#Bucket Listers

[fearsmagazine]

DREAMS OF DRACULA: AN IMMERSIVE VAMPIRE MASQUERADE Debuts This October in New York City

 Prepare to experience the legendary tale of Dracula like never before! This Halloween, Never More Immersive (the innovative theatrical experience production company), Bucket Listers (the popular media experience brand behind the New York Bucket List) and Musica, the largest nightclub in New York City have joined forces to recreate the storied Dracula universe as a brand new vampire theatrical.

Dreams of Dracula: An Immersive Masquerade Experience will feature two floors and six rooms across 25,000 square feet, a choose-your-own adventure journey through history’s most famous vampire. This innovative production of the beloved Bram Stoker classic will begin previews September 22nd and open October 4th in Hell’s Kitchen (Musica NYC: 637 W 50th Street, New York, NY 10019) and play through November 11th.

Guests are invited to step into the dreamtime, the shadow world between sleep, nightmares, and ecstasy. Bear witness to a secret society of the dark arts and explore a world beyond the borders of conscious reality: terror, forbidden desires, and hypnotic dreams await. Expect an evening that not only retells the gothic Dracula story, but encases it amongst the very Dark Romantic literary traditions that inspired Stoker himself. Walk through the darkness and come face to face with the likes of the Brides Of Dracula, or maybe even Mary Shelley and Lord Byron. Or take in the entrancing seductions of Dracula’s ballet as it unfolds around you. 

Dreams of Dracula is a heady mix of immersive theater, dance, and decadent masquerade. With the language and symbols of dreams woven throughout the show, guests might encounter having their own dreams analyzed, lend their hand in co-writing a gothic ghost story, or have a poem composed in tribute to their beauty. Guests 21+ will also be granted access into the Oscar Wilde Salon to imbibe in a variety of decadent themed cocktails where they will be entertained by Oscar and his very wilde friends! A custom Dreams of Dracula app built by Shivoo Studios will allow guests to further interact with their dreams as an augmented reality post experience after the show.

Friday and Saturday nights are Black Tie affairs. For all other performances, basic black will be required for admission. Fabulous gothic or Victorian costumes are also very much encouraged. All guests will be provided with their own mask based on their ticket level. Black masks for GA tickets, gold for VIP, and platinum for very special guests who purchase one of two private boxes available. Private boxes feature a luxurious private room graced with two way mirrors, so our box guests can watch the story unfolding, but remain unseen, in their own private space. The box also features bottle service, a dedicated attendant, and exclusive interactions with the cast. Tickets will be available exclusively through Bucket Listers. Join the waitlist now and be first to receive notification of on sale. Full ticket and show run details available here.

WHAT: Dreams of Dracula: An Immersive Masquerade Experience Written and Directed by Jonathan Albert and Nicole Coady Choreography by Arianne Meneses General Management by Mott/Fischer Productions WHERE: Musica NYC 637 W 50th Street, New York, NY 10019 WHEN: Previews begin: September 22nd Open: October 4th - November 11th DETAILS: Must be 18+ to enter. All sales are final. No refunds or exchanges. Be Warned: Hypnosis, tarot readings, scary tales, darkness, flashing lights, thunder, lightning, and blood will be a part of the experience

[usedpidemo]

Voguish (Itzy Ryujin)

(Thank you for the commission! I hope its to your liking.)

—————

If you had any other choice, you’d rather be stuck at where you were previously: earning a modest income, just enough to get by from job to job, performing straightforward work, and most importantly, friendly clientele to attend to. It wasn’t surprising; you knew this industry was built on the backs of some of the most snobbish, arrogant people you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting, but—

“You’re late. Again.”

Shin Ryujin was probably among the absolute worst.

If you’re going to make an honest assessment, Ryujin isn’t that bad. Serving as her head stylist for the better part of a year, she’s by far the client you’ve spent the most time with. She doesn’t talk a big deal about the money she’s making or prattle into a conversation intricately designed to inflate her ego to the moon, unlike some of the other A-listers you’ve had the ‘privilege’ of working under. 

However, her attitude is definitely up there.

It’s not even a little over a minute. In fact, you’ve been standing at her entrance door two minutes before the clock hits ten. Doesn’t matter if you’re in the right; her style, her rules. She doesn’t care that you're sweating buckets rushing her newly minted outfit from across the street up to the 27th floor. Any moment where she doesn’t look like a million dollars is a moment wasted.

“My apologies, Ryu—”

Ryujin’s glare puts the fear of God into your soul. “What did I say about using my name?” 

You pause. Gulp your throat. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Shin.” 

“Hmph.” Grimacing with disgust, she hastily snatches the dress from your possession, proceeds to slam the door on you, tone bordering on shouting, “Come inside. You’re late.”

Entering the door shortly after, you’re welcomed by a film crew in the process of recording her as she struts around the living room suite holding your dress in her hands. If there’s anything you’ve learned from attending to her, she’s as effortless of an actress as she is as a model. The moment her eyes face the camera, she instantly transforms into the picture perfect icon that has all of social media buzzing.

Moving out of the way has become muscle memory at this point. When she’s in front of the cameras, you’re merely an onlooker. 

“So this is my outfit for tonight,” she says enthusiastically into the camera, proudly flaunting the outfit—a convincing facade to the untrained eye. For the press, she’s this likable, larger than life figure living her best life, attending all these invitation-only parties and wearing the most stylish dresses. 

“It was a risque design, and I wanted to try something bold for once. It was love at first sight when I saw it,” she comments, and you know very well this wasn’t her first choice. They won’t know that this was the 12th option, handpicked just last night after weeks of trial and error, only to be thrown away right after. At her request, you had it ordered on incredibly short notice, and the plan almost fell through. It was hard to deny Ryujin’s wants, no matter how impractical or unfeasible they were. 

In a way, this was to be expected. Ryujin emanates this young, it girl energy. Like any aspiring icon, she usually wants to stand out from a usually safe crowd. Not that it hasn’t stopped you from interfering a handful of times, much to her annoyance. After all, you’d assume she was going to a casual party or some red carpet event, not a prestigious gala with some of the biggest people in the world in attendance. You name it: politicians, CEOs of tech giants, industry titans who make the cover of Forbes and Time every other month. There are high standards that must be kept, and she’s doing anything but uphold those standards.

The camera pans away from her, and she immediately tosses the clothing aside with zero regard whatsoever. You manage to save it before it becomes near valueless. No matter how bothersome she acts, you can’t bring yourself to call her out on her antics; not just because there are several careers at stake, including yours, but you know what she’s capable of doing when her patience exceeds breaking point. It’s a firsthand experience to catch Ryujin in a state that isn’t picture perfect.

“Where are you?” Ryujin shouts from the other room, irate. “Slow as ever, my goodness.”

When you approach her, she’s on her phone, seated in front of the mirror with her legs crossed, having commanded the camera crew to vacate the room, leaving you alone with her. It’s only when you are together that she’s her true self, and it’s not far from what you usually experience even with other people around. They understand it’s in their best interest not to interfere.

Turning her eyes, she catches you idling with her sharp stare. “Well? Are you just gonna stand there and look at me all day? You already do that on the regular.”

Her behavior’s something neither cameras nor testimonies will ever publicly reveal: that Ryujin’s practically a spoiled brat behind closed doors. Any attempts to expose her have been silenced by huge settlements, NDAs, and every legal bind in the book. And when those don’t work out, there’s the strangely coincidental disappearance of potential witnesses that read like every tin-foil hat post written by some gullible conspiracy theorist on the internet. 

In retrospect, perhaps there’s some merit to the rumor that her father is supposedly the head of some mafia organization, but you digress. She has never brought her personal history up in interviews, other than she’s been adopted by the founder of a relatively unknown investment firm. An elaborate lie.

She’s engrossed on her phone, unable to keep herself still while you struggle to apply makeup on her face. Time’s of the essence, she usually says, but she’s purposeful with how much time is wasted, with the primary objective of finding an excuse to lay on you. It was never going to be fair from the start. All the moments where you were late, in her eyes, were intentionally done to put you in the wrong. 

To be fair, the numerous stylists who’ve taken care of her warned you in advance. You couldn’t deny the opportunity for a huge paycheck.

“Miss Shin, please stay still,” you say, carefully stringing your words together, delivered in the least offensive tone possible.

To your surprise, she complies. It’s a miracle. She never obliges with your requests, let alone direct commands.

Applying the rest of her makeup takes only minutes. Usually, you’d be going back and forth, and you’d be in front of the mirror for hours. See how easier everyone’s job is when all parties cooperate and collaborate effectively? You’re doing your part like it’s second nature; you only wish Ryujin was this accommodating more often, and not whether her brain flips a coin to determine her attitude for the day.

“You look amazing, Miss Shin,” you comment, staring at the mirror, her face radiating with the glow of a million bucks.

Taking her attention off the phone, even if it’s only for a second, proves to be a chore, as proven by her particularly grumpy expression. She scans herself, peers through every little detail in the mirror—showing more interest in herself during this brief moment than her dozens of photoshoots over the last month—and gives the smallest of nods. You even see the tiniest of grins escaping her lips, too.

Her steely attitude unwavering, she commands you, sternly, “Bring me the dress. Now.”

A clap of hands and the door opens like magic. Your co-stylist briskly walks toward you, outfit in hand, promptly handing it over before immediately leaving the room. No words are necessary; she makes it clear who’s allowed to touch her, let alone dress her, and it’s only you. Handling Ryujin was as meticulous and methodical as preserving a historical treasure.

She finally gets off her chair, hands prepared to loosen her robe before something catches her attention. “Door.”

It’s common sense. You hurry over to the opened door, slam it shut. Then the magic happens.

Ryujin nonchalantly slips her bathrobe off her shoulders, letting it freely fall to the floor. She’s draped in nothing but the thinnest of underwear, her asscheeks openly poking through the fabric. It’s amazing how she’s allowing you to see her like this, her barest, when most of her shoots and red carpet dresses have been nothing but conservative. Sometimes seductive, but mostly safe. There’s nothing left for your imagination. On the other hand, you’re so used to this vivid sight, it’s almost part of your daily routine. You shouldn’t be fazed, but her perfect figure has you staring, shamelessly, like it’s your very first time seeing nudity.

At times, it leaves you vulnerable. Like now.

“You were doing quite well too,” she comments, snarkily, gazing at your blank expression through the reflection, snapping you from your daze.

Gulping your throat, you find yourself embarrassed, ears flushed red. Even while you go through the methodical process of measuring and dressing her, the shame lingers. You find yourself unable to glance at the mirror. The very few flashes and glints that meet you when you turn you face your reflection, you find her suppressing a tiny giggle. 

As you put on the finishing touches on her outfit, she brings the point home, “We’re already late by an hour.”

A quick look at your watch tells you it’s almost eleven. Ten minutes before the next hour. At first glance, it’s still early, but it can be deceiving. Parisian traffic is notoriously unforgiving, event or no event, showing no partiality. Getting from one place to another is a whole day’s work.

Then you remember the fans and paparazzi congregated at the hotel’s entrance. This crowd that you had to brute force through just to get her dress on time. The hotel security can barely hold them back, and you can hear several sirens screaming miles away, most likely police presence. Many persons of interest will be gathered in one setting, after all.

“How do you feel, Miss Shin?” you ask, taking a step back to let her soak in her meticulously curated appearance. 

She blinks rapidly. Then she takes a deep breath.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

—————

Everywhere you look lies nothing but chaos. Chaos and cameras.

Barricade is filled with an indistinguishable mix of both paparazzi and media from all over the world. Lights, whether from above or from cameras, flash in every direction that it’s almost blinding. Deafening shouts pierce through your ears that whispering is impossible. You’ve been to as many red carpet events as these journalists and photographers, but you’ve never attended an event of this magnitude until now.

Left and right, there’s a random celebrity being interviewed by a news junket. The women you spot are dressed to the nines, adorned in colorful and graceful garb, while the men are decked as if they're attending Sunday service. You can see it now: another round of fashion bloggers berating and cursing the men for their simplicity and lack of creativity, but that’s to be expected. 

Your phone vibrates from within your shirt pocket. It’s Ryujin, having disappeared somewhere in the crowd.

> Where u at? 😤

You immediately reply back. Your conversations have been practice for your future relationship:

> Can’t find you in this crowd 

> Taylor Swift is just across me XD

> Scarlett Johannson too

> And I think I saw Zendaya and Yuna talking with each other, can’t confirm though, they’re far away

To which she answers:

> Stop playing around.

> Get over here NOW

> Do you style any of them? 

> You don’t.

> Come here. NOW.

It’s a simple but strong warning. Aside from the fact that you’re there to attend to Ryujin’s needs and not larp as a celebrity, there's a change in her attitude during these events. She becomes strangely more attached. It’s become a byword for you to mention other women around her, yet she interacts with them in a friendly light for the cameras to see.

Ryujin’s preoccupied with what’s presumably the umpteenth interview of many when you finally reunite with her. She takes another moment to pose for the next wave of cameras, picture perfect as always, then after, she finally turns her gaze, meeting yours. It has been ten minutes since her last text, and you have many reasons to say why you’ve vanished.

None of which truly matters.

“There you are.” She says, glaring angrily at you, tone laced with contempt, sounding like you were gone for days.

“I can explain, Miss Shin,” you try to say, but it has no effect as she approaches you, careful as ever to keep a picturesque facade in front of the media. You can see her holding herself back from popping a vein. “Apparently President Biden and his wife are in attendance and we were told to make way for his entire security team—”

The way Ryujin pulls you by the ear while you both retreat from the chaotic crowd is comical. In a sea of cameras and eyewitnesses, some tabloid’s bound to catch you, take the unfolding scene out of context, and write a rushed article that spreads like wildfire, but no, it doesn’t draw an ounce of attention. She's a small fry in a pond of bigger fish, after all. Over your corner, you see a dozen Secret Service slowly guide the president along the carpet, parting everyone around old Joe. In a way, watching him brings you to a strange realization: that you can empathize with the poor geezer. You’re both in the same predicament, being strung along to places you have no zero interest in.

It’s an effective distraction. An air of tense, awkward silence falls upon you both as you stare at each other, your personal conflict hidden away from the public eye. You open your mouth, about to say a word, and—

Whack!

Ryujin hits you with the hardest of palms, all her pent-up frustration released with a single, powerful smack of your cheek. The force echoes throughout the enclosed space like thunder. Your lips draw a little blood. A quick rub of your face reinforces the consequence for your actions. Rough. Still, to say she looks unhappy after enforcing her will upon you is an understatement.

And just when you try to open your mouth (without the intention to complain; you’ve given up at this point), she follows it up with a second slap, with about half the impact of the first. This time, the other cheek. Her gaze is scathing, lethal, hypnotic—as if challenging you to try her already short patience. Say something, motherfucker, is subtly etched on her expressive lips without the need to verbalize them. 

Another tense moment of silence. She makes sure your eyes never leave her contact. When it finally breaks, her judgment echoes in your head like the toll of a death bell—a lingering reminder that you’ve truly fucked up.

“You’ll be seeing me after tonight,” she says, each word delivered like an arrow straight to your heart. Before facing the world again, she adds another devastating blow, “My hotel room. Midnight. Sharp.”

—————

For the most part, in the eyes of the public, you seem to have done a fantastic job styling Ryujin for tonight’s gala. Within hours of the event, numerous articles published of the event list her among the best dressed stars, praising the bold nature of her outfit, as she intended in that vlog-style video from earlier. It’s all smiles as you watch her from afar, casually mingling with every celebrity in attendance. In case she needs to remain fresh, have new makeup applied, or change into a new dress for afterparty purposes—sometimes all of the above—you’re closely on standby. Ultimately, she doesn’t; not a single time she has called or texted for assistance. In a way, it’s alarming.

Her reminder sticks firmly on the back of your mind. Every word she says, she means it—no matter how small or big they are. It lingers even as her personal driver and bodyguard messages you with the instruction to return to the car, where she’s mysteriously absent, having been commanded by Ryujin herself to send you and the rest of her personnel home. It’s uncharacteristically strange; either she’s changed her mind and is having a good time at the event, or she’s probably drunk out of her mind, and the latter is typically the norm.

When you retreat to your room, you nervously watch as the clock slowly ticks towards the inevitable. It’s like witnessing your death. You know you can’t stop it, and you can’t look away, either. With the understanding that you’ll likely see the sun rise when it’s all said and done, you don’t even bother to slip into your sleepwear. 

The clock turns midnight. Seconds later, you receive a text on your phone. The message. It immediately disproves any theory or hope of meeting her good graces:

> Meet me in my room. Don’t even think about hiding or running, cause I will know

Of course you comply; you really have no other choice.

Five minutes later, you’re at her door again, with nothing but your suit, ready to face her judgment. It swings open of its own accord. Without any formalities, you step inside the familiar living room, now tidied up and cloaked in near darkness—a stark contrast to the mess it looked earlier in the day. Not a sign of her presence can be seen or felt. If you’ve been feeling uneasy before, now you’re straight up anxious, and the terror leaves you pale.

The door slams shut. Now you’re completely in the dark, with nothing to latch or cling to but your own resolve, which is slowly fading too. You want to speak her name, but you know you’ll be trying fate again, and fate has dealt you a cruel hand already. You didn’t want to fall even further. 

Your slow breaths are the only sign of life.

And the faint voice in your ear.

Wait—

Before you know it, you feel your throat tense up and your body tremble frantically. Faint shadows coil around your waist and neck, and in that moment, your fate has been sealed. 

“At least you’re not late this time.” Ryujin whispers into your ear. Then your eyes snap wide open.

“Agh!” 

A powerful surge of pain overwhelms your entire body, renders you weak in the knees. You fall to the ground, barely keeping yourself from completely melting onto the carpet with your hands. Still, the pangs remain too much. You can barely hold up on all fours, let alone move your arms and legs. 

It’s not enough. A soft hand hovers across your arched back, brushes through your hair, before it’s immediately followed by a direct blow to your nape. Your shout of agony reverberates throughout the dark room while you’re forced further down on your knees. Nearly forced into a prostrate position, you’re barely holding on. Another hit of this force could knock you unconscious, maybe worse.

“You’re going to learn your lesson today,” says Ryujin, strutting from behind you, cloaked in what appears to be a white gown. She’s holding something that you can’t identify, but you can tell she’s not in the mood to play games. Sparks of electricity flash and fade close to her hand. It was a taser all along. You probably would have guessed that from the intense shocking pain you’re currently feeling.

“Bedroom, slowpoke,” she sternly commands you as she saunters toward the room first, leaving you alone to pick yourself up. You’re still reeling from the two shocks of electricity applied to your waist and neck; it stings. Your body struggles, aches, cries out in despair, but you ultimately muster up enough power to follow her minutes later.

What greets you in the bedroom is a dimly lit bed, with Ryujin as its centerpiece, and both ends of her figure bathed in a faint wave of orange lamp light. She’s draped in nothing but the same hotel-issued bathrobe from earlier, her legs crossed, gazing at you from behind designer shades, smirking with malicious intent. It’s regal, seductive, inviting, intimidating. You honestly could stare at this sight all day long.

Before you entertain the thought, she cuts it off. “Strip.”

Her gaze lingers as you quickly bare yourself in front of her. She grins, giggles, adjusts her glasses with each piece of clothing removed. It flashes at her widest when you’ve divested your shirt and your pants, revealing your chest and your evident bulge, unknowingly growing hard behind the elastic fabric. It seems to spark a new idea within her, even though she’s the type of woman who follows through with her plans after they’ve been organized and premeditated.

She hops off the bed, slowly saunters toward you with trained, modellike fashion, using you as a makeshift catwalk. Turning the corner, she retreats behind your back, gripping a hand on your neck, craning the other down your bare chest. Her tongue tickles the back of your ear, which morphs into the smallest of smooches while she drags you to the bed like a hostage. As she hauls you over the mattress, she continues to feel your skin and body, your ears titillated by the gentle moans and whimpers from her sultry lips.

Your bump knees with the bed before she sends you flying over the edge. Temptation comes knocking at the door of your suppressed lips; you’re itching to cry out in pain, pleading for a bit more consideration. You know it’s a futile effort. When it comes to sex, Ryujin was anything but gentle. 

“Don’t look. Stay still.” 

Following her command is second nature to you; even when your positions were interchanged, it was merely an illusion—you were never in control. Ryujin plants a palm around your throat, forcing your stare against the bedrest. The clanging sound of something resembling a belt or a buckle keeps you curious. Tense, breaths keep you calm. Deep down, you know what’s about to happen; there’s no stopping it, you can only brace for impact. 

In the gap between the point of no return, she tells you her mindstate, how her frustration and apparent jealousy never receded. “I hated every minute I spent there. You have no idea how difficult it was to keep a face in front of everyone, especially after seeing Yuna. Fucking. Yuna.”

Your reaction comes out, not through coherent words, but through a labored groan. You feel her finger circle rings around your ass, sticky and wet. Of course she was there, social media couldn’t stop buzzing about her appearance—and she rarely shows up to these galas. Now it’s all making sense. After all, you were Yuna’s stylist before Ryujin snatched you away. 

Ryujin continues to apply lube around your sensitive hole, occasionally fingering you. Holding in the groans from the discomfort proves to be impossible, but she prefers to hear you whine, especially when her name is spoken. It’s the perfect reprieve from the evening’s frustrations, keeping her from raising her voice to the ceiling. “She pisses me off so fucking much. First stealing my thunder at every fashion week, now this? I thought she hated art galas?”

It’s evident that she doesn’t like Yuna in any shape whatsoever. If not for the cameras and all the famous people in the building, she’d already be trading blows with her. If there was any one person she wanted dead, it would have to be Shin Yuna. Of course, knowing this, you never included your time with her on your job application, let alone mention the fact you briefly spoke at the event behind her back. She was in an already spiraling mood, and you didn’t need to make it even worse.

“I was thinking of using dildos for tonight, maybe just my fingers even, but I don’t think it’ll be enough. I really hope you understand.” That last sentence—she sounds apologetic, remorseful, but the warning is ultimately shallow; she’ll rough you up, wreck you, ruin you, and enjoy every moment of it. You’re merely a blank canvas to her twisted fantasies.

“Oh, oh–fuck!” She cries out, joining your deep scream in harmony as she plunges the dildo into your warm, wet hole. This isn’t your first experience on the receiving end of Ryujin’s strap, yet every plunge feels as destructive and spine breaking as the first. No pleasantries or formalities, just apply the lube then hit. The idea of teasing you goes against her very blunt, assertive nature.

“Shit—oh fucking shit, you’re so goddamn tight,” she says, snaking a hand around your waist as her plastic dick slowly penetrates your hole, little by little. She has you grasping at pillows, staring at the ceiling then down to the sheets, until you find the twisted image of her hips slowly pounding against your ass, letting the pleasure of pegging overwhelm her. It should be excruciatingly painful, an agonizing reminder to never get on her wrong side, but no, there’s something hot about getting dicked by a tough woman like her that arouses you.

Eventually, she comes to her senses, finds her footing, and remembers that she’s meant to punish you, not reward you. She knows how good you make her feel, even if your cock is meant to be inside hers, not the other way around. You can’t help speaking your mind, and it boosts Ryujin’s ego to the moon. “Please. Fucking use me, Miss Shin. Fucking ruin my hole like how I ruin yours, miss.”

Even upside down, you can see how visibly delighted she is to hear those words every single time. Can’t hide that wide smirk plastered on her lips, no matter how upset she is. It’s intoxicating. No matter how hard you’re huffing, the pleasure she derives from using you keeps you going. 

Slamming your eyes shut, Ryujin does what you both want. Fucks you with her dildo hard, clenches and quelches with each careful, intricate stroke. Sometimes you’re in that position, taking her ass and ravaging her body as your own. Now it’s her turn, and she’s been taking after you. Between thrusts, she slaps your cheek, pulls on your neck and hair. You’ve built this alarmingly toxic work relationship, but the sex has never felt this invigorating, so cathartic. The perfect use of frustration to be channeled into something pleasurable and rapturous. 

You’ve never seen Ryujin this focused, this committed to wrecking you. She’s using your hole with such ferocity you think she’ll make you bleed out. Behind those glazed, pleasure-filled eyes, she sees nothing but red. Difficult as it is, you follow a string of moans from her lips hidden beneath a continuous echo of groans from your end. It doesn’t help that these walls are thin and everyone on this floor can hear your escapades.

Neither of you care. There’s a good reason as to why she booked the whole floor to begin with.

The bed quakes, and quakes, and quakes—until it doesn’t. 

A puzzlingly calm fills the room after countless minutes pass. Ryujin’s frantic breaths close the silent gap, having pulled the dildo from your hole. It’s slick. You realize the change of pace. 

“Miss Shin, why did you stop?”

She doesn’t reply immediately. When she does, she’s still catching her breath between spoken words. “I told you—it wasn’t going to be enough. Lay down for me, will you?”

Without a second thought, you comply. This gives you an opportunity to truly see her in the flesh for the first time tonight. She’s wearing a combination of corset and lingerie, her juicy thighs layered with lace garter. Hopping off the bed, she unbuckles the strap around her waist, tossing it aside to the floor. You then focus on her plump ass, accentuated by her slim thong.

Damn, she looks better now than she does naked. You feel proud that she’s wearing your tailor-made lingerie.

Before you entertain the thought of undressing the very underclothes you’ve prepared for her, she slips the boxers off your ankles. She climbs onto the bed, stands atop you. Even with her short stature, in this position, she’s larger than life, a dominating presence that only desires complete control. 

“Hmm, I don’t know what I should do. I could let you fuck me, but that doesn’t sound right for a punishment,” she comments, playfully placing a finger on her chin, jokingly thinking. For a brief moment, it does appear that she’s stumped.

When the idea hits her, her eyes widen, and she has this self-conceited look, as if she’s got it all planned out. 

She reaches a hand down to her knee, slowly peels one of the stockings down to her ankles. Then she does the same for the other half. The way she positions both legwear on your cock is intentional; it’s to stir the idea of pounding into her cunt a real possibility. Your gaze remains fixated on Ryujin’s face, ever flawless in her scantily-clad figure, being her model self atop you. 

As she tugs on the lace of her panties, you start reacquainting your mind with the image of her tight cunt. She lowers it, barely down her thighs, enough space to tease, enough to make your heart race. Her attention is nowhere close to you; she has other priorities, and fingering herself is one of them. She rubs a digit around her heat, moans out in ecstasy with the same energy as getting fucked. The trembles of her body send aftershocks that reverberate all over the bed. 

It’s already hot enough to get fucked by Ryujin’s strap, but this—the sight of Ryujin pleasuring herself, mouth gaped wide open—is a hundred times better. This is the same reaction she has shown throughout the numerous times you’ve railed her, even though you’ve seen that face during sex. Against the mirror, against the water’s reflection, against the tinted windows of her cars—her face serves as motivation that keeps you hard whenever she demands it. Your hands begin to move on their own, reach down to the groin unknowingly, unsure of whether she’d want you to masturbate or not.

You feel your hard cock, already partially soaked with precum, dripping on her garter. As much as you want to keep them on, you can’t go against the deep seated urge to masturbate with her. Her foot begins to lean against your waist, right as you begin to stroke your shaft with your fingers. Moaning alongside her, you thrust your hips upward, passionately murmuring her name, with nothing but a singular thought: her pussy.

It’s etched on your needy lips. “You’re so sexy, Miss Shin. Please let me fuck you, God—”

She whines as though your hot breath is against her neck, growling a tone higher than normal. Her left foot is slowly clenching around your balls, the other at the bridge between your thigh and your crotch, gently nudging your free hand to move aside. She’s beginning to apply pressure on you, perhaps a subtle gesture to make you stop and give way for her feet to take over, but you’re engrossed in the moment to fully realize. Then again, subtlety isn’t her speciality.

It’s only when her foot presses down on your active hand that you slow to a complete halt. You gently rest her soles on your shaft, slowly wrap her soft toes around your tip. For the most part, their grip is shaky, but when they stick, they feel so slick, so warm, and significantly better than whatever effort your fingers can muster. She can’t wear heels without a few kisses placed on them, you recall; something about being Cinderella growing up, how she prefers to be treated, to receive nothing but showers of praise and attention, and you’re doing just that.

Her digits seemingly acknowledge what they’re stepping on, and soon enough it becomes the perfect makeshift ring to stimulate your cock. Her toes just feel the best, most direct spots around your sensitive shaft, gradually building momentum for when you eventually paint her pretty feet. At least, that’s the goal. You’re both drowning in pleasure, chasing separate highs, but using each other’s bodies as conduit for your own personal gain.

And it’s not that she doesn’t know; she knows. You’ve caught a glimpse of her half-lidded eye peeking down. She sees it, merely chuckles at the notion, and continues to finger herself atop your helpless body. Mutual trust brings you together; she won’t stop you as long as you won’t do the same to her.

“Yes, fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard,” you say, breaths hurried, and it isn’t a matter of if, but when. “Every part of you feels so good, Ryu.”

You’re past formalities at this point. She’s too far gone to care that you've called her by her casual name. Her fingers, both slick and warm at once, are catching fire from the frenzied pace she’s rubbing her clit, certain her dripping juices will find solace on your splayed figure. Racing with her orgasm, her underwear is halfway down her meaty legs, her very foundations shaking. Inadvertently pressing her foot tightly on your cock, she’s holding on for dear life, and it threatens to steal your soul before you reach that immaculate high.

With friction at an all-time high, one rough, slippery slip between her toes, all while your loins burn , moving as if you’re burying yourself deep in her cunt, eager to fill her with seed. The thin thread snaps. Sends you careening over the edge.

Your fall is accompanied by the endless scream of her name. To have your cock be graciously drained by her feet, it would be disrespectful not to. She’s still going, chasing that high even as your cum geysers all over her feet, spills over your knees, your belly, on the sheets, as if her own slick didn’t already make an utter mess of this five-star bed. You’re mentally cheering her on, distracting yourself from the endless cascade of seed gushing beneath you. 

This disastrous mess finds you again, this time in the form of Ryujin’s orgasm. She orgasms, cries her loudest cry, her features at their most corrupted. Her pussy gushes like a rushing waterfall, completely soiling her legs and panties with her slick juices. Your groin manages to salvage whatever her thighs haven’t absorbed, and it’s a sticky pool that latches onto her dainty feet. When she steps off your cock, the squelch of wet seed splatters on the sheets until she touches the ground.

You both take some time apart, let the aftermath of your orgasms fizzle out. Ryujin assesses the damage to her body; she’s still a model, after all. She hastily rids of the soiled underwear, treating it like some kind of contaminated object that can only be cleansed by fire. From the looks of it, she’s committed something dangerous, and you’ve done something scandalous. 

“Shit. We got carried away,” you say, lifting your head from the bed, panicked.

“No. You got carried away,” she replies, facing you with that familiar icy gaze. The honeymoon period is over. “Did I allow you to plant my feet on your cock? Huh?”

Swallowing your throat, you understand that she’s technically right, but also, she most certainly enjoyed the feeling of stepping on you—something you can use against her. Still, Ryujin’s word overrides all reasoning, no matter how logical they are.

You see her facade fall apart when she approaches you again. She climbs onto the bed like a cat, arches her back, and sends you back down to the mattress when she pounces on you. On her lips is the widest smirk you’ve ever seen on her. 

She wants more.

Rising to her feet, she plants her toes directly on your chin, oozing with the remains of your cum mixed with hers. “You did this, now you’ll clean it up.” 

As your tongue laps it up, she occasionally disrupts your rhythm by kicking you several times. Not that you’re hurting her (you couldn’t even if you tried) but for the delight of bringing you misfortune. It’s completely in line with the typical abuse and inhumane treatment you face from her during work hours. You won’t complain, but that was never in the cards, anyway. 

“I can’t believe my stylist is a complete freak. Fucking hell,” she comments, glaring you down as you give her toe the occasional kiss. She’s visibly disgusted by the realization sinking in, but deep down, she knows you’re the exact stylist she’s been looking for. 

—————

And as if that’s not enough, she’s found a punishment perfectly suited for you. 

“Just so you know, you’re not getting paid after the stunt you pulled on me today,” says Ryujin, in reference to your accidental disappearance during the red carpet. You’re laid out on the floor, prone, your groans stifled by the living room carpet. Meanwhile, her feet tread all over your bare back at a steady tempo, leaving what could have easily been hickeys red marks and footprints on your skin.

“How long do I have left, Miss Shin?” you ask, voice almost indiscernible.

“About ten minutes,” she replies, looking out the hotel room window, watching dawn slowly break over the Parisian sky. “Don’t ever disappoint me again, do you understand? Freak.”

——————

(A/N: First commissioned work complete! Definitely exploring elements out of my specialty, did you expect her to peg OC? Fun dynamic to write, thank you for reading!)

(P.S. If you want to have your own story/idol written, you can send me a commission :D)

[miniherodesktales]

A one-shot about Lister's first night on the Dwarf

Sleep:

When Lister had been assigned to the Dwarf he had been rough sleeping in a storage container while scraping a living as a cab driver - frankly, anything was a step up from that. The Dwarf may have had a reputation for being a creaky old, comfortless rust bucket but it was safer than being on the street.

And, yet, he hadn't anticipated how "small" space could feel once you were stuck onboard a ship that wasn't scheduled to dock on Titan for another six months. There was no getting off the ride until the ride had come to a complete stop.

Somewhere in the decks below them, an alarm blared. Lister flinched, just as he had done at the buzzing sound of a scutter rolling past the bunk room door, the clang of a door shutting, the beep beep of the elevator at the end of the corridor...He clutched at his duvet a little tighter. This was madness. Pure madness, what he was thinking? How was anyone supposed to sleep like this? He rolled over, shutting his eyes tightly. Even the darkness felt suffocating.

Six months, six months, just another six months to go before he would see a blue sky again, feel a fresh breeze, only six little months...

Lister couldn't stand it any longer. He lent out of his bunk and stared up at the one above his.

'Rimmer,' he hissed. 'You awake?'

There was no reply from his bunkmate and supervisor, but Lister could hear the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

Lister swallowed, hesitating. He was sure that Rimmer was mad on some level: his eyes often had a manic look and he was always bouncing his right leg up and down. He was petty, small minded and forever starting arguments wherever he went, but right now he was only company that Lister had.

So....'Rimmer! Rimmer, wake up!'

Rimmer bolted upright.

'Wha - argh!' He had just slammed his head on the ceiling. 'Lights, lights!' He slipped down to the floor and began inspecting his forehead in the mirror for signs of injury. 'What is it, Lister?' he snapped.

'I can't sleep,' Lister said quietly.

Rimmer turned on him.

'What? You woke me up at 3am and gave me a concussion just to tell me that you can't sleep? Is this a joke?'

'No,' Lister gulped. 'It's this place...it's so cold in here...and we're stuck in space where no one can you scream and everything is grey and cramped and noisy and smells and the walls are closing in! The walls, Rimmer!'

Rimmer looked alarmed. He held up his hands hopelessly and then began waving them at Lister, like he could waft away Lister's panic.

'It's OK,' he said. 'Just -just look out the window!'

Lister shut his eyes again and shook his head.

'No good,' he muttered. 'I just want out this spaceship...'

Rimmer folded his arms, looking incredulously. 'You signed up to the Space Corp...and you can't cope with being on a spaceship? You may have a made a poor career move, Lister.'

'I didn't know I was claustrophobic.'

'Really? I'd have thought agoraphobic the more accurate label. After all we have plenty of room in here and oxygen. You, my friend, are scared of being in a situation you can't escape.'

'Whatever!' Lister shouted. 'Just help me take my mind off things - please!'

'How?'

'I don't know...talk to me, play a game...how about the Shopping List game?'

Rimmer sat on the bunk next to him, his face screwed up in undisguised disgust and leg bouncing nervously.

Eventually his face cleared and he said 'Just take it easy. No one sleeps on their first night. I didn't.' It was the first kind thing he had ever said to Lister. 'Just think of it being like...like it's your first night at boarding school.'

'I didn't go to boarding school.'

'Oh. How old are you anyway?'

'22. I've got nowhere else better to be.'

Lister felt Rimmer staring at him, but avoided looking into those mad, brown eyes.

'Oh,' Rimmer said quietly.

'Oh' just about summed up Lister's life up.

'Why is it so cold?' he demanded, pulling the standard issue JMC duvet around his shoulders a little more tightly.

Rimmer shrugged. 'Whacked out old heating system competing with the whacked out cooling system. No one wants the engines to overheat so it's better to keep them cool than to worry about our comfort. It's always a bit nippy in here. But, not to worry, Lister, you're talking to a boarding school veteran and a gentlemen who was sent out into the world aged 16. Rule 1: always know where your blanket and ear plugs are.'

'Shouldn't that be two rules?

'Shut up.'

Rimmer bounded across the room to Lister's locker and began rifling through it.

'What are you looking for?'

'Your winter blanket. Ear plugs.'

'I don't have those things, man.'

Rimmer turned to give him an appalled look.

'This -' he pointed back at the locker. 'This is all you have? It's just rags.'

'That and my guitar,' Lister muttered as he flopped back on his mattress.

'Oh,' said Rimmer again. He hesitated before going to his own well-stocked locker. He pulled out an old, tatty brown blanket with Titan Hospital printed on it. 'Here,' he said nobly, throwing it at Lister. 'I won't want it back.'

'Oh, cheers. man. Why'd you have it?'

Rimmer suddenly looked embarrassed. He shrugged, hugging his arms around his body tightly.

'C'mon!' Lister pleaded. 'Look at me, I'm the on the edge! Talk to me!'

Rimmer shrugged.

'Someone was nice to me,' he said weakly, his face red.

'What? What you talking about?

'I was like you when I first joined,' Rimmer said thickly. 'Well, actually, I was bit younger than 16...I had permission to sign up early...so I did...'

Lister sat up. 'What ,your parents let you join the space corp while you were underage?'

'Hmmm, anyway, I was on my own, didn't have much with me...I fell asleep on the Starbug at the end of a long shift and the woman next to me was the first aider. She'd been a nurse back home. Anyway, she looked out for me, wrapped me in that blanket until we got back to the Solar Flare. Made sure I had everything I needed to survive my first tour. She was the motherly type, you know? In her 40s, had teenage kids somewhere. Always fussed over the newbies, especially me. I hated her.'

'Hated her? But she was nice to you!'

'I know. I never said thank you.'

Rimmer was staring blankly into the past.

He suddenly twitched. 'I'm going back to bed,' he said thickly. 'Take the top bunk.'

'What?'

'I don't want to bang my head again.'

'You said the bottom bunk was too near the toilet.'

'It is, it's disgusting. Wake me up again and I'll throw you out the airlock.'

Lister mocked saluted him. 'Yes, Mr Rimmer, sir.'

He tried to settle, but he couldn't get back to sleep even with the blanket. It did help that the top bunk was a little roomier.

[catcrumb]

hi I love your shatterstar warriorcat drawing, if you feel like putting it on your red bubble i would love to get a thing or two with it ! (I may have sent an ask saying this a month or two back, if so I’m sorry for the repeat! bad memory) love your art very much, it brightens my day every time I see it :)

you are so nice and have such incredibly good taste in xmen b-listers that ive managed to break my sloth and put this bloodthirsty boy on redbubble. did you know they sell bucket hats now? anyway this image is hilarious and delightful to me. shatterstar fursona on your pate

(link)

[dokidokitsuna]

WE DID IT, BUCKET LISTERS!!! 🎉🎉🎉

[pcktknife]

be nice to team bucket list frye needs a win....poor girl 😔 (ngl ur team will probably win yall were 2nd at halftime and shivers team always pulls out all the goddamn stops after halftime)

sincerely a team bucket lister (splwned#1432 in case u play me :3)

look im down just about as many losses as frye is what about me and my wins (and yeah shivers team dont think ive run into u tho)

[strange-and-off-putting]

Smegtober Prompt Sixteen: Future

Also on AO3. Tooth-rottingly sappy:

“Knew you’d make it up here eventually,” Lister says, not turning around from his vantage point at the railing.  Rimmer can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Oh?” Rimmer tries to keep his voice dismissive. “I’m that predictable, am I?”

  Lister turns, his lips curled in a cheeky grin.  He is holding, in each hand, what appears to be a glass of champagne.  He offers one to Rimmer, who stares at it slightly slack-jawed before taking it and raising it to his lips gingerly. “Might’ve lost a bit of its fizz,” he says, as means of apology, with a penitent shrug.  “Knew you’d be coming, but wasn’t a hundred percent on when, so I took my best guess.” 

He chuckles as Rimmer takes a sip and lifts his brows in surprise. “Yeah, I nicked a bottle of the good stuff,” Lister says.  “Figured if it was really good stuff, it could hold its own even if it went a bit flat.” He raises his glass. “Cheers,” he says, taking a generous sip.  Rimmer steps forward, left hand wrapped around the stem of the champagne flute, right hand gently supporting the base, and looks at Lister suspiciously. “So you know me well enough to know I’d come up here,” he says, eyes scanning the observation dome, “but not well enough to know I don’t want to be reminded of my birthday?”

“Who says this is for your birthday?” Lister says slyly.  “Just ‘cause it happens to be your birthday–”

“You know I hate when you play games like this, Listy.” “Ok, well, first, I don’t think you do hate it actually,” he sniffs, leaning his hip against the banister, “and second, a day can be two things, ok?” A pause.  Lister twirls the champagne flute in his fingers.  He looks down. “This isn’t about your birthday,” he says quietly.

Rimmer watches him closely as he turns back out to the vastness of space and beckons him over.  Rimmer hesitates, the old patterns of mistrust and paranoia still hard to break.  But this is Lister.  He moves to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and stares off into infinity. “It’s not how I envisioned spending my sixty-fifth,” Rimmer sighs. “Stuck on an aimlessly floating rust bucket with you lot.  No offense.” Lister bows his head.  “Thought you didn’t want to talk about your birthday.” Rimmer scoffs. 

“Well, clearly you do!” he says, exasperatedly.  “You get me alone up here, you bring champagne–” “Rimmer, this is not about your birthday,” Lister says placatingly. “Then what are you playing at?” he says irritiably.  Lister shrugs.  “I thought maybe it’d be nice if you had something different to celebrate on this day.  In the future, I mean.” He goes quiet.  Rimmer stares into his champagne, the soft hiss of bubbles all but dissipated, the pale liquid catching the soft ambient glow of the under rail lighting.  Lister bends to place his empty champagne flute on the floor, groaning as he pulls himself back up to standing.  He stands slightly breathless, bracing his hands on the bannister, and staring out at the darkness ahead of them.  He seems, suddenly and uncharacteristically, slightly nervous.

“You know, when I met you,” Lister says slowly, “I didn’t actually like you.” “Oh, don’t drop too many bombshells on me all at once, Listy, I don’t think I can take it,” Rimmer snarks. Lister rolls his eyes. “Look, man, I’m building a certain kinda atmosphere here, ok?” he sighs.  “I’m trying to create a bloody heartfelt moment, so could shut the smeg up for five seconds, please?” Rimmer rolls his eyes, but does, to his credit, shut up.  Lister scrubs his face with his hand. “Smeg,” he mutters.  “When I first met you, I didn’t like you, right?  I thought you were snobbish, neurotic, cowardly, self-serving, and petty.” He sighs.  “And that hasn’t changed.” He slides his hand across the banister, nudging Rimmer’s hand with his own, and linking their little fingers together. “But the way I feel about you has.” Rimmer stares at their hands, at all the lines etched in their skin, at the faint blue of his simulated veins, and the ragged edges of Lister’s nails, at Lister’s finger, crooked gently around his. “Lister…?” “Here,” he says, digging in the pocket of his leather pants with his free hand.  “Now, it’s not a birthday present, all right?  I told you this wasn’t about your birthday, and I meant it.  This is something else.”

He pulls his hand out.  In his palm are two plain gold bands.

“Nice, ain’t they?” he says softly, pride evident in his voice.  “Nicked them from one of the officer's suites ages ago; had to.  Couldn’t say why at the time.”

He grins.

“Think I know now.”

“I…” Rimmer stares at the bands, clearly flustered.  “I’m not sure what this is…?”

“Well, it’s not a birthday gift,” Lister says.  He lifts their linked hands and gently turns Rimmer so his fingers spread.  He slides the gold band over Rimmer’s ring finger and breathes a sigh of relief.

“Christ, I was so worried it wouldn’t fit,” he laughs.  “Pretty sure mine’s gonna be a tight one.”

He runs his thumb over Rimmer’s knuckles, admiring how the gold band catches the light.

“Rimmer, whatever else the future holds, the reality is, we’re going to spend it stuck with each other,” he grins.  “And at some point --I'm not quite sure when -- but at some point, I realized that that started sounding less like a prison sentence, and more like a promise.”

He shrugs.  “So that’s what this is.  A promise.”

Rimmer stares at their hands and slowly extends his free hand, palm up.  Lister furrows his brow.  It takes him a minute to understand.  He laughs.

“Oh, smeg, sorry,” he says, dropping the gold band in Rimmer’s hand.  He studies it for moment before slipping it on.  It’ll only slide on Lister’s little finger.  Rimmer shakes his head disapprovingly.

“It’s you and all those damn curries,” he grouses.

“Lagers, too,” Lister grins. He turns back to the sky, to the endless darkness, pinpricked with light, and leans heavily on Rimmer, his head resting against his shoulder.

“So next year, instead of your birthday, we can celebrate out anniversary,” Lister says with the air of someone who has done something very clever.  “Better?”

“Better,” Rimmer agrees.  He looks down at his hand, the band a pinprick of light in the dark.

“Infinitely better.”

[gothwizardmagic]

thinking about how rimmers been a hologram for about as long if not longer than he was alive and how listers DEFINITELY been out of stasis and alone for longer than he ever spent with people around and i wanna stick my head in a bucket of ice and scream

[httpknjoon]

This is random. But I do see the a-listers attending Taylor Swift's The Eras tour. They went together for the opening night and enjoyed the whole event in like the private loft in the stadium. It was their first real night out after the twins arrived.

They were singing along and vibing to the live performance. Then when the intro started playing for Lover, Jin turned to you and offered his hand, "May I have this dance, my wife?"

You laughed but accepted his hand, "Of course, my husband."

You two slowly danced to the song you co-wrote, with your arms around his neck and his hands on your waist. For the whole duration of the song, you just soaked in the peaceful moment in the midst of the crowd singing along Taylor.

The night went on. You two sung like teenagers to Love Story and You Belong With Me, screaming the lyrics from your lungs as you don't get to really sing loud in your house because of the babies.

It was during the invisible string performance, you and Jin were sat on the couch. You two were humming to the song as he wrapped an arm around you and pulled you closer to him. The comfort of the scene reminded you of home. And as you thought of home, you remembered your twins back at home with Jin's mom.

"Hon..." you called for your husband while you rest on his chest.

"Hmm?"

"I miss the twins..."

Jin looked down to you and you met his eyes. He asked, "You wanna go home?"

You sighed, feeling a little guilt in your stomach, "Yeah."

"Okay. It's fine, bub." he smiled, kissing your forehead, as if he can read through your mind.

You prepared to leave. By the time Taylor is moving to another song, you and Jin were leaving the stadium quietly. Hands held together, heads turned down. You two were wearing bucket hats and face masks. A close staff assisted you two to the secret parking lot. On the way home, you turned up the radio. Taylor Swift's Sweet Nohing plays.

[db618]

ok! fictional characters that you think would be besties, even if they're from different media. GO GO GO!!!

OOOOH THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD

(let’s get the obvious one out of the way first)

Daisy Dingo (Blinky Bill) and Lisa Raccoon (The Raccoons)

Zorori (Kaiketsu Zorori) and Nick Wilde (Zootopia)

Goku (Dragon Ball/Dragon Ball Z) and Superman (DC Comics)

Vector the Crocodile (Sonic the Hedgehog) and Dave Lister (Red Dwarf)

(don’t question it)

Sam the Angel Fox (@samtheangelfox) and a bucket of fried chicken (KFC)

[charliespringverse]

iwbft – monday: a brief summary of my annotations

all highlighted quotes: 101

· ouch/ow/owie: 1

· real/felt/relatable/so true: 4

· aroace: 3

· ☹/☹☹/☹☹☹: 5

They usually just found me annoying, because once I start talking about The Ark, or anything really, I find it kind of hard to stop. — i often reference my jimmy kinnie shit but like,,, angel

I love my real name, but Angel feels like a part of me now. I'm just not used to hearing it in real life. — jay vibes

'And you must give me some writing material, boring girl!! Love you xx' — she took u up on this x

They seem connected. Like the Beatles on Abbey Road, or a group of toddlers holding hands on a preschool trip to the park. — the latter is closer to the truth

The girls. Our girls. — "our girls" vs "our boys" :(

Rowan, the tallest, is to my left with a hand on my shoulder. Lister is to my right, his hands in his pockets. We never really discussed this. It's just what we do now. — does lister keep his hands in his pockets bc he doesn't feel as connected ?

Fortunately for us, I'm excellent at faking being okay with things, even when inside my brain there is a tiny screaming gnome who is definitely not okay. — iconic line

I think he's attractive. Sort of averagely spaced out facial features. That haircut that all the lads are wearing nowadays. Bit like he was designed in a lab. I don't know, really. He looks like the sort of person I should think is attractive. — the a in lgbtqia+ stands for angel rahimi

Not miserable old Radiohead. — boooo rare angel L

'I mean, I guess it's unusual to be into that sort of music, but, you know, it's better than being too obvious.' — fuck off back to ur bucket hat

I say, upbeat as possible, 'Hi, you all right?' — p. 27 !! (note: page 27 is where angel mentions hating when ppl say 'you all right?' as a greeting)

I say this all with a laugh but I do actually wish people thought we were a rock band. We're a rock band. Electropop at a stretch. I'm not a music snob. Shut up. — me in my 5sos era c. 2014

You can tell he gets a little nervous at events like these. — "a little nervous" yeah?

'Not because you think he's attractive...?' — men (derogatory)

[yaminerua]

I don't expect to be able to keep this up, since it has been far, far too long since I have written anything. But @a-literal-toaster-wtf's Smegtober prompts gave me a little burst and I hope I can at least make something for some of them if not all of them.

So here's a belated something for Day 1: Earth.

Sometimes all you can do to pass the time in hopeless pursuit of a planet you may never see again is to drink the days away.

Words: 2975

****

Sometimes the reality of the situation was simply too much to bear, the absolute futility of it all an inescapable weight, crushing and merciless, pressing down until all that could really be done about it was to try to drink it away and forget.

Dave Lister sat miserably by himself at the little table in the sleeping quarters, a collection of empty lager cans and beer bottles laid out in front of him like some sort of cluttered miniature cityscape. He’d been drinking solidly for much of the day, interrupted only by intermittent bouts of drunken sleep and hunger pangs craving whatever quick bits of junk food he could clumsily coordinate himself to retrieve.

It was a pathetic sight, but not an altogether uncommon one to see these days, especially on a day like today.

His birthday was a complicated event for a whole host of increasingly smegged up reasons. The fact that he was simultaneously his own father and son was only part of that whole mess. The rest of his life was the other.

In all honesty Lister had stopped counting the years. He let Kryten privately keep track of that, preferring instead simply not to know. It didn’t matter what the number was anymore. All he knew was at this point he had spent more time on this creaking, groaning hunk of junk than he ever had back home on Earth (time spent in stasis aside) and he didn’t care to know the specifics of just how long that time had been.

Cracking open the top of yet another can of lager, he threw it back with reckless abandon and tossed it aside with all the others, willing his alcohol-soaked brain to sink back into the murky quiet of unconsciousness. He couldn't even register the taste anymore.

It would be laughable if it wasn’t so achingly depressing. His life had been effectively over the moment he’d turned 23 and he’d never even realised it. The moment he’d decided on a whim to go on that stupid pub crawl around London for his birthday all those years ago he’d sealed his fate, bringing about the events that led to him waking up stranded on Mimas with no way home and he had done it all with the carefree obliviousness of a fool who had no idea what was coming.

The worst part, he thought dimly, miserably reaching for another can and finding the nearest one empty, was that the last views he would have seen of Earth as he departed it for the last time were completely lost to him. He had been too drunk, too far gone to commit that final glimpse of home to memory and then it had been too late. 3 million years ago (plus an ice age or two) Dave Lister had looked out over the planet Earth for the last time, and he had been too smegging plastered to pay any attention.

He groaned, lowering his throbbing head down onto the table roughly, forehead colliding with the cool metal with a thud that he didn’t even register. He wasn’t really sure what he was still doing here, why he bothered waking up just to go through the motions over and over with no natural end to it in sight.

Oh, sure, the stated plan was still ‘Get back to Earth’ but it was a hollow aspiration with no realistic prospects of success, maintained only because it was nice to pretend to have some sort of goal to work towards in the otherwise monotonous purgatory that life on board Red Dwarf was these days. It kept you tethered, grounded, which was helpful when you were the last  of your kind in a floating rust bucket drifting through the emptiness of deep space. Anything to keep you from throwing yourself out an airlock and being done with it.

 The reality was that after all these years, Earth was surely no closer than it had been when he’d first awoken from stasis. In fact there was a deeply unpleasant possibility that it was even further away. God only knew which direction they were travelling in nowadays. Everywhere they went was uncharted territory, unmapped star system after unmapped star system, and Red Dwarf had been turned around so many times over the years that there was simply no way to reliably orient it towards Earth, no way of knowing which way Earth even was, if there was even still an Earth to speak of.

Even if, by some miracle, they were still somehow heading in the right direction, the fact of the matter was that they were simply too far away. 3 million years spent drifting had carried Red Dwarf so far away that without a faster-than-light drive to try to speed things up, Lister could very well spend the rest of his life never making it to a point where any part of the Solar System could become even distantly visible. The thought of that made Lister’s insides feel hollow and cold and he curled his arms in around his head, burying his face in the gap between them, utterly despondent.

Earth had become, in its own way, what Fuchal was to the Cat’s people – an unattainable nirvana, the promised land, a place you could spend your whole life trying to reach and never get any closer to.

He’d never meant to end up here. He should never have been in a situation where signing up with the JMC for a mining tour of the Solar System would have been his most reliable ticket home, but that had been what had happened. He’d signed up initially just to undo his mistake and then he’d decided to stay on to make a little extra money, tempted by a simple little dream that had got very out of hand. If he’d just hopped off first chance he’d got… If he hadn’t done this… If he hadn’t done that… If only, if only…

The doors to the sleeping quarters slid open and the swift, purposeful footfalls of Arnold Rimmer echoed off the metal floor but Lister didn’t hear them, didn’t register their sudden halting as Rimmer stilled at the sight of Lister slumped as he was over the desk and he definitely didn't register the loud reproachful 'tut' sound he made with his tongue.

Rimmer’s nose wrinkled in disgust, casting his disapproving gaze across the mess of discarded cans and bottles and bending down to pick up a few of those closest to him that had clattered to the floor. Straightening up, he regarded Lister with a long-suffering look of disdain and pursed his lips. “Another day well spent I see,” he said stonily, placing the cans down on whatever space was still available on the desk. “If you were going for the world record I think you probably passed it some time ago.”

Lister didn’t respond, didn’t make any attempt to acknowledge Rimmer’s presence at all. Rimmer sniffed disdainfully and went on. “I don’t know how you can maintain such a slobby existence this long. It’s beyond belief. How your body is even still functioning after all this is a medical mystery. I'd say you should leave your body to medical science but I'm not sure what good that would do.”

He let out a humourless laugh and shook his head, glancing down at Lister’s unresponsive form. He was awfully quiet, Rimmer noted as he watched him for a long moment. He didn’t even seem to be moving.

Fleetingly, a look of alarm flashed across the hazel of Rimmer’s eyes before he schooled his expression into something more controlled, though the crease in his brow that remained was still etched far more with concern than it was anything else.

“Lister?” he said, far more gently than he might have liked, quirking his head to the side, trying to get a better look at Lister’s face.

He reached out a hand, tentative, and placed it gingerly on Lister’s shoulder, giving it an experimental shake. “Lister,” he repeated, this time a little more firmly.

He wouldn’t put it past Lister to accidentally drink himself to death and certainly at the rate he drank these days that risk loomed larger and far more likely than Rimmer was comfortable to fully confront. The prospect of Lister dying had been easy enough to brush aside before, when he was younger and more full of life, but with the steady march of time and the ongoing hopelessness of their collective situation chipping away at him more and more that nagging little issue was pushing itself further and further into the forefront of Rimmer’s thoughts in a way that was becoming increasingly harder to run from.

He could only shake off the worry and concern to a certain extent, brushing it off as simply a means of self-preservation given that the continuation of his own existence was inextricably linked to the continuation of Lister’s, but you could only continue to give a smeg about someone else to save your own skin for so long before that naturally evolved into something a little more genuine, a little more sincere.

He shook Lister’s shoulder a little more firmly and all but shouted, “Lister, for pity’s sake wake up you stupid goit!” and if there was any hint of urgency, any sound of desperation in his tone he pointedly refused to acknowledge it.

Lister groaned in protest and a clumsy hand tried and failed to swat him away and if Rimmer had had an actual heart in his chest it surely would have leapt with relief at the confirmation that at least for now Lister was still in the land of the living.

He retracted his hand, clasping it tightly in the other behind his back and straightened up again. “We really have to do something about your drinking habits, Lister,” he said, eyeing the mountain of empty bottles with contempt. “Not least because you’re stinking up this room with the stench of alcohol.”

“Urgh, gimme a break, Rimmer…” Lister mumbled into the sleeve of his jacket, his words bleeding into each other as his mouth struggled to follow the input from his brain. “I’m just missing Earth. I’m missin’ home…”

“Well, at the rate you’re going you’ll turn Red Dwarf into Earth 2.0 with all the garbage you’re building up," Rimmer said dryly. “Either that or you’ll drink yourself to death before we even get there. I don’t get what you see in that cesspit of a planet. It’s hardly deserving of all this moping.”

“But it’s home, Rimmer,” Lister said in a quiet, faraway voice, the weight of all his longing heavy on every syllable. “My home. Where I never should’ve left...” He lifted his head with great difficulty to fix Rimmer with a wobbly, unfocused stare. His face was blotchy, his eyes swollen and puffy as though at some point earlier in the day he might have been crying. “Don’t you know what that feels like?”

“No, I don’t,” was what Rimmer wanted to bitterly snap back but in truth it would have been a lie. He didn’t miss Io, not a jot, but he did know what it felt like to long to return to a place that felt impossible to reach, a place that had felt more like home than any other place he’d ever been, but that had been no planet or lunar colony. It had been right here; Red Dwarf, the place that had been his home for almost half of his life and most of his borrowed time afterwards, the place he had done everything in his power to return to.

He pulled his gaze away from Lister’s searching eyes and looked instead around at the bunk room, cluttered as it was and filled with paraphernalia of their collective history sharing it together, and his shoulders slackened a little, the hardened edges of his expression softening a fraction as he understood. “I suppose so,” is what he eventually said out loud, quietly and pensively.

Lister wasn’t paying attention anymore. His head was lowering again and he looked as though he was already beginning to slip back into unconsciousness, his eyelids drooping tiredly, unable to hold themselves open.

Rimmer regarded him sympathetically for a moment before huffing a somewhat defeated, exasperated sigh. “Lister,” he said sternly, though it was lacking any real sharpness or irritation. “You can’t fall asleep like that, you’ll do your back in.”

Lister mumbled something unintelligible but otherwise made no attempt to move. Rimmer rolled his eyes.

Before he could allow Lister to fully crumple back into his previous slumped position, Rimmer moved swiftly behind him, hooking his arms under Lister’s and hoisting him up with a strength that he could only thank his hard-light drive for. “Come on, Listy,” he said breathlessly, struggling a little to support the entirety of Lister’s dead weight. “Up you get. Use those slobby, lazy legs of yours for something.”

Lister whined in protest, flailing in Rimmer’s grip and his legs struggled to coordinate themselves to stand. Rimmer realised then that there was really nothing for it. There was no way Lister was making it up into the top bunk in this state. He was just going to have to offer up his own.

Staggering backwards, reluctant as he was to accept this decision, he clumsily led Lister away from the table, stumbling and tripping over a few more rogue cans that littered the floor, cursing as he went, until he felt the solid base of Lister’s top bunk press against his back, whereupon he turned and, as carefully as was possible when you were attempting to manoeuvre someone too inebriated to follow commands, he eased Lister’s heavy, exhausted body down onto the lower bunk.

Lister made a muffled appreciative sound as he felt the cushioned comfort of the mattress beneath him and he went instantly limp in Rimmer's grip, relaxing into the softness all around him. He made a poorly coordinated attempt to turn over into a better position, almost rolling himself right out of the bunk but Rimmer promptly stopped him and repositioned him again. Letting out a heavy, contented breath, he turned his head and buried his face in the warm softness of Rimmer’s pillow and settled down to sleep.

Rimmer twitched a little watching this but could hardly do anything about it now. “Don’t you dare drool on that,” he warned, though he figured Lister probably already couldn’t hear him.

Straightening up and stretching out his own back after the exertion, he regarded Lister quietly for a few moments, watching the muscles in his face slacken with sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the beginning little sounds of a snore a comforting signal that the body on his bunk was still alive, still kicking even if Lister himself had all but lost most of the will to fight after all these years.

Rimmer himself had never been one to let futility and hopelessness get in his way, although arguably he probably could have stood to let it do so more often. He didn't really know how to give up on a goal. He’d pushed on, stubborn and unshakeable, with things that he probably ought to have given up on years ago but giving up meant admitting defeat, meant acknowledging that something was impossible. It meant accepting, for example, that there was no point wasting all of his life and most of his afterlife pursuing dreams of officership, even if some small part of him knew that by now it was a pointless endeavour. It meant letting go of something that had defined so much of every waking moment of his life.

In that sense, he supposed he could understand Lister’s stubborn desire to get back to Earth, as well as the crushing weight of realising it probably wasn’t possible. If holding onto that kept him going, just in the off-chance that a miracle could come their way, maybe there wasn’t so much wrong with continuing to entertain such a dream.

He grabbed the covers and carefully pulled them up and over Lister’s sleeping form, the backs of his fingers lightly brushing momentarily across the warmth of Lister’s cheek as he did so and the sensation startled him, causing him to flinch and immediately retract his hand, wringing it tensely in his grip as he willed the little surge of whatever it was that had quickened his heartbeat to subside.

He shook himself, deciding not for the first time and certainly not for the last time that he wasn’t going to pay it any mind. He’d been stuck with the stupid goit for so long after all. It was just care for his wellbeing. Nothing more. It was only natural given the circumstances. He could keep telling himself that a little longer.

Turning his attention away from the bunk, he set about gathering up the empty bottles and cans off the floor and placing them with the rest on the table. Kryten could take care of disposing of those properly later, and maybe while he was at it he’d be able to take his sure-to-be-drooled-on pillow for a wash when the time came too. His face crumpled at the very thought. "Lights," he called out quietly, the bunk room's ambient light dimming down to something less harsh on the eyes, something more appropriate for sleep.

Heading for the door, he shot a final glance back over his shoulder at Lister’s bundled up figure curled up snoring softly on the bottom bunk, looking suddenly so very young and fragile in spite of all his years, the last human holding on to a dream in a cold, hostile universe, and if his eyes softened a fraction watching him a few moments longer it was surely a trick of the light.

[caluski]

The most obvious bucket-lister for me would, of course, be to throw a dinner party. But right now that's literally like. Just impossible to do. I kind of hope I can live long enough to make friends again, friends who wouldn't have to look for excuses just to not spend time with me. It would only make sense if it's just... a genuine nice time with people who GENUINELY want to be around me. I think it's kind of like, the endgame wish of mine.

[porterdavis]

You first

[symbioteburnout]

“Welp, I’m probably gonna be dead by the end of the summer. Better get started on a Will and a bucket list.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, if you die, they might revive you later, or you might not actually die at all.”

“Steph, I’m a D-lister at best, and that’s being generous. The only time I ever get page time is during snuff-fest events like this. If I get killed off, it’s probably gonna be permanent.”

[introvertbard]

I saw flashes of people calling to "UNFOLLOW X Y AND Z CELEBRITIES FOR NOT SPEAKING UP!!!", and then they were mentioning how those celebrities were now speaking their thoughts about Palestine, but THAT WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH ANYMORE, SO KEEP UNFOLLOWING THEM!!!

And even considering that "they're losing so many followers" could mean anything from "a huge percentage of their follower count" to "a couple hundred people which SOUNDS like a lot to everyday folks, but is really just a drop in the bucket for many A/B-Listers," I was like, "What the fuck are celebrities supposed to do??? You know that many if not all celebrities are PERFORMERS/ARTISTS, right? They have JOBS and those jobs do not tend to be in journalism, warfare, or politics. PROFESSIONAL ART IS A FUCKING JOB."

It IS great that some celebrities are speaking out about Palestine, but to hold them up as examples of how EVERY high-profile person should act regardless of their actual expertise is, well, performative. And really parasocial.

Loving the new counterpoint that not only is posting activism, not posting is complicity. Why doesn't everyone with any fame or internet presence immediately release a lengthy but perfectly-worded statement telling us where they stand on every issue? Is it because they're evil??? It must be because they're evil

And then the usual answer is "they don't post online very much". Which is all very suspicious, don't they know everything of importance is done by posts on social media now