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celestie0 · 3 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader | oneshot angst [18+]

title. let me be free of you

He would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

ᰔ pairing. friends to strangers au - best friend!gojo x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru, your love of a lifetime, tells you he’s engaged to another woman. inspired by the novel & netflix series “one day” created by david nicholls

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, angst, mentions of sex/explicit content, coming of age themes, reader & gojo are in their 30s, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, cheating, lots of mutual pining & longing, bittersweet ending

ᰔ word count. 4.8k

a/n. hellooo! i've had this finished in my wips folder for a long time but never got around to posting it sooo just wanted to let it see the light of day haha. hope you enjoyyy <33

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“I’m engaged.”

The words leave Gojo’s lips as much less of a confession and more like a blabber, like a toddler desperate to keep conversation going in the face of a disinterested adult. Wasn’t how he expected to share the news of a lifetime to the love of his lifetime, but he hopes it breaks your heart to hear it.

He watches your eyebrows flatten from the crease that was bothering them before, and then slowly raise into soft arches above your eyes–those damn beautiful eyes that, even when they twinkle with hurt, still make his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recalls for a moment the night the two of you met, drunk and dizzy from drinking out of a shared bottle of Prosecco, which only had half of the liquor left in it to start when he had first found it bleeding out to dry on the grassy lawn at the front of your university. It was graduation night, the last day to celebrate finishing four years of hell, and he had nothing to his name other than a rolled up diploma shoved in the pocket of his suit pants and the charm left in the youth of his smile. He wanted to spend the night with Aiko Rei, which was not a unique desire as most men on campus did, and he had a fair shot of getting into bed with her just like all those times before. But instead he was sitting at the top of a staircase inside the campus’s English literature building, making history in the crisp year of 1986 by being the first man of the robust age of twenty-three to pass up sex with the school’s lady heartthrob for–well, conversation with a sort of ditsy girl that he just met a half hour ago.

“What do you plan to do with your life?” he heard you ask him, a hard enough question to stomach when one is sober, and an impossible question to stomach when one is already trying not to puke flat Prosecco.

“Pardon?” he asked, in hopes to dissuade you from the question. In hopes that you’d get the hint. But you don’t. And he’d soon learn throughout the years of your friendship to come that you never did.

“Your life!” you exclaim, “we’re graduates now! What do you want to do with it?” You pat harshly at his thigh, closer to his groin than to his pocket, most likely because you’re tipsy too, but he realizes you’re referring to the rolled up paper protruding at the pocket.

Truthfully, Gojo had never thought much about what he wanted to do after graduation. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d make it this far. Not once since he got here, not once since he flunked out of first-year history, not once since his father passed away during his third-year final examinations, and most certainly not after he got caught having “unethical affairs” with his communications professor just two months ago. And yet the esteemed board of scholars decided he was fit for a diploma anyway, and now he’s answering to, effectively, a stranger what he plans to do with said piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” he says to you, “I’ll do whatever.”

Gojo Satoru could get by with doing whatever. He was good at everything he did. But his teachers and mentors and his own father would always warn him– son, it’s better to be an expert at one than a half-assed show-off in all. Well, they wouldn’t use the expletives, but that’s what it had sounded like in his head.

His dad would’ve liked you. He was always telling him to find a girl that challenges him, asks him the right questions, and pushes him to become a better man, the kind of woman his mother was to his father. Much opposed to the airheaded girls of Gojo’s college campus he would sneak into the house and forget to shoo off before sunrise, an occurrence that happened enough times for the respect in his father’s eyes to dwindle with each woman he’d watch his son dispel from their residence. Until eventually, Gojo started paying rent as punishment.

So, twenty-three year old Gojo, what do you plan to do with your life? Or do you have no idea of anything that extends beyond where you are right now, sitting across this strange girl you’ve just met on the death of your educational youth, at the top of a stairwell lined with passed out, drunk newly grads at nearly 4 in the morning? Right now, he’s eyeing the hem of your dress, the way it’s ridden up slightly but the mesh overskirt still tickles the skin of your thigh. He’s certainly able to picture what’s beyond that fabric, and maybe imagine the color of your panties, but what’s to come for his life? No. As previously mentioned, he never thought he’d get this far.

Gojo is thirty-four now, eleven years since that night the two of you met. And he sits next to you on a garden bench under a pitch black sky with stars speckled across, but only dimly visible.

It’s been years since he’s seen you. You two had a “falling out” at the cusp of thirty, almost a decade of friendship fizzled away, because of his selfish actions. He couldn’t let you go, but he couldn’t want you the way you wanted him either. He didn’t feel like he deserved to have you. You were too good for him, and he knew it. So he wasted a decade chasing after other women, and in return, he lost the one he knew he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

It’s the night of your college roommate‘s wedding, all gathered here today to celebrate their love, and he knew he’d run into you here. You were the bride’s maiden of honor, and you looked beautiful. With your hair half tied up, a pretty clip twinkling with every movement of your head, and with strands falling down over the smooth curve of your neck, bare skin of your chest tightly covered by the nude fabric of your dress. He was fully lusting after you, and he has been all night, the picture of beauty and grace, and it was wrong. Because, again, he’s–

“You’re engaged?” you finally break through his thoughts, break through the trance that he was lost in by the sea of your eyes. Forever pulling him in like you were a wicked siren for his soul, when all you’ve ever wanted from him was his love.

He shifts a little, the thick fabric of his navy blue suit stretching with the movement as he fidgets with his hands in his lap. He’s sitting close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours, the contrast of his broad masculinity so evident against the feminine curve of your bare arm, the thin strap holding up your dress threatening to fall down the hill. His thumb twitches, because he wants to pull it back up into place for you like a gentleman, but he’s not sure if that’s what his hand would actually do. Because all he really wants to do is peel the dress off of you.

“Yes,” he says, still tantalized by the glow of your skin under pale moonlight, “engaged.”

“To be married?”

“Well, what other kind of engaged is there?”

“You’re not allowed to get married.”

He snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter, "I turn my back for one moment, and you've gone an got engaged? You're awful!" The strap of your dress falls down over your shoulder, his eyes immediately darting to it. He sees you pull the strap up back into place, and a flit of his eyes to your face reveals to him the slight dusting of an embarrassed pink to your cheeks.

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you. Distant commotion is heard, likely from the wedding venue as people engage in reception activities and dances and cheers, while the two of you remain in this garden escape, the wall of primly trimmed bushes sheltering you two from having to pretend to be people you’re not amongst a crowd.

“Aiko…” he hears you say beside him, and although the name of the woman that has rolled off your tongue is the name of the woman he’s supposed to love, it only makes him feel sick to his stomach to hear you say her name. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” is all he can manage to say. And he also knows this seemingly lovely woman is probably drunk off her face back at the reception hall, giggling at all the men that approach her from the sight of her flushed face, and he should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness over that, but he can’t seem to muster any. Unlike the grit he had to his jaw an hour ago when he saw you dancing with a man he heard you introduce to your friends as just an “old friend” of yours from college. He felt more anger in that moment than he’d ever felt watching his soon-to-be-wife getting talked up to by the sleazy men twice her age.

“She must be very rich,” you say. “She looks it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Her family’s very well off,” Gojo says.

“So will you become rich too?” you ask him, “when you marry her.”

His eyes flit to the sky briefly. “Doubt it.”

“How come?”

“The old man doesn’t like me very much. I imagine he’ll cut ties after the wedding.”

“Her father?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Well. I guess it’s not every father’s dream to find out his prim and proper daughter’s been knocked up by the good-for-nothing boyfriend he’s been threatening her to say good riddance to for months now.”

The silence finds the two of you again, but this time haunting and gutting. That was a blabber, if anything. So nonchalantly said, with no emotion or spirit, to the one person in this world who he’s always felt like he can be himself around.

“She’s pregnant?” you say beside him, voice breaking slightly at the end, and he can’t bear to look at you for some reason. Some sort of admission of guilt, but what for? What exactly was he repenting for?

He lets out a small laugh, like the absurdity of the situation finds him all the same. “Yeah.”

“That–” you start, stiff next to him, before he feels the tension relax but only rigidly, “that’s wonderful, Satoru. I’m–...I’m really happy for you.” You turn your torso to wrap your arms around him, and his lips brush the sweet skin on your forehead as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps one arm around you, a sort of friendly hug as he rubs the skin of your arm soothingly, and his heart aches from the emptiness when you release him.

“Wow…” you say, looking up at him with pretty eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you blink rapidly to process the information, and he wonders if you really are happy for him. He doesn’t want you to be. He wants you to be furious, to tell him off for getting another woman pregnant after leading you on for so many years, maybe he wants you to slap him, or grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him until all he sees is a million of you through dizzy vision like some paradise. He wants you to be mad, because it’d mean that you still care. It’d mean that you still think there’s something here to salvage between the two of you.

But he’s engaged. And he’s having a baby. What was more final than that?

“So…are you marrying her because of–”

“The wedding is in four weeks,” he cuts you off, but he knows the statement answers your question regardless.

“Satoru…”

He leans off to the side a little to reach into the pocket of his suit pants, and he pulls out what is now a slightly bent envelope and he hands it to you. You take it from him gently, holding it weakly like it was something beyond you. Like something distant and foreign and strange. When all it was, is a wedding invitation.

“Listen…” he starts.

He sees your eyes dazed as you stare at the lettering on the outside of the envelope.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y/n. And I know the last time we saw each other was–” Hostile. Angry. Disappointing. Ended with you cussing him out on the street and then saying you never want to see him again. “...not ideal, but I still care a lot about you, and, uh, so, it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding.” For fucks sake, even on the brink of losing you forever, he still can’t find the right words to say. “Aiko, she–” He tastes bitter in his mouth, “well, I’ve told her a lot about you, and she’d really love it if you came as well.”

You’re silent as you gently peel back the opening of the letter and then pull out the small card stock invitation. The gold printed letters shine as you inspect it, fingers tracing the patterns of words that profess the Rei family’s intent to wed their daughter to Gojo Satoru. Your Gojo Satoru. Your best friend in this whole wide world. He watches your eyes carefully, but he can’t discern what he finds in them.

“Gojo Satoru…” you drone off, “to be wed. And to be a father.” Years of late night talks of the future, of kids and Christmas and love, with reality seemingly sly on the horizon only to have crept up so abruptly. It was pinched between your fingers right now. That reality.

His shoulders sulk slightly. And when you look up at him again, there’s a sheen of tears in your eyes.

“I can’t come to this,” you whisper, “and you know that, Satoru.”

His heart breaks. A physical pain that twists in his chest so tight at just the sight of seeing you sad. Sad again over the actions of his own. They say you always hurt the one you love, and he had always wondered what sort of evil person would do such a thing, only to find out he’s only ever hurt you this entire time.

He should’ve kissed you that night the two of you met at graduation. Should’ve shut you up and all your existential questions by pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours. He should’ve taken you to bed and fucked you, and then held you in his arms until you woke up in the morning. Should’ve listened to you talk his ear off about how he’s just like all the other guys, who pretend to care, but only want to have sex and then never to speak to the girl ever again. And he should’ve laid there in bed, nose nuzzled in your hair, taking all the scolding despite having no intent to ever leave you.

Instead, he wasted so much time. Sure, he had your friendship. His best friend for years, but the two of you could’ve been something more. Could’ve spent the years together, instead of writing stained letters or leaving messages on answering machines while the two of you were miles away. He could’ve been waking up with you every morning with the scent of your shampoo on his sheets, instead of clinging to pillows in foreign motel rooms. He could’ve been engaged to you, and he could be whispering sweet nothings in your ear of how much he wishes the baby will have your eyes.

But his thoughts are lost in fantasy. He is what he’s done, nothing more and nothing less. His eyes fall to your lap, the invitation still held loosely in your hand, and then a droplet of water falls onto it.

“I–” you stutter, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks with a hesitant swipe of your hand, “I need to go.”

You stand up off the bench and he quickly stands up with you, grabbing your wrist to keep you here with him, and you halt but only with you facing away from him. He yanks at your wrist harshly, pulling you into him so his chest is flush to your back, his arms wrapping strongly around you and his nose nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in greedily like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

“Satoru–” you gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at his forearms that are tightly crossed across your collarbone. “What are you doing–”

“Say it,” he whispers, gruff and impatient, “tell me to do it, and I will.”

“T-Tell you to do what?” you stutter, struggling a little in his hold but he only holds you tighter.

“Tell me to leave her, and I will,” he says, his lips brushing at your ear now, the scent of your perfume maddening to his senses, and one of his hands slowly trails down and the knuckle of his thumb presses into the softness of your breast.

You squirm, a small and soft moan leaving your lips.

“T–” you breathe in harshly, “this is wrong.”

“I don’t care,” he growls, arms sliding lower to hold you under your breasts, so tightly that your heels lift off the ground. “Just say the word, and I’ll leave everything behind for you. I promise,” he breathes in deep, the desperation making his head hazy, “that I’ll do things right this time. Just you and me–”

“You’re going to be a father,” you remind him, and he shuts his eyes closed tightly, the responsibility of the word bearing on his shoulders but his desire for you overshadows every shred of sense or dignity or integrity he has left in him, because he felt like he was losing his mind after wanting you for years just to never have you.

He turns you around in his hold so that you face him, and he crashes his lips to yours, muffling the surprised mmf! that dies in your throat in surprise as his hands hold your waist, relishing in the feeling of satin fabric pulled taut over your curves.

Forbidden, yet a taste that he’ll risk because there was no curse that was worse than the fate of having to pine after you for years.

Ah.

But.

But it was all fantasy, this moment in his head, where he takes you on the freshly cut grass of this garden.

Something that only briefly flashes through his mind as his warm hand wraps around your wrist, from where he was still seated on the stone bench, and not on his feet holding you like he dreamed for. Like he longed for.

He feels the weight of his arm so heavily, as if it weren’t his own, and he slowly lets go of your wrist.

When he looks up at you, there’s longing in your eyes. A hurt that he didn’t even know he was capable of causing, just for him to realize that you’ve always looked at him that way, and he’s never been keen enough to know it until now. He grew up too late. He took too long.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches in for it, then flips it open and sees his soon-to-be-wife’s name on it. He feels nothing at the sight.

“Hello?” he speaks into the device when he holds it to his ear, and he sees you take a couple steps away, rubbing anxiously at your elbow as you pretend to busy yourself with the study of the lamp. “Yes, I’ll be there soon. I, uh, I’m just with a friend. A couple of friends, actually. We’re having drinks by the pond. Mhm. Yes. I will. Okay, see you soon. I—…I love you too. Bye.” And then he snaps the phone shut.

“Heading back?” he hears you ask.

He stands. “I’ve got to.”

“Okay.”

You two walk down the shrubbery of the garden that was arranged like a maze, him a few paces behind you, and he watches the delicate line of your posture as your hand brushes against the green walls of foliage that encase the two of you, the feeling of wanting to touch you and hold you almost suffocating.

“Hey,” he calls out to you, and he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. You turn around immediately to face him, like his voice was permission to do so.

“Yes?” you ask.

He blinks up at the starry sky, and then looks at you again. The soft cast of distant warm lighting falls over your face, making you appear like a renaissance painting, similar to those that you would point out to him at museums when you two would see each other on holiday back in your early twenties. He could never understand the charm of those paintings, no matter how many times you tried to explain it to him, but seeing you in this light right now, he finally understands the beauty that you saw.

“I’m, uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck, and then scoffs out a small laugh, “I’m a little drunk right now, but–” He stops himself. What was he trying to say? And was it of conscious mind? “I just need to tell you that…I really regret…not speaking to you. I mean, for letting the silence drag on for years. You’re my–...my best friend. We’re a pair, you know? The two of us. For years, people would ask me where you were. And why they haven’t seen us together at all recently. And it was hard to admit that we hadn’t spoken in years.”

You take the smallest of steps towards him, and look up at him with empty eyes.

“What I’m trying to say is, is that, well,” he finds himself tripping over his words, “I miss you. And I miss our friendship. And–...I miss having you around.” He glances down at his shoes, polished and reflecting off the moonlight directly above him. He rocks back and forth on his heels ever so slightly. “I know you said that I piss you off to lengths unimaginable to my tiny pea-sized brain, but I can’t help myself, y/n,” he admits, “I think you and I, we’re just meant to always be. In some how, or some way…”

You purse your lips together, gaze shifting lower to eye at the silk of his tie.

“Can we be friends again?” he asks, the words feeling juvenile on his tongue. Like whispered apologies between children on a playground after shoving one another onto wooden chips, except the wounds he’s left on you run much deeper than a superficial scrape.

You blink slowly, tilting your head up at him. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

You wipe your palm off on the satin of your dress. “I missed you too, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Your hand finds its way up your arm, until you weakly cup your elbow with your palm and look off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him. “There were so many years where I thought that there was something between us. And maybe I was foolish for thinking that way, that you would ever see me that way–”

“y/n,” he tries to interrupt you.

“But…the pain of not having you the way I wanted to was much less worse than the pain of not having you at all,” you say, your gaze finally shifting towards him. “But, the thing is, I needed to feel that pain to get over you. I had to.”

His heart stills at those words.

You glance down at the ground now. “I missed being able to tell you things. To laugh, and cry, and argue. I miss humbling your stupid ego. I miss being able to call you at any time, knowing you’d pick up when I needed you.”

His heart aches so much he wants to reach into his chest and hold it.

“The thing is,” you continue, “you would’ve been the first person I would’ve run to to tell them that I lost my best friend.” There were tears shining in your eyes. “But what could I do when you were the one that I had lost? Who could I have turned to then?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and in a swift motion, his arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you to him in an embrace.

You’re stiff in his hold, mechanical and rigid, so contrary to the soft tears you leave behind on the fabric of his sleeve, but slowly and surely, you warm and thaw. Your hands slide up past his shoulders, linking behind his neck. And his head drops to the curve of your neck, swaying you with him slowly as if it were a first dance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for hurting you.”

You breathe out slowly. “Just let me go, Satoru. Let me be free. Let me be free of you.”

He feels the air knock out of his lungs, and the two of you slowly pull your heads away from the embrace to look at one another, although your hands still find a place on his shoulders, and he still holds you close to him by a delicate hold of your waist.

He wonders if in another life, you two were happy. He wonders if he could ever take back all the decisions he made, and start all over again. On that day the two of you met on that staircase in the west wing of the literature building, he would make a different choice. If he could, he would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

“It’s time for me to go,” you whisper, eyes darting across the features of his face, studying them but with a familiarity that only you know, because you held his entire life in your palm. Your gaze meets his again, faces just inches apart, and the sweet curl of your eyelashes makes him weak in the knees. “It’s time.”

He nods slowly, his own eyes studying your face as well, except it looks foreign to him now.

It’s all been said and done. There was nothing he could do to right the wrongs, or undo all the pain. He was to be a father now, and his duties were now towards his wife and unborn child. And no longer to the woman he holds in his arms, one he’s sure he will never stop loving for as long as he lives.

It’s a sweet moment, the two of you gazing at one another. You look so pretty from this angle, looking up at him with the smallest tilt to your head and round searching eyes. His head subconsciously dips down towards yours in the second that he glances at your lips, but he stops himself. And when you make no move to create distance, he finds himself closing it again, until his lips brush against yours ever so softly. And then he captures them in a kiss, firm and unmistaken, finding solace in the way your lips move against his too, unsure yet passionately at the same time. Your fingers ever so slightly dig into his shoulders while his thumbs soothe at the skin of your waist, the two of you savoring the last moments of a kiss that’ll be the sweetest one you’ll ever know.

You pull away first, a small puff of air leaving your lips as you glance downwards. He rests his forehead against yours, never once looking away from your face. And you both breathe slowly, the soul of the chaste kiss entirely vanishing into the air along with all the hope that the two of you had left to make anything of the way you feel about one another. It was a kiss that almost disqualified any level of sin or guilt or wrong, because it was like one you two owed each other, after years of familiarity and longing. It was the goodbye that the two of you deserved.

His hands slowly let go of your waist, and he takes a step back away from you, softly clearing his throat. The distance feels like a galaxy away, and he briefly runs his thumb along his bottom lip, because the ghostly feeling of your lips on his still remains.

“Shall we head back?” you ask him, prim and proper in posture and eyes widened in a formal gaze.

His lips are parted, and he finds that he’s panting slightly. And then he slowly nods his head. “Yes.”

[the end]

a/n. i am sooooo freaking obsessed w "one day" by david nicholls and really wanted to write something inspired by it!! the book literally ripped my heart out and stomped on it like there were so many scenes where i just longingly stared out the window because of how shattering it was but dear god i really enjoyed it, and the show was also so dfkjhsfkhs i had sm feels watching it. so yea this was fun to write!! i hope you enjoyedd n thanks so much for reading :)

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paperclipninja · 8 months ago

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I'm gonna sound very old person yells at cloud but I don't care, I feel like I need to say this. We all (well most of us) know that messaging Neil with any headcanons/theories/wishes/hopes/dreams to do with the show is a no-go because it could potentially compromise the story he wants to tell or ends up telling. And yes, he is a grown up who chooses what to respond to etc and I think it's wonderful he engages with fans and answers a lot of lovely and interesting questions about his process, writing and journey etc.

However, there is another reason not to send theories and ideas about how the show should go to the show creator in the hope of a response: it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter whether a theory is correct, or a speculation may or may not play out. That is why fandom exists.

Online fandom is where we all come together to yell and cry and throw around weird-ass ideas and theories and look at art and read fanfic and unite in our love of characters and a show. A huge part of being in fandom, is the way fandom theories become like an understood little bit of fanon lore that some people attach to, others disregard. But it doesn't matter. And part of the fun of fandom, is when a new season or a new episode of the show comes out, you have this collective catalogue of ideas and theories and headcanons and you get to yell and scream, "omg it happened1" or "lol that that thing was ever talked about" or "thank god that theory didn't come to pass".

Wanting to know now (not that we ever will) and not wanting to wait until the next season to find out the answers diminishes the fandom experience. I cannot stress enough how much we are in the absolute peak of the fandom experience right now. The between seasons time is the ultimate time to be a part of a fandom (as I'm sure many people are well aware), knowing there's another season coming energises everyone to create and connect and speculate and it's glorious! I know it feels like it'll be like this forever, but it won't. Next season is the last and yes, there will be a flurry and uptick of all the energy and excitement once again, and I absolutely believe Good Omens fandom will live on and remain active and thrumming. But there won't be theories and what ifs and hunting for clues for the next season, and over time it will dwindle a little and plateau and some people will fall into other fandoms, and while it will probably bubble away, there won't be the anticipation that sits with us now.

My point is, fandom is where we get to throw around ideas and flail and be ridiculous and also serious sometimes, but it's all for us. For the fans. Showing Neil theories or getting in a flap about a particular speculation and asking if x, y, or z might happen isn't just about putting the creator in an awkward spot, it takes away what fandom is about. Just let this time be ours. If you haven't been in fandom before, enjoy it! Don't be in a hurry to seek definitive answers or know things either way.

It doesn't matter if any or none or all of the things that float around end up being correct or incorrect. Fandom isn't about being right. It's about being a part of a community and being able to share ideas and it's about it being FUN.

So TL;DR Stop sending Neil fan ideas because that is for fandom, not for the creator.

#good omens fandom #good omens #just a little rant #sorry I don't normally get ranty but here we are #I'll get off my soap box now

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keefechambers · 9 months ago

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I wanna be blunt about this ongoing James somerton suicide threat issue but I don't want to connect it to my IRL Twitter to comment on the dogshit takes I'm seeing there or the good and well meaning but maybe too kind takes I'm seeing here.

Obviously, I hope that this is a false alarm cry for help fake threat. Yes, it would reinforce that Somerton is a self-centered egomaniac who can't handle consequences but that's preferable to dead.

But I work in local news and let me tell you something. I've covered half a dozen family annihilating murder suicides and heard hundreds of men making suicide threats over police scanners and a huge swath of these don't happen because they're depressed or because people are mean to them on the Internet. They're punishment. A person with an enormous amount of entitlement towards people around them gets backed into a corner and they punish the people closest to them by killing themselves or threatening to kill themselves.

No one wants to talk about this feature of suicide because...you want to help people who are struggling and guide them away from this path and being blunt about the fact that sometimes people die of suicide as a consequence of their own shittiness towards the world does not really help actively suicidal people. But suicide rates are higher in men not just because they have higher rates of untreated mental illness (a societal issue we must address for the sake of all) but because some people, often men, use suicide (but more often the threat of suicide) as a tool of abuse and control.

I'm not saying somerton is like, an icky abuser bad guy, he's just a run of the mill grifter scumbag, but his actions in the past show a clear pattern of escalating behavior that aligns with this.

Somerton gets called out -> somerton alleges physical threats of violence against himself and his fans rally around him supportively -> Harry calls somerton out in a bigger way -> Somerton says he's hospitalized but there are inconsistencies with the story but no one wants to talk about that because you wanna be nice-ish about a guy who just tried to kill himself and now he's trying to be framed as tragic but it doesn't really stick -> somerton apologizes again but his apology is rightly called out for lies and manipulative framing as well as his continuing attempts to profit off the community he betrayed -> James posts a suicide note publicly putting the onus of his own suicide on the loss of his friend Nick who he repeatedly threw under the bus and now everyone is rallying to say nice-ish shit and wring their hands in concern over poor james -> indefinitely repeat this vicious cycle forever until he actually does die or finally gives up and gets real, intensive therapy and a day job.

Thats not to say anyone's concern is misplaced, it's 100% better for him to be a living scumbag than a dead one. He deserves the chance to grow and learn and have a life outside of youtube.

But you don't have to portray this as the action of a sad depressed man who got bullied off the Internet. It's manipulation, whether he intended to go through with it or not and whether someone intervened or not. Not denying that internet bullying is a thing, I'm sure there were some people who were shitty directly to James but he made the choice to not unplug from this and to try and keep being a public figure rather than taking care of himself. He could have deleted Twitter, blocked anyone who was an asshole, gone to therapy and tried to move on with his life but if he'd deleted his channel he'd have lost monetization... Can't have that, right? So he posts some apology videos so his channel stays active and then complains about how ruinous this is while never trying to take real accountability.

But the reality is that people would have forgotten about him so quickly and maybe his job prospects would've been impacted but...that's on him, and that's for him to figure out but it's not actually life ruining. He chose to continue to engage knowing he'd get backlash and hate and he'd feel worse and worse and things would never get better without the time and space for people to forget.

He made the choice to make a public spectacle of his own alleged suicide. That is the action of someone who wants to put the weight of their suicide on someone else's shoulders and is morally wrong. He can be held to account for that, alive or dead.

#James somerton #hbomberguy #suicide mention //

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lace-chocolate · 2 years ago

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Hi friends, happy 2023 🤍

#also happy—and through lots of therapy I’m sure #I am finally trying to get more acquainted with my emotions and ✨ being vulnerable ✨ and ✨ asking for help ✨ and ✨ communicating clearly✨#One of the things I wanted to explore (and kind of started) was the potential of engaging with a sub #and I think I found someone who would want to enter those discussions and negotiations with me and I’m???#I’m so excited beyond words but also—without prejudice—trying to reign in that excitement bc it’s not a sure thing yet #but she’s very open (and VERY pretty and has amazing tattoos and again is also so hot???)#And wow I hope she’s willing to explore with me I already have such a urge to explore her—#explore her wants and desires and mine as well and just make it so good for her fuck I just want to unravel her …#okay this is getting Too Much rn so I’m gonna stop lol okay #shut up lc #<— might change that tag also but we’ll see

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cyberm4n · 9 months ago

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HI I LOVED UR HYPERSEXUAL FEM READER HEADCANONS UR WRITING IS SO GOOD

Soo I'm here to request the vees (mainly vox but idc) x hypersexual Fem reader pleasee 😭🙏

if not that's okay and I hope you have a nice day/night!! feel free to delete this lol

-xoxo, Ari

THANK YOU <3333 i love the vees and ive been looking for an excuse to write them so this is perfect

vees with hypersexul reader

going with the same scenario as last time- you've just finished a round and (char) is spent but you're already ready to go again

《— vox —》

■ he seems like a 2 rounds kinda guy so after that second round and yall are just laying there he is SPENT

■ so when you roll over to lay on his chest like "one more time?" with a little smile on your face, as if yall did not just violently fuck it takes him a moment

■ he's spent, so spent. but he really wants to please you

■ he'd get used to it tbh. like he's mentally prepared everytime now but maybe sometimes he can do a round 3

■ he'd resort to toys i think, only the best for his girl <3

■ there's also something he loves about getting to hold you and watch you writhe in pleasure and he just gets to watch

■ he'd always take your preferences into mind with toys too. like if you want smth specific he's got it for you

■ i feel like he might prefer if yall are spent at the same time so the foreplay goes CRAZY

■ like it's not just foreplay it's actual rounds of getting you to cum before the main event yk

■ or sometimes he'll just ask if it'd be okay to be done for the night when he is

■ he doesn't mind either way but he'd definitely want to communicate about it

■ so yeah it might take him a little bit to adjust bit he'd be just fine!

《— valentino —》

■ okay let's be real this man fucks A LOT so he can probably do like. 3 or 4 lengthy rounds before he's tapped out

■ it's making me giggle about it but like okay val is a kinky guy, and like especially if the first time yall do anything it's a little bit rougher he is SHOCKED when you're down for more

■ he's prly into something like overstim where normally you kinda gotta reel from it after so when he's done and it takes you like. a minute or two to be like "do you wanna do it again?" he judt looks down at you so confused

■ he takes a moment, blinking. he'd definitely ask if you're kidding or smth and then finding out you're not he has to take a moment

■ like, he finds it fucking awesome but jesus christ he's finally met hsi match

■ he might use toys on you or go down on you, depends how he's feeling tbh

■ i think he'd lean towards going down on you, idk he just seems like he'd be a bit of a munch.

■ and if you're okay with it when yall fuck in the future he's constantly just seeing how far you can go before you're spent

■ long story short he's totally chill abt it when he gets used to it and thinks it's fucking great

《— velvette —》

■ okay im literally giggling and kicking my feet while typing this

■ she seems like a 2 or 3 round kind of gal

■ idk femxfem sex doesn't really go in rounds ime but like. yk.

■ so after she's spent, she's like so ready to cuddle up and sleep. but then you're caressing her cheek, nuzzling into her neck. "again?" you murmur and she has to take a moment

■ cause like, she's just super surprised you're still ready for another.

■ she'd ask the most questions abt it. like she'd want to just know more so she can support you better

■ she'd go down on you tho! anytime! she definitely has toys but she seems like the type to be more inclined to eat you out

■ if she gets tired of that she'd use a toy on you. but she stays engaged the whole time, super attentive.

■ she's a service switch so like getting to keep you pleased like this makes her feel good and she doesn't mind at all

■ once again, all of them would embrace it and they do not mind at all!

■ if you guys with the poly hc for the vees i think it just makes it so much better for them to know it's really hard to burn you out

■ i loved this request ty <3

taglist: @reaper-of-light-12 @mxxny-lupin @wisteria-songs @t3llas @concentratedconcrete @pansexual-opera-house @dionysusismypatrongod

taglist form

#hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #vox x reader #vox smut #valentino #valentino smut #valentino x reader #hazbin valentino #hazbin hotel velvette #velvette smut #velvette x reader #hazbin velvette #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel valentino #the vees

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vaspider · 1 year ago

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How are you a lesbian if you go by “he?” Lesbians are exclusively women

Assuming you are asking this in good faith - which doesn't make it appropriate, but we'll get to that in a minute:

1. No, lesbians are not exclusively women, and this has never been the case. A great deal of lesbian writing going back decades upon decades posits lesbian as a separate gender - certainly we are not nor have ever been seen by society at large as "proper and correct women."

1a. My gender is butch lesbian. The end.

2. Pronouns aren't gender. Also, see above.

2a. He/Him, They/Them and neopronouns as pronouns for butch lesbians (who consider themselves women or any other gender) has at least a hundred years of history behind it, as does butch lesbians referring to themselves as Husband or Daddy.

2b. Have you read Stone Butch Blues? Like, ever? Leslie Feinberg (z''l) was not a woman. Zie made that very clear over decades.

3. And this is the most important, so I need you to listen very very closely:

ACAB INCLUDES POLICING OTHER PEOPLE'S IDENTITIES.

I hope that clears things up for you, as other people's identities are not matters for debate or for you to police. I am setting a firm end to this conversation; I will not engage further with you on it. If you would like to request more information from someone on gender theory and lesbianism to clear up your very clearly lacking education, including me, ask about the theory and don't involve the other person's identity.

Once you've read Stone Butch Blues - which is free online by the terms of the author's last wishes - if you'd like to return and discuss the long history of gender variance and gender freedom within the lesbian community, you may do so. But - and I'm totally serious - I'm not talking with you about this again until you've read at least that one totally free book and killed the cop in your head that makes you think you can come into someone's inbox and ... do this.

Would you walk up to someone on the street and say this? If so, who raised you? If not, why do you think it's okay to do to someone online?

#acab includes identity police #queer stuff

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risuola · 6 months ago

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ENTRY #12 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // In a room full of other people, blindly I'd find you.

contents: arranged marriage!au, jealousy (duh!) — wc. 1463

a/n: little experiment, let's see how it goes. please let me know what do you think of this chapter! also, we're getting closer to the nsfw entry, i hope you guys are as excited as i am!!

series masterlist

“You are breathtaking. I did not deserve an honor of your presence.”

Satoru hates it.

“The pleasure is mine,” you reply, a sweet smile adorning your face in a way that makes your husband narrow his eyes. A hand dances along your spine, caressing the bare skin that you decided to expose in a dress with a low cut on the back. You are breathtaking. You are a sight that should cost money to be looked at, you are stealing the show, like a magnet attracting both men and women around the wide ballroom.

He hates it so much.

You seem polite, overly so and accepting too — a little too much for Gojo’s liking. You move along the man — not him — with grace, with fluidity and the long layer of smooth fabric dances around your legs. The dress you wear makes him salivate, it makes him think thoughts that are ungodly, that are unallowed. Silk that wraps around your body in an expensive, luxurious embrace causes Satoru to curse himself for buying that very dress for you few days before. It is beautiful, tailored to your shapes and edges. It’s soft, but with enough body to flow gracefully along your movements. It hugs your chest and loosens up below your hips, it’s a dream, you are a dream.

But you are dancing with someone else.

It’s a job unlike the others. An order from higher ups required you and him to attend a ball — an event as fancy as it can get because there has been a rumor that said the circles of people, filthy and rich, were contracting curse users for entertainment, causing chaos and harm. It would be easy to just get all of them, interrogate, torture, but this time the means are different. This time, it’s you who plays the main role, swiftly engaging with influential men and pulling their tongues until they slip.

It was easy.

Men there were dogs and a sight of a woman — as beautiful as you — laced with a silent promise is enough to make them spill their secrets. They were eating from your hands, wrapping themselves around your pinkie, voluntarily telling you more than you asked. Easy.

But Satoru hates it.

He’s there with you, your plus one, your partner and an entry card for a party as luxurious as it is. You didn’t know how he got the invitation, but the sight of it didn’t surprise you. He is rich, he is Gojo, you are Gojo.

And you are annoyed.

You don’t like the job. You got what you wanted, it was a child’s play but then, you hate how good your husband looks. You hate how other women are looking at him, ogling him, undressing him, eating him alive. The lady that clings to him — onto him — seems too old, too eager. Her greedy hands cannot settle for one place, wandering over Satoru’s broad shoulders, his chest hidden beneath a crisp, white shirt, his sides. The obnoxiously manicured fingers are dragging themselves across his body, examining, exploring, consuming. They are underneath his suit jacket; they are in his hair and near his face and you wish to break them one by one.

Satoru is smiling, working his features into a sight of an angel, using his eyes to hypnotize, whispering sweet little nothings and promising more than he’s willing to give, just to get what he wants in exchange. He has it easy, you think. Your husband is blessed with not only strength but also looks, unfairly, but god do seem to have favorites.

He catches you looking. You catch him looking. A silent communication that makes it through the distance of the ballroom, and then you’re focused on the man beside you again. Suddenly aware of hands that roam your curves, of traces of unwanted heat that his fingertips are leaving at their wake, a breath against your neck. An invitation that whispered right to your ear causes you to flinch involuntarily and a shiver that runs down your spine makes you take a step back.

“Excuse me,” you smile, a fake gesture wrapped in fake politeness. Your hands press against his chest and his own slip over the silk of your dress. He lets go of you, nearly, and you’re close to leaving when you feel his fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hipbones. The entire front of your torso hits the hard chest, knocking the air of your lungs for a split of a second.

“Don’t leave me yet, darling,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your earlobe. There’s a shift in his tone, the sweet and flirty undertones are suddenly much darker, greedier. His grip grows harsh against your skin, forcefully intimate.

“Oh, it’s time for me,” you say, a smirk tugging at your lips. With a corner of your eye, you notice Satoru getting closer, but you have no intention of waiting for him to save you like you’re a damsel in distress. “Let go,” you warn, sneaking one of your hands underneath the suit jacket of the man. Swiftly you move it to the top of his shoulder, a little more to his back and you squeeze, digging your fingers harshly into the one, very sensitive spot right above his shoulder blade. The vulnerable muscle tense underneath your assault and the man winces, cursing under his breath and calling you names that are far from elegant. “Hands off. Or you’ll say goodbye to your right hand and I bet you need it.”

He growls, like an animal under attack, hisses almost and you smile in victory when his hold on you falters, allowing you to step back. You smooth your dress, fix the straps on your shoulders, and blow a strand of hair from your eyes before Satoru reaches you, effectively cutting short any attempts of biting back that the man could have had.

“Anything you wish to say?” He asks, narrowing his eyes, lowering his tone. It’s cold enough to make you shiver, scary almost, and inside it makes you giddy. He is so very jealous it’s written all over his face and yet, you’re certain, he would never admit it even if burned and tortured. “No? I thought so.” He closes the conversation before it begins, cuts the discussion short and turns to you.

“Hello, handsome,” you greet him, suddenly possessive and it surprises you as much as it does surprise him, because a short oh slips through his lips when you reach up to lock your fingers together at the nape of his neck.

“Hello to you too, beautiful,” he replies, the words foreign on his tongue but feeling so right and then, his hands follow the curves of your hips and waist until he finds the spot to rest one of them — the other moves further, circling behind you and planting itself on your bare back. The touch burns your skin, sending waves and waves of heat throughout your entire system and to your face.

You feel the eyes on you, much more threatening than before. The stares of women present around you are drilling holes in your body and if they could kill, you’d lay cold already.

“I’ve never seen you jealous,” Satoru purrs against your lips right after you pull him down, pressing a kiss to his mouth — possessive, proving, claiming.

“Goes both ways,” you tease and he rolls his eyes, but drops his head lower, sucking a spot on the side of your neck. A mark to show everyone that you belong to him, a signature etched onto your delicate skin, a bite of nothing but unspoken love.

“I’m not jealous,” he protests, just for the sake of it because he knows it’s false just as well as you know it. His voice vibrates against your flesh and his breath tickles you, his eyelashes do too.

Satoru inhales, filling his lungs with the subtle scent of your skin and perfume, the one with sweet vanilla undertone that he likes so much on you. It suits you, makes you seem delicious, makes him want to taste you. It calms him — your presence — it makes him relax underneath the sturdy hold of your hands. It teases him. The way your thumbs are brushing against the very sensitive spots on his nape, it makes him want to whimper and so, he pulls you closer, flush to himself, hungry for your touch and presence.

“We should leave this place,” you murmur quietly, running the tips of your fingernails across his scalp, sending shivers that run down his spine.

“Yeah,” he inhales again, bracing himself to leave the comfortable spot in the between your shoulder and neck, and before you know it, he’s pulling your hand, pulling you somewhere only he knows.

taglist: @kinny-away @anan-baban @lotomber @netflix-imagines @kawliflo @nishloves @ghostfacefricker6969 @thejujvtsupost @yozora7154 @cherrycolabarbedwirebedpost @stuckinmoilalaland @ae-mius @ropickle @chokesonspit @lansy-4 @mo0sin @just-pure-trash @foliea @bakarinnie @big-booty-joe @fortunatelyfurrygiver @lolita-h

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sashayed · 24 days ago

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I haven't said as much about electoral politics this year as I have in previous cycles, because I am exhausted like everyone else and have nothing new or helpful to add. That is still true, so caveat lector I guess lmao!!! Happy American Election Day Fellow Sufferers!!

I have been experiencing an internal backlash the last few years to my extremely Sorkinpilled D.C. private school upbringing -- my childhood spent as a kind of convent schoolgirl in the faith of The System Is Good If We All Participate, which of course has a uhhh let's say generously a minimal engagement with the ways in which many of us are by design shut out of participating. I don't think idealism is necessarily childish, but I think MY idealism certainly has childish qualities, an undergirding of 90s feel-goodism, of civic participation as a subtle ego stroke and of voting -- although I would never have consciously put it this way -- as a way to feel superior to people who don't vote.

Lately there has bubbled up in me a sludgy, adolescent fury at this whole stupid country that has made it very very hard to feel like I should do even the bare minimum. For these people? AMERICANS? The ones that not only want Donald Trump to be president but saw what happened the first time and were like, We love this, do it again but worse? Whatever, fuckos. "I hope you people get your dearest wish and it chews you to death slowly," I may have thought.

I have also thought: why is it so controversial to ask elected officials to stop funding a genocide? Why are we treating people who make that ask, who are watching the current administration directly fund death on a mass scale and objecting to that choice, as if they are being babies and just need to get over it? How are they supposed to get over it? Why is anybody over it?

Anyway all this means that I, a known chipper door-knocker and caller of congresspeople, have been pretty low-key this current cycle. I think that is OK. I don't want to make this a big dramatic confessional about how I didn't write enough postcards or whatever. We all get exhausted and this was my turn.

But it has also been an illuminating cycle in that it's made it clear to me how much at my big age I still want politics to make me feel good, and when they don't, I still have the urge to throw a lil tantrum about it! I can get very superior and intellectual about how right-wing operatives manipulate their voters emotionally WITHOUT EVEN NOTICING that I too have been manipulated, in my case into the feeling that nonparticipation is a kind of revolutionary act.* Just absolute "I threw it on the GROUND" logic happening inside my head. "Maybe if I don't vote I will be doing Quiet Quitting, which is uhhhhh anticapitalist." I'm not a part of your system!!!

Anyway, I am trying to have self-compassion about it, and one way for me to do that is to project my internal experience onto a theoretical reader. That would be you, my imaginary friend who clicked on this post for some reason even though you have already decided not to vote! I just want to tell you that I am more sympathetic to your point of view than I have ever been in my whole life, and I'm sorry I have historically been a glib, holier-than-thou asshole about it in ways that may actually have made you MORE resistant to civic participation.

And you're right: it doesn't make that big a difference whether I personally vote or not, or whether you do. But if there are hundreds of us, and I think there are, then each of those people individually do starts to matter.

I guess I would humbly request that you and I both pay attention to what people who need help are actually asking for. I would ask that we both notice who wins when we abdicate this single responsibility. I would remind us both that participating in the electoral process is not some kind of weird either-or with participating in decentralized community building and mutual aid, and the best people we know do both. Isn't it interesting that somehow, insidiously, without even consciously becoming aware of this belief, we have started to think that you can only do one or the other? Who is telling us that story? Who does it serve?

Anyway. I took the stupid 90 minute round trip to my polling place which was VERY hot for some reason and I stood in the stupid line and some babies waved at me and I cast my vote for Kamala Harris and I'm glad I did it in the same way I'm glad after I do the dishes or take a stupid shower. Doing work doesn't always feel like anything. I also saw a really wonderful small black and white dog that I thought was a cat on a leash. I would not have seen that dog if I hadn't gone to vote. So politics can still make you feel good!!!

*I mean all this analysis is cute and everything BUT ALSO i did switch antidepressants twice in the last year, an astonishingly grueling process that almost made me [affect the trout population]. Could these things be related? hmmmmmmm, don't understand the question, won't respond to it.

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porcelainseashore · 2 months ago

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Darkroom

Pairing: RE4R! Leon Kennedy x GN! Reader

Summary: You're a Sunday regular at the darkroom of your local nightclub, finding liberation through sex with random strangers and spontaneous encounters. One night, you meet someone whose touch feels different, and you connect in ways you never expected.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Smut, porn with plot, implied consent, anonymous sex, group sex, public sex (nightclub), voyeurism, anal, fingering, oral (m receiving), creampie, strangers to lovers, romance, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, drug references, swearing.

Author's Note: This is my first time writing gn! reader as I would like to be more inclusive in my work. I’ve also tried to educate myself on the discourse surrounding darkrooms and hope I’ve portrayed them respectfully, as safe spaces created by the gay community.

Special thanks to @alibellerosetta and @sofmoth for beta’ing this piece—you’re simply the best!

AO3 Link | Playlist

Fingertips trailing across the concrete walls of an old wartime bunker, its labyrinthine structure causing you to navigate by adventure and curiosity when you were new, but now, you had the entire layout committed to memory. You drifted through the haze of smoke and rooms—oh so many rooms—littered with nooks and crannies to engage in the kinds of deeds one would get up to in a nightclub like this.

Brutal, fast-paced techno assaulted your ears, but you welcomed it as you did with the throngs of party-goers passing you by, like swimming through jellyfish and seaweed, in this maddeningly beautiful underwater world. All you could hear was a wall of sound and your own breathing, teeth chattering and chest throbbing as heavy bass reverberated through your body. If you stayed any longer, you would vaporize into thin air. And so, you plunged into the lower depths, down further passageways and corridors to your final destination.

People wouldn’t understand why you do what you do. Why you treated this club like a church—the only one you’d go to religiously every Sunday to get fucked within an inch of your life by complete strangers. Strangers you never saw, and would never meet again.

You didn’t owe them an explanation, but truth be told, you felt far safer here than in most other places you’d been to. Too many close calls and red flags left you running away from that mess. Here, you were spoiled for choice. You could be whoever you wanted to be, without labels or judgment. Fucking was freedom and creativity. Fucking was an expression of yourself. Fucking was a big fuck you to society that tried to break you, moulding you into preconceived roles, telling you what you should or shouldn’t do.

Despite that, you knew what you were getting yourself into. Your PrEP shot was up to date and you tested frequently. Nothing was a hundred percent foolproof, but it was a risk you were willing to take. You were nearly there, following the invisible wisp of a white rabbit to its lair as the sweet, musky scent of lust and arousal grew stronger.

At the entrance of the darkroom, you paused, lifting your hand as a breeze sifted through your fingers. Funny how cold it could get down in the basement. You wondered if the ghosts of soldiers past could see you now—heart racing in your chest, adrenaline flooding your veins, and butterflies in your stomach—every single time without fail as you stood in front of the innocuous opening in the wall, like a gateway or barrier to another plane. What they would think as you stepped inside, agreeing to the unspoken code of conduct, where it was hunting season, and just like everyone else, you were game.

Inside, it was pitch black, so dark that you could not see, but you could make out the distinct sounds of sheets rustling, the shifting of bodies, light moans, and squelching wet kisses as you felt around the room, slowly putting one foot forward, and then the other, like the blind leading the blind. As your eyes adjusted to the surroundings, movements blurred at the corners, amorphous shapes materializing before you like a séance you had conducted.

Sometimes you would catch a look, a nod, a gesture—silent, yet reminding you that what you were seeing was real. Hands passed along your body, and you imagined this must be what it feels like to traverse through clouds—touching, groping, feeling every part of you that you had bared to offer. Shedding clothes like this was so easy, like peeling away the layers of skin you had adorned to protect yourself.

Someone else’s skin.

Someone else’s face.

A thousand masks you reaped and sowed.

Gone, all gone—until you were stripped to the core.

The immense desire to be naked forever and never dressed again bubbled to the surface, burning a hole in your chest and getting caught in your throat.

A sudden smack against the cheek of your ass sent you reeling forward. The beds were damp as you sank upon them on your knees, gasping in sheer delight. The sting of it was buzzing, your ears filled with white noise as your hair was yanked backwards, mouths latching onto flesh, sensitive and bruising like ripened plum under teeth.

The room was warm and humid, sweltering even, but you couldn’t complain. Heat like that never looked bad on anyone. Sweat dripped from the pores of your skin, creating a thin layer of moonlit sheen. Tongues lapped at the moisture, prickly and salty, running over areas you never knew existed until the heady rushes you felt stated otherwise.

You grasped at the silhouette lying under you. It squirmed—wet, whining, and wanting. Breasts quivering, breathing in deep. Almost instantly, the grip on your hair loosened as you lunged forward, suctioning your lips over a peak, your fingers sliding through her folds, curling against her walls.

Eventually, you were pushed on top of her, a heavy palm on the arch of your back, ribs crushing, tongues intertwining, and teeth clashing as other hands gripped her wrists firmly over her head. Your pelvises ground together as someone pounded into you from behind; her breasts bouncing violently against your chest with each thrust. The mattress sagged under your weight as it consumed you—suffocating, drowning—and you surrendered to it all in the darkness until you were nothing. A blank canvas, equal to the rest, finally seen as simply human.

You did the devil’s dance, flitting between partners, just as your parents did before you, and their parents—your grandparents—and their ancestors before them. Though instead of fucking raw, they had their own versions of the dance that they were too embarrassed to admit, leaving them forgotten behind closed doors and repressed memories.

Then, another pair of hands descended on your back, their knuckles caressing your shoulders with a bittersweet tenderness, taking you by surprise. Brushing your hair aside, you felt stubble scrape the nape of your neck, his kiss lingering a little longer than a second or two, as if afraid that by confronting you, you might dissolve between his fingers.

Hot, shaky breath fanned across your ear, “May I?”

A baritone—rich, deep, and weary—with an edge to it like he had been through a never ending war. You wondered why.

In silence, you tilted your head, granting him easier access to your neck. You were his prey; he could bite in hard if he wanted to, but he only nipped—teasingly, playfully, savoring your taste, his large, coarse hands raking your body, gentle and unsure.

This wasn’t his first time; he was too composed for that. You searched for an answer as the tips of his fingers pressed dimples into your skin—temporary marks that spoke of his desire to make you his for the night. His touch ached so badly with longing, you could feel it seep into your bones. It hurt, everything hurt, as he buried his face into your neck, smothering the rest of his emotions along with it.

Someone once said, “The biggest lie we tell ourselves is that we should be ashamed of our feelings.”

But imagine if we weren’t? Your hand cupped over his. His breath hitched.

You knew shame like the back of your hand. A sickness and disease, taking root from within, its poisonous tendrils spreading out through every orifice until you couldn’t even scream.

Imagine if we weren’t. Your fingers laced through his. You squeezed. He squeezed back.

A secret morse code between the two of you as others started to gather around. Lying on your sides, he tugged you in closer, so that your back was flush against his chest. You stroked his arm, repeating the motion in cycles like a form of meditation.

He had you. You were his. He didn’t have to worry about that, even when you were being shared.

In return, he planted soft kisses along your spine as a ‘thank you’, causing you to shiver while he palmed your crotch. You felt his dick harden against the crevasse of your ass and you bucked your hips back into his. He let out a hiss, rubbing his erection in sync with your rocking, and you heard the sound of a lid cracking open.

At the same time, another person tweaked your nipples, licking, and sucking on them as you bit your lip and moaned. Lukewarm oil spilled onto your ass in a slow, deliberate stream, spreading like liquid silk. Even though you were ready—so ready—for this, with your hole wide and gaping from the butt plug you had worn in the day, and still leaking from previous use, he felt the need to prepare you. Circling your rim, he slipped one, then two fingers in, allowing the tight ring of muscle to clench around them as he stretched you out. When he pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, you nearly sighed in relief, relaxing as he filled you up fully, slowly, and sensually, as if you were making love for the first time.

You melted like sweet, flowing honey in his arms, linked around your waist, hugging you tightly as his ragged breath grazed your cheek. Once you had settled in, it didn’t take long for him to pick up the pace. Your hands gripped his the entire time as he pumped his cock harder into you, friction firing up the bundle of nerves, causing you to cry out in wanton pleasure.

It was only a matter of time before you caught a glimpse of another shadow joining from behind him, and felt the head of someone else’s member smear precum along your lips. You opened, submitting completely to the moment, its shaft dipping in and out of your mouth, your tongue swirling over its slit and ridge. Saliva dribbled down your chin as fingers tangled in your hair, grabbing it roughly to shove his cock in further, letting it hit the back of your throat as you choked and gagged. Tears ran down your face, ruining the black liner and glitter you’d decorated it with.

The hands that had been wrapped around yours gave them a long, hard squeeze, as if to ask, “Are you okay?” His worry and concern was your very own personal S.O.S., if you needed it. You brushed your thumb against his knuckles reassuringly, and he did the same, giving you two light squeezes in response, trusting in your decision.

At this, his hips snapped against your ass harshly, balls slapping skin as his thrusts grew more desperate, matching the intensity with which you were being fucked in the mouth, like a wordless competition—one vying for your affection. He slammed into your sensitive spot repeatedly, the sensations overwhelming like never before as your eyes rolled back—demonic and possessed—and euphoric waves rippled through your body.

He continued railing you until he couldn’t hold it in anymore. You felt his eyes shut, his mouth twist into a frown as he muffled his groans into your neck. He tensed and staggered, emptying a thick, hot load into your spent hole, just as the person in front of you pulled out, finishing himself off onto your face.

You coughed, sputtering as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. His dick was still in you, twitching as he rode out his climax, stroking your thighs, your hips, your ribs, before settling back on the curve of your ass. He kneaded it gently as you felt him pull out; his hands coming to rest around your waist. Raising your arms behind you, you circled them around the back of his head, pushing his face into your hair as both of you lay there—still and quiet—panting heavily and covered in fluids, his cum trickling out of your heat. You felt the uneven, taut patches that littered his skin, along with the rise and fall of each other’s chests—an empty space in the cavity growing more deafening with each passing second in the sparse room.

The clock continued ticking until you finally decided to turn around, facing the man who had fucked you so hard you thought you might break. All at once, he drew closer, lips on lips, kissing you like he meant it. You kissed back sloppily, running your fingers through his sweat-drenched hair as he cupped your cheek—grasping, craving, needing more.

You didn’t know what to make of this connection he and you felt. The way his heart beat with loneliness, and yours responding in kind, whispering in a similar rhythm, “I’m here. I see you.” It was far more intimate than any experience you’d ever had in a darkroom. And you panicked.

Breaking away, you spotted a tuft of his matted blonde tresses, his sharp, brilliant blues, and your eyes darted towards the way out. Before he could speak, you got up, his hand catching your wrist, tugging, pulling—please, I want you, don’t go, please—until you snatched it back, and he let you.

You touched his face, thumb brushing across his bottom lip—swollen and weeping, a final ‘thank you’ for something special the two of you had shared. One where you lied to yourself, treating it as a mere passing moment in your life, fearing that anything more would ruin the illusion held together by anonymity. Picking your clothes up from the floor, you slipped off into the light and safety of crowds, ignoring the pang in your chest as the distance between you and him grew.

━━━━━━━━━━━

What if things had gone differently?

What if you had let him talk?

Say the words he wanted to say. Rip his chest open. Pour his heart out into your awaiting cup.

What if it was meant to be more?

What if, what if, all the what ifs.

You sat on your chair, legs crossed and pulled into your chest, thinking back to that encounter over and over again. A cheap desk fan blew hot, desert wind in your direction, its plastic blades rotating sluggishly, hardly helping in the current heatwave. Clumps of hair stuck to your forehead and the sides of your face as you closed your eyes, reminiscing his ghostly touch along your body, sore and aching, fighting fire with fire.

Five nights had passed, and you couldn’t get him out of your mind. It was three in the morning, you had work in a few hours, but he was all you could think about. During the day, you walked around in a vacant daze, and now, you were stoned, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell happened.

You fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining it was him fucking you.

And then, Sunday came.

━━━━━━━━━━━

You saw him everywhere that night—through the tide of music, in the mirrored reflections, blonde locks catching the light, only to be let down. You didn’t know what he looked like, the only memory being a static cloud of darkness before your eyes, but somehow, you knew that you would be able to tell if it was him.

Like a moth to a flame, you made your way towards the darkroom, all the while hopelessly wondering if he would be there where you had found him last, waiting patiently, like a dog to its owner for their return. When you entered, a swarm of hands skimmed along your private parts—foreign and alien as you swallowed your disappointment, losing yourself in others’ company, though you had never felt more alone.

One more.

Another.

The next—

You’d recognize that touch anywhere. His calloused hands across your jaw—tentative, tracing your skin like scorched earth, his yearning fulfilled when you took his fingers into your mouth, coating them with your taste.

“It’s you…” he murmured, his velvety voice, laden with emotion, slipping into your ear, causing you to shudder.

His fingers slid out over the dip of your tongue as he replaced them with his lips, devouring yours fervently as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Knowing him was like a crime, but you gave yourself the permission to want him this way.

A jarring flash of light blinded you, followed by a burst of giggles, rudely interrupting your chance meeting. You whipped your head in its direction, shielding your eyes as you squinted at white powder vibrating on illuminated phone screens.

“Take your fucking drugs somewhere else!” someone yelled.

By the time you turned back, the light went out again, plunging you into utter darkness.

Did you lose your power of anonymity?

Had he seen you for who you were now?

Would he judge you like the rest?

You felt his hand in yours, light brushes against your inner palm in the secret language you shared. No, this wasn’t the right place for what you wanted, and you had to respect that—both of that.

Fuck feeling ashamed of your feelings.

You threw out your inhibitions, dragging him through the opening as he followed you into the light. You saw him clearly now, just as he saw you. Scars of all shapes and sizes across his body, matching the bumps you had felt in the dark—now laid bare and vulnerable in full public view.

You didn’t care, and he didn’t seem to either, clasping your face between his hands as he pushed you back, mouth squarely on yours, teasing it open. He hoisted your legs, hooking them around his waist as he buried his cock into you. Fucking you relentlessly against the wall, rugged concrete chafing skin as you jerked upwards, meeting his thrusts.

It was rushed, frantic, and hungry, like you would vanish before his very eyes at any minute. A new DJ set had started, drowning out your screams as you dug your nails into his shoulders, clawing angry, red marks into his skin. Trembling, feverish lips wet on your chest, sucking and leaving bites in flesh as others watched, or masturbated while they watched—voyeurs to your private scene.

You clung to each other, his grip bruising on the back of your thighs, not wanting to let go—not this time, not now, not ever. Funny how you found it comforting—the way he held your gaze, unflinching and calm, as you reached your high, like he was seeing right through you—melting flesh from bone, prying the cavern open to find a scared little rabbit, and the rage frothing at your teeth.

And you knew that he understood that feeling too.

He came in you soon after, muscles clenching as he pinned you to the wall, ropes of his release filling you deep. His breath escaped in loud rasps, stray strands of his bangs fluttering in the breeze.

“God… fuck…” he gasped, before his eyes found yours again, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile as he laughed.

You laughed back.

He set you down on the floor—your legs wobbly, gaze shy—exchanging soft caresses, oblivious to the rest of the world around you. You leaned in, kissing him spontaneously as you felt his smile against your lips.

“So, you got a name?”

“Mm-hmm.” He kissed you once more, exhaling it like a sigh—“Leon.”

And you didn’t feel like the magic was lost in any way.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Endnotes

Fyi, I created a playlist for Darkroom in case you want to check it out. All songs are from The xx and their music contributed a lot to the mood of this piece!

I also saw Timimie Märak, a poet, feminist, and Sámi queer activist, at a literary festival recently, and I really liked what they said: “The biggest lie we tell ourselves is that we should be ashamed of our feelings,” which has appeared in my fic above.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x gn!reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #gender neutral reader #resident evil #fic: darkroom #porcelainscribbles

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