#*never stop slutting out the cogs this was just for the joke | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jhsbrat · 6 years ago

Text

stories that never were pt.5

i don’t play tag, bitch i’ve been it

genre: stories that never were pt. 5, idol au, lovers to enemies au

word count: 1,787

warnings: rough sex, unhealthy relationship, both oc and namjoon are idiots

Noise. Lights. Flashes. In the midst of it all, you’re focused on the toupee of the man three rows back, synthetic brown hair laid askew on his perfectly round head. He reaches up to itch at it, knocking it even further off center, eyes still focused on his notes in front of him.

I need to give him my stylist's number, you think to yourself, taking a swig of water and swishing it around in your mouth before swallowing to aid your thirst. Then there’s a tap on your shoulder and you look up to find your manager hovering beside you.

“Are you ready?” He whispers, adjusting the mic propped on the table in front of you. “We’re about to start.”

You sigh and nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Sejin straightens up and fixes you with a stare. “Remember, just like how we practiced. You’re polite and cordial. Only talk about your new album, no going off track.”

“Yeah, sure.” You wave him off.

“Listen to me, promise that-“ He’s hushed by a stagehand and pulled off to the side, behind the curtains shielding staff from the flash of the reporter's cameras. You look up and paste that soft smile your agency made you practice a hundred times in the mirror in preparation.

“Good morning, thank you all for coming,” You speak into the microphone demurely. “I would like to start taking questions now.”

The room erupts into noise after your welcome statement and you blink for a moment before pointing randomly at a woman off to the side, eagerly waving her hand.

“Hello,” the woman coughs and glances down quickly at her notes, “First, I would like to congratulate you on all your success so far. It must have been an interesting journey for you to have started from making songs in your basement to being signed and releasing a full-length album with Big Hit Entertainment. How are you feeling right now?”

A softball, easy. You knew the answer to this off the top of your head. “It’s amazing and incredibly humbling. I’m so grateful to everyone that had a hand in supporting me to where I am today.”

Hands shoot up again and you point to toupee man now, curious to know if his voice was as thin as his hair.

“Early critiques of your new album are calling the changes to your sound “meteoric” and “exponential”,” he rattles off in a squeaky tone. “Some are going so far as to say that it’s a complete 180 to your SoundCloud days. What is your response?”

“I would say the equipment I get to work with now is a step above the trial version of Audacity, so that’s probably why.” You grin and there are soft chuckles heard throughout the room. You wait a second to let them write that down and then point to a younger guy directly in front of you. He grins politely, bunny teeth revealed, before leaning closer in his seat and looking down at his note pad as he reads off his prepared question.

“Your collaboration with Gloss has proven to be very successful and it’s helped land you on XXL’s Freshman Class for this year. Billboard is even crediting it as one of the best songs of the year. But not everyone feels the same. How do you respond to rapper RM’s claims that you’re just ‘a singer who raps’?”

The room quiets for the first time and you blank, lost in thought, catapulted back into time at the mention of the name.

“Jesus Christ,” Namjoon groans, throwing his head back.

You look up at him, mouth sliding off his cock with a wet pop. “Not quite,” you reply, snarky, giving him a lick.

The man lets out a breath and looks down at your figure, kneeling on the cheap carpet of his makeshift studio, knees rubbed raw from the polyester. The tight spandex of your dress hugs your body and he has to gulp and look back up again before he comes to the sight of arched ass alone.

“You talk too much,” he complains half-heartedly, fingers yanking hard on your hair and bringing the heat of your mouth back where he wants. You rake your teeth along his length in retaliation and it shocks him, his body spasming from the feeling before you take all of him back in your mouth in one go, wet slurping sounds quickly filling the small space.

(Neither of you would ever admit it aloud, but you’re both pain sluts, reveling in the sting of a harsh slap or ache of a hard bite. It fed a hunger both of you possessed, but could never quite fully sate in its entirety. Which is why, you suppose, the two of you kept returning to this place, finding that nothing could stoke your fire quite like pain twinged pleasure of a too hard fuck.)

Your fingers trail up and down his torso, pink-tipped acrylics threatening to scratch at the sensitive skin of his chest, and it’s that coupled with the look you give that sends him hurtling towards a premature finish. Your eyes are stretched wide, carefully applied mascara now running in rivers down your cheeks. It makes him hot thinking you did that for him, that your hair is tied up in a ponytail so he can yank on it and your nails are manicured to prick at his skin.

(Though he knows it would be delusional to believe you would dress for any man, he still likes to indulge in this fantasy, at least temporarily, because then he could pretend at least for a little while that you were his.)

With teardrops hanging at the tips of your lashes, you give a hard suck and moan, the vibration enough to tip Namjoon over the edge. You swallow, but don’t let up quite yet, and he has to shove you off when the overstimulation becomes numbing.

“Whore,” he sighs, but his words carry no bite and he bends forward to thumb at your chin and kiss you softly. Your teeth tug at his lips as you pull away, grinning softly before you stand up to search for your panties from wherever he flung them off an hour ago.

“We can’t keep doing this, I only came to talk to you and now I’m late for a dance lesson,” you sigh, shimmying your underwear back up your thighs.

“Mhmm, but we say that every time.” Namjoon tucks himself back into his pants, watching you pull the hem of your dress back down and regrets not marking up your ass when he had the chance. “And what are you still doing those classes for?”

You fall into the chair by his keyboard, intentional in your decision to not sit next to him when you speak next. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about-“

“Wait, let me guess,” he chuckles, walking closer to look down at you and wipe away the remnants of the streaked makeup around your eyes. “They finally kicked you out?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, annoyed. “No, Joon, I-“

“No, no, I got it! They kicked you out and banned you from ever coming again-“

You swat his hand away and stand up, pushing back from the chair and grabbing your bag to walk out the small room. “I’m just going to leave if you’re not going to listen.”

“Wait, wait,” he grabs your wrist, but is still chuckling softly when he pulls you closer. “Go on, tell me. But do it quick, we still gotta finish that song from last week, Yoongi is waiting for the lyrics before he can start making the-“

“I got signed,” you blurt out, frustrated with his constant interruptions. Namjoon freezes and blinks, his hand still wrapped around your own.

“You got…signed? Like, to an agency?”

Sighing, you nod, letting your hand fall from his own. “Yeah. I filled out the contracts yesterday.”

He blinks again. Then his mouth spreads into a grin. “Very funny, you had me going. Okay, I got the message, I won’t joke about those classes again.”

You stare at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

His grin widens and he turns to find his phone. “C’mon, stop kidding, let’s get started. I’m just going to call Yoongi so we can-“

“Namjoon, I’m not fucking kidding. An agency scouted me and I decided to sign with them yesterday.”

His back goes rigid from where he’s standing hunched over his bag, looking for his device. He turns around to face you, smile gone. “You-you’re serious right now?”

You nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I thought you’d be more excited, I’ll get to actually perform the songs I write now-“

“Excited? Excited? For what, for you to be pranced around like a prized show dog?” He spits.

Your head jerks back, blood boiling hot at the vitriol in his voice. He doesn’t take note of your shock, continuing on his tirade instead.

“Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me you didn’t actually willingly choose to become part of the empty machine that is that industry, to become a-a-a-“ He stutters, then looks away before turning back to you and it frightens you how his eyes go cold. “A mindless slave.”

Post-coital glow completely dissipated, you feel your skin heat up at his words and you step close enough for the tips of your noses to touch. “I make that choice and suddenly I’m nothing more than a cog in a machine? You think there’s nothing left to me?”

He stares down at you, jaw clenched. “If you decided to sell out like that without a gun to your head, then yeah. I do.”

There’s a squeeze at your heart from his words, but it doesn’t stop you from speaking next. “Then you can die mad about it.”

His teeth hurt from how hard they grind against each other as he watches you walk out the studio, choosing to forgo collecting the last of your belongings in the room in favor of having a dramatic exit. He realizes it hours later, laying on the torn up couch after he’s angrily scribbled his feelings out on ripped pages of paper. Sighing, he promises himself he’ll apologize when you eventually come back to pick them up.

You don’t.

The sound of Sejin releasing a soft cough off to the side brings you back to the present, your gaze focusing once again on the man in front of you. The badge hanging around his neck reads Jeon Jeongguk and you drag your gaze back up to his wide eyes expecting an answer. Smiling, you lean forward into the mic to speak.

“And I still beat him on the charts, didn’t I?”

e/n: yea boiii

#bts #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts smut #namjoon fanfiction #namjoon fanfic #namjoon smut

100 notes · View notes

aleatoryalarmalligator · 7 years ago

Text

Life Story Part 71

When I got back to my mother's, things seemed totally out of control. My mother's moods were over the top. Roxanne and her were at each other like two titans. David had become this ball of aggression and fury that everyone was intimidated by. His moods pretty much dictated how comfortable I felt going to the bathroom at night. It was so bad I was afraid to leave the bedroom. Allison and I just hid in my room together for most of this. We did three things. We talked about Allison's manga story she was working on and her favorite television shows, she talked about her classmates and her school crushes or who was dating who, or I found books to read to her – which I generally had to coerce her to listen, but after awhile she would get invested in the stories and characters like I was. It was still late summer, and I was now twenty years old. I felt too old to be this trapped, living like this. I remember it feeling so weird to know that I was more than two decades old. Being twenty had always struck me as something that would never happen but was at the same time inevitable. I had thought in a way that I would be a teenager forever. It had been the magical age that was promised to happen to me someday, but somehow never did. And then suddenly I was twenty. It always seemed like it meant the merging of youth with a sense of grace that was lacked in your teens, and somehow it was all going to come together for me. And yet, here I was, living in a small fowl room in a pretty gross house with my mother and my family who were all psychos, hiding away from everything and everyone as it all seemed to be a direct threat to what little sanity I felt I had.

My father and Trish had split up a few weeks before the shop was supposed to open. Trish had been conning my father the whole time, and he was trying to make it work, in denial of what was now becoming increasingly obvious. For a time after he kicked Trish out of the shop, he hired this other woman to run things, but she ended up being very unstable and pocketing money as well, eventually acting physically aggressive towards my father and even towards his kids. It seemed my father knew nothing about this business and was afraid to learn. He was essentially a factory worker who for some reason owned the rudimentary supplies to a pedicure spa. And he was too afraid to try. He liked the idea of being a business person, and the idea of branching out into new fields, but ultimately fear won in the end and he shut the shop down. He had sunk fifty thousand dollars into this endevour. It all came to mostly nothing.

What's more, Pullman didn't need another pedicure spa. There were two successful pedicure spas down the road. This entire thing was so unthought out. I couldn't really understand how anyone could be so foolish. But given that he had started, I don't think he should have given up. He gave up before he even tried to make it work for one. Personally, call me competitive or idealistic, but I really do believe he could have made this business work – but it was never about the business. I realized my father, behind his aggressive or forward exterior, was actually someone who felt better when he was being bossed around. He didn't want to be his own boss. Yes, he had some of the personality traits of someone who was independent, but in the end he had fallen in the trap because some strange part of him wanted to be taken advantage of. It hurt his feelings, and yet that was still the lamp that drew in the moth. I thought a lot about that, and it was intriguing and weird. People are really strange. We are often never who we seem to be.

He could have reached into himself, maybe changed what his business would be, perhaps met the right person willing to take the risks needed – someone he wasn't having a relationship with. He didn't try any of these things. He got scared. I told him to stick with it, but I think the whole business and all the work he put into it was just one big reminder of what a dolt he had become. And there was no getting passed that. Strangely, he thought that Allison, David and I saw him as some kind of failure because of the business, which was really weird. I didn't see him as a failure, particularly at the time. I saw him as a fucking jackass for the way he treated me. And it was not true of Allison and David at all. They were twelve and thirteen. They didn't care about economic successes in the least. I personally mostly missed the opportunity to go up to Pullman. It had the best used book store I had ever been in. It was called Bruised Books and it was just down the way. I would go to the shop with him in the fall, and I would go on my own down the road and spend hours reading in the store, listening to the rain outside. I didn't want to be anywhere else. I know it's a played out idea, but when I looked at all the book shelves, I saw worlds opening up before me to save me from everything and anything ugly and mundane. Through books and stories I could be anyone and experience anything.

I bounced a little between my mother's and father's. Honestly, I hated this repetitive nonsense more than life itself and I was beginning to become so invested in my own thoughts I just tried not to think about where I was anymore. I didn't see a way out for myself, without having a lot of emotional and physical support from people, and I knew that wasn't going to happen. I knew somewhere deep down in my mind that in order to get out of this mess, I was going to have to transform and transcend in a way that no words I could ever write or say would ever do justice. To become the kind of person, to remake the person I was would be something akin to magic. I felt like each book I read, and every painful miserable thing I had been through up to that point was driving me closer to having those inner tools, but I felt like some of the change was making me insane. It's something that probably affects soldiers, former drug abusers, slaves – people who have been trapped or had to reprogram themselves in some fundamental way.

There is the kind of survival that happens for the sake of survival. You do what you have to to make it to the next day, to feel okay in the moment. And then you hit a breaking point where that thing doesn't work anymore, and some deep internal functioning just starts shutting down. It's like the death of your soul and you are left with this intense desperation knowing that you have to end everything you have ever done and reinvent who you are, and really know yourself enough to change yourself in this deep seated fundamental fashion that will also kill other parts of who you are, mercilessly. Its the only way to be free and live a life of meaning. I wasn't there yet, but I felt the inner cogs inside my mind, twisting and breaking away. I was going to have to sacrifice my own skin and do for myself what nobody had ever done for me without any understanding or encouragement. If I wanted to have a life worth living, I had to eventually break out, and in a really big way. I didn't know how, or what life would look like for me on the other side. It was a change I sensed, but did not understand. But some internal pendulum had begun to swing.

My mom was basically at the end of this stage of her life where she drank at the bar or hung out with her friends. I think her heart was finally broken, albeit broken in slow motion by Danny over the course of several years, but broken no less. He officially no longer wanted to have anything to do with her. He would call her to come drink with him at the bar, and then when she showed up he would literally shoo her away like the cruel freak that he was. She would come home in this really forlorn and empty state of mind, and her eyes would be sad. Eventually, with the very small degree of dignity she had left, she stopped answering his phone calls. She worked briefly at a bar again, but when she discovered that the owner was intentionally taking advantage of a drunk man in some kind of gambling scam, she called the person out on it and they fired her, and she decided she was done working at bars in general, tired of serving drunk for the last fifteen years. And, with fifty coming upon her, she felt like she wasn't pretty anymore, or had no more life to live and I think that realization reshaped how she lived. In her confusion and insecurity in the midst of these changes, accompanied by a strange desperate attempt to feel wanted by men, she slept with every patron who had ever inappropriately ogled her or made disgusting jokes about her tits and suggested she sleep with them. She didn't want to do this. She hated these men, and the whole month that she went about the business of doing this was perhaps one of the saddest things I had ever watched a person do.

And when she came home, she shouted at me with a strange violence I hadn't seen in her save when she fought with Maria and when she was hung over or doing dope like she had several years previous. It infuriated me and I wanted to punch her, but it also kind of scared me. I said some things to her I regret during these fights. True, she had attacked me for essentially no reason, finding ways to blame absurd amounts of misery on me, but I remember calling her out on her promiscuity in a heat of anger one night when she was being particularly brutish towards me. I essentially slut shamed her. I had some sort of one liner about how pathetic she was. I thought in my limited angry state that saying she was being a bar slut would make me feel better. But I watched this sad light go out in her eyes with shock and hurt, and I instantly was sorry. It's not that she wasn't awful to me. It's just that, despite the fact she wasn't a very good mother, I felt like I had crossed boundaries I should not have. She was still a person, and I had no fucking clue what it meant to be in her shoes or how awful she felt. My life was legitimately miserable. I had been robbed of prospect and time and youth. But in many ways, I was still an untested individual. I thought I knew things that I didn't. And seeing that I suddenly had hit home and made her feel even grosser about herself really didn't make me feel as good as my anger had promised me it would. I felt like I had just poured vinegar on a wounded animal.

I tried so hard to just stay away from people. I poured my thoughts into what I was reading. I became intensely obsessed with The Dark Tower, Stephen King series. I read through the second and third book, and then I read those same books to Allison. It was one of the biggest escapes I had up to that point ever found. I was so entrenched in this quest to get to the tower, to get through the desert, and the city of Lud. Following Roland through the worlds was what I lived for. I didn't want to stop reading, as I had sort of suspected that I might kill myself. Something in me, perhaps that same part of me that was changing, also was becoming very open about the idea that my life might not be worth living. Reading books distracted me from that. As long as I had a book in my hand and some kind of outcome or mindbender at the end of a book, I didn't want to die. I was too curious. But if I stopped and looked at myself, I kind of did want to disappear. I wanted ultimately to have a life. My need to be free had pushed me to that edge. And just having those books to read, knowing that there was more to go, I held onto those books in a deep seated psychological way. I held this notion that at the end, the reason for my very existence would be presented before me.

I recommended the series to Sarah, who also was looking for some big serious way to distract herself from a relationship she no longer wanted to be in, working in a job she hated away from me and her mother in Texas. Her move had not brought her any closer to fame or fortune. It was funny to think that I seriously worried enviously three years previous that I might have to choke down the reality that Sarah had become a famous rock star in Texas and I would be a nobody in Idaho looking at her and Alex posing with their guitars on the front cover of some indie music magazine. But that never did happen. Sarah lost herself, and then found a new self that was equally as lost but somehow bent on getting away. And in a way, it had made Sarah a better person. She seemed to appreciate the kinds of conversations we used to have a whole lot more. And The Dark Tower series was something I could bond with Sarah over, to be able to share my love for the Dark Towers with someone. Of course, I became furious at the later changes in the story by the end (for the sake of any reader who wants to read the series I won't give anything away). It sort of crushed me. I took small breaks between the books in order to process them, and in order to not lose the series too quickly. I needed them in my life, or else I was afraid I might just try to end it all.

My relationship with David had soured. It always hurt. I cherished having good days with him, and I began to feel like his behavior was my fault. He was horrible some days. I had been shutting it off for years, declawing myself psychologically so as not to get invested in the madness of my family. I felt like if I tried to change things, it would only make it worse, and I was probably right. But David was calling my mother a fucking slut, calling Allison (a thirteen year old who in no way was ready to give it up), a fucking slut. He called all women sluts . I couldn't tell if this was something he threw out because he wanted us to feel like sex workers in a literal sense, if he felt like saying it was fun and went with the anger, or if he somehow thought we were having sexual thoughts or throwing out the vibes? I saw it as somewhat contrived, but why it was always sexual would be something I am sure Freud would have something to say about (questionable if he would be right). This one particular morning my mom was trying to make him breakfast, and he was being the absolute worst, calling her a cunt for literally no reason. He woke up in moods and he was basically an insane person. I was laying in my bunk bed, trying everything in my power to just shut down, to find some zen place to hide like always. Suddenly, something violent and raged just burst out of me, and honestly, I had no idea what I was doing, but I was suddenly walking into the living room, going straight up to David, telling him to knock it off. The second he sneered at me with some vindictive comment, I punched him hard in the face. I had not planned this at all. I guess I just couldn't take it anymore. I was tired of being afraid and threatened. David looked shocked, and I think deep down he was holding back tears of hurt. It had never come to this before between us, at least not physically, and I had taken it there – surprisingly before he had. I was so done feeling afraid all the time that I was willing to physically fight to have some control over my life. The kind of verbal abuse he was beginning to use had escalated to a form of violence that I couldn't even breath in anymore. When he called us names, I felt like someone was hitting me and shoving me. I felt like the kind of control he had over the house was violating me in some fashion and turning me into a ball of resentment and fear.

My mother seemed shocked and she tried to yell at me. I argued that he was calling her horrible names for no reason and I had had it and nobody was going to stop me. David was clearly shaken – some contradictory element of him still being a child – and my punching him feeling like yet another betrayal from an adult, but he ended up holding his own he pretended it had not hurt him. So, between yelling at my mom that he had it coming, I turned around and punched him again – since he was now acting as though he and my mother were in cahoots against me. His face was red and I could tell he was about to start sobbing though. A part of that boy I had just punched in the face was the same little soft bouncing baby ball of flubber and happiness I had played with in the living room as a baby, the same little boy I would watch from the window of our house outside pretending to be a knight, or talk about how he had been bullied in school. And knowing I was hurting something innocent, even partially innocent, didn't make me feel good at all. It may or may not have been hard punches and I am not naturally a violent person – but it still didn't feel too good. But the pressure had finally got to me. If people were going to be hurtful and violent towards one another all the time, then I wasn't going to be able to pretend it wasn't happening. I wasn't that kind of person anymore. This was how I handled it. Some other monster dictator in me was taking matters into my own hands.

My brother started shouting at my mom to help him. My mom started going into a back and forth with trying to bargain with me and telling me to get the hell out of the house. I eventually did, slamming the door behind me. I was enraged. The whole house was quiet after that, at least for a few weeks. I told my dad about what had happened. He didn't say much. I think most people who knew me were a little surprised and were quietly reevaluating who I was. To many people, I seem like someone who has no bottom to what I will sit through or take and it had become something that everyone around me had grown to rely on. But I had found that boiling point, or that bottom line or whatever analogy that fits. I had pretty much sort of broken. Not completely. Obviously I could still sit through most fights. I just felt the twitch of something that wasn't even rage. It was a sort of callous clarity, and once that happened to me, I was beyond reproach. I was willing to escalate the situation as far as it needed to go. I had reached that bottom. My father knew me well enough to know that David had likely had it coming to some degree, and if I had done something like that – I had hit a point of no return. Nobody wanted to take credit for how they had let things fall to begin with. I should never have had to have lived in that situation of being in constant fear and neither should Allison have had to live that way. I had warned my parents to try to give David the help he needed, but nobody had listened. Now, he was twelve or thirteen and I was twenty, and we were both too old to fix things.

To my brothers defense. Punching him wasn't the right thing to do, but to the defense of moral ambiguity, I don't think there was a right thing to do. There had only been cause and effect. I think whatever was causing him to become so awful was something growing in him so hideous and painful, that no young child should ever have to deal with. He was forming severe mental illness, and confusion about the fucked up things he had seen happen to him. David had always at heart been an incredibly honest and sensitive child with more needs than most, and in many ways the dysfunction had caused him to break down. If anything Allison was the tough one, even though people saw her as weak. My parents had been distracted and selfish. Combine this with giving him enormous power and entitlement for being the only son, and the toxic masculinity pressured on him by his father, a resentment for me based on the strange sort of collected and silent way that I found to manipulate the world around me, coupled with perhaps inheriting the biological factors that lead to insanity and intense destructive anger and violence of literally every man on my mother's side and my father's side of the family (save my uncle Steve who seems fairly harmless) David had turned from a sweet boy into something very messed up. Everything that should not have happened to David had happened to him. I am sure just as Allison and I were suffering David was suffering right along with us. But perhaps he didn't have the tools that we had. He dealt with a lot of it alone.

I am not sure that we ever made up, but we sort of reemerged from that fight with at least some semblance of getting along with one another again for the time being, being able to talk and laugh again, it eventually was put back together again in some way. But deep down, I still felt this animosity, because he still was testing his limits every single day. I had offset his behavior a little bit, but he was just revving up to those heightened levels of aggression. I am sure he felt animosity towards me also. Little fights broke out all the time. He would say something terrible to me and walk away, slamming the door. He would refuse to do as I asked of him, mostly chores at my father's request – I was just the messenger. Most of the time they were caused by him becoming completely unstable over a very small statement or a sudden extreme bout of insecurity which caused him to lash out at everyone for no reason. He seemed to think completely harmless statements were meant to be hurtful, and sometimes it was full blown mystery as to what he was even mad about. When he made cruel statements and walked away, as much as I wanted to chase behind him and force him to apologize, he was now just too old to expect that from. And both of our parents liked to pretend that these altercations were meaningless because they really involved being involved and that wasn't something either one was every going to do. My father's great hope was that in the coming year, David would join the football team, accomplishing the dream of being a professional football player in the way my father never had, as my father had been a hippie teen high on LSD everyday (something that is hard to imagine now), and looking back, I think he had wished that he had pursued some conventional basic bro activities, and David was meant to fulfill that role. So in my father's mind, football would fix it. All the mental issues would suddenly be fixed, because you know, football.

One week, while my siblings were away, my mother brought over some friends she had. This was the point where she was beginning to drop all of her old friends, but she was still trying to keep a few. Nobody ever did anything, and sitting around a burn barrel and drinking until one of the married old couples began to have a row with one another was something that had suddenly made my mother feel intensely alienated and I think that for better or worse, she became who she had always secretly had been, throughout her youth as an attractive and distant woman, through her marriages, pretending to be a decent mother, her attempt to write lyrics for a band, her stages of meth use, the bar, her relationship with Danny and her pretend act of playing like she was a biker. It all had been a cover up to the fact that my mother was and is an intensely strange and neurotic creative person and if she ever really said what she was thinking, normal people would head for the hills. And the people she had surrounded herself with were basically clouding her vision and preventing her from being who she was meant to be and doing the creative things she wanted to do and she was seeing this all for the first time and deciding not to go to their burn barrel invitations any longer.

This one night however, she came home with this woman who was a friend of a friend. She was a lesbian, and I was told she did acid twice a week, had been since the seventies. My mom I could tell didn't really want this lady at our house, but felt badly for her, as she was rambling and deeply unhappy about a recent romantic rejection. This woman seemed really out of it. She started looking at me, and eventually came up to me and started telling me I was beautiful and trying to have a heart to heart with me and the truths of the universe and hieroglyphics and astrology and Jesus, at one point confusing Albert Einstein's theory of relativity with the idea that everything was true at the same time and we could fly if we really believed we could, and that fairies and gnomes were real, living outside in our front yard. I reacted as neutrally as I could, trying to not show my amusement of thinking of the dry exasperated expression that Albert Einstein would have listening to this woman's interpretation of his equation, as she played with my hair and talked about how attractive I was. I looked at my mother hoping she would save me if this woman actually tried anything, though I didn't particularly mind if she played with my hair or showered me with compliments. She wasn't really hurting me, and it wasn't like, really openly sexual. I didn't think she was going to go in for a kiss or anything, nor was she really touching me much. I felt kind of bad for her.

My mother, in an attempt to distract this lady, showed this woman some of my artwork, and this lady became entranced by this one thing I did which was sort of psychedelic and a play off some old hippie clothing designs I had seen once. She offered up eighty dollars for this abstract design that I had done. It really wasn't worth eighty at all. I had doodled it for a few hours and I didn't even see it as a real piece at all, but this woman insisted I take the money. I told her the piece wasn't done – and it wasn't. I felt strange parting with something unfinished. She admired me even more for this, calling me a 'true artist'. She promised to then pay me another one hundred when it was finished. She gave me the eighty upfront. I protested, but eventually gave in. I felt weird taking money for art, but I knew I could always use the cash.

My mother was supposed to bring this woman my art as soon as I finished it, but my mom lost the artwork in a book. Then she found it again, but couldn't find the woman. Then the woman had come looking for me, and I wasn't there. She knocked several times. Basically, by no fault of my own, I feel like I essentially swindled this lady out of eighty dollars because she never ended up getting that piece of art. I would have found her myself, but then my mother closed off all of her old friendships and this woman was kicked out of my mother's previous friend group and I had essentially been given eighty dollars for doing nothing. Still, it was encouraging. Someone had actually paid me for art, and that was definitely a first.

My grandma Marie told my mom she wanted to visit me. She knew I liked to paint, and we had at some point in my visits, had a good conversation about something which had opened her mind up to the possibility of getting to know me a little better. She saw me as one of the 'good' millennials. I think now that she had sort of forgotten about the fact that she perceived that I had stolen her ring (which I swear up and down I did not). My grandmother and I are very similar in that we are both very reflective people who live very much on an intuitive and introverted vibe. We both wanted to find deeper meanings behind the world, both liked poetry and living in a way that was heightened and more meaningful than the mindless lonely day to day grind. There are some very severe differences in how we thought however. My grandma was always looking for rules, and I was generally finding myself to be the kind of person who deconstructed rules for the most part. Still, it felt right. It felt like this was the point in which we were finally going to get to know one another. There are times I feel, when you meet someone, and at least for a time, you two have things to learn from one another, things to share. I wanted to understand her better, coming as I was, to an age where you realize that your parents and grandparents are just people. They aren't the towering untouchable figures you once thought they were.

I believe my grandma Marie always loved me, but she was ultimately a very bitter and abused woman battling intense depression and deep seated anger that she bottled up at all times. She embraced Eastern religious wisdom, some of which I also agree with, but to a degree, even with her strong devotion to her beliefs, in conversations about anything that didn't follow her strict and narrow ideas, I could always see the bubbles lathering up at the surface like she was about to explode. She didn't like the idea of being wrong, ever. So she wasn't someone that anyone was ever totally honest to. She didn't like the way children thought. She saw no structure in it and for this reason we were never close when I was young like I had been with my soft Grandma Betty. She liked me and Allison overall, but now that I was twenty, I think she felt she could find a friend in me. She didn't have any friends anymore, not since Doris had died.

Honestly, I was taken aback and frightened at the idea of being in the house with my grandma. She tended to be very judgmental, and she was very rigid individual. But as it turned out, after my mother had driven me up there to stay, I was actually good at bringing out my grandma's better nature. It involved me letting go and letting her be in control. I didn't try to fight her, and instead I tried to learn from her. At times, I could even get her to smile once or twice or laugh. She generally didn't let herself laugh or be soft. It was sad that she didn't allow herself that. In that sense, even though she moved passed her abusive relationships, and even though she became seemingly independent, I at times felt like being abandoned as a child by both of her parents and being a beaten ruthlessly when she was a housewife were things she never got over. She was still bitter.

I ended up staying for nearly two months. At first it was awkward. My grandma and I are both really introverted. Her house was calm and serene, with Egyptian art mixed with depictions of rainbow chakras, Buddhas, Moses and Edgar Cayce. I was always afraid I would break something. I tried to make my bed each morning, something I don't normally do. We centered our conversations about her pet Yorkshire terriers with whom I had a love/hate relationship at first. I asked her questions about the paintings on the wall, and the meaning behind her purchases, which eventually lead into deeper conversations. I remember reading the book 'Choke' by Chuck Palahniuk in the living room one day however – something so entirely opposite to her ideas in every sense of the world, full of things she would have found spiritually and physically vile. She asked me what the story was about. I didn't want to tell her it was about a sex addicted conman who fakes choking to get money and condolences from the people in restaurants who save him, and who thinks he from the direct line of Jesus – it seemed like this would offend her, so I made something up on the fly, telling her it was a crime novel.

I can make myself believe anything for a set length of time, and that's for the most part what I did. It was in part to not make her upset. I think she felt very isolated due to her religious beliefs, and rather than throw doubt at her, I really would rather sink into what she thought and believed and just study it and semi believe it for awhile to grasp what these ideas all meant to me, rather than instantly shut it all down or judge it out of hand. I don't really buy reincarnation, and if it is real, then I don't buy her version of it. But it means a lot to people. I studied Christianity, and I had no problem at all studying some other belief system regardless if I believed in it or no. Honestly, I am a nothing when it comes to believing in things. I think human beings are too small to understand anything, and we only ever get small glimpses of the bigger picture, and those glimpses are always personified and go through a process of bad memory and human ego and they come out becoming organized religion. I don't believe in ghosts, even though I can tell you with total clarity that I have seen them. I am not one of those people who says they are spiritual but not religious. I just don't know anything and I am okay with that, and as long as I continue to grow and to question my reality, I feel like that's what is actually important.

We ate grainy bread, cheese, crackers, and hard-boiled eggs. She was very much about the Atkins's diet. She had this job working behind the St. Vincent de Paul's a town over, and we would wake up around six thirty each morning and drive out there. I volunteered working with her and I really loved her job. Basically, we went through bags that people dropped off in the back of the store for potentially being resold. If we found things we liked, my grandma could take it home for free, and this offer was extended to me as well. It was so much fun to go through the bags and pick through it all. You never knew what you would find. Men and boys clothing was always the worst. Most of it was not something that could be resold. It was always dirty and torn to bits. Sometimes you would find men's shirts with blood on them, probably from a bar fight where someone bloodied the guys nose. Some of the bags had animal feces and kitchen garbage in it and everything you can imagine never wanting to put your hand in. It was strange to me that people really thought it was a-okay to bag this stuff up and give it to us. It was interesting for me, the psychology of it. As long as people don't have to see it, they really don't care what the impact is. This goes for how we treat our environment, and animals, and each other. Ocean pollution isn't real to many people, because they don't have to confront it. They don't have to watch their food become slaughtered. Syrian refugees are just a concept, they aren't actual people. We all think we are the main character of life's story, and we aren't. I could see that same mentality when people dropped this stuff off. They gave it to us because they never wanted to look at it again. They wanted new.

Sometimes I would empathize with the people who gave us the bags. You'd find bloody underwear from a teenage girl's bad day at school, and I would sympathize with that teenage girl. I had been her once. She just threw that bloody underwear in the bag to never see it again, or remember the stress of having spent the day without proper women's products. Life isn't always very easy. Sometimes cat urine soaked things were found. It could get awful, but all of it drew me in. These ugly things were horrendous, but they were also very truthful, and very intimate. But then again, most of it was very boring misshapen t-shirts from local businesses that I tired of relatively quickly. Around midday we would eat our crackers and cheese after we washed our hands, and then we would continue going through the stuff until two or three in the afternoon. Everyone who worked there seemed to like me, and they all thought I was fourteen rather than twenty and wondered why I wasn't still in junior high. They almost didn't believe I was as old as I was. I have gotten this frequently throughout my life. I guess it's because I have a round face, or maybe it was how I dress.

My very favorite thing in the whole world was opening up a bag from someone who wore my size and had my same taste in clothes – all of it clean. It didn't happen too frequently, but occasionally it did, and I got to keep whatever I found. Ultimately, though, it was sorting through toys that did it for me. I swear that because I worked back there sorting through all those toys, I to this day love toys as an adult more than I did when I was a child. I went through so many little trinkets and toys and stuffed animals. Some of it was really unique and strange, some of it was boring and conventional. Even the stuff I didn't want was fun to go through. I kept a lot of stranger toys that I found, broken dolls – and books. These initial finds ended up becoming the exhibition of miscellanies that fill my rooms nowadays. This is where I began to collect.

I have a wide range of books and toys. The rooms I have set up for myself are often so decorated that it hurts people's eyes looking at it. It's almost too much for me to live with myself sometimes. But this was really the start of all that which was about a small tote's worth of toys I found and was able to keep for free. Being able to dig for seven hours a day four days a week for two months through other people's stuff gave me a strong understanding of my own aesthetic taste. It was a rare opportunity for me to even be able to just do this, as I don't even think they allow this at all in regular St. Vinny's, Good Wills, or Salvation Armies. I think at most places, you get into trouble, and probably for good reason. But for whatever reason this St. Vinny's was a completely different story – probably because it was in the middle of nowhere. So long as my grandma didn't take anything that was obviously high priced and easy to sell – as long as she didn't skim too hard, she could take what she wanted for free. They had so much of it. And they didn't pay her very much. It was just enough to supplement her social security a little bit. This was part of the payment.

PART 70 - https://tinyurl.com/ybl6vd7e

PART 69 - https://tinyurl.com/yb7d8van

PART 68 - https://tinyurl.com/y8faedzp

PART 67 - https://tinyurl.com/y9lfdsop

PART 66 - https://tinyurl.com/y87dzx7z

PART 65 - https://tinyurl.com/yb22o6rv

PART 64 - https://tinyurl.com/y98zxljs

PART 63 - https://tinyurl.com/ybosu235

PART 62 - https://tinyurl.com/ybjrvccn

PART 61 - https://tinyurl.com/ybm99k8o

My Life Story in Chapters, PARTS 1-60 (this link below will lead you to a list of all the chapters i have written thus far).

http://aleatoryalarmalligator.tumblr.com/post/168782771574/life-story-sections-1-60

#text

16 notes · View notes

ohhkkaebsonggg · 8 years ago

Text

Browsing History » Mark Tuan

→ Pairing: Mark X Reader

→ Summary: Mark had a side you never even knew of, that was until you decided to go through his browsing history and found some interesting things. Trying them out on him to see how he reacted, and boy you knew you were in for a night.

❝ You’ve always been a slut haven’t you?❞

→ Genre: Smut, Fluff

→ Warnings: Dom!Mark, Sub!Reader, Daddy kink, spanking

→ Word Count: 3.4k

"Yeah, just like that." You breathed, your right leg pushed to the side and bent slightly as he slowly rocked his hips into yours. Slow and passionate sex, just the way you like it. Well, almost.

You wouldn't mind Mark going rougher for once but he never did. It honestly annoyed you but you never really said much to him since you knew he liked slow sex.

"Are you close baby?" He asked, chest pushing slowly against your as he ground his hips into yours once again. You nodded your head and threw it back when your orgasm approached. About time. Don't get this wrong, you liked how soft and caring he was but it was boring too.

Mark was the one to come undone first, simply letting out the familiar throaty groan and his hips twitching slightly as he shot his load into you. You finally cumming as well and his hips stopped moving. He fell down onto your chest, panting and breathless along with you.

"You should get some sleep, you have work early tomorrow don't you?" He asked and you nodded, Mark kissed you quickly once more before getting up and putting on some sweat pants and going downstairs to watch TV for a while. The same routine after sex which you didn't understand but shrugged it off.

You just laid back in bed and closed your eyes, falling asleep quickly like always.

You woke up to a throaty groan, thinking Mark must have hurt himself making his way up to the room but as your eyes stayed glued to the door you realised he wasn't coming into the room.

So where was he going? You got up and out of bed, opening the bedroom door quietly. Making your way downstairs and towards the small grunts you heard. Your Heart almost dropped at the sight before you. There Mark sat, laptop in front of him, cock in his hand and porn playing on his screen.

"Fuck." He cussed, hand moving at a rapid pace that was sure enough to have him cumming within a few more strokes. You didn't say or do anything, you sort of just...watched? You quickly and quietly tiptoed back upstairs and into bed. Climbing under the covers and trying to fall asleep.

Not long after laying back down you heard the door to your room opening and Mark making his way over to his side. You could smell the sweat that wreaked off him as he climbed into bed next to you and rolled onto his side.

Arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him. You could feel his warm breath on the skin of your neck and the feeling of his warm and slightly sweating palms brushing the flesh on your stomach. You were so curious as to why Mark would do that.

It almost made you feel...useless? Like you weren't good enough to fufill his sexual desires. But what were his sexual desires? Mark had never been very vocal about sex, he didn't even like talking about it over text. Instead he just did what he thought his partner would like.

But you didn't know if you could really enjoy it when he's not enjoying it much either. The question is how long has he been doing this for? Does he always do this? And another question is what kind of porn was he watching? What were you doing wrong that some porn star with big tits could do?

You were so stunned and barely got any sleep, eyes finally shutting and body going into a deep sleep around early morning. Mark was up around six getting ready and kissing your cheek before leaving the house fairly quickly. You got up around eight, rubbing your eyes knowing that you could sleep in more.

Mark was wrong, you didn't have a shift at all today so you could just stay home and do whatever you like. And something was pulling her towards the shiny black device that sat on his bedside table. You didn't want to snoop, you didn't want to be that girlfriend but you had to know.

You had to know what he was watching and why. You had to take notes to try them out and use them on him. Maybe this would improve your sex life maybe this will make him have trust issues but you didn't feel like you were fufilling his needs and making him feel good.

You grabbed the book like shaped device and placed it on your lap, excitement and curiosity bubbling inside and almost causing you to rip open the lid and reveal what he's been watching. But you slowly Lifted the shiny black lid to show the log in screen to his laptop.

You sat there pondering on what his password could be, knowing Mark it would be something simple yet meaningful. You decided to try your name, simply pressing the keys to spell out y/n. You clicked 'enter' and the screen changed to his screen saver of you both.

How corny it was, the photo was taken of you two when you both went on a private trip for a few days to Italy for your one year anniversary. You could almost scoff at the picture but deep down envied how much he appreciated you. Clicking on his browser you watched the screen load slowly.

Biting down on your lip and almost drawing blood at how slow the screen was taking to load. Once it finished you slid the small arrow into the corner and clicked on the small cog symbol to display different choices. Clicking on the word 'history' to display all the URLs that he had recently viewed.

The most recent ones that came up from last night.

[11:49pm] www.pornhub.com/dominant-and-submissive/

The site name familiar to your eyes as many of your friends had 'recommended' it to you for masturbating when you were single and couldn't get guys yourself. You still were so stunned that you have Mark, someone as kind and caring and attractive as him found you.

You never considered yourself not very lucky when it comes to guys and looking back on your past boyfriends you sometimes wonder how you could go that low. You were never one to be considered dating a 'hot' guy but when Mark came along you show him off to everyone.

Loving both his personality and appearance and feeling like he's the one for you. You quickly brought your mind back to your task, you almost hesitated clicking on the link. What if he gets really really mad? You thought to yourself. You pressed the link watching as the new tab opened and the page slowly went from the blank bright white to a dark grey and orange colour.

A video coming up with the large play arrow in the middle but the picture was pretty clear. There laid a girl with black hair and fair skin completely nude but her parts covered except for her ass. She laid across a man in some dress pants and his hand raised as if coming down to spank her?

You still hesitated, were you really about to watch porn? Porn your own boyfriend watches to get off? Your finger clicked down and you watched at the video loaded. I guess so. You watched the screen light up, at first a stupid, cliche and cringeworthy entrance of a man in an office asking his assistant to come to his house later to drop off his 'dry cleaning.'

You laid back and tried to relax but the hairs stood up in your skin and goose bumps formed, why were you so nervous? Mark doesn't come home til 9 and it's only a 17 minute video. You watched how things played out, watching as the man took dominance, spanking the girl until her ass was red and sore.

Using toys and things on her, mainly a vibrator to bring her to many orgasms before finally slipping himself in and fucking her in doggy style. You thought that was it and realised how kind of simple it was for you and Mark to do that but it was when the words

"Daddy" slipped from her lips your face turned red and you shut off the laptop.

"Oh my god." You said to yourself in shock. It wasn't the fact that the girl said it to a man, it was the fact that Mark had a Daddy kink? You never really thought he would but now it all made sense.

You would always joke around with your friends calling them Daddy and baby girl to make fun of the kink. But every time you were near Mark and would say it he would always clench his jaw or sigh of just leave the room completely. You always thought it was because he hated how immature you were to mess around with a stupid kink, and in a way he did.

A reason probably why he never told you he had one. Afraid you may laugh or make fun of him or worse, tell your friends and joke about it with them. He would be humiliated, but you would never take a joke too far for it to hurt someone and you never have.

You made sure to close down the tabs and shut down his laptop. Leaving it the way you found it. You still laid there, mind being over taken with many questions. Some for Mark, some for yourself. How would you bring this up? Where do you even begin? Why didn't Mark tell you?

With your mind flooded you didn't move, instead going on your own laptop and spending all day looking at the kinks you took note of. Mainly the top three:

1. Spanking

2. Overstimulation

3. Daddy

You sat there, reading over people's personal experiences of using the kinks and how they work and the pros and cons of each. You really like he idea of each, the thought exciting you and the evidence pooling in your underwear. You didn't even realise the time until you saw a very sweaty Mark enter the room.

You almost immediately slammed your laptop shut, a weird expression on Mark's face when he noticed how quickly you closed your laptop.

"Watching porn are we?" He said with a hard laugh afterwards. You always loved how he joked about such idiotic things. You decided to play along though.

"Yeah totally, I was watching this one video of a girl getting spanked by her Daddy. Pretty chill." You said in an accent for some reason and Mark couldn't help but almost stop his movement right away. Face bright red and ears even redder. You loved how red his ears went when he was shy.

"I was joking y/n." He said calmly and you stood up, walking over in your same bed attire. One of his shirts with his lingering smell and just some panties. You stood there in front of his tall frame, placing a hand behind his neck to crane his head down to your level.

"I'm not." You flicked the lobe of his ear with your tongue before sucking on the skin just below it. Nibbling slightly trying to form a bruise with your mouth. Mark didn't say or do anything expect wrap his arms around your waist and pull you into him more. He suddenly pulled back and pushed you onto the bed.

A confused expression written across your face at his actions. But a smirk slowly taking place when you saw him fiddle with his belt and slip it off. Crawling on top of you and kissing your lips at a fast pace.

Trying to drink as much of you as he could. You slipped your tongue in his mouth, him quickly sucking around it like a lollipop before pulling back and grinding himself down into you. Watching as you threw your head back and the words

"Daddy." Falling from your lips. Unsure of how he would react you glanced up at him. Eyes burning with lust as his eyes scanned over your face. A smirk taking place and his lips coming to crash down on yours again before slowly moving away and along your jawline. This had to be a dream come true for you both.

"Mark..." you breathed, arms still pinned by your sides as he sat between your legs and began to suck at the skin on your neck.

"That's not my name baby." He growled, never once had he been this aroused in sex ever with you. And you really liked it. You almost grinned at the thought of how good you both were now going to feel.

"Daddy." You tried again and could feel his smirk against your neck and his bulge pushing against your thigh.

"What--is--it princess?" He asked between kisses. Trying his best to leave marks every where on you.

"I want you to spank me..." you said, he looked up at you, his lips glossy from his own wet kisses he left.

"But why would I spank such a good girl?" He asked, harshly attacking your neck once again.

"But I'm not a good girl Daddy...I'm very bad. I snooped through your laptop today." You almost screamed at yourself for letting those words slip? You were just getting so caught up and you wanted him to spank you. Hard.

"You did?" He suddenly stopped and you could feel your face begin to go red and your eyes almost start to water. Was he going to stop? Was he going to get mad and leave?

"Well then...lay down baby." He now sat on the edge and pat his lap which you quickly scrambled and laid across. Practically sticking your ass in his face and asking for him.

"Be patient baby, we need to remove your panties first." He said, fingers playing with the hem of the lace of your baby blue panties you wore. Finally pulling them away and your core being exposed to the cool yet hot atmosphere in the room.

They pooled at your ankles before he slipped them off completely, thighs together not giving him any entrance to your pussy that was begging to be touched. His finger tips danced over the skin that jiggled as he touched it. Licking his lips as he saw how good it looked with his hand over it.

The sounds you would make, the whines that would ring in his ears circled his mind and he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

"Oh y/n..." he said almost as if he felt pity for you but the feeling of his hand slapping your ass told you something different.

"You've always been a dirty slut haven't you?" He hissed, hand coming down once again as the small whimper left your lips and you body jolted, your ass jiggling slightly every time his hand came in contact with it. Another came along with a lot of dirty talk. And another one. He continued until he could see your thighs rubbing together and the arousal that sat between them.

"Lay down." He ordered, pulling you off his lap and watching as you laid yourself in the middle of the mattress.

"Open up." He said, gesturing to your knees which were bent currently. You slowly slid your legs open, pussy pink and dripping and untouched all day long just for him.

You could feel yourself getting wetter as he stood there and did nothing. Just looking at you in awe, he hasn't looked at you in that way at all throughout your relationship. And something told you that your relationship was going to be 10 times better now.

He walked to he edge of the bed, bending his knees as he crawled towards you and placed his fingers on your thighs, watching as you slightly jolt at the contact and your fingers pinching your nipples as you watched with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth.

Mark had never gone down on you before, foreplay wasn't really a thing for you two. Instead you would just use lube or if you were lucky you both were aroused and horny. Your thoughts were completely gone when the feeling of the wet muscle licked a stripe right along your entrance.

Head thrown back, fingers now tangled in his locks while his tongue continued to poke at your entrance and circle your clit like a lollipop.

"Fuck." You whined almost as if you were asking him to do something more affective. So he placed two fingers at your entrance and slid then in slowly, feeling your warm walls wrap around his fingers with ease.

You've always been very tight, no matter how many times you and Mark have sex you always are and I guess you can say Mark really fucking likes it.

"Enjoying yourself kitten?" He asked, tongue sucking harshly now on your bud just enough to get a small arch of your back before curling his fingers and watching your back rise and fall with each movement.

"Yes Daddy." You replied in a moan and slight higher pitched voice. Your stomach tightening when you feel yourself begin to build up for orgasm. Knowing Mark if you say something he'll just do it, but so many things have surprised you about him tonight you don't know what'll happen.

"Fuck, Daddy I'm going to--" your sentence was cut short with Mark finishing you off fairly quickly. Your juices being swept up by his tongue as his chin covered with your cum. His eyes met yours as he licked over his lips and wiped away what he couldn't get.

Climbing up and hovering over you before crashing his lips down to yours, the kiss intense and hot and enough to have you cumming again.

"Y/n...before I continue, is that what you really want?" He asked and you nodded. Biting your lip as you watched his lips curve up into a smirk as he reached down and toyed with your clit, your sensitivity to his touch turning him on more.

Fingers moving away and wrapping around his member to line himself up with your slippery entrance. Tip moving through your folds back and forth with ease as, the wet and vulgar sounds echoing throughout the room with your small pleas.

"Just fuck me Daddy." You moaned, fingers gripping his shoulders tight as you tried to send the message to him that you wanted it. Finally listening to you, he pushed himself in slowly, the feeling of you warm and wrapped around him causing him to twitch slightly.

"Fuck, I don't remember you being this tight." He grunted, slowly moving in and out of you and trying to get a good rhythm. Moans leaving your mouth every time he grazed that spot that had you cumming. His pace began to quicken as your moans grew louder with his own ones.

"Oh my god, don't stop." You practically whined, now hitting your g-spot multiple times. Head now thrown back as your toes began to curl, you could feel your high approaching quicker than you wanted it to.

"Fuck I'm going to cum. Is that what you want kitten? For Daddy to cum inside you?" You nodded in response, not trusting your own voice as your web of glory began to untangle and you dragged out his name. Mark's hips began to stutter with each thrust as he threw his head back. Desperate to cum as well, while so you leaned up and began planting kisses on his neck.

"Are you going to cum Daddy? Cum in me. Cum in your little kitten please." You weren't sure if you sounded just as good as he did when he was dirty talking but you could tell it was working.

"Fuck--" his word erupted from the back of his throat along with a choked groan as he came inside you. Heavy pants leaving his lips as he looked down at you. Cock still buried deep inside you as you both just stared at each other.

"How? When? Why?" He asked and you couldn't help but lightly chuckle. Leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips before moving your lips across his cheeks to nibble on his earlobe before whispering in his ear.

"You should try clearing your browsing history; and be more quiet at night." You said and you could see his cheeks go red. You weren't sure how he would react.

"You--so did you enjoy this?" He asked and you nodded, running your fingers through his hair while biting down on your lip.

"I was thinking maybe next time we could try bondage maybe? Oh I saw one called 'cum play' in your history? I don't know what it is but I'm sure you can teach your kitten." You nibbled on the skin along his neck.

"Fuck, the things you do to me y/n."

#got7 #got7 mark #got7 jb #got7 jackson #got7 bambam #got7 smut #got7 angst #got7 fluff #got7 youngjae #got7 jinyoung #got7 yugyeom #got7 jackson smut #got7 mark smut #got7 youngjae smut #got7 jinyoung smut #got7 yugyeom smut #got7 bambam smut #got7 imagines

330 notes · View notes

shininglightfireflies · 8 years ago

Text

I Don’t Know Her

I can’t remember what I ate last night, but I do remember things from long ago. I remember a best friend in Pre-K, with hair pulled into curly pigtails and pale brown palms that gripped my hand as she jumped up and down. I remember a wide grin and pink skirt, as she dragged me towards the Big Tree during recess to play The Ground is Lava (But The Roots Are Crocodiles You Can Step On For Five Seconds Before They Snap). I remember a high laugh that filled the empty classroom after school as we waited for our teacher mom and PTA mom, respectively, to finish whatever boring adult things they were doing.

I remember fourth grade, when we were in separate classes. I remember turning to make a joke and finding empty air, and promising myself I’d tell the joke to her later, even though I’d have to explain it so it wouldn’t be as funny. I remember hearing about Ashley and Brittany and names I could not match to faces. I was not the jealous type, but I feared I was being left behind. “Don’t be silly.” She’d smiled, the goofy one she did to make me relax. “We’ll always be best friends. We’re Two Peas in a Pod, remember?” I beamed, thinking back to the band we’d tried to start in second grade for a week until our new obsession was skateboarding. We always became interested in the same things at the same time, then.

She’d put on lip gloss that day, making her lips shiny and glittery, and I remember feeling something, maybe admiration. I was foolish back then.

I was not hopeless without her, of course. I made friends, Betsy and Magaly and perhaps Kevin, though having a boy for a friend was tease-worthy when we were young, so I was unsure. I discovered Spider-Man while she joined Chorus, and it was perhaps the first time we had something that was not in common. We hung out still, when there was no one else to talk to, in the afternoon when the school was still bustling with adults but empty of children.

Things had changed by our last year of elementary school, where awkward pauses were common and she was glued to her brand new phone--I was not allowed one till high school. She had become grown up, in my eyes, with cool clothes and styled hair and friends who texted constantly. I still sung Twinkle Twinkle in the shower and did my homework the second I got home. It was the beginning of my inferiority complex, I think, when she stopped being my friend and became someone on a pedestal that I looked at with awe and perhaps fear. In the back of my mind I knew we were two cogs that had become out of sync, and maybe gave up on the friendship too easily.

In middle school we were in the same class, but she was busy making friends with the girls with dark lips and I was busy making friends with the kids who argued over books. It was almost like our past had ceased existing--we did not talk, barely glanced at each other, though she was the only one I knew from my old school. Things were confusing that year, and I took my mind off her.

She was quiet in class and loud in lunch, which had always been a thing. Like most bright lipped girls in middle school, everyone knew at least her name, and their opinions on her conflicted. When I was asked, I shrugged, and said, “I don’t know her, so I don’t really care.” I don’t know why I lied, it wouldn’t have affected anything. Maybe a small part of me was resentful, remembering the broken promise she’d made to me years ago. Which was stupid, people change and sometimes it’s better to not force things, but I will not lie and say I did not miss her.

By freshman year I had discovered that sexualities are a thing, and it was like my eyes were finally open. I playfully flirted with my friends, as long as they were comfortable with it, and respectfully did not look at her in the halls.

“Who was your first crush, Viv?” Michelle asked one day as we sat in the darkest corner of the library. I giggled and talked about Fourth-Grade-Kevin, though it was not exactly the truth. She smiled and shyly spoke of a girl named Robin who had frizzy hair and freckles. I slipped my hand in hers, and then Michelle’s lips were on mine, and it was nice. It was really nice, and for once I was not thinking of Bast.

Second year of high school, Bast sang a solo. Her family was there, her mother waving at me happily. I awkwardly waved back, and caught her little brother’s eye. I grinned, and he blushed, and I laughed. I’d hoped he hadn’t forgotten about me, and apparently I was still his crush.

When I heard Bast, I was struck by how emotional she sounded--and I’m not a cheesy person, but in my mind when I think of angels I think of her, in that moment, wearing a gold dress to match her eye shadow. “She sounds professional.” My mother whispered, proud for a girl who used to be like a second daughter to her, and something caught in my throat. Dammit, I thought I was over this.

Now that I had a phone, I made my own social media accounts and followed my friends. Somehow I found Bast’s Instagram, which was public. I rivaled with myself for awhile until finally giving in and scrolling through the photos. They all had Bast in them, with people I vaguely remembered seeing around school. It made me sad, seeing this whole life that had nothing to do with me anymore, until I realized she was smiling in every picture. Most of them were genuine, I could tell. After that, something inside me settled. If she was still happy, even without me, than I did not regret dropping off of her radar.

Than the next day she gave a presentation on gender roles and how harmful they are and I was falling, I was gone and no one could save me from the inevitable crash. How stupid of me to think this would ever go away.

She was never single for long. She went through, it seemed, every boy in our grade. I heard mutters, snarky whispers, words like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’. It wasn’t their business, I wanted to say. I watched from afar, and I did nothing.

She would put her everything into her relationship, gushing about her boyfriend, spending every second with him, kissing in public. It would be cute if it didn’t make my stomach twist. The boy would be gone next month, and she would allow herself a week to be heartbroken before moving on. I never knew how she did it, or why. Sometimes I wanted to shake her and tell her she didn’t need someone else to be happy, she wasn’t defined by her boyfriend, she had to take a breather--but of course I did not.

She was considered mature, to my friends. “Bast knows how to french kiss, y’know, with your tongue!” Kelly whispered, blatantly staring her way. Bast didn’t notice, talking to someone with a smirk that could be mistaken for a scowl.

“I heard she was making out with Danny in the second floor bathroom.” Michelle said with a disgusted grimace, raising her milk carton.

“Danny? They got back together?” Kelly turned back around.

“Was it the boys or girls bathroom?” Christie looked up from the homework she was frantically finishing.

Michelle shrugged.

I pushed soggy macaroni and cheese across my tray and forced myself not to look. She was not a part of my life anymore, but she still touched the edges.

Bast loved drama, she’d always loved drama. Back then, she would always drape her body against mine, complaining about how horrible Emily is, what she did this time and why it was way out of line. She’s gotten in a major blowout with all of her closest friends, though strangely had never with me. Maybe because we knew each other so long that she was the one that taught me how to tie shoelaces, maybe because she knew I cried at the sound of yelling.

And then I heard news of her getting in a fight, and yes she’s always been one to shout when she’s upset, but she’s never been physical. So I worried, but I worried to myself, as the school practically buzzed, because nothing brings a community together like gossip. Fights weren’t a new concept, but they were usually boys defending their fragile masculinity, so cat fights were always more popular. I didn’t care about why she fought, I just kept my ears trained until I heard she’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine, and I could breathe again.

“What is this, a TV show?” Michelle grumbled, playing with my hair. We were close friends that kissed sometimes, and I was happy with the arrangement, but I had the feeling she was not. I didn’t bring it up, though, because I wasn’t sure I could give her what she wanted. I sighed and shook my head, feigning exasperation, though I couldn’t have cared less. As long as Bast was fine.

Sometimes I broke my rule. Sometimes I peeked, looking out of the corner of my eye and nothing more. Watched her push a strand of black hair from her face--she’d let her hair loose this week, straightening it so it reached her legs. Her lipstick was plum that day, which looked amazing with her dark skin. No eyeliner, perhaps she’d run out of time.

My eyes were drawn to the scars on her left cheek, like a cracked mirror. Car accident, in eighth grade. By than our paths had already split, so I could not hug her tight like I’d wanted. It made her look like a brave protagonist, going on a quest to save her village from a beast. Perhaps she was even a Chosen One. I didn’t know how she felt about her scars, whether they were cool or ugly or interesting. She didn’t cover them, but she didn’t speak of them, at least not to me. I allowed myself a few seconds to look, until I became uncomfortable with myself and politely glanced away.

Than we were assigned a project together, which isn’t that just every fanfiction I’d ever read in my life? I groaned and let my head drop in my hands, while Michelle patted me on the back. “Yeah, I don’t like her either, but hey, it’s only two weeks.” I did not snap at her, because she did not know.

Than Bast was pulling a chair up to my desk, flashing me a smile. It wasn’t real, I could tell--no matter how much she had changed, her smiles stayed the same, and I’d long ago catalogued them. I tried not to let it hurt me, and we conversed like two classmates that had never talked before, so all in all it wasn’t that awkward. But I felt jittery, being so close to something so untouchable, and I thought dumb thoughts, like what if she’s just completely forgotten me? But I knew that wasn’t right, because no matter how dull and unimportant I might be to her now, I did not imagine the affection she’d had for me.

We made small talk, and I must imagine the tension, because she was in complete control of the situation, relaxed in her seat and making eye contact. I must’ve been a mess, sweating and stuttering. But then I noticed the nervous tick she’d always had, pulling at her sleeve, and maybe we weren’t on such unequal footing after all. I finally worked up the courage to make a joke, which startles a laugh out of her, and...it was honestly unhealthy how elated I felt because of that sound, that same old sound that had stayed the same but hadn’t been directed at me in years.

I love her, I thought absently, and barely reacted to the thought. After all, I’d been thinking it in the back of my mind for years, though I’d once thought it was platonic. A lifetime is a long time to have a crush on someone, but I did not regret it, because there are worst people to love. I had a feeling I would always care for that wonderful girl, because if space had not done it’s job by then it never would, but this didn’t bother me. I doubted I would ever act on these feelings, since my chances were abysmal, but simply seeing her happy was good enough for me.

And then I brushed my hair back into a messy bun and her eyes tracked my movements, and I thought, oh. I carefully did not blush, and did not allow myself to hope, but something about it made me blurt, “How’s your brother?” Immediately I clamped my mouth shut, but Bast’s eyes were wide with surprise, and the damage was done.

Then she was beaming so bright I lost my breathe, and that smile was definitely real, soft in a strange way. “He’s great. Always asks about you, but in a roundabout way that’s super obvious. How’s Mrs. Rodriguez?”

“Still only listens to Frank Sinatra, but Dad has stopped being jealous of him and instead vowed to take singing lessons.” It felt like we were on the edge of a cliff, and one small nudge would tip us over, but I couldn’t be sure if what was beneath us was good or not. Still, there was nothing behind me, so I breathed in and took the plunge. “Hey, remember that game we used to play during recess?”

#short story #original characters #two lesbians in love #technically one is bisexual #woc #hispanic character #Vivian Rodriguez #Bast Bulluck

0 notes