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moregaythanyourealized · 3 years ago

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The Mayor

Part 3

“We start this evenings broadcast with shocking news from town hall. This morning at roughly 8:30 our dear Mayor was killed by none other than Doc Ock. Luckily for us though he is behind bars thanks to the efforts of Y/n L/n, who is now being sworn into office.” The camera showed the procedure and Y/n in a new outfit. A blue dress that fir her quite well. Otto couldn’t stand it. He had only been in prison for a few hours and he already hated his life more than before. He was drugged up and his machine felt much heavier than it used to, he had next to no control of his body. His only way to see the world was through a small grainy TV that was posted in the corner of his cell.

His cell was incomprehensibly unfitting for a man such as himself. An old bed that left a crick in his neck. A toilet which he thankfully hadn’t needed to use yet. And a small table in the corner with the even smaller TV. The walls of his cell were unbreakable. Some material he didn’t know the name of surrounded the outside of it. He could chip at the concrete but the outside wouldn’t budge. Somehow he was sure you had funded the building of this cell. Just to spite him. The TV showed you suddenly and his attention was drawn back,

“It was terrifying to be in the clutches of such a lunatic. I did what anyone would do, if only I could’ve done more to save our dear Mr Thomas. May he rest in peace.” What a load of shit, he thought. You had fooled the people just like you had fooled him,

“What will happen to Doc Ock?” Y/n brushed her hair out of her face and looked directly into the camera,

“After I visit him tomorrow, he’ll be getting what he deserves. I demand justice for the death of Mayor Thomas.” People clapped in the background and Otto shut off the TV trying to get some sleep. He dreamed of you and this morning. He dreamed of how he wished it went.

The rain pouring down over the both of you as he held you close. You’d look up at him and pull him in close kissing him softly and thanking him for saving the city. For saving you. His hands would wrap around your waist and he’d carry you back to your apartment and you two would dry off and have a romantic dinner together. Sharing your plans for the future of New York....

He awoke with a start. Some guard yelling at him to get up. Groaning he lifted himself from the bed and walked sluggishly towards the door. A series of clicks and other strange noises come from the other side of the wall before the door swung open. Being handcuffed yet again he was led to a glass enclosure. This is miserable, he thought. They’re treating me like an animal. He was sealed inside the glass and felt cool air conditioning by his feet. A large vent blowing freezing air and making the space breathable. It woke him up a bit. The effects of whatever they injected slowly wearing off. One of his claws knocked on the glass, no damage. He couldn’t just break out either, there were guards all over the entire prison. When the door opened again he scowled. You looked tiny compared to the metal door and waltzed in as if you were an old friend. You wore a long pale pink coat and black gloves finished off with a black ascot. You looked unbearably cute but knew what you really were,

“What do you want L/n?”

“I listen to the people, and they demanded I see you to know you’re reasoning for killing a public figure.” Slamming his fist against the glass he stared you down,

“I did it because you told me to, you crazy bitch.” You nodded in agreement pulling off your gloves gingerly and setting them in your pocket,

“And I did it because you made it easy, if you had been smarter I might’ve avoided you and picked someone else to help me.” His appendages moved like protective snakes behind him.

“Did you come here just to mock me?” You got closer to the glass tilting your head to see his expression he looked distant. It made you a little sad,

“I don’t want you to rot here in prison. Because despite all that I’ve said...” You cleared your throat,

“The greatest thrill and joy I’ve had so far was the short time I worked alongside you.” He met your eyes and did nothing for awhile. Then he just sighed and turned away from you,

“I can’t deal with this right now.” You frowned and stepped back,

“Fine. I understand you don’t exactly like or trust me. But if there’s anything I can do...just let me know.” God! You really were confusing. One minutes you’re kissing, then you have him thrown in jail and now you’re asking about doing him favors? What are you trying to do to this poor mans head?

“Tell the guards to give me some time before they take me back to my cell.”

—————POV CHANGE—————

He hears the door close and looks around before using one of his metal arms to pry the top off the air vent. He wasn’t going to fit through it but he could tear up the floor around it to make him fit. And that’s exactly what he did. While you told the guards to give him time and to treat him better than other prisoners the doctor was wondering through the giant vents. His brain felt sharp and alert again. So did his tentacles, a flicker of red warned him to stop but he wouldn’t, not when he’s gotten this far. Finally he found a vent to a control room. He burst through the ceiling and killed both the guards. He sat at the computer and began typing. Y/n was going to regret this. With a few clicks and the push of a button all cell doors, outside doors, and gates were unlocked. He’ll had been released and so had New York’s greatest super villains. The city would be chaos and with the record for shortest office time ever, Y/n would be kicked out and replaced. Maybe the new shmuck in charge would know how to handle the city. Leaving the room he flew down the halls. His tentacles taking him to the personal belongings room. Searching the drawers he found what he was looking for. Grabbing his jacket and glasses he exited the building (cue epic music). Walking over crowds of anyone from petty thefts to fellow evil doers he stepped into the freshly fallen snow. It was around noon, by nightfall this place would be a wreck. He saw your car leave the parking lot. His tentacles took over, the flashing red now bright and constant. One grabbed the car while another ripped the door off. He heard your screaming from inside and did nothing to hide the joy spreading across his face. Your face paled when you saw who had wrecked your car and you pushed yourself as far away as you could. He got closer to the car and looked in the gaping hole on the side. You were shaking against the door on the opposite side. A limb reached in and wrapped around her neck. She closed her eyes expecting the worst. But the machine only untied her ascot from her neck and tied it around her mouth. She tried to scream again but it was muffled by the gag. Then ripping leather from the interior of the car it was tied tightly around her wrists and ankles. Pulling her into the cold air she shook her head,

“I think it’s time Brooklyn sees the type of leader you really are. Let’s have some fun.” His voice was different now. Dark and clever. The wreckage of downtown broke your heart. Historical buildings destroyed or burned down. Hundreds of not thousands of criminals on the streets. Between the speed you were going at and the ice in your eyes they all looked like blurs. The wind stopped whipping at your face, you couldn’t see what was behind you but you could tell where you were. The bank, of course. It was hard to process everything. Eventually you stopped trying and just laid across his shoulder. Setting you down he demanded the bank teller open all the safes,

“If you don’t, I’ll break every bone in her body. One by one. When I’m done she’ll be so deformed her own mother won’t recognize her.” The teller scrambled with the keys and began unlocking everything. He laughed and began bagging what looked the most valuable,

“I hope you know this is very much your fault.” He smiled at you. The sinking in your stomach only went deeper. When he finished he picked you up once more like a rag doll and exited the building. Crushing the ceiling on the way out,

“Where shall we go? The city is ours.” He said nothing but got a devious glint in his eyes before taking you back through downtown. He stopped in front of your apartment. How did he know where you lived? When you entered the building it was like a ghost town. No employees or lobby boys. Only the distant sounds of chaos and the ding of the elevator as you ride it up to the top floor. Thankfully he didn’t know which exact apartment belonged to you. He set you down and you pointed to a door near the end of the hall. He didn’t bother to pick you back up or untie your feet so you could walk. He just dragged you behind him along the carpet while he talked about the design of the building. He stopped in front of your door. His human hands found their way to your waist. You tried to wiggle away from him but he reached down. You sighed when you realized he was only getting the keycard from your pocket.

You apartment was cold. He set you on the couch and began trying to light a fire in your fireplace,

“You have a lovely place, sure know how to use the tax payers money huh?” He let his jacket fall to the floor, revealing his bare chest. He must’ve been cold outside without a shirt on. He was out of sight and into your kitchen. He came back with a bottle of wine and a large glass. He left your hands tied but undid the restraints around your ankles and mouth. Taking a deep breath in you went to yell at him. Before you could you were pulled into his lap. Switching the TV on he shushed you and ran a hand down your back making you shiver,

“Is it the end times? Citizens of New York are wondering what is happening? Mere hours after Mayor L/n is elected the city falls into destruction. On her trip to visit Doc Ock it’s believed he escaped and freed the other prisoners. Riots, fires, building destroyed and collapsed in what’s possibly New York’s worst day yet.” The camera switched to different people getting interviewed,

“It’s terrible! I’m afraid to leave my home!”

“I knew we shouldn’t have elected a woman.”

“I heard she was working with the Doctor the entire time!” Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. You couldn’t reach the remote, and if you tried to get up he’d just pull you right back down. Guilt was the main emotion, but you felt some resentment as well. These people knew nothing! You were tricked... kinda, not really. But you never intended for this mess to happen. Karma had finally caught up with you. The people on the news kept taking and talking. You couldn’t take it anymore,

“Turn it off! Please!” Otto shrugged and changed the channel to a hockey game,

“Is all the pressure getting to you, Mayor?” His hand was resting on your thigh while the other held his wine glass. You wanted desperately to shower and go to bed. To wake up in a different dimension where nothing ever happened. The room became unbearably hot. You weren’t sure wether it was the fireplace or the guilt (or maybe something else),

“Could you untie my hands please? I’d like to get out of my coat.” You got off his lap and stuck your hands out for him to untie,

“Last time I trusted you, you and me thrown in jail. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“I’m not asking you to trust me, I’m asking you to untie my hands.” He stood up and began slowly uniting them. He watched you intensely as you took your coat off. Turning away from his gaze you walked into your bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. You were a strong powerful leader who was going to get out of this mess....somehow.

#doc ock x reader #doc ock #mcu x reader #mcu phase 4 #spiderman #alfred molina #fanfic #tw violence

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sherry-l · 4 years ago

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Why YGO Vrains is such an immeasurable disappointment: a list

First of all, I need to make it abundantly clear that Im a big fan of Vrains – I love Yusaku, Ryoken, Ai, Kusanagi... you see them very often on my dash. I fantasize about the ideal version of Vrains that’s written well, the Vrains that’s fully exploited its potentials, every night in my sleep. I wrote this list PRECISELY because I love Vrains. That’s why I got so frustrated with its cardinal writing issues (and production issues). It physically pains me to hear people calling Vrains the worst and most boring series of YGO – but the fact that I couldn’t argue against that because it’s true pains me more.

And now, an incomprehensive list of the faults of Yugioh Vrains.

1. What the fuck is wrong with the character designs (beside that of Yusaku and Ryoken???) Everyone looks aesthetically displeasing – characters in real life look incredibly boring they could easily drown in a crowd of background characters, but their avatars are OSTENTATIOUS. Seems like the character designer had no clue what “less is more” means – blue angel, soulburner, and Bohemann for example, look like they were immersed in a bucket of glue and then dumped into another bucket filled with random accessories.

(from a fan artist’s perspective…Im especially salty about takeru, akira, Kusanagi, and the Knights of Hanois’ designs…like, their designs don’t inspire me to draw. Their personalities might be interesting, but their looks lack the vibrant, enthusiastic energy that the 5Ds, Zexal, and Arc-V characters possess)

(imagine how many fanfics and fanarts of Kusanagi x Yusaku there would be had Kusanagi looked HALF as hot as Ryoken)

And don’t even get me started on the colour palette – whoever decided on the colours just cant make up their goddamn mind! Colour saturation is way off the charts, the range of colour is too wide the audience simply dont know where to focus.

2. Forgotten plotlines. Yusaku’s link sense? Hanoi’s spy in SOL? The Queen and the rest of the chess pieces? Yusaku’s forgotten memories? The rest of the victims of the Lost Incident? Just to name a few.

3. Character relationships are weak to minimal to none. Bonds and friendships – the vital element in all previous YGO series – is practically non-existent in Vrains. Where’s the camaraderie between our main casts (Yusaku, Aoi, Soulburner, Ema, Onizuka, etc…)? They don’t feel like a team fighting the evil together. They’re completely separate individuals who don’t give a single fuck if one of their…acquaintance…dies in a battle. We don’t have heartwarming moments of friendship blossoming and consolidating. It’s honestly such a let down.

4. Interesting and debatable topics thrown away. The conflict between artificial intelligence and humans could spark so many in-depth discussions, but then the writer just decided its all Lightening’s fault. No morally gray situations, no ambiguity between the line of good and evil. It’s just all Lightening and his petty jealousy… yeah.

Oh and if Ai lives on the world will blow up. Why? Do we have a concrete reason to back that statement? eh...

5. Overall quality of the animation. I don’t know if its because the animation staff was short on time or low on budget, but for a megacorporation (konami cough cough) that makes billions every year, they certainly are capable of investing more in this anime series. I can count the number of episodes in which the characters don’t look wacky with a single hand.

6. Character development, wasted potentials. Ryoken is the only character who received decent treatment. The rest of the Vrains cast are all disappointments. Original concepts are cool and promising – Yusaku, a victim of child abuse with PTSD, embarking on a journey to overcome his reclusiveness and learn to open up to people around him? HELL YEAH. Aoi, a teenage idol with depression developing into a more mature and responsible heroine who saves Link Vrains? IM ALL FOR IT. Soulburner’s character arc is fine overall but personally I don’t feel like it’s expanded enough. Also, there’s the mistreatment of side characters like Onizuka, Ema, Akira, the list goes on. I got so furious just looking at these characters and remembering that they’re all wasted and sidelined.

7. Incoherent/ random plotlines. IDK all episodes in season 1 (Hanoi’s arc) felt pretty consistent, focusing on a linear theme – Yusaku’s revenge on the Knights of Hanoi. But after that it felt like the writers gave up writing outlines and just wrote whatever he pleased/ considered more convenient for the sake of…a plot…that he had no idea which direction it was headed for. This is reflected in the amount of forgotten plotlines we listed previously.

8. Weak villains. Kinda related to point 4. Bohemann, Lightening, Windy, and Haru are all one-dimensional, flat, predictable villains with the cliché goal of “destroying humanity cuz humans are dumb and Ais are superior”. Not likeable, not fun to watch, not morally gray (something I expect from well-written antagonists), they are just there to serve as symbol of evil for the protags to defeat.

Honourable mentions - what I personally want to see in Vrains, really. Very biased.

- The familial interaction between Yusaku and Kusanagi? Brotherhood, perhaps? Without any mention of Yusaku’s parents, Kusanagi is the closest Yusaku has to a brother figure. I crave for some wholesome brotherly moments between these two.

- More slice of life episodes please.

- The friendship between Yusaku and Takeru. Please. Please. PLEASE. From the second opening we can see the animation staff CLEARLY intended for there to be a strong bond between Yusaku and Takeru – Takeru probably was written to serve as a Jounouchi/ Johan/ Crow sort of character. Yusaku and Takeru could bond over their trauma and overcome their PTSD together. AND IT WAS SO HEAVILY HINTED AT IN THE 2ND OP!!! fam what the fuck happened to that friendship, Im so robbed.

- Yusaku and Ryoken’s duel or tag duel. These two haven’t duelled AT ALL since the first season ended. Isn’t Ryoken Yusaku’s official rival? Isn’t it Yugioh tradition for the protag and the rival to duel like, a trillion times? AND ISNT IT ALSO A YUGIOH TRADITION FOR THE PROTAG AND THE RIVAL TO TAG DUEL?????? The fact that Yusaku and Ryoken never had a tag duel haunts me every night in my worst nightmares afjw4ot9wgrk

- Topologina Nabee

Thanks for coming to my ted talk, this marks the end of my rant on YGO VRAINS DISAPPOINTMENTS. Again, I harboured no malicious intent when I compiled the list – its more like a vent of frustration than actual criticism. I would pay billions to see a Vrains reboot or, if there exists an alternate universe where none of the writing/production issues above are present in Vrains, I would do a Kaiba and build a dimension travelling machine and immigrate there.

TLDR: wasted potentials. wAsTED PoTEntialS. WASTED POTENTIALS!!!!!!

#yugioh #yugioh vrains #rant

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1zashreena1 · 4 years ago

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The Homicide is Hot -12

18+, m/f/f, technically OCxDiego Jimenez [Power]

Summary: Princess struggles with her own morality. But all cats are gray in the dark, right? Oh, and Diego has an epiphany.

WARNINGS: Ridiculous descriptions and ‘the code is more like guidelines’ outlook on grammar. Is it OOC if the character was given essentially zero development in canon???

Literal murder guys, seriously*** Protective Diego, feels, a blow job, plus size woman+fit man, insightful and helpful Julio, f o r e s h a d o w i n g

A/N: Princess took on a life of her own and has essentially become an OC. There are infrequent mentions of her description (specifically as plus size) and her actual name in later pieces (its Bicki). She started as self-insert so she looks like me (plus size, white, short, blue eyes, curly hair). If that is not your thing, I totally understand. And do not feel obligated to read this, I will not be offended!

I’m not a fan of “plot” so be aware that most of this series is just meandering through their relationship, angst-fluff-smut whiplash style. But with dick jokes.

Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you would like to be tagged or removed.

TAGLIST: @chelsfic @symbiont13 @nicke0115 @bunnykjm @rosee-sensuelle @girlpornparadise @mandoplease @heresathreebee @xxsteph-enrixx @jetiikad @joalsglasses @mutantcookiesecrets @demoncatstone @squidlywiddly87 @lockedoutofmyotherblog @poeedamerons

gif by @el-cheung

"Its hot when he's homicidal." There. You said it.

Okay but remember that time when he stabbed two dudes and carved an ear off of a third? And you were gonna like, die if you didn't blow him IMMEDIATELY???

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME.

Wait, wait. Maybe this is … good? That is not the correct word but you know what I mean. If I'm going to be with someone in his position then I need to be able to handle everything that entails, right?

You glance over at TMP, the small stuffed panther is facing you on the breakfast bar. You know its ridiculous, but you feel like he's watching you. It only takes half a second, but you flip the stuffie around so he can't be a voyeur just like his namesake.

The small dry erase board in your lap reflects sunlight back up into your face. Its covered in anxious scribbles regarding last weekend, you're desperately trying to sort them into some semblance of helpfulness. It isn't going well.

I already know he is in love with me, straight out of the horse's mouth. Lol 'horse'.

Seriously. You cannot go one day without a dick joke.

I love him. I mean, how can I claim to love someone if I don't accept all of them? He doesn't maim indiscriminately, it has a point. Is it justified? I don't know. Do I trust his judgment on it being justified? I think I do. I guess the better question is: Do I care?

I'm already in it. He's paying half my bills, he already paid off all my debt. I've accepted so many gifts with the knowledge that they were bought with laundered drug money. Hell, every article of clothing I'm wearing right fucking now was purchased by Diego. Also, he said that those guys lost a shipment to the tune of EIGHTY THOUSAND DOLLARS, so you know, that's an accessory charge. At this point, even if I decide I have some arbitrary moral high ground, I'm definitely rolling around in a ditch, legally speaking.

You've always known that your morality was a bit off center than most people's, but being with Diego has put it into sharp relief. There are so many things that are illegal that you just don't care about. And your very visceral reaction that night was irrefutable proof.

-----------------------------

Last weekend

Diego does not like the cold. The heat in the SUV is turned way up, you already closed the vents on your side of the backseat. You're on your phone, pretending to ignore the massive hand sneaking under the hem of your dress while your legs are flopped over his lap.

Diego rumbles at you, the phone comes down just enough for you to peek over the top at him.

"Yes? Is there something you would like, my Murder Panther?" Your smirk is damn near audible as you question him.

His eyes trail down to your lap then back up before he answers in a growl, "There is something I would love." The rockiness of his voice never fails to make you quiver just a tiny bit.

Just as those long fingers brush your thong his phone chirps. Repeatedly. And then starts ringing.

Diego snatches the cell out of his jacket pocket and hisses at the screen. Not good, you think. He answers it with a tirade of Spanish, shoots you an incomprehensible look, then retreats from you. Nooooo.

Being the only one in the car who doesn't speak Spanish is its own variety of delightful hell. Bastian and Julio are exchanging meaningful looks in the front while you just have to wait. Diego has gone quiet, which is utterly terrifying.

He disconnects the call, then passes the phone to Julio, who shows it to Bastian, who then changes course.

Diego reluctantly pulls your dress back down as you drop your feet to the floor. He raises a thick arm and tucks you into his side underneath it before kissing the top of your head apologetically.

"We have to run an errand."

-----------------------

The warehouse looks like it came straight out of a Law and Order episode. Its abandoned yet eerily lit from the inside, there is a suspicious assortment of motley vehicles parked outside, and two tattoo covered dudes toting semiautomatics appear as you pull up.

"Please tell me those belong to you." You mutter quietly. Your immediate concern is Diego's safety.

Diego gives you the shark smile. "The men or the guns, Princess?"

In the dark, at this incredibly sketchy location, and with the threat of violence thick in the air, he is actually a little bit scary.

You swallow the apprehension and glare at him with a raised chin. "Yes." You snap, crossing your arms in a stubborn huff. Holding his gaze right now is kind of intimidating but you manage it.

"Si, everything here is mine." His voice is hard as steel but the hand that comes up to grip your chin is gentle. It takes a second for you to realize that he is including you in that group. And that you like it.

You take in his features, those eyes are black in the darkness, but the silver in his beard glints in the partial moonlight. The defined jawline, his long straight nose, those perfectly framed velvet lips, thick brows and even thicker hair. So fucking gorgeous. Cupping his bristly cheeks, you whisper one requirement, "Just make sure to come back to me, baby."

Diego leans his forehead down on yours briefly, then kisses your nose. "Wait here for Diego, my Princess." His voice is dark and dripping with emotion. Julio opens the car door from outside and Diego steps out, adjusting his jacket and tucking the abalone-inlaid gun into his pants. He doesn't look back as they walk away.

Bastian steps out and closes the driver's door to smoke. The only door left open is the rear passenger next to where you sit. You're too preoccupied to stay focused on your cell. You look up to see that Bastian is on his phone, Probably his boyfriend checking on him. You can certainly understand that.

Faint voices float out of the open warehouse garage door, but everything is in Spanish. You slide down to the pavement and pace slowly. Its been almost twenty minutes, should you try to check on him? Each lap of pacing takes you ever closer to the empty doorway, purely by happenstance of course, until finally, finally, you can see people inside.

There are three men kneeling on the floor, surrounded by at least two dozen others armed to the teeth. There are more guns than you have ever seen in your life, all being handled casually. Diego paces slowly in front of them, rattling off some rambling array of options, judging from his tone. Whatever he just said must have been unfavorable because two of the kneeling men start crying and begging. I should not be here.

Diego digs both hands deep into his pants pockets, as though searching for a lost item, only to pull out the larger of the switchblades that you know he always carries. Ambling forward, he snatches the man furthest from you by the hair and yanks his head back. The angle looks excruciating, but what happens next is infinitely worse. The blade glints under the overhead lighting as Diego slides it smoothly across the man's throat, triggering a cascade of red.

Diego just slit his throat.

Diego just killed that man.

Diego just committed murder.

You're frozen. Think. Think. If you move now someone will hear your shoes, you stuff a hand into your mouth just in case you make any noise. Your plum dress and black booties should blend into the night, thank fuck the dress is longer so there's less gleaming pale leg to reflect the moonlight.

I should go I should go back to the car I should go home. Your thoughts are racing but you can't look away as Diego skirts the rapidly expanding pool of blood and approaches the next man. He leans down to listen to the doomed man's pleas, one huge hand on his shoulder in mock comfort. Almost faster than your eyes can follow, Diego stabs him three times in the chest. The man coughs, then chokes on blood. Diego nudges him backwards to the floor with an expression of mild disgust before he can cough blood onto those exceedingly expensive shoes. The noise of his death is a quiet gurgle.

You can't feel your legs. Your stomach plummets and your heart rate leaps. This is Diego. This is my man. This is who he is and what he does. And this is what happens if you wrong him.

Just like I'm doing right now?

Sudden understanding makes your palms sweat and your jaw shake. Breathe. I trust him. You know, all the way down to the bottom of your soul, that he would never do anything like this to you.

I'm different.

I'm special.

I'm important.

I have power.

The thrill of getting away with something courses up your spine.

All of these men are his to command, available at his beck and call, and his to dispatch as he sees fit.

And you? Diego belongs to you. This powerful man chooses to kneel at your feet and pleasure you with his mouth, he dotes on you with gifts and gourmet dining, he waits for your text responses with baited breath. You want nothing more than to belong to him.

Movement snaps you out of your own head; Diego is approaching the last man, all confident stalk and predatory grin. A different feeling settles low and deep in your abdomen. Murder Panther. MY Murder Panther.

Diego strokes over the man, no, this one is younger, the young man's hair. He is definitely an adult, but hasn't been for very long. Diego is whispering in his ear, the guy nods frantically and tilts his head toward you. You watch in morbid fascination as Diego carves off his ear.

Diego wipes the blade off on the man's shirt, then pats him on the head as he walks off casually. He gestures to the group as he puts the knife away and they close ranks to help the lone surviving man to his feet and carry him off.

Before you can jolt your body into retreating Diego turns to head your way. He glances up… and sees you.

His face, Oh no. Shock, horror, dismay, annoyance, and finally, determined resolution all cross his features in under three seconds. He uses his broad body to block you from his men's view and marches you back to the SUV. "Get in." He snarls, but he doesn't push you.

You slide all the way across the backseat to crash against the opposite side and Diego follows, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He scrubs a hand down his face and turns to you, expression grim.

You can't imagine what you look like, Probably a scared little bunny. But what you feel like? Oh, that is a different story. Damn near everything about what you just witnessed was so fucking hot. The actual homicides were kind of 'meh' (What is wrong with me???), but his power and ability and danger? Those you are definitely into.

He looks simultaneously defeated and defiant. "Well?" He barks with an expectant gesture. "This is me. This is what I do. You call me Murder Panther, but its different to see, isn't it, Princess?" The way he spits out his pet name for you hurts. He's lashing out in fear. He thinks I'm gonna run.

You keep your eyes locked with his as you reach out to his leg. He flinches at the contact but stays stiff. Your voice is smoky and dark, "I need you. Right fucking now. Give me your dick."

For the first time since you've met, Diego is speechless. His jaw hangs open while he watches you sink to your knees in front of him. Seemingly paralyzed, he just blinks as you rip his pants open and yank the material down over his hips. The instant you achieve clearance for his cock your mouth is on him. Your moan must vibrate the entire vehicle its so loud.

"Princess!" He finally gasps. "You. What. Fuuuck, what is. Oh, hell yes." His hips jerk and you dig your nails into his lower abdomen. He is fully erect in seconds, a little confusion isn't enough to cockblock Diego. Big hands flit through your peripheral vision erratically before settling on your head. The angle is finally correct and you slide him all the way down your throat, he practically howls with it. "Ahh, h-haaa. Jesus fuck, that feels so good. Shit, shit. Princesss."

The way he calls for you, writhing with it, is almost too much. You moan back but don't stop bobbing your head on his length. Firm suction intermixed with sporadic long licks of your broad tongue have him leaking steadily in no time. Your left hand cups his balls, squeezing gently just to feel him tense up. He's salty, but not bitter. You want it. You need him.

Your right hand snakes down to hike up the dress. Once it’s over your wide hips you spread your knees so you can sink down onto his shoe. He doesn't notice at first, not until your hips start rocking in time with your suction.

He grabs a fistful of hair to get your attention. "Are. Fucking christ woman, are you riding my foot?!" His eyes are huge, mouth open to pant.

You nod tightly, "Mm hmm." The moan vibrates all along his cock, causing his hips to rise off the seat.

"Ohh, oh fuck. You're so wet. I can hear it." He groans as though in agony. The thrusts begin to pick up pace and you grind down onto him. Your mouth can open just wide enough to accommodate the majority of his girth, you already know your neck is going to kill you tomorrow. Worth it. The skin of his cock is silky slick with both of you, he glides across your tongue easily but it requires pressure to fit him down your throat. Its like consuming fire, you're burning up from the inside out and its painfully perfect.

In the darkness of the unlit SUV you can't see anything, you can only hear Diego moan and pant while your nose is buried in the soft hair on his lower belly. The intensity of being engulfed in his scent drives you to distraction, you grind down hard on his foot and you're so, so close. His hips lift off the seat to push deeper and you ride his motions, swallowing around the head of his cock. One enormous hand sinks deep into your curls, he pulls gently just because he knows you like it. His purr is deep, "My perfect little Princess."

That's all it takes. You drop your entire weight onto his foot to shudder and whine as an orgasm rips through you. Hips jerking in time with each spasm deep inside, you ride out all the waves without ever breaking rhythm on his dick.

Diego is frozen in shock as he realizes what just happened. He pulls you off, much to your whining disappointment, to stare down at you in awe. He stutters a little, "Good. Girl."

The instant he releases ringlets you dive down onto him with renewed vigor. The emphatic praise only spurs you on even stronger. Everything is wet; his dick, your mouth, his pants, your chin, the seat, your dress, his shoe. Everything. The sounds, the way he tastes, you're desperate to have him.

"You want this? You want Diego?" His voice is so rough, so harsh. You nod tightly and moan for him, high pitched and hoarse. "Princess, so damn good, take it. Take all of me. Fuck, you look goddamn amazing on my cock." His hands stroke endlessly over your hair, his hips are jerking harshly and you know he is close. "Shit. Shit shit shit. Come," he is gasping, panting, "Come again for Diego, mi amor." His body stiffens, his legs shake, the grip in your hair tightens, and his head drops backwards to the seat as he pours down your throat in scorching jets.

Diego collapses, boneless and breathless, but you don't release him. Your right hand shoots down between your legs to work your clit furiously while you continue suckling softly.

"Yesss," he sighs upon noticing your actions. His voice drops low, overflowing with sinful threat, "You come for Diego. Pretty little Princess, all mine. Follow orders, come on your Murder Panther."

It breaks you. Your whole body seizes up as you wail for him, clenching down on nothing in painful ecstasy. Finally relinquishing his cock, you flop face down into his lap with an exhausted groan. Diego melts back into the seat and you both just lay there, panting.

Diego raps on the door window but stays slumped down and loose-limbed.

Bastian unlocks the SUV, then pops the driver's door to stick his head inside. "Yeah, boss?" The blonde studiously avoids looking lower than Diego's face. You can hear Julio chuckling behind Bastian.

"Fuck the club. Take us home." Diego decrees lazily. You sputter joyful laughter directly into his pants.

You ride home curled up in his lap, snuggled into that salt and pepper beard you love so much while Diego feathers kisses all over your face, the knife cradled in your hands.

------------------------

Diego stumbles down the stairs the next morning, yawning hugely, only to find Julio in the kitchen, unashamedly raiding the fridge. Bastard, Diego chuckles.

"Manito! We need to talk." Julio gets right to the matter. "Before Gordita gets up." He adds pointedly.

Uhh, what. "Fine. Talk. Also, are you eating carrots at 10:12am??" That is disgusting.

Diego plops down onto a barstool and stares dejectedly at the espresso machine until Julio rolls his eyes and turns it on for him.

"Look, you need a check, eh?" Julio sighs but stands firm while Diego side eyes him suspiciously. When no objection comes, Julio forges on, "She saw you murder two people and cut an ear off a third last night, right? And her response was to blow you in the car? Fucking ride your foot to come, what, twice?"

Diego smiles dreamily, "Yeah. It was a good night." So. Much. Licking.

Julio passes him the steaming mug, "If you don't put a ring on it, pendejo..."

Diego nearly drops the mug as his closest confidante walks off into the living room.

Shit, Julio is right.

#damnit diego #murder panther #rough me up then dick me down #24 fucking 7 hours in this house #zash writes #some whiplash #feels and dick #dick and feels

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omenapologist-moved · 5 years ago

Text

I was going to make a post apologizing for venting so much, but honestly I am not sorry and I am not sorry for oversharing, either, and I shouldn’t be and I shouldn’t have to be sorry that I am hurting and using one of the few outlets I have at the moment to talk about my pain.

I always feel like I have to prove myself and I have to do this and that to prove I’m not a burden, but that’s... Bullshit. I’m a living, breathing person, am I not? Is that not enough? It should be.

It was fucked up what these people did to me and I will say that and I will not be silent about it.

It is fucked up that someone I got into online discourse with over kinning a fictional fucking character wound up getting in contact with ex-roommates of mine, who stole my medical documents and shared those documents with this person I got into discourse with. It’s fucked up that they then proceeded to contact a man that emotionally, sexually, and financially abused me throughout the entire spans of our relationship, and then decided that because they didn’t like me that he never abused me and that I, in fact, abused him, despite the fact that at this point he’s a known predator and I am not the first of his victims, nor his only victim, and I unfortunately probably will not be his last victim either. It’s fucked up that then, they decided to contact my abusive father, who I escaped from in 2018 and have very purposefully not contacted since, not told him where I live, etc, and tried to doxx me in order to tell my abusive father my home address. It’s fucked up that they were trying to doxx me through pictures and videos I was uploading on my private Facebook account, which they accessed because one of the people I thought was my friend was actually not my friend at all and was happily, voluntarily sharing this information with all of them.

It’s fucked up that this same ex-friend of mine, who I have not spoken with in well over a year now, continues to try and harass me, to engage with me. It is fucked up and wrong that he has contacted my current friends, tried to slander my name, and TRIED TO PREVENT ME FROM GETTING INTO SAFE HOUSING because of this insane, incomprehensible grudge he has against me. It is fucked up that his partner literally gaslit me not only about a sexual assault I experienced, but about my overall behavior towards my then-roommates. It is fucked up that all of these people had a group chat dedicated to the organized harassment of my person, pretending that it was not a genuine hate group and was instead some sort of “support group” for people I had “abused.”

The worst thing I ever did to this ex-friend and his partner was tell them their relationship was unhealthy, because they were constantly, constantly with one another, and massively emotionally co-dependent despite having only been dating for a month, and that I had been down that road and that it was not a good road to go down and that I was concerned. That is the worst thing I ever did to this person, and somehow they twisted that and said I was trying to break them up in order to get with this friend, despite the fact that I was newly single after having been literally left for dead by my prior boyfriend (the same one that constantly abused and raped me.) and really didn’t have much of an interest in immediately entering another relationship. Both this friend and his partner would try to talk me into entering a poly triad with the two of them, an offer I nearly took them up on because I was hurt, and lonely. I am glad I did not. But they gaslit me about that, too.

It was fucked up how this person I had engaged in stupid, STUPID discourse with did all of that and interacted with all of these people who had seriously hurt me in real life, not online and then offered a non-apology to make themselves look like the better, bigger person.

It was fucked up how I was going to be on the fucking streets and so someone I thought I could trust offered to take me in while quoting a literal cult from a movie I enjoyed, and I accepted. It was fucked up how I moved across the country in with these two people I had never met before and scarcely spoken with, and how I never spoke to anyone aside from them for eight whole months, the final 3 of which I spent in complete isolation not only due to the quarantine but due to my overall situation. It was fucked up that at first they both bombed me with love and adoration and acceptance, preaching that we would be a family, and it would just be us, and any implication or mention of having anyone else join us was shot down or brushed away. Just the three of us. And they lovebombed me and bought me whatever I wanted and sang my praises, and behind my back I would learn both of them were lusting after me and in all likelihood the entire point of bringing me to Arizona was not to save my life, as convenient of a guise as that was, rather it was to add me to their harem. The love bombing, the coming onto me while intoxicated. The decision that maybe this wasn’t a good idea only after I would not accept their advances.

It was fucked up that I wasn’t informed the apartment was overrun with cockroaches and mold and probably bedbugs until after I had moved there and found out the hard way.

It was fucked up that I thought I had known someone only to discover they were a legitimate predator. It was fucked up to have that happen twice. It was fucked up to spend 3 months genuinely fearing for my life on a daily basis, only to be told that was an invalid fear because I had homicidal ideation (which they encouraged and sexualized despite me expressing that I did not like this part of me and that I wanted it to stop and that it was deeply viscerally upsetting me and made me feel sick and that I had constant nightmares about it) and how I’m the real predator, how they should be afraid of me, if anyone is to be afraid in this circumstance.

It was fucked up that so much of my progress with regards to my self esteem, self image, gender presentation was torn down by this person. It was fucked up to be slut-shamed by my own boyfriend, to practically be told that because I wore ripped up jeans without underwear I was a slut who was asking to be raped. It was fucked up to be told the way I dressed triggered him and that I needed to stop expressing myself because if a guy hit on me in public he would be triggered and jealous and that’s somehow my fault and my problem to solve and not his problem to solve in therapy. It was fucked up how I was roped into assisting him in stalking a 19 year old when he was 23, and how he spent nearly every waking hour talking about this boy he became genuinely obsessed with. It was fucked up that I had to watch this obsession get worse and worse and I feared for my own life because of it and I feared for and still fear for that boy’s life because of it and somehow that makes me the creepy bad one.

It was fucked up that he scattered bird seed for some reason on the living room floor and my cat started eating it and then vomiting up white foam and I was worried that because of his constant fucking carelessness for everyone and everything around him but himself I would have to let my pet die in my arms and watch her die in my arms because of his negligence and there was nothing I could do because at the time I couldn’t afford a vet.

It was fucked up that one day I came home to the apartment covered in blood and my immediate worry was that he had kidnapped and/or hurt this boy. It was fucked up that circumstances made me think that could be a possibility to begin with.

It was fucked up that the two of them can just go on with their lives, they can go by different names and pretend to be someone else and they’re virtually fucking fine, but I can’t and won’t, and I have even more trauma and baggage now meanwhile they’re off scott-free. It is fucked up that my praises were sung up until I stopped accepting their bad behavior and condoning it and then suddenly I was the devil itself, that we went from “I hardly remember life before you came here, you make this house feel like a home, you’re family to me, my life is so much better because of you” to just... tearing me down and threatening my life, actively and purposefully and without regret or remorse and constantly demonizing me.

It was ALL fucked up and wrong and absolutely fucking none of this needed to or had to happen, and it is fucked up that all of them are just happily getting away with it and are able to so easily demonize and blame me despite fucking abusing and tormenting me for so, so long because I dared to get angry, I dared to stop taking the bullshit, I dared to be mentally ill and to trust them with my thoughts only to have them warped and perverted and to be groomed and to be wound up like a fucking toy, wind me up and watch me go.

It was all fucked up.

#\\\^◊^///#VVV

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gb-fics · 5 years ago

Text

Yutaka ... Give Me Your Bicycle

Fanfiction:

Kiryuuin Shou x Kyan Yutaka (Golden Bomber)

Note: So, I already did a fic for “ Tatsuo⋯yome wo ore ni kure” as you may recall, but since the new album also contains a version with Kirisho on vocals, I thought I’d do one for him as well. The joke is that at the end of the song, Kenji says “Aishiteru” (”I love you”), whereas Kirisho says “Bicycle”. In Japanese the pronouncation would sound more similar, so please keep that in mind while reading (^-^)

Kiryuuin Shou had led the past 35 years of his life convinced that he did not deserve happiness. That did not mean he had lived in self-hate and utter torture so far. He hadn’t been unhappy, at least not lately since the band had really worked out for all of them. But deep down, he had believed he would never experience what it meant to wake up next to the man he loved, to fight with him over whose turn it was to clean the dishes or to snuggle up to him after an exhausting day. The problem wasn’t that Shou felt ugly and unlovable, though sometimes he did, on the bad days, but rather, that he had fallen in love with the wrong man. He had thought that there was no point in confessing, because he didn’t stand a chance anyway.

Things had changed, though, two days ago – when Kyan Yutaka had kissed him.

It had been a kiss on the cheek, Shou had to admit that, and it hadn’t lasted especially long. But there had been no one else around as Yutaka wished him a good night after rehearsal, so it hadn’t been staged. The kiss had come out of nowhere and it had seemed affectionate and tender in a way that had made Shou wonder, if maybe, just maybe, he did deserve happiness after all.

Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.

He had thought about the words for years already. He had developed speeches of love and longing and despair and then slashed them, until only the bare minimum remained. “Kyan Yutaka, I love you, please don’t hate me”, was pretty much all that was left of his fear and frustration and hope. It was a pretty accurate summary of everything Shou had felt in the last 15 years.

He took in a deep breath, as everyone got ready to leave for the car outside.

Shou had thought about the words again today. He knew that he had to get them out, even if it meant risking their friendship and maybe even their band activities. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss. Of course, it had only been a kiss on the cheek. Maybe it had been nothing but casual to Yutaka. Or maybe it hadn’t.

“Yutaka, can I talk to you for a moment, before you go?”, Shou called out.

He remembered how bad the stage fright had been in the early years. This felt worse. His throat was tight, his face hot. But he would have to get over with it, once and for all. Just to know if happiness was in reach, or if he had to settle for less. Either way, he finally had to know for sure. It was hope that killed him slowly.

“Yeah, sure”, Yutaka said and shrugged.

None of them was wearing makeup today. Yutaka’s eyes looked large anyway. Shou wondered if maybe he should have picked another day to confess. A day, on which he wore makeup himself. A day, on which he felt less ugly and more lovable.

Yutaka stood in the middle of the room, waiting for everyone else to leave. Shou wondered how he managed to look so relaxed, just standing there. Yutaka’s arms never seemed to get in the way, his posture never looked as if his brain didn’t quite know how to arrange his limbs to make them appear natural. Yutaka stood like his body was actually a part of himself. Shou had always envied him for that.

“So …”, he said and cleared his throat.

It made him anxious that Yutaka looked so relaxed.

Yutaka was anxious, but he tried to look relaxed.

Shou was clearly nervous about whatever he wanted to address.

Yutaka really hoped it wouldn’t be the kiss.

He didn’t know what had gotten into him that day. He only knew that Shou had looked gorgeous and that no one else had been around and that Yutaka had wanted to kiss him for a long time already. He was just glad he had ended up kissing him on the cheek. A kiss on the cheek could still be ignored and never mentioned again, whereas a kiss on the lips would possibly have led to them no longer talking to each other at all. The way it was now, it didn’t have to turn awkward. At least for as long as Shou didn’t decide to talk about it.

“There is something I wanted to ask you. Or tell you. Not ask, though a reaction would be nice. I mean, it’s more of a tell thing, but a question is implied. I’m pretty sure you will figure the question, or I will figure the answer by your reaction, or I can just add the question in the end, if you are confused or, you know, you just tell me how you feel about it once I’m done, so I guess the question would be how do you feel about it? Now you know the question but not what I want to tell you and …”

“Ssshh”, Yutaka said and held up his hand to stop Shou’s babbling.

The words were coming too fast and Yutaka had troubles catching them. He figured that Shou wanted to tell him something. That hopefully meant it wasn’t about the kiss. Unless Shou wanted to tell him that he had felt uncomfortable about it. But why would he ask Yutaka how he felt about Shou feeling uncomfortable? It did not really make sense and Shou’s fast, anxious way of speaking made Yutaka anxious, too.

“Just tell me”, Yutaka inquired. He spoke too harshly, as always when he got nervous. In Shou’s presence, he got nervous a lot.

Shou avoided Yutaka’s gaze. His eyes looked small without makeup and somehow lost in his large face. He looked frightened, but then Shou often looked like that and it did not have to correspond with what he wanted to say necessarily. He kept moving his arms around as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. Yutaka always had the feeling that Shou wore his body like an ill-fitting piece of clothing. Sometimes, he wished to just wrap his arms around Shou and hold him until he felt at ease.

“I had those … feelings for a while already”, Shou said. He was still talking fast and moreover mumbling now. His voice started to slur sometimes when he hurried to get out the words. Yutaka wasn’t sure if he really had said “feelings”. He might have said “problems” as well, or “pebbles”.

Yutaka’s mind drifted off, wondering what kind of issue Shou could possibly have with pebbles.

“Therefore, I understand if it’s a bother to you”, Shou said, a little more clearly. Yutaka realized that he had missed some of Shou’s incomprehensible muttering in between by thinking about pebbles too hard.

“And it’s alright if you don’t … “ Here the muttering started again and Yutaka assumed that Shou was either considering to buy a boat, adopt a dog or asked Yutaka to please not break up the band if he was taken aback. Since Yutaka did not know what he should be taken aback about (had it something to do with pebbles?), he guessed it had to be one of the first two options.

He smiled and nodded, not sure what Shou wanted from him. He was just glad he wasn’t trying to address the kiss. That would have been awkward. If Shou had for example asked him, why Yutaka had kissed him on the cheek, he wouldn’t have been able to come up with a proper explanation. He could hardly tell Shou that he had somehow, well, been in love with him those past years, could he?

Shou vented on in what seemed to be self-accusation, but since Yutaka wasn’t sure what he was accusing himself of, he had no idea how to sooth him. Slowly, he was starting to dread the moment, Shou would close his rant and expect a reaction from him. Yutaka had figured that “yes, you should definitely do that” would be the best option, but by now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Shou really seemed excited. Whatever he was talking about, he surely was emotionally invested.

Yutaka furrowed his brow and tried to concentrate harder. He really needed to listen to Shou more closely to understand his muttering monologue, instead of just staring at his lips, that looked so full and kissable and if Yutaka leaned in a little, he might very well kiss Shou – for real this time – and he would shut up and maybe Yutaka’s answer wouldn’t be so important anymore.

“So, what I really wanted to tell you with all this, I guess …”, Shou closed and inhaled deeply. Then he said very hurriedly: “I … you, I mean … Bicycle.”

Yutaka beamed at him with relief.

At least he had been able to make out one word clearly. Now it all made sense. Shou was ridiculously bad at asking other people for favours, that was probably why he had been so nervous and scared to bother Yutaka. The best thing about finally understanding what he wanted, was that Shou had definitely not talked about the kiss, which meant he wasn’t angry at Yutaka, which meant Yutaka had not ruined their friendship forever.

Luckily, all that Shou wanted to do, was to borrow Yutaka’s bicycle.

“Sure!”, Yutaka said, beaming at him.

Shou assumed the beaming was a good sign. It had been difficult to get out the words and he had gotten muddled in his own speech several times, putting in more apologies than was necessary. But it was out. I love you. It was finally out. And Yutaka didn’t seem angry, he didn’t seem grossed out. He seemed happy, though it was not the kind of happy you’d expect of someone who had gotten a confession by their crush. Yutaka looked happy in a way you’d look happy when they played a song you liked – not your favourite song, mind you – on the radio.

Shou wasn’t quite sure what to do with that reaction.

At first, he had felt relieved. Relieved, that he would no longer have to keep it a secret, relieved that the constant fear of slipping up was lifted off his shoulders now.

But as Yutaka kept quiet, just grinning at him, Shou started to feel tense again.

What the fuck did that mean?

“So …?”, he started carefully.

“You want to come back to my place and get it immediately?”, Yutaka asked.

Shou blinked.

Yutaka wanted him to come back to his place and … get it? Now, that was a way to put it.

His body posture was still relaxed. He was smiling and looking right at Shou.

Shou cast down his eyes. He wished the ground would swallow him whole, so he didn’t have to meet Yutaka’s eyes.

Of course, he wanted to go back to Yutaka’s place, of course he wanted to kiss him, to touch him, to let Yutaka do absolutely anything he wanted to do with his body, but admitting it didn’t come to him as easily as it came to Yutaka.

Shou wasn’t shy. At least, when it came to talking sexual matters. But the fact that Yutaka seemed almost indifferent to it, made him feel embarrassed nonetheless. Yutaka had invited him over like he was offering him a coffee. That probably meant he would be casual about the sex, too. Shou had been so busy worrying about Yutaka’s possible reaction to his confession, that he hadn’t really gotten any further with worrying yet. Sure, he wanted sex with Yutaka, but Yutaka’s nonchalance made him wonder if he was ready for it yet. Even if it sounded corny, he didn’t want to fuck Yutaka. He wanted to make love to him. Which didn’t mean it had to be tender and romantic. He just wanted to do it, knowing that Yutaka returned his feelings. Even if Yutaka didn’t return his feelings, he still kind of wanted to do it, though. He’d just prefer it otherwise.

Shou swallowed hard.

“Right now?”, he assured.

He hoped that Yutaka would add something like “I love you, too” maybe, or rather, pretty much exactly that. But anything that sounded affectionate would have done, really.

If Yutaka invited him over for sex, that probably meant he liked Shou. At least, he found him physical attractive. And since they were friends, Yutaka would surely not just use him for sex after a confession. He wouldn’t toy with Shou’s feelings like that and risk him getting hurt. So, his invitation had to mean he liked Shou back. Shou wished he’d say it, though, just to make sure.

“Yeah, why not?”, Yutaka said and shrugged. “I mean, I don’t know how urgently you need it.”

Shou felt his cheeks heating up once again. He thought of how urgently he wanted to get laid with Yutaka. The answer was almost frightening and he really hoped Yutaka wasn’t seriously expecting him to answer. He’d be shocked at the sheer level of urgency.

“Alright, let’s go”, Shou confirmed, trying to imitate Yutaka’s nonchalant tone of voice. He didn’t manage quite so well.

The moment he decided to have sex with Yutaka, he started stressing, too. Would it be what he imagined it to be? Would Yutaka be disappointed in him, once they did it? Would Shou be disappointed, because he expected too much? Would he be able to relax, until Yutaka finally said it back? Or would he keep worrying how Yutaka actually felt about him, so much that he would be unable to focus on anything else and he’d blow his only chance to ever get physical with Yutaka?

He thought of inquiring a definite statement from Yutaka as they walked over to the car park, where the white van was waiting for them.

But if Yutaka hadn’t said it until now, he probably didn’t want to say it. Maybe he would feel pressured, if Shou demanded a confession from him. Maybe he’d pull back his offer for sex. Maybe he’d get angry at Shou. Maybe, he’d start hating him.

Shou decided it was best to settle for what he got. Yutaka had asked him over to his place. He could have been a bit more sensitive about it, that was for sure, but if it meant he liked Shou just a little, that would surely be enough. It had to be enough.

Jun and Kenji were sitting at the back of the van, leaving the seats right behind the driver to Shou and Yutaka. Yutaka got in first, sitting down by the window.

“You can drop me off at Yutaka’s place as well”, Shou told the driver from their staff. “I’ll get home from there myself.”

The car started. Everyone kept quiet.

Shou shuffled on his seat uncomfortable.

It was normal for them to not chat on their way back home after work. They were all tired and had spent the day together already. There was nothing left to say and no energy left to say it either. But today, the silence seemed heavier, more daunting. It left a lot of space for thoughts.

Shou looked over to Yutaka. Yutaka was looking out the window.

Shou wasn’t sure what he had expected, but Yutaka was not paying attention to him at all.

Maybe, Shou told himself, he just didn’t want to display their new relationship in front of the others already. But then he didn’t seem cold. He rather seemed disinterested. While Shou felt nervous, Yutaka seemed completely calm and almost bored, watching their surroundings outside pass by. He did not seem very excited about the thought of having sex with Shou shortly. Shou couldn’t help to feel offended by it.

He kept thinking of Yutaka’s body and what it would be like to touch him. He himself felt pretty excited about it.

The car pulled to a halt, letting out Jun first.

Everyone muttered their tired goodbyes. Yutaka did not even turn his head. He kept looking out the window.

If he really liked Shou, he’d be excited by now, wouldn’t he? Yutaka’s attitude seemed to imply that the whole thing didn’t mean much to him. Maybe he just viewed it as a convenient chance for sex indeed? It was possible he thought Shou was so desperate for him – that he “needed it so urgently” – that he would be alright with it, even if Yutaka didn’t return his feelings otherwise. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he said so explicitly? Had he assumed it was so obvious, that Shou would understand him immediately? Had Yutaka assumed it was so obvious that Shou was impossible to love, that he hadn’t even bothered to clarify it was just about sex?

The car stopped short again, this time to drop off Kenji. Still, Yutaka did not turn his head.

They were alone now. Sure, there was their driver, but he sat in front of them, not able to watch them. If Yutaka chose to display a little affection now, no one would notice.

But Yutaka kept looking out the window.

Well, Shou figured that asking him over for sex, did mean that they had some kind of relationship now. Therefore, it should be alright to display some affection. Maybe Yutaka hadn’t quite realized that was what Shou wanted yet (though the statement “I love you” did not really leave room for misinterpretation in Shou’s opinion). If Shou wanted that kind of affection, he probably needed to show it to Yutaka. And since he hadn’t declined his confession, he shouldn’t get angry about it, either.

Hesitantly Shou reached out, taking hold of Yutaka’s hand that rested on his lap. He stared at their driver’s back of the head, as he entwined his fingers with Yutaka’s. His heart was beating fast. He really hoped that Yutaka would not pull back.

Very slightly, he felt Yutaka flinch, but he did not pull back. He even ran his thumb across the back of Shou’s hand gently. Shou did not dare to turn his head and check on his face, though.

He assumed that being allowed to hold Yutaka’s hand like this, was about as much of a confession as he would get in return.

Yutaka flinched when Shou’s hand touched his.

He had looked out the window, wondering what Shou had done to his own bicycle. He usually used it a lot. Maybe it had broken down and now he needed another one to be flexible. Shou had probably told him what had happened, but Yutaka hadn’t understood him. Now, it would be too late to ask again. Well, it didn’t matter.

The main reason Yutaka had thought about the bicycle so hard, was that it kept him from thinking about Shou coming back to his place. Although they saw each other so much at work, they rarely met in the privacy of their own apartments. Would it be alright to ask Shou to come in? It would be better not to ask that. If they were alone together at his place, Yutaka couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t do something stupid again. Like, kiss Shou on the cheek. Or the lips this time. Or rip off his clothes.

Those thoughts had been bothering to begin with, but they got worse, when Shou took hold of his hand.

Although Yutaka knew him for more than half of his life already, Shou had never held his hand before. It did not feel casual. Of course, holding hands was romantic, not casual. But why, for fuck’s sake, would Shou do that?

Yutaka reached the conclusion it had something to do with the fact that he had kissed Shou.

Maybe he hadn’t disliked it after all? Maybe holding his hand now was Shou’s way of encouraging him. Maybe he had asked to borrow his bicycle just to have an excuse to come back to his place. Maybe that meant that Shou wanted Yutaka to kiss him again, once they were alone. Maybe the bicycle had been some code. Was there a gay code involving bicycles that Yutaka did not know about?

He just knew one thing for sure – if he didn’t want to turn down Shou, he wasn’t allowed to let go of his hand.

Carefully, he moved his thumb, caressing the back of Shou’s hand gently. If he didn’t pull back, it probably meant he didn’t mind Yutaka being a little affectionate with him.

Shou kept holding on to his hand.

Yutaka did not dare to turn his head to check for Shou’s reaction. He kept staring out of the window.

His heart was beating violently with hope.

Was it possible he actually had a chance with Shou? That all those years of longing and keeping himself in check had been completely wasted? But if that was the case, why hadn’t Shou just told him?

Yutaka figured that the kiss had been enough of an indication to encourage Shou to make a move, if he really did like Yutaka. So, why would he make up an excuse for visiting him, when he could just have confessed instead?

It all didn’t make sense. Was it possible that Shou was toying with him? That once he had seen Yutaka’s feelings through, he was testing how far he could take it? Maybe he had invited himself over to use Yutaka for sex (as Shou was horny, he’d probably take his chance, even if he didn’t return Yutaka’s feelings). The thought was upsetting, but also quite exciting. Sure, what Yutaka really wanted was to finally hear the words “I love you” from Shou’s lips and then wrap his arms around him and caress his body from head to toe. But after years of silent longing, Yutaka was ready to settle for less. If Shou just wanted to fuck him, well, it wouldn’t be ideal, but it would still be an enormous improvement.

The car stopped.

“You’re both getting off here?”, their driver assured.

“Yes”, Shou confirmed and pulled back his hand a little too hastily, as if he was worried their staff member would notice.

Sitting closer to the door, he got out first.

Yutaka followed him.

Suddenly, he felt very stupid. Alright, so it was a little weird that Shou had held his hand, admittedly. But it was Shou and you never really knew what was going on in his head, since he wasn’t exactly allowing people close. If Yutaka had thought about having sex with him just now, it was only his own hope (the hope of his penis, to be precise) that tricked him into thinking that.

You could say a lot about Kiryuuin Shou. He was a complicated person. But he usually was straight-forward and if he wanted to have sex with Yutaka, he would probably have suggested it just like that. If he loved Yutaka, he would probably have mentioned it sometime after the kiss, too.

“So”, Yutaka started hesitantly as the van drove off. If he really wanted to make sure, he just had to ask. “Are you going to ride it home now?”

Shou finally turned to look at him. He hadn’t done so all day. He small eyes did manage to widen. He looked at Yutaka as if he had just said something very, very weird.

For a moment he didn’t reply at all.

“I could …” Shou broke off. “I mean, I will try my best, if you … if you …”

Somehow, his stuttering made Yutaka angry. He did not understand what was wrong with Shou today. All he wanted was a simple answer to a simple question.

“What do you mean, you will try?”, he huffed out. “You know how to ride, don’t you?”

“Uhm, yes, sure, yes”, Shou stuttered. “Of course.”

Shou felt slightly humiliated, but he tried to cover it up. It should be obvious to Yutaka, that Shou wasn’t the most experienced when it came to other men. He had, well, yes, he had ridden dick before, but like everything that required motor skills and stamina, Shou had not exactly outdone himself at it.

Moreover, it made him uncomfortable, that Yutaka had such precise demands. Shou had hoped things would develop a little more naturally. He had hoped they would kiss and explore each other’s bodies slowly and that Yutaka would finally tell him nice things. Shou didn’t like taking orders from Yutaka as if he owned him. It made him feel like Yutaka was just taking advantage of him for his own pleasure indeed.

But then he thought of Yutaka inside of him, of his face when Shou made him moan, of finally, finally getting this close to him and having sex after a period of … not having sex for far too long. And Shou decided, that it would probably be worth it. His preferences were pretty vague, so if Yutaka liked it a certain way, Shou would do his best to please him. If he wanted Shou to ride him, Yutaka better prepared for the ride of his life.

“Alright”, Yutaka said and led the way past his apartment building.

Shou looked at the entrance as they walked past.

“Uhm”, he said. “We’re not going up?”

Did Yutaka want to take him to a hotel nearby? Did he want to keep it so unpersonal, that he didn’t even want to have sex with Shou in his own apartment? The thought hurt, but Shou tried to ignore the pain in his chest. He had been hurting for so long, he’d take what he could get now. Anything that wasn’t total rejection was something at least.

“Nah, we’re going straight to the basement”, Yutaka said.

Shou stopped short.

Indeed, Yutaka was walking towards a fly of stairs that ran down the side of the apartment building and led to another door that obviously marked the entrance to the basement.

“We are what?”, Shou assured.

He had a lot of spontaneous thoughts what Yutaka’s basement might look like, if he wanted to have sex down there. None of these thoughts seemed very comforting.

“The basement”, Yutaka repeated slowly. “Each resident has their own section down there to store stuff.”

“And you have what? A sex dungeon down there?”, Shou asked, trying to make it sound like a joke. Truthfully, he was kind of worried.

Surely, Yutaka did not store a regular bed down there. What was he expecting of Shou? Would he ask him to chain Yutaka to some kinky board and then ride him? That wasn’t really Shou’s idea of fun, if he was being honest.

And why the hell was Yutaka acting like it was completely normal? Had Shou missed some basic information? Had Yutaka told them about his weird kinks before and now assumed that Shou knew what was coming for him?

“What the fuck are you talking about?”, Yutaka asked, furrowing his brow and staring at Shou angrily.

“Can’t we go upstairs instead?”, Shou asked meekly.

For a moment, Yutaka seemed irritated, but then his face turned even more grim as if Shou had done something wrong. Shou figured it meant he wanted to play the game by his own rules.

“I didn’t clean up. The apartment is a mess. It’s better we don’t go there at all.”

Shou shrugged.

“I just thought …”, he started.

“I don’t want you to waste my entire evening”, Yutaka cut him short. “Let’s get it over with already. You are the one who asked. If you changed your mind, you might just as well leave.”

Shou fought the burning feeling behind his eyelids. Yutaka was so different from the guy he had fallen in love with all of a sudden. He hadn’t thought Yutaka would be able to be so cruel.

So, it was just about the sex for him, he had made that pretty clear just now. If Shou didn’t do exactly what he asked of him, Yutaka had no interest in him.

The realization hurt more than Shou had expected. From the beginning, he hadn’t been sure Yutaka liked him back. He hadn’t returned his confession. But he had invited him over and, in the car, he hadn’t pulled back his hand. Shou had gotten his hopes up. Although years and years had taught him not to. It was his own fault for being so stupid. He should have learned by now, that a kiss on the cheek meant nothing. In the end, he did not deserve happiness after all.

He wondered if it was worth it. If maybe, he should just turn around and walk off. But then he looked at Yutaka and although he looked angry now, he was still beautiful, and although he was cruel now, Shou also knew a version of him that was funny and kind. He couldn’t bring himself to walk away. After all this time, Kiryuuin Shou was still hoping.

“I’m sorry”, he mumbled sheepishly.

Yutaka turned around and led the way towards the door of the basement.

He felt angry at Shou, who seemed to change his mind constantly today. No, we’re not going to talk about the kiss, but let me hold your hand. I know I held your hand just now, but I’d rather just take the bicycle and leave already. You know what, I said I was just here for the bicycle, but I changed my mind, let’s go upstairs to possibly make out, so I can change my mind again there and hurt your feelings even more. Yutaka was not up for those kinds of games.

He unlocked the door to the basement and walked inside without switching on the lights. He just did that to annoy Shou. He himself found his way around here in the dim light, but behind himself, he heard Shou stagger around.

“This way”, Yutaka called out.

“I can’t see a thing”, Shou whined and then put his hand onto Yutaka’s shoulder.

Yutaka regretted not switching on the light. Shou’s hand rested on his shoulder heavily and immediately, Yutaka thought of how else Shou might touch him. Getting close to him was the absolute worst.

He walked ahead, Shou’s fingers digging into his shoulder to not get lost. He was holding on a little too tightly.

“Is there even enough space down here for your … sex dungeon thingy, or whatever you have down here?”

Yutaka flicked his tongue.

He didn’t understand why Shou was pulling that joke twice. It hadn’t been funny the first time around.

Yutaka had already pointed it out. He was doing Shou a favour. Shou was the one who had asked to lend the bicycle. For all that Yutaka cared, he could walk back home.

He rounded a corner and then stopped when he reached his own section. It was set right at the doorway leading towards another room. Yutaka felt for the switch, that would turn on the light in this area of the basement.

It flicked into life so suddenly, it was blinding.

Shou let go of Yutaka’s shoulder almost immediately.

“Tada!”, Yutaka exclaimed and pointed to the object of desire right in front of them.

Shou remained silent for so long, that Yutaka finally turned to look at him.

Shou was staring straight ahead.

“Yutaka”, he finally said. “That is a bicycle.”

Shou kept staring at the bicycle and it started to dawn on him, that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong with their communication.

“I think there has been some sort of misunderstanding”, he added slowly.

Unless Yutaka wanted to watch him ride a bicycle - and that would be kind of a weird kink, even for someone like him.

“What? You said you wanted to borrow my bicycle! What else were you planning to ride?!”, Yutaka exclaimed loudly.

Now, Shou did turn his head to look at him. Yutaka wore a look of utter confusion on his face.

Shou concluded that he either really believed he had wanted to lend his bicycle, or his acting skills had levelled up immensely and he was playing a joke on Shou right now.

Shou smacked his lips, trying to figure out with one it was.

“I did not say that”, he said. “Why would I want to borrow your bicycle?”

He hoped that Yutaka would forget about the riding part.

“I don’t know, man!”, Yutaka said and gestured widely. “You talked so fast, that I didn’t understand much of what you said at all. I figured you broke yours or something. I only understood the last word. Bicycle. So, I concluded you wanted to lend my bicycle.”

“You couldn’t just have asked?”, Shou huffed.

He tried to recall the last word he had used. Once he figured, he felt himself blushing. Bicycle. The whole thing was ridiculous.

He turned around on his heels, ready to walk back out of the basement.

“This is stupid”, he muttered. “I’m going home.”

He didn’t feel like he had enough energy left to explain the misunderstanding to Yutaka. He didn’t have the energy to confess to him again. He had been anxious and hopeful today before confessing. He had been hopeful when Yutaka invited him, he had been anxious because he hadn’t returned his confession. He had been hopeful when Yutaka held his hand. He had been devastated, when he thought Yutaka only cared for the sex. He wasn’t ready to go through it all again. He wasn’t ready for any more hoping.

“Wait!”, Yutaka held him back. “Then why the fuck did you come here?”

Shou stood still, his back still towards Yutaka. He didn’t know how to explain it. For a moment, he never wanted to see Yutaka again. He wanted to forget this day had ever taken place.

“I thought …”, he said quietly. “Well, it was about something else.”

“Then what did you say?”

Shou shook his head and started to walk towards the exit. He couldn’t tell him, not again.

He didn’t get far, because Yutaka caught his arm and held him back.

“What did you say, Shou?”, he repeated, his grip on Shou’s wrist was firm. His voice sounded urgent.

“Fuck”, Shou said. He couldn’t come up with any excuse. If it was over now, at least it would be a clean cut. “I said, I love you, you fucking, stupid idiot, too vain to ask and too dumb to piece it together correctly, you stupid, stupid …”

Yutaka wrapped his arms around him from behind.

“I’m sorry”, he said quietly.

Yutaka had hoped. He had hoped the moment Shou turned his back on him and tried to get away. Because there was only one thing in this world that could make Kiryuuin Shou so scared, he would start running.

But Yutaka had feared his hopes were stupid and would not come true, because Shou loving him would be too much happiness, a happiness that someone like him could not deserve by any means.

But he had hoped anyway.

Only when he felt Shou starting to shake in his arms, did he realize how much he must have hurt him. He had confessed to Yutaka. He had put himself out there. And instead of a proper reaction, he must have felt like Yutaka kept him hanging all evening.

“I’m sorry”, he whispered again, until he felt Shou’s breath evening out. He was holding on to him tightly, so he wouldn’t get away. He wasn’t planning to let him get away ever again.

“Say it again, so I can react properly?”, Yutaka suggested quietly.

“No way”, Shou said, huffily. “You had your chance.”

Yutaka chuckled and finally let go of Shou. He took a step backwards and Shou turned around to face Yutaka again. His face without makeup looked weird when he got angry. It showed even more wrinkles than when he was laughing.

“I’m really, really happy”, Yutaka said. “I never thought I could be this happy.”

Shou lowered his gaze. He suddenly seemed embarrassed. Yutaka wondered what had made him come here in the first place. Yutaka had not returned his confession, but asked him to come home with him. He must have thought …

Yutaka’s face lit up.

“Oh, hey!”, he exclaimed cheerfully. “Now I know what you wanted to ride!”

Shou groaned and rolled his eyes. He looked a lot more like himself all of a sudden. Yutaka wasn’t used to see him angry and he wasn’t used to see him embarrassed either. He sure as hell was used to see Shou annoyed with him, though. Suddenly, he was the man again with whom Yutaka had fallen in love.

“Please, don’t say it”, Shou asked dryly.

“You wanted to ride me!”, Yutaka burst out happily.

Shou groaned again and gestured as if he would have preferred to hide his face somewhere. Yutaka thought he had never looked that cute before.

“Speaking of which”, he added. “Why don’t we go upstairs and you know?”

Shou shot him a sneaky glance.

“Didn’t you say your apartment is a mess and that I shouldn’t come up?”

“Bullshit!”, Yutaka said and waved it off. “My apartment is the cleanest you have ever seen. Beautiful, striking. More luxurious than any hotel room you have ever visited. The bed especially, top quality. You should try out this bed.”

Shou snorted, slightly amused, but he still looked uncomfortable.

“I don’t know”, he said quietly.

Yutaka looked at him for a moment and realized that all evening, Shou had waited for Yutaka to say it back. But he still hadn’t done so.

“It will be alright”, Yutaka said soothingly and took a step towards Shou. Gently, he reached out to brush back a strand of Shou’s blonde hair. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I also …”

He smiled and leaned in, kissing Shou on the cheek gently once again. Truly, he had confessed already when he kissed him the for first time.

“Bicycle.”

#I'm not really pleased with this one #but yeah here you go anyway #Golden Bomber #Kiryuuin Shou #Kyan Yutaka #kirikyan #fanfiction #fanfic

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whifferdills · 5 years ago

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"ACME Instant Tunnel" Gomens, AzCrow, reasonably explicit, mutual masturbation, Makin' Out, pinin', fuckin', voyeurism, hurt/comfort, weird anxieties, variable genitalia. Aziraphale is a hedonist and Crowley likes to watch. ~6k words

It starts, technically, in the Garden. The first rain is falling: Crowley is sheltered by the angel's wing, a fact he will not stop turning over and over in his mind for the next few millennia. But he's compartmentalized it, and is beginning to fret instead over how to make a satisfactorily cool exit from this sort of emotionally uncomfortable situation.

He looks over, about to say something awful that hasn't been invented yet, like "Better mosey along," or "Catch you on the flipside." And the angel is - hmm. Eyes closed, face tilted up to the sky. His hair gone wet and dark. Skin glistening, droplets rolling carelessly down. Like he's enjoying himself, somehow. Feeling like he shouldn't be witnessing this, he casts his gaze to the ground. He's greeted by the sight of the angel's toes wriggling, what, delightedly? Delightedly, in the dust as it turns into mud on the stone.

What?

On some level Crowley will never fully unpack this. What he knows at this particular moment is that he is intrigued; that there is something about this specific angel, an unrelenting strangeness, an absolute fuck-wild streak that compelled him to give his flaming sword away, and shelter a demon, and do...That, in the rain. What he knows right now is Aziraphale is, at the very least, worth keeping an eye on.

The first time Crowley admits to himself that something might be afoot, they're in Rome. It's Aziraphale who approaches him, this time. He looks at Crowley like he's ever so grateful to see a familiar face. And he also looks at him like, well,

No, can't be, surely

Crowley is tired and cranky and terribly sober and inclined to be surly, churlish, but this angel is looking at him like he's almost embarrassed to be looking at him in the, the whatever way he's looking at him.

And then he tries tempting Crowley and, oh, Satan, has he been tempting himself this whole time?

It's a lot to work through, is all. Crowley likes beer and wine and scotch and mead because they all do the thing where you don't have to deal so much with the world if you have enough of them. Beyond that, the physicality of consumption hadn't quite caught him. He'd licked honey off the taut stomach of a Polybian soldier, tongue in the valley of his hips; it'd been alright. A piece of coarse brown bread, once, since it had been offered.

But this is Aziraphale, and this is oysters. Crowley nurses a tankard of ale, and he watches. On the half-shell, shimmering iridescent, the briny wetness.

"They look like camel snot," he says.

Aziraphale frowns, but oh, there's something there, something teasing, something daring. "Hush," he says. "They're lovely. And there's a special sauce. Not that they need it, particularly, but it is nice." He leans in towards his plate and inhales, his eyes drifting shut.

Crowley shifts in his seat. This is. Well, it is - something, certainly. And he's fixated, on the angel's plump fingers delicately picking up a shell, and holding it up to his lips; fixated on the line of his neck as he tilts his head back, and sucks the flesh into his mouth; as he swallows; as he moans, almost, a pleased little noise. As he puts the shell down, and nestles each successive shell atop it, on and on until it's over and he has a hand cradling his belly and a beatific expression on his face.

"I told you," he says. "Simply exquisite."

Crowley has not partaken, but he nods anyway. They move on to safer subjects (as if any of this is safe, as if a demon should say anything to an angel that wasn't warlike and mean), and they drink, and once time and the room have gone wobbly, Crowley invents the Irish Goodbye.

They're in a garden, again, and the sun is setting. They're on a bench, with a respectable amount of distance between them. Room for Jesus, as the humans sometimes say. "Summer's waning," Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley risks a glance over. The angel is still sitting primly, but with his head quirked, tilted just so towards the sky.

"Mmm," Crowley hmm's.

"I love this time of year. As the air cools. Still damp, of course, but there's something in the air that changes, something...and it's so easy to be comfortable, this weather. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. Perfect for curling up with a good book and a cup of tea. Perhaps in front of a fire, perhaps not."

Crowley immediately, directly, and in a somewhat thunderstruck way realizes he wants nothing more than to curl up next to fucking Goldilocks over here, with a book and some tea and the threat of a lovely warming hearth. So he does the obvious thing, which is to garble out a shambles of a farewell and high-tail it back to his rented room.

They're in a restaurant. Crowley is drinking cement-sludge Turkish coffee and watching as Aziraphale quite literally bites off more than he can chew. It'd all sounded so good, is the thing. He'd just gotten carried away, when ordering.

There's twin thrills, wrapping around each other: firstly, and as always, the wonderment of a creature of love actually loving, headfirst and come-what-may. And then there's the darker, more familiar, and by this point slightly more uncomfortable pull of an angel, of all things, an actual Angel doing a Sin. The decadence of this.

Because this is gluttony, isn't it, just a touch. You don't pull a minor miracle to make room for more dolmas just because you're so full of love. You do it out of want.

And, oh, does Aziraphale want. Wants it all, and then some. Worst of all, he keeps looking at Crowley furtively, like this means something, like this is somehow shamefully important -

Which it is, of course. When is it ever reasonable for an angel and a demon to share a meal?

Crowley leaves, this time, in a way approaching cool. He saunters back to the Bentley, and then he drives very fast and flings himself first into his flat and then onto his bed, where he screams for an hour.

It's the image, isn't it: Aziraphale leaning back in his chair. Skin flushed and belly full, his eyes closed, the pleased hum he's making under his breath. It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot -

(Get yourself together)

(He could, and he does, punch a wall about it, feels his knuckles crunch against drywall and the drywall crack before him. He shouts something that might make sense and he cradles his hand in his other hand; he waits, just a tick, waits to heal himself and miracle the wall repaired. It's nice, is all, is somehow needed, is the only thing that fits, sometimes, to be. Just - Angry, like this. He breathes in and out, and flexes his rapidly bruising fingers.)

The century is pressing onwards and for some reason everything is going faster. Technology, people, politics, them. He buys Aziraphale a churro from a street vendor, and he watches him eat it, and Aziraphale makes

that face

And suddenly he's pulling an angel into an alleyway by the shirt collar. He is politely waiting as Aziraphale finishes swallowing the last bite of pastry, and then he's chasing his tongue back into his mouth, the sugar and grease on his lips, a stray crumb; his hips pushing in as he presses Aziraphale against the wall, as the awkward hard lines of him scramble into, are in awe of, the warm soft comfort of this creature

which he never deserved, did he, comfort, of all things, heaven forfend -

Aziraphale looks at him like he wants to eat him, like he wants this so very much and so much else besides; there is a second where Crowley thinks maybe, maybe, maybe now

And the moment ends, and Aziraphale is wearing an expression like he might throw up, and Crowley apologies both profusely and incomprehensibly, and they both run away.

Aziraphale is in a bar, and Crowley is in the same bar, but they are not there together. Crowley blends in, ish, passing well enough for gothy twink. Aquanet holding his hair aloft, a hint of mesh and leather about his outfit. Aziraphale stands out, and it's awful, because Crowley is cringing in equal parts due to how completely the angel is misreading the room, and how he isn't -

(This beautiful aristocrat. With his clothes and his canapes and his crepes and his boys, and his other assorted luxuries - a far cry from asceticism, and inching further from God's grace by the day. Crowley is torn between being somewhat concerned, vis a vis Falling, and wanting to swallow this idiot whole.)

He's holding court, and he's being ridiculous, and he's recounting anecdotes about Oscar Fucking Wilde, and there's an air of, you know. Ha ha, the middle-aged fag, the stately old homo of England so obliviously out of touch in this dim, dank club that has little room for that sort of delicate, prissy expression of queerness. Crowley, at least, has made an attempt, the thin leather straps of his harness pressing into his chest under his blouse. The moustache, the femme nods, the leather cap. Tom of Finland eat your heart out.

The music is too loud and there's a young man catching Aziraphale's gaze and Crowley's heart is in his throat. He could say something. He could sidle up, like he always does, with a sway of the hips and some pithy remark and an insinuation, but

Well, insinuating here, of all places. A touch on the nose. It'd be a sort of admission, wouldn't it. A confession, if you'll pardon the phrase.

So the angel and the boy go to the bathroom. So Crowley follows. He falls back into a snake and hides in a hastily-miracled vent above the adjacent stall, and he listens. Aziraphale is loud, apparently. Vocal and excited and shameless and so, so full of love (and so much else besides), and the boy is so eager. The rustle-slide of trousers undone and shucked down, the gasp at something, the implication of a head of hair clenched in the angel's greedy hands - Crowley screams internally and then slithers towards the nearest exit as quickly as his tiny shitty snake body will allow.

Aziraphale has a barber. He's never liked attending to himself - the end result, yes, but the effort? Perish the thought. He has (had? it's been some time) a tailor, and occasionally a butler, and throughout most of it, a barber.

It's one of the things Crowley likes about him. How clearly his face wants a beard, how desperately he does not want a beard to be atop his face. And he could shave himself, could even sort his body out to not grow hair at all, but. Well. It's a thing, isn't it.

Crowley comes with, sometimes. The angel always likes company and a willing ear, and Crowley likes, oh. What. The physicality of it. The dusting of the badger brush over his skin, the foam spread about his face. Upper lip, double chin, where the hair ends below his Adam's apple. The scrape of the blade over his soft, yielding face

And the threat, of course, the possibility of violence

The hot towel on his neck. Hair trimmed, smoothed, oiled and annointed, put back into place. The razor stropped on leather, the cologne, the performative humanity - Crowley likes how Aziraphale smells after he's been to the barber. That fresh, soapy something; something particularly masculine, softened as always by an equally particular otherness. Crowley wants to breathe him in, like this, the sharp clean luxury of him as he goes about his otherwise humdrum, mildewy life.

(Aziraphale had been a soldier, is the thing. With a flaming sword and ethereal helmet and a pressed white uniform, brass buttons shining. Aziraphale looks at him, sometimes, with such guilt and regret that it sends him reeling. The golden trumpet had sounded, and presumably Aziraphale had charged - But they don't talk about that, do they. Bygones being bygones, and all. They've agreed to move on.)

They're in Crowley's flat. This is giving Crowley a certain amount of unearned confidence. Home pitch advantage. He's provided snacks and libations

He's been all the fuck over town and used more miracles than he probably should, assembling this Unassuming buffet and bar. He bought a cocktail strainer for this, four types of pie. Wine, more wine, some champagne, a dusty bottle of scotch. Cheese and things. Oysters, of course, because fuck his gay life. Hand-shucked and all, with a flat head screwdriver, because he'll be damned again before he buys a fucking oyster shucking fucking knife specifically for the purpose. Anyway. So.

So. So. They're in Crowley's flat. Aziraphale is humming, pleased, trailing his hand over the veritable bounty of food and booze. And Crowley is whining, internally, hoping against hope that he's somehow managed to do this right.

"What sort of cheese is this?" Aziraphale says, at the exact same moment as Crowley blurts out

"So d'you do the other Earthly Pleasures or is it just food'n'drink?"

Aziraphale frowns, in a blank sort of way; Crowley folds his body and soul up into a pretzel and addresses his corpse C/O Hell.

But he's considering, isn't he.

"How do you mean," Aziraphale says slowly. Voice about as husky as it ever gets, still high and camp but with an edge to it.

"Do you," Crowley says,

Do you, yanno, do you ever just.... Do you ever find yourself, right, in a place, and you feel a way, so you, right, Touch yourself about it Do you ever Yanno

"Hgn," he finishes, finally.

Aziraphale eyes him up and down, and it's the single thirstiest, most hungry and sultry thing he's ever seen. Not that he'd know, really, he's more in the business of Wrath, so he's not super experienced here, but

"The sins of the flesh?" Aziraphale replies, half-finishing the thought. He's holding Crowley's gaze, glancing away just long enough to seem coquettish.

"Nnngghk," Crowley says.

"I have. You know that." Aziraphale stares him down: not silly and old-fashioned, so much, anymore, not prissy and odd and camp but so, so incredibly direct. Because he wants, and the angel always goes for what he wants.

"Many times," he continues. "Perhaps not as many times as you, but,"

Crowley tries to look cool, worldly, and well-fucked. He's...more theoretical than practical, here, but it's important to his self-image.

The angel steps forward; Crowley stands, stuck to the floor and waving like the leaves of a quaking aspen.

He can live through this. He will. He asks for strength from a higher power. Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia - Bob ROSS -

(Did he ever tell the story about falling? It happened in increments. Every question, every doubt, every mistimed joke, he drifted farther and farther from God's grace. One minute he's in front of the archangels trying to explain how little sense it made that knowledge should be a sin, and the next, boom, he was on the other side of the door, and Heaven had changed the locks.

And the gate to Hell was, of course, open. Latch broken, as if to say, go on then, you know you want to. So he went.

Nothing happened, is the fuck of it. Nothing changed. It didn't even hurt. He was his old regular self, only with no name and a carefully edited set of memories. The snake thing, that came later, after God started inventing and populating Earth. He was him, just...stripped, basically, of all his paperwork.

And it almost felt good, finally falling the rest of the way. Opening the door and sauntering down the rickety steps. It was dark and dank down there but that was really more for aesthetic, it wasn't like he needed to breathe in the air. No one had bothered to really decorate yet, it was just sort of a cellar with an odd, musty smell. Folks scattered about, kind of milling, not so much of a heirarchy as it was, a, what. Commune? Had that been invented yet?

Beezlebub xirself lead him through the orientation, and xe was decent enough, if humourless.

"What do you feel?" xe asked him.

It wasn't a question he'd reckoned with before. Not anything an angel would ask him. What did he feel. He closed his eyes, considered, turning the inside of him over and over like a rock tumbler until: "I'm angry," he said.

"And spiteful?"

"Guess so, yeah."

Beezelbub grinned; it was disconcerting. "We encourage cross-training of course, but it's excellent to have another team member with your...tastes."

He settled into it like a snake slipping back into the grass. How fine a feeling, to push people to their limits in the smallest of ways, to be the straw on a camel's back. And to then offer them a choice: to be cruel, or to be kind? To be better, to be Just, or to indulge in a raised voice, a raised fist? They fell like dominoes at the slightest provocation. And who wouldn't, really, living in such an unjust world. It's not like God was listening.)

"I have, you know that," Aziraphale is saying, and he's stepping closer. Him and all his fucking heavenly glow. "And this - why not? We do so much else, together. Besides, I know how you like to play at tempting me, when I've already done a fairly good job of tempting myself."

It's dangerously close to honesty. Crowley squinches his eyes shut and counts to ten. Aziraphale is still there when he opens them, looking beautiful and Good and so pointedly angelic. The bastard.

"Go on, then," Aziraphale says, giving him that look. The queer, loaded one. The one where he can't say it out loud, neither of them can, where this can't exist and if it somehow does, it should never, ever be acknowledged -

Crowley swallows, for dramatic and erotic effect. "What do you feel?" he asks.

Aziraphale considers, also for dramatic and erotic effect. "Hungry, mainly."

For, what. Food? Crowley? To be delicately coddled and diligently attended-to?

"Right," Crowley says vaguely. Aziraphale grins and steps back, attention now wholely on the oyster which he is obscenely slurping through his lips.

(He was only ever the Serpent because he was new. All the other demons had been down long enough that the stench of Hell was obvious on them, emanated from them. Crowley still had a whiff of heaven about him, just enough to be convincing.

"It'll be fun," Beezelbub insisted, and slapped him on the back so hard he turned into a snake.)

"How do you feel?" Crowley asks again.

Aziraphale considers. He's done a number on dinner, and the wine as well; tilted back in his chair, face happily flushed, hands clasped around his well-fed belly, he's the very picture of sated desire. Crowley's banking on it still not being enough.

"Full," Aziraphale settles on. "Good. Hmm."

He's made himself a fucking stomach, what else is in there? A prostate? A cock? A cunt and G-spot? How many mechanisms of pleasure has he miracled himself?

"And what else," Crowley finds himself saying. It's almost in a cool, suave way.

"I'd like - well. It's tricky, isn't it. So easy to get the wires crossed."

Crowley, who is nothing but a pile of crossed wires, represses the need to scream at the top of his lungs and/or punch a hole in the wall. "Go on," he ekes out. Aziraphale just looks at him. Holds his gaze long enough, and then nods. He doesn't undress, he never undresses. There might not even be a body under all those layers. What he does, is he moves one hand from where it rests on the crest of his belly, slides it down to his waistband, where the button is just slightly overtaxed from the evening's efforts. He breathes in, for effect, and slips the button free, pulls the zipper down. Settles his hand between his legs. Crowley wants, he wants, he -

"Wanna see," he blurts out.

And Aziraphale smiles, that knowing self-satisfied quirk of the lips,

and he spreads his legs. His hand delving inside his well-worn trousers, pulling out a plump, pink, small but perfectly-formed cock.

"I like it when we share," he says, casually.

Crowley narrowly avoids dissolving into the nearby refridgerator. (You can order groceries and play Doom on the thing, it's awful but he's got respect for whatever demon came up with "smart" as an adjective for home appliances.)

"You'll have a cup of espresso, usually," Aziraphale continues. He's fondling the skin of his balls, conversationally.

Are they really doing this? How drunk are they, really?

"Or a biscotti," Crowley chokes out. His hands are shaking but they are, they are en route to his nice snake belt, adorning his nice black trou, because fuck it he's got a brand.

"Yes," Aziraphale breathes - such kindness, such awe, such selfish want and love -

Crowley whines and positions his hand over his cunt. If he touches himself it's all over, he'll come and that'll be that and they'll never speak of this again, and all he wants, really, is to watch, to know, to be present - Aziraphale closes his plump fist over his plump cock and goes hmmm with his stupid plump face and Crowley kicks the leg of his armchair so hard he breaks a toe.

He comes early, and then comes again after the angel does, after seeing him just Twiddle himself in such an absolutely fucking ridiculous and transcendental way. Just comes twice amidst a pile of oyster shells and wanton angel. As you do, of an evening. He snaps a finger, and it at least doesn't smell like seafood anymore.

"I'm a - gotta," he explains, then crashes headfirst into a nap that lasts for two years.

(He wakes up alone, but in bed and with a note tucked under his telephone. Til we meet again, xx. He clutches the note to his chest, and sneezes, and goes back to sleep for another year.)

That old classic "end of the fucking world" anxiety: it happens, it happens a lot and so much - Crowley gets used to the sensation of his heart in his throat. It all threatens to burst loose. Aziraphale is finally falling, or cracking apart in his, their, this personal way - would it be wrong to admit that he's beautiful, like this? So vulnerable, so full of doubt. The struggle to put a name to the faith that has always carried him forward. So very, very close to becoming something else. And then he almost loses him -

A significant part of him wants to give up, wants to lie down on the tarmac and go to sleep as the world burns. He's tired, he's had a very long day. But, fuck it, he'd asked Aziraphale to help save this stupid fucking world and now Aziraphale is asking him, and, better late than never - besides, he's got spite and directionless rage on his side, so

can he get a "wahoo";

It's after Armageddidn't - Crowley feels raw, flayed alive, and sort of giddily willing to say anything, any stupid thing. Aziraphale, for this round, is playing the part of the idiot who runs away. Winds up in some fuck-off corner of Sussex, for whatever reason.

Crowley, obviously, follows.

So they're in a coastal village. Orbiting a cottage, even, a small space. There's a lot, it's a lot - books and teacups and things - there's just so much of this, of them, in such a constrained area. Aziraphale has already nested and Crowley feels, right, just a little like an invasive species, here

But he wants to be here, so much, and that counts, right?

"Hey," he says, softly. Outside the local newsagent's. He's holding a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch. He pushes his glasses off, nestles them in his hair. Aziraphale draws the single most labored breath history has ever recorded. Looks him up and down. Steps forward.

It could happen here, of course. Aziraphale could fall to his knees and confess his undying love, or vice versa, this could all - it could work out, and work out neatly

Ha ha

But what happens is,

He hands Aziraphale the Monster Munch, and their fingers brush; storm clouds gather above.

Aziraphale bites his lip and steps in close, their coats touching, the warmth beneath. What happens is the angel slides his hand behind the demon's neck, and draws him in, drinking deep. What happens is he kisses Crowley to within an inch of his life before stepping back

"Home, I think," he says. Crowley nods.

Whatever, wherever home is. In this case, the cottage. The door closes behind them, and immediately locks. Crowley holds Aziraphale's hands as he heads deliberately towards, something, something, what is he doing here again?

The bedroom, you idiot

Aziraphale kisses him again, pulling him tightly against himself, enveloping him, before flipping him around, pushing him on and pressing him down into the bed with something approaching kindness. A hand at the junction between hips and arse, and another hand cautiously questioning, undoing his belt -

it's a lot it's a lot it's a lot he takes it all back he's not the one who goes too fast

"Alright?" Aziraphale asks, high pitched and breathy. His miracle-slick finger probing inside the eager but tight ring of his arsehole. It's alright, it's alright, of course it's all fucking right What happens is,

The sky cracks free, and the humidity breaks, the rain sheeting down, white noise on the roof, and,

Aziraphale fucks him, and this berk who only ever learned one dance, he's almost got rhythm, somehow. And a cock fit to purpose, this time, long and thick. He fucks Crowley like it's his job, and he's good at his job, fucks him like he's proud of being good at his job. Leans in, his belly against Crowley's back, maybe gasps once or twice.

If he were feeling more charitable, he'd note the vulnerability in Aziraphale, the watery desperate look in his eyes; but he's not and he's mad for some inexplicable reason (they don't talk, they never say it, they never fucking say it) and, right, fuck him - Crowley comes in a small, shitty way and Aziraphale follows soon after and it's -

It's not much good, really, but it's nice. And shouldn't that be enough? It's something, it's more than nothing. Maybe marks left in the skin of his back from where his shirt had rucked up and the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat had dug in. They don't say anything. They never say anything. It's just how they are, how this always is. Can't draw too much attention, even if no one's watching.

What happens is;

"We can sleep here," Crowley coughs out.

"Obviously," Aziraphale smarms.

Agreed, then. They sleep there, in the one bed.

It's a lot, okay? Calm down. It's eternity. The entirety of everything. Don't - Don't look at him like that. He's just taking a nap -

Crowley wakes up an undetermined period of time later, and he's disoriented, and it's still raining, and Aziraphale isn't there. Not in the bed, not in the cottage, not - oh, fuck, and the panic rises. "Angel?" He calls out, casually, tripping over his own feet. What if it had been too much, what if he'd stepped over the line, what if Aziraphale had left, again - what if it wasn't any different, now? But, he finds him. He's standing outside in the rain, like an idiot. Fully dressed and utterly drenched. Crowley sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Angel?" Aziraphale turns to look at him, a far too complicated expression on his face. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, only nothing's coming out. "Would you like an umbrella?" Aziraphale shakes his head. "Would you like to come inside?" Aziraphale purses his lips and stares at him wildly, chin wobbling. Fine, fine. Fine. Crowley grabs an umbrella and manifests a pair of flip flops and squelches out onto the lawn. "Cmere," he says, taking the angel's hand, and he leads him back inside. "I'm wet," Aziraphale says mournfully. And hopefully, with an expectant look on his face. Fine, okay. Okay. "Shoes off," Crowley grumbles, and goes to fetch a towel. Aziraphale pouts. He'd been expecting a miracle, probably. Crowley dries his hair, fluffing it back up. Neither of them attempt to make eye contact. Crowley drops the towel, and then lets his hands settle on Aziraphale's shoulders. Gently, gently, he pulls the heavy, sodden wool off, carefully hanging it up on the coat rack. "Oh," Aziraphale says softly, inhaling sharply. "Alright?" Crowley asks. His hands are hovering over the top button of Aziraphale's waistcoat. Aziraphale nods quickly, like he's trying to stay ahead of himself, like he doesn't trust himself to speak. Eyes too wide and his mouth screwed up tight. So. Crowley continues undressing him. Methodically, precisely, hands not dwelling, gaze not lingering. Aziraphale's, what, whimpering under his breath, and something is stretching taut as a bowstring inside Crowley. He pauses at the last bit of kit, the prim pair of briefs. He's not touching. Or not touching, touching - you know. Aziraphale looks up bashfully. "I don't - that is to say. Well. What would you like?" That hadn't been the question, but it answers it anyway. Crowley swallows. "Doesn't matter," he squeaks out. "Don't overthink it." Back on the edge of a complete breakdown: "I have to overthink it! I don't know how else to-" His anxiety is flaring alongside Aziraphale's - the sympathetic vibrations they've always had. Peas in a nervous pod. "Whatever is fine. Just - exhale. Metaphorically. Or something. It's okay. No one's watching. It's just us." Crowley gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and pulls his briefs down. Aziraphale scrunches his eyes shut, looking constipated. When he's worked up the courage to look, he's greeted with. Ah. Nothing, in fact. Aziraphale is as smooth and bare as a Ken doll. "I'm sorry," Aziraphale wails melodramatically. "I can't." Aaaaaaaaaaaaa, says Crowley's inner monologue. "Angel, please, just - it's fine, shut up, it's fine, you know you don't have to - I'm getting your pajamas." "I don't have any pajamas," Aziraphale sobs. "Sweatpants?" The angel stops wringing his hands long enough to give him a look of disgust. "No." Oh, for fuck's sake. Crowley snaps his fingers. "Thank you," Aziraphale murmurs. And then he's quiet again, standing awkward in a soft set of plaid flannel pajamas. He's quiet as Crowley leads him to the couch and sits him down; quiet as Crowley brews a pot of tea, hands him a tea-cup, sits down next to him a carefully-measured distance away. He preferred the histrionics, on the whole. That at least he knew what to do with. Time probably passes. The clock on the mantlepiece is ticking, anyway. "I don't know what I want," Aziraphale says finally, in a very small voice. "It's disconcerting." He looks like he feels dreadfully vulnerable. "That's...Fine," Crowley says. He gives Aziraphale's hand a brief pat. On the angel's schedule, as always. He'll wait. Ten, twenty minutes, a half hour, it's not much, but it's long in this context, sitting in silence, breaths performatively held, the livewire of this; please, angel, please Aziraphale breathes in and straightens his shoulders. Crowley doesn't look, or at least more than he has to. "It's. Well. Heaven," Aziraphale says, exhaling. Crowley nods. "I know I didn't belong there. I know none of them liked me. I know...who I am, what I want to be, is. Fundamentally incompatible, with Heaven. I'm better off without it." And." He pauses, staring straight ahead. "And the knowledge that I will never, ever go back, it. It hurts. And I don't know what to do with that." Snakes don't have tear ducts but Crowley half wishes he'd bothered to slap some on this morning, if only to do something with the thickness in his throat. He glances to the side, just long enough to catch Crowley's eye. "I'm glad you're here," he says. "Thank you, again. I know I take advantage of your - you, sometimes." "I know how to say no," Crowley replies. He doesn't know quite how to steer this conversation out of dangerous waters. "Yes, of course, dear." Aziraphale looks at him, then, or looks slightly past, something aching and awful in his eyes, something utterly bereft. Familiar enough. It's okay, it's okay. It'll be okay. It has to be, anyway. Crowley, who is, on second thought, definitively not in the vincinity of wanting to cry, tugs Aziraphale close. Lines his soft edges against all his angles, his head and hair under his hand. Doesn't comment on the raspy little noise Aziraphale makes as he slots home. "Good trip," he says. "Should come here next fall." Aziraphale snorts, and digs his way closer into Crowley's arms. "Puns. Hell's work?" "Collaboration with heaven, I should think. We both brought this upon ourselves." He hums, and tangles his fingers in Aziraphale's hair, and once again just relishes in being here, alive, and together. They both avoid drawing attention to how loaded that sentence is. And, as the morning draws on, they both find themselves casually, peacefully, falling back asleep.

They're trying again: it's still not quite working, but at least this time they're a touch more honest. In the cottage by the sea, with the fresh air and the snacks from the newsagents and the tentative, whatever, and the outright fucking want - "I could, you know, the other one," Crowley mumbles. Arse in the air and his face in a paisley pillowcase. "Ah, no. Thank you. I quite like this. Working you open. The reward for my effort. Like a pistachio." "Like a what?" Crowley spits out a bit of down and turns around, spine doing something somewhat inhuman. Aziraphale looks down, lips pursed. Eyes set in that knowing, slightly naughty cant. "Oh! I have just the thing -" He adjourns, he returns with a tangle of leather straps, and an - and a strap. Crowley swallows thickly. "You know you could just do both. Even the humans can do both." "Yes, but this is fun. There's all sorts, you know. Different colors and shapes. So much better than it was. Do you remember? The bread? I felt positively spoiled for choice at the shop." He slips the cock into the ring and steps into the harness, sliding it up and loosening it a touch as it catches around his thighs. Of course Aziraphale owns this. Of course this is a thing. "This is alright?" He asks brightly, cock jutting out, proud and vibrantly hot pink. "The, well, you know. And the nudity." Crowley blanks into a haze of static. "Nudity is good when fucking, angel," he slurs out. "I was under the impression you preferred me clothed." Aziraphale plops onto the bed, dick bouncing, his body soft and plush and unafraid. The leather pressing in just so. "It - no. That's just all I've had, you clothed. Seen. All I've seen." He wriggles. "Always thought it would be nice, though. Undress you. Unwrap you like a present." Aziraphale huffs out a low, indulgent chuckle. "Presents and pistachios. What a pair we make, hmm?" He slides inside Crowley, hard and slick. Like peas in a - oh, fuck, yep, that's what a prostate does - Crowley accidentally slaps Aziraphale in the face. It's fine. This is - it's good. He whines just enough as the angel enters him, hips coming flush to arse. It's okay, it's okay, it's It's just eternity, innit. So what. Crowley grins, and grabs fistfuls of the bedding, and -

"This is - don't tell me." Gabriel flips through the envelope of photographs. "Parcheesi?" "Pornography," Sandalphon corrects gently. "Yes! Yes. Pornography. And we have this. Pornography. Because?" There's a heavy pause. "We're keeping an eye on the renegade angel," Uriel reminds him. Ah. "Do we need to?" Gabriel asks, flipping the last photo face-down. "Is there a point? This is extremely distasteful. I'd prefer if we did not, in general, look at these things. Specifically me, I am not interested. But it's fine if you are!" He glances around the room. Blank expressions abound. "No? Right. Let's drop the threat level down and, uh, hopefully never think about this -" He taps the envelope, now re-filled with photographs - "Again. Okay?" Everyone nods, and itches to disperse. Gabriel ceremoniously tosses the envelope into the express chute to Hells' furnaces, claps his hands, and gives his team a generous thumbs-up. Meeting adjourned.

#good omens fanfic #aziraphale/crowley #ineffable husbands #*uses the word 'soft' 500 times* lit tra cher baBEY #official original content tag

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sleepyyghostt · 5 years ago

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im venting under the cut.if u think this is abt you it might be but ]. dont be upset abt it its not personal and im not mad at any person exactly just. general frustration that i SERIOUSLY NEED to get out and i would yell abt this in the discord server but i Can’t

ok. ok so i. i fuckin hate how EVERY SINGLE TIME smth marvel related is announced that im excited abt, or comes out that i loved, pretty much everyone in the area of internet i inhabit HATES the thing. and i know for a fact that a lot of the things that have come out are generally loved but like. im gonna use spidey ffh as a specific example. i came out of the cinema absolutely loving it and then i go on tumblr right after and.; literally all that i can find on this site (from ppl i follow at least) is just hate abt it. and. ok so i have this Thing where if i hear a certain opinion abt somehting enough times i start to absorb it., and idk i must just be rly easily influenced and thats Probably something i should try to fix for like... life in general. but anyway. it just makes it so that. like i go from being so so excited to feeling like. like a weird mix of ‘this thing is bad’ so like. some fuckin mashed up version of dislike and vaguely feelings of guilt?? maybe?? whatever it is it sucks and it takes so much effort so scrub away at and theres no getting it properly out of the cracks

like. it used to be that before when i thought of the general concept of ‘marvel movies’ im like HELL YEAH HELL< YEAH! BABEY!!!! but !!! that’s not my first reaction anymore!!!! i immediately think of like. all the problems. and i mean. criticising the problems is entirely valid but. it SUCKS that theyre the first thigns i think of now and. hhhhhhhhhhhhhh. i just wanna ENJOY my special interests and go into the standard incomprehensible levels of excitement and joy mode and its just gotten so difficult to lately

and. ok. getting excited about something u love getting a live action adaption is like. an entirely logical thing. but. i guess it isnt actually????????????

and i KNOW THAT disney is a big evil corporation i KNWO that. but they make so man y things that i lovr and and i know the things arent perfect and there are problems and entirely valid criticisms but. theytre important to me

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i could easily go on for much much much longer but i wont. anyway. this is stuff that has been eating away at me for a very very long time and the stuff on discord a few mins ago is jstu like the straw on the camels back or whatever the hell the metaphor is

#i dont know if any of this is actually coherent at all but. yeah #.dont reblog this

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xenosgirlvents · 6 years ago

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The Last Gardener

Have been on-off typing this for a little bit since listening to Last Guardian. This is, basically, my headcanon for what happened AFTER the ending of the Audio Drama, since no-one bothers to confirm that Dian’s Spiritstone is destroyed or anything. Its...weird since I just wrote it to vent out feelings and emotions, so it isn’t really about a plot or storyline just...stuff happening. :P

There is a garden, of sorts, beginning to take shape on the lip of Craftworld Kher-Ys. Tall structures jut out, resembling trees and flowers, their imitation leaves and petals static in the airless enviroment of the dead Craftworld.

They are, of course, not true flowers or plants, as even a cursory examination could reveal. Universally the colour of bone bleached to an exceptional white gleam, studded with dull gems of varying shapes and sizes, they are pieces of wraithbone, of homes and buildings, shaped to a new form.

There is a sense of progression, when one looks at the garden. Towards one end the wraithbone foilage seems to barely qualify as even an imitation of flowers; in place of gently sloping petals they have jagged spars of wraithbone jutting into the air, rather than seamlessly joining to the floor they appear as if they had been forced in, cracks running all along the ground around them. It was as if whatever shaped these flowers improved with time, their first efforts crude and driven by force and anger, yet growing more subtle, more exquisite, with every attempt.

Dian made these, made them, she continues to do so. Where the flowers seem to end the giant she has become lies propped up against the dome of the Craftworld, a pillar of wraithbone held in one hand, as a finger gently bent the top of it into a starburst pattern. To an observer the deft movements of such massive digits seem somewhat difficult to reconcile with the blank, featurless, shape of her sloped head, the shell of the wraithlord betraying neither ears nor eyes, nose and possessing no sensors either technological or organic. Yet this body, and she has come to think of it as ‘this’ body rather than as ‘her’ body, now shapes these flowers as if remembering the action from long ago, muscle memory somehow carrying on through into the actions of wraithbone.

Even now Dian struggles to think of the Wraithlord shell she rests in as ‘her’ body, she feels as if there is always something between them, dividing them, her mind and body not a seamless intermeshing together, but more akin to some performer pulling the strings on a jerky, ungainly, marionette. She’d been told of what life in a wraith-shell was like, all children of the Asuryani had, but even then words failed to properly express it. She moved through a liquid world in which she felt at times like the only thing solid. Time and space seemed to flow around and through her, rather than simply thrusting her forward, and even when her hand pressed into dense wraithbone it did not feel as if she was bending some psychoplastic but, rather, as if the material world itself was clay, shifting beneath her fingers.

How long had she been like this now? Dian can’t recall, not for a lack of methods through which she could tell time, no, but through a simple inability to comprehend it anymore, the dreamlike haze of her existence made it difficult for her to appreciate time unless she focused every ounce of her thought on to it. There was a reason the Wraithlord was customarily donned only by those who could become one with their War mask, and the Khaine-given, single-minded, focus it brought.

But Dian was a gardener and, in the dream-life she now lived it seemed, at times, that this fact was the one thing she could use to anchor herself.

The dream sometimes gave way to nightmares. From time to time the blackened stump of one leg, blown off by the melta charge of a Death Watch Veteran, would intrude on her awareness, as she heard the sound of it scraping behind her, markig her passage as she crawled along the lip of the Craftworld, forcing her to relive the moments of her clash with the mon-keigh’s killers.

The nightmare was a discordance of pain, fire and shouting, and she wished she had eyes so she could shut them whenever she remembered, but instead contented herself with remembering the bodies of every slain one of them; one who’s face had been melted into carbonised slag, another who’s head she’d sliced open, these images of her tormentors deaths helped somewhat keep at bay the final moments of her life as Dian, before she became what she was now.

Dian pauses, briefly, to look behind her. Though she cannot tell time anymore she has found her own substitute for marking her life; behind her she sees the acres of garden she has already erected, marking her crawl around Kher-Ys, as if slowly the Craftworld was being enveloped by a growing wood, a sprouting of new life, to fill the vacuum of the dead Craftworld. It will take, by any reckoning, an age and a half for her to fill this place, to crawl all around this moon-sized vessel, to complete her garden. It is, for her, a good way to mark her life and direct her, although a small voice always whispers; even this will end, and you will not.

Then what?

Sometimes she pauses in her work, shifts her focus momentarily fromt he blossoms taking shape in her hands to the world around her. She hears, although in truth that word is incorrect in the context, sounds. Laughter, giggling, moaning and more. Sounds of revelry. Sounds of passion.

There are no Aeldari left on Kher-Ys, and there are no more mon-keigh either. There is no-one left on Kher-Ys but her. Yet there are voices. Dian knows where these voices come from, and she will not deign to ever accord them the status of a ‘being’ for they were parasited, nightmares and reflections only. But they are there, deep within the Craftworld, spreading out, not hampered by the lack of atmosphere or freezing cold, moment after moment growing bolder, growing louder, coming further from the center and closer to the lip. One day they would reach her forest.

Dian only stops momentarily though, never long. She has a garden to finish, after all, and some things are simply to important to be distracted from.

Sometimes Dian wondered if the reason she didn’t stop was fear. Her memories had become hazy within the Wraithlord, bleeding into each other without restraint. There was a reason why, in standard circumstances, a wraith-shell was returned to dormancy, its Spiritstone removed, after battle. The Aeldari had never intended for the passage of ages trapped within one, never resting, never returning to the embrace of the Infinity Circuit, constantly active.

Existence in a wraith-shell was to have one’s own soul exposed to the material, like a raw nerve, sensitive in ways a living, breathing, Aeldari couldn’t truly comprehend without experiencing themselves.

But Dian had done it, had little choice but to do it. She was no Spiritseer, she could not safely remove her own Spiritstone, and even if she could there was no Infinity Circuit to join it to. Where Kher-Ys’ Infinity Circuit once sat was now only a baleful, leering, lecherous eye from beyond, gazing inwards at the cavorting of its own children.

She could not rest, never rest, always in motion, always doing. Gardening was what she used to remind herself she was Dian, Dian the gardener, for that much she had convinced herself was true beyond a doubt. At times the brief doubt entered her mind that is she ever stopped gardening she would face the awful realization that whoever Dian had been she was no longer her...that was when she worked most fervently, when she proved those doubts wrong through her craft, and asserted through the planting of each new flower her identity.

I am Dian, I am the last gardener of Kher-Ys.

The pier of Kher-Ys, one of the piers, stretched out for many miles from the Craftworld proper, a thin tongue of Wraithbone extended into the dark. Once, before, an Aeldari would have been able to walk naked upon it and feel no harm from the void around, powerful forcefields maintaining regular atmosphere and temperature inside of it, yet allowing entry for any vessels seeking to dock.

But the lights had gone out in Kher-Ys long ago, and with them all systems had failed. Although she felt nothing in the Wraithbone shell, the cold did slowly begin to impede her movements, as Dian dragged herself to the edge of the pier with slow, deliberate, movements.

At the edge of the pier she looked over and saw space wheeling below, even if she knew that the very concept of below and above meant little in this situation. The darkness was omnipresent, of course, broken only by the countless motes of starlight, but...Dian did not mind the dark, she had never feared it. Dark was not evil, despite the beliefs of so many other species, it was simply another part of what was and she held no grudge against it. It was almost inviting, in truth, she felt as if the dark called her down off that pier, to embrace her in its incomprehensible vastness.

With a groaning sound she turned her shell over, and looked back behind her, looked back at Kher-Ys, home.

She did it. even if, from this vantage, she cannot see it all, she does not have to. She knows she has done it, Dian knows. Tall and thick, slender and firm, different shapes, different forms, each its own unique expression, a forest of wraithbone flowers, some small as an Aeldari, other’s taller than even a Wraithlord, surround and embrace Kher-Ys rim, a garden or, maybe, a forest which sits silently, static, in the airless, freezing, remains of Kher-Ys.

A Wraithlord cannot smile, but Dian managed it all the same. Her work was complete and the sound of shrieking in the distance reminded her that she deserved to rest.

The Wraithlord pushed itself from the edge of the pier and slowly drifted away from Kher-Ys, further and further.

A Wraithlord needed no food, no drink, no sleep or rest. She could survive untold millenia in space in this shell. She had known that, of course.

As Kher-Ys grew above her, her awareness slowly encompassing more and more of it, she saw her home from below in all its beauty.

Dian? Dian? Dian?

The words, thoughts, pushed through, intruded on her, their sudden appearance making her recoil at first. Had she not already been so accustomed to a life as nought but a ghost bound to a wraith Dian, no doubt, would have panicked, would have lashed out, at this sudden, strange, bodiless existence.

W-who are?

Dian tried to raise a hand, or rather tried to mimic the thought of raising a hand...only to find there was no hand to raise. Indeed, though she tried to turn to her side and ‘see’ what had happened to her hand there was, in truth, no side to turn to. There was no direction, no sense of space, she floated in an indeterminable sea of...something.

You are safe, Dian of Kher-Ys, you are with your people.

The intrusion was subtle, masteful and elegant compared to Dian’s brutish, sluggish, thoughts. As they appeared images, impressions, formed in her mind. She didn’t so much see whoever it was communicating with her, as she saw flashes of their own self-image; a young woman, then elderly, a sea of stars beneath her, robes and runes and...and something...something Dian recognized.

Spirit...seer?

Yes, yes. I am Spiritseer Alatharil of Craftworld Alaitoc, you are safe, you are on our Craftworld.

It is hard to understand without experiencing it. Loneliness is a pain, an unimaginable pain, an unbearable pain. Dian had endured multiple lifetimes of of it, she had heard no voice, she had seen no Aeldari save for in dreams and nightmares. The presence of another was something Dian had thought certain she could no longer remember, and yet when she felt Alathrail’s thoughts brush her own there was a moment where her spirit roused to lucidity, and she felt as if, for an instance, she could recall every bond, every friend, every love, every instance of her life with all the clarity she had once possessed.

It was your garden Dian, your garden was how we found you. A vessel of the Anhrathe, they passed Kher-Ys, noted that the forest was growing, that something had to still be alive there. They returned, to watch, to see...that was how they found you, brought you to us-

The thoughts stilled for a moment, Dian tried to create a response, to encompass what she felt, but she had never trod the path of any Seer or Witch, and the upswelling of emotion and feeling within her was far to vibrant for her untrained mind to project as anything more than a wave of discordant feeling, buffeting against the Spiritseer’s mind, briefly silencing her.

It was, by some reckoning, several long moments before the last part of Alatharil’s message reached Dian’s soul.

Dian because of you...Kher-Ys will not die.

A smile crossed the elderly Spiritseer’s features, as she gently pulled her hand from the luminous stone set in the wall before her. Around her the Infinity Circuit hummed, welcoming another into its embrace, as Kher-Ys lived through Dian to become part of her people forever.

“She was...remarkable. For a Gardener to survive so long in a Wraithlord? Is it not a waste, I fear to say, to simply put her away?” The one who spoke was younger, a male, dressed as a Spiritseer but one still learning the mysteries of the soul. Alatharil did not turn to have to speak to him, still smiling at Dian’s Spiritstone, the wash of positive energy rushing from it so great that, for now at least, the section of the Circuit she was embedded in began to hum, spectral images of flowers blossoming over it to crown Dian.

“No, it is not a waste at all,” she said, simply, as the illusory flowers, psychic creations of the Circuit, spread further, growing beneath her feet, till all around her and her student a garden of breathtaking beauty glimmered in half-reality.

Thank you very much.

#warhammer #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #eldar #aeldari #asuryani #fanfiction

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barelynakedthoughts · 4 years ago

Text

I've been having a tough time with someone lately. I'll do my best not to name them or make any reference to our relationship specifically. Just a general vent on behaviors that have been damaging to my mental and emotional state during this pregnancy.

When someone says "you're like a [insert relationship identifier] to me", you expect to be treated and loved similarly to their comparison. Yet lately, it just feels like they don't really think of me that way...they just want to keep me on their good side. They just want me to like them enough so they can get their way. When push comes to shove, they have made every decision to disrespect my decisions about privacy for myself and our family.

We desire to protect our child from unnecessary harm on social media. We want to remain reserved for the sake of others who are struggling with infertility still...we also want this time to ourselves to decompress from constant disappointment. We have been blessed and we have truly been humbled. We've asked for just the smallest amount of privacy and support from those close to us. This shouldn't be unreasonable. Honestly, it's only incomprehensible to some because of the social media culture we live in.

They have no clue what it was like to cry every month for two years over something we were trying for.

I was finally able to give up a 13-year eating disorder to help us have this baby...does no one realize how bad I wanted this? Does no one realize how important something must have been for me to break out of addiction? I stopped something that nothing else could stop me from doing...all for the sake of this child. It was the best decision of my life but I'm only a small reason of why I made this decision. There was no guarantee giving up this disorder would let us have a kid...PCOS does not care, but I made the leap anyways for the small chance that something would work. No, I dont fully think our success this time around is based on saving my body from an eating disorder, but it definitely played a huge role. My body was able to learn to be a body again in the process without all the pressures of constant vomiting and restricting. Without the pressures of self-demoralization because of my weight...I learned to live and then life was granted to me. My entire world was brought to its knees and I'm extremely grateful for it.

They weren't there for the nights my husband couldn't console me. They weren't there for the fights we had that were never directed towards each other...they weren't there for the short lived excitement when a doctor prescribed a new treatment. The little bit of hope we got when we started a new round of something that had unknown possibles that weren't shrouded in failed attempts yet. They just weren't there. They were only living in their land of "buck up, it'll happen eventually."

They also dont understand how their words can be hurtful. Telling someone the legitimacy of their life is dependent on their familial relationship and not their actual love and affection for someone is insulting. This one probably requires more context, but I'm not going to give it right now. Just remember that you can love someone just as much as you can love someone else. Don't let anyone tell you your love doesn't count because you don't fit a certain arbitrary requirement that demeaning person has created for themselves.

We see their actions with others who are supposed to be just like us to them. We see how much they treat them better...and how they show affection in more endearing ways to the others. We see how we are on the bottom of their totem pole...even though they say we mean everything to them.

Maybe I'm too emotional from all the hormones, but I'm saddened by this treatment. I could be overreacting and that's fine...maybe I'll look back on this one day and realize it was just all in my head. For now, my brain has been sad. I've been feeling like there is no point in life because I've resolved that combatting their negativity is a heavy burden that I don't want to do. I've felt the emptiness of suicidal thoughts again...and it feels wrong. I feel like I'm betraying my baby with these thoughts. I can see how women fact postpartum depression so easily...

-----

Additionally, my body dysmorphia is raging. I'm ashamed of myself while desiring to be content. I feel happy that I'm pregnant and I am very okay with how my body is growing to take care of the little one...but I'm getting bigger and my mind can't help but be cruel to myself. It's always painful to see pictures of myself because I've never been particularly photogenic. Candid shots destroy my confidence and they riddle my brain with horrendous and degrading obsessions. So nowadays, things are just getting worse and worse...plus I'm being compared to someone who is 5 weeks ahead of me all the time. They're getting really big, they're so stretched cuz they're so small. These are words I've heard said right after I say one sentence about myself. The conversations steers directly to the other person and I feel left out. Why arent they saying anything about me when I'm right here? Do I not matter...am I nothing to them? Why did they even bring it up in the first place? Nothing makes sense and I'm left to belittle my mind.

I've chosen this path for myself, I know. It's rather self-demoralizing to focus on all of this. I personally wish I could forget about it all and focus on my baby. Some days are easier than others. When that person is around, though, I slip back into those thoughts. Their company is harmful to my life and my own recovery....and I fear it will be harmful for my child one day, too. I'm picking my battles right now because I will do anything for this kid. That other person should be important in our lives so I choose to set aside my personal issues with them for now. If I need to fight for my child's safety, I will. If my child needs protected from that person's negativity, I will do whatever is necessary.

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missjugheadjones · 8 years ago

Text

Another Writer

Word Count; 1805

A/N: hope you enjoy this! My laptop crashed once again and I lost my freaking request list, I really have to start writing that down on paper oh my god. Much love guys ️<3

(^^ Betty is hella me oh my god hes handsome and hot and *incomprehensible muttering and heavy breathing* okay back to your paid programming lol)

MasterList

Sitting next to a boy who spends all his time writing is a little intimidating to a girl who also writes, although he doesn't know. He concentrates so hard on the screen in front of him he doesn't notice the clicking of my keyboard. I don't write as much as him granted, mostly because he has a broad and interesting subject to write about. He has something to say that most people want to hear. Me on the other hand, not so much. I have a subject that is more personal, and outside of the public's interest, my muse is more personal. The boy whom I sit next to while he writes will never know of my writings because he is the muse, and I can't bear the thought of him finding out.

Often, I watch him while he is busy at work, his brows furrowed in concentration. The screen illuminating his face, bringing some light into his blue eyes that the dim lighting of the diner tries to hide. I notice the small things, the way he bites his lip, the small sighs he lets out when he is stuck, the way his eyes dart across the screen repeatedly while he reads and proof-reads and double proof-reads his work. His little curls that poke out of his crown-shaped beanie and how they fall over his face, the small smirk that comes across his face when he is proud of what he's written, and how he'll always celebrate with another milkshake, usually courtesy of me because I always offer.

I notice the flash of unsureness when I offer to buy his milkshake, he seems to get uncomfortable and feel bad when people buy things for him, but I insist. I notice we have the same conversation every time it happens, he gets his proud little smirk and I smile up from my own screen and laugh. "Did you like what you read?" I'll ask, and that's when his gaze captures mine. "I sure did." He'll reply, standing from the booth quickly, almost as if he's trying to beat me up because he also knows what's coming. "Oh, no you don't, milkshake is on me." And there's the flash of unsureness I was talking about. "You don't have to do that Y/N, I can buy my own milkshakes." He'll try to argue, but I'm stubborn. You'd think he'd learn not to try to fight with me on things like this, I stand my ground and I don't ever give up. Although I admire his own persistence too, we are both stubborn I guess and I quite enjoy our little quarrels on stupid things.

"I don't want you to spend a dime of your money on a milkshake, you're not in the best situation." I'll say, trying to coax him to let me just buy his milkshake, and he'll chuckle. "You aren't in the best situation to either." I roll my eyes and make my way to the counter. "I'll survive Juggie, sit down and I'll take care of it." I'll call over my shoulder, and he'll reluctantly sit. Day after day this happens, and day after day I buy him his milkshake.

It may sound like I understand this boy like the back of my hand, and on most things I do, but I still get confused. I notice things about him that I can never sort out, but it's mostly because of my own doing. I notice the way he smiles at me, it's different from how he smiles towards others. To normal people, he just gives his signature smirk, but to me, especially when we are alone, I get a smile. I can never tell if it's because I'm his best friend, or if it's because he likes me more than he likes other people, I wonder if it's because he may replicate my feelings I feel towards him.

Sometimes he'll pull me away from the group while we are at school and they are all doing something the both of us don't like, or just when he doesn't think they'll notice. He'll grab my hand and take me to the Blue and Golds office, an empty classroom, or we'll just leave school all together and go to Pops. Most of the time he'll pull his laptop out once we are alone and he'll start to write, making very small talk. Once I asked why it's only when he is alone with me he said "I only write when I'm around you because you're quiet and don't ask me too many questions. Anyways, I like spending time with you." That was all the answer I needed, but it still confused me in some way. Why doesn't he like spending time like this with anyone else?

Other times when he pulls me away, we'll talk and catch up, or when the Drive In was still around, we'd watch movies. It didn't matter which one we did, he'd still do the same thing, he'll sit real close to me, and place his hand incredibly close to mine, although I'm sure it is just on accident. He'll tell me what's going on in his life, and I'll sit there and happily and attentively listen. I'm always there for him when he wants to vent. I'll tell him about my life, which mostly consists of hardships and he will do the same as I do for him. And without fail, he always places a protective arm around me, pulling me close into him which never fails to make me feel better.

"Y/N? Earth to Y/N!" a voice called, pulling me out of my trance. I looked up wide-eyed at Jughead and he chuckled. "You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course. Are you?" I asked, and he nodded.

"Yeah. I'm great." he smiled, looking down at his screen.

"Did you like what you read?" I asked, and he nodded slightly.

"I sure did." He said, quickly sliding out of his booth to stand up, but I was faster. I stood in front of his seat and pushed him back down into the seat, smirking down at him.

"Oh no you don't, milkshake is on me." I stated happily.

"You don't have to do that Y/N, I can buy my own milkshakes." He tried to gently argue, but I rolled my eyes and put my hand on my hip.

"I don't want you to spend a dime of your money on a milkshake, you're not in the best situation." I argue back and he chuckles.

"You aren't in the best situation either." He replies and I chuckle and roll my eyes again.

"I'll survive Juggie, sit back and I'll take care of it." I say, making my way to the counter. I order Jugheads milkshake and sit at the counter, waiting. It takes a few minutes, but I patiently sit there, scrolling through my phone. Just then a text from Veronica pops up on my screen and I push the notification, bringing me to my messages.

Veronica :) – Hey, where'd you and Jughead go, we still have 2 periods left, or are you guys going to skip those too?

I laugh at the text and reply, letting her know that I didn't think me and Jughead were going to make it back for the rest of our classes. I'm brought from my phone as Pops sets a chocolate milkshake down in front of me and I smile and thank him, handing him the money. I take the milkshake in my hand and climb down from the stool, turning to make my way back to the booth. I look over to Jughead, and my heart stops, he's on my laptop. I quickly make my way over to the booth and slam the milkshake down on the table and reach for my laptop.

"What are you doing Juggie? That's mine!" I say, pulling my laptop from his eye sight and closing it.

"I was just trying to see what you do while I write, but it looks like you do the same thing." He says smugly. I can feel as my cheeks turned crimson red, and I stared down at the table, unable to look at the raven-haired boy in front of me.

"Well you weren't supposed to know I write." I say, and he chuckles.

"I'm aware, pretty sure I read that in your... what are you writing? Are you going to publish that into a book?" he asked, and I shrugged.

"I- I don't know." I say, taking a seat on my side of the booth. Jughead just chuckled again and I looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "I just write random stuff while you write your novel. There's a lot more than just that."

"Well, you're very good at writing." He said, and I smiled.

"Thank you." I reply, glancing at my laptop. The seat next to me dipped, and I felt a body near me. I turned and saw Jughead sitting by me, smiling smugly.

"So, you like me, huh?" he asked and I hid my face him my hands, laughing slightly to myself. "Because it sounds like you do, quite a bit actually." I feel as his arm wraps around my shoulders and he pulls me into him, and I hide my face in his chest. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about Y/N."

"Says you, you didn't just have your longtime crush read a short passage about how much you like them." I mumble and I feel as he chuckled.

"Touché." he said, and it fell silent for a minute. "Will you look at me, please?" I slowly raised my head and looked up at Jughead. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asked.

"I didn't know how to." I replied, and he rolled his eyes.

"There's a lot of ways you could have told me." He said, looking sweetly down at me and I scoffed.

"Its not just that easy." I say and he nods, glancing down from my eyes to my lips, and then back to my eyes. Before I could register what was happening, I felt a pair of lips on mine, and I instinctively shut my eyes and kissed back. Jughead pulled away way too soon, and chuckled down at me.

"That seemed easy enough." He said, and I playfully smacked him on the shoulder.

"Whatever Jug. If it was that easy, why didn't you do that before?" I asked, and it was his turn to blush.

"Again, touché." he said, and I laughed, leaning into him again. He pulled his laptop around and started typing again, and I watched as words flew across the screen.

"I'm really glad you read my story." I mumbled, and he laughed.

"I'm glad I did too."

Tag List:

@do-not-call-me-sunshine @gelattoes@xbobaaa@katshrev@farmfreshcoldsprouts@sgarrett49@always-chocolate@nadya0128@spooky-brendons-butt @rainbows-and-glitter-bitch@lost-in-wonderland-x @aezthetically

#jughead jones x reader #jughead jones #cw riverdale #fanfiction #jughead x reader #missjugheadjones

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sigurdjarlson · 8 years ago

Text

We need to talk about Kevin fandom (tw: rape, abuse, pedophilia mentions)

this discourse gets me so pissy so here’s a vent post

(1) "They're coping mechanisms are unhealthy’ it's only unhealthy if it harms them or someone else. Ask any decent mental health professional.

(2) you don't get a say in someone's mental health. Maybe it is unhealthy for them but unless they're causing REAL harm to someone or they ask your opinion it's none of your business. You are not their mental health professional

(3) using abuse/rape in fic to cope has been proven beneficial for many survivors. It's a way of taking back the power they've had taken away. There's a lot more to it as well.

(4) "you can only do this if it's for coping" how do you plan to enforce this rule? Force every single person to talk about their incredibly private traumatic experiences just so you seem whether or not it's okay for them to do something? I'm sorry that's disgusting. That's absolutely disgusting.

(5) You do not speak for all survivors even if you are a survivor yourself. Your experience is not universal. Everyone's experience is different and everyone copes and reacts in different ways. I am one and I don't speak for all of us..

(6) it makes you uncomfortable? Okay!! That's alright. Totally understandable!! You want to police others because it makes you uncomfortable? No!! Not okay.

(7) you have the responsibility to take care of yourself. There are steps you can take to avoid this kind of media. Trigger warnings, tags, summaries, blocking systems..those are all there for a reason. Please make use of them.

(8) "think of the children" this could be used for any kind of adult content. "Violent video games cause violence!" First off no they do not and also they come with ratings that blatantly say it's not for children. Its properly rated. It's not the creator of the game's fault if a child gets hold of it. To sum it up: that's the parent's job. I read erotic fic before I was 18 and it's not the author's fault lmao.

(9) "people will act it out" oh my god oh my goddd I can't stand this. No!! They won't. If they do? They already had very severe problems to begin with. It was not caused by this "problematic" piece of fic or art. Do NOT take the blame off the people that actively choose to hurt others by saying ~they read some problematic things so this must have caused it uwu~ you know what caused it? Them choosing to do the act. Most people have a healthy distinction between fiction and reality.

(10) "this happened to me" I'm sorry you went through something like that. I truly am. But you still don't have the right to tell other people what they can and can't do. Take steps to protect yourself. No one else can do that for you. Your mental health is your responsibility and yours alone. You do not have the right to put that responsibility on complete strangers. It's not their job. The world cannot nor should it have to cater to you..

(11) "this thing makes me uncomfortable so therefore it must be bad and if it's bad the person writing it must be bad" is the logic here and it's incredibly faulty. Once again. Your experiences are not universal. Something that makes you uncomfortable might not make someone else feel uncomfortable. For things that have a tendency to make a lot of people uncomfortable there are these things called trigger warnings and warnings in general.

the person is not bad. They are not supporting or normalizing this behavior just by writing a fanfic. Are they saying "it's okay to rape people everybody should go out and do it"? No? then no they're not.

(12) fanfic, fanart, etc are such small medias that they don't effect or influence society In the way something like say "50 Shades of Grey" would. That's the stuff we should be concerned about and focused on criticizing. It's blatant misinformation.

(13) if half the effort people put into these crusades against ships was used to help actual survivors..there would be a lot of good being done in the world. These are fictional characters. We joke around a lot but you don't have to protect them. They are not real. Real people are more important than fictional ones. So, please if you spend so much time and effort on these things, channel that energy into something good and positive instead of harassing and harming real people on the internet over /fictional things/.

(14) “Fiction effects reality.” You’re right it does. However it does not directly cause these bad things. It’s what people choose to do with fiction that matters. Choices. Choices. Choices.

(15) Fiction does not have to be pure. Fiction has always been a platform where people can explore the darker things in life. It’s interesting to some people. Personally I like a lot of dark shit because it’s interesting. It’s so incomprehensible to me that people can do these awful things that I find it interesting to explore why these people may have done them through fiction.

(16) Liking something in fiction does not mean you support it. I’d hate most of the fictional characters I absolutely adore if they were real.

(17) Some of the kindest people I’ve ever met are part of problematic fandoms and some of the worst are the people who scream that they’re trying to protect the world from that problematic fandom. You see there’s no correlation between what you like in fiction and what kind of person you are in real life. You know what is a great indicator of what kind of person you are? How you treat real, live people and the choices you make.

(18) I get it. These things elicit very strong emotions in people and for very valid reasons but that does not mean it should not be allowed to exist. Like I said it is your responsibility to create your own safe space. Blacklist/block/unfollow do whatever to keep those things out of your space. And...Don’t go looking for these things god damn it? If you see (tw: rape) and then go into the fic anyway and get upset? That’s not the author’s fault. They put the proper warnings in place. You ignored them.

If there isn’t a proper warning. Perhaps consider kindly asking them to put some up? Maybe they forgot. It happens. People make mistakes.. If they refuse to do so they’re kind of a dick but it’s better to just ignore/unfollow/avoid/block that person and move on.

(19) Lets make a summary.

You are responsible for your own safe space and taking care of your mental health.

Fiction does not CAUSE bad things to happen. People who choose to do those bad things do.

“This upsets me” does not = “it’s bad and shouldn’t exist and the person making this thing is bad” your logic is faulty m8

If something is properly tagged and has the proper warnings then it’s not the author’s fault if others ignore it and get upset. They did their part.

Fictional characters are not real. You don’t have to protect them. Harming real people over fictional ones is absolutely reprehensible.

It’s no one’s job to parent other people’s children. No, children shouldn’t be looking at this content but it’s the parents’ job to keep their children away from those things. (proper warnings, tags, etc are important too but that itself is not a guarantee)

Liking something in fiction does not = supporting it, condoning it, normalizing it. It just means you like something in fiction. Most people have a healthy distinction between fiction and reality. If someone does act on it..they already had very severe issues to begin with.

Survivors are never obligated to reveal their personal experiences in order to be “allowed” to consume or make certain things.

A coping mechanism is only unhealthy if it’s hurting the person or others. (it’s not hurting anyone by existing) It might not be healthy for you but that does not mean it’s not healthy for that person. AND it’s not your job or place to decide whether or not something is healthy or unhealthy for a person unless you are their mental health professional. Stay in your lane.

People don’t have to be using it as a coping mechanism! Maybe something really is just their kink. Maybe they find it interesting or whatever. Who cares as long as they’re not out doing it in real life. Who cares as long as they have a healthy distinction between what is okay in fiction and what is okay in real life. Mind your own business honestly.

I think some of these people really do have good intentions. They think they’re helping the world or others somehow. But having good intentions does not mean you are right. Be aware of what you’re doing and how it’s effecting others. Channel all the energy you put into hating things into doing something good in the real world. Or use it to create and enjoy things you do like or enjoy. Why focus on the things you hate?

And some of these people don’t have good intentions. For some it’s just a self righteous circle jerk. It makes them feel better about themselves. It’s a “I’m more morally enlightened than you” contest. These people don’t care about the issues they claim to care about or the people involved. They just want to make themselves feel good by making others feel bad. And that? That’s horrible.

They’re just using serious issues as buzzwords (which takes away the impact that word makes and THAT is a bad thing) Rape, pedophilia, abuse, etc. These are very, very serious issues.

When people roll their eyes when they see someone claiming “pedophilia’ because there are people on here seriously accusing people of being pedophiles for shipping a 17 year old with an 18 year old or shipping some characters with an age gap?

(which for the record. Talking about people who are of age and with a partner that’s significantly older than them. it’s untrue that all relationships with an age gap are unhealthy. is there a possibility for it to be unhealthy? certainly but that’s not a guarantee that it is. Your experiences are not universal. Every situation and every person is different.)

There’s a problem because you’re making people take these things less seriously. Have you ever heard the story of the boy who cried wolf?

You do that and sadly no one will listen when you actually find something to worry about. Is that right? No. But it’s the truth. No one will take you seriously.

You don’t accuse people of these things willy nilly. You can ruin people’s lives. Are they doing those things in real life and hurting real people? Do you have solid proof that they are? Yes? (Fictional media is not proof unless they admit to doing something) By all means step in and get the authorities involved. That’s absolutely awful. Is it just fiction? Take a step back, block/unfollow/blacklist and move on.

What people do in real life matters. That’s it. That’s the key. Stop harassing people over fictional crap because THAT...shows what kind of person you are and it’s not a good one.

#nerd ramblings

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