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hero21us · 2 months ago

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The Legion of Black Rubber

Alex Moreno stood in the locker room of the Golden Army, a prestigious soccer club known for its gold kits, his eyes burning with an intense fire. Standing at 6'3", Alex's towering figure was an imposing sight. His muscular build, with well-defined abs and biceps, showcased his dedication to physical fitness. Every inch of his body exuded strength and power. His rugged good looks were accentuated by a strong jawline and high cheekbones. Dark, intense eyes seemed to see through any challenge, and his short-cropped hair added to his fierce persona. His expression was often one of intense focus, rarely showing any sign of weakness or doubt. He was more than just a player; he was a force of nature.

With every match, he pushed himself and his team to their limits, earning a reputation as the fiercest competitor.

Alex played with a ferocity that left opponents in awe and fear. His presence was commanding, every movement precise and calculated to assert his dominance. He didn't just want to win; he wanted to crush the competition. His tackles were powerful and relentless, his passes executed with pinpoint accuracy. When he scored, it was with the force of a storm, leaving no doubt about his superiority.

It happened during one of Alex's grueling workout sessions, where he pushed himself to the limit, as usual. The gym was almost empty, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination. Alex, clad in his gold gear, approached the barbell with unwavering focus, muscles rippling with anticipation.

As he gripped the bar, a small, almost unnoticed drop of black liquid rubber fell from above, landing squarely on his shoulder. At first, it felt like a cold shock against his skin, but the sensation quickly spread, turning into an intense, burning heat. Alex instinctively reached to brush it off, but the rubber had already begun to seep into his skin, spreading like wildfire.

Alex felt a momentary jolt of confusion as the rubber spread, followed by an overwhelming sense of detachment. It was as if his mind was being forcibly shut down, layer by layer. Thoughts, memories, and emotions faded into nothingness, replaced by an all-consuming void. Within moments, Alex's mind went completely blank. The fierce ambition and competitive fire that once drove him vanished, leaving behind a shell of his former self. His eyes, once filled with intensity, now stared vacantly ahead.

Despite the emptiness in his mind, Alex's body responded with an unprecedented surge of strength. The rubber seemed to infuse his muscles with raw power, making the barbell feel lighter than ever before. He lifted it with ease, the weights clanging together as he pushed himself further. Alex's movements became almost robotic, driven by an unseen force. Each lift, each rep was executed with perfect precision, but devoid of the conscious thought and effort that typically accompanied his workouts. His body moved on autopilot, performing feats of strength that surpassed even his own high standards.

The intensity of his workout only grew, with no sign of fatigue or hesitation. Sweat poured from his body, mingling with the spreading black rubber, which continued to cover more of his skin. His muscles, bulging and straining, seemed to operate under their own command, as if they had been programmed for maximum output.

As the black rubber spread across his torso and down his limbs, Alex's transformation was nearly complete. The once-dominant player was now a mindless vessel, his body operating at peak efficiency but with no trace of the man he once was. The black rubber had not only taken over his body but also erased his identity, leaving behind only the will to serve.

Alex’s golden kit was replaced with a sleek, ominous black uniform. The material of his new kit was unlike any other—it clung to his body, enhancing his muscular frame and exuding an eerie, glossy sheen. The once-vibrant colors of the Golden Army were now replaced with the dark, reflective surface of the black rubber.

With the black rubber’s influence, Alex’s physical abilities reached new heights. His movements were precise and mechanical, executing each play with terrifying efficiency. He became an unstoppable force on the field, his speed and strength unparalleled. Every action Alex took was calculated and flawless. His passes were laser-sharp, his tackles relentless, and his shots powerful and accurate. It was as if he was programmed to play the perfect game, devoid of any human error. He played with a single-minded focus, driven by an insatiable need to perform and execute his orders.

Alex’s eyes, once filled with determination and fire, were now cold and vacant. The intensity of his physical performance was in stark contrast to the emptiness in his gaze. He no longer registered the crowd’s cheers or his teammates’ encouragement; he was a hollow shell. He felt no joy in victory, no frustration in challenge—just a numb compliance.

On the pitch, the camaraderie with his teammates, the thrill of the game, the love for the sport—all were stripped away, leaving only the mechanical execution of plays. His interactions were limited to fulfilling his role, with no sense of personal connection or purpose beyond serving.

A week had passed since the black liquid rubber first fell on Alex.

One evening, as Alex stood alone in the dimly lit gym, two figures emerged from the shadows. They were drones, clad in sleek black rubber suits and ominous gas masks that obscured their faces. They moved with eerie silence, their rubber suits making no sound as they approached Alex. The gas masks they wore added an air of menace, their breathing amplified by the respirators. Alex stared vacantly ahead. His mind, already a blank slate, did not register their presence as a threat or a source of curiosity. The drones moved with a coordinated precision, one holding Alex steady while the other carefully placed the gas mask over his face. The mask fit snugly, its dark lenses obscuring Alex's vacant eyes. The act was ritualistic, a final step in his complete conversion.

As the gas mask sealed, Alex's transformation was complete. The black rubber, now fully integrated with the mask, took total control. Any remaining vestiges of Alex's original self were eradicated, leaving behind a perfect drone, ready to serve.

Clad in his new black kit and gas mask, Alex stood in perfect alignment with the other drones. The transformation was complete. Alex's mind, now fully enslaved, received its first command: to convert the rest of the Golden Army.

As dawn broke over the training grounds of the Golden Army, Alex, now fully transformed into a drone, stood silently at the edge of the field. His new black kit gleamed under the early morning sun, the gas mask obscuring any trace of his former self. The moment had come to fulfill his new mission: to convert the rest of the team.

Alex's mind, now devoid of independent thought, was driven by a single directive. He identified the strongest, most influential players on the team first, knowing their conversion would make the process easier for the rest. He approached his teammates one by one, often during individual training sessions or in the locker room. Alex ensured these encounters were private, minimizing resistance and maximizing control.

Alex found his first target, Daniel, the team’s captain, during an early morning workout. As Daniel focused on his exercises, Alex moved silently behind him, his presence unnoticed until it was too late. From the shadows, Alex revealed a small vial of the black liquid rubber. With swift, precise movements, he applied it to Daniel’s neck. The rubber spread rapidly, engulfing Daniel in moments. His initial confusion and struggle were quickly overridden by the rubber’s control. As Daniel’s body succumbed to the rubber’s influence, two drones appeared, placing a gas mask on his face. The transformation was immediate—Daniel’s resistance faded, his mind blank as he joined Alex in silent obedience.

The converted captain now assisted Alex, their combined efforts making the subsequent conversions more efficient. The team’s structure began to collapse under the methodical takeover, each converted member reinforcing the drone's influence. One by one, the teammates fell under the rubber drones’ control. The locker room, once filled with camaraderie and competitive banter, turned into a silent assembly line of conversion. Each player received their black kit and gas mask, their minds erased and replaced with a new directive to serve.

A few teammates tried to resist, their fear and confusion driving desperate attempts to escape. However, the drones' superior strength and coordination swiftly subdued them. The liquid rubber’s influence was too strong, their resistance futile against the overpowering tide. Within days, the entire team was converted.

With the entire Golden Army now converted into drones, their mission expanded beyond the soccer field. The next phase of their plan was to begin converting their loyal fans, spreading the influence of the black liquid rubber far and wide.

The drones, led by Alex, meticulously coated the inside of their jerseys with the black liquid rubber. The rubber, now a part of their uniform, was ready to be transferred to unsuspecting fans. After each match, the drones would approach the stands, offering their jerseys to the most enthusiastic supporters. The fans, unaware of the dark transformation behind the gesture, eagerly accepted the gifts, thrilled to receive a piece of their beloved team.

As the fans wore the jerseys, the black liquid rubber began to seep into their skin, much like it had with Alex. The initial sensation was a cold shock, quickly followed by an intense, burning heat. The liquid spread rapidly, taking control of the fans' minds. Their thoughts and emotions were overridden, replaced by a blank, obedient state. The transformation was swift and efficient, turning passionate supporters into mindless drones. To complete the conversion, drones in rubber suits and gas masks would approach the newly converted fans, placing gas masks on their faces. This final step ensured their complete subjugation, erasing any remaining traces of their former selves.

The converted fans, now drones themselves, began to spread the black rubber further. They attended matches and gatherings, covertly transferring the liquid rubber to others. The influence of the drones grew exponentially, reaching more and more people with each passing day.

The rubber drones mission began to expand beyond their local fanbase. The drones traveled to other cities and countries, targeting soccer fans worldwide. Their goal was clear: to convert all the men of the world into obedient rubber drones, serving the black liquid rubber's insatiable will.

#golden army #gold #male transformation #rubber polo

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ilovejeongintoo · 4 months ago

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"𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕒 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪 𝕒 𝕘𝕒𝕞𝕖?"

Jigsaw (Saw) & the Reluctant Participant Kink: Interrogation Play Warnings: cnc, degradation (just a lil),Jungwon is lowkey scary, sex machine, orgasm denial, edging Prompt: Trapped and powerless, you find yourself at the mercy of the infamous Jigsaw, your body craving the twisted pleasure he offers. As control slips from your grasp, desire and submission blur, leading you down a dark, seductive path where surrender becomes the ultimate thrill. How far will you go when there's no turning back?

The second installment to my Kinktober List 2024.

Darkness surrounded you, you were drowning in the dark around you. Your eyes couldn't make out any surrounding walls the slightly dimmed, single light above your head not helping you see. It wasn't quiet though, a whirring in the background maybe some kind of machinery being a constant noise. A smell of old dust maybe cement or stone you couldn’t tell.

When you start becoming more aware you feel the press of cold metal around your wrists and ankles, moving them but being pinned too close to really move at all. They wrapped tight around your limbs and the chair you were tightly strapped to. Your heartbeat increases more the more conscious you become. Your head pounds when you try turning it and a metallic noise sounds out in the room.

Then you hear a voice, talking slow and calculated, and a shiver runs through you. You can't really tell where it's coming from, still disoriented.

There’s bold lettering on the walls spelling out the sentence;” Wanna play a game?” Though your muffled brain doesn’t catch the clue. The writing done with red dripping paint.

"You’ve been living in the shadows of your desires for too long, haven’t you?"

You know who it is immediately. The telltale sign of the room, his voice, his choice of words. It all points its fingers to one person. Jigsaw. You've heard of people disappearing but it all seemed so unbelievable, so distant until right now.

You can’t tell where the voice is coming from. A small old speaker situated in the corner gives the output of his voice a slight crackle. Each word was slow, methodical like he really wanted you to listen carefully.

“For too long, you've indulged in a life of selfishness and excess, but today you will confront the truths you’ve buried deep inside. Today, you’ll face your punishment.”

Your punishment? For what? What did you do? Your mind races to find any explanation. The last thing that you remember before getting here….

Your breath catches in your throat in panic. A hiss cuts through the air. The uselessly dimming light illuminating a corner. That's when you see it, the machine that you've been hearing since the beginning. A big construction of steel, wires, tubes, and complex-looking engineering.

Right in front stands a cloaked figure, masked in the infamous puppet.

Jigsaw

He steps forward brushing his fingers along the machine's surface, the sound ominous, making you scared of what is to come. His voice, though distorted from his mask is clearer now booming through the room without the speaker.

"This machine I constructed will test you—your limits, your fears, your deepest urges. It is the key to your survival."

You struggle more against your restraints, he only continues watching in amusement.

“Your life, your choices... they’ve led you here.”

He pauses slightly “You believe control gives you power, that by dominating others, you are invincible. But true power comes from understanding weakness. Now, you will be stripped of your control, left to endure the very submission you’ve forced onto others.”

You froze when he mentioned this. Yes, you had been a bit of a control freak and maybe that had led to your partners leaving you but did that really warrant you getting punished by the one and only Jigsaw killer? You weren’t a corrupt authority figure or a drug abuser. You just liked being in control of everything, your life, your decisions, your partners, and everything in the bedroom.

You couldn’t let yourself be vulnerable with them but it could have been worse, you kept telling yourself.

What if I can’t take this? What if I break? The thought sends shivers down your spine but maybe… maybe I deserve this.

Your brain supplies uselessly, just adding unnecessary fear.

The chains tighten against your body suddenly, pulling you upright and facing the machine. It’s louder now as if it was preparing itself for the task ahead.

"You see, this is not a game of pain alone, but a game of pleasure and control—of denial and submission. If you wish to live, you must learn the cost of indulgence. Every choice you make will bring you closer to release... or your end.”

Your eyes widen in fear your body trembling just slightly

He moves closer his voice deeper and more intimate now. You can see a mop of brown hair peeking out from his hood and it drops slightly in front of the mask.

“But I warn you... the release you seek may not be the one you think.”

The lights turn on and off, and a cold metallic arm extends from the machine, hovering inches from your body. Terrified you look at it then back at your captor as if your pleading look would get him to release you.

“Your test begins now.”

The metal arms the machine carries click further, stirring in their place. For a moment you hold your breath in anticipation of what's going to come next. The cold air hushes against your skin and you become aware; that you’re still clothed but for how long?

He steps closer his voice as calm as ever though the weight of his words grows heavier each time.

“You’ve spent your life hiding behind the armor of your choices. Your clothes... your mask. But here, there is no mask. No barriers.”

He makes another pause that drags on uncomfortably long so.

“The truth is revealed when there’s nothing left to hide.”

He gestures slowly to the arms and before you can react they lurch forward, grasping at your clothes and removing them one by one. There’s no aggression no rush, the movements are slow, practiced sharp motions stripping you of your last clothing items.

They easily slice through the fabric and your skin forms goosebumps from the cold in the room. You stay impossible still though in case they would accidentally cut not just the fiber.

Jigsaw watches without any noise or reaction, he sees every twitch of discomfort, every taken breath, and every bodily response. His gaze isn’t lustful, it’s calculating almost clinical as if undressing you was just another test, just another day.

He was doing more than just removing your clothes, he was getting rid of your last defenses. You press your eyes closed in hopes of waking up from this nightmare and if not just helping you slip into a state of ignorance bliss.

He notices immediately.

“The more you fight, the longer this will take,” he murmurs. “You cannot hide from your desires. And soon, you won’t be able to hide from mine.”

The final fabric falling to the floor you open your eyes again, left completely naked, completely exposed, bound to the machine, revealed by the forever flickering overhead light. Your skin burns with the cold but even more from the burning gaze of being watched - Jigsaw’s masked gaze drinking up everything.

For a moment, all is still. The whir of the machine quiets, leaving only the sound of their ragged breathing.

“Now,” Jigsaw finally says, stepping closer, his voice low and deliberate, “we can begin.”

The masked man’s voice breaks the silence, his tone calm but heavy with purpose.

"You’ve spent your life controlling everything and everyone around you. But what happens when the one thing you can’t control… is yourself?"

He steps closer around you, circling like you’re prey and he’s the predator that will sink his teeth into you. The constant noise of the machine does nothing to calm you down, it just furthers the energy in the room.

"Here’s your first question: When was the last time you let someone else take control?"

You thought about it for a moment, your cheeks heating up despite the situation given, out of embarrassment at having to admit to these kinds of questions.

"I don’t remember. It’s been a long time." you reluctantly respond, unwilling to give up any more information. You were hoping he didn’t know you too closely to think of this as a “wrong” answer. Playing stupid in front of a genius killer.

“Please you don’t have to do any of this. I already learned my lesson, just…please let me go.” You tried reasoning because you really would try to change.

You gulped your fear down slightly. Not willing to show how much he affected your emotions. He can’t know, because exactly that, he will use against you.

Jigsaw’s mask tilts slightly, as if in curiosity, though his voice remains in the same tone as always, no hint of any emotion. He ignored your effort to try and convince him to let you go.

"You’re not as good at avoiding the truth as you think. You’ve let someone take control before... and you’ll do it again, whether you admit it or not. But denial has its consequences."

His hand moved in his dark coat, probably pressing a button.

Your heart rate spiked up. And the machine’s arm buzzes, the hum rising in pitch as it begins its cruel teasing, it started slow, the touch foreign. A little uncomfortable on your skin, surgical. The coldness of the metal pipes that brushed against your sides contrasted with the softness of the hands themselves. They caressed your chest, not going straight to torturing your most intimate parts. They just slightly massaged your nipples, making them hard rather quickly because of how soft the hands themselves felt. You stared down at them in focus and bit your lips to stifle any noises.

You could deal with this, if it stayed just like this, which you seriously doubted. But nonetheless, you pep-talked yourself.

Just when you thought you were getting used to the sensations on your body the arms moved down your body until they reached the place that was dripping now. One circled your clit, and buzzed a little in vibration. It made you try and curl into yourself, denying yourself to enjoy the pleasurable feel but your restraints kept you immobile, you could only squirm and clench your teeth to not make any noise however when the other one moved down to your slicked-up hole, and began pushing a solid digit in, a moan slipped out.

You were slowly breaking, each movement making it harder to concentrate, soon you’d have to choose between stifling your noises and answering your captor.

“Avoidance won’t save you. You can’t control what you refuse to face.”

A pause. Then, the next question cuts through the silence.

“Tell me... when was the last time you let yourself lose control—completely?”

The words hang in the air like a challenge, daring you to confront your deepest vulnerabilities.

And you think about his words from before, there was a slight warning in it, making you rethink how you should reply to this one. You pause a little more.

"I… I don’t know. I can’t remember." You nonetheless answer.

His laughter, low and almost mocking, fills the room. Oh, you fucked up, didn’t you? Regret flooding your system immediately, and wishing you could take your response back.

"You’re lying to yourself now. You remember.” He steps behind you now. The hair on your neck rises in anticipation and fright of not being able to see him. Losing that control so easily.

“You’ve lost control before, and you will again. But you’re still clinging to your delusion of power. Let’s see how much longer that lasts."

The machine’s touch becomes more relentless, it drags so deliciously over your folds, then back into your hole and out again. teasing you more relentlessly now. You were so close but it just wasn’t quite enough. Each time you almost let yourself step over that edge it would get pulled away from you. The constant denial drives the message home: the more you refuse to admit the truth, the less control you have.

There’s only one way out of this. To answer honestly. And that’s the thing you dread most.

The machine turns so loud now, but you can barely focus on anything besides the constant stimulation your pussy is receiving. You’re so so close. Your body is trembling in frustration from not getting any release your breathing is shallow and quick. Your ass was soaked in your own juices making the slide so wet. Your hips unconsciously tried pushing against the hands searching for just enough stimuli to reach your high.

Jigsaw’s voice, calm but with an undercurrent of menace, cuts through the tension. And he steps back into your line of sight his tall frame intimidating even if he isn’t physically big.

“You’re still avoiding the truth. How long do you think you can hold onto this delusion?”

The pressure increases, the sensation teetering on the edge of unbearable, and yet it keeps you hanging just short of satisfaction. The more you resist, the more helpless you feel. The room grows colder, the air heavy with the weight of Jigsaw's impending next question.

Jigsaw’s voice becomes darker, more insistent. He unbuttoned the first buttons of his cape, slowly taking it off. Revealing a dress shirt, a grey vest, a tie, and matching slacks underneath. Formal wear, something you definitely didn’t expect

You threw the cape into a corner of the room. His clothes pleasingly fit his form, lean muscles making them fit on him deliciously. You immediately shook your head from the thoughts invading your mind.

“Since you can’t seem to tell the truth about losing control, let’s make it simpler.”

You sigh slightly in relief, maybe he would make this easier on you. He pauses, letting the silence stretch painfully long, allowing your mounting frustration to fester.

“When was the last time you were forced to submit to someone else’s will?”

He leans closer, the weight of his presence suffocating, even though you can’t see his face clearly behind the mask. You could just slightly make out his dark eyes behind the mesh of the eye holes.

His hand came up to your face picking it up and tilting it, making you automatically have to let your eyes stay on him.

“Tell me, who made you feel powerless?” With his eyes piercing you it was like he lured the truth out of you.

You felt the machine's arms twitch, waiting for the answer, threatening more denial or perhaps something worse. The movement completely halting made your answer finally be something akin of the truth.

“I… I was forced before. It’s happened before, and I hated it.” Your thoughts flashed back to your ex, how no matter what you told him, he just did whatever he wanted. You had lost total control not just of your guys’ relationship but also yourself. And you never absolutely ever wanted to experience something like that again.

Now you were forced to confront that same thing.

The room falls silent, and for the first time, Jigsaw’s voice softens, though it still carries a chilling edge. He caresses your head in a gesture that was supposed to be reassuring but made it feel more mockingly with the mask staring down at you.

“Good. You’re starting to understand. Submission is not a weakness, but denial of it is. The truth you fear most is what will set you free... if you survive.”

The machine’s teasing is slower now, giving them just enough reprieve to catch their breath. The chains remain tight, but the suffocating pressure eases. Jigsaw’s voice lowers to a whisper. His hold on you releasing.

“But this is far from over. You’ve only scratched the surface of your truth. There’s still more to reveal.” He steps away from you, crossing his arms and tilting his head in observation.

The tension from your body slightly eases from the slowed-down movements, giving you time to take some much-needed shaky breaths. The cold air once again seems more present now, prickling your skin your heart still pounding from the onslaught of pleasure from before. The machine’s grip eases just a fraction.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice quieter but still filled with unmatched control.

“Good. Admitting that you’ve submitted before means you’re starting to understand the game. Submission isn’t weakness—it’s inevitable when your will is tested beyond its limits.”

It almost sounded like he wanted to reassure you that it was okay, to admit these dark vulnerabilities to him. Well if you did, you might as well do it here. You doubt a serial killer will judge you much for what you’ll be saying.

A brief pause, his masked face tilting the other way slightly as though studying you.

“But don’t mistake this for mercy. Your truth is just the beginning. Now we see how deep your submission runs.”

The machine remains poised, its presence a constant threat, but for now, it lingers, awaiting the next phase of the game.

Jigsaw steps closer, the sound of his footsteps sharp against the cold floor. The black dress shoes that you take notice of now, snapping against the concrete. He’s still calm, still methodical, but now there’s a palpable shift in his demeanor. He’s pushing deeper into your mind, now that he knows you have started to break.

“Since you’ve confessed to losing control, it’s time we explore something else.”

His voice lowers, the intensity rising in his tone as he moves even closer. Each time he was about to ask a question your heart would pick up a few beats, the only thing filling you being pure and utter terror.

“You’re not just afraid of losing control… are you? You’re afraid of how much you crave it.”

Your breath hitched because you knew, you knew how right he was about that. The tension in the air thickens as he leans in, his breath cold against your skin. A shaky breath escaped you at the contact. Just a little more and his mask would brush against you if he would just take it off and do exactly that. You almost missed the constant rubbing and teasing the hands provided.

“So tell me... when was the last time you gave in to that craving and enjoyed being powerless?”

The question is like a knife, cutting into your deepest, most secret desires. Your body stiffens, the air suddenly feeling even colder, as you realize what Jigsaw is really asking—the fear and desire to submit intertwined.

“I… I don’t want to admit it, but I have enjoyed it before. I didn’t mean to, but I did.” Your eyes fell shut again at your admission like that could hide you.

Jigsaw falls silent, and the air feels thick with tension, each second feels longer and longer. The mechanical humming seems to soften slightly, but the weight of the your confession hangs in the room like a dark cloud.

“Now you’re starting to understand.” His face moves away but not very far.

The machine slows, giving the victim just enough relief to let their body relax, though the threat still lingers. Jigsaw steps back, watching as the victim trembles, their skin still sensitive from the teasing denial.

“Admitting you’ve enjoyed powerlessness is the first step. But now comes the real test. We’re going to see how much you can take before that craving becomes your breaking point.”

Jigsaw stands still for a moment, letting the weight of the victim’s confession settle in. Processing. The air feels heavier, your pulse racing as you realize what you’ve just admitted. The machine, which had briefly slowed its torment, hums again, but this time with a new energy.

"So, you’ve finally confessed. You’ve craved the very thing you’ve always denied—powerlessness."

He steps forward, his presence even more imposing. The cold metal of the machine hums louder, and the victim's body, trembling with anticipation, tightens as the teasing pulses resume. The sensation is different now faster, more concentrated more focused in a new vigor.

Jigsaw’s voice lowers, almost intimate, as he leans in close to the victim’s ear.

"Now, let’s test how deep that craving goes."

He flips a switch on the machine, and instantly, the teasing becomes an overwhelming onslaught of pleasure and pain, pushing you closer to the edge than they’ve ever been before. In a matter of seconds, you're back to panting like a dog in heat. The mechanical arms grip tighter, pulling your body taut as the pulses of sensation ripple through you. It’s like they knew each brush, each thrust, each button to get you closer and closer.

You buck involuntarily against the restraints, your breath quickening, muscles straining. Your moans ring out clearly through the room no restrain anymore in them.

"Do you want to submit completely?" Jigsaw’s voice echoes, a command hidden in the question.

Jigsaw stands still for a moment, letting the weight of the victim’s confession settle in. The air feels heavier, their pulse racing as they realize what they’ve just admitted. The machine, which had briefly slowed its torment, hums again, but this time with a new energy.

"So, you’ve finally confessed. You’ve craved the very thing you’ve always denied—powerlessness."

He steps forward, his presence even more imposing. The cold metal of the machine hums louder, and the victim's body, trembling with anticipation, tightens as the teasing pulses resume. The sensation is different now—more intense, more invasive—yet still withholding that elusive release.

Jigsaw’s voice lowers, almost intimate, as he leans in close to the victim’s ear.

"Now, let’s test how deep that craving goes."

He flips a switch on the machine, and instantly, the teasing becomes an overwhelming onslaught of pleasure and pain, pushing the victim closer to the edge than they’ve ever been before. The mechanical arms grip tighter, pulling their body taut as the pulses of sensation ripple through them.

Your body bucks involuntarily against the restraints, your breath quickening, muscles straining.

"Do you want to submit completely?" Jigsaw’s voice echoes, a command hidden in the question.

"Tell me," Jigsaw continues, his voice a dangerous whisper. "If you want release, beg for it. Admit you have no control left. If you refuse, you’ll stay here, until your mind and body break."

You can barely think, your body trembling involuntarily as the machine keeps you teetering on the edge, closer to release than ever but still denied. Every muscle strains against the chains, to try and get out, as you feel your resolve slipping.

"Submit completely," Jigsaw orders, the demand hanging heavy in the air. "Or resist, and you will never know release again."

It was clear what your answer was going to be. Too out of it to even try to resist his commands. Too fucking desperate to get that release, to feel yourself leak onto the machinery below. To make a mess of everything even more.

You're too overwhelmed by the relentless sensations, gasping for breath. Aching for release, the denial becoming unbearable, bordering painful.

You wanted to let go, absolutely you did. You wanted somebody to completely take over the reins that you so desperately held on to. To give yourself completely over, to not focus on any control at all because that someone, you would trust completely.

“Please…” you whisper, your voice trembling, soaked in desperation. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I submit. I’m not in control. I… I need it.” Each word spills from your lips, raw and pleading, your gaze locked onto his, craving touch, his touch

A sinister smile creeps beneath his mask, a dark victory shining in his eyes. The machine’s movements slow, almost as if savoring your confession. The restraints tighten one last time, an agonizing reminder of your submission, before—release. The mechanical pulses surge, overwhelming your senses in a tidal wave of sensation.

But it’s his fingers you feel now—long, thick, and unmistakably human. Your eyes snap open, and there he is, Jigsaw, looming over you, a predator inching closer. As his fingers plunge deep inside you, you can’t help but feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against your thigh. The heat radiates from him, mingling with your own arousal, igniting a primal fire within.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with lust. “So eager to be used. You’re just a filthy little thing, begging for it.” Your body convulses at his words, caught in a dizzying mix of pleasure and pain. Each thrust of his fingers drags against your walls, expertly hitting that sensitive spot the machines had cruelly denied.

“Can you feel how much I want you?” he breathes, his breath quickening, sending shivers down your spine. “You’re mine now. I’m going to make you feel every bit of it. I’ll take that control and give you exactly what you crave” The way he speaks makes your head spin, and you realize he’s as lost in this moment as you are, his arousal palpable and intoxicating.

“Good. You’ve learned your lesson,” he growls, his voice a low, seductive rumble that vibrates through your core. “But remember… this is only the beginning of your real submission. I want you to scream for me, to beg for more.” The tension hangs thick in the air, the two of you bound together in this dark, twisted dance of desire.

As your mind spirals into blissful oblivion, everything fades to black—just as it all began. You’re left spent, breathless, fully aware that you’ve relinquished the control you once clung to so desperately. In this dark embrace, surrender becomes the sweetest ecstasy, a thrilling intertwining of your desires and his.

#kinktober 2024 #enhypen smut #jungwon smut #yang jungwon #dark fic

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cy-lindric · 8 months ago

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I wanted to vent, but also ask an honest question. Since I was a teenager, I always wanted to work on character design. And one thing that always caught my attention was how I always preferred male character designs over female ones. My first thought was that I was always more into androgynous fashion and more masculine styles. But time passed and I came to the conclusion that it wasn't just that, and it seems that male characters can always be different things: fat, thin, handsome, ugly, short, tall, young, old, etc. and female characters, for the most part, fall into two categories: cute or sexy. I wanted some tips on how I can make female characters with more interesting designs, without having to fall into those two categories. I love your work and you managed to make someone else like the three musketeers <3<3

Hello ! That's definitely a good question and something I think about a lot. The bias towards beauty is very strong in character design and it takes a conscious effort to diversify output in that regard.

That sort of advice might be a bit obvious, but one habit I picked up from the director on my first feature film gig was to actually "cast" characters. Without reference, we tend to go for the kind of symmetrical face and "average" features mostly out of stylistic habit. I like to look at character actors with distinct faces (I like this pinterest page that has a lot of faces in one place) but also just acquaintances or pictures of random crowds.

When designing a character, at first I'm always building a big reference board trying to decide what Type of Guy (gender neutral) I'm going for, trying use photos rather than other people's art, because I want to rely on automatics and graphic symbols as little as possible. Whether I'm designing a man or a woman or other, I use references of fashion styles and people across the board in terms of gender so I keep the scope open. Sometimes a character ref board for me will be a picture of one of my aunts next to a bunch of screenshots of Columbo. In my experience, a lot of the times, it's mostly about going with styles and archetypes the same way you would for a male character, and switching it up somewhere along the way by looking at real women in your life and beyond as a grounding mechanism. Sometimes that will mean changing almost nothing, because the borders between genders and how you characterize them is blurry and fluid, and sometimes it will mean using features that are uniquely tied to some sort of female experience.

I enjoy realism and I think getting more proficient at it did help me diversify my designs (I find that more difficult to do with more minimalistic styles). Still, I am mostly a fantasy artist and in my case that comes with some amount of stylization and idealization of shapes and looks. I'm far from perfect in my biases and I'm not going out of my way to draw "ugly" characters because that doesn't mean much to me ; I try to draw inspiration from the faces of every day people and I associate it with my love for fashion. It's also worth noting the work I post here for fun is a lot more hash tag aesthetic than the stuff I do professionally where diversity is much more important.

I don't know if any of that is relevant but that's definitely an interesting topic ! I'd love to know others' perspective and tips on the matter.

#replies #txt #theinvisiblescanner #character design

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hazyaltcare · 9 months ago

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Typing Quirk Suggestions for a Robot kin

I hope it gives you a wonderful uptime! :3

Mod Vintage (⭐)

Letter replacements:

Replace "O" with zeroes "0"

Replace "i" or "L" with ones "1"

Replace "one" with "1", including "one" sounds like "any1", or "we 1 = we won" (the past tense of "win")

Replace "zero" with "0"

Frankly, you can just replace all sorts of letters with numbers, such as

R = 12

N = 17

B = 8

A = 4

E = 3

etc.

or maybe make all "A"s and "i"s capitalized, cause "A.I." (artificial intelligence

Prefixes and Suffixes:

Get inspired by programming languages!

Begin your text with "//" like a comment on C++

If you prefer other languages comment tags, you can use "< !--your text-- >"

Or maybe begin it with " int main () { std::cout << "your text"" and end with "return 0; }" like C++ too

Greet people with the classic "Hello world!"

Or greet people with "beep boop!" honestly, I have no idea where this comes from, but it's cute.

Or write down html stuff, like sandwiching your italicized text with "< em> "

The possibilities are endless!

Robot Lingo:

(under the cut because there's a LOT! maybe terabytes! ...just kidding >;3c)

some of these are from the machinesoul.net robot server! (not sponsored) (we're not in there anymore, but we saw the robot lingo shared there when we were)

Fronting = logged in, connected

Not fronting = logged out, disconnected

Conscious = activated

Dormant = deactivated

Blurry = no signal

Upset, angry = hacked

Small = bits, bytes

Bite = byte

Huge = gigabytes, terabytes, etc.

Your intake of food, medicine, etc. = input

Your artwork, cooking, handiwork, handwriting, etc. = output

Body = chassis, unit

Brain = CPU, processor

Mind = program, code

Imagination = simulation

Purpose = directive

Nerves = wires

Skin = plating

Organs = (function) units

Limbs = actuators

Eyes = ocular sensors

Glasses = HUD (head's up display)

Hair = wires

Ears = antennae, audio sensors

Nose = olfactory sensors

Heart = core

Liver = detoxification unit

Circulatory system = circuits

Voice = speaker, voice module, voice box

Mouth = face port

Name = designation

Sleep = sleep mode, low power mode, charging

Eat = fuel, batteries

Energy = batteries

Tired = low on batteries

Translate = compile

Memory = data, database

Bed = recharge pod/charger

Dreaming = simulation

Birthday = day of manufacture

Talking = communicating

Thinking = processing

Transitioning = modifying your chassis

Depression = downtime

Joy = uptime

Trash = scrap metal

Fresh/Clean = polished

Keysmashing = random 1s and 0s

Self-care = system maintenance

Going to the doctor = trip to the mechanic

Group = network

Anyone = anybot

#typing quirk suggestions #robotkin #otherkin #robot kin #robot #robots #mod vintage #⭐#tw medical #tw dormancy mention #our system actually uses the lingo in daily conversations with other plurals n alterhumans because we're robot/machine/AI/etc.-dominant #which is pretty funny cause our mod name is Vintage and robots are Futuristic #typing quirk #typing quirks #typing quirk suggestion

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snipdoodle · 2 months ago

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I feel self conscious about my only artistic output over the past half year almost all being centered around my fursona but then I remember she's cool and awesome and I go another day drawing the same kitty

#furry #literally the trigger to make me want to trans my gender. what can i say

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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 2 years ago

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why is headless women art bad? i can see why it's seen as objectifying but why is it such a big deal to make art out of the female form? (sorry if i sound agressive this is a genuine question)

Hi anon! You certainly don’t sound aggressive - I’m actually very grateful for the opportunity to collate my current thoughts in one place, so thank you for the prompt. I’m going to try my hardest to keep this short.

For any women who haven’t seen posts on this topic previously, some examples of the ‘headless women art’ trend I’ve been talking about for a while now are below. They’re often missing their limbs, at various points of amputation, as well as all or part of their heads (if she has her eyes, I generally don’t count it). Sometimes their heads have been ‘replaced’ with other objects, typically plants or mushrooms, though I wouldn’t count a woman with an animal or bird’s head. They’re often naked.

So, per Anon’s question, why is it a ‘big deal’?

I mean, really, it’s not. It’s an absolutely minuscule deal - it’s as dwarfed by the issues of the sex industry, femicide, and systemic sex inequality, as we are by the Sun. And yet, much as our bodies are made of particles formed in dying stars, I see elements of the large within the small… ok, I’m not getting poetic.

It’s not a big deal, and I don’t necessarily think it’s wholly terrible either, which is why in my analysis posts on the topic I try to ask questions more than criticise, and criticise gently when I do so. What it comes down to is that I spotted a pattern, and wanted to acknowledge that pattern, think about it, and ask other women for their thoughts on it.

With that said, there are certain things that I question particularly, and have seen other women question, which I’ll list:

Remove her legs and she can’t run, remove her arms and she can’t fight, remove her mouth and she can’t shout, and remove her eyes and she can’t look back at you. You totally disempower her when you remove almost every body part capable of action.

By removing her head you also remove her brain (her personality and internal identity), and her face (her visible external identity). By anonymising her you strip her of her individuality, and depict all female people as a result - so what message are you sending about all female people with your depiction of us, naked and dismembered?

A (living) woman’s neutral existence requires her to have her head. By removing it, you are making an active choice to step away from the neutral (and it’s on you to defend that choice), and you are also by necessity depicting a dead woman. You ask about ‘art out of the female form’ - the living female form has a head. Why remove it?

The simplest test of whether something might be sexist, is to see whether it applies to men and women equally. Are (straight) men decorating their homes with ‘bits’ of male bodies? Do men in general feel conscious enough of, yet alienated enough from, the appearance of their bodies that they seek out their representation, sans heads, to reflect back at them? Why not, if women are? Would it be strange if they did?

As a follow up, since many of these pieces are made by women (often straight women), are (straight) men often focusing their artistic output on depicting ‘bits’ of male bodies? Do men regularly choose to create art intended to depict the ‘beauty’ of the male form? If not, why not?

You mention objectification - what links are there between objectification and violence? Could self-objectification be used to normalise violence against the self, or even excuse it? What about violence against others who are like the self (ie violence against other women)?

As I say, I’m not necessarily saying this artistic trend is exclusively a bad one, or that people/women in particular shouldn’t be decorating their homes however they please. It’s just something I’ve noted and found interesting, and like many apparently free choices, I think feminist women have a responsibility to interrogate their own and others’ motivations.

This is a hasty overview, and I’ve probably missed things - I’ll reblog with additions if I think of any, but you can also see my previous posts on this topic, and other women’s contributions, under my “Headless Women Art” tag. Thanks again for the question!

#headless women art

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spoiled-fawn · 11 months ago

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TF 141: Owl Hybrid HCS

Hi! I'm alive, just working on several things at once so my writing output is slow. This may be too niche but I've been thinking about this too much and wanted to share. Yes, I will be coming out with a Price x reader hybrid fic and this kinda sets the tone for it. I hope you enjoy!

A group of owls is called a parliament.

No warnings. There are some 141 x reader bits as well

PRICE: Blakiston’s Fish Owl

Price is a big bird, and is the largest in terms of body weight and wingspan comparisons. His wings take up a majority of his space when on the ground and in his human form. His feathers are monochromatic with brown and tan, his broad and ragged ear tufts start on his temple and hang slightly to the side- still perfectly seen and sticking out when he wears his boonie hat.

The scars on his neck mark a historic battle between him and a foe. His damage? His vocal chords.

This man has a deep hoot that now sounds like a scratchy croak most nights. He feels self-conscious about it after the damage that occurred but will use it to startle or scare enemies mostly.

If you ask to hear his hoot he gets flustered.

Being the alpha predator, he is very territorial. Not so much over his nest or room, but rather his parliament. Over the others, he tends to take care of them as a stand-in father figure that none of them have. With his big form and feathers, you can find either of the sergeants nestled into his chest like the pillow Price is.

Playing with his ear tufts is a dangerous game, as your hand will either be pecked at or he’ll give you nesting eyes depending on his mood.

Loves fish, and will even eat it raw if his owl sense is craving it.

His species spends an unusual amount of time on the ground and prefers to travel as humans do when applicable.

When fishing, he prefers to do so as his breed does. Dive in and catch the fish himself.

Likes to nest in tight spaces (that mimic hollow trees). Will make a fort between a plethora of cushions and blankets to hide within.

GHOST: Great Gray Owl

While Ghost is the largest member of 141, in his owl form, he almost doubles in size due to his plumage. The Great Gray has fluffy feathers and the longest tail, making him all the more threatening

He is not the type to build nests, but will often steal nests of others. He’s been found in Price’s nests when the Captain leaves for office work or has been known to crash into Soap's nest with no care to the men squawking

He’s vain to a fault. Will always preen himself in private, and the one time you pulled a cracked feather he immediately blushed snatched it from your hand, and left in a hurry to make sure there were no others

Once you got to really get close to him, he would let you do it for him.

Absolutely loses it when you call him pretty bird.

You also got him to parrot it back to you once and he almost cried with embarrassment.

Also has a deep hoot, but his come in shorter and quicker successions.

These owls, much like Ghost, are hard to find. They tend to keep to themselves and blend into their surroundings by remaining still. There is minimal aggression in terms of territory, but when the 141 parliament is threatened, his talons are ready to maul.

SOAP: Barn Owl

Have you heard a Barn Owls call? It can get really annoying or is beyond terrifying.

Soap’s subspecies is the T. a. Guttata; He is large for his species while having grey and orange upperparts with an orange buff. He has speckling to his underpart feathers, and his face is white.

Will sometimes take naps in a roost of his choosing (supply closet, rafters of the gym) but does tend to make his own nest when needing a deep and comfortable sleep after a good meal or long mission.

Makes a fuss when Ghost crashes his nest. He hisses and snaps his beak at the large hybrid but shuts up when he gets to nestle under his wings.

Soap bonded with Ghost over his species being known as the “Ghost Owl” to some, but also that they have a similar lay of face feathers.

Soap is a curious hybrid in nature, and not always defensive when a different species (or human) is interacting with 141. The first time he met you, his wings splayed out while he looked you over - too closely.

While looking at your dog tags (or any other jewelry) he accidentally beat his wing feathers on your face.

You lost your balance and spooked him, causing him to hiss at you. And beat you over the head with his wing, again.

He is very cuddly when on base, likes to be by your side, and at least has his wing draped on you if it's movie night.

GAZ: Great Horned Owl

One of Gaz’s strong suits is his ability to camouflage. His feathers comprise a darker brown and even darker, complex markings across. He does have a patch of white feathers on his throat when fully shifted, and people make jokes that it's as if he wears a button-up shirt.

He has the classic owl hoot, and will often use it as comedic relief if a joke doesn't land. It is the most calming and subtle of the group, so he will often use it to find the other members while on base.

His eyes are big. Can give you the sweetest looks without saying anything, and is an absolute heartmelter when his tired eyes show in the daytime.

Like Price, he has tufts on the side of his head but are much smaller in comparison. They do as well peak out from under his cap.

He can adapt to the heat of the desert easily, and if in the Sonoran Desert again, he likes to sit in the sun to warm up.

Gaz does nest, but his is a bit wild and messy in terms of blankets and pillows strewn about when doing so. He doesn't need much, but when in his nesting season he can become aggressive and grumpy.

Price jokes that he can be like a parrot. Somewhat playful but has a tolerance when being preened at by the Captain himself.

Has nipped Price before.

Gaz keeps his talons well-maintained. He lost one in a fight before, and now takes excellent care of them.

When he becomes fond of you, he will snag you by the arms and fly you in the air with him. Very cautious to not hurt you!

He one time made a nest high up in the rafters in the base but fell out of it and onto the ground when Ghost caught him sleeping.

~~~~~~

Cannot stop imagining Price's owl with a boonie hat on top. Like PLEASE. So cute and deadly.

#task force 141 #tf141 x reader #cod mw2 #call of duty #captain john price #tf141 #john price #simon riley ghost #ghost mw2 #ghost simon riley #soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare #john soap mactavish #sprinkle of soapghost #gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick #gaz mw2 #gaz cod #hybrid tf141

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harrisonarchive · 1 year ago

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Photo by Robert Freeman.

With The Beatles was released on November 22, 1963. The album features the first Harrisong — “Don’t Bother Me.” “We were doing a two-week season in Bournemouth [in August 1963] and I was sick and confined to the hotel. I was just staying in bed all day and going to the concert each night. I wrote the song [‘Don’t Bother Me’] one afternoon, composing it on guitar. I got the music first, with the title — then I filled in the other words later. I suppose it was just an excuse to see if I could write a song. I didn’t really have any songs together when the Beatles were formed — not like John and Paul. They started writing just around the end of school, but I’d never thought of writing until that time in Bournemouth. And I remember thinking then: ‘If they can write I’m sure it can’t be that difficult because, you know, they’re not that smarter than me.’ So really it’s like anything you want to do — you just keep on trying to get it better and you know you’re not going to be a sensation until you’ve really worked at it a long time. And even then it probably won’t be sensational. Of course, it was difficult with the prolific output of John and Paul to get my songs recorded at first and even if it hadn’t been, I’d have been pretty self-conscious about writing crummy songs. You have to go through all the bad things in order to get into the good things… you get hung up before you start because you think, ‘I can’t say this, and I can’t write that…’ so the biggest breakthrough is in eliminating the hang ups. I think that’s what happened with me; I suddenly realized certain truths about writing songs and it made everything come easier.” - George Harrison, Record Mirror, January 1, 1972 (x)

#George Harrison #quote #quotes by George #Harrisongs #Harrison songwriting #1963 #The Beatles #With The Beatles #Don't Bother Me #fits queue like a glove

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deppiet · 1 year ago

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About the yassification of GO2.

Warning: the following text is highly critical of the second season of Good Omens. If you enjoyed it, I am happy for you, and a non-negligible amount of jealous as well. Please scroll past before I inevitably rain on your fandom parade.

So, I did the thing. I binged the entire second season of what was, up to now, my favorite show ever, in one sitting. And I have a great deal of things to say, but hardly any of them is positive.

Let me start by saying that I don't mind the cliffhanger or the melancholy ending, like at all. In our era of Marvel apologists and the instant gratification culture, it is necessary for media to persevere and add nuance to romantic relationships. That said, what transpired during the six hours leading up to this sort of unearned climax hardly contains anything remotely close to nuance.

Who are these people? I don't mean the new characters, all of them written as cardboard-cut anthropomorphic personifications of stereotypes, yassified to the point of representation losing its purpose and getting in the way of, you know, actual writing. I mean the protagonists themselves, Aziraphale and Crowley, up to now my favorite characters in the entire world and -up to now- tangled in a love story so beautiful I had, for better or for worse, devoted a large part of my creative output on it, making art, songs, and metas on why what those two entities had was as close to perfect as anyone can hope to find for themselves.

These are not the characters I knew. The characters I knew spent hundreds of human lifetimes revolving around each other in a treacherous yet familiar dance- they both knew the love was there, it was comfortable like an armchair that has taken the shape of the body using it for years. They argued the way old couples do, and of course, like all fictional beings that are counterparts of one another, had differences to settle, but what stood in their way wasn't misunderstanding or miscommunication, in was their fear of Heaven and Hell, and their fundamentally different approaches on how to keep each other safe.

What is all this teen angst? This will-they-won't-they silliness that lacks any nuance, thematic coherence, or literally even trace amounts of understanding of the source material? Where is the dark humor, the quotability, the chaotic overarching plot, the self conscious camp? The season is so cynically written to cater specifically to a certain part of fandom, that I am losing respect for the original work- because if Neil Gaiman doesn't care for these fictional beings, and he evidently doesn't, why should I?

The thematic core of what made Good Omens what it was, had always been the "Love in unexpected places" trope Sir Terry Pratchett knew how to write so well. It had never been about the fantasy, because Sir Terry wrote satire wrapped up in a supernatural package, it had never been about the romance, because when the ship becomes the end instead of the means, the love rings hollow, like artificial light trying to pass as sunshine. The beating heart of GO lies in its philosophy, in the beautiful notion that the agents of two oppressive systems at war have more in common with one another than with their respective oppressors. That being a nobody, a mere cog in a larger machine, says more about said machine than it does about you, and that you can try to break free and build a life for yourself, where a happy ending looks like a dinner at the Ritz with the one you love most.

Shoehorning an underdeveloped "romance" between Beelzebub and Gabriel not only feels like bad fanfic (disclaimer: I like the ship and feel like it could have worked if developed in any capacity, and presented in a more humorous and character-appropriate way. I hate with passion how much they watered down Beelzebub in order to make them stereotypically romanceable, adding the Ineffable Bureaucracy to the ever-expanding list of characters I don't care about anymore.) but also, it muddles and grossly undermines the thematic raison d'être of Ineffable Husbands. If the ramifications for defecting and fucking off with the enemy were a slap on the wrist for the respective leaders of both sides, well surely the system can't be that oppressive after all. And if fear of the oppressive system wasn't, after all, what kept these beings apart, surely these two entities don't like each other as much as we thought. Or rather, one is reduced to a lovesick puppy and the other to a brainless husk of a character, a plot device, a means to go from place A to place B without spending much brainpower on the logistics.

And if these two new people got to kiss I care not, for they are not the same people I rooted for (props, though, to the actors, who gave, somehow, an almost Shakespearean gravitas to their love affair, underwritten and dumbed down as it was. They both love the characters, and it shows in the minuscule yet brilliant ways in which they added nuance where the script had none.)

What was that thing with the lesbians about? Though straight passing, I have always known myself to be attracted to women as well as men, and I am always highly suspicious when an "ally" writer (see: straight, no shade to straight people among which I live because they are, like, the majority) decides to make all characters queer, in the face of real-world statistics and despite NOT being queer themselves. When a person like Nate Stevenson does it they get a pass because writers self-insert and because, when done well, it can carry a message of equality. But when the ally writer does it, unless it is pitch-perfect, I am forced to examine the possibility of them being calculating about it and trying to score representation points, often because they need the rep as a fig leaf to cry homophobia behind when people start complaining about the atrocious plot.

Nina and Maggie were boring. They had no personalities, no cohesive backstories, nothing to make us understand what they are to one another and to the overarching plot ("plot" is used loosely here, for there was no plot: the series ended where it should have started, with six hours of -progressively more offensive to my intelligence- fanfic tropes in a trenchcoat serving as the, well, "plot"). I didn't care whether or not they'd end up together, because I have no idea who they are. The blandness of the dialogue had the actresses, both very talented as evidenced in the first season, grasping at straws with what little characterization they were left to work with, and the "ball" was so unbelievably bad a plot device no amount of suspension of disbelief was ever going to make it right.

The minisodes, though at parts clever and philosophical, felt out of place. This was another narrative choice I had to raise my eyebrows at, because it felt like a bunch of executives sat around a table and watched Neil Gaiman's powerpoint presentation of what made Season 1 financially successful. They were shoehorned in, largely irrelevant to the, eh, "plot", and most of them lasted far more than I personally deemed welcome, or necessary.

What else is there to say? The wink-winks and nudge-nudges to the Tumblr nation? The in-your-face Doctor Who reference? The narratively myopic choice to make Crowley a former archangel? The cheese dialogue, not one bit of which was quotable?

I am distraught. I am grieving an old friend, and a part of my fandom life I cannot, in good faith, return back to after this gross betrayal. I am happy for those who don't see it, because I wish I could love this season past its flaws. However, the writing isn't simply mediocre, it is irrevocably, immeasurably, undescribably bad, so bad I am shocked to my very core, so bad I find it offensive to Sir Terry's memory and everything his own creative output was lovingly filled with.

I am passing all five stages of grief and very much doubt I will return to this fandom. I loved the original story and the characters with all my heart- now the aforementioned heart is broken, not by the breakup or anything as pedestrian as cheap romantic tropes. But because my old friends, my family of fictional beings, are no longer the ones I loved and could relate to.

Deppie out.

#good omens #good omens season 2 #go2 #good omens 2 spoilers #gos2 spoilers #good omens s2 #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens critical #good omens season 2 critical #neil gaiman #terry pratchett #good omens spoilers #michael sheen #david tennant

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