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sp4ceboo · 7 months ago

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Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: ty taylor swift i attempted to base this fic on your song but then i divulged as normal

tw: 18+, smut, p in v, inkpie, oral (both recieving), sub feyd by which i mean feyd is DOMMED, spit, degradation + praise, one spank kinda, swearing, lil bit of crying, mention of evil baron activities so sa + pedophilia, tiny mention of cheating but none actually happens, lmk if there's anything else bc lbr there probably is i just forgot it

wc: 3.9k

Feyd-Rautha has gravely underestimated you.

It is true that you are not strong in terms of Harkonnen definitions, but you expected a man destined to father the Kwisatz Haderach to be able to see past that. What was that the Bene Gesserit were saying about superior genetics? You don’t see even a glimpse of that in his frosty gaze when he regards you - he looks at you as if you’re a delicate vase that may shatter in the lightest of breezes. He thinks he needs to fear breaking you.

He misses how you miss nothing.

You are not Bene Gesserit; you are merely one of their pawns, a genetic machination produced from centuries of manipulations and deceptions, but you can read a man better than the majority of their number.

The seething jealousy in the clenching off Glossu Rabban’s fists is like a monster sinking its venom laced fangs into his heart: starkly evident to you - as evident as the barely repressed, parasitic fear of inadequacy that lurks like a second beast within the first. Just the same, the gazes the Baron sends your husband do not escape you. Nor does the caged, wild look that washes over him whenever you leave his uncle’s chambers: the look of a man who inside is still a boy, relief washing over him that he has left unscathed and untouched for another time.

Even more nuanced than that, you see the vulnerability within Feyd-Rautha. He craves to be loved, the way he should have been as a child, when instead he was desired; all this at an age where the most he should have been doing was playing with carved wooden toys at his parent’s feet.

He believes no one can see the last, soft sliver of his heart that he’s fought to preserve, that wants nothing but to have someone to be vulnerable with, just because he’s buried it so deep inside of him that sometimes even he doesn’t think it’s there any more.

But you see it.

You see beneath it too, to a place that he himself is not fully aware of. A place where he hates who he has become - a wild, savage creature, bleeding from wounds that do not seem to close up, slipping in its own blood when no one can see.

It’s from here, from this place, that the urge to preserve you somehow originates. He thinks you are a flower whose petals will easily be crushed in his heavy, calloused hands, and he is wrong; in a strange way it endears you to him, that he believes that he is too rough to hold you. You do not think it is quite love - not yet, at least, it is only the third month of your marriage - but when you see him fighting to not be the beast that he is before you in an effort to spare you, something that is not just pity stirs in your heart.

You can hear him now, pacing, cursing under his breath in the antechambers. Sometimes he sleeps there, on the narrow sofa, and you’ve come to realise it is those nights when he wants you most. Aside from your wedding night, he has made no other attempts to produce an heir, and you find his restraint valiant, but stupid.

He could try as hard as he liked; he would not get anywhere close to breaking you.

Rising from your seat on the small, ornate stool at the vanity, you push open the door to the antechamber and take a step into the room. Feyd pauses his pacing with his back to you, and you can see the tension in his shoulders and the rigid way he holds his body before he turns around to face you. His pupils are dilated, his eyes dark, and you watch him regard you with something too untethered to be restraint.

‘Am I keeping you awake, wife?’

You shake your head. ‘I had not retired yet.’

You know he expects you to explain why you’ve interrupted him, but you remain quiet - your silence is as much of a tool as your words. He doesn’t speak either, but his eyes tell you enough; they do not leave your frame, hungry, torrid, and his fingers twitch as if they ache to slip you out of the simple shift you wear to sleep and touch you everywhere, to explore the curves and dips of your body.

Tilting your head, you smirk. ‘If you wish to give me your heirs, husband, I would advise another method that differs from staring one into me.’

‘You don’t know what I want,’ he growls, but his face tells other tales.

Stepping forward, you reach out to him but he backs away. Still, the sheer thirst in his eyes sears away at you, even as his actions fight against it, his fingers closing on the doorknob. His hands are steady, his shoulders too, but the tightness in his muscles betrays him as always. Usually, you’d let him go now, but tonight you wish to see how far he will let you push him before he pushes back, so you snare his forearm in your fingers, tugging at him as he turns the knob.

He doesn’t look at you. ‘Don’t test me.’

You smile, cloyingly so. ‘Why not?’

Lightly, you trace your fingers down his chest, straightening the fabric of his black shirt while you gaze thoughtfully up at him through your lashes, lips curving upwards at the indecision in his eyes. He fights it, wrestles with the burning need, but in the end, he prevails, transforming it into a streak of anger that colours his voice as he tears himself from your grasp, recoiling as if your touch ignites pain within him - and maybe it is pain, that he wants you so but fears to indulge himself.

‘Get away from me.’

Feyd-Rautha does not give you a second to do so, because he is the one haring down the dimly lit corridor, his jaw tight, nails digging into his palms. Truthfully, you have never seen him move that fast, not even in the arena, and it almost makes you laugh - the great na-Baron fleeing from his wife and his own lecherous thoughts.

Maybe you did not win this round of tug of war, but he has asked something of you - to get away from him. Over the next few weeks, you follow this to the letter, avoiding him like the plague; you do not interrupt his pacing in the antechambers, nor do you haunt the bedroom like you normally do, asking him questions that he cannot answer. Feyd-Rautha is sensitive to change and you know he will seek the reason for it.

There is a barely cloaked intensity in his eyes when he finally corners you, and under it, you detect recognition: he sees that you are not who he thought you were, and he sees that you are not so different from him - always observing, always planning, and so, mind shatteringly hungry.

You were just dropping by the bed chambers to gather some of your clothes. The night before, you’d relocated yourself to one of the guest bedrooms - you could sense Feyd’s resolve cracking, and you knew that this would break it for certain: coming into his chambers to find them empty, wifeless, your side of the bed damningly cold. Jealousy is clear in his eyes as he backs you against the vanity, filling you with a rising sense of triumph.

‘What has caused this change in your behaviour, wife?’

You raise a brow, faking confusion. ‘What change? I would argue it is your behaviour that has changed, Feyd, you who can barely stand to be in a room alone with me.’

He snarls. ‘Who were you with last night?’

‘I thought you wanted me to get away from you,’ you reply, keeping up your pretence a little longer. ‘I slept in the guest quarters. You do not reciprocate any of my advances.’

‘Advances?’ He echoes, incredulous. ‘You taunt me, wife. It’s like you want me to break you.’

Cocking your head, you regard him coolly for a moment, letting some of the sharpness of your unmasked gaze leak through, letting him see the calculation in your eyes - you see the wariness it incites in him as he realises again that you are not who he thinks you are. Wordless, you lean in close to him, bringing your face to his, hovering there.

And then you let your arm drop and make a swipe for the knife at his belt.

Fast as a viper, he catches your wrist in your fingers, but you smile, challenge in your eyes as you bring his second blade to his neck. You’d slipped it out while he was distracted with your other hand, and he blinks at the cold press of it to his skin.

‘That’s the problem, isn’t it?’ You murmur. ‘You’re not scared of me, you’re scared of breaking me. Who’s afraid of little old me, huh? No one is, Feyd.’

‘They should be,’ he whispers, and when you meet his gaze, it sets you alight.

‘Indeed,’ you reply softly, letting your lower lip brush his.

As he kisses you, his hands seizing your face and locking you to him, you hook his knife’s blade in the collar of his shirt and drag it down, slicing the fabric until it flutters to the floor. Pulling away, you take him in - the moonlight planes of his sculpted chest, the broadness of his shoulders, his roiling, keen gaze. This man whets your appetite in the darkest kinds of ways: you cannot wait to ruin him.

Absently, you trace the outline of the tent in his pants with the tip of the knife blade. A breathy noise leaves him, and he freezes as if he can feel the cold kiss of the metal against his skin; you laugh, delighted that he is so mouldable in your hands.

‘Get on your knees,’ you command, seating yourself on the end of the bed.

It’s captivating, his lack of hesitation as he follows your orders. He sits back on his heels, looking up at you, and you can tell that he’s letting you see him like this, you can tell that if he didn’t want you to have him like this, you wouldn’t, but still, you reach out, gently skimming his shoulder with your fingertips.

‘All you have to do is say, and I will stop,’ you say.

He dips his chin. ‘I do not think I’ll have to.’

You smirk, something savage and powerful and thrillingly depraved rearing its head inside you, awakened by the sight of the na-Baron kneeling at your feet. That will be his last coherent sentence tonight.

Pausing, making him wait, you lean down a little, inspecting his features, the ardour in his eyes. He looks at you as if you hold the universe in your hands, as if you hung the stars in his sky, as if you are a goddess, and he wants nothing but to worship you until he is expended.

You spit on him.

It lands on his cheek, and his eyes widen a fraction. A shudder wracks his body, and he simply stares up at you, breathing heavy, before slowly, his lips part, and he sticks out his tongue, his request evident. You grab his jaw, squeezing so that he opens up wider, and spit in his mouth - the low groan that leaves him as he swallows is fucking delectable.

His cock twitches in his pants when you pick up the knife. Tracing the blade over the shell of his ear, over his cheekbone and over his lips, you marvel at the way he holds still, awaiting what you’ll inflict on him next like a good little toy.

When the metal reaches his jaw, you nick the skin, drinking up his sharp intake of breath and the clench of his fists as the blood trickles down the column of his throat; you catch the droplet of crimson on your tongue, licking a careful stripe up his neck, grinning when you catch his lips in a kiss and he trembles at the taste of his own blood. Feyd is greedy, his tongue brushing against yours as he leans up into your touch, the way his mouth works against yours hot, fervent, pleading.

Planting a palm to his sternum, you push him back, chuckling when he strains to follow you, eyes glazed, lips swollen. You spot a streak of red and swipe your thumb over his lower lip, wiping it off before standing.

‘Get up, strip, and get on the bed,’ you bid him, pulling your own shift over your head.

Feyd scrambles to follow your orders, yanking his pants down, and you take your time to admire his muscle sheathed body; strength ripples beneath his skin, a sweet dichotomy to his weeping cock, rock hard and flushed rosy. He halts his movements, as if he’s pinned down by your appraising gaze.

‘For whom do you wait, husband?’

As he turns to get onto the bed, he’s a little too slow and you swat at his ass. A choked sound leaves him, and you laugh at the way his knees almost buckle. Feyd’s ears run red when he lies down on the mattress, and you straddle his thighs, sneering at the way he twists his fingers in the sheets, squirming beneath you.

‘Pathetic.’

You don’t give him time to respond, instead wrapping your fingers around his cock and pumping up and down fast, and he gasps at your rough touch, his back arching and his hands coming up to touch you - you wave them off you, meeting his eyes.

‘No touching,’ you intone, the hint of warning in your voice enough to render him obedient.

This time, you take his cock head in your mouth. He’s so fucking sensitive, reacting as if the sweep of your thumb down the underside of him and the slide of your tongue over him is mind shattering; it doesn’t take you long to get him teetering at the edge of his orgasm, just for you to pull away at the last moment.

His thigh jolts, weak pleas of your name leaving his lips, gripping the sheets so hard you wonder if they’ll rip. Again, you take him in your mouth, deeper, one hand dipping to play with his balls; you revel in the wretched sound that he makes when you hollow your cheeks around him, your teeth grazing up his length. You toy with him until you think he’s moments from breaking, until he’s writhing upon the sheets, face contorted in pleasure loaded with sweet, sweet agony.

‘Please let me come,’ he whimpers, voice cracking, the look in his eyes crazed, pitiful. ‘Please.’

You decide to give it to him, jerking him brutally fast until he comes; it hits him like a tidal wave - his eyes roll back in his skull, his body tensing, rigid and impossibly taut before he goes boneless, a broken cry of your name on his lips as he spills all over his stomach. A single, ecstatic tear slides down his cheek as his orgasm seizes him, snatching him up and shaking him like a ragdoll.

Lingering at his side, you wait until he’s come down from his high before getting up to retrieve a damp cloth from the bathroom, perching on the bed beside him and cleaning up his come, pressing kisses to the surprisingly soft skin of his hips. One wavering hand comes to rest in your hair, and you glance up at him, biting back a smug grin at the dazed look in his eyes.

‘Feeling okay?’

He nods.

‘Words,’ you chide.

‘Y - yes, na-Baroness. Better than okay.’

You raise a brow at that. You did not specify for him to call you anything, so this is all his doing; he fidgets beneath your gaze, and you note that he’s growing hard again, his cock stiffening between his thighs.

‘Can I…’ He begins, but trails off, thinking better of it.

‘No, little na-Baron,’ you reply coyly. ‘Tell me what you desire.’

His eyes scorch you with their yearning. ‘I want to taste you, na-Baroness.’

You smile. ‘As you wish.’

You lean back against the pillows, letting your legs fall open for him. It’s somewhat comical, the way his eyes widen as he sees your slick cunt, and he swallows harshly - you can almost sense his mouth watering. Carefully, reverently, almost, he nudges your knees over his wide shoulders, bringing his face close to your pussy, admiring you. It’s as if he’s testing himself, waiting to see how long it takes for him to break and taste you.

Lurching forward, Feyd groans, low and deep and right against your clit when he laps at your heat, quickly becoming insatiable as his tongue moves masterfully at the apex of your legs, laving over your clit and curving in and out of you. Bolts of pleasure spear through your body, fierce like crackling lightning at the eye of a storm - he is everything to you in this moment. He shatters you, breaking you and mending you anew.

As he brings you closer, your body begins to shake and your legs close around his head; you suffocate him with your thighs, and you can tell he lives for it from the way he fervently grips your ass in his large hands, kneading the flesh and moaning into your pussy.

Something pulls tight within you, deliciously so, and you cry his name in warning, fingers curling around the base of his neck to hold him still as your hips buck, rutting into his face. Dimly, you can see him grinding into the mattress as you fuck yourself on his tongue - the chafe of his nose against your clit makes you shatter, and you fall apart for him with a ragged cry, nails digging into his shoulders.

You’re still coming down from it when Feyd begins to lap at you again, dutifully cleaning you up, and you twitch with the slight overstimulation, hooking a finger under his chin to see his eyes: his gaze is loaded with the heat of a thousand suns, and yet somehow it is also bleary, drunk. A laugh escapes you, and you tug at his hand, encouraging him to lie beside you.

‘Good boy,’ you hum as he nuzzles into your touch. You can feel him achingly hard against your thigh, and you let yourself catch your breath before reaching down and wrapping your fingers around his cock. ‘Want to fuck me now, hm?’

He nods avidly. ‘Yes, na-Baroness.’

All it takes is for you to half spread your legs before he’s climbing eagerly between them, hesitating before looking up at you for permission. You dip your chin, smirking, and then he’s sinking into you, burying himself inside you.

Voice cracking, Feyd chokes out your name, and he shudders, gasping at the velvet vice of your cunt as it clenches, bearing down on him. Sharply, you rock your hips up to meet his, and this time, a soft, keening whine leaves him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, biting down hard on his lower lip.

He can barely keep himself from spilling inside you.

‘You can barely hold it, can’t you, my little na-Baron?’

His words come out jumbled, his speech scrambled, mind ground to a standstill by the all consuming heat of your cunt; he babbles out protests, saying that he can, desperate to prove he can, stammering that he wants to make you feel good.

Cruelly, you buck your hips up against his again, and a pained sound looses from his chest, but he thrusts to meet you, hips lurching forward, his arms almost buckling either side of your head. Panting, he pulls out slowly before slamming back in, unable to stifle the whimper that tears from the back of his throat when you rake your nails down his shoulder blades, claiming him, littering his shoulders and neck with bites.

‘That’s it,’ you sigh as he finds his pace. ‘Just like that, good boy.’

A strangled noise tears itself from him at your praise, and he fucks into you, frantic, almost feral. Eventually, his thrusts begin to turn sloppy, and you kiss him in order to steal his breath and taste his fervid moans of your name on your tongue as he comes deep inside you.

Pressing a palm to his lower back, you pin him there, buried snugly within your pussy as you reach down with your other hand and rub your clit hard - it takes but a moment for you to come, and he writhes at the cataclysmic feel of your walls fluttering around him, overstimulating him, his mouth falling open in a silent cry as he comes again with your cunt milking his cock.

Completely spent, Feyd goes limp, and you rub your hand over his back, smoothing circles on his skin with your lips to his forehead. The post orgasm clarity begins to hit him, and you feel him go rigid - slowly, he pulls out, his seed leaking out now that he’s not filling you, and he attempts to get up, but his legs are too weak and he collapses beside you instead, his chest heaving, his eyes still a little hazy, still fucked out, even as he fights for lucidity.

There’s something on his face that cuts at your heart - a look of expectancy, as if he’s waiting for you to get up and leave now that you’ve had your fill of him. Concerned, you reach out, and he leans away from your touch.

‘Feyd,’ you murmur. ‘It was not too much, was it?’

‘N - no,’ he replies. ‘I just…’

Sitting up slowly, you look him right in the eyes. He stares back, bewildered, but you press a finger to his lips, foregoing your own fumbling words to instead recite the pledge of allegiance of a Harkonnen soldier to their general; his eyes widen - you know you have hit home. You’d exchanged wedding vows, of course, but these have a different meaning: you see it in the respectful way it is uttered, a soldier acknowledging his superior’s presence.

You pledge to him not only your heart, but your sword - your service - too.

‘Wife,’ Feyd bites out. ‘Surely you do not mean - ’

‘I mean it,’ you cut in. ‘Every word.’

Again, you reach for him, and this time he does not flinch away, letting you tuck him close to you, his breath coming out shaky. Gently, you tip up his chin, planting a chaste kiss on his parted lips, and he returns it slowly, wondrously, no teeth or tongue, just the gentle brush of his mouth against yours: the innocence of it is bittersweet - has anyone ever kissed him this tenderly?

Carefully, you withdraw, wanting to see him, but he does not let you meet his eyes, instead hiding his face in your neck, his lips at the hollow of your throat. You grant him the privacy of not being seen when you feel wetness on your skin, his hot tears tracking down and pooling in your collarbone - his hands ball at his sides, and you pry open his fingers and lace yours with his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Tightly, you wrap your arms around him, holding him with a hand cupping the back of his head, cradling him to your chest.

Your voice is quiet in the still air, but it carries as if through an arena, a promise arcing through the air like a soaring arrow.

‘You no longer walk this world alone, Feyd-Rautha.’

best believe when i started writing this i did not anticipate the 2x 'good boy's 🧍

dune taglist: @callumsgirl @oh-you-mean-me @insufferablyunbearable

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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months ago

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“Humans in the loop” must detect the hardest-to-spot errors, at superhuman speed

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me SATURDAY (Apr 27) in MARIN COUNTY, then Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

If AI has a future (a big if), it will have to be economically viable. An industry can't spend 1,700% more on Nvidia chips than it earns indefinitely – not even with Nvidia being a principle investor in its largest customers:

https://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=39883571

A company that pays 0.36-1 cents/query for electricity and (scarce, fresh) water can't indefinitely give those queries away by the millions to people who are expected to revise those queries dozens of times before eliciting the perfect botshit rendition of "instructions for removing a grilled cheese sandwich from a VCR in the style of the King James Bible":

https://www.semianalysis.com/p/the-inference-cost-of-search-disruption

Eventually, the industry will have to uncover some mix of applications that will cover its operating costs, if only to keep the lights on in the face of investor disillusionment (this isn't optional – investor disillusionment is an inevitable part of every bubble).

Now, there are lots of low-stakes applications for AI that can run just fine on the current AI technology, despite its many – and seemingly inescapable - errors ("hallucinations"). People who use AI to generate illustrations of their D&D characters engaged in epic adventures from their previous gaming session don't care about the odd extra finger. If the chatbot powering a tourist's automatic text-to-translation-to-speech phone tool gets a few words wrong, it's still much better than the alternative of speaking slowly and loudly in your own language while making emphatic hand-gestures.

There are lots of these applications, and many of the people who benefit from them would doubtless pay something for them. The problem – from an AI company's perspective – is that these aren't just low-stakes, they're also low-value. Their users would pay something for them, but not very much.

For AI to keep its servers on through the coming trough of disillusionment, it will have to locate high-value applications, too. Economically speaking, the function of low-value applications is to soak up excess capacity and produce value at the margins after the high-value applications pay the bills. Low-value applications are a side-dish, like the coach seats on an airplane whose total operating expenses are paid by the business class passengers up front. Without the principle income from high-value applications, the servers shut down, and the low-value applications disappear:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

Now, there are lots of high-value applications the AI industry has identified for its products. Broadly speaking, these high-value applications share the same problem: they are all high-stakes, which means they are very sensitive to errors. Mistakes made by apps that produce code, drive cars, or identify cancerous masses on chest X-rays are extremely consequential.

Some businesses may be insensitive to those consequences. Air Canada replaced its human customer service staff with chatbots that just lied to passengers, stealing hundreds of dollars from them in the process. But the process for getting your money back after you are defrauded by Air Canada's chatbot is so onerous that only one passenger has bothered to go through it, spending ten weeks exhausting all of Air Canada's internal review mechanisms before fighting his case for weeks more at the regulator:

https://bc.ctvnews.ca/air-canada-s-chatbot-gave-a-b-c-man-the-wrong-information-now-the-airline-has-to-pay-for-the-mistake-1.6769454

There's never just one ant. If this guy was defrauded by an AC chatbot, so were hundreds or thousands of other fliers. Air Canada doesn't have to pay them back. Air Canada is tacitly asserting that, as the country's flagship carrier and near-monopolist, it is too big to fail and too big to jail, which means it's too big to care.

Air Canada shows that for some business customers, AI doesn't need to be able to do a worker's job in order to be a smart purchase: a chatbot can replace a worker, fail to their worker's job, and still save the company money on balance.

I can't predict whether the world's sociopathic monopolists are numerous and powerful enough to keep the lights on for AI companies through leases for automation systems that let them commit consequence-free free fraud by replacing workers with chatbots that serve as moral crumple-zones for furious customers:

https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0747563219304029

But even stipulating that this is sufficient, it's intrinsically unstable. Anything that can't go on forever eventually stops, and the mass replacement of humans with high-speed fraud software seems likely to stoke the already blazing furnace of modern antitrust:

https://www.eff.org/de/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby

Of course, the AI companies have their own answer to this conundrum. A high-stakes/high-value customer can still fire workers and replace them with AI – they just need to hire fewer, cheaper workers to supervise the AI and monitor it for "hallucinations." This is called the "human in the loop" solution.

The human in the loop story has some glaring holes. From a worker's perspective, serving as the human in the loop in a scheme that cuts wage bills through AI is a nightmare – the worst possible kind of automation.

Let's pause for a little detour through automation theory here. Automation can augment a worker. We can call this a "centaur" – the worker offloads a repetitive task, or one that requires a high degree of vigilance, or (worst of all) both. They're a human head on a robot body (hence "centaur"). Think of the sensor/vision system in your car that beeps if you activate your turn-signal while a car is in your blind spot. You're in charge, but you're getting a second opinion from the robot.

Likewise, consider an AI tool that double-checks a radiologist's diagnosis of your chest X-ray and suggests a second look when its assessment doesn't match the radiologist's. Again, the human is in charge, but the robot is serving as a backstop and helpmeet, using its inexhaustible robotic vigilance to augment human skill.

That's centaurs. They're the good automation. Then there's the bad automation: the reverse-centaur, when the human is used to augment the robot.

Amazon warehouse pickers stand in one place while robotic shelving units trundle up to them at speed; then, the haptic bracelets shackled around their wrists buzz at them, directing them pick up specific items and move them to a basket, while a third automation system penalizes them for taking toilet breaks or even just walking around and shaking out their limbs to avoid a repetitive strain injury. This is a robotic head using a human body – and destroying it in the process.

An AI-assisted radiologist processes fewer chest X-rays every day, costing their employer more, on top of the cost of the AI. That's not what AI companies are selling. They're offering hospitals the power to create reverse centaurs: radiologist-assisted AIs. That's what "human in the loop" means.

This is a problem for workers, but it's also a problem for their bosses (assuming those bosses actually care about correcting AI hallucinations, rather than providing a figleaf that lets them commit fraud or kill people and shift the blame to an unpunishable AI).

Humans are good at a lot of things, but they're not good at eternal, perfect vigilance. Writing code is hard, but performing code-review (where you check someone else's code for errors) is much harder – and it gets even harder if the code you're reviewing is usually fine, because this requires that you maintain your vigilance for something that only occurs at rare and unpredictable intervals:

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773779967521780169

But for a coding shop to make the cost of an AI pencil out, the human in the loop needs to be able to process a lot of AI-generated code. Replacing a human with an AI doesn't produce any savings if you need to hire two more humans to take turns doing close reads of the AI's code.

This is the fatal flaw in robo-taxi schemes. The "human in the loop" who is supposed to keep the murderbot from smashing into other cars, steering into oncoming traffic, or running down pedestrians isn't a driver, they're a driving instructor. This is a much harder job than being a driver, even when the student driver you're monitoring is a human, making human mistakes at human speed. It's even harder when the student driver is a robot, making errors at computer speed:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/01/human-in-the-loop/#monkey-in-the-middle

This is why the doomed robo-taxi company Cruise had to deploy 1.5 skilled, high-paid human monitors to oversee each of its murderbots, while traditional taxis operate at a fraction of the cost with a single, precaratized, low-paid human driver:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

The vigilance problem is pretty fatal for the human-in-the-loop gambit, but there's another problem that is, if anything, even more fatal: the kinds of errors that AIs make.

Foundationally, AI is applied statistics. An AI company trains its AI by feeding it a lot of data about the real world. The program processes this data, looking for statistical correlations in that data, and makes a model of the world based on those correlations. A chatbot is a next-word-guessing program, and an AI "art" generator is a next-pixel-guessing program. They're drawing on billions of documents to find the most statistically likely way of finishing a sentence or a line of pixels in a bitmap:

https://dl.acm.org/doi/10.1145/3442188.3445922

This means that AI doesn't just make errors – it makes subtle errors, the kinds of errors that are the hardest for a human in the loop to spot, because they are the most statistically probable ways of being wrong. Sure, we notice the gross errors in AI output, like confidently claiming that a living human is dead:

https://www.tomsguide.com/opinion/according-to-chatgpt-im-dead

But the most common errors that AIs make are the ones we don't notice, because they're perfectly camouflaged as the truth. Think of the recurring AI programming error that inserts a call to a nonexistent library called "huggingface-cli," which is what the library would be called if developers reliably followed naming conventions. But due to a human inconsistency, the real library has a slightly different name. The fact that AIs repeatedly inserted references to the nonexistent library opened up a vulnerability – a security researcher created a (inert) malicious library with that name and tricked numerous companies into compiling it into their code because their human reviewers missed the chatbot's (statistically indistinguishable from the the truth) lie:

https://www.theregister.com/2024/03/28/ai_bots_hallucinate_software_packages/

For a driving instructor or a code reviewer overseeing a human subject, the majority of errors are comparatively easy to spot, because they're the kinds of errors that lead to inconsistent library naming – places where a human behaved erratically or irregularly. But when reality is irregular or erratic, the AI will make errors by presuming that things are statistically normal.

These are the hardest kinds of errors to spot. They couldn't be harder for a human to detect if they were specifically designed to go undetected. The human in the loop isn't just being asked to spot mistakes – they're being actively deceived. The AI isn't merely wrong, it's constructing a subtle "what's wrong with this picture"-style puzzle. Not just one such puzzle, either: millions of them, at speed, which must be solved by the human in the loop, who must remain perfectly vigilant for things that are, by definition, almost totally unnoticeable.

This is a special new torment for reverse centaurs – and a significant problem for AI companies hoping to accumulate and keep enough high-value, high-stakes customers on their books to weather the coming trough of disillusionment.

This is pretty grim, but it gets grimmer. AI companies have argued that they have a third line of business, a way to make money for their customers beyond automation's gifts to their payrolls: they claim that they can perform difficult scientific tasks at superhuman speed, producing billion-dollar insights (new materials, new drugs, new proteins) at unimaginable speed.

However, these claims – credulously amplified by the non-technical press – keep on shattering when they are tested by experts who understand the esoteric domains in which AI is said to have an unbeatable advantage. For example, Google claimed that its Deepmind AI had discovered "millions of new materials," "equivalent to nearly 800 years’ worth of knowledge," constituting "an order-of-magnitude expansion in stable materials known to humanity":

https://deepmind.google/discover/blog/millions-of-new-materials-discovered-with-deep-learning/

It was a hoax. When independent material scientists reviewed representative samples of these "new materials," they concluded that "no new materials have been discovered" and that not one of these materials was "credible, useful and novel":

https://www.404media.co/google-says-it-discovered-millions-of-new-materials-with-ai-human-researchers/

As Brian Merchant writes, AI claims are eerily similar to "smoke and mirrors" – the dazzling reality-distortion field thrown up by 17th century magic lantern technology, which millions of people ascribed wild capabilities to, thanks to the outlandish claims of the technology's promoters:

https://www.bloodinthemachine.com/p/ai-really-is-smoke-and-mirrors

The fact that we have a four-hundred-year-old name for this phenomenon, and yet we're still falling prey to it is frankly a little depressing. And, unlucky for us, it turns out that AI therapybots can't help us with this – rather, they're apt to literally convince us to kill ourselves:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/pkadgm/man-dies-by-suicide-after-talking-with-ai-chatbot-widow-says

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/23/maximal-plausibility/#reverse-centaurs

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #ai #automation #humans in the loop #centaurs #reverse centaurs #labor #ai safety #sanity checks #spot the mistake #code review #driving instructor

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justagalwhowrites · 2 months ago

Text

Oral Fixation - A TLOU One Shot

It's your boyfriend Joel's birthday but what do you give the man who has given you so much? AKA You learn how to give Joel a blow job. A one-shot set in the Lavender universe.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader from Lavender

CW: Oral sex, mild age gap (Joel is turning 33, reader is 21 almost 22), mild description of past sexual encounter involving oral sex that wasn't the best, Joel is almost disturbingly happy because he hasn't been traumatized yet RIP trauma-free Joel, unprotected P in V sex, no use of Y/N, 18+ only minors DNI

Length: 4.5k

A/N: The final part of the Joel Miller Birthday Celebration! Can be read as a stand alone fic with the understanding that reader is Sarah's nanny and has been seeing Joel for about six months.

Masterlist | Lavender Masterlist | AO3

September, 2000

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” you said, all but clinging to Cassie’s arm as the two of you made your way through the adult store. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting but it wasn’t this, neon colored silicone penises and intimidatingly tiny scraps of lace everywhere you looked.

“And I can’t believe you don’t own a vibrator,” Cassie said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be such a prude, with the way you and the DILF go at it I’m pretty sure you’ve had more sex than I have at this point.”

Your cheeks got hot but… she was probably right. You and Joel had sex a LOT. So much that it was hard to believe that, just six months earlier, you’d still been a virgin. Sure, you doubted that sex with anyone else was even half as good as it was with Joel but it felt like you’d been denying yourself a whole world of good things because you’d been reluctant to make that leap for so long. Now, you wanted to make up for lost time, something that Joel was happy to oblige.

But, because you were so new to it, you didn’t really know much and, what’s worse, you didn’t know what you didn’t know.

Which is why you’d turned to Cassie in the first place. Joel’s birthday was coming up and you’d drawn a complete blank on what to get the man. You’d never gotten anyone a birthday gift who wasn’t your grandmother or your friend. What the hell did you get a boyfriend? What the hell did you get a man?

“You, naked, ready to recreate the filthiest porn the guy’s got,” Cassie said, not even looking up from the latest issue of Cosmo as she did. “And, because it’s you, bake him a cake or something. He’ll be thrilled.”

“I don’t know that Joel watches porn,” you crinkled your nose. That made her look up.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She asked, incredulous. “Babes. He’s a man. Of course he watches porn.”

“I’m sure he would if things were different,” you said. “But he has a kid at home, we have to fight for privacy, I don’t think he’s exactly sitting down and putting on some…”

“He is,” she said, closing the magazine now. “I promise you, he is. Maybe less now that you’re in the picture but he definitely is. Stashed under his bed or in some shoebox at the back of his closet is a pile of all his dirtiest fantasies and all you have to do is gift wrap yourself, ready to fulfill them.”

So you might have done some snooping the next time you were at Joel’s before he got home from work.

Maybe.

Just a little.

And yeah, Cassie might have been right. There might have been a box - one a bit bigger than a shoebox but not much bigger - that had tapes and magazines inside. You took a quick inventory, looking at the covers of the videos and flipping through the pages of the more well-worn magazines.

It seemed both invasive and oddly impersonal, rifling through something that was mass produced and clearly not intended for you to see but was something that it seemed like you should know. The women in the magazines and on the covers of the tapes were so much more… everything than you were. More sexy, more confident, more knowledgable. It made your stomach twist.

Was this what Joel really wanted? He was older than you and you’d been a late bloomer in the romance department. Of course he had more experience but he’d never made it sound like anything was missing from your sex life. But maybe he was just being nice. Maybe what he really wanted was something more like whatever someone named Candy was doing on the back of this VHS sleeve.

It seemed like the least you could do for Joel was find a way to give him what he wanted.

So Cassie had convinced you to come to this store to figure out something to do for him for his birthday. Not that you had much idea what that would be.

“What’s his favorite color?” She asked, examining the tiny scraps of lace.

“Forest green?” You asked more than answered, examining something that you were pretty sure was a bra but seemed to be missing some key components. You were about to move on to something else when one of the movies playing on the opposite wall caught your eye. It was one of the actresses from the tapes at Joel’s, you recognized her. She was looking hungrily at a cock before taking it into her mouth, eyes closed in bliss with a satisfied groan.

Cassie noticed where you were staring and joined you, smirking a little.

“Like watching someone get their dick sucked, eh?” She teased, elbowing you lightly.

You glared at her.

“I just…” You looked back at the screen. “I think Joel has that video.”

“Really?” She said, brows raised, looking back at the screen as the woman started to slide up and down the thick cock. “Well, that’s simple enough. Just blow him, wham bam thank you ma’am, you’re set.”

“I don’t…”

“Oh don’t tell me you suck him off too much as it is,” she said. “Your sex life is already insufferably perfect.”

“No,” you said, defensive, your cheeks getting hot. “I just…”

“Just what?” She asked when you stayed quiet a bit too long.

“I’ve never… done that,” you said, looking back at the screen as the woman there hollowed out her cheeks and moaned.

“What!” Cassie yelped and you shushed her as the other people in the store turned to stare. “You’ve never…”

“Not with Joel,” you said quickly. “I did once with a guy but it didn’t go great and I really didn’t like it and honestly I think Joel might be too big to…”

“Too big?” She grabbed your arm, her eyes wide. “Babes, you said he was big but like… what do you mean too big? Gimme a ballpark, like…” she tugged you over to a wall of remarkably life-like dildos and pointed to one on the larger end. “That big?”

“No,” you said and she looked relieved for a moment before you pointed to one that was even bigger. “More like that one.”

Cassie’s jaw dropped, looking between you and the silicone dick in awe.

“That’s what the DILF is packing?”

“Can you please not call him that?”

“You big slut!” She was practically beaming. “Taking that for your first time? You deserve a medal!”

“Can we just…”

“That’s it, you’re sucking his dick for his birthday,” she said, grabbing flavored lube, throat numbing spray and a copy of the tape that was playing overhead. “As often as he apparently goes down on you? Seems like the least you can do is return the favor as he turns… what, 47?”

You glared at her and she smirked at you.

“33,” you said.

“And you don’t want me to call him a DILF,” she said, grabbing a surprisingly conservative set of lingerie and a small vibrator on her way to the counter. “Come on, we’ll turn you into an oral champ before you know it!”

You watched the video with Cassie that night after you had half a bottle of cheap wine in your system. The woman on screen seemed so… into it. The one time you’d gone down on someone was the summer before you left for college, going out with a boy you met at the movie theater when you took the kids you were babysitting there to see Hercules. He was cute, nice, didn’t carry the baggage a lot of the boys you’d gone to high school with did. On your fourth date, you were making out in his car and he’d nudged your head down lower and lower until it was in his lap. He pulled his cock out and you cautiously, hesitantly, took him in your mouth and you did try to do what you thought he wanted while taking it slow. But it didn’t take long before he was moaning and thrusting up into your mouth and you gagged as he pushed your head down further on his dick. You’d all but ripped yourself away, coughing and sputtering, and he half heartedly apologized before trying to push your head to his lap again. You didn’t go for it that time and he took you home. You didn’t go out with him again, deciding to write off men until you were away at college and hopefully meeting one who was fine with you doing things like not sucking their dick.

Which, Joel was. Or seemed to be, anyway. But if he enjoyed it - if it felt like it was something that was missing from your sex life - you wanted to give it to him. He’d given you so much, you wanted to give him everything. You just needed to figure out how to do it.

After you giggled your way through the video the first time, you started it again as Cassie gave you some tips: How to breathe through your nose, how to swallow around your gag reflex, how to use your tongue, how guys liked when you choked on it a little. It felt almost like you were in class, taking notes on a piece of scratch paper you mentally vowed to set on fire after you practiced a little with a cucumber so no one had to know that you needed someone to teach you this stuff, stuff that seemed like it should come naturally to you.

“Just use the throat spray, use the lube and breathe through your nose,” she said when she left to go home the next morning. “You’ll have him eating out of your hand.”

“Right,” you said, trying to ignore the tight knot of nerves that had settled in your stomach. “I can do it.”

You carefully selected a Joel-sized cucumber at the grocery store and tried to not feel like an idiot as you followed Cassie’s advice as you practiced leading into Joel’s birthday. It wasn’t as bad when there wasn’t someone shoving your head down on their lap though it still wasn’t your favorite thing. But for Joel? You’d deal.

The day you were going to celebrate his birthday, the reality of it set in. If there was one thing you were an expert in by now, it was your boyfriend’s cock and your boyfriend’s cock was… big. What if the throat spray didn’t work as well when you weren’t the one in control of what was going in your mouth? Worse, what if you were just bad at it? What if he had an ex who was as good at sucking him off as that porn star would be and you’d be struggling to measure up the whole time?

You were rarely nervous with Joel anymore but you were weirdly nervous as you made him dinner - chicken fried steak - and tried to not let it show as the two of you ate together and had drinks and cake while watching Alien in his living room after.

“You spoil me way too damn much, baby,” Joel said as your head was nestled against his chest, his lips in your hair. You could feel him smile against you as he kissed you there. “Best birthday I’ve had in years, thank you.”

“Well, I might have one more thing for you,” you said, sitting up from him and smiling a little, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Really?” He cocked a smile at you, his cheek dimpling. “Does it involve you naked?”

“It might,” you teased, relaxing a little as you looked at him. This was Joel, the safest man you knew, the person you loved more than any other. It would be OK. “Want to go to your room and find out?”

“Good luck stoppin’ me,” he winked, getting up and helping you off the couch. Once you were up stairs, the two of you kissed your way down the hall but he moaned as you pulled away from him and nudged him back toward the bed.

“Just stay put,” you said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Not goin’ anywhere,” he called as you disappeared into his bathroom. You looked at yourself in the mirror, forcing yourself to take a deep, calming breath before going to his linen cupboard and pulling out the throat spray, lube and lingerie you’d stashed away earlier. You used the spray first, wincing at the antiseptic-like taste of it, before you quickly stripped, balling up your sundress and bra and pulling on the deep green lacy babydoll set Cassie had picked for you. As you examined yourself in the mirror - fluffing your hair and adjusting your breasts in the sheer cups - you gave your best friend this much: she knew how to help make you comfortable. The set wasn’t too revealing or over the top but still highlighted your curves and put all the parts of you Joel seemed to like best on display.

“Thank you, Cassie,” you muttered before taking a deep breath and steeling yourself, the strawberry flavored lube clutched tight in your hand. You looked your reflection in the eye and tried to get lost in the almost-porn star version of yourself in the mirror.

“You got this,” you said almost silently, giving yourself a single, resolute nod before going for Joel’s room again.

He was sitting obediently where you’d left him, watching the bathroom door. You draped yourself against the frame, popping a hip out to accentuate your curves, one arm stretched high over your head against the wood. Joel’s mouth dropped open, his eyes going wide.

“Like what you see?” You asked more confidently then you felt.

“Goddamn, baby,” he said reverently. “Gonna gimme a heart attack, looking that damn good.”

“Well don’t go dropping dead on me now,” you teased, walking toward him in what you hoped was a sexy way and not something that made you look like an idiot. “You haven’t even gotten your present yet.”

He put his hands on your waist when you reached him but, instead of straddling him, you reached down and spread his legs so you could step between them. You knelt in front of him, holding his gaze as you did, reaching for his jeans to open them.

“What…” he frowned, looking down as you freed his cock, thick and long and hard.

“Told you,” you said, trying to make yourself sound sultry and not nervous. “I had something for you.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond before you licked his shaft from root to tip, his skin velvet smooth and salty on your tongue. He groaned as you did and you took a deep breath as you took his tip into your mouth, sucking him gently as you did.

Even just that was a lot and, as your tongue teased him, you squeezed some of the flavored lube into your hand before you spread it over his shaft, working him with your hand, your heart racing.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned as you started taking more of him into your mouth, licking and sucking and trying to focus on breathing through your nose as you did. It took more time than you really wanted to get all of him in your mouth, swallowing past your numbed gag reflex as best you could to take his length into your throat. You moaned as you did, sucking him hard, hollowing your cheeks like the girl in the video had done and he moaned, too, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bed. “Goddamn, your mouth…”

You would have smiled at that if your mouth wasn’t open so wide. Instead, you started trying to work his cock the same way you did the cucumber in practice, hopefully the same way the girl did in the video he had.

Joel’s breaths started coming quicker, needy little pants dripping from his lips as his cock dripped in your mouth and you took the encouragement, trying to move faster as you did, trying to take him as deep as you could every time.

But Joel was big and you were almost positive he was getting bigger as you worked him, his cock swelling even further, his precome salty at the back of your throat, and the faster you moved the harder he was to take. Eventually, even with the spray, it was too much and you choked, coughing and gagging enough that you had to pull back from him, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“Woah, you alright?” He asked, leaning forward and frowning at you, still a little breathless as he did.

“Mhmm,” you hummed as you nodded, trying to keep yourself from coughing, massaging your throat as you did. “Sorry, I just…”

“Don’t apologize, baby, goddamn,” he laughed once. “Not after doin’ all that for me…”

You smiled a little sheepishly, feeling like you could breathe again. But the numb feeling at the back of your throat was gone.

“I can do it again,” you said, sitting back on your heels. “I just… I got some throat spray and I just need to…”

Joel’s eyebrows knitted together, frowning deeper this time.

“Throat spray?”

You nodded.

“It’s numbing?” You said, almost like it was a question. “I hadn’t really done this much before and I really wanted to do it like…”

“Like what?” He asked and your eyes went wide. Shit. You hadn’t meant to say that part. “Like what, baby?”

“Like the woman in one of the videos in your closet?” You said sheepishly, your heart pounding, everything else coming out in a rush. “I’m really sorry, I just couldn’t figure out what to get you for your birthday and Cassie suggested finding out what porn you liked and trying to recreate it so I might have looked through some of your things, I promise it was just to surprise you and give you what you wanted and…”

“Baby,” he cut you off gently, tucking his cock back into his jeans. “Hey, it’s OK, c’mere.” He tugged you up on the bed beside him and you kept your eyes determinedly on your hands. “Think you can look at me?”

You took a deep breath but listened, gnawing on your lower lip as you did.

“There are those pretty eyes of yours,” he smiled a little, cupping your cheek. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ I don’t appreciate the thought - don’t think any woman’s ever done something like that for me - but honey, I don’t want to do something you don’t want to do. I really don’t want to do something that’s rough enough on your body that you gotta numb yourself to get through it.”

You frowned.

“But you go down on me…”

“Yeah, because I like to,” he said. “Like seein’ what I can do to you but that doesn’t mean you have to do it back to me, not unless you want to. And if you do want to, you don’t need to do it so hard that you hurt yourself. It’s not good for me if it’s not good for you, too.”

You took a deep, steadying breath, and nodded.

“Besides,” he smiled a little. “Haven’t needed those videos in a while. Honestly, I kinda forgot I even still had ‘em.”

You scoffed.

“Hey, I’m being serious,” he said. “Haven’t used ‘em since you and I got together, that’s for damn sure. And for a few months before that I may or may not have had better luck thinkin’ about this sexy nanny I had working for me…”

“Oh really?” You teased lightly, heat taking the place of the nerves in your stomach.

“Really,” he said, almost unsettlingly earnest. “I’ve been yours for a while, baby. And that’s because I love you, don’t have a damn thing to do with what you do in bed.”

You smiled softly and kissed him, his lips gentle on yours for a moment before it deepened, turning hot and needy.

Joel tugged you back on the bed with him, one hand splaying wide over your back, the other slipping into the soft lace of your lingerie to cup your breast. But, before you got too distracted, you pulled back from him, making him frown a little.

“But what if I want to,” you said, biting your lip again.

His frown deepened.

“Want to what?”

“Suck your cock,” you said, trying to ignore how hot your cheeks got.

“Fuck, baby,” he said, his eyes darkening.

“Because I do want to,” you said. “I want to make you feel the way you make me feel.”

“You sure?” He asked. “Because I know I can be… a lot to take.”

You smiled a little.

“Think I know how big your cock is, Joel. And I know what I want.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he groaned, lying on his back, freeing his cock and stroking it as he did. “Gotta take it easy and let me help.”

You nodded eagerly before settling near his hips, taking his length in your hand and stroking him up and down, running your thumb over his leaking tip. When you looked at him now, you weren’t intimidated. Instead, you were hungry for him, wanting to feel him deep inside you in a different way, your mouth watering with it.

You lowered yourself over him, licking his head, your tongue wide and flat against him and Joel groaned, his fingers tightening in the blankets on the bed. You took a moment to really experience him, the taste of him, the heady concentration of the scent of him in the thatch of coarse hair at his base, the tender softness of his skin. It shouldn’t have been surprising but you wanted more, more of all of it.

So you took more, his tip disappearing into your mouth slow and easy.

“Fuck, there you go baby,” he was damn near panting with need and you smiled a little around his intrusion, at what you were doing to him. “Nice and slow.”

You moaned as you sank lower, easing more and more of him into your mouth before rising up and then taking a little more of him, your tongue pressed tight to his shaft as you did again and again.

And then he was at the back of your throat, no longer numbed, and you tried to do what Cassie had told you to do: Swallow him past your gag reflex to get all of him inside.

It worked, at first, your lips making it almost to the base of his shaft as he groaned. But it didn’t last, your body quickly trying to reject the thick heft of him in your throat, making you gag. This time, though you didn’t try and force it, pulling back quickly but leaving his head in your mouth.

“You OK?” He asked, his voice strained, one large hand coming to cradle the back of your head. You just nodded, his tip still in your mouth. “Here, gimme your hand.”

You obeyed and Joel guided your fingers to the base of his shaft.

“Just…” you could hear the desperation in his voice. “Hold on like that, don’t gotta take it all. Feel the most at the tip, anyway.”

You nodded and worked your way lower again, a little faster this time, adjusting your grip so you were still taking most of him into your mouth but not quite hitting your gag reflex. Joel’s breaths grew sharper, more desperate and you could feel him straining to hold back from fucking up into you and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of power at that, the way you could make him almost lose himself to pleasure.

You started to work him faster, your tongue pressing and curling around him, your mouth working in tandem with your hand. It wasn’t long before you found your rhythm over him, rising and falling, sucking and licking, savoring every inch of him you could take. And even though you were focused on making Joel feel good, it was making you tight and needy, too, the hand not around his cock finding your slit, fingers trailing through the wetness that had grown there.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so well, baby, doin’ so damn good.”

You moaned, working him harder, faster as your fingers grew firmer on your clit and you suddenly, desperately, needed all of him in your mouth, gag reflex be damned.

So you took all of him, moaning as his head slipped into your throat, sucking him hard and fast and you felt him twitch in your mouth before he all but ripped you away from him, leaving you stunned for a moment.

But then he damn near jumped between your thighs, shoving your panties to the side and pushing into you. You gasped at the stretch of him, your pussy already tightening around him. Joel’s hips snapped into yours just as fast as you’d been sucking him before.

“Ain’t gonna last,” he said, burying his face in your neck and kissing the delicate skin there. “Too fuckin’ good at that, Jesus…”

You could only moan in response, your own orgasm building quickly, your fingers tugging at his shirt as you tried to pull him impossibly closer, your pussy drawing tight around him for a second before you fell apart. Your orgasm was so powerful you couldn’t move, crying out with the force of it as Joel fucked into you twice more before he came, too, pressing himself deep inside as he spilled into you.

Joel collapsed, spent, on top of you after, still fully clothed and panting for breath as you held him close.

“Holy shit baby,” he said eventually, still a little breathless.

You laughed quietly.

“Did I measure up to the video?” You teased.

He pulled back from you, looking you over for a moment, like he was trying to tell if you were joking or not.

“Think you know the answer to that,” he said, kissing you gently as he slid himself from you and lay beside you. He tugged you against him as he settled, tucking your head against his chest. “But in case it wasn’t clear, yeah. You beat ever damn porno I ever watched, ain’t even close.”

You smiled, proud.

“Good,” you said. “Because… I liked doing that.”

You felt him lift his head to look at you before dropping back down to the bed.

“Really?”

“Yup,” you said, tracing your fingers over the outline of his pecs through his shirt. “Think I’ll want to do it again.”

“Sure as hell won’t get any arguments from me.”

“There is a downside, though,” you said, sitting up just enough to look at him.

“What’s that?” He frowned and you smiled.

“Now I’m going to have to figure out what the hell to get you for your birthday next year.”

He laughed and tucked you back against his chest.

“Just keep givin’ me you, baby,” he said. “Doesn’t get any better than that.”

A/N: I missed Joel and Doc so I wrote this. Thanks for reading them even more than a year after Lavender ended.

Happy birthday, Joel!

Love you all!

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #lavender #joel miller x oc #joel miller smut #joel miller birthday celebration

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quaintii · 1 year ago

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To be with you is all I want.

Warnings: breeding kink, slight choking, p with plot, fem!reader. Very passionate smut below! A slight spoiler of Atsv. torture, bodily harm, and blood!!! trigger warning !!!

enjoy 💖💖!!

You and Miguel have always been each other's partner in capturing anomaly's. Yet Miguel always suggested that you stay back, away from harm. But you continuously refused his request, you couldn't be inside your apartments, walking around in circles, wondering if he's fine or not. Worry runs through your bloodstream, every second, same goes for Miguel but worse. He worries every second that you'll die because of him.

In the middle of the night, you kept rustling back and forth in your bed, trying to grasp onto something. Someone. You immediately wake up and realize Miguel has gone off to a mission without even warning you about it. You are furious and quickly put on your suit and ask Lyla to find out where he is. You swing your way into a weird, black-noir universe. It looked bleak and darkly cynical. You figured that Miguel was using Spider-Man noir's backup. The atmosphere was so thick, you almost choked as you weren't adjusted to some multiverses. You caught a whiff of smoke and fire.

Your Spidey senses then took the lead and you finally found where Miguel was. You were incredibly furious with him but you couldn't think of that right now. Miguel was fighting Morlum. You've constantly heard slight whispers about him, especially from Miguel. What you can take from what you already know, Morlum has tried hijacking the multiverses and he is seeking to find the spider totems and take control of HQ. You swing your way in but your Spidey senses react too slow to a crashing wall heading your way.

Luckily, you crotch down to avoid it as best as you could. It leaves quite a big injury on you though. Your forearm now has a big open slit trailing down in blood, due to the concrete building. It was a deep cut. When Miguel felt someone else at the scene, he happened to lay eyes on you, he was worried you would severely bleed out. The blood wouldn't stop. His eyebrows furiously furrowed together and he clenched his jaw and tried his best to focus on Morlum. Spider-noir was throwing many walls towards Morlum, trying to crush him to pieces. Mush.

Miguel used his red lasso and webs to tie down Morlum's legs together, causing him to fall down. But Morlum uses his super strength to make the floor below him fall. Ensuring his legs to finally let go. The floor completely crumbles and produces a ton of dust. You wipe your dust off your suit and can seem to see anything. Your hearing is very sensitive so they start ringing as metal scratches at each other due to the collapse. You sense someone near you and before you have time to turn around and web them, they hold your back against their chest.

"Wow, you sure seem like a good piece of bait for me to use!" Morlum says enthusiastically. "You look pretty cute too..too bad I have to kill you." "NO! No, get your fucking hands off her, you fucking shitbag. She's not a part of this, let her go." Miguel yells.

Morlum holds a knife at your throat so suddenly, you shiver with terror, running through your blood. Your flight or fight turns on, and you don't look like you have an option. This man has such a strong hold onto your body, you can't even let alone, move a muscle. "You seem to be quite concerned about this woman, well that puts you to more use!" Morlum chuckles. Miguel's eyes filled with absolute trepidation. His breathing becomes rougher, he begins to hyperventilate. He can't imagine ever losing you, he can't lose another dear loved one again. He can't imagine the pain of two, let alone one. Morlum pushes the knife closer into your skin, carving a light line. Miguel's jaw clenched harder than a rock. He didn't know what to do and he didn't know where spider-noir went.

You were trembling with fear, tears swelled your eyes. You felt like this was all your fault, because you're always so stubborn and never bother to ever listen to Miguel. Your lips quiver as you bite down on your lips, hard enough to draw out blood. You felt like all of this was a dream, you hoped for it to be one. Miguel moved a few inches, trying to grab you out of his grasp. Morlum then threatened to stab you in the liver if Miguel moved any closer. Miguel's body felt like he was being stabbed with thousands of knives. Morlum would make small cuts around your body, some deep, some shallow. Miguel yells "Mierda!" with a hurtful tone, he secretly advises Lyla to send backup immediately. He was too scared to breathe, fearing he could easily lose you in a second. You both stared at each other, a wholeheartedly look within fear hiding behind it. Miguel was trying to reassure you that everything was going to be ok. "Esta bien, mi vida. Te voy a sacar de esto, te lo juro, amor. Amas quedate quieta." Miguel's expression was drowning in helplessness.

"She seems like quite a trophy, Miguel! I can see you do have quite a taste." Morlum licks your cheek and nibbles a bit at your neck. Your huge discomfort grows more and you can't stop crying. Miguel was revolted by this, clenching his knuckles till his blood went cold, white. He felt like his jaw was about to lock and break. "Don't touch her! You keep your repugnant self away from her." Miguel yelled with an immense amount of hatred. Both of your guys' Spidey senses tingle as you feel other Spidermen approaching the situation. They all work collectively to pick up a razor sharp platform, sending it straight towards Morlum's head. Before Morlum could sense what was coming towards him, you immediately tuck your head and his grip on you releases. His head was sliced off clean. Blood guzzling out of his body. Before you could fall weakly on your knees, Miguel runs towards you, carrying you in his arms bridal style. He hugs you so tightly and you both tear up together.

"I thought I almost lost you, amor. I can't ever imagine losing you, ever. You're my everything." Miguel says as he places you grabs ahold of your cheeks, wiping away the blood and tears off of your cheeks. Giving you long, passionate kisses to you. Pecks on your forehead too. The amount of reassurance made you feel more at ease and comfortable.

Miguel continues to carry you in bridal style on the way home. He opens the window to your guys' bedroom and heads to the bathroom. He keeps showering you with a lot of love and reassurance. "Mi amor, te amo, por favor nunca vuelvas a hacer eso. Mi corazón ya mero se murió. Te amo demasiado, princesa. I couldn't bear seeing you being hurt, ever. I love you so, so much." He said while holding your body from behind. You were between his thighs, you laid your head back onto his chest, hearing his heart thump loudly. The bathtub was so warm, you could stay like this with him for hours. You loved Miguel. And he loved you too.

Both of your bodies emit more heat and the warmth calmly engulfs you both. You were both now clean, Miguel got out first and dried himself off. Despite seeing him nude multiple times before, you loved seeing him like that. He then wrapped a bath towel around his lower waist. Then grabs your hand and lets the water drain. He wrapped a towel over your body. Letting you stay warm. Then he dried yours and his hair with the hairdryer. You loved how much he put focus and care into you. You would return the same back too by giving him massages, going out on walks, seeing movies, etc.

Miguel then caught your eyes wandering around his body, he slightly smirked. "Take a picture to look at me for longer, mi vida." Miguel said while sneering. "Porque? Cuando te tengo enfrente de mi, cariño. I can't ever take my eyes off of you, you're so handsome." You say while heading towards him, grabbing the back of his neck and rustling his hair. He then pushed his lips against yours. Unfolding a deep, passionate, needy kiss. Your tongue wrapped with his. The smell of skin filled your nose, your fluttering heart thumped more and more. The soft taste of his plump lips on yours, his warm embrace against your chest as both towels fall on the floor. His gentle hands reaching your body, aching to be touched. His hands roams to your neck and hair, proceeding down to your hips. You then jump onto his chest and he grabs a hold of your hips. You both try not bumping into the door and open it while still kissing.

Your mind was starting to turn dizzy and foggy. He gently placed your chest on top of the bed. Giving you pecks and small bites along your spine, making you shiver. He softly turned you around. Both of your guys' lips magnetized. Not letting go, not even for a gasp of air. Miguel positions his back against the bed frame, pulling you on his hip, holding you in a lotus position. Your chest touching him enlightens fire down your core. Your nipples perked from the amount of arousal growing down your core. "You're the most beautiful, sosphicasted, intelligent, erotic, loving woman I've ever known and loved my whole life." Miguel said with a soft tone. Whispering it in your ear. Nibbling it softly, pulling out small moans out of your mouth. "Susurro estas palabras solo para que el mundo las escuche. Tu eres mi mundo entero, mi amor." Miguel said while groaning against your neck. Your head slightly goes back, you bite your lower lips. "Miguel, please more.. I want you to touch me more." You say with a hint of desperation and begging. "No muñeca.. we have the whole night to ourselves right now. Let me cherish and worship your body.

Miguel slides his fingers across your cunt, pulling it to your face. You moan to the touch of his rough fingers on your slick wetness."Look how soaking wet you're for me, cariño. Let me put that pussy to use, si? ¿Quieres eso, amor?" Miguel said softly with admirable eyes boring into yours. You nod slowly, groaning as he picks you by the hips. He then placed the head of his cock against your entrance. Your cunt twitched at the heat emitting from his breath against your neck. He then slammed you onto his cock, reaching your cervix.

You feel your body's nerves crashing down, the pleasure makes you feel so full. You moan erotically against Miguel's chest, cursing under your breath. "F-fuck Miguel, I feel you in my stomach.. you're so big. It's t-too much f'me.." you say between pants. "I love having you like this muñeca. I can't ever lose you, understand?" Miguel said softly. "God your body does unimaginable things to me, cariño." He cups his rough, big hands around your ass, slapping it as he begins bringing your hips and down his cock. Miguel stared at your beautiful face, saying incoherent words and the seductive expressions you would make. Your mouth being agape, gasping for air as Miguel would push every oxygen in you out of your body with a simple thrust of his cock. Your cunt spasms as Miguel grabs your throat softly. "Look at me, amor. I wanna see your pretty face getting fucked." Miguel said with a lustful tone. His eyes never let go of yours. You tried your best to not roll your eyes to the back of your head and kept eye contact with him.

More fire enlightened deep inside your core when Miguel's cock twitched when you reached for his neck, nibbling on it, leaving hickies. Miguel returning the same for you. Both of you are groaning and moaning, loudly. Not having a care of who could hear the both of you. The pleasure was towering over your body and your cunt uncontrollably spasms when Miguel said, "Cum around my cock for me, amorcito. Do it. Make me cum. I want my babies inside of your gorgeous body. M-mierda.." As you ride your orgasm out, Miguel's pace fastens, leaving you with tremendous overstimulation that leaves your throat choking out screams and wails for him to stop. A few more thrusts and he finally pumps his seed inside of you. Small droplets of tears leave your eyes, Miguel wipes them away by kissing them. "You did good f'me, baby. I love you so much." "I love you so much more than you could even imagine, Miguel. Te amo cariño."

Miguel finally pulls out of you, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing. Miguel then grabs a couple of small towels to clean you up. He then gave you your loungewear as he clothed himself with his boxers and shorts. You tie up your hair into a messy bun, then turn to lay beside Miguel. His arm hugging around your body, pulling you close. His chest against your face, both of you easily fall asleep.

:33 hai guys this took me Abt 1 hr n a half to do! This was really fun to do, please send more requests! Love u all ! <3

#spiderman 2099 smut #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x reader #spiderman 2099 spiderverse #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #romantic #smut #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 Miguel

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couldsewyouastitchandsavenine · 8 days ago

Text

Simmer — Javi Peña

pairings: modern times chef!javi x f!reader

word count: 4.2K

a/n: so this happened... been obsessing over javi peña as a head-chef for a long, long time. anyway, hope you enjoy it. huge shoutout to @pedroschka for reading the very first draft of this and to @iamasaddie for NOT being immune to my dad jokes. babes, this one is for you. like, share and subs— *runs out of the room*

warnings: javi peña AU, explicit smut with a bit of angst, closet sex, sneaking around, unprotected p in v., fingering, dirty talk, javi is an asshole (just a little), obligatory use of cariño (sue me!)

The air shimmers with heat as you push through the double doors into the kitchen, the weight of the produce in your arms making your muscles burn. Sweat beads along your hairline, trickling down the back of your neck to soak into the collar of your already damp shirt. You grit your teeth against the discomfort, blowing a stray tendril of hair out of your eyes with a huff of irritation.

It's too goddamn early for this, but the dinner rush waits for no one. Least of all you.

Lost in thought, you navigate the familiar maze of stainless steel countertops and simmering stovetops on autopilot. Your mind is already ten steps ahead, running through your prep list and mentally cataloguing what still needs to be done before service. So preoccupied are you that you don't notice the solid wall of muscle looming in your path until it's too late.

The collision sends you reeling, the crates tumbling from your arms to hit the floor with a dull thud. Produce scatters in every direction, onions rolling underfoot and carrots skittering across the tiles.

A large, calloused hand closes around your elbow, steadying you before you can add your body to the mess on the floor.

“Easy there, hermosa.” The low rumble of Javier's voice washes over you, his amusement evident in the way the endearment drips like honey from his tongue. Cloying. Sticky-sweet. It raises your hackles even as your traitorous pulse kicks up a notch at his proximity.

You jerk away from his touch, your skin scorched where his fingers branded you. Heat crawls up your neck to set your cheeks ablaze as you force yourself to meet his gaze head-on.

Javier's lips twitch, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners. The urge to slap it off his face is nearly overwhelming.

Because honestly, it unsettles you—the way he can peel you open with a glance. The way he seems to see through you, right down to your core, to all the secrets you keep buried deep. It makes you want to squirm, to hide. To lash out just to prove him wrong.

But you don’t. You never do.

Instead, you swallow hard. Ignore the way your tongue suddenly feels too thick and clumsy for your dry mouth.

"I'm fine," you rasp eventually, wincing internally at the breathless quaver in your voice.

He says nothing, just raises his hands in mock surrender and takes a deliberate step back. You tell yourself it's relief that shivers down your spine.

You're lying.

Determined to put some much-needed distance between you, you bend to start scooping up the wayward produce, dumping the armload of carrots and onions onto the counter with more force than necessary. It’s childish and it’s petty, but you have no other way to fight it. Because Javier’s gaze is still on you, a leaden weight between your shoulder blades.

So, you do the one thing that seems to be the solution. You run. Whirl on your heel and stalk towards the walk-in cooler without a backward glance.

The cool air that hits your overheated skin as you step inside is a balm to your fractured nerves. You suck in a shuddering breath, relishing the way the cold sears your lungs and clears the haze from your head. But it does little to quell the restless energy thrumming through your veins, the ache of of want that sinks its hooks into you whenever Javier is near.

With a low growl, you drag a hand through your hair, fingers snagging in the wild tangle of knots and snarls. You tug until your scalp burns with pain. Grounding you.

God, what the hell is wrong with you?

It must be the heat outside because you can’t seem to remember the last time everything felt slightly off-kilter as today. As if the whole world is just slightly out of focus, and with Javi’s dark eyes tracking your every move and that knowing half-smile playing at the corners of his unfairly distracting mouth under that ridiculous moustache, you half-wonder if you’re are caught in some strange waking dream.

You half expect to blink and find yourself waking in your own bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Alone. Untouched. Wanting.

But no, this is real. The chilly bite of the air, the clatter of pots and the hiss of the grill just beyond the fridge door, the ache in your shoulders from too many hours hunched over a too-small apartment stove—all of it is real.

And Javi. Javi is real. Had been for a year now, ever since you started at Ríncon as his saucier. His presence is as tangible as the stainless steel counters and the scuffed tile beneath your feet, as constant as the ebb and flow of orders and the controlled chaos of the dinner rush.

He’s real and so is the memory of that night. The ghost of Javier's lips on your neck, hot and hungry as he backed you into the shelving. The rasp of his stubble against your jaw, the slick slide of his tongue against yours as he swallowed your needy whimper. The way his big hands flexed on your hips, yanking you flush against the hard planes of his body like he could fuse you together through sheer force of will alone.

And you’d like to say that you put up some token resistance that night. That you were the kind of person who had self-respect and standards and lines that couldn't be crossed.

But that would be a lie. Because the truth is, you’d spun in his arms and yanked him closer, hands fisting in the front of his chef’s jacket. The truth is, when he'd walked you backwards until the shelving bit into your spine and sealed his mouth over yours, you’d whimpered embarrassingly into the kiss.

The truth is, you’d wanted it.

Afterwards, once you’d righted your clothes and avoided each other's eyes, shame and exhilaration warring within you, he'd cleared his throat and said gruffly that it could never happen again. That it was a one-off, a momentary lapse in judgement. Nothing more.

And you had agreed. Had nodded. And then went on with your life as you normally would.

Except you couldn’t. Not even a little bit. Because that one slip had been like a crack in a dam and now the want was flooding through, unstoppable.

And so it happened again. And again. Stolen moments, illicit touches. The slam of your back against the walk-in door, the cold metal a stark contrast to the fevered heat of his skin. His fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he hitched you higher, urged your legs to wrap around his waist. Frantic coupling in the alley behind the restaurant, brick rasping your palms as you braced yourself against the wall, biting your lip till you tasted copper while he drove into you hard and fast.

Once, memorably, he’d taken you in the backseat of his car after a late catering gig. It was graceless, awkward, his elbow jabbing painfully into your kidney at some point, but God, the way he’d felt inside you. Like he was trying to crawl beneath your skin; possess you from the inside out. Like if he just fucked you hard enough, deep enough, he could leave an imprint. A mark. Proof that you were his, even if neither of you would ever say the words aloud.

And you know it's fucked up. Know that despite the dark thrill, the toe-curling pleasure, this thing between you is a disaster waiting to happen. One of you will get careless, too drunk on pleasure to maintain discretion, and it will all blow up in your faces. You’ll be the one to lose your job, your reputation in tatters. He'll be the subject of high fives and envy in the kitchen, just another conquest to boast about.

You know this. You really do.

But when he looks at you like he does, all your good intentions seem to crumble to ash. He’ll crook a finger at you, head cocked towards the storage room, and you’ll follow. You always fucking follow. Because for those stolen heartbeats when he’s buried inside of you and his hands are branding your hips, you can pretend it means something. That you mean something. To him. That you are more than a convenient warm body. More than a willing repository for his lust and stress and pent-up frustrations.

It's pathetic. You’re pathetic. Panting after him like a dog whining for scraps from the table. But self-awareness has never been much of an aphrodisiac.

So you hide.

In the walk-in where the frigid air can leach the fever from your skin. Where you don’t have to see the way his throat works when he swallows or the flex of sinewy forearms revealed by rolled up sleeves. You hide until your nipples are hard from cold instead of shameful arousal and your chest no longer feels like it might crack open from the strain of containing your idiotically rioting heart.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, you push off the shelves. Run damp palms down your thighs, thankful for the wicking fabric of your chef's pants. You just have to get through service. Keep your head down and your knife steady. Just a few more hours and you can escape to the sanctuary of your shitty apartment. Where you absolutely will not fuck yourself on your own hand to the memory of his low groan in your ear. Again.

You’re fine. It's fine. Everything is fine.

The fridge door swings open with a gust of frigid air, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You twist around only to find Javi leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. There is a smudge of flour on his cheek. You want to lick it off.

Instead, you curl your hands into fists, nails biting into your palms. Swallow hard around the knot in your throat.

“You plannin’ on hiding in here all day?” His voice is light, teasing. But there's an undercurrent of something else, a tension that crackles in the air between you.

Straightening, you tug at the hem of your tee. A nervous habit, one you can’t seem to break. "Just needed a minute."

He nods, dark eyes watching you. Seeing too much, as always. The silence stretches, heavy with all the things you don't say. All the things you can't say, not without shattering this fragile truce you’ve built. This careful dance of almost, maybe, not quite.

Clearing your throat, you drop your gaze. Fix it on the collar of his shirt, the sliver of bronzed skin at the hollow of his throat. The thin gold chain resting against his collarbones, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

The same chain you sometimes catch between your teeth when you’re tangled together in the dark, skin slick with sweat and hands grasping, claiming. When you’re biting back the obscene sounds that claw up your throat, desperate to hold on to some shred of control even as he takes you apart with clever fingers and wicked tongue.

Heat flares low in your belly at the memory, prickling across your skin. You shift, restless. Aching. "Well, I guess I should get back to it."

You move to brush past him, to escape the charged air of the fridge and the wanting that coils like a snake in your gut. But he's too quick, too close. Long fingers wrap around your wrist, calluses dragging against your racing pulse.

"Wait." There's a rasp to his voice, a rough edge that sends a shiver skittering down your spine.

You go still, hardly daring to breathe. This... this is new. Uncharted territory. You don't linger in each other's space like this, not when you're both fully clothed and clear-headed. It's too dangerous, too much like tempting fate.

"What is it, Javi?" It comes out softer than you intend, almost breathless.

He sighs, a harsh exhale through his nose as he drags his free hand through his hair. The dark strands fall back into artful disarray almost immediately. Everything about this man is effortless, from the way he commands a kitchen to the way he commands your body. Confident. Self-assured.

"Nothing, just..." He trails off, shaking his head. Something flickers in the depths of his dark eyes, there and gone too quickly for you to decipher. Frustration, maybe. Regret. "Nothing. Never mind."

And then he's gone, shouldering through the door and leaving you standing there, stomach twisting with that all too familiar mix of frustration and anticipation.

So you return to your station. You chop and sauté, season and taste, hands moving on autopilot as your mind wanders. Steve, the sous chef, drops by your station to crack a few jokes, his easy smile and laid-back demeanor a welcome distraction from the tangled knot of emotions in your chest. He updates you on his ideas for the new tasting menu, shares a bit of gossip he heard from the chatty sommelier—anything to fill the charged silence of the kitchen.

But even as you nod along, making all the right noises in all the right places, you can't ignore the shiver that races down your spine every time Javier passes behind you, his arm brushing yours as he reaches for a pan. Can't seem to tune out the low, authoritative cadence of his voice as he calls out orders to the line, each word wrapping around you like a physical touch.

It doesn't help that he's foregone his usual chef's whites today in favor of a thin grey tee, the worn fabric clinging lovingly to every curve and plane of his torso. So it isn’t much of a surprise that by the time service ends and the last of the dishes are washed and stacked, you’re wound tighter than a clockspring.

—

The dishrag makes a damp squelch as you wring it out, the white cloth slowly soaking up the smears and crumbs littering your workstation. It's mundane work, the kind that usually lets your mind drift, but today all your senses feel heightened, electrified. Because you can feel him behind you.

Even without looking, you know exactly how close Javi is standing - mere inches away, his body a live wire of coiled energy. The hairs on your neck prickle to attention as his breath washes over your skin, his low rasp sending a shiver down your spine as he murmurs, "Storage room. Five minutes."

And then, just like that, his warmth is gone. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Javi shrug off his apron, the stained fabric hitting the hook with a dull slap as he strides purposefully towards the back.

"Fuck." The curse is barely a whisper, more a shaky exhale that you didn't realise you'd been holding in.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as your gaze darts around the bustling kitchen. Steve is leaning across the steel counter, flashing the cute new pastry chef a crooked grin as she carefully pipes delicate swirls on a tray of mille-feuille. Over by the sinks, a trio of line cooks laugh uproariously, their voices bouncing off the tiled walls as they no doubt swap exaggerated tales of culinary glory.

No one is paying you any attention. It would be so easy to slip away unnoticed, to grab your bag and walk out into the night, pretending you never heard Javi's summons. The rational part of your brain screams at you to do just that, to put an end to this dangerous game before someone gets hurt.

But even as the thought forms, you know you won't do it. Can't do it. Because as much as you hate to admit it, you crave this — the illicit thrill, the rush of sneaking around, the electric snap of connection that sizzles between you and Javi. It's a drug, and you're addicted.

Suddenly, your hands are way too clammy so you wipe them against your pants, the rough fabric scratching your skin. Then, with a last glance around to make sure no one is watching, you slip out of the kitchen and down the narrow hallway.

When you reach the storage room door, you pause, palm hovering over the knob. From within, you can hear Javi moving around - the clatter of bottles, the scrape of crates across concrete…

This is it. Your last chance to turn back, to walk away and pretend this never happened. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. You think of Javi waiting on the other side of the door, all coiled intensity and wicked smiles. Of the way his hands feel on your body, the rasp of his stubble against your throat. The broken sound he makes when he comes undone.

Fuck it.

Twisting the handle, you take a deep breath and step inside.

Javi stands in the center of the tiny room, a bottle of sherry vinegar forgotten in his hand as his gaze rakes over you. And then he’s setting the bottle down with exaggerated care, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Lock the door."

“Already did.”

Though it's unnecessary, you take a lean into the solid wood at your back. Your already racing heart kicks into overdrive as Javi stalks towards you, his movements fluid and predatory. He cages you in with his arms, his body a hot, hard line against yours. This close you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the fan of his lashes against his cheek.

His lips hover a hairsbreadth from yours, his breath a feather-light caress. "We shouldn't," he murmurs, even as he rolls his hips into you.

"I know." Your hands come up to map the broad expanse of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tee. "But I don't care."

Javi makes a low sound, almost pained, and drops his forehead to rest against yours. The rasp of his stubble ignites sparks across your skin. "Me neither."

Then he's kissing you, deep and hungry, and whatever lingering reservations you had melt away like spun sugar. You open to him eagerly, hands fisting in his hair as you arch into the cradle of his hips. He licks into your mouth, hot and filthy, while his hands skim down your sides to cup your ass and pull you impossibly closer.

It's too much and not enough all at once. You hook a leg around his waist, desperate for more contact, and he growls into the kiss. His fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise as he grinds against you, the thick ridge of him hitting you just right through the layers of denim and cotton.

You tear your mouth from his with a gasp, head tipping back as he blazes a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. "Javi, please..."

He shushes you gently even as he walks you backwards, only stopping when you hit the edge of the stainless steel prep table. The cold bite of it against your overheated skin makes you hiss, but the sound is swallowed by Javi's lips as they find yours again. His clever hands make quick work of the buttons on your fly, and then he's gripping your hips and hoisting you up onto the tabletop like you weigh nothing at all.

His fingers are on you before you can fully process what’s happening, pressing against the damp cotton of your underwear. Helplessly, you buck against his hand, head falling back and eyes rolling in their sockets.

"Always so fucking ready for it," he rasps, fingers skating over the heat of you. "So wet for me, cariño."

You mewls, hips canting frantically as he circles your clit. "Please, Javi, I can't—"

"Shh, I've got you."

He sinks two fingers into you. Crooks them just right and just like that you’re gone, the tension and the waiting too much to handle. You clamp your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from screaming out, your body spasming and shaking. Javi just grins slowly as he wraps his other arm around you, gentling his touch before bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean.

“Want me inside you?” he asks and there’s that smirk again, tugging at his lips, but you’re too preoccupied with the need and want to care. So you nod, frantically. “Well, then, turn around. Hands on the table.”

You scramble to comply, anticipation zipping down your spine as you flip over and brace yourself against the cool steel.

This is wrong, some distant part of you whispers. It's reckless and stupid and is going to blow up in both your faces. But as Javi steps in close behind you, the hot press of him against your back and the whisper of his breath on your neck, you find it impossible to care.

“Ja—” you bite out as he nudges his thickness against your entrance.

“Say you want it,” he rasps, bending over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One hand slides around your hip to press against your belly, holding you steady. "Say you want me to fuck you."

"I want it," you gasp, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, Javi, please—"

He doesn't make you ask twice. With a growl that vibrates through you, he snaps his hips, sheathing himself in your heat with one hard thrust. The breath punches out of your lungs, fingernails scrabbling against stainless steel for something to hold onto.

Dimly, you register the harsh screech of the table beneath you, the way it shudders with each slam of Javi's hips against yours. But it's distant, drowned out by the roar of blood in your ears and the filthy litany falling from Javier's lips.

"Fuck, you feel incredible." His chest drapes along your back, damp with sweat, as he mouths at the side of your neck. "So tight. So perfect."

He snakes a hand around your hip, fingers seeking out your aching clit. The first rough press of his fingertips against the sensitive bundle of nerves has you jerking in his hold, a high, threadbare sound tearing from your throat.

"That's it, baby." Javi's breath is a humid rush against your ear, his words nearly lost in the damp tendrils of your hair. "Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

It's like a tripwire snapping. Your orgasm crashes into you, a tidal wave of sensation that obliterates everything in its path. You're vaguely aware of Javi cursing, of his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. Then his body goes taut against yours, a low groan rumbling through his chest as he spills himself deep inside you.

For a long moment, there is only the ragged sound of your breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. Javier doesn't move, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his softening length still nestled in the clutch of your body.

And then he's pulling away and you can only push yourself upright on shaking arms, biting back a wince at the protestations of your muscles. Behind you, the rustle of fabric tells you Javier is making himself presentable, but you can't bring yourself to turn around.

When you finally do, he simply hands you your clothes without a word. You take them, grateful for the excuse to keep your eyes averted. The silence stretches, thick and cloying, as you both dress with perfunctory movements.

This is always the worst part. The part where reality reasserts itself, cold and unforgiving. The part where you're forced to confront the stark truth of what you've done, of the lines you've crossed.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons of your trousers, clumsy and numb. Across the cramped space, you can feel the tension radiating off Javier in waves. See the rigid set of his shoulders from the corner of your eye. Your chest aches with a nameless emotion, the jagged pieces of your heart grinding together like broken glass.

This has to stop. You can't keep doing this, can't keep tearing each other apart in dark corners and hidden rooms. It's not sustainable, this twisted thing between you. Sooner or later, something will give. Someone will give.

And you're terrified it will be you.

"Javi..." The word feels too loud in the oppressive quiet. You swallow hard, dragging your gaze up to his face. His expression is carefully blank, but you can see the tick in his jaw, the way he won’t meet your eyes.

He cuts you off before you can continue. "I'll clean up in here." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "You should go."

It's an out, and you're too much of a coward not to take it. You nod, more to yourself than to him, not trusting your voice. Then, on numb legs, you slip past him into the deserted hallway, the snick of the door closing behind you sounding like a gunshot in the hush.

The back alley is blessedly empty when you stumble out into the balmy night air. The rough brick of the restaurant's exterior scrapes your spine through your thin shirt as you sag against it, eyes squeezing shut. You breathe deeply, trying to will away the hot press of tears, the yawning emptiness carving itself into your chest.

This has to stop. It will stop.

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.

#javier peña #javi peña smut #javier peña smut #javi peña #pedro pascal #javi peña x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javi pena #javier pena narcos #narcos fanfiction #javier peña x you

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the-c41n-instinct · 14 days ago

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Danny can't go through ghost shields

In a last-ditch effort to protect the town, the local government and the GIW commission the Fenton parents to make two shields, one that will go up around their lab, to hopefully keep the ghosts in, and let them continue their studies.

And one around the town. To keep any rouge ghosts from attacking the town to get back to the ghost zone, and to keep out any of the Usual Culprits from making their way back after getting through a natural portal.

Danny finds out the day before they're scheduled to be set up, and spends all day and night getting any rouges, shades, or blob ghosts into the Zone. When they do finally go up, Danny, exhausted and in pain from having to wrangle so many ghosts in such a short period of time, gets pushed out of the town without getting the chance to warn his friends or figure out how to not get essentially banished

After getting forced out of Amity, he has to find somewhere new to stay. He can't pick just any small town, there isn't enough ectoplasm there to sustain him, so he goes for a big city, specificallyone with a hero hanging around (reader's choice) After all, the casualties and emotions from those big fights produce just enough ectoplasm to keep a teenage half-ghost half alive.

Sorry about the terrible formatting, I wrote this on mobile, copy pasted it from discord, and wrote it out while actively hiding my phone from my teacher :P

Anyway, vaguely inspired by this post by @suretkerim

#Dealer's choice for what city/heroes he takes refuge with #I know people usually go with Gotham for the Ectoplasm criteria #but lets be real #the only city with zero casualties is paris with Ladybug and Chat Noir #danny phantom #danny fenton #dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #c41n speaks #c41n writes

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shy-writer-999 · 2 months ago

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Summary: Smoker's secret kink is finally out in the open. When you tell him you’ll go along with it, all bets are off. ~1.8k words. CW: Afab reader w/ gendered pet names, e.g. “good girl,” daddy kink, spanking, P in V.

WARNING: MINORS DNI. NSFW CONTENT.

*** If you don’t like this kink, seriously, do not read this!!! You will be disturbed… and neither of us want that. So begone, please. For those of you who are down for the nastiness, keep reading because you’re in for a treat. Mildly edited. Also, shoutout to whoever requested this!

White-hot pain exploded on impact��a huge, rough hand spanked your ass so hard that your body rocked forward and you let out a yelp. It left a bright red handprint, searing pain coursing through your body. For a few moments, the pain was all that you were aware of. It enveloped your senses, forced you to be ultra-present, and reminded you that you were not in control. You were bent over Smoker’s thighs with your bare ass exposed and your skirt riding up around your waist.

You couldn’t see it, but you knew his hand was poised to land another. Sure enough, he landed a whopping smack on your supple skin just seconds later. Another yelp of pain.

The adrenaline from his spanks would normally make you feel like you were in fight or flight mode, but that wasn’t the case. You were so aroused that you were making a mess of yourself, oozing slick onto your upper thighs so they glistened. Underneath of you, you could feel something hard—it was his cock, of course.

A third resounding slap echoed in the room as Smoker landed another blow. “Say it.”

You were too lost in the pain and arousal to understand what he meant by that. It must have been something from a few minutes ago, but you were clueless and too caught up in the all-encompassing feeling of pain.

He grabbed a handful of the skirt that was pooling around your waist and held it taught. Fantastic, you thought. Another thing that’s going to hurt. Smoker yanked the fabric up, eliciting an inadvertent, guttural noise from you. It was almost like you got the wind knocked out of you.

He practically growled, obviously impatient. “Say what you are.” His hand raised, getting ready to wallop you again if you didn’t produce an answer within seconds. You remembered what he wanted.

“A bad girl,” you whined and braced yourself for the impact of the fourth spank. It came, excruciating. Those five-star handprints were going to leave a bruise. “I’m a bad girl.”

Smoker yanked on the fabric around your waist once more, evidently unsatisfied with your response. His voice glowered and rasped from above. A cigar, or two, or three (you couldn’t remember) puffed away, filling the room with a hazy veil of smoke.

“And what happens to bad girls?”

“Y-you fix them,” you choked the words out, wincing from the last harsh blow to your ass. No matter how many times Smoker spanked you, you’d still get off on it. Something about being handled so crassly and dominantly made you feel like you were on fire. You’d do anything he said at this point. He’d been neglecting your sensitive areas the whole time, only paying attention to your ass, and you were starting to get desperate.

Sure, the roleplay was a blast, but you wanted his cock in you as soon as possible. The teasing was agonizing.

One last smack and Smoker finally did what you were hoping for, the first step towards him fucking you senseless. His fingers came to rest on your inflamed and hot core.

“So wet for me.” He rasped, low and gravelly. His voice was slightly obstructed by the cigars, and it made his voice sound huskier. “Such a bad girl today, don’t you want to apologize? Say sorry and I’ll make it all better.”

What had you done today that was so bad? Nothing in particular. But that didn’t matter in the slightest.

“S-sorry daddy,” you whined, playing into the fantasy as much as you could. You knew he would eat it up.

Smoker was initially weary about telling you he liked this sort of thing. You hadn’t been seeing each other for too long and he wasn’t sure how to navigate the situation—if you didn’t like the kink, would you be totally turned off by him? He was worried that it would change something between you two, so he kept it a secret for a while. He really didn't want to make you uncomfortable. When the opportunity presented itself, he was awkward and gruff when he talked to you about it, but you were surprised.

When you told him you were down for it, down for calling him 'daddy' as much as he wanted, his jaw dropped. He didn't anticipate you to be this eager. Now, it was no holds barred.

You leaned into it as much as you could, knowing that the more you played it up the better the sex would be. Something about this dynamic revved Smoker up like nothing else, so of course you were going to play along. You liked to see him get as riled up as possible.

“Sorry I was such a bad girl, I didn’t mean to, daddy.” Every time you called him that, it made his cock jump. He could only hear that word so much before he would devour every last ounce of pleasure in your body and ravage the ever-living fuck out of you. And obviously, that was the goal here.

Smoker rubbed your lips up and down with his rough fingers and finally, finally inserted one. “Mmmm, there we go. Need me to fix you up.” He purred, watching your back arch from the contact that you’d been anticipating with bated breath.

“Feels good,” you panted.

“I know it does. Do you just want my fingers, or do you want more? Only good girls get more than that.” He condescended and your walls clenched around his fingers. Smoker knew how much you liked being talked down to like that, how sick and twisted you were with lust only for him.

“I-I want more, please. I’ll be so good for you. Make me feel good, please.”

Smoker's voice was strained when he responded. He was about to lose control. “You promise? You’ll be a good girl for me? Want me to slide my cock into you and fuck you like a good girl? You want to be nasty for daddy?” His cadence and tone told you all you needed to know—he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him, and he was at a breaking point.

“Please,” you pleaded as he pulled the fistful of your skirt tighter and shoved his finger deeper. “Wanna be so good for you. Please.”

Smoker groaned and maneuvered you, flipping you onto the bed. He brought himself between your legs and got ready to fuck you in missionary. Pulling his cock out of his pants and stroking it lazily for a few seconds, he stared at your bare and wet cunt on display.

“You want to be fucked by daddy’s cock? Tell me how badly you want it, baby. Good girls beg for it.”

You begged and pleaded while you watched the milky white pearls of precum seep out of his slit and begin their descent downwards to his pumping fingers.

"I-I want you cock, please. Want you to make me feel good with it. Please, daddy."

While you entreated and pouted, you batted your eyelashes for good measure. Each time you called him daddy, his heart beat faster.

Finally, Smoker began to push his girthy cock into your folds, inch by inch. You’d never get used to how thick he was. It felt great to be stretched out like this, to be so full.

Now you could see him clearly—one cigar was perched in his mouth and his white hair was ruffled. Even the smell of that cigar couldn't bother you when Smoker's cock was buried inside. That's all that mattered.

He bottomed out with a groan. “Fuuuuhhhcccckkk. Feel how deep I am? You’re taking it all for me, pretty girl.”

At his words, he could feel your walls constrict and pulse around his cock. Smoker started to grind and roll his hips into yours, producing pleasure at rapid speed. He brought his face closer to yours and the smokey haze distorted your vision.

“You like how it feels when daddy shoves his cock in you? You like being my cocksleeve?”

You moaned out a barely understandable “yes, daddy” and he kept going. The more worked up he got, the filthier things he said.

“Want daddy to rub on your clit? Want daddy to rub it till you cream?”

When you managed to nod and lock eyes with him, he brought his thumb to your sensitive spot and started to draw circles around it, making your hips buck and jerk.

“D-daddy, fuck, feels so good, fuck.”

He was grunting and groaning between each frenzied thrust. He could feel it—you were getting closer to orgasm. He turned it up a notch, hoping that you’d cum on his cock like you always did.

“You always make my cock feel good, sweetheart.”

Smoker pressed his thumb on your clit and started to thrust slowly now, leaning his weight down and over you. You were almost out of breath, so fucked-out that you couldn’t think straight.

When lust piloted Smoker's mind, his eyes looked scary and crazed. He grinded and dragged his cock in your cunt feverishly. Your muscles tensed with each pass of his tip and shaft over your hot and gooey spot, bringing you closer to climax.

Your eyes were starting to roll back in your head.

“That’s it. Cum on my cock, baby. Wanna feel you cum for me.”

He thrusted hard enough to elicit another whine. “D-d-fuckkk—” you gasped, trying to force the words out but it felt like your mouth was full of cotton. You couldn’t do anything else except lay there and get fucked. “D-d-daddy, f-fuck.”

“Good girls cum when they’re told to. Be a good girl and cum for me.”

Smoker’s words were accompanied by a particularly aggressive push of his thumb on your clit and it sent your over the edge.

During your orgasm, the whole time you spasmed and writhed under him, you called him “daddy.” This was what he had been waiting for—seeing you fall apart on his cock and call him that dirty and depraved word over and over again—daddy.

Smoker fucked you through your orgasm and then made you suck him off until he came down your throat. He ran his mouth while you gave him head, but he was so lost in pleasure that he could barely speak. When his cum disappeared down your throat and your hands were dripping with your own spit, he was satisfied.

Afterwards he kissed you sweetly and cleaned you up, blushing. You had never seen him blush before you started indulging in this kink of his. It was cute and becoming.

Smoker did anything you wanted after you let him fuck you like that. The fact that you were willing to play into this intense fantasy tickled him—no point in being ashamed of it anymore when you were just as enthusiastic as him, and fuck, the sex was so good it was crazy.

Afterwards, you often thought that you should be a ‘bad girl’ more often (whatever that meant).

sheesh! 🥵🥵🥴 that’s all for this one. if u made it this far and are into this shit, let me shake ur hand because i love it too.

here’s my masterlist and my october posting schedule.

finally, trick or treat? (both tumblr links)

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01zfan · 2 months ago

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halcyon | p. wb

guitarist!wonbin x bassist!reader | 13k words

after an insane…awful…damn near DIABOLICAL wait i present you with the most insane writing i have ever done. why i decided to go so hard for a wonbin fic is beyond me but he just evokes something particularly crazy within me.

Halcyon makes music like the album Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino by Arctic Monkeys. this takes place during the 80’s and mentions several places in the world’s rock scene in regards to this time. some songs that remind me of this couple are cry for me by magdalena bay, dare by gorillaz, heavy by powers, i’ll bet you by the jackson 5, drugs by charli xcx, and had ten dollaz by cherry glazerr.

contains: toxic relationship, physical violence (reader fights a girl, several fights during rock shows), infidelity, semi-public sex, fingering, pain kink drug mention, addictive behaviors, non-linear storytelling, it is referenced that the reader does something to "get rid of" other band members, part of this is in eunseok’s perspective then it switches

rock the house masterlist

Wonbin held after concert rituals very close to his heart. When the post-show adrenaline attempted to crash down on him and steal his serotonin like a thief in the night he had a few things lined up to keep the good feeling going. He would be on stage with the guitar still in his hands and before the last riff tore through the venue and while people’s screams still rang in his ears, Wonbin was already setting his eyes on his next dopamine rush.

His following activities for the night post-concert goes as follows, in no particular order:

Sex.

Drugs.

Trashing hotel rooms.

Chain smoking an entire pack of American Spirits.

He gritted his teeth as he brought his hands down the neck of his instrument. A chord rang through the venue as he remembered he was on his second strike—after the previous three—of ignoring the groupie ban. As he walked off the stage he remembered that he was completely out of drugs, and when he ran his fingers over his engraved initials on the side of his metal cigarette case he came to the realization it was lighter than usual.

“Fuck.”

Wonbin cursed under his breath, already knowing what was waiting for him inside. The venue staff and roadies moved around him as he stood completely still, looking down at his very last American Spirit. The sound of people running around and making sure equipment was being put in the right place drowned out completely around Wonbin. It was just him, the lone cigarette, and the wave of depression getting closer and closer to crashing down on him. Stray bits of tobacco slid from the metal casing and fell until it landed between his black heeled boots. He sighed to himself and clamped the case hard with a singular hand. The case almost sprung back open from the force. A cheap gift from a former lover that was already falling apart. He swore he had more Spirits.

“I’m going outside.” Wonbin spoke from the side of his mouth the cigarette didn’t occupy.

He didn’t care to look over his shoulder or wait for a reply. He’s sure Shotaro and Sion yelled at him to be back on the bus in thirty minutes or he’d send Wendy out there to kick his ass. He only waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder before heading to the door, using the side of his body to open it while he lit his cigarette.

Wonbin didn’t like Wendy too much, she insisted on managing the band like they were a professional act instead of a bunch of sleazy assholes who could hold a tune. Wonbin much preferred starting fights at shows and picking up girls to break their hearts the next day. Now that Wendy was around—and the major record label that was producing their next album—Halcyon was trying to be more classy. That meant no more young ladies in the hotel rooms, no more instigating physical confrontations at shows, and no more illicit drugs or illegal substances. Wonbin was barely able to sneak underneath Wendy’s radar. She watched him like a hawk, the only moments of solace he got was when he’d walk around the venue to take a smoke break. He was lucky she didn’t have much of a taste for the smell of nicotine. Wonbin would never be the one to tell her that a cigarette might help loosen the gigantic stick she had shoved up her ass.

He walked past the venue staff into the muggy night. Gainesville Florida, a disgusting rainy mess of a city that made you feel like you were choking on the humidity. The vibrant rock scene didn’t make up for the thick air that made everyone feel like they were swallowing smoke. Traveling the world was alot less fulfilling than he thought it’d be. Not every destination was a vibrant city with exotic nightlife and attractions. Sometimes it was in the armpit of a country, right in the bible belt wedged between two conservative cities.

But this wasn’t all bad. Despite being a pessimist, Wonbin knew that shows paid the studio bills, it paid everything. The weather also couldn’t have been too muggy, because he still insisted on putting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling the fumes, even if the fog rested over his body like a damp weighted blanket.

Wonbin breathed in until embers ignited and he felt that sting in the back of his throat. He should make this last American Spirit last—he really should—but the more he realized this was his last vice for God knows how long he couldn’t stop himself from taking prolonged puff after prolonged puff.

He wandered away from the venue while eating his cigarette, heading towards the side of a building right next to a shady alleyway. He was grateful that word travelled he wasn’t kind to stragglers after the show. He was left alone as he leaned against the wet brick of the building, sputtering up phlegm from singing, the cigarette, and the heavy air around him. Despite the pain he continues to smoke his last dwindling source of dopamine, already imagining the unbearable asshole he’s going to be in the tour bus.

“Looking for something?”

Wonbin looked past the brick wall down the alleyway. It was entirely too foggy here too. Between the shadows of the building and the night Wonbin could barely make out who that was calling to him. The fans after a show never gave Wonbin that much space, and his old flings would’ve been in his face in seconds. His mind briefly went to his dealer, his promise to keep him supplied by his jockeys across America. Wendy made sure to scare them away and to let Wonbin know in the most polished way possible.

“The young professionals that supply your musings will no longer be visiting Halcyon on tour. Any reimbursements will be settled upon our arrival back in New York.”

“Who are you?”

Wonbin spoke to the shadowy figure at the end of the alleyway. If he knew any better he would’ve never came down this unlit path by himself. He was a rockstar in vintage leather Prada, denim Mugler, and custom made snakeskin boots. Despite his affinity for conflict and violence Wonbin was unfortunately all talk, and he was sure his height and slim frame showcased that. He was at risk of being rundown and not a single soul would know; not a single bodyguard, member of his entourage, nothing.

But Wonbin was more aware of the fact that it was harder to score these days than it was to die, and if he were to die in an alleyway attempting to do a drug deal atleast he’d go out doing what he loved. So he took another step towards the shadowy figure, his heel clicking on the pavement as he tried adjusting his eyesight in the night. He was going to send Taesan (or was his name Dongmin?—that doesn’t matter) a bouquet of roses. Maybe even name a song on the next album about him. If his jockey would just cut to the chase and emerge from the shadows to give him his vice. Wonbin was already reaching in the inner pocket of his jacket for his emergency drug deal money when he took another step forward.

When the shadow stayed leaned against the wall, Wonbin took another step forward. He even cleared his voice to project it further and moved his cigarette to the corner of his mouth in an effort to speak clearly.

“Who are you?” Wonbin repeated.

Finally the figure kicked off from the wall and walked towards him. Wonbin didn’t care enough to take a step backwards, even when the figure still said nothing. For a moment fear flashed through Wonbin’s mind at the thought of the person really being a murderer—or worse—a cop. He imagined red and blue illuminating the dark alleyway and the figure would emerge with a badge reading him his Miranda Rights.

As soon as Wonbin imagined all the terrible endings to this situation the fear and panic was gone. Instead of hearing sirens Wonbin heard chatter of people passing by. Instead of seeing a cop he watched a woman emerge from the shadows, heels clicking against the pavement with each step.

He never remembered the jockey’s ever being a girl.

Wonbin’s even swore his dealer went on a tirade about how unreliable women are when it comes to drug dealing. Something about how pussy is worst and most addictive drug on the planet, how it always complicates things between the buyer and seller, and some other borderline misogynistic rhetoric.

(Wonbin found himself nodding along with his eyes trained on the drugs in his dealers hand. Maybe it was a Pavlov reaction to get his drugs, maybe he actually agreed with the points he was making. He never claimed to be a feminist. He is a rockstar, first and foremost.)

Instantly Wonbin tilted his head in amusement. He recognized your face immediately, he had gotten used to seeing you in the crowd of every show. You were what he called a front row regular, singing along to every song and starting the mosh pits. Wonbin watched you start your fair share of fights, pushing someone into the crowd with a smile on your face as you watched the chaos unfold. Despite being burdensome to the security and wellbeing of others, you were never ousted. Wonbin even got the feeling that you were revered in community, not that he ever cared enough to check. He just knew that you were there in the very beginning, when Halcyon didn’t have a name and it was just him Shotaro, and Sion scouring punk bars looking to make a quick buck.

Wonbin didn’t know you were the type to lurk in alleys after a show. For the most part he believed you were one of his few normal fans. As normal as any fan can be that follows the band across state lines just to see the same show over and over again.

You two had shared eye contact plenty of times. With Wonbin front and center and you in the crowd, it was bound to happen. But each time he gave you that look that said to meet him after the show you were always nowhere to be found. Each time the lights came on you’d disappear like a figment of his imagination, turning into dust until you materialized at his next show.

Your aversion of meeting him backstage had him peg you for the scared type, but you leaned against the side of the building and titled your head. Wonbin wasn’t sure if you were trying to emulate his calm demeanor or if it was your truth; he was still intrigued all the same.

“Who are you?” Wonbin asked for a third time, the tone of his voice saccharine as he did a shameless once over of you.

He leaned against the side of the building like you did, his hands let go of the money in his pocket and instead rested inside gently. He let go of the sweaty crumpled money and went to his cigarette, pulling it from his mouth.

When you didn’t speak, Wonbin blew the smoke in your face. A cloud of poisonous smog and you weren’t affected one bit. You let it breeze past you with a smirk before reaching in your back pocket. You revealed the substance like it was the bridge of a song, and held it up in the air in front of Wonbin’s face. You still didn’t say a word and even with the offering in your hand Wonbin’s eyes stayed on you. For the first time in God knows how long, Wonbin felt indifferent to substance. The far off words of his drug dealer played in his mind as he stared into your eyes, so innocent and contradictory of what was in your hand.

“Just a fan is all.” You said.

You jostled the substance in your hand for emphasis, like a human showing a dog its treats. Wonbin’s tail would’ve started wagging if he had one when he realized just how much was in the bag.

“Where’d you get that?” Wonbin asked.

“Some weirdo was just here.” You looked to your hand, feigning confusion. “He said this was for you.” You said.

He was already five minutes past Shotaro’s time warning, pulling you from the shadows ate up a majority of his smoke break. The image of his band running around the venue looking for him was fleeting, but he swore he could hear the sound of Wendy calling out his name. She imagined her scouring the streets looking for a groupie or a junkie asking if they knew of his whereabouts. They had a different state to be in tomorrow but Wonbin didn’t care, his interest was piqued by the baggie and you. You didn’t seem to scare as easily as the other girls. You kept eye contact with him, Wonbin could even see the gleam in your eyes like you were considering taking the substance for yourself.

“Why’d he give it to you?” Wonbin asked, still keeping his eyes on you.

“I may have done something for him.” You said.

Wonbin raised his eyebrows. Less than a year as a rockstar and he already had someone willing to do nefarious things just for him to know their name. Did you dirty your hands for him? Were your stockings already ripped or was that done recently? Was your makeup smudged on purpose and was your unkept hair intentional, or the byproduct of something much more demeaning?

Wonbin put his cigarette out on the brick wall and stuck his hands deeper in the tight leather pockets of his pants. Only then did he fully focus on the baggie. He felt his mouth water at the sight, that tug to do bad things deep in his heart. The adrenaline crash was creeping behind him but you were a massive brick wall he was hurtling straight towards. He reached for the bag and grazed your hand purposefully.

You didn’t even flinch. He smiled to himself.

“What did you do for him?” He traveled his hand down your arm slowly. His knuckles grazed over the fabric of your denim, tracing the stitching all the way up to your shoulder. When he made it to your neck is when he noticed the blossoming mark, already preparing to be angry in the morning. Wonbin looked from the mark to your face and tilted his head to the side. “Can’t imagine you paid him for this shitty stuff.” He said.

His other hand stuck out in front of him as his hand made it to your cheek. You didn’t chase after his fleeting touch, your lips didn’t part in silent want and your eyes didn’t flutter shut. You were stoic as he touched you, impervious to the move that usually had girls falling to his feet. Wonbin suddenly didn’t feel like just drugs tonight. The adrenaline was building back over his body at the sight of you not scaring easily. You refused to give in, you didn’t even put the baggie in his hand. You opened it yourself, putting the white powder on your long pointed acrylic nail before brining it under Wonbin’s nose.

He looked down to your nail then up to you. The tension built over his body tenfold, his hands retreated back to his pockets like he was debating on indulging himself. He heard Shotaro yell clearly now, and Wendy’s angry quick steps echoing beyond the alley.

“I can show you, if you’d like.”

Eunseok looked away from the alley between the two buildings and pressed his head to the steering wheel. The creases of his forehead are smoothed by the ragged synthetic cover of the wheel from years of use. he continues to rub his forehead against the covering just to feel something. He does it to stop himself from falling asleep, hoping that the repetitive motion can act as the rest he should be getting right now.

Eunseok thinks his job should pay him better. If he made wage proportional to the amount of work he does he wouldn’t have to drive around this disaster on wheels. When he closes his eyes for too long he’s forced to remember that he’s one bad ride away from breaking down on the side of the road—or worse in the middle of traffic. He remembers all the times the engine stalled on him and he had to call his bestfriend to come to his aide. Each time Sungchan gave his car a jump or pushed it to get a running start he commented on the abysmal state of Eunseok’s vehicle. He had heard this thing is barely drivable and you are a danger to yourself a million times. Eunseok couldn’t even deny it, he knew his friend was right. He couldn’t even turn up the music in the car without it coming out fractured through the blown out speakers. everything was muffled and the words were crackling fuzz, like pop rocks were in his sound system.

The music crackling through his speakers pulled him from wallowing in his financial situation. He lifted his head and his hand went to the sound dial on instinct. He focused on changing the volume using the tiniest adjustments on the knob. He always tries for the perfect spot on each song, because of course it’s different for each once. Every three minutes Eunseok’s fingers twist and turn the knob. Ironically it takes have the song to find the middle ground, where it’s not too quiet or entirely too loud.

When Eunseok finds the spot he sighs to himself, forehead going back to his worn steering wheel. He drums along to the beat this time, trying to get himself up and to clear everything else from his mind.

Eunseok tries not to think about his nerves, or the way he’s going to weave between two cop cars to get inside of the hotel. He thought it was torture surpassing a line of concertgoers to interview the artists. The exclusivity that gave him a dopamine rush turned into a stomachache when all eyes went on him. Their anger was almost always misplaced, mad at someone who wasn’t even taking up space in the general admission nor who was responsible for them waiting in line. But Eunseok knew it was pointless to argue with fans whose eyes were filled with bloodlust visions of the barricade. He only kept his head down and smiled awkwardly to the security before flashing his press badge.

Eunseok looks up from his spot in the parking lot to the hotel. Two flashing cop cars, neither of them make a sound but they sit in front of the door to block the entrance. Only people out, no one gets in he hears one of the police officers say. There’s a huddle of them talking to someone, his view of them is blocked by their vests and wide stances. On the other side of Eunseok’s car people are gathered in the public area. They are lined on the sidewalk, standing on their tip toes and leaning their bodies like meerkats. Eunseok recognizes the reporters, they view the front of the hotel through the viewfinder of their cameras, just waiting for the perfect shot. Some people are even craning their necks to look into the fishbowl Eunseok calls a car, he can already hear the whispers and fizzled out excitement when they realize he’s a nobody.

He would take a concert over this any day. He would gladly walk past a line of hecklers than be caught in the middle of this. But the clock in his car that is perpetually an hour behind tells him that he told Wonbin he’d be in his hotel room. The ground forming on the outskirts of the parking lot only gets bigger.

Eunseok reaches across the center console of his car to open the glove compartment. The door to the small storage drops open and he reaches in deep to pull out the pack of cigarettes. He smiles when he finds the last one in the pack and sees he has just enough time and a long enough walk to smoke it down to the butt.

Eunseok rolls down the window of his car using the hand crank because of course it only opens from the outside and of course his window is not automatic. He opens the front door and gets out, closing it behind him with his foot. Both of Eunseok’s hands are preoccupied, one blocks the wind and the other tries to ignite the lighter. it’s annoying, and just like everything else in his life the lighter fails to work. he shakes it, he hits the bottom of it against his thigh, he even tilts it upside down hoping to shake up just enough of the leftover fluid to create a flame. He feels his thumb going raw from working the tiny black gear before he finally admits defeat.

Eunseok goes through the open window of his car muttering about all his bad luck under his breath. he opens up his loose center console and tosses in the lighter before continuing to dig around. he goes through napkins, loose change, and the spare key that Sungchan swore was in Eunseok’s car. he slips the key into his pocket and reminds himself to hide it inside of the apartment later.

One after taking everything out of the center console does Eunseok find his box of matches, deep in the bottom corner where it was forgotten for god knows how long. regardless, he is so happy to find the matches he almost kisses the flimsy box.

He backs out of the car through the open window and opens the matchbox. He sees three perfect matches and nearly cries from happiness. His nicotine addiction induced by stress continues to fight for another day.

Eunseok is sure he looks insane to beyond the parking lot. He sticks out like a sore thumb, wearing a business casual outfit to an indie rock bands possible arrest. He tries to salvage what little confidence he has left by leaning on the hood of his car and striking the match. He smiles to himself inwardly when he’s able to successfully light the end on the second try.

Eunseok had always made the deal with himself to let his insecurities run wild until he reaches the end of his cigarette. so as he pulls in the toxic fumes that still burn his throat he lets himself think about how ridiculous he looks. He thinks about his feeble attempt at seeming professional in this scratchy cheap blazer and how uncomfortable his faux suede boots are. They were on the clearance rack in the women’s section, marked down from the already ridiculously cheap price. Eunseok thinks about the people that are looking for their rockstars and instead find a journalist smoking a cigarette in the middle of the night. They must wonder why he gets the privilege to be that close to the hotel, why he has the clearance to go inside. They must know he doesn’t belong here and they must think he don’t deserve a job as cool as the one he has.

Little do all they know that the pay is shit and Eunseok has had to spend countless weekends trying to coax answers from half baked artists whose ego is the size of the sun. This job also gave Eunseok the shitty habit of smoking due to the stress, one that he has to cover up with travel sized mouthwash and sticks of gum. He only has the right to be here because he has schmoozed his way to this spot for nearly five years.

when Eunseok finishes his cigarette he removes all negative thoughts from his head. He drops the orange butt to the ground and puts it out with the heel of his cheap—affordable shoe. He goes back into his car and rolls up the window using the crank. Eunseok then clambers over the center console, reaching forward to the passengers seat to grab his messenger bag. He steps on wrappers of of candy and empty bags of fast food to go into the backseat of his shitty—vintage car.

He gets out through the backdoor and goes to the front. He grabs his press badge that hangs off the rearview mirror. After he makes sure he has everything, he locks all the windows. It’s a whole process to make sure the car is secured, one that Eunseok forces himself to laugh about now.

The first step towards the hotel is the hardest. He has to hold onto the strap of his sling back for comfort and doesn’t look back at the crowd as he wills his feet forward. He can hear behind him people asking who he is, he even sees the shudders of a camera flash in confusion before it ceases immediately. He gets his press badge ready as he heads towards the entrance, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. His chews the two sticks of gum in his mouth vigorously before spitting it onto the pavement. The heeled boots almost sound hollow on the pavement, but it is loud enough to grab the attention of the cops.

They look at him confused, one of them spreads his arms out to stop Eunseok from walking forward.

“No entry is allowed into the building, sir.” The officer says.

Eunseok is used to careless venue security questioning his credentials. In the presence of an actual badge he feels himself freezing up. He babbles, pulling up the flap of his messenger bag to try and call back whoever called him. He already starts to be herded back towards his car before Wendy turns away from her conversation to the commotion.

“He’s good to go up.” She yells.

Eunseok looks towards Wendy, leaving her conversation with an officer and a girl with a bathrobe and a bloodied face to approach Eunseok. She is halfway between the two conversations, yelling again to get the officers attention.

He remembers when he first met Wendy. She was a clean cut professional, a titan in her field of managing artists. Before Halcyon she only managed solo pop artists, but with the music worlds preferences changing she went to managing rock bands instead. Wendy had Eunseok’s respect, she had the respect from half of the industry for her bravery when it came to managing the mess that was Halcyon. Sometimes he wondered if she regret her decision. When she wasn’t wearing her fancy pantsuits or the expensive jewelry she looked tired. Her hair wasn’t managed in the neat bob but instead pulled to a tight ponytail. From here Eunseok could see that she was pulled from her bed the same way he was, he could see she still had her pajama bottoms on. Eunseok had never seen Wendy in sneakers the entire time he’s known her, but she slipped the shoes on and had a jacket thrown over what he assumed to be her night shirt. She looked exhausted.

She didn’t even have the energy to try and explain what was going on. She only motioned towards the hotel, telling Eunseok that they were waiting for him on the thirty-ninth floor.

Eunseok was shocked when he walked through the lobby and it was completely empty. He had been in his fair share of hotel’s this late into the night, but there was always atleast a concierge behind the front desk. Here it was nothing, only Eunseok walking across the linoleum floors to the elevators. There was a feeling of dread creeping across his body as he waited for the elevator to come back to the lobby. He remembered the bloodied face of the girl outside, how desperate and tired Wendy looked in between talking to the cops and her. Eunseok already knew you had something to do with it.

Eunseok looks at the elevator that has finally come down to the lobby. He shuffles inside, hitting the top floor and waits for the door to close.

Eunseok has always been forced to wait for Halcyon. When the band experienced overnight success purely from word of mouth and radio play it was hard to reach the group at all. The worst part was that the elusive nature of Halcyon wasn’t by design, it was purely because the group lacked the fundamentals that came with running a band. Back when the band had no manager or record label—even Halcyon wasn’t the official name yet—and they were essentially ghosts occupying the top of charts internationally and domestically.

Back when Eunseok was struggling even more than he did now he was chasing after the group. He was for some reason more intrigued then by Halcyon. He became an investigative journalist, canvasing the dingy bars the band used to frequent to become a part of the rumor mill. He posed as an interested fan to get background information. Eunseok found out that Halcyon was a two member group, Shotaro Osaki on the drums and Park Wonbin on everything else. The storekeepers were more than happy to retell the stories, all of them claimed that in the back corner or on the small stage was where Halcyon was formed. They were the pride and joy of the rundown punk bars, nothing like the half-baked rock stars that dominated the scene.

Eunseok still remembers the rush of scoring an interview with the band for the first time. That was after Shotaro split for unknown reasons and you became his stand in. Eunseok was brought backstage by Wendy to talk with the two of you before a show. He remembers struggling to keep up with her in his shitty—affordable boots. He remembers swallowing the gum he forgot to spit out and having to wipe his sweaty hands on his pants to dry them. He remembers having to clear his throat constantly and being underneath your scrutinizing twin glares. He had to decipher your questions but still felt the rush when he saw either of your eyes light up from his informed history on the band.

Back then Eunseok was excited to be a part of Halcyon’s world.

Now as the red analog number climbs up to the top floor he feels a pit forming in his stomach. It’s a burning stone, when he takes in a deep breath through his nose he smells drugs burning. He hasn’t even made it to the top floor yet.

“Front cover.” Eunseok whispered to himself as the number climbed higher. “Front cover, spread, and promotion.” He repeated.

As soon as the elevator opened, Eunseok could smell it. The thick musky smell of weed filled the floor, he swore there was even a haze in the hallway like there was a smoke cloud. He wondered if the person talking to the suits was actually a manager of the building, coming to an agreement or settlement for the damage and disturbance a Halcyon party caused. There was a reason why the band was denied service from multiple hotels, one of them being a lifetime ban from a chain of hotels across the world.

Eunseok grimaced at the strong smell of weed as he passed through one of the open doors. As if a police investigation wasn’t going on downstairs Eunseok looked through the crack in the door to a couple that was engaging in an even stronger substance. There were other people in the room too, some of them doing other drugs and others making a bigger mess of the hotel room. Eunseok saw ripped up sheets and feathers from the pillows, spray painting on the wall.

Right as Eunseok peered into the room across from it, he saw someone emerge from the room to pound on the door. They paid him no mind, even when he froze in his footsteps. He noticed the ash on the floor underneath the feet of the person banging on the door. His eyes travelled to the burns in the rugs when the door finally opened. Eunseok was only able to get a peak at the trash furniture before the man rushed inside, closing the door so hard it shook the ground underneath Eunseok’s feet. The deadbolt being turned filled the hallway and Eunseok was finally moved to take another step, despite everything in his mind telling him not to do so.

He could leave right now, take the elevator all the way down to the lobby, get back in his shitty car, and never engage with the band Halcyon ever again. He could just rely on word of mouth, he was also sure whatever happened here today would make its way through the grapevine right back to him.

Eunseok took another step towards the shut door. At the end of the hallway, just like Wendy described. He remembered the tone of her voice, how it was grave and low like there were unknown horrors behind the door. The only person to make it out of the room was downstairs in a bathrobe with a bloodied face and broken hand.

Another step.

Was the same fate waiting for him? Why did they think to contact him directly, how were they even able to contact him directly? Eunseok knew that he might’ve been caught snooping around the scene that birthed Halcyon, but he would’ve never thought it’d be paid any mind.

He makes it to the door entirely too fast. He presses both palms flat to the door as he holds his ear to the wood. He hears nothing, the complete opposite from the other rooms on this floor. He can hear Halcyon’s latest album blast behind the door of one, he can hear screaming behind the other and he prays he’s not hearing what he thinks he hears behind another. He just needs to focus on hearing what goes behind this one.

Just as Eunseok gets an inkling of a sound, the door is ripped open. Eunseok almost falls into the room completely from his sudden loss of something to lean against.

When the door is fully opened he sees the mess you two made. Eunseok has to stand straight to take it all in, his lips part as he’s stun locked in the doors entrance. He heard about your shared tendency to trash hotel rooms, but he never knew it was to this extent. Eunseok looks at the chunks of the drywall ripped straight from the infrastructure of the room to litter the floor in varying chunks. the tiniest pieces are already embedded in the fancy carpeting, pummeled to white dust from the other things that transpired in the room. Every piece of furniture is broken. A chair is leaned on its side and missing all the legs but one. Another chair next to it has the seat cushion smashed in, and the vanity leans the the side completely.

The queen sized bed in the middle is completely covered by a million things. Torn paper, jostled piles of clothes, balled up sheets. Pieces of drywall rest on the bed and so does one of the chair legs. Eunseok sees the guitar and the bass tossed on top as well. The feathers from the pillow still float around in the air, and only then can Eunseok bring his gaze back up to Wonbin.

Now is reminiscent of the first time he ever saw him. Even underneath the harsh light of the hallway Wonbin’s skin was tan and flawless, complete with beautiful eyes and plump lips. They were bitten and glistening from his tongue that he ran over them as Eunseok took in everything. His hair was newly dyed raven black, the black leftover dye beaded at his wet hairline. His hair still bounced with each turn of his head despite it being weighed down, and it set perfectly the same way it always did. Wonbin stood in front of Eunseok in just his bathrobe, calm and collected despite the scene behind him. He only nodded before flicking his head backwards and leaning in close to Eunseok like he was about to tell him a secret.

“It was her this time, not me.” Wonbin says with a smile on his face.

Only then does Eunseok notice you. Your legs dangling over the edge of the bed as your arms splay out over the sides. Eunseok can see your ripped leggings and your missing shoe, he sees the forming bruises on your legs and your lack of movement worries him. The same time he draws a breath Wonbin follows his gaze backwards. He’s confused at first but then he scoffs, still leaning against the door frame before turning his head to face you.

“Wake up. Eunseokie is here.” Wonbin said.

Eunseok peered past Wonbin to watch you finally move on the bed. When you got up by your arms propping up on the bed Eunseok could make out the red smudges of blood across your face and knuckles, the almost catatonic look in your eyes. Eunseok could see the matching white powder on your black clothes and Wonbin’s robe. He didn’t care to ask if it was the drywall or something else, he convinced himself it was the former. Eunseok was more intrigued by the obvious look of crashing on whatever high emotions you were coming down from, whatever obviously caused this. You seemed unaffected as your feet kicked over the edge of the mattress, you and Wonbin had twin sinister smiles without even realizing it.

Eunseok should’ve stayed home.

“Why am I here?” Eunseok asked.

“Remember when you first met us?” Wonbin asked.

Wonbin pulled at Eunseok’s arm to pull him into the hotel room. Eunseok stayed planted in place, looking over his shoulder towards the elevator. He could make his great escape right now, he could take the elevator down and then sneak past Wendy and go back to his car. He could drive it home and go to sleep, pretending this night never happened. What waited for him in this room couldn’t have been good. But Eunseok kept getting pulled by Wonbin, and the idea of having this exclusive interview prior to your inevitable arrest pulled at him even more. Eunseok sighed heavily and reluctantly let himself be pulled into the mess of the hotel room.

Your feet that dangled over the edge of the bed started kicking in excitement. You watched Eunseok get pulled in by Wonbin, and watched him close the door behind him. He stayed by the closed door as Wonbin walked away, standing next to the place you sat. You watched Eunseok look from Wonbin to you, then he looked from you to Wonbin. He let out a sigh that you two laughed at, and when he went to scratch his eyebrow you and Wonbin looked at eachother.

“I remember.” Eunseok adjusted the strap on his messenger bag, settling onto the balls of his feet as he tried to get comfortable. He kicked away the piece of drywall that was wedged underneath his foot. Eunseok looks down and continues to drag his foot across the carpet. You see tiny specks of white flick up from the carpet. “I remember when I first met you guys.” He laments.

“What was the question you asked us then that we didn’t answer?” Wonbin asks.

You stop kicking your feet. You watch Eunseok try to remember what happened all those years ago. Truthfully, you two didn’t answer his questions to begin with. Even before the makeshift media training Wendy tried to give you both, you two had the tendency to avoid questions. That first interview Eunseok gave you backstage was a mess. You two derailed constantly, Wendy interjected twice, and Eunseok was such a nervous wreck he stumbled through half the interview.

Now Eunseok seemed fed up with the band. If you cared, you would’ve felt embarrassed about the common pattern people had in relation to the band. Whenever anyone would first become involved with Halcyon, it was always the same. They would look at you and Wonbin with stars in their eyes, singing praises about the two of you without being prompted. As time would go on they’d get more and more fed up, until they completely avoided the band altogether. At this point, the only person that was consistently in your circle was Wendy, and that was only because she was getting paid an ungodly amount of money to put up with it.

You didn’t know when it shifted for Eunseok. Maybe it was on his way here. You imagine the wound of remorse had been festering for awhile, he was practically on your payroll while barely reaping the benefits. He was the only reporter you and Wonbin were even remotely candid with, he was at all of your album releases and the big shows behind the stage. But to your knowledge he still drove that busted ass car you’d see broken down on the shoulders of highways.

“I asked you guys alot of questions then.” Eunseok says.

He’s irritated. He looks around the room at the mess, his eyes drag across everything. You wonder how long he had to drive to get there.

When Wonbin doesn’t give any more indication of what he’s talking about you watch him look up to the ceiling. You see his face drop at the slanted ceiling fan that was one pull away from falling completely.

“Was it question about you two being lovers?” Eunseok asks.

You almost tilt your head back and laugh at that. You remembered when Eunseok read back the lyrics to a song about lovers meeting in dark alleys and asked if it was about your relationship with Wonbin. Wonbin answered then, without hesitation, Who said we were lovers? Eunseok was taken aback, anticipating that you two would’ve thrown him a bone for being knowledgable about your music. You were taken aback because Wonbin declared his undying love for you only an hour before the interview took place.

“Who said we were lovers?” You say quickly.

There were plenty of things that indirectly explicitly said you two were lovers, or something akin to that. The fact that you two nearly fucked onstage every show, the only thing separating your lips was the microphone caught between you two. The stage lights caught in your eyes as you leaned closer and closer to him, dancing facing him as he did his solo on the guitar. That’s not even to talk about what would happen off stage. Before that interview Wonbin had your back leaned across the hood of his vintage red Mercedes Benz Convertible in the private parking lot, your legs slung over his shoulders as he kneeled on the yellow line of the parking space. You could still smell yourself on his tongue during the interview, and you were able taste yourself after the show too. Groupies fucked him knowing you two were fucking, people in your circles still whispered to this day about your relationship. But of course, if it’s not said, then it’s not true.

Eunseok looks up from the ground to your even expression. Your throat hurts even when you speak quietly, baring the weight of the screaming you were doing an hour ago. Eunseok smiles at you, you don’t know if he smiles at the irony of this answer or the other objectively hilarious things about this situation.

“Your chemistry is palpable.” Eunseok answes.

When Eunseok does a pulling motion at his hair you tilt your head back to laugh. The infamous part during your performances when you’d pull at the hair on Wonbin’s head. The first time you did it was real, a compulsive reaction in response to the constant mess he put you through. After that it was all for show, to play the part of unfaltering love where you needed him close to you by all means. A messy hand tangled in his sweaty hair as you brought him close until your foreheads touched. The hair pull would be referenced throughout your shared careers, something that you two would only shrug your shoulders at. Now it made Wonbin roll his eyes and sit on the edge of the bed to bring attention back to him.

“Not that.” Wonbin clarified.

Eunseok sighs and brings his hands to pinch the bridge of his nose. You have to bite your lip to hold back the laughter.

“Why’d you two call me here?” Eunseok asks.

Wonbin looks to you. Eunseok looks to the floor and takes in another breath, as if he’s trying to calm himself.

“You did alot of research about Halcyon long before you ever met us.” Eunseok is at the point where he doesn’t care enough to hide it. He simply nods before Wonbin looks over to you and takes in a deep breath. “But there was always the one thing you could never figure out.”

Eunseok scratches the back of his head as he thinks, and when he realizes it his fingers stop in their tracks. Even with his eyes pointed towards the floor you can see them widen before he looks up.

Eunseok looks between you and Wonbin, hand still in his hair.

“You’re going to tell me how you ended up joining the band?” Eunseok asks.

When you and Wonbin nod together, you can see that Eunseok’s interest has been piqued. He looks behind him briefly and grabs the stool that was tossed on its side, sitting up on it immediately. You watch him try to balance on the missing leg, slinging his messenger bag to his lap so he can open it. Almost immediately that same spiral journal materializes and so does a pen and recorder. Eunseok doesn’t hesitate to press record.

“On the record?” Eunseok asks.

You and Wonbin both nod, sitting up a little straighter. You nod but Eunseok flicks his head towards the recorder in his hand, a silent reminder that he needs to hear you confirm it.

“On the record.” You confirm.

Eunseok leans forward in his seat, and you can see him already imagining all the stories he’s going to sell. This will get him that front cover he’s had his sights on for God knows how long, but you can see him contemplate on why you’re doing all of this. Two selfish rockstars are suddenly willing to reveal something they have kept under wraps for so long. But he doesn’t want to ask the question. Now that Eunseok has you two os willing to spill the secret, he doesn’t want to lose his chance. You’re lucky he doesn’t pry, and he’ll be lucky if you don’t clam up in the middle and recant your statement. You believe that’s why Eunseok acts fast now. He wastes no time to make sure his pen can write, and he opens up his journal to a page that already has questions written on it. A pair of glasses materializes on his face as he reads the page carefully.

“You both said that you met in an alleyway, but that didn’t lead to you getting put in the band.”

Eunseok looks up from his journal and you shake your head. After Wonbin mounted you in the back of his tour bus while Wendy and and his bandmates looked for him he denied your request to come on tour with them.

“You gotta leave.” Wonbin buttoned his shirt while you were still laid out on your back in his bed. “No groupies are allowed on tour with us.” He said.

That’s when you pulled yourself from the mattress, ignoring the soreness across your body to be eye level with him.

“I’m not a groupie.” You said matter-of-factly.

Wonbin stopped buttoning his shirt to look back at you with a smirk etched across his face.

“Oh yeah?” He asked.

Despite the obvious taunting in his voice you nodded anyway. You dug your hands deeper into the mattress, ignoring that sinking feeling that was in your gut.

“I’m a singer. And I play bass.” You said.

Wonbin looked forward with a scoff while continuing to button his shirt.

“The band is full. We already have a singer and someone that plays bass.” He said.

Despite being told explicitly no, you leaned forward on the bed and shook your head.

“I write too. I’m a better at bass than that kid.” You said.

Wonbin only shook his head at you then. He insisted that he couldn’t take that kid out of the band because that was his bestfriend and he was excellent at the bass. He wasn’t wrong, after his time in Halcyon, Sion went on to be a well loved and revered bass player in the industry. He just wasn’t as good at you.

And he was in your way.

You shook your head at Eunseok to tell him that you were not let into the band that night. You saw the inquisitive look in his eye as he continued down the page, eyeing something written in the margins.

“Sion, the previous bassist of Halcyon said that he dropped from the group after he couldn’t complete the tour. He couldn’t give me the specifics then, and he doesn’t accept interviews now—”

“Good for him.” Wonbin interjects.

Eunseok eyes Wonbin carefully. Wonbin has omitted eye contact with both you and Eunseok, now it’s his turn to look around the room. He is focused on the smears of red wine that stain the wall and the broken glass that litters the floor in front of it.

“I was wondering if you could enlighten me on his departure from the group?” Eunseok asked.

You knew that Eunseok took his research about the band seriously a long time ago. Back when the circle was small and word made it back to you and Wonbin quickly, you were informed that someone was snooping around the scene and asking about Halcyon. Back when the radio play was new and no one knew your names, there was a quiet man snooping around the places the band used to frequent and asking questions.

You laugh to yourself and shake your head. Then you thought Eunseok was a cop, and you were scared shitless until you found out he was just a newbie reporter trying to impress his bosses.

“What does that have to do with me?” You asked.

“Well. Sion’s departure opened up a spot for you in Halcyon.” Eunseok pointed towards Wonbin, whose gaze had rotated to the wall behind Eunseok. “Don’t you think he left under strange circumstances?” He asked.

Wonbin only shrugged his shoulders. Eunseok went back to his notepad and wrote something you couldn’t see.

“I just heard her voice one night, and I couldn’t let it go.” Wonbin says.

That earns a big laugh. One that has you tilting your head back and laughing directly to the dangling ceiling fan. You laugh even more when you see Eunseok trying to understand, to connect the bits and pieces of stories he’s heard to match your reaction. He knows it’s no use, that he can only begin to assume why Wonbin turns to watch you laugh with a knowing smirk on his face that only grew with your reaction.

“Oh that’s what that was?” You say, wiping away a tear.

Wonbin’s confession that he loved your voice was said before he heard you sing. He huffed it into the crook of your neck as his fingers pumped in and out of your heat in the back of the tour bus. After Gainesville, it seemed only right to follow him to Raleigh. You started finding your way to the back of the tour bus before anyone else was there. If Wonbin had half a working braincell or any thought beyond feeling good he should’ve been worried about how you so easily found your way onto the bus. But you found out quickly he only worried about his post-concert rituals, evident in the way he practically crawled to you down the narrow hallway of the bus.

You waited for him at the very back on his bottom bunk, legs open and propped on the edge of the mattress. The closer he got the slower and lower he went, until he pressed a longing kiss to the area right above your ankle.

“How’d you know it was me?” He asked before placing another kiss.

“I didn’t.” You whispered.

That only spurred Wonbin on more. Despite popular opinion, Wonbin was more of the sheltered than he cared to admit. Before becoming a rockstar he grew up in the suburbs of Queens to a working class family. His proximity to the city lead to him seeing crazy on the subways and overhearing it on the bus, but he never met crazy. He never met someone who carelessly exposed herself in the back of tour busses, or found a way to break into them by stealing the keys. He never met someone who so shamelessly lead his hand underneath the band of her underwear, or would finger herself if Wonbin wasn’t moving fast enough or doing it right. What type of guitarist doesn’t know how to use his hands? You’d always tease him without second thought, looking down to him when he spent his time looking down on everyone else. Wonbin never met someone who would get lost in him so easily, moaning loudly in his ear as he worked another finger in.

But he had also never met someone who so clearly always had an ulterior motive. When he was getting lost in you and using you to keep the post-concert adrenaline from killing him you’d lean in close, hand wrapped in his hair before sucking harshly on the skin of his neck.

“Let me in the band.” You moaned.

Wonbin was going to say no before you pressed you palm hard against the crotch of his jeans. He felt your warmth and force seep through the thick fabric and his fingers in you stopped there movement. He only regained his composure when you started grinding your hands against his palm.

“Sion.” You pressed harder. Wonbin pushed his dick against your flattened hand. “Bassist.” He mumbled.

“Mhm. I know.” You licked the side of Wonbin’s face and continued talking directly to his ear as you pressed harder. His hand that was behind you suddenly gripped your waist with a bruising strength. “What if I got rid of him?” You asked.

Wonbin couldn’t see the way you were already thinking about how Sion could be dealt with. He was only paying attention to the way your walls clamped around his fingers and how you preened into his touch. He was so consumed by you that he only nodded his head quickly while digging his fingers further into your waist.

You assumed Wonbin took some of the blame for Sion’s abrupt departure from the band. Leaving in the middle of the tour after a brief stint in the hospital, a spot Halcyon suddenly opened up for you. You didn’t question it, neither did Wonbin. Shotaro was the only one that kept a close eye on you, whispering to his bandmate and not saying a word in your presence. You still remembered Shotaro’s reluctancy to even let you in the band, but you were down a bassist and you knew all the music. Just for a couple stops. Shotaro always made sure to make that clear.

Now you were here and he was not.

“Sion and Shotaro leaving is completely unrelated to me.” You say matter-of-factly. “I don’t think they like to be mentioned in articles these days either.”

Eunseok digresses. He would love to ask how the group dwindled down to just the two of you but he knows he will be here forever, peeling back layer after layer. He’s also convinced he’s running out of time due to the sound of the other people on this floor yelling about pigs and the sound of doors being busted down. It’s only a matter of time before they seize the illegal contraband that’s in the other rooms and seizes you and Wonbin. So he closes his notebook and leans forward in the broken chair, putting all of his weight on the leg in the front.

“Where were you inducted into the band?” He asks.

“Fukushima.” You and Wonbin answer at the same time.

“Okay well.” Eunseok tries getting comfortable in the chair but its missing leg causes it to lean to the side. He has to keep his foot planted where the missing end would be. “What happened in Fukushima?” He repeats.

The same thing that happened in Fukushima happened in New York. And Amsterdam. And Ibiza. Anywhere in the world where you two were left to your own devices it happened.

Before you even landed in Japan, Wonbin was getting on your nerves. You were getting on his. The both of you were getting on the nerves of your entire team, looming over everyone like impeding doom. You both blamed it on the Asian showcase you were forced to go on. You downgraded from the sold out venues in North America to the crowded and stuffy underground clubs of the rock scene across Eastern Asia.

The first strike happened in Beijing. Halycon’s studio debut record was snuck to the rock scene on cassette tapes from Hong Kong and Taiwan. Everyone in the crowd dressed like Wonbin, they had their hair touching their shoulders and the same leather jacket he donned. There, they liked him more. They sang his lyrics back to him twice as loud, shaking the floor and causing the windows to vibrate. The cramped stage caused you to accidentally step on the amp of Wonbin’s acoustic guitar, causing the music to abruptly stop. You were forced to perform an unplugged version of a song, making you shine but leaving Wonbin looking like an idiot. He was convinced you did it on purpose, seething at you on the private jet that you were jealous you weren’t a star like he was. You seethed back, telling him that he was nothing but a half-baked rockstar who let praise inflate his ego.

The second strike was in Hongdae. If Wonbin was the favorite in Beijing, you were the favorite there. There all the men fell to your feet, passing you bouquets and crying anytime you looked in their general direction. They worshipped the ground you walked on, they followed you around the city after the show. You could see the anger on Wonbin’s face when you looked towards him in the middle of the show. You smiled at the permanent scowl, you took it a step further to ask the crowd please make some noise for our guitarist as if it was a charity. Wonbin gave a shy smile and bowed, but at the end of the show he held your hand tight, a silent sign that he was upset. You held his hand towards the crowd, using his silent threat as a testament to your dedication to eachother.

You enjoyed the instances where you could use his narcissistic tendencies against him. He also performed better when he was angry. You liked when he’d look to you before cursing or inciting a fight in the crowd. People like Wonbin were born to be mad, and you believed you were put on this Earth to stoke the fire.

When he was angry and it’d come to a boiling point when you two were alone it also meant he’d fuck you better. In Beijing you two made a mess of your hotel room, the bedsheets pulled from the bed and the floors cleared from the sounds you were making.

That night in Hongdae, when you and Wonbin were at a penthouse party of some millionaire you two found a room away from everyone else. He caught you at the base of the stairs getting unbearably close to a man in a suit, and that ensued a screaming match. The drugs and the alcohol made everyone oblivious to your fight, or maybe the anger coursing through your veins made you forget about everyone else entirely. All you knew was that the fight ending with Wonbin chasing you up the stairs, pushing at you while you threw your limbs back in an effort to make him fall. He was poking and prodding at you, while you corralled him into a room with a lockable door.

“I fucking hate you.” You yelled it before the door even shut.

Wonbin laughed as he turned the lock with his hands shaking from rage. You felt fire from the soles of your feet getting higher and higher, his sudden calmness only making you more upset.

“I fucking hate you back.” Wonbin sneered.

By the time the music changed downstairs to another floor shaking song you had Wonbin pushed against the door. Your face inches away from his, a permanent scowl etched on your face. An article was released the same day that rock-n-roll was dying and rockstars were all narcissists with anger issues. You stared down the man that refused to let you into the band you were singing and writing for so he could be the only star. Wonbin looked at the girl who got rid of his bandmates so she could secure her spot in the group.

When you and Wonbin looked at eachother for too long everything else started to come to the surface. It was hard to pretend to be an unbothered rockstar when someone who was going through the exact same thing was looking at you so intently. It was hard to fake indifference when the overwhelming weight of performing was becoming clearer and clearer. Why were you two doing this? Nothing was binding you to Halcyon or Wonbin. You could’ve booked a flight home and pretended none of this ever happened. He could afford to stop performing then and there with enough money to sustain his lifestyle.

But you two both knew whatever this was, was more complicated than that. Too avoidant and too toxic to quit, and the money and fame wasn’t too bad either. You two didn’t need an understanding relationship. Happy people made ballads and the stupid pop music that was stealing your radio play and the general public. Rockstars were toxic and they were mean, they are terrible because it’s freeing. So instead of bringing you close and telling you that he’s scared for the future of his band, Wonbin reaches forward and clashes his lips against yours.

His kisses are angry and they make no sense. His teeth clash against yours and he moves you backwards in the general direction of a bed. You pull at him by a hand wrapped in his shirt and you make tiny sounds at each harsh collision. He was never gentle with you, and you liked it that way. Something had to have been fundamentally broken inside of you, something that would’ve made you want a normal life. Or to feel remorse for your actions that led you to this point. It was hard to believe that the way you behaved was wrong, because it made you money and one of the most famous people in the world.

“On the bed.” Wonbin said.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.” You said back immediately.

Wonbin replied by tugging at your chest by your perked nipples that poked through your tee. You gasped in surprise and pain before cupping his dick roughly. The two of you stood next to the bed for a moment, smiling at the pain you were bringing the other. It wasn’t long before the pain turned into pleasure and you both fell to the bed at the same time.

The next morning you two only woke up because Wendy had called every apartment building in the Hongdae area. As if the night before didn’t happen, like you and Wonbin didn’t relieve the tension through rough touches and markings, you still fought. During the plane ride you two were silent, the start of your mutual meltdowns. Wonbin wouldn’t speak directly to you the whole day, using Wendy and the roadies as an indirect link to conversation. You were just as worse, referring to Wonbin as that guy, stripping him of his name completely. That guy wouldn’t look at you as you did your soundcheck, that guy only sneakily said someone’s flat underneath his breath whenever a note didn’t sound right.

By the time you made it to your underground Fukushima show you two weren’t speaking to eachother at all. Wendy refused to be involved in your mess and everyone else cleared the room when they saw either of you approaching. You two just let the silence continue, neither of you saying a word until you were about to go onstage. The worked of the club set up the mic stands on the small circular stage you two would be sharing before Wonbin suddenly turned to you.

“Halcyon is just me.”

With your eyes casted forward in shock, Wonbin saw his chance to take the stage. He left you on the other side as he started the concert without you, singing your part as you stood there in silence. You stumbled on stage and through the rest of the concert, hating that he bested you. The smile on Wonbin’s face said it all as he continued playing his guitar and singing your lines. When the show was over and the lights went out, Wonbin was like a ghost. He cleared the stage and the venue quickly, leaving you in the dust and without a place in the band.

Two bangs on the door interrupted your story. Eunseok nearly fell from his chair at the abrupt sound. The impact shook the ceiling fan and made Wonbin look towards the door.

You almost looked too, but Eunseok’s hand kept you focused on him.

“What happened next?” Eunseok said, his voice laced with urgency.

“She came to me and expressed,” Wonbin stayed locked on the door as three more harsh knocks rang throughout the hotel room. “Her desire to be in the band.” He says, motioning to the room.

Eunseok would’ve loved to think that you came by Wonbin’s hotel room in Fukushima with agents and your demo tape, maybe even an audition prepared to show him you could fit into the music for Halcyon. But the way Wonbin smiled slyly and you leaned over and hit his shoulder made Eunseok think different. You two giggled together as you recalled more and more of that night. You only continued to giggle as the police made their presence known on the other side of the door.

After the Fukushima show Wonbin left you all alone. You paced around in your hotel room as the carelessness in his voice as he denied you being a member of the group once again. You heard from security that Wonbin was down the hall with a girl that stayed behind at the venue. The same part replayed again in your mind. You couldn’t control yourself from leaving your hotel room and storming down the hall.

You told the same story to Eunseok as the cops continued to beat on the door, the one he heard through the grapevines and the mugshot of you that was lost over the course of time and the lack of coverage of the arrest overseas. You often imagined if the story was relayed the same way back to him, or if the details were muddied by the game of telephone.

Wonbin and his groupie of the night just finished. She was face down on the bed, trying to recollect herself. You know Wonbin was able to go through so many girls and have so many crawling back not just because he’s gorgeous but because he knows how to fuck. Just look at him. Eunseok would’ve had to listen to hours of wishful thinking from girls who would never have a chance before getting to the actual information. You’re sure they left out the fact that you were wearing the same outfit you met Wonbin in, except you had no shoes on your feet. Just running down the expensive hotel lobby barefoot, barely making a sound as you cleared the carpet.

They would’ve never talked about the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you held your ear up to the door. You could barely hear yourself when you covered the peephole and knocked politely. The groupie was so out of it that she didn’t think twice when someone covered the peephole and said “room service!” in a cheery voice. The girl who was still wobbly-kneed and only wearing a bathrobe called for Wonbin to answer the door. Poor girl must’ve never been to a hotel before. What type of hotel has room service that late in the night? She was nothing fit to be a rockstar. Wonbin thought that he could just replace you by finding another girl at the end of his show, like you weren’t one of a kind. He was too busy running the water for a bath and smoking his post-sex cigarette to be bothered.

He just said “You can get it,” knowing that crazy bitch was on the other side!

The retellings of that night never got it right. They never stopped to consider what Wonbin was doing.

Plenty of people naturally assumed he was naked while this was happening. If he was in the bathroom drawling a bath or simply laying in the bed was always commonly fought about. They didn’t know that Wonbin was sitting on the closed toilet seat in the bathroom wrapped in a robe as he watched the tub fill with water. He was smoking his American Spirit in complete serenity while the fight happened behind him. He had the bathroom door opened, watching the fight with a smile on his face and a canoeing cigarette between his fingers before he turned away completely to deny culpability in case it ended badly. He counted the mustard tiles that lines the bathroom as each punch, scratch, slap, and scream came from the other room. You think afterwards he turned to look at himself in the mirror underneath the warm yellow glow of the light and adjusted his appearance. You imagined he knew he’d be suffering the same fate if he didn’t turn the charm on.

But you didn’t know what Wonbin was doing exactly. You couldn’t see much besides the girl underneath you. You couldn’t hear anything besides the noises you two were making together.

When you would entertain the rumors and have them relayed back to you, there were always multiple accounts of the brawl between you and the groupie. What they did get right that one the door was open a crack you kicked it open full force.

What they got wrong was that the groupie screamed immediately. She did yell when you got on top of her after she fell to the ground, but that was only after the initial shock wore off. Even Wonbin turned away from his cigarette when he heard the impact of the door on the groupies nose. The post-coitus warmth was replaced with something burning when you screamed first.

When the rest of the floor started opening up their doors and seeing what was happening in the room was when the other eye witness accounts started getting messy. Some say the groupie fought back. Some of them said that you kicked the door open so hard it fell off its hinges. The common consensus was that you fucked that poor girl up! then wrote a song about it!

“Did you listen to the song through your blown out speakers, Eunseokie?” You asked.

Even he was turned towards the door as the police continued to slam into you. You focused on the tape recorder instead, eyes locking onto the two spinning reels as you continued your story.

People didn’t know if the stories inspired the lyrics, or if the stories were spun by people overanalyzing the lyrics. You and Wonbin were the only songwriters on all Halcyon tracks, it was hard for people to not think the music derived from your personal lives. The song couldn’t stop people from thinking you came around that corner into the bathroom with a knife in your hand. The groupie found a way out from underneath you and bolted out of the room screaming for her life with a bloodied face and her tail between her legs. You leaned against the doorframe as Wonbin stared up at you, not even looking at what you had in your hand.

“If you want me to do something for you, you need to use your words.”Wonbin would say.

Maybe if they listened to the prechorus hard enough they’d know you dropped the knife instantly. But if they listened to the bridge they would’ve thought you waved it around just for show to see if you could scare Wonbin. But by the way he joined you as the backing vocals they’d know he had only looked to your bloody knuckles before taking a long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke fill up the last sacred space in America where you could smoke indoors before offering it to you. He’d still sit on the toilet seat but lean towards the small ceramic sink to show you he wasn’t scared in the slightest.

You took an even bigger drag than Wonbin did, watching the ember at the end ignite before turning to ash. You’d let out a smoky cloud right into his face, shuddering from the release of tension.

“Was she better than me?” You’d ask after putting out the end on the lip of the sink.

Black and gray ash smeared against the white surface. You looked from the mess you were making on the sink to see Wonbin wordlessly shaking his head.

“Not even close.” He said without missing a beat.

“I should cut your dick off.” You’d laugh about it, pointing your long nail towards Wonbin’s dick that was twitching against the fabric of his bathrobe.

“Why? So you can keep it for yourself?” He teased.

Once again, this was where things got fuzzy for you. Some secrets are meant to stay between lovers, or whatever this mutually toxic and equally awful thing you and Wonbin had going on. The cops that came through then back in Fukushima were alot more serious than the cops that came through the door here, in Paramus, New Jersey. For Wendy—who followed closely behind the cops here—this would be an easy story to cover up. Another mugshot of yours would be taken and hidden behind lock and key, only getting revealed to people who would spend their hard earnings from work to see it behind dumpsters in alleyways. This night would just be another anecdote in the long line of mysterious lyrics and subject-changing phrases. The only form of proof in a small black and white photo of yourself. Your smiling face covered in scratches, makeup smudged across your eye bags from excessive rubbing, and blood on smeared across your blue and black knuckles that held up the card with your name and which jail held you overnight. You looked down to see that the collar of your black shirt was stretched beyond saving around your neck.

Even when you looked like that, Wonbin stared at you like you put the sun and the the moon and the stares into the sky. You stared him down, leaving bloodstains on whatever you touched. He stood from his spot on the toilet seat to be eye level with you.

I hear they fuck like they’re at war. I was sleeping with their bassist and I could hear them from down the hall.

Wonbin grabbed at your wrist, bring your hand to eye level. You clenched your fist in a last ditch attempt at resisting him, but he’d pull you into his bare chest so fast you’d barely have time to adjust. You settled in embarrassingly fast, giving you the most gentle kiss on your cracked red lips. You couldn’t taste any other girl on him over the smoke. You were burning eachother up, only pulling the other to get closer. At the thought of the other girl in this position you felt the rage bubbling in again, but instead of fighting you only leaned fully into Wonbin, making your shared bodyweight pressed against the tiny sink.

You and him were reacting in desperation only. His rough hand pulling at your waist underneath your shirt, your hand fisting the material of his clothes. Your shirt was off and your pants were wrapped around only one ankle as you two clambered around the tiny space of the bathroom. She’s one of those new-age feminists, ya know the type that likes to be in charge, even in bed. You pushed him against the wall opposite of the sink, then against the closed door of the bathroom. Anytime he tried to take control your took it back, slipping your tongue into his mouth and tilting his head the way you wanted it to go with your bloody hands. Anytime he tried to do the same you smacked away his hand or pinched his neck. The only thing you allowed Wonbin to do was stuff his hand into your underwear, and the only time you let him guide you was to put your foot on the edge of the tub to open you up more.

Wonbin is even worse than her though. since he’s so used to getting what he wants. If they were wrong they would’ve guessed he took control back by picking you up and fucking you against the wall or on top of the sink, reeling off the metallic smell of blood while your hands tangled in his inky hair.

In the end they were only right about the two of you being reckless, just reckless. You two carelessly kicked the knife around, causing the wooden handle to ricochet off the walls on the ground. Even with a spinning blade near your feet you two wouldn’t be deterred. You two wouldn’t separated until a police officer came through the crooked open door with the groupie trailing close behind.

“That’s her!” She said in a shrill voice as she pointed her finger towards you.

You only rolled your eyes before pulling away from Wonbin. He put on his robe while you lazily put on your clothes, being pulled away in handcuffs. Even haphazardly clothed on your way to jail you were be unbothered, quickly fixing your mussed hair with blood crusting underneath your fingernails. Only when you heard the whistling of a cop as they guided you out the hotel room would you remember the other reason you came to Wonbin’s hotel.

Other people waited for you in the hallway. Roadies you couldn’t remember the name of, more cops holding things they will try to put you away to jail for, and Wendy with that look of disappointment on her face. Eunseok trailed close behind, Eunseok still holding the tape recorder close to your mouth.

She looked back to him one more time as the police were leading her out. This is seriously what the cops and what the groupie said she said, word for word. She looked back, hair a mess, blood on her hands and scratches on her face but smiling like a fucking crazy idiot. She started whistling with the cop like she knew the mindless tune or something. Before she rounded the corner to leave the room she spoke directly to him.

He leaned against the broken doorframe of the hotel room with his arms crossed like an upset Mom watching her kid get walked out. When she looked back at him he smiled like he read her fucking mind or something.

“This means i’m in the band, right?”

#seriez: rock the house #01zfan: wonbin #wonbin smut #riize smut

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akindplace · 8 months ago

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The thing about romanticizing the tortured artist trope is that it takes very serious health conditions, physical, mental, and emotional ones, and it turns it into a very empty aesthetic made for consumption. It takes a life story, and it turns it into a punch line, an easy way out to explain a lifelong struggle while having no regard for the person who actually lived it.

It’s a way of simplifying something so complex as a whole life story, take away the good parts, the artist’s talent, and atribute years and year of studying and practicing their craft to an illness. As if it makes people feel better that maybe they aren’t geniuses but at least they aren’t “insane”.

Artists are constantly working to the bone to get people to see and understand their art, to change the current status quo, to perfect their craft. The most important thing is not how an artist died. It’s the life they lived, the work they’ve left behind, their mark on the world. Reducing people to a tragedy is not a way of appreciating their genius: their art is.

No one is a genius because of their illness, their trauma, their suffering, but because they studied and worked hard to develop the aptitude they were born with. Talent is not a miracle, it’s a lifelong effort.

This stereotype is extremely harmful to people who are currently struggling with those health problems, and it should not be used to “give pain a meaning”, because there is always so much more to someone’s life than suffering, and there is always so much more to your own life than romanticizing your own struggles and those of others.

Pain is meant to be worked through, not fed. And when you feed yourself the myth that an artist was brilliant because they were sick, you are erasing a big part of their life to try and make sense of yours. But you won’t find true meaning in life if you’re only feeding your sorrow instead of maybe, just maybe, doing what those artists did and work through it with your own art.

A lot of them did not have any access to healthcare because their conditions were unknown, but they did what they could to keep going. Their deaths don’t mean they gave up in a big tragic ending, and reducing them to that means you’re erasing everything they did to keep going, every fight, every effort they put into their own health and into their life’s work.

I love impressionist art ever since I was in elementary school, my favorite artist being Vincent Van Gogh. I was first introduced to his story as a man who had a mental illness and died a tragic death, while struggling financially and never being recognized properly during his lifetime.

But you see, Vincent Van Gogh had his brother Theo, who kept all the letters his older brother sent him, and sent his brother words of admiration, support, and unconditional love in his own.

He helped Vincent financially so he could pursue his paiting career. He saw the talent in his own brother even when others might’ve not. The period when Vincent was doing a little better with his health was actually when he was most prolific in his painting, which shuts down the idea that someone must be on the gutter and on the deepest pain and sickness to produce great art.

Most people in really poor health have a hard time managing daily life, and they probably won’t miraculously produce their best work yet while they in extreme suffering (I dare you to make the greatest work of art you’re capable of while you’re down with the flu, now imagine being in constant physical, mental and emotional distress and people think you can just make just about anything). Great art takes a lot of work. Genius and suffering don’t go hand in hand, and it reductive to explain away talent by an illness, as if any effort artists put into their craft was meaningless.

Theo named his own son after his brother, and after Vicent died, he still wanted to make his work known, and after his own death, his wife Johanna kept working on Theo’s mission besides her own political activism. She published the letters between the two brothers, and her own son helped in making Van Gogh’s work even more well known. Even though he was just a baby when his uncle died, he kept his memory alive by founding a world famous museum in his name.

Vincent Van Gogh was able to keep working because he was helped by his own family, financially, emocionally, and was given every encouragement so he could go on with his own career. He painted more when he got medical help, even though in his own time he would have had access to much simpler treatments, since the understanding of illnesses has largely changed in the last centuries.

Healthcare, support, compassion and understanding go a long way, and that’s why it’s important to keep pushing society to be more inclusive to people with illnesses - so they will get the help they need, so they won’t leave earlier than they should.

Vincent Van Gogh’s name is not well known just because of his own efforts, but also by the efforts of those who loved him and kept his name alive long after he was gone. He is not famous because he was a tortured artist. He is famous because those who loved him tried to help him in the ways they could, even after he was gone. His fame is not the result of his death, but of his life’s work and the work of those around him.

Love made him known. Support allowed him to keep working. Getting some help even at a time people did not understand his condition well enough meant he could paint more.

Van Gogh was only human, and he felt such a broad spectrum of emotions and lived through so many things, just as we all do. Behind those paintings, there is a person, a story, and so much hard work, and none of that can be reduced to the romanticized ideal of a tragic death of a tortured man.

It is not about his pain, his suffering, his death, you see. It’s about his life. And it’s about the life of those who loved him. He was able to do what he loved because he was loved, and that is the reason is remembered to this day.

I will end this long post with one of his most famous quotes:

“There is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.”

#van gogh #theo van gogh #johanna van gogh-bonger #Vincent willem Van Gogh #on being human #on the tortured artist trope #original writing #on compassion #on art #on love

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yncoreee · 4 months ago

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I LIKE THE WAY YOUR HAND FITS IN MINE. Karina x reader

Synopsis— Karina warming up your hand due to the cold only to notice yours were smaller and it fits perfectly in hers.

Warnings .ᐟ established relationship, it’s winter, very short :P, reader is implied smaller than Karina, female reader, FLUFF

꩜ — ⵌWord count 307

After hours of playing around in the snow. Building snowmen’s, snow angles and having snowball fights. You felt yourself getting more cold to the point it almost felt like you were Turing into ice.

“Hey Rina I think we should go inside, I’m feeling really cold” you shivered as you made your way towards her.

She nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I’m feeling cold too” she agreed placing her arms over your shoulder as you both made your way back to your shared apartment.

As you reached home, you took of your gloves and coat hanging it next to the door then going upstairs to change into your comfy pajamas.

In the meantime Karina turned on the heater making everywhere warm.

“Let’s watch a movie!” Karina suggested as she saw you coming downstairs.

“Sure, what movie” you responded taking a seat next to her. “Uhh I don’t know anything romance” she shrugged.

“Alright, I’ll see what movie I can find”

It didn’t take long and now you found the perfect movie. You grabbed the popcorn off the table and snuggled your way into the blanket leaning close to Karina.

Not even a minute through the movie your hands started to get cold.

You rubbed both of your palms together in hopes of producing heat to keep it warm.

Karina noticed your actions and stopped you before placing her hands under yours. “Ooo your hands are so small~” she teased followed by a chuckle.

You slightly pouted. “Hey my hands aren’t small, yours is just abnormally big” you huffed.

She laughed again and poked your nose. “Don’t worry tho, it’s the cutest part about you. Plus I like the way your hand fits in mine” she added, holding up both of your hands in hers.

The both of you continued to watch the movie, interlocking hands under the blanket.

#fluff #kpop fluff #kpop x reader #aespa #aespa x you #aespa x reader #aespa fluff #aespa Karina #aespa Karina fluff #aespa Karina x reader #Karina x you #Karina x reader fluff #Karina fluff #Karina x reader #nari writes— ི᭨ᩧྀㅤ

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joesanrio · 1 year ago

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Attitude | R.R

Summary: Roman’s already having a problem with LA Knight, so why are you giving him attitude too?

Pairings: Roman Reigns x Fem!reader || established relationship

Warnings: bratty!reader, Dom!roman, mentions: past fights, use of wrestling name, ignoring, reader needs physical touch, pet names, p-in-v (unprotected), cowgirl!mode, boring!missionary (in joe’s opinion), kissing, begging, etc not edited

Word Count: 651

Ratings: 18+ | Angst, Smut

A/N: I have so many ideas after crown jewel but I take so long to write them you probably won’t want it anymore :/

———————————————————

“What’s your problem?” Roman complains as he makes his way to you backstage, rolling your eyes at the scuffed up man. His eyes falling from yours to the tight fan merch of his that you got tailored into a crop top, tits filling the shirt perfectly.

“What problem?” You huffed before shrugging as his hand grabs yours quickly, “You have an attitude problem. I just got stomped out and you’re back here huffing and puffing at me.” Roman says before pulling your body into his private locker room.

Eyebrows furrowing as you stared blankly at him, “Now you’re quiet?” His voice deep as he observes your face. “I don’t have an attitude. Now let’s go before I miss-“ “No we aren’t going anywhere until you tell me.” Roman interrupts, large hands wrapped around your waist to prevent you from leaving.

A long sigh leaving your lips, you just wanted to enjoy the show. “I’m just tired… and I don’t like seeing you get beat up.” Lips falling into their natural pout as your eyes avoid his uncertain gaze, his long finger pulling your chin softly to look at him.

“Know what, I’ll deal with you later.” Roman’s voice deep as he whispers the warning into your ear with ease. Smirking at your surprised expression when he hears his name called by some of the producers.

His hand giving you a small tap on the ass before he leaves you in the locker room alone, flustered and tired. The silence becoming overbearing as you quickly leave after him, you needed him. Now.

———

“I’m always so proud of you. You always get the crowd to react…but I have a question.” You can’t help but ramble about how exciting tonight was, especially because you got this random boost of energy.

Roman knew it wasn’t random, he knew it was because you were finally able to be within touching distance of him all night. Your love language being physical touch was one of the things he didn’t think he had to worry about until it affected your whole mood.

“Are you still mad at me? Why aren’t you saying anything.” Eyes saddened as you wait for a response, though he continues to keep silence.

Lips pouted out as you watch him, “RoRo?” a soft whisper causing his head to turn towards you immediately.

“I’m pissed.” Is all he says before his large hand comes up to tug at the bottom of your top, “If it makes you feel better, you really turned me on..” You whisper-blurt out as he lets out a airy chuckle.

His hand falling from your shirt to rest on the inside of your thigh, thumb rubbing your soft skin up and down. You could feel the red panties your wearing, soak at his delicate touch. Eyes sultry as you look at him, mouth slightly ajar before leaning onto his shoulder in hopes to control yourself.

The car ride feeling forever, you didn’t want to end on a bad note with him because he was supposed to be going to Saudi Arabia alone tomorrow. “Are you actually going to go alone?” You complain quietly in his ear as his hand lands a soft smack onto your thigh.

[Presidential Suite; 12:01am]

Bouncing up and down his cock, reverse cowgirl, was the best part of your night. Hands down on the bed in front of you, between Roman’s spread out legs. Ass poked out behind you as you work yourself up and down his long, thick cock.

Not worried about the small squeaks of the bed or how Roman’s hands are palming over your hips to pull you down while he thrusts up. “Please! Fuck- Ro… your cock is so big.” A moan escapes your lips while your juices coat his cock perfectly, a white ring forming along him nicely.

“Only if you didn’t have that attitude.” He chuckles as his legs bend to put more force into his thrusts, putting you off rhythm. Short, loud squeals leaving your make-out swollen lips, body wanting to collapse as Roman works his cock amazingly up into you.

“Damn, your ass looks great from this angle.” He teases as his hand goes to push your back down a bit more, ass jiggling in his face without mercy. The arch in your back emphasizes your small waist, hair curly as it bounces down your back.

Almost makes Roman cum right then by just looking at you, but he’s still debating on whether to fuck you all right now and leave you or have you come with him and fuck you in Saudi Arabia.

“Roman… S’good. Please I’m sorry!” Your pretty voice moans as your pussy clenches along his cock that’s fucking you into oblivion.

Roman forgot why you were even apologizing, he’s so out of it. “You are? I don’t know…” He teases before stopping his thrust completely, making you want to scream in frustration.

“Baby! I was so close.” You whined as your hips pull you off his thick cock, now feeling empty and soaked waiting for him to come back. “Hush. I’m just tryna see that pretty fucked out face.” Roman coos as you switch positions to lay in front of him. Tits still concealed in his tailored merch shirt, full and round.

“Fuck! I need to get you more shirts huh? He groans as he enters your sopping pussy, not even paying attention to his question as your back arch’s off the bed.

His hand going under your top to play with your hard nipples, eyes going to meet his as he rocks his hard cock into you slowly.

“I love your cock so much.” You say absentmindedly as you clench around him, his pace picking up at the compliment. “I know you do.” He moans as his hand leaves your breast to play with your clit, eyes closing tightly as your body goes into overload.

The air becoming thick and hot, breathing erratic before you cum onto his cock. Ears ringing as you try to control your breathing, only before Roman’s soft lips captures yours.

Arms wrapped around his shoulder to pull him closer, his arms no longer holding him up as his hands rest into your soft hips.

“Don’t pass out on me, we need to pack.” His voice finally registers in your ear when he pulls away from the kiss.

#roman reigns #roman reigns smut #wwe smackdown #wwe superstars #roman reigns x reader #joe anoa'i #joe anoa’i smut #roman reigns fic #roman reigns oneshot #joe anoa'i oneshot #joesanrio

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

Text

How to shatter the class solidarity of the ruling class

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me WEDNESDAY (Apr 11) at UCLA, then Chicago (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Audre Lorde counsels us that "The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House," while MLK said "the law cannot make a man love me, but it can restrain him from lynching me." Somewhere between replacing the system and using the system lies a pragmatic – if easily derailed – course.

Lorde is telling us that a rotten system can't be redeemed by using its own chosen reform mechanisms. King's telling us that unless we live, we can't fight – so anything within the system that makes it easier for your comrades to fight on can hasten the end of the system.

Take the problems of journalism. One old model of journalism funding involved wealthy newspaper families profiting handsomely by selling local appliance store owners the right to reach the townspeople who wanted to read sports-scores. These families expressed their patrician love of their town by peeling off some of those profits to pay reporters to sit through municipal council meetings or even travel overseas and get shot at.

In retrospect, this wasn't ever going to be a stable arrangement. It relied on both the inconstant generosity of newspaper barons and the absence of a superior way to show washing-machine ads to people who might want to buy washing machines. Neither of these were good long-term bets. Not only were newspaper barons easily distracted from their sense of patrician duty (especially when their own power was called into question), but there were lots of better ways to connect buyers and sellers lurking in potentia.

All of this was grossly exacerbated by tech monopolies. Tech barons aren't smarter or more evil than newspaper barons, but they have better tools, and so now they take 51 cents out of every ad dollar and 30 cents out of ever subscriber dollar and they refuse to deliver the news to users who explicitly requested it, unless the news company pays them a bribe to "boost" their posts:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech

The news is important, and people sign up to make, digest, and discuss the news for many non-economic reasons, which means that the news continues to struggle along, despite all the economic impediments and the vulture capitalists and tech monopolists who fight one another for which one will get to take the biggest bite out of the press. We've got outstanding nonprofit news outlets like Propublica, journalist-owned outlets like 404 Media, and crowdfunded reporters like Molly White (and winner-take-all outlets like the New York Times).

But as Hamilton Nolan points out, "that pot of money…is only large enough to produce a small fraction of the journalism that was being produced in past generations":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/what-will-replace-advertising-revenue

For Nolan, "public funding of journalism is the only way to fix this…If we accept that journalism is not just a business or a form of entertainment but a public good, then funding it with public money makes perfect sense":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/public-funding-of-journalism-is-the

Having grown up in Canada – under the CBC – and then lived for a quarter of my life in the UK – under the BBC – I am very enthusiastic about Nolan's solution. There are obvious problems with publicly funded journalism, like the politicization of news coverage:

https://www.theguardian.com/media/2023/jan/24/panel-approving-richard-sharp-as-bbc-chair-included-tory-party-donor

And the transformation of the funding into a cheap political football:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/poilievre-defund-cbc-change-law-1.6810434

But the worst version of those problems is still better than the best version of the private-equity-funded model of news production.

But Nolan notes the emergence of a new form of hedge fund news, one that is awfully promising, and also terribly fraught: Hunterbrook Media, an investigative news outlet owned by short-sellers who pay journalists to research and publish damning reports on companies they hold a short position on:

https://hntrbrk.com/

For those of you who are blissfully distant from the machinations of the financial markets, "short selling" is a wager that a company's stock price will go down. A gambler who takes a short position on a company's stock can make a lot of money if the company stumbles or fails altogether (but if the company does well, the short can suffer literally unlimited losses).

Shorts have historically paid analysts to dig into companies and uncover the sins hidden on their balance-sheets, but as Matt Levine points out, journalists work for a fraction of the price of analysts and are at least as good at uncovering dirt as MBAs are:

https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2024-04-02/a-hedge-fund-that-s-also-a-newspaper

What's more, shorts who discover dirt on a company still need to convince journalists to publicize their findings and trigger the sell-off that makes their short position pay off. Shorts who own a muckraking journalistic operation can skip this step: they are the journalists.

There's a way in which this is sheer genius. Well-funded shorts who don't care about the news per se can still be motivated into funding freely available, high-quality investigative journalism about corporate malfeasance (notoriously, one of the least attractive forms of journalism for advertisers). They can pay journalists top dollar – even bid against each other for the most talented journalists – and supply them with all the tools they need to ply their trade. A short won't ever try the kind of bullshit the owners of Vice pulled, paying themselves millions while their journalists lose access to Lexisnexis or the PACER database:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/24/anti-posse/#when-you-absolutely-positively-dont-give-a-solitary-single-fuck

The shorts whose journalists are best equipped stand to make the most money. What's not to like?

Well, the issue here is whether the ruling class's sense of solidarity is stronger than its greed. The wealthy have historically oscillated between real solidarity (think of the ultrawealthy lobbying to support bipartisan votes for tax cuts and bailouts) and "war of all against all" (as when wealthy colonizers dragged their countries into WWI after the supply of countries to steal ran out).

After all, the reason companies engage in the scams that shorts reveal is that they are profitable. "Behind every great fortune is a great crime," and that's just great. You don't win the game when you get into heaven, you win it when you get into the Forbes Rich List.

Take monopolies: investors like the upside of backing an upstart company that gobbles up some staid industry's margins – Amazon vs publishing, say, or Uber vs taxis. But while there's a lot of upside in that move, there's also a lot of risk: most companies that set out to "disrupt" an industry sink, taking their investors' capital down with them.

Contrast that with monopolies: backing a company that merges with its rivals and buys every small company that might someday grow large is a sure thing. Shriven of "wasteful competition," a company can lower quality, raise prices, capture its regulators, screw its workers and suppliers and laugh all the way to Davos. A big enough company can ignore the complaints of those workers, customers and regulators. They're not just too big to fail. They're not just too big to jail. They're too big to care:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Would-be monopolists are stuck in a high-stakes Prisoner's Dilemma. If they cooperate, they can screw over everyone else and get unimaginably rich. But if one party defects, they can raid the monopolist's margins, short its stock, and snitch to its regulators.

It's true that there's a clear incentive for hedge-fund managers to fund investigative journalism into other hedge-fund managers' portfolio companies. But it would be even more profitable for both of those hedgies to join forces and collude to screw the rest of us over. So long as they mistrust each other, we might see some benefit from that adversarial relationship. But the point of the 0.1% is that there aren't very many of them. The Aspen Institute can rent a hall that will hold an appreciable fraction of that crowd. They buy their private jets and bespoke suits and powdered rhino horn from the same exclusive sellers. Their kids go to the same elite schools. They know each other, and they have every opportunity to get drunk together at a charity ball or a society wedding and cook up a plan to join forces.

This is the problem at the core of "mechanism design" grounded in "rational self-interest." If you try to create a system where people do the right thing because they're selfish assholes, you normalize being a selfish asshole. Eventually, the selfish assholes form a cozy little League of Selfish Assholes and turn on the rest of us.

Appeals to morality don't work on unethical people, but appeals to immorality crowds out ethics. Take the ancient split between "free software" (software that is designed to maximize the freedom of the people who use it) and "open source software" (identical to free software, but promoted as a better way to make robust code through transparency and peer review).

Over the years, open source – an appeal to your own selfish need for better code – triumphed over free software, and its appeal to the ethics of a world of "software freedom." But it turns out that while the difference between "open" and "free" was once mere semantics, it's fully possible to decouple the two. Today, we have lots of "open source": you can see the code that Google, Microsoft, Apple and Facebook uses, and even contribute your labor to it for free. But you can't actually decide how the software you write works, because it all takes a loop through Google, Microsoft, Apple or Facebook's servers, and only those trillion-dollar tech monopolists have the software freedom to determine how those servers work:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/04/which-side-are-you-on/#tivoization-and-beyond

That's ruling class solidarity. The Big Tech firms have hidden a myriad of sins beneath their bafflegab and balance-sheets. These (as yet) undiscovered scams constitute a "bezzle," which JK Galbraith defined as "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it."

The purpose of Hunterbrook is to discover and destroy bezzles, hastening the moment of realization that the wealth we all feel in a world of seemingly orderly technology is really an illusion. Hunterbrook certainly has its pick of bezzles to choose from, because we are living in a Golden Age of the Bezzle.

Which is why I titled my new novel The Bezzle. It's a tale of high-tech finance scams, starring my two-fisted forensic accountant Marty Hench, and in this volume, Hench is called upon to unwind a predatory prison-tech scam that victimizes the most vulnerable people in America – our army of prisoners – and their families:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The scheme I fictionalize in The Bezzle is very real. Prison-tech monopolists like Securus and Viapath bribe prison officials to abolish calls, in-person visits, mail and parcels, then they supply prisoners with "free" tablets where they pay hugely inflated rates to receive mail, speak to their families, and access ebooks, distance education and other electronic media:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

But a group of activists have cornered these high-tech predators, run them to ground and driven them to the brink of extinction, and they've done it using "the master's tools" – with appeals to regulators and the finance sector itself.

Writing for The Appeal, Dana Floberg and Morgan Duckett describe the campaign they waged with Worth Rises to bankrupt the prison-tech sector:

https://theappeal.org/securus-bankruptcy-prison-telecom-industry/

Here's the headline figure: Securus is $1.8 billion in debt, and it has eight months to find a financier or it will go bust. What's more, all the creditors it might reasonably approach have rejected its overtures, and its bonds have been downrated to junk status. It's a dead duck.

Even better is how this happened. Securus's debt problems started with its acquisition, a leveraged buyout by Platinum Equity, who borrowed heavily against the firm and then looted it with bogus "management fees" that meant that the debt continued to grow, despite Securus's $700m in annual revenue from America's prisoners. Platinum was just the last in a long line of PE companies that loaded up Securus with debt and merged it with its competitors, who were also mortgaged to make profits for other private equity funds.

For years, Securus and Platinum were able to service their debt and roll it over when it came due. But after Worth Rises got NYC to pass a law making jail calls free, creditors started to back away from Securus. It's one thing for Securus to charge $18 for a local call from a prison when it's splitting the money with the city jail system. But when that $18 needs to be paid by the city, they're going to demand much lower prices. To make things worse for Securus, prison reformers got similar laws passed in San Francisco and in Connecticut.

Securus tried to outrun its problems by gobbling up one of its major rivals, Icsolutions, but Worth Rises and its coalition convinced regulators at the FCC to block the merger. Securus abandoned the deal:

https://worthrises.org/blogpost/securusmerger

Then, Worth Rises targeted Platinum Equity, going after the pension funds and other investors whose capital Platinum used to keep Securus going. The massive negative press campaign led to eight-figure disinvestments:

https://www.latimes.com/business/story/2019-09-05/la-fi-tom-gores-securus-prison-phone-mass-incarceration

Now, Securus's debt became "distressed," trading at $0.47 on the dollar. A brief, covid-fueled reprieve gave Securus a temporary lifeline, as prisoners' families were barred from in-person visits and had to pay Securus's rates to talk to their incarcerated loved ones. But after lockdown, Securus's troubles picked up right where they left off.

They targeted Platinum's founder, Tom Gores, who papered over his bloody fortune by styling himself as a philanthropist and sports-team owner. After a campaign by Worth Rises and Color of Change, Gores was kicked off the Los Angeles County Museum of Art board. When Gores tried to flip Securus to a SPAC – the same scam Trump pulled with Truth Social – the negative publicity about Securus's unsound morals and financials killed the deal:

https://twitter.com/WorthRises/status/1578034977828384769

Meanwhile, more states and cities are making prisoners' communications free, further worsening Securus's finances:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Congress passed the Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act, giving the FCC the power to regulate the price of federal prisoners' communications. Securus's debt prices tumbled further:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

Securus's debts were coming due: it owes $1.3b in 2024, and hundreds of millions more in 2025. Platinum has promised a $400m cash infusion, but that didn't sway S&P Global, a bond-rating agency that re-rated Securus's bonds as "CCC" (compare with "AAA"). Moody's concurred. Now, Securus is stuck selling junk-bonds:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

The company's creditors have given Securus an eight-month runway to find a new lender before they force it into bankruptcy. The company's debt is trading at $0.08 on the dollar.

Securus's major competitor is Viapath (prison tech is a duopoly). Viapath is also debt-burdened and desperate, thanks to a parallel campaign by Worth Rises, and has tried all of Securus's tricks, and failed:

https://pestakeholder.org/news/american-securities-fails-to-sell-prison-telecom-company-viapath/

Viapath's debts are due next year, and if Securus tanks, no one in their right mind will give Viapath a dime. They're the walking dead.

Worth Rise's brilliant guerrilla warfare against prison-tech and its private equity backers are a master class in using the master's tools to dismantle the master's house. The finance sector isn't a friend of justice or working people, but sometimes it can be used tactically against financialization itself. To paraphrase MLK, "finance can't make a corporation love you, but it can stop a corporation from destroying you."

Yes, the ruling class finds solidarity at the most unexpected moments, and yes, it's easy for appeals to greed to institutionalize greediness. But whether it's funding unbezzling journalism through short selling, or freeing prisons by brandishing their cooked balance-sheets in the faces of bond-rating agencies, there's a lot of good we can do on the way to dismantling the system.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

Image: KMJ (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boerse_01_KMJ.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

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alwaysmicado · 1 year ago

Text

What you need

2.9k | 18+ NSFW | fwb!Joel Miller x f!reader | pt. 4

Warnings: no outbreak AU, implied age gap, facesitting, unprotected p in v, creampie, pet names, Joel is the little spoon Summary: Joel is sick and your pussy's the best medicine. A/N: This one’s just cute! 🤍 After the next two parts or so, we’ll start to get into it for real. Fucking around is fun, but it doesn’t last forever, does it…

pt. 1 ・ pt. 2 ・ pt. 3 ・ series masterlist ・ AO3

You: How was the client? Joel: I stayed home, not feeling too well You: You need anything? Joel: Just you ;) You: I’ll be there in 30. Stay in bed! Joel: No no babe, it’s okay Missed Call Missed Call Missed Call Joel: You’re unbelievable

“Oh, come on,” you groan and lift the measuring cup towards Joel’s lips. “Why are you such a stubborn baby, huh? Just drink the fuck-”

You stop yourself when you see him raise an eyebrow, a smug smirk tugging at the corners of his pale lips. He’s sitting in bed, his back supported by pillows, his head leaning against the wooden headboard panel.

Propping Joel up comfortably like this was a struggle in and of itself since this grown, successful man only sleeps with one, worn-out pillow he’s probably had since before you were born, so you also had to get two plumper ones from his couch to provide enough support for his poor back. What is it with him and refusing comfort?

At least now you know what to get him for his birthday in September…

“Hmm, you love it,” he teases and puts his hand on your waist to pinch you lightly.

“I would love it if you stopped fighting me and just took the damn NyQuil,” you counter and search his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded and glassy, revealing the exhaustion Joel’s been trying to fight all day.

You sigh and softly brush a strand of sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. He’s running a fever and the cool, damp washcloth you put on his forehead to alleviate at least some of his evident discomfort only did so much.

At this point, you really just need him to listen to you for once, take the damn medicine and, most importantly, lie down and give his body the rest it so desperately needs.

You look at the collection of bottles on the nightstand next to him and shake your head. Since you didn’t know what his symptoms were before you came, you stopped at a pharmacy on your way over and bought everything : DayQuil, NyQuil, a bottle of cough syrup, peppermint tea, a bunch of pain meds, Epsom salts with eucalyptus and essential oils, fresh produce to make a smoothie - hell, even a thermometer because you weren’t sure if he has one.

The only thing missing is the patient’s cooperation.

“I appreciate your care, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, reaching for your hand to pepper your palm with soft kisses, “but I really don’t need any of that. I’m just a bit under the weather, that’s all.”

“You’d rather die than admit you’re sick, huh,” you state with a tilted head and raised eyebrows.

“Now that’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it,” he murmurs and nibbles on your arm.

“Says the grown man who gagged from the tiniest sip of green smoothie,” you scoff.

“Yeah, well, that shit was disgusting,” he chuckles, pulling you closer by your waist so you’re straddling his lap. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

“You have a fever, Joel,” you sigh and cup his cheeks. “I’m worried, okay?”

“About little old me?” He smiles and squeezes your hips.

“Yeah,” you lean in to press soft kisses to his cheek. “And I need you to let me help you, so tell me what-”

“Sit on my face.”

“Huh?” You sit back up and look into his eyes in surprise.

“Take your slutty little pants off and sit on my face,” he repeats with a cocked eyebrow.

“How is that-”

“I’ll take the meds if you do,” he interrupts with a smirk, his eye crinkles giving away his genuine amusement at this genius suggestion.

You sigh deeply and look at the ceiling. How is this guy real? “And a whole smoothie,” you murmur as you get up.

You push your shorts down together with your panties, let them fall to the floor, then climb back onto the bed to straddle Joel’s lap without the covers separating you this time. He looks at you hungrily, the fever completely forgotten as he sees and feels your naked cunt and thighs.

“Mmm, that’s it, baby,” he groans softly, his big hands on you immediately, gripping your ass and moving you up and down the length of his hardening cock. “Look at the mess you’re already making on me,” he murmurs, turned on by the wetness you’re spreading over his gray sweatpants.

“You get off on caring for me, hm?” He taunts with a smug grin.

“Oh, shut up,” you roll your eyes and capture his lips in a bruising kiss. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, as close as he possibly can, kissing you greedily. You writhe and wriggle on his lap, moaning into his mouth, your hands tangled in his hair.

He breaks the kiss to nibble and bite at the soft skin of your neck, leaving marks behind. You’re letting it slide this time, enjoying the tantalizing sensation of slight pain mixed with the soft touch of his lips and facial hair that’s causing your pussy to clench around nothing.

You’re just going to have to wear a silk scarf or something to work.

“God, I wanna taste you so bad, baby,” Joel moans into the crook of your neck, his eyes closed. You bite your lip and hum as the friction of your movements on Joel’s pants stimulates your clit perfectly.

“You gonna be good if I let you?” You purr into his ear with a roll of your hips, eliciting a soft whimper from him.

“You come all over my face, angel, and I’ll do whatever you want,” he whispers, his fingers digging into your sides.

“Alright, baby,” you coo and lift your weight off his lap. “Lie down for me.”

Joel scoots down and lays his head on the pillows, looking at you intently with big eyes. You position yourself over his face, hold on to the bed’s headboard panel and lower your hips carefully.

“Look so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbles before hooking his arms over your thighs and pulling you further down. His warm breath and facial hair tickle you as he kisses your lips softly, then drags his nose through your wet folds, inhaling your mesmerizing scent and nudging your swollen clit before repeating the movement.

You throw your head back and moan softly as he slides his tongue between your folds, lapping at your dripping hole and pushing in ever so slightly before circling your clit. Your fingers tangle in his dark curls as the vibrations of his deep groans intensify every movement of his lips and tongue.

“Fuck, you taste divine like always,” Joel breathes as he dips his tongue into your wet heat to lap up as much of you as he can. You look down and clench around his tongue when you see his blown pupils and frenzied look. His mouth moves at a relentless pace, making you squirm and tug on his curls harder. You’re so close already.

When your moans get louder and Joel feels you grinding your pussy on his face harder to chase your imminent high, he can’t resist biting the marks already adorning your skin.

“Ow, fuck!” You cry out in surprise at the sudden pain shooting through you. You hadn’t even noticed the purple bruises on your inner thighs when you showered and got dressed today.

Maybe it should concern you that your body hasn’t been without bruises for a few months now. But it doesn’t, if you’re being honest with yourself. You just weren’t planning on showing someone else’s marks off to Joel this time. You really weren’t.

“Fun night?” Joel asks with a smirk before sucking on your swollen clit hard, keeping you in place with his hands splayed over your ass.

“Can’t complain,” you bite back back, or at least try to, since your voice devolves into a soft whine at Joel’s harsh treatment of your sensitive bundle of nerves. The deliciously painful feeling is almost enough to send you over the edge.

“Oh fuck, that’s it,” you moan as he starts lapping at your dripping hole again, his nose rubbing against your clit with every stroke. “Feels so good, baby.”

Joel groans with each lick to your puffy folds and throbbing clit, hooking his arms over your legs again and digging his fingers into your skin. “Please, Joel,” you whine, tugging on his hair harder.

“Use my face, angel,” he pants breathlessly, completely drunk on your pussy. You’re the sweetest thing he’s ever seen or tasted. “Take what you need from me.”

He's bucking his hips, trying to get as much friction from his pants as possible, precum leaking out of this cock steadily.

“I’m– oh fuck –I’m gonna come,” you moan, sliding your drenched pussy over Joel’s tongue and nose frantically. He hums blissfully, holding on to your thighs and watching your face as you arch your back and fall apart with a strangled moan.

You come on his tongue, your hips stuttering and your whole body trembling from the intense orgasm. Joel groans as he eagerly drinks your cum and slowly licks you clean when he feels you come down again. You yelp and your hips jolt at the overstimulation when he sucks your pulsating clit into his mouth, savoring your taste.

You lift your hips and look down at him, your chest heaving and a satisfied smile playing on your lips when you see his jaw and facial hair dripping with a mix of his saliva and your cum. He looks gorgeous like this.

You swing your leg over Joel’s chest and lie down beside him. He turns to face you and gently traces your thigh with his warm hand, still breathing heavily. You scoot closer, so you’re flush with his body and place your bent leg between his.

“Kiss me, Joel,” you purr as you nudge his wet nose with yours and caress his cheek with your palm. He gives you a smile before leaning in and capturing your swollen lips with his. You part your lips and allow his tongue to slip inside, feeding you your own cum. He grabs your ass to pull you closer against him, your bodies pressed together heatedly, both breathing heavily as you feel the thud of your combined heartbeat. Joel groans into your mouth softly as he rubs his throbbing cock against your hip, his hand traveling along your waist to your belly. You thrust your hips so your pussy rubs against his thigh on the bed, more than ready to come again.

“So perfect,” Joel murmurs against your lips as he slides his hand under your shirt and palms your breast. He tweaks your hard nipple, eliciting a soft moan from you. He furrows his brow and looks into your eyes intently, his pupils even bigger than before. Every fiber of his fevered body is aching for you, to be close to you, to become one with you, to be yours.

You see something shift in his face, but can’t put your finger on what it is, so you don't say anything.

“Can I fuck you?” He mumbles into your neck where he’s kissing and biting at you sloppily, his hand still massaging your breast and his cock screaming for release.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You breathe, your need for Joel to be alright still trumping your primal need to get off. You're an animal, not an asshole.

“I’m more than okay, darlin’,” he reassures you with a tired smile.

“And you’re not gonna die on me halfway through?”

“Don’t care,” he murmurs and takes your hand to press it against his erection. You rub up and down his length slowly as he slides his hand between your legs. You groan when he circles your sensitive clit a few times before sliding two of his fingers into your warm cunt. He pumps them in and out a few times before adding a third, the heel of his palm putting delicious pressure on your clit.

“You want me to ride you, baby?” You pant, feeling your second orgasm build already.

“Can we-,” Joel breathes, his cock throbbing, “can we just stay like this?”

“Of course,” you nod and help him pull down his sweatpants. He pulls his fingers out of you and wets his cock with your slick before removing his pants fully. “C’mere,” you coo as you draw him close to you and drape your leg over his hip. He strokes his length a few times before nudging your entrance with his pulsating tip and sliding in in one smooth thrust. He wraps his arm around you, splaying his hand on your back under your shirt, moaning into your hair when he bottoms out.

“Oh shit, you feel too good, baby,” he groans and holds on to your ass cheek to pull you toward him in unison with his frantic thrusts. “I– fuck –I ain’t gonna last long,” he pants. “You want me to fill you up?”

“Yeah,” you nod with a needy moan, your brow furrowed. Joel’s cock is hitting your g-spot repeatedly, causing the muscles in your thighs and lower belly to tense and your climax to approach rapidly.

“Tell me, baby,” he breathes, his cock massaging your inner walls with every snap of his hips.

“I-I want you to come inside me, Joel,” you whine, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, please fill me up.”

He can feel your walls tightening around him and your whole body tensing, so he tilts your head up by gripping the nape of your neck. “Look at me, baby,” he breathes and grinds his pelvis against your clit. It only takes a few more of his thrusts for the tension in your belly to snap with an intensity you’re never able to achieve on your own. Or with anyone else for that matter.

You come with his name on your lips, your walls spasming and contracting around his cock as you ride out your orgasm. Seeing and hearing and feeling you in such a state of ecstasy due to his touch pushes him over the edge, emptying himself deep inside of you with a breathless groan. He stays buried inside you as his cock pulses and your pussy swallows every last drop of his warm cum.

You stay like that for a minute, limbs intertwined, skin hot and sweaty, breathing heavily, hearts pounding, looking at each other curiously. You slowly trace Joel’s eye crinkles with your fingertips, then gently run your fingers along his perfect nose before moving further down to gently touch the bare spot on his jaw where his facial hair never grows.

“What’re you doing,” he chuckles, drawing shapes on your ass and thigh with his fingertips.

“Nothing,” you lie with a warm smile. “Just looking at the man who most definitely just gave me all of his germs and will most definitely come and clean my apartment when I’m lying in bed with a fever."

Joel rolls his eyes in mock offense and you giggle. “Told you to stay away when you showed up here,” he murmurs and slaps your ass playfully.

“Oh, Joel,” you sigh, “you’ve come inside me so many times that our DNA is probably the same at this point.” You kiss his forehead. “I don’t care about a few germs if I get to ride your face and hear your cute little whimpers when you almost come in your pants like a teenager.”

Joel's cheeks flush with a mix of fever and embarrassment as he catches the hint of a grin on your face. “Stop it,” he grumbles, the corner of his lips twitching involuntarily. “You’re mean.”

“And you’re impossible,” you chuckle, your hand reaching out gently to stroke his forehead and tousled hair in a soothing gesture. His eyelids flutter at your touch and a faint sigh escapes him, a small surrender to the tenderness you’re offering.

— “Thank you, darlin’,” Joel murmurs before setting down the glass on the nightstand and laying his head on the pillow mountain you’ve built for him. “I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.”

“Alright, baby” you coo, walking over to your bag to retrieve your phone, then sitting on the bed beside him. You play a game for a few minutes, relaxing and monitoring Joel’s rhythmic breathing. He’s lying on his belly, his head turned away from you, his left knee pulled toward his chest. It’s the same exact pose you sleep in.

In another life you might fall asleep like this together every night, two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly, completing each other. You smile softly at the thought and reach out to stroke his back.

“All your fault,” Joel grumbles into the pillows.

“Huh?” You ask, startled and confused. You thought he was fast asleep.

“Haven’t seen you in over a week,” he mumbles. “Bad for my system.”

You chuckle and plant a soft kiss on his temple. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Won’t happen again.”

“Just stay for a while,” he murmurs, his voice a mere whisper. You linger for a few seconds, studying his profile, before lying down behind him. He instinctively turns from his belly onto his side, so you can drape your arm over him.

“You can sleep now, baby,” you whisper as you nestle against his back, molding your body to his contours, your warm breath ghosting the nape of his neck.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

---

Thank you for reading! 🤍

part 3 || part 5 || series masterlist

#fwb!joel miller x f!reader #fwb!joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller AU #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel the last of us #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel miller fluff #the last of us fic #smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal

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houserautha · 8 months ago

Text

These Destined Ends

Part 6

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: (I’m kind of rusty about appropriate warnings so let me know if there’s something I need to add or correct) You dose yourself with poison, he cuts his arm with a knife, you drink his blood, knife play, oral sex female receiving, dirty talk, p in v, some light praise, dubious consent, inappropriate use of a dagger/anal, he fucks you and the dagger essentially fucks him, breeding/pregnancy kink, unprotected sex, creampie, black cum ofc, no aftercare

A/N: Alright this chapter is…a lot. The knife scenario I read a few years ago in “Den of Vipers” by K.A Knight and it completely changed my brain chemistry. It inspired me to include a similar situation because it’s so Feyd coded😂😭

Also credits to @sansaorgana for mentioning how Harkonnen blood would be thick and effected by Giedi Prime’s environment and pollution. I love discussing Feyd’s body fluids

Weeks pass before Feyd-Rautha corners you in one of the Baron’s sparse gardens. Garden being a slight exaggeration — really, it’s more of a barren courtyard with a bench. Until your fearsome betrothed strode in, your only company was a few scraggly bushes and the fledgling pilingtam tree keeping you in the shade.

Feyd-Rautha hooks his finger in your book and pulls it away. “Come with me.”

You glare balefully at him. “I was reading that.” It’s the only Harkonnen novel you’ve found that you can stomach. “You can’t just beckon me whenever. Or — and this is blasphemy, I know — you could just ask me if I want to go with you.”

Feyd-Rautha closes the book. “No.”

“You lost my page,” you say with a pout. You debate teaching manners to him again, briefly, before sensing that you’re fighting a losing battle. So instead you snatch the book from his hands.

“Two hundred and thirty eight. Now,” he fixes you with a stern look, “let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

Frankly, you don’t care where he’s taking you. Since the Crucible, you’ve been anxiously waiting for something to do besides answering questions about your upcoming nuptials. Your body aches for purpose. Movement. You also realize, with mixed feelings, that you would probably follow Feyd-Rautha wherever he asked you.

What did that say about your state of mind?

“It’s time for training,” he says.

You trail after him, vaguely disappointed that you weren’t going to finish your book. You tuck it under your arm. How bad could poison training be? Maybe you’d have time to flip through a few pages. Feyd-Rautha eyes you as if he can tell what you’re thinking, but doesn’t comment on it.

The fortress is in full swing for the wedding, which looms only a month and a half away. You would think that’s plenty of time to prepare. But servants are hanging decorations, comparing tasks, and cleaning everything in sight. They quiet as you and Feyd-Rautha stroll past them, and you search their faces for Asha.

She’s been just as busy as everyone else. Everyone but you, of course, who, despite your prominent involvement in the wedding, has been left to your own devices. You weren’t exactly thrilled to dose yourself with poison, but at least it gave you something to look forward to.

“How did you first go about this?” You ask the na-Baron. It’s a strange comfort to be in the presence of someone so unperturbed, confident and assured to a fault, sure, but you knew what to expect from him. He was an asshole, but he would be one regardless.

“Poison tolerance?” He asks.

“No, long walks through the fortress.”

Feyd-Rautha ignores you. “It’s a precaution, mostly. Poison-snoopers can be faulty or influenced. It also gives me an…edge…over others.”

“The others being…?”

“Political allies. Enemies.” You catch the hint of a grin on his lips. “It cuts a formidable image when your guest has no concern for poison.”

“As if you don’t already,” you retort.

“You flatter me.”

“Oh, like you’re not aware.” You roll your eyes. “Where are we even going?”

“Somewhere private,” he says.

You raise your brows. Feyd-Rautha pushes his shoulder suddenly against what you thought until that point was a wall, but it swings open on an invisible seam. “Not like that,” he says, amusement coloring his tone. “Although I could never refuse you, wife.”

The room he leads you into is mostly bare except for a few maps on the walls and a table in the center. You recognize the surface of the table as the topography of Giedi Prime, the vast plains and tiny boxes representing the plethora of factories. You ghost your fingers over it. “What is this place?”

“My strategy room.” When you glance at him imploringly, he sighs and adds in a resigned tone, “Sometimes I find working with the other nobles tedious. I spend my time alone if possible.”

“Hm.” You sit down at the table and try to imagine Feyd-Rautha presiding over it, testing out battle strategies and war maneuvers.

You must sink too far into your own thoughts because it startles you when he sets down a small glass in front of you, nestled in the space between two miniature factories. “We need to start small,” he tells you.

“What is this?”

“Poison.”

You shoot him an annoyed look. “It would just be nice to know what poison I’m ingesting, is all.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He plants his hands on the table and assumes a position that you have a hard time believing he doesn’t know stirs something dark within you. “I’m going to be giving you small doses of poisons most typically used throughout the Known Universe.”

“You’re so kind,” you mutter.

He nudges the glass closer to you. “This is the weakest one of them all. We can work our way up, gauge their effects on you.”

“Like what?” You think back to the day in the arena with Ze’ev, how the flip-dart hidden in his clothing quickly incapacitated you, turning your thoughts to sludge.

“Fatigue. Nausea. Potential fevers, chills, heart palpitations.”

“Oh,” you say miserably, “is that all?”

“No, actually,” he replies, oblivious to your fear, “but sometimes it’s better not to know. Drink.”

Your stomach twists with nerves. But he’s watching you in that anxiety-inducing way he tends to, so you tip the contents of the glass down your throat. He smiles.

Poison training is hell.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it’s not this — constantly being gripped by fatigue and nausea, your body battling persistently against the poisons.

The beginning was the worst. You had never thrown up so much in your life. Feyd-Rautha assured you that you were tolerating the poison better than most, but you highly doubted that. You were couch-ridden for days on end, too weak to move or do much more than eat the food he forced you to. But, slowly, you adjusted to the poison, and Feyd-Rautha gave you higher doses, stronger strains.

A week away from your wedding, he declares that he won’t give you anything new. “But you must continue to take the poisons from before,” he tells you. “Or your body will lose the tolerance and also go through withdrawals.”

Today, however, is one of the worst days you’ve had. You did everything right, but for some reason you were rendered completely helpless, body racked by intense shivers. You are huddled in the corner of the couch in the antechamber when Feyd-Rautha finds you, stopping him in his tracks.

“H-H-Hi,” you sputter.

He crosses the room in a single stride, ripping off your blanket and assessing your shuddering form. “You used too much,” he says accusingly.

“I-I-I did what you-you told me,” you protest, albeit weakly.

His frown pierces you. You’re afraid he’s going to reprimand you, but instead he takes a step backward. “Go to the bed.”

“I-I’m f-f-fine. I can s-stay here.”

He looses a sigh then, effortlessly, sweeps you off the couch and over his shoulder. You want to fight against him but it’s taking all of your strength not to shiver and let him know just how poorly you are.

“Put me d-down,” you try your best to say, but with your face buried in his back, it comes out muffled.

Feyd-Rautha resists your pitiful attempts of subterfuge, and carries you into the bedroom like you weigh nothing. It’s your first time actually being on the bed, and his faintly medicinal scent pervades your senses. Had you ever even seen him sleep in here before? How did it smell so strongly of him?

He props you up against the pillows. You attempt to pull up the bedding to ward off your chill, but he stops you, which requires little effort on his part. You blink. In reply, he reaches into the top drawer of his bedside table and takes out a blunt-looking dagger.

“W-What are y-you doing?”

Feyd-Rautha presses the blade of the dagger against his forearm, cuts a thin line that weeps with a thick, dark liquid that you realize is his blood. You feel dizzy.

“Wh-What —”

“Just stop talking,” Feyd-Rautha growls. “We clot quickly. Drink.”

Drink? You're not entirely sure how well your emotions are coming across in your current state, but he must know how insane he sounds. Well, more insane than usual.

"I-I'm not —" Before your eyes, his dark-colored blood ceases. He utters something under his breath and then puts the dagger to his skin again, cutting it back open like slotting an envelope.

He captures a drop of it on his thumb and pushes it between your lips.

It doesn’t taste quite as bitterly sweet as his cum, you decide, but possesses the same sharp bite. It sears slightly as it dances on your tongue, down your throat.

“More,” he says. He sits down at the edge of the bed and raises his forearm to your mouth.

With no other choices, you obey.

The blood is thicker here, his skin warm beneath your mouth as you lick at the shallow wound. Any strangeness you felt at his request vanishes as the potency of his blood hits you. You hungrily take your fill, and by the time the wound closes again, it’s chased away your chills and the murkiness evading your mind.

“There,” he rasps. He sets the dagger down on the bed, still sporting a trace of his blood.

“Why…why?”

Feyd-Rautha’s lips twitch. “Harkonnen blood is its own sort of poison, courtesy of our planet’s pollution and smog. I suspected it would be enough to counterbalance the poison already in your system.”

You fixate on the wound, how the blood has already congealed. “It stopped,” you say stupidly. But how could you be expected to think properly — you had just drank from his arm, from his blood, to stave off poison that you’d willing ingested.

Feyd-Rautha nods. “Another benefit.”

“Anywhere on your body? It does that?”

He indicates the dagger. “See for yourself.”

A chill runs through you, but now for an entirely different reason. You inch closer to him, tucking your legs under you. He’s agonizingly close, his dark gaze flickering across your face as you take the dagger and touch the tip of the blade to his chin.

“Is that just a ploy so that I’ll cut you?” You ask, heart pounding furiously. You discover with a sickening twist that you do want to cut him, want to slide the blade across his smooth skin and watch the way the blood rises to greet you.

Feyd-Rautha breathes, “Perhaps.”

You’ve never seen him so transfixed, so compliant. Eager. And with his very blood in your veins, emboldening you, issuing a high like you’ve never felt before — you press the blade into his skin. Blood trickles out, and you use your tongue to lick it up, the metallic taste of the blade mingling with the sharpness of his blood.

Next you take the dagger across his jaw, down the column of his throat to the divot that flutters with his pulse. And then down down down to his chest, shearing his shirt with a single slice.

Feyd-Rautha has an infuriatingly perfect chest — muscled, small, tight nipples that you tease with the edge of the blade. He inhales sharply.

“You’re disgusting,” you say without conviction, your free hand gliding down his toned stomach.

He tilts his face up to you. The gesture is so vulnerable, his expression so devastatingly beautiful, that you climb into his lap. His cock, straining against his pants, nudges your center.

“I hate you,” you tell him.

He whispers, “I know.”

There’s no telling who kisses who first — an impasse to your game of trading punishments. His hands are on you in an instant, over your body and in your hair, clamoring to touch you as if you might disappear at any moment. You’re equally as fervent, notching your thumbs by his jaw on either side and holding him to you, mouths open and hungry. His tongue dances over your lips, behind your teeth.

Feyd-Rautha is his own kind of poison, infiltrating you slowly and feasting on your insides. And you take him in like his kisses are the anecdote, the touch of his hands soothing the ache that his particular brand of poison causes.

Though, if he is poison, you can never imagine adapting to this — his passionate, consuming touch, the whine of his desperation, how he embraces you like it’s everything he’s ever wanted. No, if he is poison, you never want to learn to tolerate him.

His fingers work deftly at your clothes. The air rushes to caress your breast, hardening your nipples. Feyd-Rautha closes his lips on one as he palms his hand over the other, and the wet warmth of his mouth sends you to the edge. Your back bows in response, urging him closer. He bites down at your nipple, tugs on it, swipes his tongue over it like a soothing balm, then repeats the process on the other side.

As soon as your mind clears enough to form a rational thought, you fumble to unbuckle his pants. He helps you — one hand on your ass for support as he lifts up his hips and you wriggle his pants down over them.

His cock, liberated from his pants, slaps against his stomach. He fists the base and indulges in a series of lazy strokes.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” you say aloud.

Feyd-Rautha, returning his mouth to yours, smirks against you. “Your turn.”

He flips you over onto your back in a seamless maneuver, securing your legs around his waist. Feyd-Rautha lingers above you. His dark gaze roams your form as you shimmy out of your dress, leaving you only in your panties. Sometime before he grabbed the dagger, and now uses it to trace a line from between your breasts to your navel.

You gasp. Pain radiates from the thin cut he made, a terrible, delicious heat.

It’s his turn to tend to you now, hands coasting your body as he licks a stripe up your wound and back down, your blood blanketing his tongue. He pauses at your panties, uses both hands to seize you by the hips and drag you to the very edge of the bed, then kneels before you.

You’re already slick with desire and you want to be ashamed but you can’t, not when he ghosts his mouth over your center and you cry out in need.

“So wet for me, wife,” Feyd-Rautha growls. “You want this cock inside you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. You claw at the bedding, pulling it taunt around you.

“Oh, but I’ve been waiting for this. To taste you. God, you don’t know how hard it’s been knowing that you’re always just on the other side of that door.” Feyd-Rautha replaces his mouth with the dagger’s blade and you clench in anticipation. The tip of it traces the edges of your panties, your lips, nudges against your entrance. “You infuriate me. I cannot stop thinking of you.”

You’re too overwhelmed to make sense of his admission, but it sends a ripple of delight through you nonetheless. You buck your hips, desperate for the friction that only his mouth can provide.

“Please,” you beg.

The blade of the dagger stills. “Please what?”

“Please.”

You can’t think of anything else to say.

He urges, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I want your mouth on my —”

Feyd-Rautha impatiently cuts away your panties, effectively silencing you. His mouth encloses on your clit. Your words turn into a wail of surprise, of pleasure when he applies pressure with his tongue and then sucks.

Ecstasy spirals through you.

It shouldn’t be a shock that he’s skillful at pleasuring you, at lapping between your lungs like your cunt is the sweetest dessert, yet it still resonates — how he knows exactly when and where to lick, to suckle, to coax more pleading moans from you with his tongue.

And when you come you unravel completely.

“So greedy,” he murmurs as you rise your hips back up to him, beckoning him to continue. “You try to rebel against the idea but you want this cock buried deep inside you, coating you with my cum. Is that right?”

“Yes —”

He slams himself up to the hilt inside you. You cry out in equal parts agony and desire, back bowing, walls stretching to accommodate him. Feyd-Rautha doesn’t wait for you to adjust, drawing out and back in with feverish vigor. His hands pin you to the bed to keep you from arching away, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.

“You feel incredible,” he says, your name falling from your lips like a prayer. “So nice and tight.”

You clench around him. Feyd-Rautha mumbles his appreciation, slows his movements. “I won’t be able to last if you keep doing that,” he tells you, “you feel so good. So fucking good.”

You put up a protest as he withdraws, leaving you feeling horribly empty. Feyd-Rautha turns you onto your belly, ensures that your knees are at the edge of the bed, ass up. A mortifying heat surges through you — completely exposed, vulnerable to his wandering gaze. He runs his hand over your ass, drifts to your soaked cunt.

“I want to possess you wholly.”

You whimper in response. You hear movement from behind, and, in the absence of his attention, dip your hand down to your cunt to alleviate the mounting pressure, but you’re declined the pleasure.

“I didn’t say you could touch yourself.”

He lines himself with your entrance. This time when he seats himself inside you it’s painfully slow, deliberate, every inch driving you closer to another orgasm. Feyd-Rautha starts a slow pace, pulling his cock out till his swollen head brushes past your lips, then back in. Eventually he increases his speed until he’s snapping his hips against you, penetrating you deeply, fully, invoking breathless sounds from both of you.

Feyd-Rautha pursues his pleasure the same way he fights — violent, ruthless in its execution. You’re aware, somewhere in the recesses of your mind, that you’re going to be a quivering mess tomorrow. But in the moment you can only immerse yourself in this man: Feyd-Rautha, the na-Baron, a monster in his own right.

In a burst of bright light, an orgasm cleaves you in half, Feyd-Rautha pumping into you until it surrenders to his darkness. Before you can even recover, you feel the familiar coldness of the dagger’s blade biting into your back, down your spine, circling your ass.

He brushes his thumb over your ass. “Have you ever been taken here before?”

Your breath hitches. “Once.”

Feyd-Rautha emits a satisfied hum. From your peripheral you watch him reach into the bedside table again, this time to fish out a cloth to wipe down the dagger. Your walls clench.

“I want to see this dagger in that pretty ass of yours.”

Feyd-Rautha traces your cunt, gathering your wetness on his fingers to coat the handle of the dagger. He spits on your ass, rubs it over you. “You have to relax,” he rasps. The handle of the dagger pushes against you and you instinctively flex as the first ridge enters you. “Relax, wife.“

You oblige, and he’s able to ease the rest of it inside. It’s tight, full, uncomfortable, but not unbearable. When you feel Feyd-Rautha notch himself at your entrance, alarm seizes you. “What are you —?”

He plunges himself inside you.

And as he does, the blade of the knife punctures his skin with a soft squelch.

You gasp. A growl rumbles through his chest. You can’t see, but you can hear the blade pierce him with each ministration of his hips. You can’t believe him, what he’s doing, but the sounds he makes as he enters you and the dagger enters him at the same time are inescapable, intoxicating. And with the added fullness of his cock and the handle of the dagger, you build towards your orgasm, toes curling.

Feyd-Rautha sinks into you again and again, dagger piercing his side. It prompts a steady stream of his blood that joins with your slickness. His breath quickens. “You take my cock so well. Look at you, so full, so beautiful.”

He slows to remove the dagger from you, taking his time as not to harm you. You shudder. The dagger is tossed to the side still covered in his blood.

“I get to fuck this pretty pussy as much as I want,” he rasps, more to himself than you. “Fill you with my seed, over and over until it takes, then fuck you when you’re pregnant and round with my child. Fuck. I want to see you. I want to see your face as I cum inside you for the first time.”

The image he paints has you gasping for breath. Eager to please, you turn onto your back and present yourself to him. Feyd-Rautha is a god of war, of wrath, wreathed in shadows, and he buries himself into you like he’s seeking redemption. You cry out as he nears his own orgasm, tears blurring your eyes — he sheathes himself fully one final time then spills his seed in your cunt.

Your walls pulse, clamping down around him. He holds you close as he finishes, warm breath fanning your skin, jolting slightly. It’s only when he removes himself, bites playfully at your breast, that you realize the wetness you feel dripping onto your belly is his blood.

“Feyd — what, what were you thinking?” You shove him off you.

He stands, naked form on display, blood dribbling down from the wound in his stomach. It’s distracting, frankly, and it just reminds you of how it had gotten there.

“I wasn’t,” he says simply.

You open your mouth to say something else, reprimand him, maybe, but then he runs his fingers along your thigh and scoops up the cum that’s escaped from inside you. He pushes it back into your cunt, which is still beating with the memory of his cock, blissfully sore.

Feyd-Rautha says, “Don’t worry about me, wife. I will heal. You worry about keeping me inside you.”

He stands to walk away and as he does, you mutter to no one, “I wasn’t worried” although you were. You tilt your hips up. Getting pregnant isn’t exactly your top priority right now, but the alternative is having his cum dribble down your thighs, and the black fluid is a little concerning to see smeared across your skin.

What child could be born from such a substance?

You angle your head to see Feyd-Rautha. He stands at the threshold of the bathroom, back turned to you. You admire his physique. For all of his misgivings — his psychotic tendencies, the murder, the way he plays his games with you — he’s irritatingly attractive. You close your eyes and let your head thump onto the bed.

You open them again when you hear the bedroom door swing open. “Are you leaving?” You ask, exasperated.

“Yes,” Feyd-Rautha says. He’s dressed, sadly. “I have other business to tend to.”

You scowl at the implication of being business.

“I’ll be back before the wedding. Keep up with your tolerance. Just know that I won’t fuck you every time you over dose,” he tells you. A million questions jump to mind — and quite a few curses — but he’s gone before you can say any of them.

Spent and still reeling from your recent fucking, you collapse back onto the bed and throw your arm over your eyes. What were you doing?

You were going to marry him.

Part 7

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