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swordgrace · 2 months ago

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𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with little plot, forced proximity, semi-public sex, rough sex, hair pulling, mild dirty talk, lots of banter/arguing, grinding, john wants that cookie so bad, making out, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this has been rotting away in my brain so I needed to get it out !! lowkey enjoyed writing this so much and I really hope that you guys like it, too! 🫶

The plan begins to crumble when reinforcements arrive, mercenaries funded by H.Y.D.R.A remnants, a generous benefactor hellbent on weapons acquisitions in Copenhagen.

It’s another mission that tests the cohesiveness of the team, and with each one, you’re all improving. Everything seemed to go sideways, comms were static with silence, and you weren’t sure where everyone else was.

Shadowed corridors flood with foot soldiers, and you narrowly avoid getting pierced with a high-caliber bullet, thanks to Walker’s shield.

“We need to move — now.” He gruffs, roughly grabbing at the back of your shoulder, hauling you further into the bunker’s underground labyrinth. He’s strong, sure, but not enough to take on ten.

“We’re cornered, Walker. If we don’t find somewhere to hide, we’re pinned down.” Insistent, you’re clamoring to find some momentary reprieve from the chaos, chest burning from exertion.

“And we’re pinned down if we hide,” John grits, clearly facing some moral dilemma. He’s typically talented at navigating these high-stress situations — or so he thinks, jaw twitching as he concedes to your idea. “Shit.”

John Walker wasn’t your first choice as a mission partner — he was hotheaded, bullish, and abrasive. His demeanor was a foil to yours; calm, level-headed, optimistic.

He knew what he was doing in a fight, but there was often a risk involved, an impulsivity that he was attempting to curb. You weren’t sworn enemies, but you weren’t exactly the best of friends, either.

Footsteps clash through the hallways, and you’re tugging on his arm, urging him to follow you as you make a mad dash for what appears to be a utility storage closet. It’s a terrible spot to cower in, but you aren’t left with many options.

John seems visibly agitated, but he follows you anyway, jogging after you before slamming the metal door shut behind the both of you. He realizes very quickly that there’s barely any room to fit the both of you.

Wedged into your side, distance becomes nonexistent, but it’s better than being caught out in the open. As if to reinforce your position, he jams the handle of a broom beneath the door latch, labored breathing beginning to steady.

Boots thud outside of the door, footfalls urgent before tapering off into mere echoes. Catching your breath, your body rattles beside his, hands poised against the metal wall, eyes fluttering shut.

“Genius.” John grouses, frustrated with the entire scenario. Something went wrong — they were sloppy and overestimated themselves.

With little patience for his short-fuse and sardonicism, you bite back. “What do you expect?” You huff, brows furrowing together. “Fighting our way out wouldn’t have worked.”

“Beats being locked in here,” He grunts, bracing himself against the wall. The forced proximity he’s now cornered into with you isn’t the worst thing he’s endured, but it’s far from optimal. “You need to move.”

“Move where?” Keeping your voice low, you’re entirely unhappy with him, unwilling to put up with his attitude. The circumstances only enhance the shared irritation that bristles between the both of you, coupled with his smart mouth.

John’s brows furrow together, attempting to navigate through his frustration. “If you face me and stop sprawling, it’ll create more space.” He proposes, but it sounds ridiculous.

“I’m not sprawling,” With an indignant sigh, you shake your head, conceding to him anyway. Shuffling forward, you stand with him, chest to chest, discomforted by the slim amount of space. “I think this is worse.”

“We’re out of options.” John tries to placate your irritation, but it doesn’t seem to work. His countenance is contorted into a look of perpetual grumpiness, mouth turned downward.

It isn’t uncomfortable, this position — it’s awkward. This is the closest you’ve been to him, save during training lessons, where he’s crouched over you or his hands have somehow ended up on your hips.

Admittedly, there is tension present — you’ve never been fully able to discern the reasoning behind it, but it’s there, festering beneath the surface. A muscle in John’s neck strains, taut as he rolls his shoulder.

Annoyance is certainly one feeling to describe John, but it wanes whenever you look at him. Maybe there’s something more, maybe there isn’t. Either way, your current predicament isn’t ideal.

Using the closet’s rigid metal surface as a brace, the unsightly corners dig into your back, prompting you to squirm. Silence lingers between, curling around heavier sighs and fleeting glances.

You don’t want to admit that listening to John and running might’ve been the easier option, knowing that you won’t hear the end of it if you give him that satisfaction.

Through flared nostrils, John exhales, posture coiled and taut, as if he’s a bowstring, prepared to snap in two. Even though his helmet, he’s clenching his jaw, cerulean hues blazing with an amalgamation of emotions.

“What’s our next move?” Broaching the silence, you’re making an attempt at relieving the tension, face angled away from him. One step forward, and you’d be flush against his body.

“I had a next move, if you didn’t lead us in here,” John murmurs, and you’re quick to glare at him, agitation flaring again. “What? This was your idea.” He quips, holding one hand up in faux surrender; it makes you angry.

“You’re kidding me,” With a mirthless laugh, your brows furrow together, chin jutting out in defiance as you glare past him. “We would’ve been ambushed or worse if I didn’t think of hiding, John.” His name tumbles from your mouth like a scornful parent.

It’s exceedingly rare that you ever call him by his first name; some sliver of him likes it, wants to hear you say it again. He doesn’t fully understand why, but he likes you — likes your fire, your kindness.

John scoffs, mouth curling into a smug smirk, eyes rolling as if to dismiss your streak of ire. “Now look at us,” He remarks, pushing the limits, prodding. “Snug together in some closet.”

Aggrieved, your disdain is visible, scrawled onto your features as you stare elsewhere, finding the chipped paint behind his shoulder to be fascinating. “You can be such an asshole sometimes, you know that? I wanted to keep us both safe.”

There’s a softer inflection laced into your words, as if you’re upset that he’s mocking your choices. Admittedly, it wasn’t the right move, his unwarranted jabs — you did do the smart thing by hiding.

He’s watching you closely, gaze flickering over the creased brows and downward curve of your mouth, across the wisps of hair that dust your temples. You’re pretty when you’re frustrated with him — more so when you aren’t, too.

John doesn’t want to admit defeat, but it’s getting under your skin; he begrudgingly concedes. “Fine,” He gruffs, tongue wetting his bottom lip. “It wasn’t the worst idea in the book.”

A humorless scoff rips from your throat, followed by a nonplussed expression. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You mumble, still neglecting to look him in the eyes.

“Yeah,” He placates, shoulders jostling in a shrug. “It could’ve been worse.” Leveling with you, his smirk wavers when you scoff, finding some sliver of amusement in the whole situation.

John Walker wasn’t the worst person to be trapped in a utility closet with — the company could’ve been completely sour. Instead, you were forced to endure his scathing banter and smug mouth, two things that you could navigate; mostly.

The discomfort of your current position only seems to grow, metal digging into your spine, enhanced by the uneven junctures of your suit. You wince when you shift, trying to relax whilst simultaneously avoiding bumping into him.

He notices, observant; he might’ve been ogling you for longer than what was deemed appropriate, but he kept that close to the chest. John has an idea, but he knows that you won’t bite.

“You okay?” He inquires, peering down at you with an innocuous expression. It gives you pause, makes you realize how much taller he is than you, his musculature; you try to shut your thoughts off.

“I’m fine, just … This wall is digging into my back. I think you got the comfortable side.” With a grousing huff, you wriggle again, attempting to shift your body enough to make a slight difference.

His jaw clenches, tongue tracing over his teeth, and to his own chagrin, he wants to alleviate whatever discomfort he can. “Why don’t you lean against me?” John suggests, as if it’s something commonplace.

Bewildered, you almost think he’s joking, teasing you to make light of the situation. With a sarcastic laugh, you shake your head, dismissing his idea as preposterous. “That’s a nice joke, John.” You grumble, aggravated.

“I’m serious,” John quips, clipped, mildly offended that you believed him to be insincere. “If we’re going to be stuck here, might as well make sure you’re comfortable.” He shrugs nonchalantly, tone somewhat gritty.

“Since when have you cared about my comfort?” It’s a genuine question, spoken with curiosity instead of something accusatory. You catch him off-guard, gaze finally meeting his own, and he almost seems shy.

John exhales; a long, drawn-out noise that signifies surprise, coupled with understanding. He hasn't exactly given you the impression that he likes you — in the traditional sense, anyway.

He isn’t known for his emotional intelligence or his sense of vulnerability.

“Since now,” He retorts, groveling to himself before shaking his head. “Jesus, do you want to stop being miserable or what?” John gruffs, his cadence seemingly cross with you, but it lacks malice.

Surprised, your jaw loosens, lips agape as you scramble for some halfhearted comeback. Coming up empty-handed, you decide to accept the offer, instead. “Alright.” You sigh, and take one step forward.

Proximity becomes nonexistent, the sliver of distance closed as your body presses firmly against his, and the heat crackles instantaneously. He’s broad-shouldered, firm when the both of you are wedged together.

He’s being nice, you think, which is mildly unexpected. The harsh, metal bite of the wall no longer protrudes into your back, offering you some relief. John is formidable, sturdy; better than the wall, at least.

Warmth spreads like wildfire over the back of your neck, snaking over your throat, causing you to look away again. You’re flush, chest-to-chest, tactical gear intermingling.

Fortunately for you, the discomfort that had gripped your spine dissipates, but it’s cost you your sanity. John unclasps the buckle beneath his chin, offering his jaw some momentary relief.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

It’s as if his own body is actively rebelling against him; from the moment your chest comes into contact with his, he’s fighting against baser instincts. You’re pretty — beautiful beyond compare, even with your curled lip and furrowed brows.

A gap of silence settles between, and he notices the inkling of tension that bleeds from your shoulders, using him as a brace. He’s much more comfortable than the wall, but it doesn’t make things any less awkward.

“Should we try comms?” Your voice is somewhat strained, flustered as you make a feeble attempt at distracting yourself from this. John bites, thankfully, head jostling with a nod.

“Couldn’t hurt.” He utters, clicking his tongue as he reaches for the device strapped to his wrist. The positioning is somewhat clumsy, and he fumbles with you pressed against him.

Static crackles on the other end — nothing, a dead end. Knowing that it’s off the table, he switches it back off, arm dropping back to his side. He shifts his stance, the both of you accidentally grinding over the other.

“Sorry.” You blurt, and he’s nodding to alleviate the potential tension that comes with it. Still, you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact — he’s close enough to kiss, heat of his breath pluming over your crown.

“S’fine.” John mumbles, neck tight with tension when your bodies brush over one another. It’s rousing feelings that feel horribly inappropriate for the time and place, and he can’t help it.

A hush falls over the both of you again, and when he glances away, you’re staring at him, instead. Eyelashes kiss the soft skin beneath your eyes, gaze catching on the shadow of his blonde beard, the scar on his right cheek, cerulean eyes.

He’s stupidly handsome, pleasant to behold despite his temperament, which seems unusually subdued, even now. You swallow the growing lump within your throat, teeth grinding together.

Even with his helmet, you find him attractive — you find John Walker attractive. When you repeat that fact in the back of your mind, it makes you contemplate quite a bit.

“Hanging in there?” Again, you shatter the silence with a droning question, relinquishing the tension and derailing your thoughts. It’s cheeky, but it gets him to laugh, even if the sound is dry.

“I’m not exactly hating this,” John utters, and he happens to look down at you, only to find that you’re staring, too. His heartbeat quickens, muscles tightening as he clears his throat. “You?”

“I’m great,” There’s a drop of sarcasm that lingers within your tone, but it seems to fade away. “You are definitely more comfortable than the wall.” You confirm, mouth twitching into a threadbare smile.

With a huff, John’s mouth curls into a faint smile, teetering along the fringes of sincerity. “Good to know.” He muses, cadence wrought with a twinge of insolence.

Everything goes quiet again, he’s staring — he notices details about your countenance that he never realized before. Your beauty is marrow-deep, and he knows it, knows that he’s screwed.

John becomes attractive to you like this �� stripped down of his bravado, the arrogance clipped. You don’t know where to put your hands, but you prop one against his chest; he blushes.

He can’t help himself now, and his feelings are threatening to burst through the surface in more ways than one.

A groan nearly rips through his diaphragm when you writhe again, body pressing into his, your thigh ghosting over his groin. You don’t seem to notice anything, much to his relief.

Uncertain of how long you’ll be glued together for, John moves again, aiming to find better purchase along the wall, hand momentarily hovering over your waist. He steadies you when your balance wavers, causing you to shiver.

This should’ve been off-putting to you — and it wasn’t. Instead, you’re left burning from where he touched you, imagining that hand groping your body or tangled into your hair.

When you adjust again, you feel something firm against your navel, able to hear the subtle hitch in the back of his throat. He inhales — a sharp, poignant sound that seems wrought with stress.

It’s through his tactical pants, and you realize what exactly it is, causing you to bite at the inside of your cheek. Disbelief coupled with shock etched itself onto your features.

There’s a look of brief panic that settles onto his visage; you’re stunned, gaze widening when your eyes lock together. He doesn’t need any further prompting.

“Christ, I’m sorry.” John grovels, embarrassed that he’s gotten hard from having you pressed against him. It’s pathetic that he let himself get riled up from it, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

In the spirit of transparency, you aren’t upset.

In fact, it’s the opposite — you’re left stunned that he’s gotten hard for you. Some depraved sliver within you festers, wanting to torment him further, act on this tension that’s been brewing long before you went into the storage closet.

“Don’t be.” You whisper, hoarse as you attempt to scramble for a scrap of composure. The sensation of his erection bleeding heat into your navel makes you writhe, coiled with excitement.

John shakes his head, clinging to threadbare restraint, wanting nothing more than a sense of relief from it all. “We can switch places.” He offers, a feeble attempt at squashing the coyness.

“No,” The answer you give is too quick, but you don’t want to pretend like you aren’t interested. Instead, your gaze becomes somewhat half-lidded, tempting. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you actually like me.”

Caught, there is little room to refute your claim, and John is left looking increasingly tortured. He wants you so bad that it hurts, cock throbbing beneath his tactical pants, feeling your body shift again.

“Stop it.” John warns, nearly groaning when you sluggishly move against his body, teasing the growing tent in his pants.

Abashed yet enticed, you lean forward, stretching up onto your toes to plant a kiss against his jaw. It’s slow, methodical — John looks as if he’s about to explode. “I want to if you do.” You utter, tone permeated by desire.

Jesus Christ, he’s fucked; he knows he’s fucked, and you aren’t helping anything. He’s thought about this more times than he can count, and with the reality presented to him, he isn’t sure if he can resist.

“I don’t know if I can stop.” John husks, cadence pitched to a half-growl that sends shivers down your spine. He was contemplating going through with it — here, in a storage closet in the underbelly of a warehouse.

“I don’t think I want you to,” Breathy, your confession hits him like an aphrodisiac, spiking his system, striking him into overdrive. The setting isn’t entirely ideal, but you’re desperate. “Are you sure?”

Too late; John’s mouth is crashing into yours with the force of a battering ram, dropping his still-bent shield, hands flying to seize your hips. He’s manhandling you, turning to pin you against the wall, instead.

It’s all teeth, tongue, want — the banter was only a precursor to festering feelings that were now boiling over into an explosion of heat. You kiss him back, kiss him until your lungs are ragged.

The tenacity of his mouth makes your head spin, body screaming, every fiber of your being set aflame when he kisses you. Teeth catch your bottom lip, and he’s needy.

“Don’t care,” John gruffs in-between fervent kisses, grinding against your body, prepared to rip his belt off and sink into you. “I need you.” His breathy confession makes your knees buckle.

John isn’t too boastful to admit to wanting you, needing you; it feels good to be desired in the way he covets you. Lips clash, collide — you’re kissing him as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

Beneath your sternum, your chest grows tight, burning with a stinging neediness, hands flying to clasp at the nape of his neck. He’s still wearing his helmet, but it doesn’t seem to hinder anything at all.

Despite the amount of tactical gear that sits between flesh, he’s eager to make do with what he’s got, hand dropping to grope at your ass through your suit.

“John,” A breathy moan slips from your mouth, intentionally hushed so as to not give away your position. “Need you.” It’s clipped, rushed, but he’s hanging onto those words as if they’re an anchor.

Slotting a thigh between your legs, he brushes it over your clothed core, pulling another whine from your lips. A twinge of satisfaction ripples through him, but he’s driven by instinct now, with you in his crosshairs.

“Gotta make it quick,” John rumbles, even if every fiber of his being wants to fuck you properly, take his time with you. You’re in the middle of a mission — time isn’t a luxury for either of you. “Jesus, you’re so pretty.” He murmurs.

The compliment surprises you, but it isn’t unwelcome, rousing a fire within the pit of your belly. Needy, you rock yourself against his thigh, gaining scraps of friction that blossom between the both of you.

Mouths claw for one another, connecting in a heated frenzy, both ravenous for contact. John can’t recall the last time he’d done something like this, but he’s craving it, craving you.

Each kiss blisters through the both of you, his lips rugged, beard scratching ragged over your skin. The prickling sensation is a pleasant one, something you cling to, hands flying to the nape of his neck.

In a surprising move, your tongue floods into his mouth, and he stifles a groan, tasting you with enthusiasm. Reciprocating your heated kiss, he follows suit, hearing the whine that catches in your throat.

When your lips untether from one another, his mouth drops to your jaw, teeth grazing across sensitive flesh, causing you to moan. A sigh of ecstasy drags through your chest, wanton.

This is John Walker — the same John that you were grousing with earlier, the same John that had a smug mouth and abrasive temper.

John, whose mouth is disarmingly tender when he kisses your jaw. John, whose hands are kneading into your haunches as if it’s something he’s done a thousand times. John, who tastes like metal and something intimately familiar.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for touch.

Hands relocate to your waist, finding your belt with ease, unclasping it in order to unzip your pants. Your breathing picks up, eager, fingers hooking into his tactical gear to do the very same.

It’s all labored sighs, grunts, moaning — the both of you have become insatiable, frenzied. “John, please.” You mumble, chewing at your bottom lip when his hand brusquely shoves at your pants.

His belt noisily clatters when you’re unbuckling it, and he’s desperate to be inside of you. “You need it that bad?” John grunts beside your ear, hot breath feathering over your jaw.

“Yes,” Unable to withhold your excitement, you’re willing to give him what he wants; but not without consequence. Your palm darts to the swell in his pants, massaging over his erection. “So do you.”

John’s brain hums with static when you touch him, tendrils of ecstasy shooting through his body. A low, husky groan tears through his throat, and he’s huffing like a bull. “Christ, e—easy,” He sighs. “Please.”

Satisfied with his answer, you withdraw your hand, the both of you pushing fabric aside, scrambling together. His hand flies to the spandex of your underwear, pushing it aside as his hips urge forward, flushed head prodding against your cunt.

By no means is John small, either; he’s infuriatingly well-endowed, thick and oozing heat as he ruts himself into you. Using one thigh to keep your legs parted, he’s kissing you again, rough and needy.

Both of your hands find their perch against his shoulders, over kevlar and body armor, attempting to make it work. The positioning is slightly awkward, but neither of you care — it’s all desperation at this point, all desire.

Reciprocating his kiss, you’re clinging to him, using his body as an anchor, back flat against the wall. The space is nonexistent, bodies wedged together, flush and tight; he needs you like he needs air.

John exhales; a drawn-out, sharper sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled growl.

His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly. “Ready?” He gruffs, still nudging his cock against your folds, restraint threadbare.

With an exaggerated nod, you’re steeling yourself, biting at your bottom lip, faces flush together. His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance.

It’s slow, at first; he’s a dam trying not to splinter and shatter, exuding tension, attempting to let you adjust first before devolving into debauchery.

You make it difficult, sighing his name as if it’s branded on your tongue, kissing his mouth. The both of you are caught in the middle of some lust-ridden haze.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, teeth grazing over your jaw. He’s growling, panting, his sounds mirroring a feral dog instead of a man.

Proximity no longer exists — it’s lost to tangled bodies and groping hands, to teeth and tongue, to baser instincts. As his hips sink into you, a cry splits your mouth, and he fills you up.

Muscles coil around you, and he’s caging you in between his body and the wall, grunting when your cunt clenched around him. A string of breathy expletives escape him, hands firm against your hips.

Everything feels hot — the lack of space in the storage closet closes in around you, leaving just him, bleeding heat into your body. His jaw is locked, brows pinched together, attempting to cling to some composure.

As his cock ruts into you, your throat snares with a gasp, hands wrangled into his shoulders. You can only imagine what it’s like to see him, flesh to flesh, leaving marks against his skin.

A shadow passes over his stare, cerulean hues eclipsed by desire as he shifts his thigh, muscle keeping your legs spread apart. Sluggishness leaves him entirely — he’s fucking you, now.

The pace he sets is quick, needy, desperate; he’s all bite and no bark, manhandling you as each drag of his hips pins you into the wall. It’s rougher, sure, but he’s not hurting you in the slightest.

John shudders at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together.

“Christ, you’re tight,” John grits, exhaling heat beside your ear, mouth pressing against the side of your face. You turn, your forehead firm against his helmet, nails digging into his nape. “Goddamn perfect.”

Heat prevailed, licking along your spine as his thrusts grew with haste. A low whine rippled through you, countenance screwed up into a look of pleasure, thighs beginning to shake.

“John,” Through a strangled moan, you’re taking each thrust of his hips, the force akin to a battering ram. “So good at this, you’re s—Fuck, so perfect.” Never in your wildest imagination did you think you’d be calling John perfect, but it slips out.

When it does, it’s as if you’ve reached deep inside of him and flipped a switch; a primal glaze settles into his eyes.

His grip upon your thigh had only strengthened, fingertips threatening to leave bruises in the wake of your crass escapades. His cock throbs within you, hitting new depths, nearly kissing your cervix.

“Say it again.” John growls, the noise sharp enough to send goosebumps cascading over your spine. Your body is wracked with ecstasy, a muted buzz soaring through your nerves, now set ablaze.

Some loathsome part of him craves the praise, your validation — when it slips from your mouth, he’s chasing after it like some feral animal.

“Good at this, you’re — Shit, you’re fucking me so well,” The words that clamor from your lips sound foreign; you cringe at yourself despite it, but he seems to preen beneath the praise. “Don’t stop.”

It’s as if a fervor spikes within him, something buried and gnawing. He doubles his efforts, desperate to please you, ripping off his helmet as if it’s gotten too snug.

Blonde tresses sweep over his forehead, perfectly disheveled, messy; your fingers slip from his nape to his hair, grabbing it in fistfuls. The sharp sensation pulls a groan from his chest, a rumble that makes you shiver.

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

Each snap of his hips drags you further towards the edge, cock spearing into you without an ounce of hesitation. It’s borderline animalistic, all pent-up and shoved down, now boiling over in waves.

He’s handsome like this — handsome when he’s all over your mouth, when he’s pounding away at your cunt, brows pinched together in concentration.

One arm cages you in against him, the other pressed beside your head, palm grinding against metal. It groans in protest, bending to his inhuman strength, and the noise makes your belly churn with molten heat.

Every thrust is sharp, precise — he’s gritty, perspiration glittering along his neck, muscles pulled taut.

A low moan left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into his actions, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt.

John ruts into you again, again, again — a pattern of rhythmic thrusts that jostle your body. Grunts tear through his chest, spilled beside your ear in warm huffs, pluming across your jaw.

“Walker?”

Bucky’s voice sizzles through the wave of static on the comms, and you don’t want him to stop. While he’s pounding away at you still, his movements begin to stutter at the noise, but you’re pulling him away.

“Don’t answer,” You moan, friction blossoming between the both of you, feverish and scalding. Every fiber of your being feels like it’s set ablaze, cunt clenching around his cock with each drag of his hips. “Please, John.”

John doesn’t relent, subservient to your breathy plea, hips urging forward as he’s bucking up into you with urgency. He’s close too, hand roughing your hip, grasp bruising as he kisses you.

His cock aches, throbbing inside of you, flesh crawling with heat beneath his body armor. Everything feels snug — he imagines what it’d be like to have you somewhere else, naked.

The fantasy ripples at the fringes of his mind, something lascivious and hazy, spurring him on. He fucks you hard, somewhere between rough and worshipful, as if you’re something to covet.

A breathy ‘fuck’ tears through his mouth, cock repeatedly pistoning in and out of you, listening to your pleasured whines and sighs. “Jesus,” John gruffs, feeling your lips press over his jaw. “That’s it, s’good.” He groans.

With another urge of his hips, you’re unraveling around him, driven to the brink by an amalgamation of friction and want. A buzz swarms through your body, legs rattling, shaking from your orgasm.

Grunts continued to spill beside your ear as he reached his peak, but you were already there. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, sobbing with ecstasy.

John fucked you through your release, cock steadily rutting into your cunt, pressing a messy kiss against your mouth. You reciprocate, teeth catching on his bottom lip, sighing into his maw.

Everything is white-hot, dizzying; John offers a strained warning of his encroaching release, cumming inside of you in a half-frenzy. He says your name, and it makes you shiver.

“Walker, what’s your twenty?”

Again, Bucky’s voice is cutting through at the worst possible moment, and John snarls with frustration. His forehead tilts against yours, brow creased, countenance unfurling with half-bliss, half-agitation.

Each breath stings your lungs as you attempt to compose yourself, realizing that you’re still on the job. Cerulean hues burn into yours, and you kiss him slowly, as if to tell him that it’s okay.

Blonde lashes kiss the skin beneath his eyes, sluggish, as if he’s readjusting to his surroundings. As the fog begins to clear, John huffs, tongue sweeping over his teeth.

“You okay?” He asks, cadence hoarse and pitched with a still-lingering desire. He withdraws, untethering himself from you with a strenuous grunt, moving to buckle his pants up.

“Yeah,” Through a soft whisper, your gaze falls across him, smitten when you realize the gravity of what’s happened. “We should answer Bucky and try to regroup.”

With a nod, John concedes, hands gingerly shifting toward your hips, wordless as he helps to clasp your belt back together. “You know, we could try this again, with more space.” He states, matter-of-factly.

Incredulous, you’re making sure your suit is back into place, visibly flustered as you clear your throat. “When we get back to the Watchtower, come and find me.” You reply, attempting to seem disinterested.

John’s mouth twitches into a smug grin, lifting the communicator to his mouth. “Barnes, we copy.”

Suddenly, the door to the utility closet caves in, a metal arm ripping it from the hinges. John is still in the middle of helping you with your belt, digits stilling along your waist.

“Good hiding spot.” Bucky scoffs, doing little to suppress his smirk. The both of you look like deer in the headlights, and you’re quick to step away, brusquely clearing your throat.

You’re never going to hear the end of this.

#mcu #marvel #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#john walker x reader #john walker x you #john walker x y/n #us agent x reader #john walker smut #john walker fanfic #john walker #thunderbolts x reader #marvel x reader #marvel smut #marvel fanfic #wyatt russell

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jukashi · 11 months ago

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If we take a break for a moment from the funny meme or self-aware kink indulgence understanding of the 'bimbo', and instead examine it as a sort of sexist fantasy - that is, literally a fantasy of ideal womanhood as imagined by a sexist - then we can come to understand that the 'himbo' is not the masculine counterpart. There is discourse to mine out of the idea that the himbo represents a sexist fantasy of ideal manhood, but I think that the himbo actually represents a sort of halfway step between the bimbo and her true counterpart.

The bimbo embodies sexist 'ideals' of womanhood, taken to an extreme and bent to the desires of the sexist (presumed straight, male) imagination. She is:

1) physically attractive in sexual terms, to an extreme - both a pleasure to possess and a status symbol to display to others

2) always horny (thus, always sexually available)

3) unintelligent in the traditional sense - not good at organization, STEM fields, academic learning, etc. this keeps her...

4) nonthreatening - she won't outshine a man in any domain of (the sexist ideas of) male competence, and

5) dependent - in need of a big strong smart man to provide for her, reassuring said man's sense of self-worth

All of these line up with traditional sexist ideas of womanhood - where the bimbo has flaws, they're not feminine flaws, and she still possesses feminine strengths (according to the sexist mindset).

So, the male counterpart of the bimbo should embody sexist ideals of manhood, taken to an extreme and bent to the desires of the sexist imagination. If we compare to the bimbo's features listed above, then:

1) physical attractiveness is desirable for men but not a key feature - a man can be manly while being ugly in a way a woman cannot be womanly if she is ugly.

2) horniness is not seen as desirable for men - it is expected and excused by sexists, but it's considered threatening to those who are its targets and a lot of sexism towards men is based in this assumed threat.

3) traditional intelligence is considered manly, but emotional intelligence isn't - in fact, it's seen as unmanly.

4) being threatening is harder to extract from manliness, as is...

5) being dependent, but it is possible, even required - men are just expected to be non-threatening and dependent in a different way.

Remembering that we're looking for a sexist ideal rather than a sexual ideal, we need to identify how sexism towards men works. Men are not sexually objectified under traditional sexism, but they are still objectified. This objectification is based on utility - an objectified man is reduced to a tool. He is wanted for what he can do and how well he does it, not in himself. His personhood is reduced to what makes him useful and controllable, and when he is not being of use he is unseen. He does not feel pain, he does not feel emotions that make him less of a perfect undemanding worker or soldier, he is permitted to suffer or rage or weep only for the things he serves and never for himself.

The male counterpart of a bimbo would be:

1) physically obviously useful - big and strong and tough, to an extreme, convenient for whoever he serves and an implicit threat to their enemies

2) seldom horny (thus never sexually threatening)

3) emotionally unintelligent - lacking the ability to understand or express the feelings of others or even his own (if he even has them) - in order to help make him:

4) unthreatening, in the sense of being easily controllable and socially inferior, and

5) dependent - in need of an inspiring leader, abstract ideals or a sole source of comfort to fulfill his emotional needs, further securing his loyalty and obedience.

I put it to you, then:

Space Marines are the male counterpart of bimbos, and becoming one is bimbofication.

#wh40k #space marines #warhammer 40k #40k #space marine 2 #sexism #bimbofied #i'm not sure if this is shitposting or not

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romchat · 1 month ago

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I FINALLY bought a digital copy of Sinners and wanted to highlight a few other cinematography choices I really loved besides that tracking shot of Lisa Chow. The first is the camera language with which the White (and passing) characters are introduced and how it creates a unique sense of racial dread.

In her NYTimes article "The Condition of Black Life Is One of Mourning, poet Claudia Rankine pointedly describes the daily strain of anti-Black racism:

"Anti-black racism is in the culture. It’s in our laws, in our advertisements, in our friendships, in our segregated cities, in our schools, in our Congress, in our scientific experiments, in our language, on the Internet, in our bodies no matter our race, in our communities and, perhaps most devastatingly, in our justice system. The unarmed, slain black bodies in public spaces turn grief into our everyday feeling that something is wrong everywhere and all the time, even if locally things appear normal."

This quiet but unrelenting feeling that something is wrong and could go wrong hovers over Sinners, the movie playing with our (visual) expectations of the many ways racist violence can suddenly strike at the whim of its White characters.

From the establishing shots of Sammie's sharecropper home to the plantation fields to the prison chain gang, we know that this a world where White characters can act without impunity. The violent legacy of slavery continues well beyond its official end, which we can see from the endless white rows of cotton in the foreground and background connecting each scene to the next, the overseers' silhouettes haunting the edge of the frame.

So when a White character physically enters a scene, we immediately feel dread, hyperaware that they could choose to be dangerous and mete out violence at any time just because they can. The introduction of Hogwood and Mary are good examples of this.

As Smoke and Stack wait for Hogwood to arrive to sell them his property, the camera stays trained on a narrow road that snakes behind the bend. There's low visibility because of the use of a wide shot and its duration is a beat too long. The Twins aren't sure how the interaction will go with this White man, and we the audience are forced to sit in that uncomfortable (but routine) tension with them.

And their wariness is justified because look at how Hogwood gets out of the car, his gun front and center. He's a threat on arrival and flaunts that power (e.g., that intentionally placed "boys").

Side Note: I might be stretching but that utility pole is almost cross-like, no? Possible reference to a KKK burning cross?

And despite Mary's deep connection to Stack and the rest of the Black community, she too chooses to be a danger and we can see this based on how she's visually introduced.

Her figure stands in the background, blurred because of the depth of field. There's something ghost-like about her appearance, which I'd interpret as symbolic of how as a White passing woman her past sexual relationship with Stack can still haunt him given the South's anti-miscegenation laws.

The tension of the scene ramps up as Mary approaches, the intimacy of the close-up shots anxiety-inducing. Although she is justified in how upset she is at him, this move is completely reckless given the optics. As @mosaic-briar observes in their analysis of Mary:

"White women have some of the most historically violent relationships to Black men that goes from before Emmitt Till to the data surrounding discipline in schools...Mary's incapability to recognize how much danger she was putting Stack in by yelling about their sex in the middle of the street telegraphed for us everything we'd need to know about how far she had processed her own identity."

This is a meeting between former lovers who care about one another but Mary's White femininity is still lethal even if she doesn't mean it to be. What a smart way to communicate the capricious but destructive power of Whiteness.

#sinners 2025 #sinners #meta #cinematography

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taetebebe · 1 month ago

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LINE OF SIGHT

Pairing: Jungwon x f!reader - established relationship

Synopsis: There’s something sinful in the way he holds eye contact—and even more in the way he doesn’t. Warning: Kissing

Word count: ~1.7k

Author’s Note: I HAD to write for these photos (see banner above) that live wrecked me proper - Yet another Jungwon fic, I have so many wips and works finished for the other members, they're gonna start hating me.

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

The room was dimly lit, the kind of lighting that was more mood than utility. A low hum of music played from the corner speaker, its rhythm soft enough to blend into the stillness. Jungwon leaned against the far side of the couch, one leg bent and his elbow resting casually on the armrest. His glasses sat perched on the bridge of his nose, the black frames drawing your attention to his eyes — sharp and expressive, even as they flicked across the room.

You couldn’t look away.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice laced with amusement, without even glancing your way.

“Am I?” You tilted your head, a feigned innocence in your tone. The flicker of his lips suggested he wasn’t buying it.

Jungwon finally turned to you, removing his glasses with one swift, practiced motion. It was almost deliberate, the way his fingers folded the temples neatly before setting them down on the low table between you. His gaze, now unfiltered by lenses, was disarmingly direct.

“You were,” he confirmed. “Do I have something on my face?”

He had plenty on his face — a quiet confidence, high cheekbones, the kind of jawline that didn’t need any special angles. His skin glowed in the faint light, a warmth that made your pulse quicken. But it was his neck that truly undid you.

Long, lean, and maddeningly exposed. The gentle column of his throat flexed subtly when he tilted his head. You watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall when he swallowed — the movement simple, but suddenly hypnotic. How could something so basic as skin and tendon hold so much gravity?

“No,” you replied, voice steadier than you felt. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” He leaned forward slightly, his posture relaxed but his presence anything but. Jungwon had a way of filling a room, even in silence.

You hesitated, trying to decide if you were brave enough to say it. “About how glasses make you look smarter.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Smarter?”

“Smarter,” you repeated, as if affirming it for yourself. “But not in a bad way.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “So there’s a bad way to look smart?”

“There’s a smug way,” you teased, “which, coincidentally, you’re doing right now.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, and you could tell he was fighting the urge to smile. “Maybe that’s just my face.”

“Maybe,” you allowed, leaning back against the cushions. But your gaze didn’t stray from his. “It’s a good face.”

This time, his smile won.

The evening stretched on in a series of half-conversations and shared silences, the air between you charged but unspoken. Jungwon wasn’t a man who needed to fill space with words; his actions spoke louder. The way he adjusted the hem of his black t-shirt when it rode up, revealing just a hint of his waist. The way his fingers drummed lightly on his knee in time with the music. The way he occasionally glanced at you, as if catching you in a private thought.

And the way his t-shirt clung to him, snug across the shoulders, sleeves just tight enough to hint at the quiet strength of his arms. You couldn’t help it — your eyes drifted down to the subtle swell of his biceps, the soft curve of muscle beneath cotton. Every time he reached for his drink or propped an arm behind his head, the sleeves would ride up just enough to tease more.

Even worse — or better — were his forearms.

Toned, defined, and infuriatingly exposed, with veins that rose when he flexed or stretched. There was a quiet strength there, one that wasn't flaunted but existed in every casual movement. You watched the way his fingers wrapped around his glass, how the tendons shifted, the muscle flexed and moved as he spoke or laughed.

And then there was his neck.

You didn’t mean to stare, not at first. But the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the subtle rise and fall as he tilted his head back to laugh, the sharp angle of his jaw giving way to the line of his neck — it was criminal.

His Adam’s apple bobbed when he spoke low, when his voice dropped and you leaned in to hear him better. You found yourself distracted every time he turned his head, every time he tilted it in thought, stretching the muscles just enough to pull your gaze.

He caught you more than once.

When he stood to grab something from across the room, the movement was unhurried, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. You followed the lines of him — the way his back tapered to his waist, the effortless grace in his stride. You noted the subtle way his biceps flexed as he stretched, the hint of veins just beneath the surface of smooth skin.

He caught your gaze again when he turned, holding it for a beat longer than necessary.

“Need something?” he asked, the question deceptively casual.

“I’m fine.” Your voice betrayed you, just slightly breathless.

He returned to his spot on the couch, this time closer than before. His glasses remained on the table, but it didn’t matter; his eyes were sharper than ever, dissecting you with a precision that felt unfair.

“You’re not very subtle,” he murmured, leaning in just enough to shorten the distance.

“And you’re not very shy,” you shot back, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

“Should I be?”

The room felt smaller now, the charged air almost tangible. His knee brushed against yours, and he didn’t move away. Instead, his hand rested on the back of the couch, fingers curling just slightly around the edge, as if to anchor himself.

“I think,” he began, voice low and deliberate, “you like looking at me.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, refusing to back down.

He tilted his head, as though considering your answer. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“It depends.” You met his gaze, unflinching. “Do you want it to be?”

Jungwon laughed softly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “You’re something else.”

“So are you,” you replied, and this time, the words came out softer.

The music in the background swelled slightly, the rhythm syncing with the pounding of your heart. Jungwon didn’t break eye contact, his hand now brushing against your shoulder as he leaned closer. The weight of his presence was intoxicating, a pull you couldn’t resist.

And then, just as your breath hitched, he leaned back.

“Careful,” he said, the word carrying both warning and promise. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“So are you,” you countered, not missing a beat.

He smiled then, slow and deliberate, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name. “Maybe I like it that way.”

The hours passed, and the space between you grew smaller with each passing moment. His glasses remained untouched on the table, but every so often, your eyes would flick to them, a reminder of the way they framed his face, the way they added an extra layer to his already magnetic presence.

Jungwon noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

“Do you want me to put them back on?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“My glasses,” he clarified, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You keep looking at them.”

You felt your cheeks warm but refused to give him the satisfaction of flustering you. “Maybe.”

With a shrug, he reached for them, sliding them back into place. The effect was instant — a shift in the atmosphere, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. He looked at you over the rim, his expression unreadable but his gaze searing.

“Better?” he asked, the word carrying layers of meaning.

You didn’t trust yourself to answer. Instead, you nodded, your throat suddenly dry.

Jungwon leaned in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re quiet all of a sudden.”

“Am I?”

“You are.” His hand brushed against yours, a fleeting touch that left you reeling. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” you managed, though the word felt like a lie. “You’re just… a lot to take in.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, the kind that made your knees weak. “Good.”

And then, as if to prove his point, he removed the glasses once more, setting them down with a finality that left you breathless.

“You don’t need them,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

His brow arched while putting them back on. “No?”

“No,” you repeated, your voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart. “You’re already impossible to ignore.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension between you crackled like static, the air thick with possibilities. Jungwon’s gaze dropped to your lips, lingering for just a second too long.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Maybe I do,” you replied, emboldened by the heat in his eyes.

And then he closed the distance, his hand cupping your jaw with a tenderness that belied the intensity of his gaze. His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch searing, and you felt yourself leaning into him, drawn by an invisible force.

The kiss, when it came, was slow and deliberate, each movement precise yet unrestrained. His lips were soft but insistent, his hands steady as they anchored you in place. You felt the heat of him, the press of his body against yours, and it was everything you had imagined and more.

When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven, his glasses slightly askew where they had slipped in the moment. He didn’t seem to care.

“You’re dangerous,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“So are you,” you whispered, your lips still tingling from his kiss.

Jungwon smiled then, a real one, the kind that made your chest ache. “Guess we’ll just have to be careful together.”

But the way his hand lingered on yours, the way your gaze dropped again to the taut lines of his neck, the rise of his chest as he breathed, the strength in his arms — and the glasses beside you, almost forgotten — you knew neither of you had any intention of being careful.

You didn’t mind.

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noiriarti · 1 year ago

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The Winner Takes it All: Anakin Skywalker x Reader (Enemies-to-Lovers Modern AU)

NSFW! Minors DNI!!! Summary: The moment the thesis competition was announced, you knew your biggest threat. Anakin Skywalker, golden boy of the engineering department. He's the only other person smart enough to beat you, and the only other person insane enough to stay in the lab until midnight every night. He's also an asshole, but you're starting to think maybe he's not as bad as you thought he was... Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Fem!Reader CW: mentions of masturbation WC: 3.4k AN: hello darlings!! another anakin x reader longer fic coming your way!! lmk what you think, and asks/requests are always open!

[Ch. 1], Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6

Chapter 1: Soldering

The moment the competition was announced, you knew your biggest threat. Anakin Skywalker, golden boy of the department. As soon as he heard about it at the thesis info session of your senior year, his eyes found you in the crowd, because he knew you're his biggest rival, and you're coming for him. He was surprised to find you were looking at him, based on the way his eyes widened, and you found a shocking amount of satisfaction in it. The top prize was 10k and a job at Boeing, after all. The more you surprised him, the more likely you were to catch him off-guard. Not that you would sabotage his work, that was just unseemly conduct for a senior at Coruscant U, but you'd encourage his sloppiness.

The instant after the presentation finished, you rushed to the lab. The thesis lab adjoined the regular makerspace in a continuation of the glass walls and sleek design of the rest of the engineering building. You'd spent the end of your junior year there, when you'd had to submit your thesis proposal (A Novel Method for Glaucoma Detection Utilizing Machine Learning and Mass-Producible Hardware). Anakin was always there too, which made the space just a little more annoying, with the loud music blasting out of his headphones and the hair-raising racket of the band saw.

Last year, you'd decided to admit to yourself, despite your best efforts since you had met him, that okay, Anakin Skywalker was hot. Like, horrendously hot. He was a looker no matter what he did, with those blue puppy dog eyes, full lips, and his gorgeous chestnut hair, which looked so soft that you had wondered on multiple occasions what it would be like to touch it. And, being captain of the university taekwondo team, he was muscular as all get-out. You'd catch a peek at his calves and ass on hot days when he wore shorts, and his biceps and shoulders were almost always flexed in the lab when he was sawing something or bent over the soldering station. One time, he wore grey sweatpants, and you had to literally tear your eyes away. But it wasn't just those features that made him hot. It was, unfortunately, him as a person. The confidence with which he sauntered through the building. His mischievous smile that he'd cast you in group projects, or the clench of his jaw as he wired something finicky. Your roommate, Ahsoka, a junior and also his vice-captain, told you that, oh yeah, he was also really good with younger team members. That he taught kids in the nearby school once a week, too, even though he had such a busy schedule. Wasn't that just sweet.

He wasn't that kind to you. Another thing that made him hot, unfortunately, was his brain, and his wit. He was kind of smart, okay, very smart, and that might make him the one thing standing in your way this year. Anakin also never shied away from a biting comment at you, usually about how if you had done it correctly, you wouldn't have an issue with some wiring. Unfortunately, he was usually right, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of telling him that.

Your rivalry started in freshman year, when your physics professor would choose the best student's homework and post it to the class as an example. You were sure you'd be chosen--your first homework was perfect--but then you saw his name. Anakin Skywalker. The next week, you beat him, but then he came out on top immediately after. And so it went. Always fighting for the top spot, to see who could outdo the other. Now, the department was just paying you to do it.

You were in the lab right after the "Senior Thesis Information Session" presentation, using the few minutes you had before your thermodynamics class to tinker with the 3D print that had just finished. Then, the door slid open with the beep of an ID card. You didn't have to turn around to know it was Anakin. Only he would be insane enough to work on day 1 of the semester. Him, and you.

"So you're seriously competing for this, huh?" He asked, watching you sand off some rough edges off the plastic. His tone was playful, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness. He was sizing up the competition.

"Yup. And I'm gonna blow you out of the water," you said self-assuredly. Your project was too good not to win. Anakin barked out a laugh.

"Sure. Right. We'll see about that," he remarked. His voice was dripping with smugness, just like usual with you. You just rolled your eyes. It wasn't worth it to waste time verbally sparring with him, you had better things to do. Like thermo. So you pushed out of your chair, leaving the print on the shelf that had your name laser cut into wood (a gift you had made yourself after your junior thesis proposal got an A), and heading to Lecture Hall 3.56B. Anakin was, of course, heading there too. You were in lockstep, as always. However, he refused to walk there with you, so he waited precisely enough for you to close the door before he left too.

And so, the first three months of the semester passed in relative peace between the two of you. There was only a handful of people who used the thesis room, and you were the only ones there consistently. It helped because safety regulations meant you had to have a buddy in the room to use any of the really useful machines, so you sometimes found yourself pleased to see him. It meant you could get work done. At night, the engineering building was fifteen minutes away from the dorms where you both lived--in the same building, which vexed you to no end when you saw him in the dining hall--so you both had to make the walk home late at night through the city. Oftentimes, you ended up walking home at the same time. It would be wrong to call it walking together, because that would imply you were near each other, or in each other's company, which would be plain wrong. You were always as far as possible on the sidewalk, and oftentimes you two would end up speedwalking home, not allowing the other person to be faster. Was it childish? Maybe. Did you feel a rush of joy every single time you hit the door to your building before him? Definitely.

In November, as the biting cold chilled the air, you found yourself done before him. All your current tasks were done, and you had to wait for a print to finish before you could keep going, plus he wasn't using any machines that needed a buddy, according to lab rules. It had been a long day, and you'd barely dragged your bones into the lab, let alone through all that work.

"Hang on," his voice called from across the space. He was at the soldering station in his safety glasses, bent over some chip.

"What?" Why couldn't you just go home? To your beautiful bed?

"I don't feel good about you walking home alone, so can you just wait for, like, three more seconds?" He wasn't even looking at you as he said it, instead he was pressing the soldering iron to some metal. You scoffed. Like you were so frail you couldn't walk fifteen minutes on your own.

"Are you serious? Do you think I'm vulnerable because, what, I have a vagina? I've taken self-defense classes, thank you very much." Your tone was poisonous, and you tried to infuse every drop of venom you had in you at his stupid idea. Anakin finally looked up from the bench, turning the iron off and cleaning it in the steel wool, catching your eyes with an angry glare.

"No, dumbass. You're just less likely to get robbed in this part of town if you're not alone. But do what you want, I guess. Have fun getting all your valuables taken!" He shrugged sardonically and turned off the vent fan above him. Anakin was right, it killed you to admit. You didn't exactly feel safe walking home at 3am through this part of town. There were enough reports of students getting hurt. So you planted yourself in your chair and waited. When he saw you, a smug smile grew on his face. Asshole.

"C'mon, let's go home," he said nonchalantly once he'd shut down and locked the woodworking room and the laser cutters. As you walked home, this time at a comfortable pace and with his headphones off, you realized it was almost nice, peaceful to be with him like this. The night was still, not a single thing moving in the dark of the night. You passed the corner store, its graffiti-covered grate down at night, then the Vietnamese restaurant you loved, dark and empty. There was no one on the planet but the two of you at that moment. Much to your chagrin, you didn't mind it at that moment. Anakin looked even more ethereal in the moonlight, lighting up the light parts of his hair a silvery white and casting shadows all over his face. He really was handsome, you admitted reluctantly. When you got home, he wished you a good night, which he had never gone. You found the word escaping your lips out of habit. After that, your walking home at the same time turned into walking home together. On November the 8th, he asked you how you were doing. You told him you were good, your tone clipped. He echoed good into the quiet street, then you lapsed into silence. On the 10th, he asked if Ahsoka was feeling better. She had sprained her ankle at practice the previous day. You told him she was, and he said good again. On the 11th, he asked how your project was going, and, in a fit of weakness, you told him it wasn't great. That you were nervous about your first real test of the finished product, the one that would tell you if the past three months had been wasted or not. He told you that if anyone could do it, it would be you, and you spend the rest of the walk wondering where the insult buried inside the statement was hiding. Later that night, once you had tucked into bed, you realized there wasn't any insult at all, just genuine encouragement. For the next week, your walks were filled with slightly guarded conversation, sometimes about upcoming homework assignments, but sometimes about how the taekwondo team was doing, or if you thought Professor Yoda's ear hairs were a countable or uncountable infinity. But he was still an asshole.

About a week later, you were alone with Anakin in the lab around midnight, working on a piece of the lens, trying to get the refraction just right before the test run, when your phone buzzed. Midterm Grade Posted for PHYS 485: Thermodynamics. Your heart stopped. You had been hoping and praying that the number of hours you'd poured into your thesis wouldn't come back to bite you in terms of classwork, but now was the moment of truth. You opened the notification, then to the Canvas page, where you saw your grade. 38/100. Everything in the world stopped. How could you have fucked up that badly? Your eyes scanned over instructor comments. Average class grade: 40/100. Maximum grade: 49/100. Okay, okay. It would be curved up, and you'd probably get a B, but you were below average for the first time in your life. Fuck. Fuck. How could this happen? You glared at Anakin, who was screwing in a bolt to the metal scaffolding of his project. That motherfucker was probably the one who got 49. The thought made you so angry you bolted out of your chair and went to go grab the materials for your test. That motherfucker got everything. It wasn't fair.

You lined up the small device you made, plugged it into the port of your phone, and opened the corresponding software. Through the external lens, you scanned the two printed-out pictures of eyes, one with glaucoma and one without. You held your breath throughout the loading screen. Please, just let one thing go right. Please. Please. The little loading circle stopped. Both eyes were cleared of glaucoma. A false negative. Motherfucker. Three months of work, and for what? You'd never get the prize at this rate. You'd have to start from scratch. You slammed your fist onto the table in anger.

"Hey, there's hammers for that," Anakin called, teasing from the other side of the room. He looked up at you, mouth open to snark something else out, when he saw your eyes welling with tears.

"Woah, are you okay? What's wrong? Did you hurt yourself?" His voice was soft, warm. Anakin dropped the wrench he was holding on the table and half-jogged over to you, putting his hand on your shoulder. You jumped at the contact, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome. It was kind of comforting, actually, but you were too upset to notice that.

"It's just, it's not working, and I've spent so much time and--" you trailed off.

"Don't cry, it's okay, we can fix it," he said with a shrug and a smile. Why was he smiling? God, was he actually pleased right now? Suddenly, your tears turned to anger, not at yourself or the system or the difficulty of your project, but at him.

"Like you're not happy about this. I bet you sabotaged it yourself," you spat out and shrugged his hand off your shoulder. He balked.

"Sabotage? Are you serious? I'd never do that." You stood up, incensed, and pointed a finger into his chest.

"Really? It sounds exactly like something you would do--remember in sophomore year when Barriss's robot mysteriously stopped working?" He half laughed, half scoffed, mouth dropping open, then snapped back with his voice raised.

"You've got to be kidding! Maybe if you paid two seconds of attention to your classmates or anyone around you, you'd know it was her wiring! The connections were bad!"

"Sure," your voice dripped with sarcasm as you scoffed at his insult, "And when you told her it served her right? You were so smug!" Your voice was rising. He ran a hand through his hair and bit out another laugh as he retorted.

"And if I was? Like you're not the queen of being smug in this department. 'Oh, my robot's better, Anakin. I got an A, Anakin.'" He raised his voice high, mocking you. His eyes were wild, furious.

"Me? Smug? Look in the mirror, asshole! Pretend all you want, but I know who you are. You can pretend to be oh-so-nice to everyone else, but I see you for what you really are. Just. A. Fucking. Asshole." You emphasized each word with a jab of your finger, getting closer to him each time. The tension between you was turning somehow--were you losing the argument? You couldn't tell.

"Oh yeah? You don't know a single thing about me," he gritted out, right up in your face, jaw flexing. His intense eyes bored into yours, flicking back and forth, and then they dropped down to glance at your lips.

You weren't sure which one of you moved first, but all you felt was his lips against yours and your hands fisting in his hair, which it turned out was as perfectly soft as you had imagined. Bastard. Anakin's kisses were hot, insistent against your mouth as you sloppily made out in the middle of the lab. His arms, warm and firm, circled your waist and pulled you to him while you tilted your heads this way and that to get closer. Your tongue swiped his lower lip, and he treated you to a surprised, low moan that you wanted to hear again and again until your ears bled. He got your hint, though, and started teasing your lips with his tongue until you opened your mouth just enough to touch your tongue to his. His arms tightened and pulled you against him so that you could feel his warmth from chest to thigh. The two of you were frantic, like if you got close enough, deep enough in each others' mouths, you'd figure out why you were doing this and why it felt so goddamn good. Your heart was pounding when his hands slipped lower and grabbed you under your ass.

"Jump," he whispered huskily after he reluctantly separated his mouth from yours. You hopped, and he used the hands under your thighs to lift you up and sit you on the lab table. Dutifully, you wrapped your legs around his hips, interlocking your ankles around his unfairly attractive ass, and kept your hands buried in his hair. Anakin was back on your lips immediately. He was sloppy and excited until you shifted your hips against him, and then he became electric against you, even hungrier than before. You were definitely feeling something underneath your hips, a lump. It hit you that he was hard, and that sent a bolt of lightning between your legs. You'd stared a little bit more than you cared to admit that time he'd worn gray sweatpants, and what you'd seen was now pressed against you. You drew in a shaky breath at that idea, and you realized that God, he smelled like metal from his soldering earlier and, underneath that, sandalwood and vanilla.

Sometime around the time his hips tilted forward into yours, a beep echoed through the empty lab. You both jumped apart, leaving you sitting on the table, and the noise continued. Beep beep beep. The insistent noise came from one of the 3D printers in the corner. Anakin's print was done.

The silence of the lab felt deafening as you both panted. What had you done? Making out with your enemy was completely against lab safety guidelines, for one, and your morals, for another. Your heart was still pounding in your chest, despite your misgivings, but you willed those wisps of excitement deep down into some mental box. This couldn't happen. If there was a single person on this campus you couldn't fuck, it was Anakin. Not only was he rude, but if you got too close, how would you navigate it when only one of you won? Most importantly, though, you had hated him for four years. And for good reason. (Though you couldn't remember exactly what it was, or think critically at all, in that moment.)

"We shouldn't do that again, Anakin." Your voice was small in the empty space. For a second, his face fell, but he pressed his lips into a thin line to disguise it.

"Definitely not. I--Sorry." And that was that.

You walked home in complete silence, stealing glances at one another in the dark night. When you got to the door of your dorm, you opened your mouth to say something, but then closed it. Better not. So why, once you separated, did you feel so sad? Why did you want to see him again, to feel that silky hair under your fingers in your bed? You laid awake until the early hours of the night, and told yourself that your fingers slipping inside the waistband of your pajamas wasn't about Anakin, you just hadn't gotten some in way too long. It wasn't about Anakin. Even though it was his mouth and chest and arms you thought about when you came on your fingers, it wasn't about him.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

#anakin skywalker #star wars anakin #anakin x reader #anakin smut #anakin x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker/you #anakin/you #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker x you #star wars prequels #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen imagine

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luckyroll3 · 2 months ago

Text

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 4

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Additional warnings: Talk about domestic violence and physical abuse.

Word Count: 8,003

Days melt into one another in Christopher's mansion, each falling into a pattern that grows more comfortable than you'd like to admit. Within the first two weeks, mornings find you in his bed more often than your own, though you sometimes retreat to your wing when you need space to remember who you are outside of his orbit. The mansion staff move around you with practiced invisibility, and you find yourself settling into the rhythm of this temporary life, this borrowed luxury that fits like someone else's expensive coat; it’s beautiful, but not quite yours.

It's during a quiet dinner on the terrace, the Los Angeles skyline twinkling below like earthbound stars, that the first real crack appears in the formal wall between you. Christopher has been less tense today, his usual sharp edges softened by good news from Taiwan and a rare afternoon free from meetings. The wine is excellent, as always, and you've grown to appreciate the chef's impeccable taste. Tonight's sea bass is buttery perfection and the pairing is exquisite.

"Tell me about your family," Christopher says suddenly, setting down his wine glass with deliberate care.

The question catches you off guard. Clients don't usually ask about your background; they prefer the fantasy, the blank canvas onto which they can project their desires.

"What do you want to know?" you counter, buying time to decide how much truth to offer.

Christopher's eyes, dark and observant, study your face. "Whatever you're willing to share."

You consider fabricating something palatable, like a middle-class upbringing, parents who are conveniently deceased… the standard escort backstory that invites no further questions. But something about the genuine interest in his gaze makes you offer a piece of truth instead.

"Working class," you say, watching for his reaction. "Only child with a single mom who worked three jobs. Dad wasn't in the picture."

Christopher nods, no judgment in his expression. "Which jobs?"

"Diner waitress mornings, hospital custodian evenings, weekend shifts as a cashier at a 24-hour drugstore." You take a sip of wine. "She was always tired, but the rent and utilities got paid."

"Sounds familiar," Christopher says, surprising you. "My mother cleaned office buildings overnight. Came home smelling like industrial disinfectant every morning."

You tilt your head, reassessing the man across from you. "I thought you came from money. The mansion, the clothes, the art collection..."

A dry smile touches his lips. "All earned, not inherited. I grew up in a two-room apartment in Queens. Father worked construction until his back gave out, then drank himself to an early grave." He says this without self-pity, just stating facts. "Mother raised three of us on minimum wage and stubbornness. I’m the oldest; I helped where I could."

The revelation shifts something in your perception of him. Not the ruthless titan born to privilege, but someone who clawed his way up from circumstances not unlike your own. You find yourself offering another piece of truth, unprompted, in exchange.

"We moved a lot. Rent increases, evictions, following my mom's jobs. I went to six different schools before high school."

Christopher nods, understanding in his eyes. "Must have been hard to maintain friendships."

"I stopped trying eventually," you admit. "Easier that way."

"Smart," he says, and there's respect in his tone. "Self-protection is an underrated skill."

The conversation flows more easily after that, each of you trading small truths that build a bridge between your worlds. You learn that Christopher earned a full scholarship to Dalton, an exclusive prep school in Manhattan, at fourteen; it was his ticket out of poverty.

"The first day was a nightmare," he tells you, refilling your wine glass. "Designer clothes everywhere, kids talking about summer homes in the Hamptons, the French countryside, and St. Barts while ordering take out. I showed up in Walmart's finest, a bagged lunch that I made mysefl, and an accent that screamed outer borough."

The image of a young Christopher, proudly defiant amid wealth he couldn't comprehend, tugs at something in your chest. "I get it. I had a similar experience."

His eyebrows rise in question.

"Brentwood in LA," you explain. "Full academic scholarship my sophomore through senior years. The girls had handbags that cost more than my mom's three month salary."

Christopher's expression brightens with recognition. "You too, huh? How did you handle it?"

You smile, remembering. "Studied their accents, their mannerisms. Thrift stores for designer castoffs. Learned to fake it until they couldn't tell I didn't belong."

"Chameleon survival," Christopher nods. "I did the same. Though I was less into blending in and more about proving I was better than them despite my background."

"Chip on your shoulder?" you tease gently.

"A fucking mountain," he corrects with unexpected humor, leading you to chuckle. "Still there, just better disguised now."

As dinner concludes and you both move to the lounge, the revelations continue. You discover you both majored in business; you at USC Marshall, him at Columbia. Both first-generation college students. Both driven by a hunger born of early deprivation.

"So how did finance win out?" you ask, curled in an armchair across from him, shoes discarded, feet tucked beneath you in a posture more relaxed than you'd normally allow yourself with a client.

Christopher's fingers tap thoughtfully against his wine glass. "Money equals security. I watched my mother count pennies, literally, at the grocery store while people watched annoyed because she was holding up the line; decide between electricity and heat in winter; patch our clothes instead of buying new ones. I never wanted to make those choices again." His gaze grows distant. "And I was good at it… understanding markets, predicting movements, taking calculated risks."

"With Hyunjin?" you prompt, recalling their easy rapport despite their different styles.

A genuine smile crosses Christopher's face. "Hyunjin was my first ally at Dalton. Really my first friend there. Old money, but never made me feel like the ‘scholarship kid’. He understood the game but never took it too seriously. And he taught it to me." Christopher shakes his head. "We immediately became inseparable; best friends. His friendship and status offered me a bit of protection, I guess. We have complete opposite approaches to life, but somehow it works. He smooths my edges."

"I've noticed," you say wryly, thinking of Hyunjin's casual invasion of Christopher's space, the way he teases Christopher and also seems to delight in drawing his best friend out of his well-manicured shell. "He gets away with things no one else would."

Christopher acknowledges this with a cute giggle that makes you smile. "Jin tends to do that." He pauses, his eyes more probing now. "What about you?" he asks, his voice slipping into a different register, one loaded with curiosity. "How did you decide to start escorting?"

The question shouldn’t surprise you given what you’ve both been sharing about your lives, but it does. It's one clients rarely ask, a subject that usually remains as untouched as the emotions you're not supposed to have. You tap your nails against the wine glass as you weigh your response, momentarily tempted to give him the standard story: college loans, a suggestion from a friend, a temporary gig that turned lucrative. But you sense Christopher won't be satisfied with clichés. "It seemed like a better option than unpaid internships, minimum wage jobs, and ramen noodles for dinner every night," you say, letting a hint of humor show. "And I was good at it. Still am, according to some sources." You wink at him.

Your comment makes Chris grin. “So you started in college?”

“Officially, yes. But really it was high school,” you reply. You watch as Christopher's eyebrow raises at the confession. You know he’s silently urging you to elaborate, and you decide to give him more than the usual guarded truth.

“Started when I was seventeen,” you tell him as his expression shifts to one of disbelief mingled with intrigue. “I had already been sexually active for a few years and really enjoyed sex. But sex with other people my age was just not great. Teen guys think they’re amazing at fucking because they watch porn all the time.” You roll your eyes. “So I eventually started dating older men. One of my first boyfriend’s, and I use that term lightly because we never really ‘dated’, was older. Much older.” You pause, letting that sink in. “He liked taking care of me, buying me things. And I let him.”

You notice Christopher forming a response, but before he can interrupt with a question, you continue.

“He introduced me to other older men who liked giving me expensive gifts in return for my time. And it was easy because most never really wanted sex. They wanted to talk, to be held, to have someone young and cute on their arm to impress their buddies. But when they did want sex, I made it worth my time physically and financially.” You can see the understanding beginning to dawn in Christopher's eyes, the pieces clicking into place. "No one called it escorting, but that's exactly what it was. I wasn't forced into anything or taken advantage of; I was just having fun and getting off at the same time."

You sip your wine, recalling the thrill of power and independence that came with those first encounters.

“I sold most of the things they gave me and used the money to help my mom pay bills, while also building my savings. The best was when I’d have the same purse or clothing item as one of the popular mean girls; they’d wonder how I was able to afford it not knowing that it was their dad who gifted it to me and probably bought it at the same time as theirs.” You chuckle to yourself. “By the time I got to college, I knew exactly how to play the game.” You hold his gaze, unapologetic. “And I knew I was good at it.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But why stay in it? You have the degree, the skills. Why not go corporate?”

You take another sip of wine. "Because it’s not as different as you might think. Invest some time upfront identifying your target audience and crafting the brand, create a marketing plan to sell the product, build a loyal client base, and the returns are higher than most entry-level jobs. And," you add, giving him a pointed look, "I don’t have to answer to anyone but myself."

Christopher considers this, his expression shifting from inquisitive to something closer to admiration. "Using your degree after all," he says. It’s not a question.

"From day one," you confirm. "Business school really taught me how to operationalize what I was already doing organically. And I was able to use my ‘hypothetical’ business plan as my honor’s senior thesis; I won the top award and even had a couple of the judges approach me to inquire about investment opportunities to get my company off the ground, not knowing that I was already three years in. I always knew what I was getting into, and I set the terms. No risk of a glass ceiling in my line of work."

There's a moment of silence as he absorbs your words, and you wonder if you've revealed too much or just enough. You feel exposed, but not uncomfortable. It’s strange, this impulse to tell him more than you should.

Christopher's eyes refocus on you, something warm and assessing in his gaze. "You're not what I expected," he says finally. “At all.”

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more... calculated. Less genuine." His admission surprises both of you. "The women I've had arrangements with before were skilled at telling me what they thought I wanted to hear."

"Hmm… Maybe you weren't listening properly," you suggest, not unkindly.

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "Maybe I wasn't interested in hearing. From them anyway."

The moment stretches between you, laden with implications neither of you are ready to examine too closely. Finally, you break it with a yawn that's only partially performative. "It's getting late."

Christopher rises, offering his hand to help you up, a gentlemanly gesture at odds with the dominant force who took you on one of the pool chairs two nights ago. "Eastern wing or mine tonight?" he asks, giving you the choice.

"Yours," you answer, the decision made before you fully consider it.

His smile, small but genuine, warms something deep in your chest that you promptly try to freeze again.

This is business, you remind yourself.

Just business.

The next morning, you encounter Hyunjin in the kitchen, helping himself to breakfast pastries as if he owns the place. Christopher has already left for an early meeting, leaving you to navigate his friend alone.

"Morning, sunshine," Hyunjin greets you, sliding a cup of coffee from a local cafe across the counter. "Christopher mentioned you take it with a splash of creamer."

You accept the coffee with murmured thanks, suddenly aware you're wearing only Christopher's discarded dress shirt from yesterday. Hyunjin’s eyes are observant but not leering.

"You look comfortable," he says instead, leaning against the counter with feline grace. "That's new."

"What is? This shirt?"

"No. Christopher allowing someone to look comfortable in his space. Usually he prefers everything and everyone as tightly coiled as he is."

You sip your coffee, considering how to respond. "We have an arrangement. It's professional."

Hyunjin's laugh is soft and knowing. "Sure it is. That's why he cancelled our standing Thursday dinner for the first time in six years last week. Because it's 'professional,'" he says sarcastically, his fingers curling in air quotes.

The information catches you off guard. "He did?"

"Said he wanted a quiet evening at home." Hyunjin's gaze is too perceptive. "In the eighteen years I've known him, Christopher Bahng has never once prioritized 'quiet evenings' over work or obligation."

You maintain a neutral expression, though something flutters in your stomach. "People change."

"They do," Hyunjin agrees, studying you over his coffee cup. "But not usually this quickly." He pushes off from the counter, moving toward the door. "Just an observation. Do with it what you will."

Before he leaves, he turns back.

"Oh, and he actually smiled during yesterday's board meeting. Nearly gave old Jenkins a fucking heart attack." His expression grows more serious. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. Just... be careful with him, okay? He doesn't do casual very well."

After Hyunjin departs, you stand in the kitchen, coffee cooling in your hands, his words echoing in your mind. The warning, be careful with him, strikes you as backwards. Shouldn't he be warning Christopher to be careful with you? You're the escort, the temporary arrangement, the one who will walk away back to your non-billionaire life when the contract ends.

Yet as you move through the mansion that's becoming familiar territory, as you shower in a bathroom where your products now sit beside Christopher's, as you slip into clothes from a closet that holds both his gifts and your own possessions, you recognize the danger. The lines, professional and personal, business and pleasure, are blurring.

You retreat to your wing, needing space to think. Sitting on the edge of your barely-used bed, you run through mental exercises you developed years ago when you first started escorting. Reminders of what this is and isn't. Boundaries that must be maintained. The danger of mistaking transaction for connection.

But your usual mantras ring hollow against the memory of Christopher's face when he spoke of his mother, the unexpected humor in his eyes when he admitted to his chip-on-shoulder past, the gentleness of his hands caressing your skin when he thought you were sleeping.

You're good at your job, at giving clients what they need all while protecting your core self. It's what's made you successful, sought-after, well-compensated. But as you sit in your beautiful room in Christopher's mansion, you face an uncomfortable truth: the wall you've carefully constructed between your professional and authentic selves is developing hairline fractures.

And Christopher Bahng, with his unexpected vulnerability and careful attention, is finding every single one.

****

“You look good.”

Eva’s voice greets you the second you step into your penthouse. Her greeting, blunt as ever, is paired with a glass of wine and a knowing smirk. You abandon your small bag by the door and take both.

"Good to see you too. You still have my key, huh?" you reply, sinking into your plush sofa next to her. It's strange how it doesn't feel as much like home as it used to. "And thanks for that."

Her eyes narrow, appraising as you bring the glass to your lips. "You've got that 'man' glow. The one that says you're getting fucked regularly but not thinking clearly."

You laugh, a real one, because only Eva could frame it like that. "Is there any other kind of glow?"

"Not for us." She leans forward, curiosity naked and unapologetic on her face. "So? How's the arrangement going?"

You knew this was coming. "More intense than I expected," you admit, swirling the wine before taking a sip.

"After a month? Ooh, do tell."

"He's... different." You're surprised by how much you mean it. "Not quite as straightforward as I thought."

Eva arches a brow, her interest piqued. "Different how? Kinky? Controlling? Batshit crazy?"

"Yes to all three," you say, and she laughs again, demanding details with a tilt of her head. You give in, recounting the first night at his mansion, the unexpected chemistry that's only grown since.

"And he's opening up to you?" Eva asks, her voice edged with disbelief.

"More than I expected," you confess. "He's told me some pretty personal things."

"Like?"

You hesitate but know there's no point holding back; Eva will get it out of you eventually. "About his family, like his alcoholic dad. And about his past, his childhood."

"The poor little rich boy routine?" she probes shrewdly.

"No," you say quickly, more defensive than you mean to be. "It's real. Our upbringings are actually pretty similar. Single moms working multiple jobs, scholarships to private schools, etcetera etcetera."

She studies you closely before speaking again. "What else?"

“He cancelled dinner plans with his best friend to spend an evening with me,” you say, watching her reaction closely.

Eva whistles low. "That’s serious. Sounds very personal."

You shrug off the accusation even though something in your chest tightens at the truth behind it. “It’s not supposed to be serious,” you insist, even as doubt creeps in. "It's still business."

“And yet…” She lets the words hang, unspoken implications weaving through the air between you.

You let out a breath and shift topics before the conversation gets too close to places you're not ready to go. “Enough about me. How was Miami?”

Eva takes the hint with a knowing smile. “Profitable and exhausting,” she says, leaning back with practiced grace. “The usual wolves in designer clothing. No one worth remembering.”

“Didn’t meet any potential benefactors?”

“No one who could compete with a billionaire who actually listens,” Eva retorts.

You try to mask how much that statement hits home by draining your glass and pouring another. "It's not all roses," you say lightly. "He's demanding as hell."

"Bet he is." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "In bed too?"

Your answering grin is wicked and unguarded. "Especially in bed."

She laughs, rich and full-throated.

The rest of the evening passes in a familiar blur of laughter and too much wine, Eva sharing more stories of her own clients and their absurd expectations until you're both doubled over in hysterics.

When Eva finally leaves with a hug and a warning to keep your head on straight ("or bent over if that's what he prefers"), you're left alone in the silence of your penthouse. It feels emptier than usual without her kinetic presence or Christopher's steady intensity filling the space.

You wander from room to room, picking up your phone more than once before putting it down again with a frustrated sigh. It's ridiculous how much you want to call him, hear his voice, even though you've only been away from him for a few hours.

****

The weeks unspool in a blur of luxury and unexpected intimacy. Your life with Christopher settles into rhythms both planned and spontaneous with formal events where you play the role of the exquisite companion on his arm and quiet moments of startling connection that weren't outlined in any contract. Time becomes marked not by dates on a calendar but by the gradual shift in temperature between you and the slow dissolution of the carefully constructed boundaries. You tell yourself it's just excellent acting, just the professional adaptation to a long-term client. The lie tastes bitter even as you repeat it nightly, like swallowing medicine that doesn't quite work.

The first charity event arrives five weeks into your arrangement. Christopher delivers a garment bag to your room personally, watching with undisguised anticipation as you unzip it to reveal a gown that catches light like trapped lightning. It’s silver and midnight blue, cut to accentuate every curve while maintaining an elegance that whispers old money rather than shouting new wealth.

"Tom Ford," Christopher says, fingers trailing over the fabric. "Couture."

The implication isn't lost on you; he had this made specifically for you, which means he'd been planning your public debut long before you'd agreed to the arrangement. The presumption should annoy you. Instead, something warm unfurls in your chest at the thought of him imagining you in this dress, directing designers to capture your essence in fabric and thread. You also wonder how in the hell he somehow managed to get his hands on your exact measurements.

That night, you stand before the mirror as Christopher fastens a diamond necklace around your throat, his reflection watching you with that particular intensity that makes your skin prickle.

"Perfect," he murmurs, hands lingering at the nape of your neck. "You'll be the most beautiful woman there."

"That's what you're paying for," you remind him, the words automatic, a defense mechanism.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, something flashing in their depths. "No. That's just who you are." You feel heat rising in your cheeks and hope you’re not blushing.

The event passes in a whirl of champagne flutes and calculated small talk. You play your role flawlessly. You’re charming, intelligent; the perfect accessory to Christopher's power. But you notice how his hand never leaves the small of your back, how his eyes track you even across crowded rooms, how he introduces you as his date with a possessive inflection that makes his claim clear without words.

Later that night, he fucks you against the balcony door of his bedroom, your face and tits pressed against the glass, the city lights spread beneath you like a carpet of stars, his grip bruising on your hips as he whispers "mine" against your skin with each thrust. You cum with his name on your lips, and the line between performance and truth blurs a little more.

You fall asleep against his pecs, lulled by the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing. His arms are tight and possessive around you, clutching you like you might disappear at any moment. You find the comfort unsettling but addictive, leaving you unable to pull away despite knowing you should. The house is quiet, the only sound is the gentle rustle of the sheets as he shifts closer in his sleep, murmuring your real name with a tenderness that makes your heart squeeze in your chest.

You wake to him tossing, turning, his forehead creased with lines of tension. He's still holding you, but his grip changes; it’s less conscious, more frantic.

He's having a nightmare.

His body jerks, and his breathing turns ragged against your neck. You cradle his face, whisper his name softly until his eyes blink open, haunted and disoriented.

"Hey, you’re okay," you say gently, brushing damp hair from his forehead, feeling a strange twist of emotion when he calms at the sight of you.

He doesn't pull away or try to downplay his vulnerability. He just presses his face into your shoulder with a low, relieved breath.

You’ve never seen him anything less than in control, and the unguarded moment overwhelms you, makes you do something stupid like care. You rub his back soothingly until his muscles relax, until his hold on you becomes less desperate, until he falls back into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.

And somehow, despite knowing better, you do too.

The pattern repeats. Another week. Another occasion. Another dress tailored and delivered. Another event blurring the line between business and indulgence.

This time, it’s a dinner with investors where Christopher positions you beside him rather than at the opposite end of the long table, a calculated placement designed to show everyone present exactly where you fit into his life, how he views your relationship.

The attention from the other investors flickers over you with interest, but Christopher's gaze is relentless, claiming. As dinner is served, his hand finds yours beneath the tablecloth, a subtle intimacy breaking through the polished, professional veneer. His thumb strokes your palm, and the deliberate intervals at which he reaches for you make your pulse escalate, make you hyper-aware of each touch and the promise it holds. Each course arrives with more intensity, more heat building between you, the food a secondary indulgence to the simmering electricity.

Christopher leans in to murmur something that sounds like an offhand comment about the market, but all you register is his breath on your ear, something far more intimate. His hand slides from yours, and you nearly gasp when it finds your thigh. He's talking to the table about the latest economic forecast, but it feels like he's speaking only to you, each word causing his fingers to inch higher, under your dress, teasing the edge of your panties while you struggle to keep your expression neutral. The investors around you are mostly oblivious, absorbed in their own conversations and the high-end wagyu steak dinner, but you're sure that everyone can hear the erratic beating of your heart. Your breath catches, and Christopher pauses, as if waiting for you to protest or stop him. When you do neither, he resumes his exploration, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your underwear, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. His eyes meet yours, dark and knowing, as two fingers sink deep, curling in exactly the right way to make you clamp around him.

You try to focus on the discussion about projections for the next quarter, on maintaining some semblance of decorum, but Christopher is ruthless, relentless, moving inside you with rhythmic precision. Your nails dig into his forearm, a silent plea that only makes him go deeper, more insistent. You’re on the brink, legs trembling, your free hand clutching the table for stability. The world around you fades, the conversation becoming white noise as Christopher crooks his fingers and presses his thumb to your clit.

After you cum quietly around his fingers, he sucks your juices off of them while one of the investors tells a joke, then leans over to press a soft kiss to your bottom lip. .

At a gallery opening a week later, he watches your reaction to the art more intently than the pieces themselves. A few days after, you return to the mansion after pilates to find one of the paintings you’d lingered at mounted on a wall in your east wing bedroom.

Then there’s a weekend brunch with Hyunjin and one of the many women he keeps in rotation, where the conversation and inside jokes flow so naturally you almost forget this is a temporary arrangement.

A work event at Christopher's firm reveals new dimensions to his possessiveness. You wear a conservative but striking maroon dress, appropriately elegant for a corporate function. Christopher's expression when he sees you is approving, but there's a tightness around his jaw you've learned to recognize: desire held in check, control exerted.

Martha greets you with an enthusiastic hug, her warm energy wrapping around you just as tightly as her arms. She is one of the few people in Christopher's company who talks to you like a real person rather than a precious artifact he's decided to display. There's genuine affection in her voice as she compliments your dress, her eyes sparkling with something akin to approval. “You’re simply adorable, dear,” she gushes. You beam, as you can’t remember the last time someone called you ‘adorable’.

Martha is charming in her efficiency, seamlessly transitioning between small talk and event logistics when someone interrupts with a question without missing a beat. You laugh when she mentions that Christopher will likely have a coronary if even one tray goes unsampled. "I don't want to be the one to resuscitate him," she jokes, glancing over your shoulder with a wink.

You follow her gaze and see Christopher watching you from across the room, a small smile playing at his lips. The look is possessive, approving, and entirely too satisfied, as if he knew you'd charm everyone effortlessly and he's proud of the show. He nods when he catches your eye, a silent signal that he's pleased, and you feel a ripple of satisfaction… or maybe that's just the champagne.

You're surprised when he doesn't immediately stake his claim, instead allowing you to navigate through the room with freedom. It feels like a test, like he's seeing how far you'll go and how long you'll last without him by your side. Then you realize with a smirk that he's just as likely pacing himself, saving his appetite for dessert.

The evening progresses smoothly until you find yourself in conversation with one of Christopher's colleagues, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes and sharper wit. He's entertaining, making you laugh in a way that feels genuine rather than practiced. You're mid-anecdote when you feel Christopher's presence behind you, his hand sliding around your waist in a gesture that appears casual but conveys unmistakable ownership.

"Lee," Christopher acknowledges the man by his last name, voice cool. "I see you've met my partner, Noelle."

The word choice, partner, not date or companion, raises eyebrows, including yours, though you maintain your composure.

"Indeed I have," Lee replies, eyes shrewd as they move between the two of you. "She was just telling me about her thoughts on the Miyazaki acquisition. Sharp mind, this one."

"Yes," Christopher agrees, fingers pressing slightly firmer against your side. "One of many reasons I’m attracted to her."

The possessiveness should feel stifling. Perhaps with another man it would. But you recognize something beneath Christopher's territorial display, not just ownership but pride. He wants everyone to know you're his, yes, but also that he recognizes your value beyond the physical. It's a distinction that matters more than it should.

Later that night, when you ask about his choice of words, Christopher pauses in the act of removing his tie, expression unreadable.

"Lee has a reputation," he says finally. "I wanted to be clear about your status."

"As your possession?" you challenge, testing boundaries that have grown increasingly flexible.

Christopher approaches slowly, stopping just short of touching you. "As someone who matters to me." His admission hangs in the air between you, more intimate somehow than the countless ways he's had your body. "Does that bother you?"

The truth, that it doesn't, that it warms something cold and protected inside you, feels too dangerous to acknowledge. "Just clarifying the parameters," you say instead.

His smile is knowing, seeing through your deflection. "The parameters are evolving. Isn't that what happens in any relationship?"

But this isn't a relationship, you want to say. This is a contract, a transaction, a temporary arrangement beneficial to both parties, designed to fulfill both of your needs. You should counter his words, remind him of what he’s paying for, but the way he watches you makes you hesitate.

The words stick in your throat, dense and unspoken, as he spins you around and bends you over the dresser, holding your face down against the smooth polished wood, hips pressed against your ass before you can push back.

You smile when you hear him undo his zipper with his other hand before he flips up your dress and plunges into you roughly from behind.

“Ugghhh!” you groan.

His hands pin your wrists in place on top of the dresser as he thrusts into you.

The motion is hard, immediate, a declaration without the need for language. He fills you completely. His hips crash into you, each hard plunge rattling the dresser and driving you to the edge of something you can’t quite define. He’s relentless, pounding so deep, over and over, like he needs to remind you in every way how he owns you, like he knows exactly how you’re starting to question everything. There's nothing soft or careful about the motion. It's blistering, primal, tearing down the walls you've built, making your vision spark white and your thoughts scatter, and you wonder if you're the one who's been wrong all along.

You’re gasping, breathless, the impact shredding through your carefully constructed defenses and unmooring the truths you’ve clung to, until all that’s left is Christopher pushing you to the very brink.

You moan loudly in absolute pleasure when you cum.

****

Saturday mornings become sacred somehow, an unspoken ritual neither of you planned. Christopher, usually awake before dawn even on weekends, lingers in bed, his usual precision softened by morning light and the absence of anywhere he needs to be.

You discover he reads poetry; Neruda and Angelou and contemporary voices you don't recognize. Sometimes he reads aloud, his voice roughened by sleep, words flowing over you like warm honey.

One such morning, as Christopher sits with his back against the headboard and you lie next to him, you find yourself tracing the scar on his ribs, the question you've wondered about for weeks finally finding voice.

"How did you get this?"

Christopher's hand covers yours, pressing your palm flat against the mark. "Street fight when I was sixteen. Three of my classmates decided the scholarship kid needed a lesson in hierarchy. So they found a way to distract Hyunjin after his swim practice and jumped me from behind as I walked towards the subway station." His tone is matter-of-fact, not seeking sympathy. "They learned a different lesson instead. Rich kids never realize they can’t fight until they actually fight someone who’s not from their neighborhood. And when Jin realized what was happening, he ran from where he was and his scrawny ass leaped onto the back of one of them. I think he broke that fucker’s nose for me." He smiled as he thought of the memory.

You can picture it, young Christopher, outnumbered but refusing to yield, that same intensity in his eyes that you see when he negotiates deals or fucks you. The image stirs something protective in you that has no place in this professional arrangement.

"And this one?" Your fingers drift northward to the scar on his shoulder.

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing before it's tucked away. "My father. Broken bottle. I got between him and my mother when I was ten and paid the price."

The simple statement reveals volumes about his childhood, about the origins of his need for control, about the boy who became this carefully constructed man.

You press your lips to the scar, a gesture of comfort decades too late but offered nonetheless. You feel his story in the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles initially tense when your lips touch the raised tissue. Christopher's fingers tangle in your hair, holding you close against his chest, a silent plea for closeness that he doesn’t need to vocalize, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

"I think you're the first person I've told," he says quietly, “other than Jinnie,” and the admission feels like being handed something fragile and irreplaceable, a token of trust so unexpected that it makes your chest constrict with a mix of emotions you’re not sure you can name. In that moment, the lines blur beyond recognition: personal and professional, fake and real.

You lift your head to kiss him on the lips, intending comfort but finding something deeper, a connection that scares you as much as it draws you in. You straddle him without breaking the kiss, your need to be closer to him a magnetic force that pulls you out of yourself and into this moment.

Beneath you, you feel his cock start to harden, and your hips respond automatically, sliding back and forth against him like it's the only thing they know how to do. When he’s fully erect, you reach down and position the tip of his dick at your entrance before sliding down on it fully, taking him with a smoothness that feels like inevitability.

Christopher groans into your mouth, a sound so raw and needy that it sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, amplifying your desire, making you wetter, hungrier. "Fuck," he breathes as you set the pace, riding him with long, deep strokes that leave no room for pretense or defense mechanisms. Just skin on skin, all boundaries obliterated.

You sink your teeth into his shoulder, the sex too good, your need too great to contain quietly. The bite makes him thrust upwards, hitting you at an angle that makes your vision blur and your breath catch. You dig your nails into his chest, marking him, claiming him in the only way you know how. As you drop onto him again and again, you see the earlier hurt in his eyes replaced by something intense and adoring.

The vulnerability of his confession shifts into possession. His hands grab your hips, taking control, guiding you up and pulling you down with a ferocity that shatters your last defenses. "Baby Girl," he rasps. "I'm not going to last." The words should be a warning, but they push you closer to the edge. You want him to lose it. You want him to know he's the only one who can make you like this, trembling, incoherent.

As his thrusts become desperate, frantic, you slip a hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, circling, pressing, needing that final spark to send you over. You clench around him, and Christopher’s growl is primal, possessive, as if claiming every part of you. This time, he cums first, burying himself so deep inside you that you can’t tell where you end and he begins. But he continues thrusting upwards until your orgasm hits, violent and consuming, his name tearing from your lips.

You collapse against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder as he leans his back against the headboard, both of you trying to catch your breath, the room ringing with the aftermath of what just happened. Words feel inadequate, too small for the enormity of what lies between you. Christopher strokes your back, a gentle counterpoint to the way you’ve just fucked him, and you let your eyes close, savoring the unexpected tenderness amid the wreckage of your carefully constructed barriers after only a month and half. You’re not sure how you’ll ever keep your distance, how you’ll ever keep it strictly business. But maybe, you think as you curl up beside him, maybe... you don’t want to.

****

The Tokyo business trip comes as a surprise: not the trip itself, which Christopher had mentioned weeks ago, but his insistence that you accompany him.

"I'll be in meetings most days," he explains as you pack. "But the evenings will be ours. There are restaurants I want to show you, places I think you'll appreciate."

The thought he's put into imagining your preferences, into planning experiences you might enjoy, catches you off guard. This goes beyond the parameters of your arrangement, beyond what you're being paid for. You tell yourself he's just maximizing his investment, ensuring his exclusive companion remains available even during travel.

The lie grows thinner each time you repeat it.

Tokyo unfolds around you like a revelation with neon and tradition interwoven together and energy humming beneath meticulous order. Christopher keeps his word about the meetings, disappearing each morning with Hyunjin in tow, returning each evening with the day's tension melting as soon as he sees you waiting.

He takes you to tiny restaurants hidden in back alleys that require passwords or personal connections to enter. He guides you through temple gardens at dawn, before the tourists arrive, his knowledge of Japanese culture surprising and extensive. He buys you small, thoughtful gifts: a silk scarf from a fifth-generation artisan, a rare edition of your favorite poet found in a dusty bookshop, a pair of earrings that he says catches the light ‘exactly as your eyes do when you laugh’. That last one makes you roll your eyes playfully, which he smirks at until you kiss it off his face.

None of these gestures were stipulated in your contract. None fall under the obligations you agreed to. Each feels like a stone added to a scale that's increasingly tipping away from the transactional and toward something you're afraid to name.

In bed at the hotel, with Tokyo sparkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, Christopher maps your body with the dedication of someone memorizing territory they never want to forget. His usual domination is tempered by something that feels dangerously like reverence.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs against your inner thigh, each word a breath on your skin.. He’s asked this before, his voice typically a low growl, an insistence. But not this time. There’s a difference in his tone now, a softness. This time it’s a request, not a demand, leaving the power squarely in your hands. It’s a change that thrills you more than you expected. You guide his head between your legs, your fingers threading through his hair, and he gives in to your silent response, his mouth on you with worshipful precision. Each flick of his tongue pushes you closer to the edge, unraveling you, turning your request into a litany of whispered “please” and “right there, daddy” and “more.” And when he's made you so wet and desperate that you're no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or never stop, he pulls away.

He’s inside you in one hard thrust, his body covering yours, his skin burning against you, his lips seeking yours with a yearning that matches your own. His moves are careful but determined, like he wants to consume you whole but is savoring each moment before he does. You hook your legs around his waist, forcing his thrusts deeper, faster, feeling the full possession of him. You bite his bottom lip, too close to stay silent, too close to hold back. Each drive forward is a question. An answer. A promise. A plea.

Tonight, when you come apart beneath his mouth, his hands, his body joined with yours, the name you cry isn't ‘Christopher’ or ‘Daddy’ but ‘Chris’, the forbidden diminutive only Hyunjin is allowed to use.

Instead of the correction you expect, his rhythm falters, his control slipping as he nuzzles the tip of his nose to yours and follows you into release with a hoarseness in his voice that sounds like surrender when he calls your real name.

Neither of you mention it afterward. Some revelations are too raw to acknowledge in words.

Back in Los Angeles, the pattern of your days continues to evolve. Christopher starts adjusting his schedule to maximize time with you. He’s leaving the office earlier, bringing work home to complete after you've fallen asleep beside him, scheduling his most demanding meetings early so his evenings remain uncompromised.

"You have a five o'clock with the Singapore team," you remind him one afternoon, having overheard his conversation with Hyunjin earlier that day.

"Rescheduled for tomorrow morning," Christopher replies, sliding his laptop closed. "I thought we could drive up the coast for dinner. There's a place in Malibu I think you'd enjoy with a fantastic view of the sunset. You interested?"

The casual reprioritization of his time, Christopher Bahng, who built his reputation on ruthless efficiency and availability to clients, speaks volumes. Even more telling is how he no longer phrases these changes as demands, assuming your consent, but rather as invitations for shared plans, assuming your desire to be with him.

The most unsettling part is how rarely you want to refuse.

Hyunjin notices, of course. His perceptive eyes miss nothing, especially where Christopher is concerned. You find him in the kitchen one morning, contemplating the coffee maker with theatrical confusion.

"This thing gets more complicated every time I visit," he complains, though his smile suggests the helplessness is at least partially an act.

You take pity, preparing his coffee along with your own. "Christopher's already left for his soccer game," you inform him, assuming that's who he's looking for.

"I know." Hyunjin accepts the mug with a nod of thanks. "I came to see you, actually."

The admission surprises you. "Me? Why?"

Hyunjin leans against the counter, studying you with that gaze of his. "Because Christopher's different with you. Calmer. More present." He sips his coffee. "Less like he's waging war against the world and more like he's found something worth protecting in it."

You don't know how to respond, so you focus on adding cream to your coffee, stirring longer than necessary.

"He's never brought anyone to the Tokyo restaurants," Hyunjin continues, his voice gentler now. "Those were places we discovered together years ago. Our private sanctuaries in a city that never stops moving."

The revelation sits heavy in your chest. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I care about him. And because I think, despite your best professional intentions, you're starting to care too." Hyunjin's directness is kind but uncompromising. "The question is what happens when your contract ends."

The question follows you through the day, through the week, through moments when Christopher's hand finds yours without conscious thought, when his eyes seek you out across rooms as if confirming you're still there, still his. The evidence accumulates like the formation of snowflakes—small, individual moments that together create something that shouldn’t exist, something substantial and something impossible to ignore:

The way he's memorized how you take your coffee.

The book of poetry he left on your nightstand, passages marked that made him think of you.

How he calls you by your real name in private, never Noelle.

The protective way he positions himself between you and crowds.

The genuine interest when he asks about your day, your thoughts, your dreams.

At night, in the darkness of what has become undeniably "our" bed rather than "his," you face the truth you've been avoiding. Your professional detachment, your carefully maintained boundaries, your emotional self-protection, all compromised by this man who approached your arrangement like a business transaction but somehow transformed it into something else entirely.

You suspect Christopher Bahng is falling for you, in his own controlled, measured way. Worse, you might be falling for him too. Most dangerous of all, you're no longer certain you want the contract to end in four months' time.

The realization terrifies you. You've built your career, your independence, your entire adult life on maintaining control, emotional and financial. On keeping transactions clean, boundaries clear. On never needing anyone enough that losing them would matter.

Christopher shifts beside you in sleep, his arm instinctively tightening around your waist, pulling you closer against him. Even unconscious, he seeks you out, claims you. In the sanctuary of darkness, you allow yourself to sink into his embrace, to acknowledge the warmth that spreads through you at his touch.

Your guarded heart, the one you've protected so carefully for so long, is quietly, treacherously surrendering. And despite every professional instinct screaming caution, you find yourself letting it happen, one moment, one touch, one shared breath at a time.

A/N: This was probably my favorite chapter to write. Hope you enjoyed it.

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revvedandrunning · 8 months ago

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Own a Gilgamesh for FOB defense, since that's what Creighton The Third intended. Four Ungratefuls break into my perimeter. "What on Hercynia?" As I grab my Utility Drone and Legionnaire Battle Rifle. Blow a D/D 288 sized hole through the first Mordred, it's slagged on the spot. Draw my Stub Cannon on the second mech, it dents it's armor with no effect because it deals 3 Explosive damage and sends a cloud of shrapnel into my Kutuzov piloting lance-mate. I have to resort to the Superheavy Legion Nexus mounted at the top of my shoulder with 20 Legion Drones already deployed, "Harrison Handshake, suckers!" the shot completely misses because the Ungratefuls are using HORUS mechs and the Legion Nexus has Smart, this does not matter as they are swarmed and disassembled by the drones instead. Draw my Superthermal Blade and charge the last terrified Ungrateful. He overstresses a space before reaching his friendly deployment zone, waiting on the reinforcements to arrive since a slagged reactor is impossible to stabilize. Just as the Harrison bloodline intended!

#lancer rpg #lancer #lancerrpg #lancer ttrpg #mecha #lancer nhp #lancer meme #lancerposting #do not cycle your nhp #harrison armory

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Cleantech has an enshittification problem

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

EVs won't save the planet. Ultimately, the material bill for billions of individual vehicles and the unavoidable geometry of more cars-more traffic-more roads-greater distances-more cars dictate that the future of our cities and planet requires public transit – lots of it.

But no matter how much public transit we install, there's always going to be some personal vehicles on the road, and not just bikes, ebikes and scooters. Between deliveries, accessibility, and stubbornly low-density regions, there's going to be a lot of cars, vans and trucks on the road for the foreseeable future, and these should be electric.

Beyond that irreducible minimum of personal vehicles, there's the fact that individuals can't install their own public transit system; in places that lack the political will or means to create working transit, EVs are a way for people to significantly reduce their personal emissions.

In policy circles, EV adoption is treated as a logistical and financial issue, so governments have focused on making EVs affordable and increasing the density of charging stations. As an EV owner, I can affirm that affordability and logistics were important concerns when we were shopping for a car.

But there's a third EV problem that is almost entirely off policy radar: enshittification.

An EV is a rolling computer in a fancy case with a squishy person inside of it. While this can sound scary, there are lots of cool implications for this. For example, your EV could download your local power company's tariff schedule and preferentially charge itself when the rates are lowest; they could also coordinate with the utility to reduce charging when loads are peaking. You can start them with your phone. Your repair technician can run extensive remote diagnostics on them and help you solve many problems from the road. New features can be delivered over the air.

That's just for starters, but there's so much more in the future. After all, the signal virtue of a digital computer is its flexibility. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing complete, universal, Von Neumann machine, which can run every valid program. If a feature is computationally tractable – from automated parallel parking to advanced collision prevention – it can run on a car.

The problem is that this digital flexibility presents a moral hazard to EV manufacturers. EVs are designed to make any kind of unauthorized, owner-selected modification into an IP rights violation ("IP" in this case is "any law that lets me control the conduct of my customers or competitors"):

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

EVs are also designed so that the manufacturer can unilaterally exert control over them or alter their operation. EVs – even more than conventional vehicles – are designed to be remotely killswitched in order to help manufacturers and dealers pressure people into paying their car notes on time:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

Manufacturers can reach into your car and change how much of your battery you can access:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

They can lock your car and have it send its location to a repo man, then greet him by blinking its lights, honking its horn, and pulling out of its parking space:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

And of course, they can detect when you've asked independent mechanic to service your car and then punish you by degrading its functionality:

https://www.repairerdrivennews.com/2024/06/26/two-of-eight-claims-in-tesla-anti-trust-lawsuit-will-move-forward/

This is "twiddling" – unilaterally and irreversibly altering the functionality of a product or service, secure in the knowledge that IP law will prevent anyone from twiddling back by restoring the gadget to a preferred configuration:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

The thing is, for an EV, twiddling is the best case scenario. As bad as it is for the company that made your EV to change how it works whenever they feel like picking your pocket, that's infinitely preferable to the manufacturer going bankrupt and bricking your car.

That's what just happened to owners of Fisker EVs, cars that cost $40-70k. Cars are long-term purchases. An EV should last 12-20 years, or even longer if you pay to swap the battery pack. Fisker was founded in 2016 and shipped its first Ocean SUV in 2023. The company is now bankrupt:

https://insideevs.com/news/723669/fisker-inc-bankruptcy-chapter-11-official/

Fisker called its vehicles "software-based cars" and they weren't kidding. Without continuous software updates and server access, those Fisker Ocean SUVs are turning into bricks. What's more, the company designed the car from the ground up to make any kind of independent service and support into a felony, by wrapping the whole thing in overlapping layers of IP. That means that no one can step in with a module that jailbreaks the Fisker and drops in an alternative firmware that will keep the fleet rolling.

This is the third EV risk – not just finance, not just charger infrastructure, but the possibility that any whizzy, cool new EV company will go bust and brick your $70k cleantech investment, irreversibly transforming your car into 5,500 lb worth of e-waste.

This confers a huge advantage onto the big automakers like VW, Kia, Ford, etc. Tesla gets a pass, too, because it achieved critical mass before people started to wise up to the risk of twiddling and bricking. If you're making a serious investment in a product you expect to use for 20 years, are you really gonna buy it from a two-year old startup with six months' capital in the bank?

The incumbency advantage here means that the big automakers won't have any reason to sink a lot of money into R&D, because they won't have to worry about hungry startups with cool new ideas eating their lunches. They can maintain the cozy cartel that has seen cars stagnate for decades, with the majority of "innovation" taking the form of shitty, extractive and ill-starred ideas like touchscreen controls and an accelerator pedal that you have to rent by the month:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/23/23474969/mercedes-car-subscription-faster-acceleration-feature-price

Put that way, it's clear that this isn't an EV problem, it's a cleantech problem. Cleantech has all the problems of EVs: it requires a large capital expenditure, it will be "smart," and it is expected to last for decades. That's rooftop solar, heat-pumps, smart thermostat sensor arrays, and home storage batteries.

And just as with EVs, policymakers have focused on infrastructure and affordability without paying any attention to the enshittification risks. Your rooftop solar will likely be controlled via a Solaredge box – a terrible technology that stops working if it can't reach the internet for a protracted period (that's right, your home solar stops working if the grid fails!).

I found this out the hard way during the covid lockdowns, when Solaredge terminated its 3G cellular contract and notified me that I would have to replace the modem in my system or it would stop working. This was at the height of the supply-chain crisis and there was a long waiting list for any replacement modems, with wifi cards (that used your home internet rather than a cellular connection) completely sold out for most of a year.

There are good reasons to connect rooftop solar arrays to the internet – it's not just so that Solaredge can enshittify my service. Solar arrays that coordinate with the grid can make it much easier and safer to manage a grid that was designed for centralized power production and is being retrofitted for distributed generation, one roof at a time.

But when the imperatives of extraction and efficiency go to war, extraction always wins. After all, the Solaredge system is already in place and solar installers are largely ignorant of, and indifferent to, the reasons that a homeowner might want to directly control and monitor their system via local controls that don't roundtrip through the cloud.

Somewhere in the hindbrain of any prospective solar purchaser is the experience with bricked and enshittified "smart" gadgets, and the knowledge that anything they buy from a cool startup with lots of great ideas for improving production, monitoring, and/or costs poses the risk of having your 20 year investment bricked after just a few years – and, thanks to the extractive imperative, no one will be able to step in and restore your ex-solar array to good working order.

I make the majority of my living from books, which means that my pay is very "lumpy" – I get large sums when I publish a book and very little in between. For many years, I've used these payments to make big purchases, rather than financing them over long periods where I can't predict my income. We've used my book payments to put in solar, then an induction stove, then a battery. We used one to buy out the lease on our EV. And just a month ago, we used the money from my upcoming Enshittification book to put in a heat pump (with enough left over to pay for a pair of long-overdue cataract surgeries, scheduled for the fall).

When we started shopping for heat pumps, it was clear that this was a very exciting sector. First of all, heat pumps are kind of magic, so efficient and effective it's almost surreal. But beyond the basic tech – which has been around since the late 1940s – there is a vast ferment of cool digital features coming from exciting and innovative startups.

By nature, I'm the kid of person who likes these digital features. I started out as a computer programmer, and while I haven't written production code since the previous millennium, I've been in and around the tech industry for my whole adult life. But when it came time to buy a heat-pump – an investment that I expected to last for 20 years or more – there was no way I was going to buy one of these cool new digitally enhanced pumps, no matter how much the reviewers loved them. Sure, they'd work well, but it's precisely because I'm so knowledgeable about high tech that I could see that they would fail very, very badly.

You may think EVs are bullshit, and they are – though there will always be room for some personal vehicles, and it's better for people in transit deserts to drive EVs than gas-guzzlers. You may think rooftop solar is a dead-end and be all-in on utility scale solar (I think we need both, especially given the grid-disrupting extreme climate events on our horizon). But there's still a wide range of cleantech – induction tops, heat pumps, smart thermostats – that are capital intensive, have a long duty cycle, and have good reasons to be digitized and networked.

Take home storage batteries: your utility can push its rate card to your battery every time they change their prices, and your battery can use that information to decide when to let your house tap into the grid, and when to switch over to powering your home with the solar you've stored up during the day. This is a very old and proven pattern in tech: the old Fidonet BBS network used a version of this, with each BBS timing its calls to other nodes to coincide with the cheapest long-distance rates, so that messages for distant systems could be passed on:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FidoNet

Cleantech is a very dynamic sector, even if its triumphs are largely unheralded. There's a quiet revolution underway in generation, storage and transmission of renewable power, and a complimentary revolution in power-consumption in vehicles and homes:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/12/s-curve/#anything-that-cant-go-on-forever-eventually-stops

But cleantech is too important to leave to the incumbents, who are addicted to enshittification and planned obsolescence. These giant, financialized firms lack the discipline and culture to make products that have the features – and cost savings – to make them appealing to the very wide range of buyers who must transition as soon as possible, for the sake of the very planet.

It's not enough for our policymakers to focus on financing and infrastructure barriers to cleantech adoption. We also need a policy-level response to enshittification.

Ideally, every cleantech device would be designed so that it was impossible to enshittify – which would also make it impossible to brick:

Based on free software (best), or with source code escrowed with a trustee who must release the code if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

All patents in a royalty-free patent-pool (best); or in a trust that will release them into a royalty-free pool if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

No parts-pairing or other DRM permitted (best); or with parts-pairing utilities available to all parties on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best);

All diagnostic and error codes in the public domain, with all codes in the clear within the device (best); or with decoding utilities available on demand to all comers on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best).

There's an obvious business objection to this: it will reduce investment in innovative cleantech because investors will perceive these restrictions as limits on the expected profits of their portfolio companies. It's true: these measures are designed to prevent rent-extraction and other enshittificatory practices by cleantech companies, and to the extent that investors are counting on enshittification rents, this might prevent them from investing.

But that has to be balanced against the way that a general prohibition on enshittificatory practices will inspire consumer confidence in innovative and novel cleantech products, because buyers will know that their investments will be protected over the whole expected lifespan of the product, even if the startup goes bust (nearly every startup goes bust). These measures mean that a company with a cool product will have a much larger customer-base to sell to. Those additional sales more than offset the loss of expected revenue from cheating and screwing your customers by twiddling them to death.

There's also an obvious legal objection to this: creating these policies will require a huge amount of action from Congress and the executive branch, a whole whack of new rules and laws to make them happen, and each will attract court-challenges.

That's also true, though it shouldn't stop us from trying to get legal reforms. As a matter of public policy, it's terrible and fucked up that companies can enshittify the things we buy and leave us with no remedy.

However, we don't have to wait for legal reform to make this work. We can take a shortcut with procurement – the things governments buy with public money. The feds, the states and localities buy a lot of cleantech: for public facilities, for public housing, for public use. Prudent public policy dictates that governments should refuse to buy any tech unless it is designed to be enshittification-resistant.

This is an old and honorable tradition in policymaking. Lincoln insisted that the rifles he bought for the Union Army come with interoperable tooling and ammo, for obvious reasons. No one wants to be the Commander in Chief who shows up on the battlefield and says, "Sorry, boys, war's postponed, our sole supplier decided to stop making ammunition."

By creating a market for enshittification-proof cleantech, governments can ensure that the public always has the option of buying an EV that can't be bricked even if the maker goes bust, a heat-pump whose digital features can be replaced or maintained by a third party of your choosing, a solar controller that coordinates with the grid in ways that serve their owners – not the manufacturers' shareholders.

We're going to have to change a lot to survive the coming years. Sure, there's a lot of scary ways that things can go wrong, but there's plenty about our world that should change, and plenty of ways those changes could be for the better. It's not enough for policymakers to focus on ensuring that we can afford to buy whatever badly thought-through, extractive tech the biggest companies want to foist on us – we also need a focus on making cleantech fit for purpose, truly smart, reliable and resilient.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

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/2024/06/26/unplanned-obsolescence/#better-micetraps

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lovesick-desires · 7 months ago

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please bless us with your writings. I need to see yandere jayce talis alphabet.

JAYCE TALIS

YANDERE ALPHABET — REQUESTED BY AN ANONYMOUS USER

CONTENT WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, season 2 spoilers, yandere behavior, manipulation, swearing, sexual behavior/touch, abuse of power, kidnapping, irrational fear of being abandoned, no use of Y/N, mentions of drugging, guilt tripping, verbal abuse, degrading behavior, mentions of psychotic break, mentions of going insane, rage-induced violence, mentions of Stockholm syndrome WORD COUNT: 3.2k JAYCE'S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: overprotective, possessive

AFFECTION

How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

❥ From the start, Jayce would be physically affectionate.

❥ He is a really affectionate guy. From soft touches like putting his hand on your shoulder to putting his arm around your waist. This man has his hands all over you.

❥ In regards to intensity in public spaces, you won't get much more than a hand on the ass or a kiss nearing the jawline.

❥ If he's willing to do that in public, imagine what he is like in private.

❥ Oh boy, his hands are on you 24/7 if you two are private, especially if you two live together.

❥ All I am saying is just be prepared for a slap on the ass or two in private.

"Hey, babe, sorry, sometimes I can't help myself."

BLOOD

How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

❥ For S1 Jayce, I personally can not see him as a messy kind of yandere.

❥ He would utilize his power and charisma to take care of any possible obstacle in his way to you.

❥ Despite his golden retriever exterior, this man is smart and knows exactly what he is doing.

❥ In regards to S2 Jayce, this man has changed into a man who will utilize his strength to his advantage as well.

❥ He has been through hell and back and is more than willing to protect you at any means deemed necessary.

"I... will NOT lose you again, okay? Be mad at me for my actions if you want, but I did what I had to."

CRUELTY

How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

❥ Jayce is not the kind of man to abduct you as he would rather win you over the traditional way.

❥ However, if you push him too hard, he might resort to extreme measures.

❥ Look, you pushed the man too far. Just let him love you, please!

❥ However, he would not be cruel to you. He would try and understand your point of view as much as he can but he can't just let you go. What if you leave and never come back? What if you date someone else? What if you cut him out of your life? Please don't leave him. He needs you.

"I... I can't lose you, babe. I am sorry it came to this, but you have to understand I am doing what is best for you, for us!"

DARLING

Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

❥ Jayce, as a free spirit himself, understands your wants and needs for freedom and he will respect your choices.

❥ However, he will not let them put themself in danger at all.

❥ If there is any possibility of you getting hurt, Jayce forbids you from doing it.

❥ It's just for your own good.

"No, babe, that's way too dangerous. Let's... uh... do this instead! Yeah!"

EXPOSED

How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

❥ Jayce is a complete and utter softie, much to his own digression.

❥ When it comes to you, his heart is bare.

❥ He wants you to know how much he utterly adores you and is very good with showing it.

❥ However, his kindness can be easily exploited for weakness, but don't do it too often or he can catch on.

❥ If he catches on, he might be disappointed in you for how you treated.

"Babe, I don't appreciate you trying to exploit me here... I just want you to know how much I love you..."

FIGHT

How would they feel if their darling fought back?

❥ For S1 Jayce, oh man, this man would be devastated.

❥ While he understands what he is doing is wrong, he only wants you to love him like how he loves you.

❥ He might even start crying just because you tried to fight against him to get away.

❥ However, S2 Jayce would be a little more toughened up and gruff with you fighting.

❥ While it still hurts his feelings, he is more dominant with you and willing to put you in your place.

"Hey, babe, cut it out. Stop... struggling!"

GAME

Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

❥ Absolutely not, he does not want you to leave him.

❥ If he found out you broken out of where he kept you, he would most likely have a mental breakdown before running out frantically to try and find you.

❥ He really only wants you to love him.

❥ And let him love you.

❥ Please, let him love you.

"Babe? Babe! Where are you?!"

HELL

What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

❥ Probably if they are kidnapped by him.

❥ Waking up alone in his bedroom with a pounding headache from the drug he slipped in your drink really threw you for a loop.

❥ When you would try to get up, you would hear the chain rattling. The chain was tied to the bed with a cuff attached to it around your ankle.

❥ It would be an incredibly confusing and scary experience.

❥ But don't worry, when Jayce gets home from the lab, he is sure to calm you down (or at least try to).

"Hey! Hey, babe! I am so sorry! I-I didn't expect to be gone so long. Don't worry, I will explain everything."

IDEALS

What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

❥ He would mostly want a domestic future with you.

❥ A house, a wedding, maybe some kids (only if you want them)

❥ He just wants to settle down and spend the rest of his life with you.

❥ Maybe, you could be a little house-spouse for him

❥ Man, he would love that.

"Babe, I'm home! Work was a drag, how have you been, hm?"

JEALOUSY

Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

❥ This man? Jealous? Oh hell yeah.

❥ It doesn't matter if you are with your family at a party or some guy at a bar, he wants to be with you more.

❥ Why do they get your time and he doesn't?

❥ He should be the only one you spend your time with.

"Hey, just curious, who was that guy? Is he a friend of yours?"

KISSES

How do they act around or with their darling?

❥ As mentioned in the AFFECTION segment, Jayce is a physical affectionate man especially with you.

❥ He constantly craves your skin under his, even if it is a gentle pat on the back.

❥ He always shows them off as his close confidant even though he wishes you two were more

❥ If you are his romantic partner instead, oh boy he is flaunting you everywhere.

❥ He is as proud to be yours as he is proud that you are his

"Hey, have I introduced you to my lovely partner? This is the one I'm always talking about."

LOVE LETTERS

How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

❥ When Jayce first meets you, he's like a lovesick puppy, constantly following you around and trying to strike up a conversation with you.

❥ If you are a council member of Piltover, he will try to get you to endorse his ideas to the other members, trying to show you the amazing things Hextech can accomplish even though it is just a ploy to spend more time with you.

❥ If you are a scientist, it's even better for him so he can show you all his ideas with Hextech that he has planned.

❥ Even if you are anyone else, he will find any, and I mean any, reason to spend time with you.

❥ Eventually, you two will get closer over the time you two spend together.

❥ Jayce will slowly warm himself into every aspect of your life, making you almost always near him in some shape or form

❥ Eventually, Jayce will start getting flirtatious, dipping his toes in the water.

❥ He wants to make sure you are comfortable with his advances. If you aren't, he will try another approach. If you refuse all his advances, he will slowly keep seeping into your life until you eventually come around to him.

❥ Eventually, he gathers the courage to ask you on a date. Maybe something small like grabbing coffee together.

❥ If you accept his request, he will slowly start requiring more of your time, removing you from your peers and any other obstacles.

"Hey, babe, I know you have some plans tonight with friends, but I found out about this really cool festival that's only going on tonight and I'd like you to join me. C'mon, it will be great!"

❥ If you decline, Jayce will be disappointed but act like he's brushing it off. He just wants to show you the world. But don't worry, he will certainly keep trying.

"Ah, I understand. Uhm, no matter, just... let me know if you change your mind, okay?"

MASK

Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

❥ The only main difference is how clingy this man is to you.

❥ He constantly has to have his hands on you.

❥ In private, if you are his romantic partner, he will be a lot more cuddly. Playing with your hair and giving you those puppy eyes.

❥ He knows exactly how to get to your head and heart.

"C'mon babe, five more minutes and then I'll let you out of the bed..."

NAUGHTY

How would they punish their darling?

❥ In regards to S1 Jayce, he does not believe in punishment.

❥ Violence only makes his love more scared of him, and he doesn't want to do that to them.

❥ Instead, he is more docile in doing things like the silent treatment and playing with your emotions.

"Babe, don't do this to me. You know how upset it makes me when you do this kind of thing..."

❥ On the other hand, S2 Jayce is much more willing to put his darling in their place.

❥ While he does not resort to physical violence against them, he will utilize verbal abuse.

❥ He will degrade you for your poor decisions until you are on the verge of tears, making him realize he went too far.

❥ After realizing this, he kneels down to you and comforts you, gently rocking you back and forth in his arms.

"Shh, shh, it's okay. I'm so sorry, babe, let it out."

OPPRESSION

How many rights would they take away from their darling?

❥ As mentioned in the DARLING segment, Jayce understands your rights as a human being.

❥ While he is possessive of your person, he is willing you to have a somewhat loose leash if you two are in a relationship.

❥ Just don't wander too far from him.

❥ If he abducted you, then expect to have a much shorter leash.

❥ The man wouldn't kidnap you unless you pushed his buttons and made him fear losing you. He didn't want to kidnap you but you left him no choice.

"Babe, I know you want to go outside, but you know I can't let you do that. What if someone sees you?"

PATIENCE

How patient are they with their darling?

❥ Jayce has a surprisingly long fuse. He is willing to play the long game to get you in his arms.

❥ However, if you keep rejecting him, that fuse might get shorter.

❥ He only has so much patience for when you play hard to get.

❥ He knows you must want him. You have to.

"Hey, c'mon, no need to play these games with me, alright?"

QUIT

If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

❥ If you die in an event such as Jinx's attack on Piltover at the beginning of S2, he would try everything to bring you back.

❥ He doesn't care if it is unethical. He does not care at all...

"Babe, babe, please come back to me..."

❥ If you die under his care after he kidnaps you, this man will absolutely lose his fucking mind. He would never forgive himself for letting you die.

❥ If he is somehow the cause of your death, he might actually go insane and try to believe you are still alive. He will refuse to believe he caused it.

"Babe, babe you're just asleep, right? Yeah, yeah, you are just asleep..."

❥ If you somehow left him or broke up with him even after all the guilt tripping and manipulation he used on you, he would be utterly distraught.

❥ He would try to move on at first but he just... can't.

❥ He begs for you to take him back, on his knees and everything.

❥ When you refuse, you really have him no choice for him to kidnap you.

❥ He just can not lose you...

"I'm sorry, but you left me no choice."

❥ If you escape him after he kidnaps you, he will check every crevice of Runeterra to try and find you.

❥ This man will leave no stone unturned.

❥ You will be found, and when he finds you, he will bring you home.

❥ Right where you belong.

"Hey, babe, miss me? I sure as hell missed you."

REGRET

Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

❥ Of course! When you wake up crying out of fear, the guilt hits him like a truck.

❥ He immediately starts to comfort you, trying his damn best to calm you down.

❥ He wants you to be happy, not crying out of fear from him.

❥ However, when genuinely considering the possibility of letting you go, he realizes he just can't.

❥ The man of progress no only wants to keep you with him forever, he also has a reputation to uphold.

❥ He knows damn well if he lets you go and word of what he did gets out, he would be done for.

"I-I just can't let you go, babe. You mean too much to me. I am so, so sorry."

STIGMA

What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc.)?

❥ It didn't spark until he first met you.

❥ You changed something in him that he didn't even know could be changed.

❥ He liked it...

❥ ...Hell, he loved it...

❥ He didn't want to let you go.

❥ To let this feeling go...

"Ever since the day I met you, I felt this... this spark... and it changed my whole life."

TEARS

How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

❥ If you are crying and miserable after he kidnaps you, he feels very guilty for subjecting you to his selfish desires.

❥ He immediately tries to console you, trying to wipe away your tears.

❥ He will get you your favorite things and foods to try and bring you around him more if you try to isolate yourself away from him while under his care.

❥ He understands why you are scared and wants to comfort your fears.

❥ Just let him comfort you.

"Shh, shh, babe, calm down. It's okay, I promise I am not going to hurt you..."

UNIQUE

Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

❥ Jayce is much more sympathetic and understanding that the traditional yandere.

❥ Unlike most yanderes, he tries to understand your needs and wants and accommodate to them.

❥ Like I've said before, this man wants you to be happy. No matter the time taken, the price tag, nothing matters to him but your happiness.

❥ He just wants to see your sweet smile.

"That's it, babe, smile for me."

VICE

What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

❥ Definitely his kindness. 100%

❥ He has a big, soft heart that he bares for his darling.

❥ If you are a cunning and manipulative person, you can get this man to bend backwards for you and make him loosen his leash.

❥ But keep in mind, he is kind, not stupid.

❥ If you push it too far, he most likely will tighten your leash more than what you started with.

"My kindness is not something you can just play around with, babe. Don't even try."

WIT'S END

Would they ever hurt their darling?

❥ Only if he went into like a psychotic breakdown.

❥ Even then, he would most likely immediately snap back to reality and realize what he did.

❥ Once he sees the damage, this man immediately starts crying and blubbering. Snot and all.

❥ He feels utterly horrible for what he did to you.

❥ Please forgive him, he didn't mean to...

"Oh... Oh shit, baby. I-I didn't mean to! I-I'm so sorry!"

XOANON

How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

❥ Oh boy, can this man worship.

❥ This man loves you more than life itself.

❥ He would literally kiss the floor you walk on if it was socially acceptable.

❥ If you two are in a relationship, expect a lot of praise from this man.

❥ He will constantly be telling you how amazing you are, bringing you gifts and flowers whenever he can.

❥ Even if he has kidnapped you, don't expect any less praise.

❥ This man just wants to love you with all his heart.

"Shh, babe, calm down. Just... let me hold you."

YEARN

How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

❥ Jayce is a man of progress as well as a man of patience.

❥ He can wait for you, he can be patient.

❥ However, if you keep rejecting him, he will get less and less patient with you.

❥ Why are you playing hard to get for this long?

❥ C'mon, you know you like him.

❥ Eventually, he would snap and kidnap you, but I would say that would take solid months of him pining for you.

❥ It's okay now because he has you now, don't worry, he just loves you so much.

"Listen, just let me take you out for coffee just once... Please?"

ZENITH

Would they ever break their darling?

❥ Most likely not.

❥ Jayce just wants you to be happy and love him.

❥ He's just more willing to go farther than most.

❥ The only way you would break is most likely from isolation from the real world.

❥ Stockholm syndrome would most likely get to you first, however.

"Just know that I will always love you. Okay, babe?"

ARCANE MASTERLIST

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