bluewatsons · 7 years

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Zoe Samudzi, Who Are You and What Do You Really Know?, The New Inquiry (May 13, 2017)

Gaslighting and Dolezalean logic

Many of us have encountered gaslighting: the tactic by which an individual, to gain power over an opponent, seeks to convince them that their failure to understand or agree is a product of their delusion. Discomfort, shame, and deeply unsettling self-evaluations may accompany such manipulation. Gaslighting is most commonly associated with intimate partner/domestic abuse, with the gaslighter using alienation, isolation, and projection to convince their significant other that their understanding of the relationship and by extension the world are totally wrong. The target of gaslighting is ridiculed, shamed, and sometimes even brutalized into affirming a worldview that mirrors their abuser’s. But gaslighting is also larger than the individuals involved in a given interpersonal interaction; these interactions often mirror and invigorate wider forms of structural violence.

During a recent graduate seminar at the University of Toronto, Michelle Murphy, a feminist historian of science, introduced the concept of genealogies of gaslighting. These genealogies trace the foundational assumptions of the logic that seeks to legitimize the violence to which marginalized communities are subjected. Together they illuminate how modes of kyriarchal oppression produce ignorance, which is not simply an absence of knowledge, but also a refusal to know. In plainer terms, the genealogies of gaslighting are the historical-sociological formations of overlapping systems of domination that assert a particular set of identities as normal, and then subsequently make those identities into material realities. White supremacy’s utilization of scientific logics to construct categories of difference and hierarchies of superiority/inferiority that justify violence against Black and other racialized bodies is one facet of these genealogies. The use of biology to rigidly define “normal” sex and gender within a binary regime that heavily regulates or altogether prevents gender non-conforming individuals from having agency over their gendered self-determination is another.

White supremacy is a part of these genealogies of gaslighting, and white ignorance is one means by which supremacism sustains itself. In “White Ignorance,” Charles Mills describes how “the white delusion of racial superiority insulates itself against refutation” and so refuses to affirm ways of knowing (and being) that do not share assumptions that reinforce marginality. White supremacy attempts to acculturate not only white people but people of all ethno-racial backgrounds into believing and upholding the social, political, and economic structures that comprise it. It seeks to maintain its own infallibility.

“Show me evidence that racism still exists,” may be one demand to which Black people are subjected, as though centuries of abolitionist writings, personal accounts of violence, policy documents and Department of Justice investigations, the unending video stream of Black lives lost to police murder, and 19th century lynching postcards—still circulating—are insufficient. Supremacism-contradicting knowledge is, through manipulation, rendered less credible. This forces people producing anti-racist knowledge to carry a never-ceasing burden of responsibility to “prove” themselves.

Dominant knowledge—the facts and truths asserted and defended by systems of power—is a social construction (as opposed to unarguable fact) that dismisses, redefines, co-opts or altogether erases contradictory knowledges. It is within this context of knowledge and ignorance production that, for example, whitewashing and cultural appropriation exist. Because whiteness demands control over defining non-whiteness, cultural productions circulate at the expense of the peoples to whom they belong.

Donald Trump’s deployment of “fake news”—an approach that combines his habitual lying, a refusal to be held accountable for his statements, and a blatantly anti-Semitic skepticism of the media—presents a clear example of gaslighting in action. But Trump’s use of false rhetoric has been well-covered. More subtle yet nevertheless insidious is the gaslighting performed by Rachel Dolezal and those who, in the name of “real intellectual curiosity,” defend her claims (and others who defend those defenses) to “transracialism.”

Dolezal has, for the most part, been handled carefully by cis white America, treated more like an amusing oddity than the embodiment of harm. The assumption that she is “merely” guilty of cultural appropriation necessarily obscures the white entitlement inherent to painting on Black skin and taking on another racialized identity as one’s own. This is likely because her entire schtick is predicated on white America’s deep disdain for two groups of people: Black women and trans people.

Dolezal’s claim to Blackness is rooted in the misogynoiristic tradition of reducing Black womanhood to a costume or commodity—something that can be put on and removed at will. Dolezal can adopt and abandon “blackening” aesthetics like bronzer and twist-out wigs as she wishes because her so-called affinity for blackness, though supposedly deep, is rooted in an understanding of Black womanhood as a “culture, a philosophy, a political and social view,” or, in other words, something that can be extracted from history and brought into the realm of choice and self-identification. And it is important to note that Dolezal altogether waived her Blackness when she chose to sue Howard University in 2002 for discriminating against her because she was white. This is not unlike the actions of Abigail Fisher, who, in the ultimate fragile expression of white entitlement, sued the University of Texas for reverse discrimination, thereby potentially jeopardizing affirmative action when she simply failed to meet the academic requirements for admission.

These are the identity politics that Rebecca Tuvel reinforces in her analogy-defense of transracialism and “transgenderism” published in the leading feminist philosophy journal, Hypatia, at the end of March. In an article titled “In Defense of Transracialism,” Tuvel seeks to analogize changing race to changing gender: if we validate trans people’s transitions, we must necessarily also validate Rachel Dolezal’s. Even though she acknowledges that “Dolezal may have been driven by ulterior motives that inclined her to pretend to be Black” and feigns a neutrality by stating it is not her responsibility to “decide the Dolezal case one way or the other,” she weighs in nonetheless and validates Dolezal’s identity by placing her in the same realm as trans people. There have been a number of pointed critiques, including those by noted transfeminist Julia Serano, but the great part of the public conversation has been defensive of Tuvel, revolving around left and right convergences of “academic freedom” or decrying the harms of “callout culture” in academia, while notably omitting engagement of the counter-arguments posed.

Dolezal’s claim to Blackness also relies upon transmisogyny and a gross misappropriation of narratives around the social construction and fluidity of identity—physical dysphoria, and “wrong bodiedness”—that some trans people articulate in a number of different ways. From the beginning, her “trans-racial” identity was a misappropriation of the identities of adoptees who used the word to describe the experiences of being adopted into families with different ethno-racial identities than their own.. As she has seized the opportunities afforded to her to explain herself (and promote her book), she has even more explicitly weaponized trans experiences to legitimize her own, going so far as to say in a recent interview: “There’s more stigma for race fluidity than gender fluidity right now, and I don’t think anybody would deny that.”

Dolezal would be bad enough if everyone simply ignored her. But because she deliberately evokes the white cis majority’s contempt for and refusal of both trans and black self-determination, her claim to Blackness is treated as an opportunity to explore the boundaries of identity rather than as sheer racist opportunism. Though earnest interrogations of these boundaries have been made by Black trans scholars like Kai M. Green, outright defenses of transracial claims that fail to draw upon Black or trans scholarship at length, like that of Tuvel, are disingenuous.

Dominant cisnormative logic dismisses trans personhoods as altogether illegitimate by denying the reality of trans people’s needs, experiences, and self-understanding. With Dolezal, the “unseriousness” of trans identities juxtaposed against their potential for realness: being trans is entertained as some potential identity within the realm of some gendered possibility, but it exists as a source of comparison and analogy rather than a state of being that is unequivocally affirmed and respected by us as cisgender people. Gender non-conformity becomes part of a series of hypothetical constructions as opposed to a diversity of narratives and material identities that exist without question, and when the transgender-transracial analogy is employed, these experiences become ripe for the callous co-opting and exploiting.

Dolezalean-style gaslighting rests upon three layers of white supremacist logic. First is the presumption of the perpetual victimization of white womanhood; in positioning her desires to be Black and beautiful in proximity to the parental abuses she says she has experienced, she accesses a sympathetic victim role (one that potentially explains her behavior emerging from a place of childhood trauma) that is the sole domain of white women. Second, she capitalizes on a cultural moment of trans hypervisibility, constantly comparing herself to Caitlyn Jenner, who came out as a trans woman just a couple of months before Dolezal was outed as white. But if Dolezal truly seeks to share her navigation of the world as the finally free Black woman that was never allowed to be, why does she invoke Jenner, a white woman rather than her Black trans sisters who are “similarly” forced to defend their transitions and identities? Lastly, Dolezal knows that because constructions of race are in many ways organized around anti-Blackness, the majority of white people would rather deride Black women than listen to our objections to her co-option of our identity. It isn’t any surprise that defenders of Tuvel are using “witch hunt” to describe Black and trans calls for accountability from both Hypatia and Tuvel herself. And it is even less of a surprise that Tuvel’s defenders are attacking critics of her article (myself included) as opposed to the well-founded academic rebuttals of her work. Many cis Black men, like clockwork, also opted to defend this white woman through claims that she has done more work for the community than most of us have. As Trudy of Gradient Lair incisively noted:

“This is very specific to a White woman/Black woman dynamic. It is the same reason why Black men defend Miley Cyrus, Iggy Azalea, and Lily Allen et. al. in ways they never defend White male cultural appropriators. So much appropriation and erasure of Black women is intraracially justified because of the hetero Black male gaze.”

Ijeoma Oluo’s recent interview (and psychological profile) of Dolezal is the first interview that has clearly illuminated the depths of the raced-gendered delusion and entitlement within which she operates. In one of the most revealing parts of the interview, Oluo questions Dolezal about the chapter of the book where she compares herself to enslaved Africans. Dolezal distinguishes her comparison from the wrongful analogies of other white people by saying that “those people are not aware, they haven’t been black history professors.” Dolezal, it’s worth noting, is a former Black history professor with degrees in art—not any kind of African or Afro-diasporan history. Nevertheless, she commandeers authority all the same. As the interview progresses, Dolezal increasingly responds to Oluo with the characteristic agitation and dismissiveness of a white woman exasperated with a Black woman on the verge of revealing a grand ruse. Fortunately for Dolezal, nobody listens to Black women—we are not the authorities on Black womanhood. She knows this. Dolezal’s entire being relies on this.

Gaslighting makes us question ourselves because we are forced to entertain how white supremacy voids us of our humanity and our capacity to define ourselves as equals. Because, for instance, Tuvel’s article will be seen as an authoritative disciplinary engagement on race and gender, it will likely be added to academic curricula and reading lists and perhaps eventually even become canonical (though still controversial) in gender studies.

Both Dolezal and Tuvel demonstrate the infallibility and virtuosity of cis white womanhood: despite the harm they enact, they are still always worthy of understanding, protection, kid-gloves. Assumptions about the “fakeness” or subordinate status of trans and Black identities ground Dolezal’s (and white supremacy’s) ability to co-opt and pit the experiences of marginalized people against one another. Because of how our navigations of the world are dismissed, we are shamefully forced to make ourselves legible to a gaze that can only ever see us as less than. Attempting to dispel these harmful ideas in academic discourses, we are often forced to wade through the trenches of normalized and canonical bigotries via literature review. If we choose to engage in this one-sided dialogue with power, we sometimes self-police so as not to be too threatening, or we center and accommodate the feelings of our oppressors so that our humanity becomes easier for them to understand. We are often forced to abandon our justifiably militant positions in favor of more respectable ones or silence simply because a means of coping can become a priority over never-ending and seemingly hopeless demands for our rights to humanity and freedom from violence.

It is not enough to simply hope that Dolezal, or any other career appropriator, simply disappears. As long as there is a structural and systemic investment in discrediting gender non-conforming and Black identities and subordinating the understandings they possess, these gaslighting genealogies that define and regulate humanity will continue, and the Dolezals of the world (and their defenders, and their defenders’ defenders) will spawn and flourish like the cockroaches they are.

#identity #discourse #subordination #rachel dolezal #self-perception #gaslighting #race #whiteness

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