Mystery Science Theater En Masse

Neo Esaka, Episode 7: Swimming Through Apologies

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Warning: This fic contains some... weirdly written sex scenes.

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She makes it onto the Franconia–bound Blue Line Metro on his heels, an instant before the doors close, the petite Vietnamese girl he’s noticed lately leaving his place of earning at the same time as he does.

Benimaru: This is supposed to be the first sentence, and I'm already lost. What is this weird syntax?
Emi: I don't know. I'm afraid to read the rest of this thing now.

That the corporation employing her does him the same kindness is more apparent than the reason for her presence here.

Kyo: Wait... what? Did I just suffer a concussion here?
Keiko: I'd normally say something to you, but I'm lost, too.

On past sightings, she has tarried little, no sooner reaching the curb beyond their building’s front doors than hopping into a maroon Honda civic as it pulls up and rests there, suggesting an impressive level of familiarity with the girl’s schedule.

All: *confused*
Emi: This is so... wordy and all over the place. What is happening?
Keiko: I'm guessing that someone got onto a train and someone else entered a car.
Kyo: Maybe I should get hit by a train. It would hurt a lot less than trying to figure this Rubik's Cube of a fic out.

The older woman who is its pilot always greets her with that smile that proud mothers reserve solely for their children. Today, for whatever reason, departs from the established order.

Benimaru: It's a car. She's the driver. What is with this odd purple prose?
Keiko: I'm starting to wonder which riffer gave this fic to us now.

Standing on tiptoe, and with her hair upswept as it is, she might achieve a height of five feet. A suggestion of impatience describes her physical form, as if in her youth, bored with such tedium as vertical growth, her body had abandoned the undertaking unfinished, instead pouring all available energy into accentuating her pubescence.

Kyo: What the hell am I reading?!
Benimaru: I guess it was too hard to say that she's a grown woman who isn't fond of her own height.
Emi: No kidding.

In the delicious demilunes of her hips and calves, confections appreciable even through blue denim, are where girl and woman meet in equal measure, making her concurrently both and neither.

Keiko: Great, now we need to translate this stupid thing. I'd ask for Prower's device, but I'm not going to drag a child into this nonsense.
Emi: Translation: Not too young, not too old.
Benimaru: What? There shouldn't be a cutoff point for women. Beauty is for every age.
Emi: Is this why you flirted with my mother once, Nikaido-san?
Benimaru: Well, of course.
Kyo: Oh, give me a break, Beni. You thought that she was their sister.

Sylph and siren, she is the skin of dreams. The upper torso of her sweater defies him to form any thought unrelated to galleon sails with ambrosial tradewinds swelled. He does not often fail at such endeavors, but first instance appears to be this evening’s theme.

Kyo: No, seriously... what the hell am I reading here?
Keiko: This is worse than your awful poetry, Kusanagi.
Kyo: Don't make me torch you along with this crap.

His eyes find the employee identification badge clasped to a belt loop of her blue jeans. He learns her name.

Emi: We'd like to know it, too!

She is a researcher by profession, he guesses, or performs daily some other vital operation that places her in a laboratory setting more conducive to wearing denim than his starched office environment. He doubts that a place of employment should be all they have in common. Should they get to know one another, he believes they will find more of wonder and electricity than that to which a stolen glance could ever allude.

Keiko: Talking to her? Getting to know her better? The heck is that useless nonsense?
Benimaru: It would make a bit more sense if it was a one-night stand, but these folks are just nameless meat puppets now.

The train coughs and leans forward, begins its grudging wriggle out of the station.

Kyo: And then the train just fell over like a drunk during last call.

That during rush hour, one can at least stand comfortably is a fanciful myth in whose telling Metro riders old enough to be as jaded as he is still indulge.

All: *confused* Huh?
Keiko: Oh, wait... it's impossible to remain comfortable on a crowded train.
Kyo: Jesus, reading this is like trying to find the biggest prime number.

That one can sometimes find an available seat is a damnable fallacy. He reflects upon as much as she steps beside him into the only attainable standing space that doesn’t pin her against a stranger. He thanks heaven for fanciful myths as her fingers curl to grasp the nearest floor-to-ceiling pole.

The train gains speed, rocking back and forth on its course like a dog shaking off excess water. It is about the time that it throws itself into the tunnel between the Rosslyn and Foggy bottom stations that some unknown curiosity sets prickling the side of his face that she can see. Loath to turn and look squarely upon the lady, lest his curious appraisal be perceived as a leer, he shifts just enough to invite her further into in his field of vision. He pretends to look past her. The lady hides behind no such pretense.

Keiko: Translation: She knows that he's looking at her.

Her eyes are arsonists setting cruel fire to his face and neck. Her eyes are spotlight-wielding bullies determined to illuminate his shame as they call him out. Her eyes are loaded rifles with crosshairs trained on his concentration and confidence, blowing him apart with surgical precision. Her eyes are naked prima ballerinas leaping sweatily along his vision’s periphery in search of a proper danseur’s waiting arms. Her eyes are mating rituals as old as time, and like time, will wait for no man.

Emi: Can her eyes also cook, drive cars, and do taxes?
Benimaru: Those are some incredibly inhuman eyes.
Kyo: Well, my eyes are doing a human function right now.
Keiko: You're rolling them so hard, aren't you?
Kyo: Exactly.

The train pulls into the Foggy Bottom Metro Station as all moisture abandons his tongue for his palms.

Keiko: ...just say that his palms got sweaty. Jeez.

The doors open and close. The train grows even less roomy than it had been. He can feel her gaze drilling into his resolve as expertly as his head. The tug of cords invisible and intangible that are affixed to his chin threaten to swing his gaze into hers. Such a collision would mangle him like an auto wreck, and he knows it. He fears that she knows it too, and that this is the reason for her stare.

Emi: Wow, that's one hard red string.

She has read him like a battered favorite tome, one whose pages she has dog-eared into an easily referenced catalogue of stimulating bits, passages to be visited and revisited with relish. As a beast senses an approaching storm, she has intuited the primal coil twisting at his core, can sense his lust, and knows how deep it goes. Of this, he is certain.

Kyo: Is this really supposed to be an erotica oneshot? What is this?
Emi: It's the worst English course of your lifetime, Master Kyo.
Kyo: I'd drop out on the first day.
Emi: But you write poetry.
Keiko: No, he writes awful poetry.
Kyo: *glares at Keiko* Shut up.

Her face is a celestial body drawn before the sun, eclipsing all else that his sight might find. Her face is a looking glass, inviting reflection upon fevers heretofore unconsidered for want of aroused lady flesh to press them against. Her face is Eden’s apple, a damning house of all things bright and beauteous, promising to make a god of an intrepid soul. Her face is a rift in the thunderheads of banal ubiquity overhanging his days, a light shaft on a cloudy day.

Benimaru: *points at Keiko's face* And look at her face. She is not amused with this absurd fluff.

The Franconia-bound Blue Line eases onward, leaving Foggy Bottom Station behind like molted skin of steel and stone. That hard curve immediately before Rosslyn Station rises out of his nightmares to damn his reticence and take matters into hand.

Keiko: Damn this nonsensical yammering.
Emi: Miss Hedgehog's words aren't this terrible. Miss Prower's words aren't this terrible.
Keiko: Kusanagi's words aren't this terrible.
Kyo: Thanks for the half-assed compliment, Tsukino.

As if selecting its moment to coincide with the instant that she chances to release the pole, the train lurches the way it always does when hugging tightly turning tracks.

Benimaru: It was rolling over before it procceded to begin its slow, painful demise. You know, it's much like our waning attention to this purple fic.
Emi: It's more purple than Barney the Dinosaur.
Kyo: It'll be more purple than Prince in a minute.
Keiko: Don't compare him to this nonsense, Kusanagi.

It cants to the right, a clumsy pet falling just short of a rollover trick. The behemoth shimmies from tail to nose as kinetics hurl her away from its doors and against his chest before either of them can react. Time melts, no match for her incandescence. He can do little, cast adrift in its drowning pool, except tread water and watch their series of events play out with excruciating slowness.

Kyo: Drowning slowly is a better choice than trying to read the rest of this thing.

Too late, she attempts to reclaim the post to which she’d clung a second earlier. Her fingers close on air. Her arms windmill, questing after a stable impediment where there is none to prevent her from falling prostrate on the floor. Her needs and his galvanize his extremities, frequent rebels against his judgment, forcing them into motion. They know before he does, knew the first time he ever saw her, that he could ill afford to remain a bystander where she was concerned.

Keiko: Translation: She almost fell and he's about to catch her.
Emi: *bored* Oh, I can't wait for that flowery description.

He steps forward on his right foot, interrupting. His hands swoop in like swift angels to deliver her from injurious fate. His left catches her shoulder as if he is the one falling, as if it is she who is saving him. His right goes for her waist before his fears can lobby against it. His arm follows his fingertips in their circle around her waist, jubilating in the firmness beneath her sweater. She spills into his arms, their collision tipping him backward against the train doors.

Kyo: Turns out that she was actually a bag of marbles the whole time.

Her fragrance wafts as she reaches for him, its pheromone serenading his senses. His eyes fall into hers like polished stones into a lake swimming with secrets.

Keiko: Plop.
Emi: He has some seriously loose eyeballs.
Benimaru: They were a set of googly eyes? How ridiculous.

She stumbles against his chest, mashing out his breath. His thoughts scatters like petals on the wind as he tries to decide what he’ll say once they let go of one another.

Keiko: Those weird sentences made it sound like he was choking to death.
Benimaru: Well, a lot of purple prose can do that to you.

He is a beast in a trap, first unable to dare return her interest, now unable to tear his gaze from hers. He is her satellite, attracted and held revolving about her unnamed cosmic body, from which he cannot stray, and does not wish to. He is a lyric unsung, one whose long-missed melody has at last tumbled into his accompaniment, that the world might appreciate their symphony.

Emi: The symphony was full of brown notes.

The train completes that devil’s arc, pulling into Rosslyn Station. Unbalanced passengers find their footing, redistribute their weight in seats they share with strangers. The doors open inviting passengers onto whichever side of them brings them closer to their respective destinations. The doors close, carrying

Benimaru: Carrying what?
Kyo: How the heck should I know? At least it's one less pretentious sentence that Tsukino has to translate into human speak.

She does not let go of him. Her palms flatten against his chest. She stares a moment longer at his face before laying one cheek against him and closing her eyes. Her fingernails whisper raking obscenities down the front of his work shirt and necktie, testing the hardness of the muscles they conceal, stoking his desire to tear the garments off in shreds and offer her skin. She breathes deeply, in a way that drags the imagined sound of her orgasm across his mind like chenille.

Keiko: If only a woman would just crash into you in a crowded train and immediately talk dirty.
Emi: I'm so lost. What is happening?
Keiko: *awkwardly gestures to the paragraph* ...that.
Benimaru: Really, who in their right mind would be inclined to give this nonsense to us?
Kyo: Hmm. The best guesses that I have so far are Sonia and Spikes.
Emi: Very possible. Miss Morgan or Miss Prower could've also been the culprit.
Kyo: Goth Girl? Possible. I doubt that it's Glasses, though. She always delivers things in to us person.
Keiko: Maybe Miyuki had something to do with it.
Emi: Also possible.

She does not let go of him as his shivering hand hugs slides down her arm, as his fingers slip into that Valhalla between girlflesh and denim.

Benimaru: "Girlflesh"? That's a new term.
Kyo: It's also dumb.

He does not let go of her. His arm tightens around her waist as his daredevil answers her call.

Emi: His "daredevil"? Is that a euphemism for "penis"?

He leans against the doors behind him, lets them support his weight and hers. Giving her shoulder a squeeze, he tests drawing her close to see if she will follow. He does not let go of her as she pins him against the doors, as her hand creeps down his side to his rising tumescence.

Emi: His rising... what? Is that another euphemism for "penis"?
Keiko: ...yes.

He feels himself swell at her touch, glad for the deceptive forecast of a morning ran shower that never materialized, but had inspired him to wear his trench coat.

Benimaru: And after the random weather talk, it's off to the weirdly written sex scene!

The hang of the garment and of the jacket she wears over her cardigan offers welcome concealment to roaming hands.

Kyo: So they're just gonna feel each other up in a train. Okay...
Keiko: This is probably the only time where that little mantra will work, Kusanagi.
Kyo: The "it's just a fic, I should really just relax" thing?
Keiko: Uh-huh.

He drapes an arm about her shoulders. She folds into his opened coat, her back to the remaining passengers. Disinterested reflections of their fellow commuters bear the only witness to what transpires inside those two coats.

Emi: Everyone's conveniently bored so they can just do it.

He unfastens her cardigan’s two buttons as she lifts the hem of the t-shirt she wears beneath it and admits him to her promised land. Like stolen candy, they savor the press of her thigh against his, the inebriate of his fingernails describing fuck along the sensitive arcs of her abdomen.

Benimaru: I think I've read those two sentences five times now. I'm still lost. How are you supposed to describe "fuck"?
Keiko: I don't know.

Her stomach, an unspoiled flatland upon which a fortunate man might die myriad deaths, hitches in reply to his initials where he traces them above her navel. Down that slippery slope grown slipperier with her squirming, down to seek the dewy pasture of her womanhood, his fingers skip like gambler’s dice letting it ride.

All: *confused*
Kyo: This is supposed to be sex, right?
Emi: I don't know. I have no idea.
Keiko: I didn't know that it could be so boring.
Benimaru: I'm wondering if I just slipped into a coma.
Kyo: *pulls out his Rubik's Cube* Oh, well. I'm done trying to figure this mess out.

As if through water, her arousal ripples, convulses throughout her frame as she fills her lungs and hand with him.

Benimaru: She inhaled him? He's a vapor? That's not good.

Echoes of secrets her eyes have divulged whisper along his hardness, flutter around and over its glans as she unzips his pants, reaches inside them, and makes him her toy. When she squeezes with all the strength she can muster, he resists moaning only by clenching jaw and lip until they hurt.

Emi: Well, that narration hurt me, so let's continue.

Her hand is an unburdened child turning cartwheels around a heather meadow, as committed to sharing free and surreptitious pleasures as Michaelangelo to his art, and every bit his equal in genius and prodigy.

Kyo: Her hand detached itself and turned into a gymnast. Sure, okay.

The promise ring of her thumb and forefinger cinching, tugging, erects monument to itself and to evenings that will cocoon them in his bedsheets or hers and question where his nudeness ends and hers begins.

Benimaru: Are they still on the train?
Kyo: *as he ignores the fic and concentrates on his cube* At this rate, they might as well be in space for all I freakin' care.

The revival tent of his pants witnesses the birth of new and naked divinities to which he bows a reverent head and merrily drowns in imaginings of predestined carnality yet to be enjoyed. They will choreograph cải lươngs of feverish ingenuity and sticky mouths and fluids drying into satin. His orgasms will run with hers.

Keiko: What's a "cai luong"?
Emi: Vietnamese theatre.

His hands invade her like burglars, larcenous things come to crack a safe of denim and wool.

Keiko: Well, that sounded uninviting.

Her clutch tightens on the handful of his shirt that gathers in her fist. Slick fingertips burrow past the elastic border of her panties, past the warm thatch of hair ornamenting her pubes, and finds holiness.

Benimaru: The end of this nonsense would be holy. Just saying.

His cock, every inch the unbroken maverick, strains to leap further into her grasp, her brand to wear like a medal of valor.

Two Metro Stations pass, unnoticed as wasted lives.

Kyo: My patience and sanity's being wasted on this thing.

He retreats into the sensation of her affection wringing him to fullest potential, the intimations of fruity shampoo residing in the glossy black upsweep of her hair, his errant fingers sliding against one another, teasing forth her sweetness.

All: Uh... what?

Buoyed by the tremors that betray his jaw when she strokes his scrotum, by the maddened rush of his breath as her sharpened fingernail meanders across his manhood’s aperture,

Kyo, Benimaru: Do not want!
Kyo: Jesus, just reading that sentence made my crotch hurt!

she presses closed eyelids against his chest and sighs. As the heat level rises in that luxurious mire betwixt her slippery thighs, so do his fingertips grow slicker, so does their lawlessness grow. If his tongue possesses a fraction of the talent fueling his fingertips, then she could relish forever being his.

Keiko: Who in the world uses "betwixt" nowadays?

Her swollen clit explodes as she comes, too readily divulging her combination as its blast radius extends to her toes.

Emi, Keiko: *crosses their legs*
Emi: Do. Not. Want.

Her orgasm stands his hair on end as it invades the very air around her, sets it shimmering like heat rising from a sun-baked road.

Benimaru: And it fried my brain.

Her caress, moist now with his pre-coital fluid, quickens along his shaft. She lifts her gaze to his and fucks his thoughts with imaginings that it is not her hand, but the furnace of her mouth and throat that grip him. He watches her moisten lips luscious as chrysanthemum buds, and knows that his end approaches.

Keiko: I swear, this person must've ran this thing through a thesaurus and picked out the descriptions that were the most "flowery".
Kyo: This thing makes "Twilight" look readable.
Emi: As flowery as those books were, at least I could figure out most of the sentences without having to look them up in a search engine.

She guides his hand to her bared right breast, to the chocolate disc of her areola. Its rubbery nipple, brown as ca phe sua da,

Kyo: A what?
Benimaru: Vietnamese coffee.
Kyo: Why the hell didn't that just say "brown as coffee"?
Benimaru: Because this thing's full of purple prose. You wanted this fic to simplify the descriptions?
Kyo: I wish it did!
Benimaru: Oh, keep dreaming, Kyo.

feels hot and insistent against his palm. He squeezes as if testing the ripeness of fruit, his fingertips still warm and fragrant with her orgasm. One could argue, as his thumbnail scrapes licks his devotion into that tightest nipple he’s ever encountered, that he is doing precisely that. Coupled with the firm heft of her breast filling his palm, it is more than he can bear. He comes, jerking and spasming as if by some unknowable palsy struck.

Keiko: That is no longer erotic. That's just paralysis.

He comes in joyous pain with tears filling his eyes, with unachieved prayers hissing between his clenched teeth. He comes as if he may never stop. Her eyes demand no less of him. His seed gouts, carves its way into the subway car like lightning slicing stormy skies on its way to Earth.

Emi: Why are we dealing with the world's sharpest... semen?
Benimaru: Everything hurts now.
Kyo: Gah.

He is grateful once more for the length and hang of their respective coats. Their maneuvers have aroused no discernible suspicion in their fellow riders. Only when she is satisfied that the last of him has been wrung forth, does she release him.

Benimaru: And now he's dead.

Thrust into the snug tunnel of the Crystal City Station, the train stops, spreads its doors. She steps off the train with her cardigan buttoned and the t-shirt beneath it perfectly arranged, re-entering a world swept away by the warm ghost of her breath where minutes earlier his chest had stifled the mewling throes of her coming.

Kyo: So... it's reality? Y'know, the thing that this fic's words aren't in?

She seems to float into the waiting arms of a twenty-something Asian Adonis whose lean athlete’s physique bears the impress of a cycling enthusiast, even through the denim jacket and cargo pants. The covert over-the-shoulder smile that she bestows upon her traveling paramour where he stands hiding inside his thrown-closed trench coat, is an ultimatum.

Benimaru: Is it? Really, now?
Emi: Not really.

It’s now or it’s never, it says, Follow me. You can win.

He doesn’t move. Adonis could be her boyfriend. Too much time is lost as every conceivable result of moving against the man hugging her plays out inside his head. Adonis could be her husband. The doors close. Adonis could be her brother.

Keiko: Adonis could be the person who is going to end this miserably written hogwash.
Kyo: Looks like you're getting some of Gloomy's speech patterns, Tsukino.

Too bad, lament the teeth she shows to him as Adonis ushers her toward the escalator leading up from the subway platform and out of the station.

All: *confused*
Kyo: Her teeth are talking?
Emi: Well, there was an exploding clitoris, so... of course we would have talking teeth.

He watches her leave on Adonis’s arm. Her smile, a wry and disappointed animal, remains intact, but now toys with the faintest suggestion of laughter as opportunity passes him by like an imaginary thing that might never have existed at all.

Benimaru: Her smile is an animal?
Keiko: That thesaurus is severely glitched.

The train chuffs like a weary hound, like a man suddenly grown tired of living, and sidles toward the next station.

Kyo: And then the train's engine gave out.
Keiko: Wow, this fic made no sense.
Kyo: Guess what else makes no sense? *slams his finished Rubik's Cube on the table*
Benimaru, Emi, Keiko: *staring at the cube in bewilderment*
Benimaru: You... solved it.
Emi: I can't believe it.
Keiko: Did you arrange the stickers, Kusanagi?
Kyo: This cube has no stickers, Tsukino. I guess this weird fic finally pushed me to solve it.
Benimaru: Huh. What a feat.

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