#fuck off with whatever rationale you have

[harshebmmako]

"yeah it sucks that navigating adult adhd treatment is so difficult but you have to understand they need to keep people from just getting high off the meds"

no they fucking don't. they don't have to stop people from just chasing a high. there's nothing wrong with just getting high from adderall (even vyvanse!), ritalin, or whatever. trying to stop people from getting high is literally what makes the process so traumatizing for people who need it. it makes people who need the euphoriant properties of these meds to make their brains okay with structure they need have to prove to their providers that they aren't just chasing a high when the high is itself a fucking necessary part of their treatment. it literally makes it so that a class of people who because of their neurotype experience the kinds of trauma which make communicating needs difficult, can only get their needs met if they communicate their needs in a way that makes an already suspicious party feel comfortable. it's all just a flimsy rationale for policing the mentally deviant

[eilidh-eternal]

Touch Up

Part of the Martyr in the Making series | Part 1 | Masterlist |

| 18 + MDNI | TattooArtist!Ghost x f!reader | cw for dub con/non con themes and heavy implications of grooming |

There's an insatiable itch beneath your skin that has nothing to do with the fresh ink and plasma that seeps from punctured flesh, and everything to do with a smug bastard named Simon fucking Riley.

Five days earlier…

“How ya doin’ sweetheart?” He has no right to sound this way. No right to let honey and smoke mix in his throat and spill from his lips in dark, dulcet tones. You blame the buzzing in your head, ricocheting off of your skull with each searing stroke of the needle he wields.

“Fine,” you say in a whispery breath. The hum of the needle goes quiet. That’s okay. The trilling heart in your chest is doing a fine job of replacing it. 

Pools of liquid amber, dark and rich like brandy, slide from the nearly finished linework to your face, half hidden in your hoodie, and flood your gaze with an intoxicating warmth. There’s no running from it, from the fire he’s started. The flames he fans and tends to with each murmuration of praise licks up your spine in searing tendrils, smothers the remnants of a fragmented rationale in a blanket of smoldering cinders.

A pierced brow glides up towards the fraying hem of his black knit cap as he straightens from his hunched over position. “I’ll ask one more time, an’ I expect an honest answer—d’ya need a break?” Amber petrifies under his scrutiny, as if you’re some antediluvian creature, suspended in the thrall of his gaze. Something pretty to perch on a shelf and marvel at.

Your eyes dart away, searching the patterns in the woodgrain of the cabinets for answers, divining particle board like a tarot spread. As if any of them would sound less pathetic than the truth. 

His hand slides, branding weight upon your skin, away from your waist and you fight the whine clawing up your throat. Swallow it down with the rest of the bad ideas right behind it. Plastic wheels scuff across fading concrete floors and the frayed edges of distressed denim replaces wood. Black, like everything else he wears, down to the powdery gloves and surgical mask. Bet his boxers are black, too.

When your eyes dare to meet his again the flames licking up your spine splutter, send sparks dancing up your vertebrae in shivery, glittering plumes. “I’m okay. Could use some water,” you settle on. It’s a shaky truth, flimsy and liable to crumble, but a truth nonetheless. You’d rather suffer whatever consequence comes with lying to him than lay yourself bare.

As if you aren’t already half naked in front of the man. As if he hasn't been toying with the waistband of your thong the entire session.

Your admission seems to mollify him, but the black titanium bar curving through a dusting of blond twitches. Remains cocked as he rocks back, leans across the counter in a truly obscene display, long tee clinging to every dip and curve, and plucks your water bottle from your bag.

It looks silly and small in his hand, dented metal covered in a collage of overlapping stickers, no trace of the scratched black paint besides the exposed underside. The tendons in his forearms shift beneath fabric as he turns it over to study the sticker Gaz had given you, ‘141 collective’ printed in a gothic font. There’s a similar font inked across the sliver of skin peeking out at his wrist, black ink still richly pigmented even though it looks to be more than a few years old. Must not get a lot of sun.

“Open.” You blink, several times, and come to the hazy realization that while your eyes have been busy mapping every groove and plane, tracing the prominent veins on the back of the hand draped over his knee, he’s maneuvered the water bottle to your lips. 

They part at the subtle pressure of the spout, and he tips it forward, pressing plastic between chapped lips that close around it to take a hesitant sip.

“Another,” he demands, and you try not to notice the way his focus settles on your throat, tracking each contraction of delicate muscle as you drink. “Good girl.”

You nearly choke.

And he pays it no mind. Gives no pause to the widening of your eyes, pupils flared to the limbus, or the palpable heat radiating from your skin. He merely sets the bottle back on the counter and folds his arms over the bulk of his chest.

“Just water?” he questions, and you start to nod in answer, but quickly remember your—or rather, his—rules. 

“Just water,” you echo in confirmation, and it’s received with a critical grunt. Like he can see through the paper thin restraints you cling to, the only thing keeping your lips from speaking on behalf of those between your legs.

He shifts back to his tray of inks with a glint in his eye that makes you wonder if maybe you should have said something more. Feigned hunger or fatigue.

“Just this section here–” He taps at the remaining carbon stenciling over your hip. “–and we’ll move on to shading.”

“Okay,” you mumble, and a gloved thumb brushes over raw, freshly tattooed skin. Traces his work in a gesture akin to reverence, sweetened by the lingering sting left in its wake—and you fail to stifle the moan that’s been building in the back of your throat for several hours.

When he repeats the motion and receives an identical response, the mask stretches over his face, pulls taut over the prominent bridge of his nose, and he curls his fingers into your hip. His chest rumbles with muted laughter at the whine that punches out of you, thighs clenching around the pillow wedged between them. 

“Gonna need ya a bit closer,” he croons, and gives you no warning before he hooks his fingers through the elastic pulled taut over your waist, giving it a sharp tug. “C’mon, on your tummy for me…atta girl.” He takes to arranging your limbs how he wants them, left leg practically in his lap to keep the skin from creasing, ass on full display.

You bury your face in the pillow and crook of your own arm, vehemently ignoring the way he grips your backside to work on the remaining outline, and the surge of wanton arousal warming your neck and cheeks.

Present… 

Delicate, looping letters, woven seamlessly into the outline. Hardly noticeable if you aren’t looking for them. 

They glare at you in the mirror, the memory of strong hands a phantom touch against the surrounding tender skin.

S.R.

Simon fucking Riley.

It’s not enough that he’s under your skin, he has to be inked on it too.

“Well, angel, I know you come often, but I didn’t expect to see—”

“—Where’s Simon?” You cut John off, in no mood for his dilatory remarks, and he cants a quizzical brow.

“He’s finishing up a consult right now, is there—”

“—I need to speak with him. Now,” you demand, trembling fingers curling into fists at your side. 

You couldn’t care less what he’s doing presently. You’ll drag him off the studio floor by that stupid spiked bar in his damn brow. He’s going to—

“Hey, hunny bunny!” Kyle appears behind him, walking out of what you assume to be an office with a tablet in hand and his usual sunny disposition. Rhinestones and pointed canines catch in the studio lighting when he smiles and tucks his tablet under his arm, coming to stand beside John. His gaze dips to the healing skin of your thigh. “That the piece Si did?” It’s barely visible below the hemline of your skirt.

“Yeah,” you grit through your teeth, jaw tense with the effort to maintain a modicum of decorum. “It needs touching up in a few places.”

His eyes catch on something behind you, and you’re about to reiterate your demand, but you fall short when an all too familiar weight settles on your nape. 

“‘S all this fussing about?” Simon questions, and you jerk away from his grasp.

Your first mistake.

“You—” you hiss and lift the hem of your skirt, “—need to fix this.”

He tilts his head to study the healing tattoo. “What about it?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about.” You know he does because the smug bastard is smirking beneath his mask, fabric stretched tight over his jaw and eyes narrowed in amusement.

He motions towards the hallway, “Let’s have a look, then,” and doesn’t wait to see if you follow him. Knows that you’re on his heels as he leads you back to the same private room. You don’t sit on the chair, electing to stand beside it instead with your arms folded tight to your chest, and you scowl at where he leans against the counter, posture mirroring yours in a decidedly mocking manner. “What’s got ya all riled up sweetheart?”

Definitely mocking

“This isn’t the design I agreed to,” you huff indignantly.

“Sure it is.”

“No, it isn’t.” You take a step closer, the toes of your sneakers nearly touching his beat up combat boots. “I never fucking agreed to have your name tattooed on me. I’m not some tramp for you to—”

“—‘S not my name,” he corrects, and you don’t know what heats your blood more; the fact that he has the gall to correct you or that he isn’t even trying to deny what he’s done. “Jus’ my initials.”

“Same fucking thing,” you seethe, jabbing an angry finger into his chest.

Your second, and final, mistake.

Calloused fingers curl around your wrist and pull, yanking you further into his space until you’re standing chest to chest. He holds you there by your wrist and the firm grasp he has on your jaw, cheeks pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Someone needs a reminder about manners,” he tuts, and you whine against the pressure on your jaw. “A reminder about her rules.” His hand drops from your face to settle on your shoulder and the scathing retort coiled on your tongue withers to ash amid disbelief when he pushes down against your shoulder, forcing you onto the stool beside the chair. “Stay,” he warns when you shift forward, already halfway onto your feet again, and the undercurrent of a growl is warning enough.

“What are the rules I gave you last time?” He leans back against the counter again, arms folded loosely over his chest, and his fingers tap rhythmically against his bicep, staring down at you expectantly. 

You glare up at him, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt on top of your thighs, and he cocks that stupid pierced brow.

This is ridiculous. 

But if there’s any chance at getting him to erase the brand he’s inked into your skin…

“Give a verbal answer,” you bite out.

“And?”

“Tell you what I need.”

“Good girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He stalks forward to press a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his when you don’t deign to look at him. Amid the infuriating rush of warmth to your core, you briefly consider what would happen if you were to rear back and bite him.

“No,” you admit reluctantly, and he hums low in his chest, clearly pleased with your answer. 

“So tell me what you need.” His thumb sweeps over your chin, traces the contour of your bottom lip, and you press your legs further together. 

All the anger, hot and swirling in your chest, mixes with the smoky whorls of his words until you can't distinguish between the two. Can’t untangle the intrepid need to rebel from the desire to yield in supplication to the enigmatic man towering over you. 

“I- I want…” Your words get tangled up with it, coming out in a stuttering mess. “Fix it.”

“Fix what, sweetheart?” The way he stares into your eyes is nothing short of maddening. Fathomless pools of amber, beckoning you to bathe in their warmth, and like a moth to a flame you go willingly.

“Fix me,” you croak, and he shakes his head. “Please.” 

“Don’t need to fix ya, sweetheart. You’re mine–” He crouches down before you and slides a roughened palm over your knee, up your thigh to the tender skin beneath your skirt. “–Says so, right here.” He traces each letter of his initials inked onto your skin. “And what’s mine is perfect. Just the way it is. Understand?”

No. But you nod anyway.

“Words,” he insists. “Need to hear it.”

“I understand,” you murmur, still sifting through the haze in his eyes.

“Good girl,” he croons, sickeningly sweet, and pets a hand over your hair, thumb tracing the shell of your ear and sending a shiver skittering down your spine. “All soft and sweet for me, told ya we’d get ya there. Just need a little training, hm? Gonna let me train that pretty, empty head, aren’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you respond absently, and his eyes flare with a molten, ravenous desire.

Next>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost simon riley #simon ‘ghost’ riley #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley fanfic #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x female reader #ghost x f!reader #cod fanfic #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod mw #dub con #cw self harm #non con #grooming

[unhelpfulfemme]

I feel like the Grysk work way better than the Yuuzhan Vong as the "nebulous threat" that Thrawn is fighting against because they are clearly tailor made to highlight how wrong Thrawn can be due to his own personal weaknesses.

The entire plot of the Ascendancy trilogy is the Grysk gaining footing through 100% political means - they use espionage to discover the internal divisions and weak points of a country's political system and then attack that, an issue that is probably better addressed through collaboration and the strengthening of the country's political culture and institutions (the Chiss are so quick to abandon their national interests in the face of internal divisions). Thrawn wins every single battle in that trilogy and yet everyone, including himself, is way worse off than where they started and at great risk from the Grysks simply because the Chiss political system is so unstable and because their culture sees collaboration with other races as fundamentally undesirable.

And what Thrawn, who is also either incapable of or completely uninterested in thinking about politics, concludes from all this is, "Ah, yes, this is a problem that can only be solved by throwing more military power at it. Preferably military power run by an authoritarian state that tries to eradicate any trace of political pluralism, because that will make them less vulnerable to the exploitation of the political actors' rivalries and personal interests."

And then he spends, what, fifteen years working with people like Tarkin and Krennic, while having to constantly extinguish rebellions that are popping up everywhere due to the Empire's oppressive policies, and still somehow thinks that the Grysks wouldn't be able to deal with the Empire easily. The Empire that didn't even need them to topple itself through internal conflict in less than a generation - if the Grysks wanted to conquer it, all they'd have to do is wait.

And after reading Lesser Evil I really think that at least part of it is due to some personal drives/needs he's not self-aware enough to address: he says it point-blank that he never believed the Ascendancy would give him an admiralship, and you see hints of his constant frustration at people not understanding him and him having to teach them (sometimes from a position of less power than they have, sometimes when they really don't care to be taught) both through Thrass's POV and through his very slight (but noticeable by his standards) emotional unraveling by the end of the book (e.s. the scene with Unghali where he gets all angry and scary).

Because he has never naturally arrived at the limit of his own competence but was always hamstrung by others, he has no means of differentiating between when he's theoretically right but the politics are obstructing him and when he's actually wrong and the solution is outside of his sphere of competence.

So of course that a political system where being a flag officer means that he gets to do whatever the fuck he wants as long as he convinces one guy of it, where he gets to teach people how to think better and pick only them for positions of power, in a country with no pesky norms about preemptive strikes that he constantly needs to rule lawyer around, sounds appealing.

It's not just about the Ascendancy now, it's also about showing what he can do when not too obstructed, and it's also the first time he has enough free reign to slam headfirst into the big wall of his own lack of capacity or desire to understand politics. But hey, at least he's free to fuck around and find out, not feeling constantly frustrated and overly controlled!

Truly the most character of all time, I love it. People complain about how Zahn babygirlified him in the new canon books just because they're from his POV when switching out the Vong for the Grysk makes him more unambiguously wrong than he was in Legends (where you got other people like Jacen Solo following the same rationale).

#thrawn #thrawn ascendancy

[69dias]

DRUNK SEX WITH TRENT PLS

you don't feel anything but trent, and you don't think you'd have it any other way. the shots you've carelessly taken burn your throat still, and you chase trent's lips like another whiskey kiss, hands clinging to his forearms as he gropes every part of you he can get to.

clubs aren't good places to get this way, you know it, and you're sure trent knows it, but the alcohol pulsing through your veins, warm as it rushes down your body clouds all of your rationale — that is, along with the way trent is holding you right now. one of his hands find purchase on your waist, the other squeezing your ass as he licks into your mouth, occasionally pulling away to nip at your bottom lip.

you're panting, hot and heavy and turned on beyond belief, head spinning with desire that permeates your bones until you're arching your back into him, whimpering into his mouth to try to get at what you want.

thankfully, he catches on, pulling away from you entirely to press his lips against your ear, biting your earlobe in drunken lust.

"gonna fuck you right in the bathroom, baby. yeah?" he pushes his forehead against yours, eyes bleary and blown out as he nods, urging you to follow "yeah, darling?"

you try to kiss him in response, missing his lips to sloppily get his chin, something that makes the both of you giggle, before breaking off of each other to rush to the aforementioned bathroom.

the trip is short, pushing through bodies of even drunker people, trent's hands never leaving yours as you follow him blindly until you reach the doors of the women's room. thankfully, nobody else has had the indecency to fuck inside the (surprisingly fancy) space, and even through his obvious inebriation, trent pushes you in, locking the door behind you.

he uses his grip on your waist to push you against said door, capturing you in another kiss that has you moaning unabashed, uncaring to what people might think of you and the fact that you might get kicked out for defiling this lovely bathroom. the alcohol has fully settled in your system now, though, and trent is pulling up the hem of your dress as he sucks your tongue, spit slicking your chin as he loses his rhythm trying to undress you.

you don't let him take the lead, hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt and slipping your lithe fingers over his heavy cock. you use the fabric of his boxers for more friction, waiting for the telltale sharp inhale of breath, the soft groan of your name, before you fully pull them down.

it's messy, the way his own fingers find your clit, the way he pushes your panties aside, the way he deems you wet enough before lining his cock at your entrance, the way he pushes into you.

the stretch is always welcome, but it makes your jaw drop in a silent moan — it's too much, the drinks, and the way he makes you feel, all of it makes that familiar knot in your stomach tighten, rolling your hips into his messy thrusts as he tries to fall into a good rhythm.

you hear the music from outside, bass booming heavy enough for you to feel as you're pressed against the door, but you can hear the slick sounds of him fucking into you, and the way your moans color the air.

he fucks you, gives you whatever you're willing to take, looking down on you with glazed eyes as desperate tears fall from your own; completely drunk on him.

#football fanfics #football fanfic #football imagines #football fluff #football smut #football angst #football/reader #football players/reader #football players x you #football players x reader #football players/you #trent alexander arnold/reader #trent alexander arnold imagines #trent alexander arnold fanfics #trent alexander arnold angst #kylian mbappe oneshots #trent alexander arnold smut #trent alexander arnold fluff #trent alexander arnold/you

[masterchef901]

Some rampant Freckle theorizing (Idk how confirmed this is but we roll it (lackadaisy spoilers))

I was thinking about Freckle and the theory/general idea that he killed or hurt his dad and Rocky took the blame for it, and the more I think about it the more it explains a ton of Freckle's character.

Like, we'd have the obvious and immediate: he follows Rocky and does whatever he asks without question, because Freckle feels like he owes him a debt, one worth killing for. Not to mention, we have some more rationale behind Freckle's habit of trying to fix things when stressed, and his original intentions of becoming a cop, both of which may represent a sort of penance in his mind. Try to make things better to make up for how he made them worse. Get dangerous criminals off the street, to make up for the fact that he feels he is one.

But then we get a bit more in the details of things:

"Remember to always lie" lands a lot heavier in this paradigm, doesn't it?

But the way the other letters are framed right there with him make me think they're a part of the trauma too. That make me think that every single one of these weighs on him, makes him think: "Rocky's struggling out there because of me"

"He's suffering because I lied"

"I'm doing this to him"

"I ruined his life too"

and yet, at the same time,

"If I tell anyone then Rocky suffered for nothing"

And that would absolutely eat at someone. Eat at them enough that a particularly inflammatory letter would leave them curled up and broken in their room marinating amongst years of other accumulated pain.

And bearing this view of his past in mind, I speculate a bit on his defining trait in the present:

The oft-accepted explanation is that he's just a "natural killer", or that these acts of violence are in some way a release of other, possibly unrelated pent-up stress and anxiety. But bear with me a moment, and consider another angle:

You're a murderer. You've spent years lying about it. You threw your cousin under the bus. You lied to your mother. You're a murderer and you can never forget it. You always lie. You have to remember to always lie about being a murderer.

And then you kill someone again.

And this time it's in front of plenty of witnesses, it's to protect someone and most importantly: it isn't a secret to these people.

I posit that in this moment, Calvin "Freckle" McMurray is feeling honest with himself for the first time in years. He has internalized the feeling that he's a murderer, and now he gets to wear that, and be "himself", for what he feels that is, and he doesn't have to hide. He doesn't have to hide that he's a murderer anymore. In the most fucked-up possible way, Freckle is owning who he is. Maybe it's a stretch, but I think what we're seeing is the euphoria of relief, from a particularly twisted confession.

The next time we see him actually shooting again...

There's still some of that derangement, but it also seems to me that Rocky's doing most of the laughing. And maybe it's the involuntary mud-bath he takes after this panel, but...

That mania sure faded quick this time. Even though he's digging for it, trying to find it, the euphoria just isn't coming the way it did just a couple canonical days ago, and I think it's because there's nothing more to get from it.

The killing confession's been given, and there's no more relief to be found in trying to let himself be a killer. Now it's just... more bloodshed.

At this point, we've caught up pretty much completely to our protagonists in the story. From here, we move from the 'bear with me but' kind of speculation to just totally rampant guesswork. But what could this mean for our adorable gunman's future?

Well for starters, I think we'll see his work quality start to take a dip once he realizes he doesn't actually love it.

And for seconds, it means that he's probably not done riding the guilt train either. If anything, he might start working out his confusion, realizing just how fucked everything in his life is. Might even begin to resent Rocky for it.

And perhaps most interestingly in my mind is how this poor kid's emotional state is going to interact with his relationship with Ivy. After all, I feel like the very nature of the relationship is still settling, and we don't really have a clear view of how invested its members are in it. Maybe Ivy's just in it for some fun and Freckle's along for the ride and eventually the ride'll end and that'll be that. But, uh, something about the laws that govern narrative existence makes me think that this will perhaps not be the case.

Because suppose that Freckle starts feeling it more deeply. He might easily see his first true confidant in Ivy - someone who he owes no debt, who he's under no obligation to lie to, and who seems both aware of and okay with his homicidal tendencies. He could really come to lean on her a lot as he develops and navigates his trauma. And this leads to some outcomes:

If Ivy's willing to reciprocate that trust and vulnerability, we get treated to some absolutely delectable hurt-comfort.

If she isn't, she might back off, even sever things entirely as she's not used to dealing with this kind of baggage in a partner. Depending on how in-love Freckle's feeling at this point in this timeline, the sudden pain and isolation on top of his freshly re-opened trauma might be enough to send him into a complete mental break in the worst case.

And either way, and no matter which way anything goes, we get some absolutely killer drama.

#lackadaisy spoilers #theory #lackadaisy #the cats #i cannot stop thinking about the cats #lackadaisy theory #lackadaisy freckle #freckle #character analysis #but that analysis is all predicated on a theory that is unconfirmed #spoilers

[v1leblood]

I’m looking for someone who can crack Amy Dallon open for me, and lakesbian thought you might have ideas! Everything about her is so interesting: being a body manipulator who brands herself as a healer, being a kid with the weight of the world on her shoulders, being raised by a woman who resents her, falling in love with her sister because she’s never felt like she belonged to the family. But when I think about the mindrape and the fleshpuddle, I bounce right off. They’re so over-the-top evil actions that I can’t conceive of a theory of mind for a her. So…thoughts about Amy?

to start with thoughts: i like amy. i like her a lot even! probably top 5 characters in worm to me. i think she's probably one of the most homophobic characters ever written and i also think she's incredibly tragic and compelling

to begin with, the first bit of mind control was, for all intents and purposes, an accident. victoria hugs her, amy's overwhelmed, and in the heat of the moment essentially literalizes her desires by making victoria like her. she's instantly remorseful and offers to fix it, but victoria's horrified and runs away. there's a lot of discourse surrounding the degree to which it was or wasn't accidental, but to me, the fact that she Immediately regrets it and that the text describes it as a semi-conscious reaction puts it pretty thoroughly in the camp of 'didn't mean to do this'. imo, if you were to Remove powers from the situation, it would be the equivalent of amy going in for a kiss -- she's overwhelmed and her guard's down from how emotionally bruised and battered she is and she does something rash, only powers make everything worse and more extreme and it turns into that whole clusterfuck instead. so, like, is amy accidentally or mostly accidentally making victoria like her back okay? obviously not, but i do think its an understandable Mistake to make

with the second bout of mindcontrol, its obviously dicier. not accidental, to start with, but while fucked up and wrong, there Is a rationale. amy wants victoria to be okay. victoria might die or be permanently disfigured because of her injuries by crawler. victoria won't let amy heal her because of how disgusted and angry she is at amy. obviously its better that victoria's healed, so amy decides to do what's best for victoria against victoria's wishes. (worth noting that taking it upon yourself to Do What's Best for someone else against their express desire is exactly what victoria did when she hugged amy despite amy's warnings) so amy mind controls her again, harder this time, and convinces herself that she's going to fix victoria's body And Then turn off the love effect. it's fucked up, unjustifiable, and wrong, but i think you can See how amy comes to make that decision, through a combination of a genuine humanitarian argument (victoria needs to be healed or she might be disfigured forever) and self-delusion (i'll not only be able to do this in the state the city's in, but i'll fix victoria's mind when i'm done)

and then there's the time when she turns victoria into a car. years down the line metatextual information and ward confirm it to be an instance of literal, rather than metaphorical, rape on amy's part, but i don't think that was the intention in worm and it's not my preferred interpretation (i think it's an insane idea that wildbow, who with his own words said he wouldn't depict rape in worm more explicitly than what the implications of heartbreaker's power portray, would write it as rape and then spend an insane amount of screen time focusing on amy and her story after that point while continuing to portray her broadly sympathetically). whatever the case though, it's an instance of amy going through with a gross violation of victoria's mental and bodily autonomy. the facts of the in-universe power mechanics remain the same whichever the interpretation -- amy, frazzled and traumatized, couldn't fix victoria anymore, her power not making the correct adjustments to her form.

amy convinced herself that she would spend some time with victoria while she licked her wounds and then remove the mind control and let her go, but she couldn't even fix her back into her old shape. it is an evil act. it's fucked up. but it's not... out of nowhere, you know? it's a culmination of amy's obsession and self-delusion and the lingering mental health crisis that's been hovering over her all book finally coming to a head, making her fall down a rabbit hole of self-justification that says that it's alright that she does this and that because it means she can fix victoria only to end up being wholly unable to fix her At All, and in fact only making victoria Worse

so like. i think amy does fucked up things to varying degrees of culpability and "forgivability", but there's definitely Reasons for why she did them, even if they're fucked up or not very good

by the time we get to ward there's no qualia whatsoever though lol she's just an evil devilspawn

#asks #parahumans #worm spoilers

[wataksampingan]

This was supposed to be some form of Therdeo Dane Lapileon Defense Thesis but my brain cannot pull off all the necessary research to do it justice.

So I guess let’s just brain dump all my thoughts and feelings?? About this manhwa?? (Spoilers for the story up to episode 63 on Webtoons and 66 on Naver Webtoons)

...this also gets FAR too long so cut is here for sanity’s sake. Tl;dr Theo Lapileon is a wounded puppy and I want him to be happy gdi

I need to preface the Theo content by saying that I adore Pereshati. I think she’s one of the more realistic heroines that I’ve read, in the sense that she’s plucky and determined but she damn well knows how the game is played. Every move she makes is plagued with doubt and uncertainty coz she’s only a minor noble, and one with an unbelievable story at that. (Resurrecting after being fed poisonous blood and getting thrown back in time is a stretch for anyone). But whenever she does decide to do something, she handles herself with the kind of poise you’d expect from a grown woman who knows how polite society works. It’s the kind of elegance and maturity that the novel’s Perry doesn’t have.

I wonder very much how seungu would have thrown Perry into Theo’s way if they had had full control of the adaptation because the first... 10? episodes or so reads very much like a typical isekai manhwa: she’s murdered, she awakes, and then immediately besieges Theo with a proposal, simply because he needs to marry someone to get the emperor/princess off his back. The Perry we see currently in the latest chapters would likely have done something smarter/more socially acceptable/conventional simply because imperial pressure or no, why the fuck would the grand duke entertain a minor noble they’ve never met before?

Granted, this is quite in line with Theo’s character in the first few episodes as well (which is lampshaded in a later chapter AND I LOVED IT) whose excuse for entertaining her absurd request/proposal is just “I got curious about the woman who kept bombarding us with messages”. The Theo we see later, who just burns letters from the Fourth Princess Dodolea without even thinking about it, would have hardly buckled under that kind of insistence.

This is all pure speculation of course because the artist, seungu, has no social media I could trace. The original novel’s writer, Han Yoonseol, has Twitter and various socmed that show an active writing career and interest in the MILAOWM webtoon. But the artist? Nothing, apart from their work. They’ve completed a previous series (Google translated to “New Year’s Taste”) but that also seems like an adaptation. I have no access to their thought process, rationale or any inkling of why certain decisions were made. 

Whatever the case though, those decisions so far have me hooked. They’re making changes that reflect something more... realistic, with higher stakes and actual consequences for the actions of the characters. E.g. you can’t humiliate, much less threaten, members of the nobility at a public function in front of a crowd without some sort of retaliation. Theo in the novel actually threatens to kill a nobleman in cold blood in front of a gathered audience whereas Theo in the manhwa does this in private.

Well, I say threaten. In the manhwa, he has just a fraction of the dialogue Novel!Theo says. Just one or two lines before he snaps and is about to decapitate a mofo before being restrained by his guards. The bullying incident that precipitates this is also dealt with realistic actions and importantly, contains a reflection on Perry’s part about the power and privilege the Lapileons have in this universe. I don’t know if this foreshadows anything but my mind has gone as far as the dissolution of the empire/defection to an enemy kingdom (and the loss of their noble titles) by the end of the whole manhwa. Far-fetched? Maybe, but I have so much faith in seungu by now and so little idea of what they’re planning that I won’t be surprised.

Manhwa!Therdeo Lapileon is also extremely taciturn and poker-faced, to all the natural disadvantages this sort of personality entails. Everything we know about him is told in silent images, or expressions we explicitly don’t see. This is a man who believes in actions over words, who has no idea that open communication is a Thing and that doing stuff behind a person’s back without telling them can backfire at times (”I’m gonna have someone follow my wife’s ex-fiance around without telling her, and that got her kidnapped. SHIT.”) And all the backstory that’s been hinted at so far gives us very sad explanations how he turned out this way.

One could very justifiably argue that actually, the entire Lapileon family is a collection of sad iron woobies. Saoirse lost her husband and only son because of her own blood, Phineas is doing his level best to save his family but keeps seeing them die despite his medical expertise, Gloria probably had a HELL of a marriage to survive this long, and the poor children have had their own bouts of suffering and daddy issues. And of course there’s also Pereshati who’s been murdered about 3-4 times at this point, and lost a most beloved father to a stepmother she loved to the moon and back.

BUT. Theo.

If the housekeeper’s flashback in Episode 47 is anything to go by, and if I’m guessing right, Theo and Saoirse’s father (maybe grandfather? Unclear at this point but let’s go with father for now) was a nightmare of a man. Slaughtering servants for infractions was probably a regular threat in the Lapileon home, and judging from that flashback during the episodes when they first find Islette, so was torturing and testing his younger son’s limits. His survival in the family was due to his “usefulness”.

One can suspect that of the three siblings, Theo was the one with the softest heart. We have no idea what his older brother (Celphi’s dad) was like yet and Saoirse is a Lapileon to the core: toughened enough to do what is needed, hardened even further by tragedy. She’s also a mom, which is why harming Islette earned Gen a rightful and vicious stiletto-heels-to-the-face-ass kicking. It also gets Theo a reprimand: get his shit together or step down from the headship of the family.

(And I’m just. Saoirse, honey, I love and respect you immensely and to be stepped on by your footwear of choice would be my honour. But that’s your younger brother we’re talking about. And he’s been emotionally sucker punched in just about every aspect. He’s trying, okay?)

I’m just saying that when you’re a child, and abused to that degree, sympathy from the devil is still sympathy. Of course it echoes to the present day even as a full-grown, supposedly rational adult. Of course it’s going to fuck you up.

You were also probably raised to put family above all (witness Theo not trusting Perry with the full truth of Celphi’s condition until circumstances force his hand, Saoirse only fully warming up to her once it’s clear she loves Celphi without any ulterior motive, Gloria immediately expecting her to be wrong about the family blood being sold, only to be confounded by the awful truth that this stranger to the family was right). You’ve been operating on the full expectation that any Lapileon would follow that creed. How could they not? Their curse is too great a responsibility.

Then you’re forced to confront the devil who once gave you rare comfort as a child, and that devil bears your family name and blood. Not only does he spout the most heinous things you’ve never imagined, he also manages to hit you where it hurts: you have used your blood. You have used it for your own benefit. Are you truly no better than he is? Who are you to judge him?

(Never mind that the devil is a liar and is trying to save his own ass which is why Saoirse, who has a better understanding of her own identity and self-worth, doesn’t give him enough time to say anything - she just kicks the shit out of him)

Is it any wonder Theo hesitates to do anything harsher?

Everything he does implies a reluctance to inflict lethal force if it can be helped. Perry remarks on it when he first removes Schiff without killing him the day they got married. He doesn’t even draw his sword on the assassin at the parade, merely KICKING HIM INTO ORBIT subduing him long enough to be taken in by the guards. The only times he has killed someone in the story is Perry’s ex-fiance who had kidnapped and blackmailed her, and... well, Perry herself.

(Which again goes back to that weird early episode installment - how do you reconcile him feeding her his blood in such a cavalier manner with the gravity of his responsibility as head of the family to ensure their blood isn’t used exactly like that?

You give him a HUGEASS dose of remorse and guilt later on when Gen accuses him of also using the blood to his own advantage, and then have him offer a sincere apology to the woman he experimented on.)

He also very nearly murdered the father of the child who bullied his ward. But even that was prevented by Raymon, the guard. This is more speculation on my part but his personal guards - who are all loyal to him beyond a doubt - may have been instructed (by him?) to restrain Theo, maybe to make sure he doesn’t repeat the sins of his father who just murdered people as and when it suited him. I don’t know if seungu would even bring this up at some point but I’ll be thrilled if that is the case.

This abusive childhood is compounded by the trauma of war. Theo specifically is credited with just swooping in out of the blue and ending the conflict between the Castor Empire and the kingdom of Schwartz. His reaction to being hailed a hero is to show up covered in blood to report to the emperor, and then disappear back to the country without attending any ceremonies. It earns him the notorious reputation of being “the bloodthirsty war fiend”.

Judging from Episode 13, what he really earned was a lifelong diagnosis of PTSD and various other neuroses. “Fuck this noise, I’m going home” was a reasonable reaction from a man who has no care or time for polite society. I'd go a bit further to suggest he also didn’t want to hear his actions being lauded as heroic when all he experienced was violence and death (re: that line about him being glad his statue was destroyed, that it’d been a stain on his honour). Whatever he did was to satisfy the emperor who has some form of hold over him, and absolutely no respect for the Lapileons (every single reaction from any imperial family member, even creepy Dodolea, has been sneering condescension or reluctant compliments). So from that perspective, why the hell would he have stayed to schmooze at the castle?

There are no therapists in Castor clearly coz Theo does what most soft-hearted introverts do and represses the shit out of his trauma. Just... stuff it WAY down into the depths of his subconscious and never address it because what the fuck else would you expect him to do? Talk about his ~*~feelings~*~ in the Lapileon house where weakness is a death sentence? No, he bundles it all behind his iron mask and resigns himself to literal nightmares for the rest of his existence.

The timeline has yet to be properly established, but I'm guessing that he comes back from war only to find that his brother has died and sister-in-law has just upped and left. Which means baby Celphi is left in his care. I’m not sure why Saoirse wasn’t the one to adopt him, but I’m guessing since he’s the next in line to the grand dukedom, it ‘makes sense’ that Grand Duke Therdeo has to be in charge of him. (Saoirse not being able to become head of the family just because she’s a woman is another sticking point that I suspect will be key to resolving this entire mess) (how/when exactly he becomes Theo’s ward is subject to many theories since the timeline of the story hasn’t been actually clearly explained; a guess that a friend and I have settled on is perhaps at the time, securing Celphi’s place as a ‘spare heir’ after Saoirse, Saoirse’s son and Theo in the line of succession would have been a practical decision. Either that or, more plausibly, Theo saw Celphi in himself and just decided to adopt the boy. Which makes this next part even more tragic)

The image of Theo in a soldier’s uniform looking helplessly into the cradle, with baby Celphi reaching up to him, broke me when I first saw it. It explains every mistake Theo made in trying to raise him.

He was a soldier. What the hell would he know about raising children (even if the theory that he chose to adopt this boy is correct)? He loves this tiny child with every breath, and he’d do anything for Celphi - but most of what he knows is how to fight and die. How the fuck does that help?? Not only that, his only experience of fatherhood is the shadow of a man who abused him so severely. What is that supposed to teach a man about parenting?

Clearly not much, considering his very shocked reaction when Celphi ends up demanding what he was supposed to think when his guardian/uncle kept ignoring him all the time while he was growing up.

And the boy is correct. Theo has no answer. He fucked up (again), and he didn’t know he was fucking up so hard.

But my god, he keeps trying to make up for it. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but Theo shows up every day to pick him up from school with Perry; he’s even glad Celphi yells at him about killing Perry because that means he’s not turning out to be Therdeo 2.0. Celphi is expressing feelings and opinions and even if they turn the boy against him, so be it - at least it’s coming out. It may be too late for Theo to learn how to express emotions but at least his ward won’t make the same mistakes.

Which is why IT HURTS SO MUCH IN EPISODE 63 TO SEE HIM SO CRESTFALLEN. After suggesting to Perry she stay away from the Lapileon house for a while, she says she will and the dialogue translates to:

“Thank you for your kind consideration.”

THERE ARE THREE - T H R E E - PANELS where his face/expression isn’t shown at all but you can ABSOLUTELY TELL HE’S 360 DEGREES OF ANGUISHED.

This woman - this beacon of hope that he’s come to have feelings for (all the subtle blushing and unseen pining looks have been sprinkled very well throughout the chapters so far) - has just had to go through the ordeal of a trial (along with months of preparation before that) where she had to send her stepmother to 35 years of hard labour, among other things, for the murder of her father. She's just had to reconcile the mother she knew with the killer sitting in the dock, and the cries of a stepsister she once loved. And all this with the knowledge that it's the Lapileons’ blood that ultimately killed her father. There’s a stray thought that poisonous blood or no, her stepmother would have found some way to kill her dad.

But it doesn’t change how it was their blood - his blood - that killed Count Zahardt. It is Lapileon blood that has tortured Perry, the woman responsible for bringing out the best in his adopted son, discovering little Islette and bringing warmth back to this frozen wasteland of a household (to paraphrase Daniel Molton who is a treat of a character, I love him so much).

Yes, he's essentially thrown his immense resources into legal recourse, released her from their obligatory contract, and offered her help in being independent and free from them. He's done many, many things to try and make her current situation comfortable.

Yet the fact remains that she basically rescued so many parts of his life, and he inadvertently destroyed hers. Nothing he does will bring her father back.

Yet she won’t curse him or his family, won’t demand any form of recompense, won’t even give him the cold shoulder, despite everything in her that says she should. Her line “leave me be so I can resent you” is so good and so sad and my HEART disintegrated.

The most ironic thing is that Theo would’ve probably understood that reaction better. The justified reaction would have been to storm and rage at him. He knows what to do with anger.

Instead, she said thank you for your kind consideration.

And he can’t say anything to that as she walks away.

HIS LIFE HAS BEEN AND IS FUCKING SAD. AND IT’S GOING TO GET WORSE.

Episode 64 is already up on Naver and Dodolea is about to do a NUMBER on his ALREADY VERY FRAGILE PSYCHE. What she calls love - and what some of us may have suspected as straightforward obsession for his attentions - is seeming more and more like a love of torturing him, and watching him squirm.

He has to sit for a portrait in the palace (emperor’s orders probably because he just wants to jerk Theo’s chain around), and cannot escape when she comes into the room to sit and watch. There’s no good reason for him to leave, so he just has to grit his teeth and bear it.

And she laughs at his discomfort. She laughs and calls it “cute”.

The rage and fear in his face when she does so is alarming from someone whose poker face is usually immaculate. It sucks so much strength/spirit from him that it alarms Daniel who greets him at the house. I have a feeling that he’s about to just shatter into pieces since Episode 66′s thumbnail has him turned away, lying on a pillow. And then I will shatter, coz this dude CANNOT catch a break.

At some point, I came to the conclusion that Theo was soft-hearted and I cannot tell you when exactly that was. It's testament to how seungu weaves in his quiet charm throughout the chapters so we can see why Perry might possibly fall for him apart from his handsome face (even if at this point, that is the FURTHEST thing from her mind). There are huge things of course like rescuing her from her kidnapping and financing her legal battles.

But the little warm things speak volumes: learning how to dance so he could accompany her to a ball, saying yes immediately when she suggests maybe he could just reply to people, telling the servants to make her special tea when he found out she also had trouble sleeping, bringing a hot water pack(?) to ease her cramps, rushing back for her auction, squeezing her hand as he helps her into the carriage because that’s all he can do after the trial. (seungu did you also watch Pride and Prejudice (2005)? Did you see the hand flex scene and immediately decide to use this? Inquiring minds must know. Also inquiring minds screamed when they first saw that scene becausE HAND TOUCHES ARE GOLD BULLION IN SLOW BURNS) And just his face (?? back of his head?? seungu never gives us any idea what he looks like when he’s in ‘oops fell in love AGAIN’ mode)

BUT SOMEHOW YOU CAN JUST TELL:

They all tell the story of a broken man who has made so many mistakes, but he can be kind and attentive, and tries hard to do what’s right (even if it takes him awhile to figure out what’s right, coz again: he’s Fucked Up). He’s also a socially awkward dork who ignores people at parties coz he doesn't know how to behave as expected. And resembles a really sad puppy when he disappoints Perry.

I could speculate a lot more on what/who the fuck Dodolea actually is and how she’s related to the Lapileon’s curse, but I also know this manhwa has steered some distance away from the webnovel. So I cannot really tell if the plot lines will be similar.  

I’ll probably be back after the plot progresses further so I can scream some more. I’ve been shrieking on Twitter but that site is subject to a hungry ghost’s whims and I can’t hide spoilers/rambling behind cuts there. So here it will have to be.

Hang in there, your grace.

#theo lapileon #pereshati jahardt #is this character analysis? plot analysis? the ramblings of a diseased mind?? #ALL THREE? #episode 63 sent me into the stratosphere #which is why you get this disorganised tangled mess of word vomit #my in laws are obsessed with me #my in-laws are obsessed with me #MILAOWM #apparently it should have been Theodore Lapileon and Princess Dahlia?? #that makes way more sense #OH WELL dodolea is funnier anyway LMAO

[kissingchoso]

more fuckbuddy!aran <3

—————————————————————————

fuckbuddy!aran who has a bad habit of cumming inside of you.

you shouldn’t let him and he knows better than to overstep that boundary with you. yet, whenever he has you bouncing so beautifully on his cock, strong arm wrapped around your waist to aid in your movement, all rationale leaves his brain.

chocolate brown eyes takes in your blissful expression and fucked out face and his brain short circuits. he doesn’t even have the chance to warn you when you cease your bouncing in favor to grind both of your hips together.

his cock jumps inside of you and that’s more than enough to encourage you to keep going. aran groans from beneath you, unable to break eye contact. he looks to you as if you’re the last woman on earth. a divine creature that he selfishly claims as his own, whether that be through the obvious marks he purposefully leaves on your body or when he makes you wear things of his whenever you two are out. aran ojiro is not officially yours but damn does he love acting like he is.

fuckbuddy!aran who paints your inner walls with all of his kids. he doesn’t seem to care right now. opting to kiss your lips and mumble praises to congratulate you for getting him off like always. “‘m perfect girl. so proud of you,’

his words has you bucking pathetically against his hips, in turn making him fuck the cum in you deeper. your companion hisses at your movement, pulling away from your lips to finally look at you.

“stop trying to get me pregnant,” you whine carefully.

aran simply chuckles. he doesn’t answer yet, only maneuvering you two around until you’re carefully laid beneath him.

“i’ll wear a condom next time. i promise,” he whispers finally before reconnecting your lips in a passionate kiss. whatever momentary break you two had was more than enough for your companion. you can feel his once softened shaft grow hard once more, still nestled deep within your cunt.

what a fucking liar.

#cw// cream pie #cw// breeding kink #𐐪𐑂 ° — luna speaks #arannnnnn #aran x reader smut #haikyuu aran #aran smut #aran — !! #fuckbuddy! series #fuckbuddy! aran #i’m arching my back at this

[doonarose]

Precarious, But Worth It

Rating: Explicit, nsfw, no minors

Summary: Aziraphale returns to the bookshop, more cynical and in need of Crowley’s help after months of frustration and failure in heaven. They have the fight they need to have, shouting a lot of the stuff that they probably should have said quite pleasantly to each other several centuries ago. Crowley pries a love confession out of Aziraphale and then one thing leads to another and that thing is exactly what you think it is: finally getting off together against the desk.

(Un)rationale: I tried to write a quick little fight and fuck fic based on all the wonderful headcanons floating around about Aziraphale and Crowley really just needing to scream at each other for a bit and then make out like teenagers.

It grew into an 8000 word fight and fuck epic that still achieves exactly what I set out to do, it just took over my life for 48 hours. Which is fine, I haven't committed smut in almost a decade.

You can read and see the warnings at AO3 of just read the fic under the cut.

Aziraphale returns to the bookshop at three in the morning on an uncommonly warm summer night. He tries to barge straight in and upon finding the door incomprehensibly locked, expends more energy that appropriate yanking on the doorknobs until the planks of wood are shaking in their frames. Aziraphale assumes he can swan right back in, but he can’t. The door doesn’t even unlock in response to a particularly demanding miracle because Crowley is on the other side, sprawled in his armchair, urging the doors with every ounce of available willpower to remain impervious.

Crowley flicks his wrist and an old, dusty pair of sunglasses wriggles out from under some papers on the desk and fly into his hand. He slides them on with a sigh that’s just a little bit shaky.

Finally, Aziraphale relents, and it goes quiet for a moment. Then he starts pounding, fast, heavy, hard-fisted knocks against the wood. “Crowley, I know you’re in there! Let me in! This is my bookshop!”

Anger boils in Crowley’s blood, anger and shock, that Aziraphale could even think for a moment that he would just come back and walk in and start up whatever again. Because that’s why he’s here, he needs help, or he got bored, or he decided it was time to come back. Crowley allows the front door to swing open but maintains the invisible barrier that protects the entire space from anything outside that he doesn’t want coming in. He doesn’t bother getting up and is extremely careful not to even look in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Not your bookshop, not anymore,” Crowley says, voice snaking from low in his chest, quiet and oh so dangerous.

Aziraphale seethes, “Let me in.”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley tips his head back and sinks further into the armchair.

“How are you even keeping me out?”

Crowley stares at the ceiling to stop from looking at him, he wonders exactly what Aziraphale is looking at, he wonders how he can look and not implode. “Not your bookshop anymore, not a heavenly embassy, it’s mine,” is the only explanation he offers.

“Well, you still can’t keep me out.” And Aziraphale moves to step over the threshold in a flourish of his new angelic light grey overcoat which sparkles with its silver embellishment. Now Crowley watches, as fascinated and cruel as a schoolboy with a beetle under a magnifying glass, as Aziraphale’s body shifts into the door frame only to be bolted back with a flash of white lightning that burns hellish hot through him, making him yelp.

Crowley doesn’t move, remains expressionless behind the glasses, holding still even as Aziraphale cries out and recoils. But now he’s looking at him. Aziraphale’s not wearing anything Crowley’s ever seen him in: beneath the long grey overcoat is a crisp white shirt and a necktie and slacks of muted slate grey. Even his white hair has been brushed flat into carefully controlled waves. It’s sterile and exactly what Crowley imagined. Even the embroidered pattern on the overcoat looks meaningless.  

Eyeing the threshold again, Aziraphale whines, “Crowley, you have to let me in.”

Crowley chuckles darkly. “Done that one too many times, I reckon. Fool me once and all that.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Second coming, I’ve heard.” He’s had enough, Aziraphale is back because he needs help, which doesn’t matter because there was never any reason that would have make him coming back now okay. Not after months of being gone, not after he left in the first place. Crowley stretches like a cat waking up, teases the idea of getting up and then settles back into place. He watches as Aziraphale notices for the first time the state of the bookshop, the dust and the scattered books and the dozens of lush green plants sitting atop them.

“That’s heaven’s plan, isn’t it?” Crowley says. “God’s judgement for all, erased to non-existent oblivion if you’ve ever stolen some bread, or used Her name in vain or any sin, really.” He grips the arms of the chair to stop from propelling himself up and over to Aziraphale, form saying it an inch from his face so he might actually listen. Too late for listening. “Any moment of pride or laziness or gluttony and you’re done for. Seems fair,” he says with a sardonic hiss. “Seems right.”

“Crowley, invite me in, I need to talk to you.” Aziraphale’s pleading but Crowley isn’t falling for it, acutely aware it’s a ploy, a manipulation, just the trickster angel employing the needy tone of voice he’s used for millennia to get Crowley to do his bidding.

“Absolutely not. How dare you even deign to return.”

“If you weren’t waiting for me to come back, then what are you still doing here?”

That makes Crowley pause because he’s worked very hard not to think about that, not to ponder how many centuries he will mope around the bookshop before he flings himself into some far-off corner of space – definitely not Alpha Centauri. He lies: “I wanted to be here when you realized just how catastrophically you fucked everything up,” he bites every word out, letting them trip bitterly off his tongue.

Aziraphale doesn’t look even the slightest bit bothered and Crowley hates him for that. No shame or embarrassment or regret, chin in the air, defiant, which just makes Crowley’s blood boil in his veins.

“You’ve being juvenile about things.” How dare he use that singsong, playful tone with him now. After everything.

He can’t sit still anymore, propels himself up and stalks the half a dozen steps to the door to say it: “Oh, fuck you. You destroyed everything; I’m allowed to be furious about it.”

Aziraphale looks around pointedly, leaning in as close to the bookshop as he dares. “Everything looks quite fine here, although you could have taken a moment out of your wallowing to dust.” It’s cutting, how easily Aziraphale swipes at him. 

Low and warning, Crowley just says it again because it’s easiest now to just stay angry. “Fuck. You.”

Except for just a moment, Aziraphale’s countenance fails, his hands fidget in front of him and Crowley sees past the shimmery white-grey outfit, the flattened white hair, and he clocks the fear and uncertainty in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley thinks he looks astoundingly anguished with his pursed lips and his deadened, defensive eyes, looks like he’s on the brink of collapse, and then that’s gone.

“If you don’t let me in both of our names are going to be scratched from the Book of Life, it could happen any moment now.”

That is a serious threat, but Crowley is still so angry. “Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“Liar.”

They stand in stalemate, Aziraphale now leaning against the doorframe, waiting, until Crowley asks, “Why would they want to scratch you, Archangel Supreme, Effervescent Warrior-Chief of the Angels, from the Book of Life?” But he is a liar, he does give a flying fuck, perhaps not about himself, but even in his darkest, most wretched hour, he never wished Aziraphale never existed. Just the thought twists tight around his heart and chokes the breath out of him. Never seeing Aziraphale again was awful, but he had made his peace with it. Never having known him at all was unfathomable. Crowley knows immediately that he’s going to give in and help, he doesn’t have a choice.

He clicks his fingers returning the bookshop threshold to normalcy and turns to walk back into the room, trying to get his heart and his skin and his face back under control and hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice. “Tell me what you’ve done?”

***

The anger simmers just below the surface as Aziraphale explains the second coming and heaven and why he’s back. Crowley sits with his arm across the back of the sofa, skin turned overly warm even though he’s in his thinnest jeans and just a woollen turtleneck. Aziraphale sits primly, still dwarfed by the grey overcoat that he chooses to keep on, in the armchair pulled back from what used to be his desk.

Crowley’s still angry at him for leaving and now also for coming back, he’s livid that he’s being drawn back into something worse than life and death, but that’s nothing compared to how furious he is to have to care about Aziraphale again. He keeps circling back to the idea of him never having existed, that Crowley would never have known him, wouldn’t even know to miss him.

Perhaps, most of all, he’s angry that it’s becoming abundantly clear, that Aziraphale gets it now. He’s returned from heaven cynical and candid, no longer speaking about that place, or the people in it, with any sort of adoration or wonderment, rather like it’s all gone sour on the back of his tongue. He only shows any sort of respect for God Herself, and even that is fleeting and wholly immaterial to their predicament.

At the end of all the exposition, all Crowley can offer is a drawn out, “Wellll…” and then “We’re fucked, basically.”

Aziraphale huffs and silence falls between them. Crowley should just kick him out; the situation is dire, but he has as much chance of fixing it on his own as he does with Aziraphale there. The minutes tick over, the grandfather clock’s second hand audible in the stillness of the room.

Aziraphale’s voice cuts through, quiet and careful, “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt sooner?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you wait until I had to leave to say what you said?”

Crowley fights the urge to throw a punch, or at the very least the hardest backhanded slap he can muster. He grips the back of the sofa with one hand and his own thigh with the other and stares Aziraphale down from behind the glasses. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Was it because you were scared?”

Crowley stares at him harder, eyes locked, Aziraphale unflinching even though he must be able to feel the crackle in the air, the threat of bodily harm if he continues.

“Was it because you knew that if we started something it would get back to our respective head offices and there would be consequences – ”

Crowley cuts him off with a sneer. “They would have discorporated both of us in an instant, and then hell knows what the punishments would have been. Eternal torture for me, I reckon. And perhaps something worse waiting for you in heaven.”

Aziraphale just nods and folds his hands in his lap. “And then after Adam, when we finally had our own side and no head offices, what about then?” He gives Crowley the chance to answer but he doesn’t. Then, “Were you still too scared?”

It’s like Aziraphale’s needling at him on purpose and if Crowley’s entire being wasn’t burning up he might stop to wonder why. He holds his voice remarkably level: “Fuck you Aziraphale, and I really, genuinely mean that. Was the point of this whole night to come back here and mess with me? World’s ending, book of life, blah blah blah, last chance to go and mock the snake? Has heaven turned you that cruel, that quickly?”

Aziraphale looks taken aback, as though that wasn’t what he was going for at all, but that’s certainly where he hit. “I’m simply asking why you chose to do what you did when I’d already told you I had to go to heaven – ”

“Because when else was I going to get the chance to say it? I wanted to speak first – not that it would have made a difference – because you’d already made up your stupid little mind, chosen heaven, and you were leaving.” Crowley clamps his mouth shut, presses his lips together and casts his eyes up; Aziraphale does not get to see him hurting.  

“And I was wrong,” Aziraphale says softly. “And I – I apologise, I’m very, very sorry Crowley. But I’m back now.”

Crowley keeps staring at the ceiling, hating that he can feel his eyes growing wet. He’d sooner scratch them out than start to cry. He keeps the crack out of his voice, “Don’t suppose any of it matters now. We’ll both pop out of existence sometime soon and this entire conversation won’t have ever happened.”

That should be reassuring, in a way. The pain and misery and heartache are all going to have never existed; no point crying over something that never happened. Crowley levels his gaze back at Aziraphale and presses back harder into the softness of the couch.

Aziraphale looks upset, angry, even, as though he expected something else from Crowley. “I really hate that you left us the way you did,” he says.

And the anger wells up again at the cruelty of him. “If you hate me you can leave. Again. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“That is so unfair – ”

“What’s unfair is that you left me, I told you the truth, and you chose heaven over facing up to that. You chose that shithole and all those arseholes and their bullshit instead of choosing me, instead of staying with me!”

“Because I had to,” Aziraphale snaps. “It was the only way to protect you and I thought, I thought, it was a way we could finally be together. And yes, I was wrong, but staying here, I knew Michael would end up in charge and Michael hates me almost as much as she hates you. If I was up there, I thought maybe I could fix things.”

“You thought you could fix me!” That’s enough, Crowley’s face burns with the shame of it and it’s only made worse when Aziraphale’s face morphs into pity and he reaches for him, shifting forward in his chair and reaching out. Crowley jumps to his feet and stalks straight across the shop floor, between the shelves, hiding pathetically, at least long enough to rake his hands back through his hair and slide his fingers behind his glasses to swipe away the tears that keep welling up and threatening to fall.

Aziraphale follows him, around the back of a shelf and appearing in front of him just as Crowley presses his glasses back against his eyes. “What are you even talking about?”

Crowley wheels around again, turning away with his shoulders hunched up high as he fights the urge to throw himself into the fight of it all. He only takes a few steps forward, into the centre of the shop, poised between the stairs up to his right and the door out to his left, both options promising a billion miles of space to run in any which direction. Except Aziraphale needs to admit his part in this, so Crowley turns back to him, stumbling backwards when he’s right there, brow furrowed and mouth set in a frustrated frown. “You just wanted to make me an angel again, all this time and the first opportunity to make me into precisely what I’m not and you thought that was right.”

“What? I didn’t – ”

Crowley speaks over the top of him, “Oh you did, you said, I’d be restored. That for all you cared for me, needed me, you could get heaven to fix me, to forgive me my sins. That’s what you meant when you say you wanted to save me. You didn’t even want me to be me, and instead of… You just forgave me.” It’s too honest an admission, too much, a weight lifted but just more anger settling in its place. When Crowley blinks, he feels the tears spill, catching in his eyelashes and gathering moist behind the glasses.

“That is not…” Aziraphale takes another step towards him and Crowley stumbles on the edge of the rug as he steps back, now trapped in the alcove with the desk and the armchair and all of Aziraphale’s dusty books. “I didn’t say that.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“But I didn’t mean it like that. I wanted you with me to help me. I wanted you with me so we could be us, together… And I didn’t know what you wanted me to say, you were so angry, you just gave up and – ”

“I wanted you to say you accepted me as is,” He didn’t want to have to admit that bit out loud but how could Aziraphale still not know? “I wanted you to choose me, I wanted you to say you loved me. Not that you forgave me, I’m a demon.”

Finally, realisation flickers across Aziraphale’s face, albeit, once again quickly replaced by anger. “But you must know that I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t want you to come to heaven and turn into one of them – “

“Now that you know what they’re like,” Crowley sneers.

“Yes, I mean, no, even before, I wasn’t trying to change you. You knew how I felt about you, and… and honestly, Crowley, I don’t know how many times I can apologise when you are being so wilfully obtuse – ”

“Wilfully obtuse?! And you haven’t even apologised for that particular mistake!” Crowley shouts. “And what am I meant to think, angel? I put all my cards on the table, I’m ready to spend forever with you, but instead you offered to make me your second in command for the literal end of everything and when I said no – for extremely good reason – you fucked off to heaven, anyway. And now you’ve only come back because everything’s gone to shit.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” Crowley snarls. “You’re just back here because you want someone to talk to, someone to solve your problems. You hate that I was honest, that I kissed you, which is just fine because I hate you for leaving me.”

Aziraphale is practically shaking with barely contained rage, defiant in it but also seemingly about to stomp his feet and start screaming for the sake of it. “I do not hate that you were honest, or that you kissed me, and I do hate that I left you, but I am back now and I don’t know what else you bloody well want from me.”

Crowley laughs, miserable and half caught in his throat. “You still can’t even admit you love me!” he challenges, driving the knife into his own heart some more.

Aziraphale roars back: “Well, technically, neither can you!”

That stops everything in its tracks. It’s nonsensical to Crowley for a long moment – of course he loves Aziraphale, of course he does – and it’s unclear what Aziraphale is even getting at. It’s that delay in logical thought that lets Aziraphale say it, voice going soft, still angry, and fiercely honest, “I do, though, I do love you and I think it’s more than anyone has ever loved anything or anyone in over six thousand years. It’s… a lot.”

It punches the air right out of Crowley, square in the guts like a freight train; even though he knew it to be true, he’d given up on ever, ever hearing it. Eventually he takes in a shuddering breath. It doesn’t change anything, though. “I knew,’ he admits, as quiet as Aziraphale now. “I know.”

The anger remains, just beneath the surface, frustration at the world, at heaven and hell and God, pooling and mixing with the abject fear of non-existence and what comes next which provokes the tiniest, most pathetic glimmer of some sort of hope.

Aziraphale watches him, hands balled into fists at this sides. “Do you know, though, really?”

Crowley nods, “I do,” of course he knows but somehow Aziraphale doesn’t seem to believe him, his head shaking just slightly from side to side until it’s not, and he’s nodding to himself, like he’s made up his mind.

"You don’t.” And then Aziraphale’s on him and it’s too much, too fast, and it’s everything.

Aziraphale’s mouth, hot and wet and pressing so insistently at his, hard enough to feel the teeth through their lips and to know he’s stopped breathing. Aziraphale grabs him, rough scratching handfuls of the wool at his chest pulling Crowley into his body and then pushing him back against the desk, catching him there, and then not stopping, pressing up hard and close and Crowley’s forced to slide back, arse on the edge, wood digging into his thighs when Aziraphale step into the gap between them and is covering him completely.

Crowley’s hands searching blindly for purchase on the desk, three books and the plant perched on top of them tumble to the floor and then it takes a split second for Crowley’s body to give in completely and utterly. And then only a second beyond that for Crowley to consciously decide that if this is the moment they’re burned from existence, at least it’s at the very top of their game.

He kisses Aziraphale back, a hand into his stupidly coifed hair, intent on ruining it, and the other wrapping around the middle of his back, hand grabbing at the softer-than-it-looks velvet – he discovers – of the stupid angelic overcoat.

Aziraphale is licking at his lips, increasingly wet and demanding, and not very angelic at all. Crowley chases the touch and closeness, mouth falling open and he can’t help but moan at the feeling of Aziraphale licking inside, searching out the inner heat and slick of his top and then his bottom lip, back again and again and then inside, across Crowley’s teeth and then darting up behind. Aziraphale tastes and smells the way he’s meant to taste this close, the disinfected, bleached smell of heaven dissipating as it’s overwhelmed with earthy, sweet, Aziraphale.  

They kiss raw and open and messy, without any finesse and there’s still a recess in Crowley’s mind that holds onto the anger, and another stuck cornered by fear. Any moment… any moment he won’t just lose this, it will never have happened.

The thought and Aziraphale’s teeth closing around his bottom lip, biting and sucking, pulls a pained whimper from him that he’s never heard himself make before and Aziraphale pulls back, eyes wild, a question there. Are we really doing this?

And Crowley drags him back down. More warm, flushed, heady kisses, too much spit and too many little sounds of surprise and surrender. Aziraphale’s hands eventually find there way up Crowley’s chest to his neck, dipping inside the turtleneck to skirt a thumb over his Adam’s apple, to scratch fingernails across the nape. Around his jaw and into his hair, angling him and guiding him until Aziraphale can pull his lips from Crowley’s mouth and kiss across his cheek, still too sticky-wet and remarkably tender as Aziraphale tilts his face to kiss and then nuzzle at his temple, sucking in the smell of his hair through his nose even as Crowley pants against his neck.

Aziraphale’s hands find Crowley’s glasses and tentatively, he slips them off to reveal Crowley’s amber irises, ignited, glaring, defiant and turned on, his lashes wet and clumped and the skin just beneath his eyes still tear-stained. A soft, gentle, “Oh,” escapes Aziraphale’s lips as he holds Crowley’s face in his hands. “Oh, I never, ever meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry I…” He presses his mouth to Crowley’s temple as Crowley’s eyes flutter closed. Azirapahle presses three small kisses, moving in towards the hollow of his eye socket and then down, ever so careful, kissing at the salt and his eyelashes. Aziraphale’s thumbs press and knead at Crowley’s temples and then he kisses up his nose, from the tip to the bridge to his forehead, and then across each closed eyelid. He traces that path again and again, soft and tender, until Crowley’s left clinging to him, a heavy, hunched weight in his arms, face upturned and revelling in the affection.

When Crowley smiles, easy and open, as his eyes glowing, Aziraphale takes it as his penance served, and returns to Crowley’s mouth. He kisses him deeply, pouring such heart into it that Crowley can almost feel his eyes welling up again. But then, Aziraphale tilts his head, and shifts to kiss from the other side of Crowley’s face, and very quickly, it all stops being tender and soft, and shifts to urgent and hot and desperate.

The unmistakable press and pull of Aziraphale’s tongue in and against Crowley’s, rhythmic and insisting, sets them on the course for more. It bolts straight down Crowley’s spine, out to his fingertips, and into his cock which was already half-hard, but now gives a twitch that he feels reverberate into his thighs. Even in his wildest dreams, he never imagined… Even twelve seconds ago, he thought he would take his chance to kiss Aziraphale until their lips were numb and the sun was high in the sky and then that would be it. That or they’d kiss until they stopped existing.

Aziraphale’s mouth has found his jaw again, no longer content just with wet, warm kisses, he’s biting, raking his teeth along the bone there and then stopping to suck until the blood vessels burst and blossom into marks. It’s pulling needy, downright embarrassing noises from Crowley but he doesn’t have the cognizance to care right now. Instead, he twists his neck to try to give Aziraphale the best access, choking on a moan as his eyes flicker open to catch Aziraphale throwing him a smirk before he latches back on to the spot just below Crowley’s ear and sucks.

Tugging the neck of the turtleneck down, Aziraphale murmurs something displeased, unable to get to enough of Crowley’s skin with the scratchy wool caught between his chin and the column of Crowley’s throat.

As Aziraphale bites another mark into Crowley’s jaw, he murmurs, “You don’t know how much time I thought about this in heaven,” and Crowley arches beneath him.

Crowley had been aware that he was fully hard in his jeans, straining against the denim and dribbling a wet spot into the cotton of his underpants, and now, with the forceful push of Aziraphale’s hips in to meet Crowley’s arch, inching him forward on the desk, he can feel the unmistakable pressure of Aziraphale’s own Effort. It’s equally hard, hot and over-whelming, and, still tripping over thoughts to respond to Aziraphale’s confession, it drags a plea from Crowley, “Fuck, Angel, really?”

Aziraphale kisses the underside of Crowley’s jaw. “I hated it there, almost as soon as I arrived. I missed you. And you’d just kissed me. And so I thought of this, of us.” He tries to kiss down beneath the turtleneck again and growls his frustration into Crowley’s ear when the wool gets in his way. “I wasn’t sure if they would know but I couldn’t help myself.”

Aziraphale’s hands race over Crowley’s shoulders, down his arms and his back, feather-light even through the wool, over his ribs and down to his waist. The material has already ridden up, escaped where Crowley’s jeans have slipped dangerously low around his hips, and there’s a strip of pale naked skin there. Aziraphale’s fingers find it before he pulls all the way back to watch as they caress across, from hipbone to the teasing line of flame-red hair just above the belt buckle. Crowley doesn’t breathe but somehow his belly still trembles, he wonders if Aziraphale can see that the hair grows thicker the further down he goes, that it’s ticklish and painful and burning hot all at once when Aziraphale scratches his nails through it, catching ever so slightly. Surely the unmistakable bulge in his trousers is obvious, too. And he just wills Aziraphale to touch him.  

“I want more,” Aziraphale says, both hands petting back and forth across Crowley’s skin.

“Anything,” Crowley manages.

His hands slip instantly under the wool of the turtleneck, flat to Crowley’s stomach but not wasting any time. Aziraphale pushes them up, over Crowley’s chest and Crowley raises his arms obliging so that the garment can be slipped easily over his head.

Dropping it to the side, Aziraphale looks positively ravenous in the moment he takes to rake his eyes over Crowley’s chest – pale and flecked with red hair, dusky red nipples, and really nothing Aziraphale hasn’t seen before – and then press his whole face into Crowley’s neck.

Biting, licking, blowing cold air just to watch the stretch and tilt that Crowley reacts with, to listen to the sounds he can drag from him. He takes his time but works quickly, finding the spot where he can feel Crowley’s pulse against his tongue before he descends to mouth across one clavicle and then the other.

“My turn,” Crowley growls, only when it’s become a mantra in his head and he can’t stop himself. Aziraphale looks startled, like he was lost in the skin under his mouth. But Crowley doesn’t wait, both hands going to that dreadful, over-starched tie, ready to yank it free and drag it from Aziraphale’s neck –

“Hell, that’s a clip-on!” he’s utterly repulsed and Aziraphale laughs at him.

“I tried to get them to give me a bowtie, or even just a proper tie, but they said this was more practical.” Aziraphale pouts, his lips kissed red and slick, his hair increasingly back to the twisted curls and tufts that Crowley loves. “I think it’s ghastly.”

“Well fuck that then,” Crowley says and then yanks the offending item away, flinging it halfway across the shop. He then sets to work on the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt which he instantly finds over-starched and the buttons, frustratingly, just a little too big for the buttonholes. Two buttons down though, and he can get a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck that draws a sigh of delight. More buttons and he can lean down his chest, burying his face in the white curls and breathing in before he bites across a pectoral muscle and closes his mouth around a pretty pink nipple.

“Jesus,” escapes Aziraphale, all high pitched and breathless as his hands thread into Crowley’s hair and twist.

That hitches Crowley’s breath and he rewards it with his teeth, gently nipping at the skin just beneath. “Blasphemy,” Crowley teases and then shifts to lick across to the nipple on the other side. In some dim corner of his mind, he really can’t believe he’s doing this, that Aziraphale is letting him do this.  

Rather, Aziraphale is asking him to do it, because his hands are still racing tracks across the planes of Crowley’s naked back and his chest and his belly, rougher each time through the descending line of hair there, scratching lines across his belly button on the next pass, and then teasing at the belt with his thumb. And he’s babbling, still coherent and overly verbose, but clearly struggling: “Crowley… Crowley dearest, I… uh – I need you closer.” He pulls his face up to his and kisses him off-centre on the mouth. “I need – ” he keens as Crowley cuts him off with a bite to his lip. “I need all of you.”

“You have me,” Crowley admits, against his better judgement and all rational thought, and as Aziraphale’s hands drop to his belt with clear intent, Crowley’s own start to push back Aziraphale’s already hanging open shirt and the heavy velvet monstrosity of a jacket that lays on top of it.

Except he simply can’t get the garments off Aziraphale while Aziraphale still has his hands on him. Suddenly, the belt buckle springs open and the leather strap that encircles Crowley’s waist is being yanked all the way free and getting to Aziraphale’s shoulders stops being a priority. Crowley’s hands race to the clasp of Aziraphale’s trousers: another blaster button, then another and then a zip. It’s a race with only winners and a scramble of fingers and fabric and Aziraphale’s still trying to kiss him through it.

Then he gets his hands inside Aziraphale’s trousers, pushes his pants down his thighs, letting Aziraphale’s cock fall into his palm and it’s hot and hard and so very right. They should have been doing this for six thousand years. And then Aziraphale’s hand, hot and slick with spit or sweat – it doesn’t matter – has slipped under the waistband of Crowley’s pants and wrapped around his aching erection.

Aziraphale strokes maddeningly slowly from base to tip and Crowley groans out an, “Oh fuck,” as his own grip tightens around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale continues to stroke, too slow and not quite tight enough but still better than any feeling Crowley’s ever experienced. Crowley’s mouth hangs uselessly open in a permanent gasp and so Aziraphale gives up trying to coordinate kissing him and just rests his head against Crowley’s shoulder. Together, they stare down at the complete lack of space between them, trousers still caught, clinging to their hips, their cocks and hands shades of red and pink and pale cream, coarse curls of starkly contrasting hair scratching against each other. “I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmurs, all wonderment and potent pleasure. “I’ve always got you.”

He lets his hand leave Crowley’s cock to twitch between them, catching against the backs of Crowley’s fingers where they’re still wrapped around Aziraphale. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hips and pulls him forward, right to the edge of the desk and it instinctively makes Crowley’s hands loose from Aziraphale’s cock and hip, flung out to grab onto the wood so he can steady himself. His legs come up of their own volition to wrap tight around Aziraphale’s hips. His stupid jeans are still on though, the waistband across his ass cutting into the skin as it’s pulled tight and low, the cold sharpness of the undone zipper framing his dick, uncomfortably tight just below his balls and Crowley has to silently will more give into the material to let him stay like this, wrapped around Aziraphale.

Then their cocks catch between them, lined up perfectly, caught between bellies and scratchy hair and the heat of it all. Aziraphale gives an experimental rock of his hips and it’s glorious if entirely not enough and too dry and at an awkward angle.

And perhaps it’s all too much, too fast. Crowley had given up on ever seeing him again only half an hour ago, had despised him enough to want to never see him again even more recently. And now… now they’re this. Everything and raw and vulnerable and Aziraphale has him.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you for leaving,” Crowley says and somehow he thinks maybe it will come off playful and teasing, but he still regrets it as soon as the words spill out. He’s baiting Aziraphale and for what?

Aziraphale pulls back but his hips remain tightly pressed into Crowley’s, holding him up on the desk. A flash of hurt crosses his vulnerable face and Crowley feels it prickle at his heart.

He wants to take it back, but he can’t, so he just tilts his hips down, rolls them and grinds and tries to get the leverage from his grip on the desk to make them both feel good in some sort of tactile, sybaritic apology.  

Aziraphale chokes on a soft, mewling, desperate sound and then asks, “Do you love me, though?”

Crowley blinks, frozen, feels the heavy breaths being drawn deep into Aziraphale’s belly against him, the coolness of the sweat across his own chest, the thrum and thump of the blood in his veins, all the way down through his cock and right up against the heartbeat of Aziraphale.

He knows. He must know.

“Because you’ve not, technically, actually said,” Aziraphale says.

Oh. “Oh, yes. Yes, I – yes completely – ” He still hasn’t said it, and when he does it’s more matter-of-fact, less romantic than what Aziraphale probably wants. “I love you. I love you entirely, all-consumingly. I’ve loved you since… A long time. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”

Aziraphale kisses his lips, simple presses, messy and hot with everything that’s come before. “We can work on the forgiveness stuff later then?” And Aziraphale breathes, reaching in between them, hand wrapping around them both and stroking again from root to tip.

“Yes,” Crowley hisses, head falling back for a moment, lax in his relief but his grip on the table and around Aziraphale’s waist still tight, straining. Aziraphale continues to stroke, both of them hard and in hand, haphazard and the pressure relegated more to one side because he can’t possibly make a proper fist around the weight and the heat of them but it doesn’t matter. “Yes, just like that,” Crowley encourages as he brings his mouth back to Aziraphale’s.

Another dirty kiss, sumptuous and slow, just tongues and heavy breathing, grunts and moans as Crowley tries to angle up just right, and Aziraphale tries for the right kind of friction. Unbidden, Aziraphale confesses into the corner of Crowley lips, “I really want to get my mouth on you.”

It draws a new, higher pitched keening cry from Crowley and he’s too close, that could be the end of it except he still wants more. “Next time,” he mumbles, “Next time, I promise,” and he wills that reality into existence.

Aziraphale grunts and his hand retreats, Crowley arches to maintain the friction, lets go of the desk for a moment but almost topples, and then whines to try to convince Aziraphale to touch him again. Aziraphale’s lips leave his and Crowley chases, eyes still closed as he tries to narrow in on the growing pleasure between them – that’s what he wants and he’s gluttonous for it, lusting after it, happily sinful if Aziraphale would just give it to him.

But instead it’s Aziraphale’s fingers on his lips, pushing inside, three of them, and Crowley’s eyes open with a start. “Suck,” Aziraphale says, low and rough in a way that makes Crowley’s balls tighten and his cock throb, a heavy drop of precome pulsing out onto their stomachs.

He sucks, diligently, wetly, refusing to swallow anything until the spit is dripping down his own chin and Aziraphale’s wrist and Crowley’s watching him look absolutely rabid with it. When Aziraphale wraps his hand around them again, it’s slick with precome and Crowley’s spit and from the drag of that first blissful stroke, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale’s miracled up even more slick than he could take from his mouth.

Lips against his, the squeeze and stroke of their cocks together is certainly too much now and Crowley can feel his spine turning to liquid. He can’t kiss, can only breathe and chase the touch with the tilt of his hips and the low, guttural groans escaping his lips.

Aziraphale remains strikingly coherent. “Tell me about next time, Crowley?” and he gives a devilish smile that Crowley can sense against his cheek. “What will we do?”

“Everything,” Crowley manages as Aziraphale’s hand catches just below the head of his cock and twists.

Aziraphale hums against his cheek, begging more.    

“Anything you’ll let me,” Crowley confides, biting the inside of his cheek and then at Aziraphale’s neck to hold himself together.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale says and his thumb slicks across the wetness right at the tip of Crowley’s cock, pressing in on it and swirling it around and then grinning delightedly at the little, involuntary buck of Crowley’s hips.

Crowley breathes out, squeezes his legs around Aziraphale’s waist and he’s so close, he could come if Aziraphale would just let him. “Angel,” he warns.

“I’d let you do anything,” Aziraphale tells him and finally the crack in his voice gives away just how close he is as well. “I want you to take me apart.”

That would have been the end of him except Aziraphale grips the base of them both and then stills. As though he can feel just how close things are, and still wants to drag it out, he unwraps his hand and then and then dances his fingertips up along the damp line of hair to Crowley’s bellybutton. “Tell me about next time,” he demands.

Crowley leaves the mark he’s bitten into Aziraphale’s neck, knowing they can miracle it away afterwards but hoping desperately, that they won’t. He just wants and if Aziraphale wasn’t holding him up against the desk, Crowley’s sure he could have Aziraphale up against a wall or a bookshelf or on the floor. That’s next time, and his hips rock up at the thought. He grabs handfuls of Aziraphale’s arse, his grip under the overcoat but over the fabric of his trousers, and grinds hard against him.

“Next time, everything,” he says and Aziraphale scratches down his chest and grips their cocks together again. He doesn’t move though, stares at Crowley, eyes locked, waiting for the assurance, for a promise.

Crowley licks his lips. “Next time, you’ll let me fuck you, won’t you, angel?”

Aziraphale’s lips fall open and he nods. He starts to stroke again and immediately they’re both shuddering into it, half-aborted spasms of their hips as they both hold taut and try to make the moment stretch but now they really are too far gone, they’re going to come just like this, on a desk, in their bookshop, half dressed, and frantic and not quite forgiven.

Crowley wants to make him come first, though, wants to watch him fall apart, wants that small victory and he can see what his words are doing. Unfathomable reactions from his imperfect, beautiful angel, even as Aziraphale touches him like sin and presses him hard enough into the edge of the desk to leave bruises.

“Next time, you’ll let me open you up with my fingers, you’ll let me take my time, you’ll let me use my tongue.” Aziraphale moans and thrusts up into the fist of his hand, along the length of Crowley’s cock and it makes him stutter. “Or… or maybe you can do all that to me? Next time, or the time after – ”

Crowley doesn’t know how’s he’s still in one piece, the steady leak of liquid from his cock, from Aziraphale’s and now it’s almost too wet, too slick, too hot, too much, the sharp tug and drag of Aziraphale’s hand bordering on pain because he’s been holding himself back for too long, but he needs to take Aziraphale, need to see him fall apart, needs to know it’s just as bad for him.

Crowley arches back, forces his eyes open so he can see Aziraphale, sweating and breathing stop-starting and heavy, chest and cheeks flushed, and one hand working fast over both of them even as the other continues to hold on to Crowley by the back of his neck.

“Look at you, you’re gagging for it,” Crowley reveals before he can stop himself and Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and up and instead of being affronted, he just grins lascivious and shy in equal measure. “My angel and all you want in the world right now is to get those pretty little lips wrapped around my cock so you can swallow me whole and – ”

Aziraphale’s eyes fall shut and he clings to Crowley, hand tightening around them both as his cock spasms and he rocks hard into Crowley’s hips. He breathes out an almost silent ‘Fuck!’ as he starts to come.

And Crowley feels the throb of him, sees him spilling, pearly white, warm and viscous, between them with a look of such deep concentration and bliss painted across his upturned face, and that’s all it takes to push him off the precipice.

Precarious, but worth it, he lets go of the desk with one hand and wraps it over the top of Aziraphale’s, fingers sliding between his and grasping where they’re hard and blood-filled and intimate, tight and hot and sliding as everything inside him breaks like a wave crashing on rocks.

Crowley shudders and chases every last pulse of pleasure, every last twitch from either of them, the back and forth of friction and reaction dragging it out while Aziraphale breathes hot and hitched against his ear and Crowley finds skin to dig his teeth into. They hold there until their hands still, and then their bodies, and finally their breath. Then it’s just Crowley’s hand interlaced with Aziraphale’s around their softening, over-sensitive cocks, and an ungodly mess of spit and sweat and come.

They disentangle slowly, fingers refusing to leave each other’s and their linked hands settling clasped somewhere between their chests. Crowley’s legs unloop from Aziraphale’s back and his feet find gravity and support on the floor even as his jeans slip immediately down to his knees when Aziraphale takes a half a step backwards to give him just enough space to stand in. They lean forehead to forehead and Crowley debates what to do about his pants, about the mess, about the fact that he’s still thinking about Aziraphale’s mouth on him and that that feels like it’s making his blood change direction in his veins.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts his train of thought which is probably for the best. “I’ll clean us up?”

He mumbles something, finding his tongue heavy and not quite correctly connected to his brain yet, but it must sound affirmative because with a flick of Aziraphale’s wrist, everything is clean and dry and, even though it’s disgusting, Crowley instantly misses it. His jeans have even inched their way back up his thighs, to the point where they can’t make any further headway because Aziraphale’s still pressed too close to him.

With an obvious look of reluctance, Aziraphale steps further back and Crowley catches his jeans and hikes them back up over his hips.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I think… I hope…. Well, I think we should probably save the earth. And if not the earth, at least ourselves.”

The hanging dread of everything comes crashing back in, but something in Crowley is defiant in having at least experienced this before he’s wiped from existence. Some romantic, irrational part of him even begins to think that the enormity of his love would survive him never having existed. “Yes,” he says in answer to Aziraphale’s hopeful, beaming face, still flushed and his lips kissed red, a scattering of red marks across his neck and chest and two that are already purple. Aziraphale hadn’t cleaned any of that up and it makes Crowley feel ambitious. “But probably the earth as well. I know you like it here.”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale says. “And then I think we should talk.”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale’s tucked himself back into his trousers and done up both buttons. His hands find Crowley’s again, clean and smooth, their fingers interlacing and tugging. “Just… I think we can figure this out. I think one day you’ll forgive me, and I promise I won’t ever try and forgive you again.”

Crowley huffs at that, but it’s a foregone conclusion. “I can do better as well,” he admits. “And we will work this out. This and the Book of Life bollocks.” He brings one of Aziraphale’s hands up to his mouth to kiss across the knuckles, immediately turned on again to find them still, ever so slightly smelling and tasting of them both together. Metallic and bitter and filthy and he knows Aziraphale left that there, either for Crowley or for himself and his eyes go wide with the unexpectedness of it. “Just please, please promise we can do this again…” He sucks on a knuckle and looks at Aziraphale through his lashes as he does it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes out. “Yes, most definitely.” Crowley moves to suck at another knuckle but before he can be too drawn into it, Aziraphale’s pulling his hand back with a pout. “Book of life, my love.”

Crowley thrills at the new pet name and tries to keep from preening. “Stop the second coming, save the world, and then lunch at the Ritz?” he asks, shifting to focus on the enormity of the task ahead even as he tries to draw one more smile from Aziraphale.    

Aziraphale gives him a look, a soft little grin and an arch of his eyebrows, a playful warning. “I believe you already know what I’ll be putting my mouth around once all this is taken care of and it is most certainly not lunch at the Ritz. Best get on with it!”

And even though in that moment Crowley’s balks, a choked laugh escaping him as Aziraphale grins, they do get on with it. All of it. Everything.

#good omens smut #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #doonas fic #flies into the sun #this took a lot more time and effort that i expected #but i very much enjoyed it #and i find the whole relationship and fandom and fic writing rather delicious

[sortyourlifeoutmate]

I’m a huge nerd with an odd fascination for both firearms and made-up firearms, and so the way guns work in Mass Effect has always confused and irritated me, doubly so whenever I see anyone else online talk about it as they are all almost always wrong in frustrating ways.

Not like me, I’m never like that.

The core conceit for guns in Mass Effect goes something like this:

Electromagnetic acceleration. That’s all you get told, but looking at just about every gun in the game you can assume they’re probably coilguns, but I doubt you’re meant to think about it too hard.

A mass effect field is used to lower the mass of the projectile, allowing it to be accelerated even faster than usual (personally I’d have said it allowed acceleration at lower energy levels, as coilguns and railguns and the like are notoriously thirsty systems, power-wise, but whatever).

Ammunition for the weapons comes in the form of an internal block of metal that, when the trigger is pulled, has a bit shaved off it and fired. These blocks can provide, it is said, thousands of rounds.

An internal computer is what decides how best to shave the block, apparently, and compensates for environmental conditions, it is said.

Now, that’s not awful on the face of it, I guess, but there are issues that rapidly pile up.

While it is never stated explicitly how big rounds are for any gun, it is mentioned in the codex entry that with sufficient kinetic energy even a sandgrain sized object would have devastating power. This is true. But that doesn’t say that what you’re firing is the size of a grain of sand, though it is often assumed that it is. The most it says is that the slugs are ‘tiny’.

What’s doing the heavy lifting in this mental picture here is the rationale that if you get something fast enough, it can do a lot of damage. This is true. But I feel in the rush to get to this certain important considerations might have been overlooked.

For one, I’m never clear on when the mass-reducing field stops being active on the projectile. Does it carry the whole way until it hits the target? What keeps the field active, is that how they work? I was never sure. More’s the point if it stays on all the way, what is keeping a massless grain of sand moving in anything close to a straight line? In space that might work but in atmosphere?

You ever heard of projectile salvo? Where the salient point here is that very light, very high velocity projectiles sometimes got deflected by rain?

And if the mass effect field doesn’t carry all the way to the target – which seems more likely to me – then you’re not getting the speeds some people are claiming you get, which makes firing a grain of sand at someone (or a ‘tiny slug’, whatever that is) kind of dumb, which makes the this whole ‘block of metal’ thing also kind of dumb. Some people are really, really insistent on the speed though.

I have seen at least one person claim that the weapons act as ‘miniature mass relays’ and fire their projectiles ‘close to the speed of light’ which is…wrong…on so many levels. For one thing the guns are not miniature mass relays because that would be ludicrous. I could get into why it’s ludicrous but suffice to say mass relays big, guns small. On the other side if you are standing there, a person, firing your rifle and what is coming out of that rifle is going anywhere near any fucking percentage of C, you are probably dead.

I’m not a fucking physicist or anything, I’m just – that’s common-sense, surely?

So no, not lightspeed, no, not anywhere near lightspeed, no. Extremely high velocity? Sure, totally. But not that high velocity. No-one’s talking cover behind a fucking crate if you’re shooting at them with something like that, yeah?

It’s also made pretty clear in the codex that recoil is a limiting factor for ultimate force put onto a target, albeit mitigated by the mass effect fields. Which tracks, as it explains why things like the Widow even exist in the first place, and are apparently so nasty to fire. If a basic Avenger is kicking out rounds at something of a few percent of C, then I’m not sure why you’d need a specific anti-Krogan rifle. The Krogan would be soup. So would anything behind them. And beneath and above them.

And you.

And what would be the point of a dedicated shotgun anyway? Couldn’t you tell your little gun computer in your Avenger to switch to shotgun mode and it’d shaved of a little handful of tiny grains and fire those? Why couldn’t it? Mean, wouldn’t be as good as a dedicated platform, I guess (none of which have stocks, as is noted – and why does everyone hold their submachineguns janky? And why do SMG’s even still exist? Gah!).

None of this matters, obviously. It’s all very video-gamey. Doubly so from the second game onwards where guns got more differentiated because that’s more fun and also reloading came back (heatsinks, ahem). It’s all basically a sci-fi-y excuse for why your guns aren’t lasers (sidebar: why aren’t there man-portable lasers?) and, along with many things in Mass Effect, the questionable scientific veracity of it all goes right out the window when an opportunity to be space opera presents itself.

And rightly so.

I suppose what annoys me is the people getting it wrong. Like, I’m not an expert, I’m an idiot. But people saying things like the above “They’re basically miniature mass relays”, a statement supported by exactly nothing and madness in the context of the game itself and physics in general, is grating. It’s like all those people who seem to assume that every space-based gun in the whole series starts at a base level of power as the main gun on a dreadnought.

No! They don’t! That’s why those ships are so powerful!

Fuckin’ Shepard is standing inside handshake distance of the Reaper on Rannoch when the fleet unloads and they aren’t burnt to a crisp – the guns aren’t that powerful!

Though I guess the Quarians might have been dialling it back on that one…

Point is! I’m right! And everyone else is wrong! And also annoying!

Fucking firing at nearly the speed of light, for fucks sake…

[melishade]

Number 10?

This ask game

Beloved Timeline. But instead of Optimus and Elita, it's Megatron and Hanji having a discussion about Elita's presence and how they need to get along. For more context: Elita's role in the story

Hanji could see the visible relief on Megatron's face as Elita drove off into the night, not leaving any room for protest. The Commander placed her hands on her hips and glared at the titan. "Alright, Buckethead. We need to talk about Elita."

"No," Megatron automatically shut down.

"Nuh-uh! No! You cannot avoid this topic because she fucking hates you and wants to kill you! And I am trying to get her to not do that!" Hanji pointed to herself.

"Considering the fact that I have done everything in my power to avoid her at all costs I don't know what else I can do! But please tell me, mad scientist, in your all-seeing wisdom what could I possibly be doing wrong right now?" Megatron condescendingly asked.

Hanji's eye' twitched in response. "Did you really just fucking ask me that?! I could make a list of what you aren't doing wrong and that's barely a sentence! You existing and just being yourself is giving Elita every reason to want to kill you! And despite my interest in learning more about you, I still fucking hate you for giving the Survey Corps a damn headache! Despite the fact that I hate you and so does everyone else, Optimus still seems to give a shit about you despite his all-seeing wisdom! Cause any rationale person would look at you and avoid you like the damn plague!"

Hanji could see the snarl forming on Megatron's face as he snapped his helm away. "And guess what: despite the fact that I hate your guts, I am trying to do everything in my power to keep the peace because we need you both alive, and Optimus still cares enough about you to even try to save you from the Cybertronian who has every right to hate your guts!"

Hanji saw that snarl turn into a grimace of contempt and...remorse. "So you know what: I better hear a fucking 'thank you' out of you or else I'm just gonna let her do whatever the hell she wants to you! And I am very eager to see a repeat of what happened last time!"

Hanji crossed her arms while Megatron glared at her in anger. She saw Megatron place his servos on his hips and tap his pede. Megatron grit his dentas before hanging his head. "...thank you."

"What was that?!" Hanji raised a hand to cup her ear.

"THANK YOU!" Megatron shouted at her.

"YOU'RE WELCOME! LET'S GO HOME!" Hanji pointed to the island.

"You just said you hated me! Why in the Allspark would I take you to the island?!" Megatron demanded,

Hanji's expression turned into a sinister grin. "ELITA!"

"Alright! Alright! Keep your mouth shut! I will take you back!" Megatron panicked.

Hanji started laughing. "Oh, I'm going to love using this over you."

(More of a comedic take, even though this was meant to be a hurt/comfort question. Oh well.

#attack on prime #transformers prime #tfp #attack on titan #snk #aot #send me asks #asks #shingeki no kyojin #ao3 #hanji zoe #hange zoe #megatron #tfp megatron #elita one #elita 1 #elita-1 #what if elita survived aka the beloved timeline #tfp optimus #maccadam #macadam #dialogue #dialogue prompt #dialogue prompts #writing prompts

[kafkaoftherubbles]

话匣子：《致不灭的你》 日语名与英译名的小小想法

Due to what I do for a living (which my extra ass adamantly refers to as "language alchemy"), I easily fixate on certain features of languages and word choices. My favorite subtitles are dual-combo of Chinese and English because I get to compare notes between the two while watching stuff (reading Chinese subs while watching in English is a lot more effortful, and it risks distracting me from the show itself already). I even humor myself by giving characters "more authentic" (your mileage may vary) Chinese names that aren't transliterated (I was supposed to place a record of the names here, in this blog, but I balked in the end).

The point is: I have some thoughts about the Japanese title, 不滅のあなたへ, and its (official?) English translated title. There are two separate thoughts!

(1) Thoughts on the English-translated name first:

The most literal translation for 不滅のあなたへ would have been "to (へ) an immortal (不滅の) you (あなた)". As my non-TYE-watching best friend once pointed out, "Why the hell is the English name translated to what it is, though?"

The original rationale would have to come from the translator(s) who coined it, but I have a pretty strange interpretation of my own.

In English, there are forms of address to people in certain roles. The most famous example would be "Your Majesty," from Latin maiestas (greatness). Others one can easily think of will be "Your (Royal/Imperial) Highness", "Your Excellency", "Your Holiness", et al.—ya know, fancy schmancy human-created hierarchies. You catch my drift.

The "Your" in "Your Majesty" meant it as a second-person address, while the second word is whatever quality one associates with that role. "Majesty." "Holy". "Excellence."

And that is exactly how I interpret the English translation. Fushi is eternal, innit? So, "Eternity." And they are the immortal caretaker of their world's inhabitants. As much as I personally like to zero in on Fushi's humanity, I'd be remiss to forget their canonical divinity (or alien-ness! Meheheh!). They are necessarily seen as "an important figure occupying an important role" the way monarchs and popes are seen.

So to me, the English translation is a deferential address to Fushi.

I don't think the translator(s) who coined the translated name would ever see my post, but on that off-chance—however slim—they are reading it now? I wanna say, as a translator to another: brutha I love what you translated, man

(2) Thoughts on the Japanese title

The title is simple enough. "To an Immortal You." But it can also be read in a very... romantic or intimate way. The sort of "romantic" I'd expect from a poet or something!

It's kinda simple. あなた can also be used, by women (not sure about men/masculine genders), to mean "dear." An address for thy lovers.

So when interpreting it in that sense, doesn't this title become "To My Undying Beloved?"

Now, I don't pretend to know who, in this entire story, would be that person who calls Fushi "my eternal beloved". I honestly think that person is Ooima herself, ha! Maybe it's us, the readers. Or maybe it's the inhabitants under Fushi's care, or it really is one specific character (throw your bets!) in the story. Either way, it's fucking poetic, romantic, and/or poetically romantic.

---

Combining these two interpretations yields a pretty amazing picture, doesn't it? Imagine that! Someone in a wooden cabin sometime in winter, hunching over the table from their chair by a flickering candle. Writing a long, long letter to an undying beloved. A moving letter, written in experiential emotions and emotive experiences.

Perhaps it was narrated by the lives and life of this world, meant for its immortal caretaker. Perhaps it was written by an immortal being, meant for his successor.

Or perhaps it was written by the immortal themself, addressing all the lives and people they had, have, and will acquire. Because by being a part of them, these lives have been immortalized.

And as any letter penned by someone who fancies themself a wee bit of poetic flourish, it starts,

To, Your Eternity ...

----

Thank you for reading my ramble.

#fumetsu no anata e #to your eternity #fnae #to you the immortal #tye #a somewhat unserious serious analysis #happy fumetsu Tuesday/Wednesday!

[littlelillycatsworld]

sorry family rant

mother fucker you only just apologised for the shit you pulled on my birthday (second brother) and I came back to the family house for mum and dads sanity and the two youngest because they where missing me.

I've been home what 3hrs your girlfriend and friends are here fine great amazing and they where talking about the youngests Xbox series s or whatever that we (me and the eldest) got him for Christmas

and generally does he think before words leave his mouth? obviously not since he made a joke about me selling my body to old men to be able to pay for it (I don't but no judgement to anyone who makes money like that go off queen/king make that money)

and so obviously that really pissed me off I have two jobs and go to school full time so I done the rationale thing and punched him in the face. I honestly don't care if it was Infront of his girlfriend and friends he fucking deserved it. I didn't break his nose just gave him a nose bleed.

maybe it was objectively not the correct decision but I have a bad history with people saying things along the line of that to me mainly my now ex-close friends who used to say shit like this for 2 years and by the end of highschool I was fucking exhausted and embarrassed because they used to make these jokes about me to others without explaining that I get paid for every performance and competition.

ultimately this was one of the things that lead to my most recent attempt at self deleting.

love that he immediately ran to our parents without saying what he done to deserve it.

I'm going to stay with my friends parents for tonight since I'm so upset.

just one week without some bullshit is all I'm asking

#네네

[truly-sincerely]

Dark Star Falling (6 of ?)

Darling can tell this saccharine sentimentality is grating on Gortash. It’s hard enough for Darling, whose memories of Alfira are all wrapped up in guilt and regret, and of course there’s the Urge.

The thought is interrupted by another groundquake. Each of them reaches for the same candelabra instinctively. Darling swings their legs off the table and smirks at Gortash as the tremors subside. “This is the part where you tell me I should go.”

“You shouldn’t be wasting your time here. Orin has your–what was it?”

“My bear. She stole my bear,” they say, pretending to be hurt.

“Distracting me isn’t going to get your bear or our netherstone from Orin,” he growls, tiring of whatever this is. “Return to your little adventurer friends, clean yourself up, get some sleep, and make your father proud, or whatever it is you do in that gory ossuary.”

Sharp, hard laughter splits the room like a lightning strike. A wholly different laugh from earlier, but still Darling. They’re on their feet so fast their chair falls over. “That’s the answer! I figured it out! Fuck me, I really am that good,” they crow, their tail lashing back and forth behind them. They slap the table with both hands, “I know why this is all falling apart.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Dearest,” Gortash says. The guards have all taken half a step forward in alarm. He doesn’t look at them.

“We talked about this. You said we discussed why our predecessors failed, so we could succeed. No, I still don’t remember. But I solved it. Like the sphinx’s riddle.” Darling climbs up onto the table, completely losing themself in their revelry. He can see all of their sharp teeth when they say, “Now it’s my turn. I get to eat the sphinx. You’re so fucking clever but everyone has a blindspot.”

“Even you,” he keeps his voice firm as they advance on him on their hands and knees, spilling books and papers onto the floor. The candelabra they saved earlier goes too, but its everburning candles are harmless. It’s the tiefling on the table that seems surrounded by a halo of heat.

“Yesss,” they purr, sliding their hands over the embellishments on his lapels, pressing him against the chairback. They smell like sulfur, blood, and soot. “My blindspot got me killed and yours brought me back.”

They’re above him now, face as close as a kiss but only heat and breath pass between them. All of their weight comes down on him as one leg and then the other transfers from the table to the chair.

“Perhaps we should remove your armor,” he suggests, as the front of their chain skirt grinds into his lap. They snicker at him and slide their hands apart, pulling his jacket down around his elbows, ostensibly pinning his arms to his sides. Their hips sway, pushing the mail up against him rhythmically, and very quickly there’s even less room between the two of them.

“Don’t you want to know?” they whisper into his hair.

“You want to tell me, so go on.”

“People. You are utterly incurious about people. I misjudged Orin once but you misjudge everyone. They’re all statistics for you, and generalities. They have to be, don’t they? Anything else would be self-destruction,” Darling punctuates their sentences with little nips at his ear and neck. “Even me. We were partners for a decade or more, weren’t we? I’m sure of it. You didn’t mourn my loss. You went on without me. As tho I’d never been here. You let me be replaced. That’s when the plan failed.”

“You sound like a scorned, jealous lover.”

“This is why you need a poet too. What am I jealous of? You? Your praise? Your love for me? No. At the coronation it was our hard work, our plan. Did you mean any of what you said?” They’re pawing at his chest like a cat. If they weren’t wearing gloves he’d be in ribbons.

“I meant every word,” he says, taking one of their arms by the elbow and pulling the glove off.

“I wasn’t merely scorned. I was dead. Gone. A failure. A weakness that was excised,” they say with confidence, describing his rationale with unpleasant accuracy. “But without me you had no one to tell you that you were wrong. Ketheric was a self-important scold and Orin had nothing to contribute except as a warm body. Neither of them could’ve warned you not to send the Emperor after the prism. What was even the point of any of this without me to see it thru? You think you can rule your kingdom of ash, little tyrant? If anyone else had walked into that throne room with Ketheric’s stone you’d be lost already.”

Dearest had never said any of this to Gortash. They had never been this combative. They had never needed to prove anything with words–their actions were always enough. This desperate need to convince him of their competency is bordering on pathetic, but he can’t find fault in their words, as hard as those words are to hear.

They cup his chin in their hand, pulling his gaze back towards their face. “You can’t do that again,” they insist and the look in their eyes is so intense, so familiar, it doesn’t matter that they don’t remember. It doesn’t matter how much they’ve changed. Nothing matters.

“You’re making it sound as tho you’re going to disappear again,” he says. Darling slashes him across the chest in response. He groans and buckles, leaning into them and clenching his fists. They wrap their arms around his shoulders, using one to pull the glove off the other, while looking straight at the guard standing a few meters behind Gortash’s chair. Some idiot in a mask, probably called a Black Hand or something like that. Hard to tell thru the mask what they’re thinking about this turn of events.

“Were you around before? Do you remember me?” they ask rhetorically, knowing the goon won’t answer. They only answer to Banites. Darling’s expression is a challenge. The guards are all stock still. It’s kind of fun, having an audience. Darling sits up again and pushes Gortash’s shoulders back against the chair. “And what if I do?”

He clutches his chest, blood oozing thru his fingers, sliding off gold, coating skin. “I would wait for you,” he says, looking up with some effort, thru his fringe at Darling. They run bloody fingers thru his hair and loop their arms around his neck and wonder if it’s going to come to that.

First - Previous - Next

#dark star falling #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #durgetash #durge #gortash #If you saw a similar post go up two days ago no you didn't #this one fought me #I read the note about why they changed the Franc letters #and it basically was that they realized Gortash doesn't have a poetic bone in his body #slithering wet malice is just too purple #so I'm leaning into that #it pairs nicely with Darling switching from Paladin to Bard

[citrustan]

STMF is going to have to be a binge read for me when it's finished. I feel so much for OC having been in her position (kind of still am 😅). Feelings don't have controls, unfortunately. But... while I know every story has 2 sides, and the truth is somewhere in the middle. Everyone plays their part in it. It hurts to watch someone you love behave the way Yoongi is. And to OC not having a backbone... i get she needs to set boundaries with everyone! But sadly, when you're broken on the inside, all rationale kind of goes out the window. While I'm not sure of the fiancé intensions, you can not tell me that she's completely unaware of the hurt she's causing OC. She may well be nice (or whatever), but I have a feeling she knows and is playing up the nice roll. Cause you don't accept someone's proposal and they never tell you oh hey I have an ex who loves me and we have a little girl together. Oh, and BTW, I do her birthday parties and get her flowers cause 🤷‍♀️ I love to play both sides somewhat. I just hope that after OC loses Nao to them, she sees this as an opportunity to become stronger for herself after picking up her pieces. While they may not be fixed, it will help her breathe a little better. I do agree with anon who said get someone else to do the pick up and drop off. As that's the only way Yoongi will really SEE the effect his decisions have caused. Here's hoping for a happy ending for our OC and Nao. And Yoongi (even if he deserves a good seeing, too). Cause a happy family is what everyone deserves. Do what I could not OC!!! ✊️ 💜

Sorry for my rant 😅

omg fuck the story girl are you OKAY

you make good points yes; everyone played a role in the situation and no matter what their intentions were, it is what it is

i hope i do these characters justice 😭 pls don't apologise for sending me these wonderful messages pls

#anon #fic: slipping through my fingers

[eradicatetehnormal]

It's kind of validating to see this video. There are times I find myself toning my beliefs down because I'm scared of coming off as insane or radical, but like, "Trans people should be allowed to piss, play table tennis, or do anything else the rest of us do, without having to justify why they're there." Shouldn't be as radical of a take as it is. People shouldn't have to walk into a room worrying about whether or not their presence is making people uncomfortable because their breathing is too political.

Also nice to hear her saying what I don't hear enough people say. Public shaming and protesting are just as necessary as civil debate. Takes that at their core, have no rationale based on reality, and can be boiled down to "fuck trans people." Shouldn't be taken seriously. Especially when they come from the mouths of people who make no attempt to understand advanced biology or "transgenderism." How can you expect trans people and their allies to listen to people like Ben Shapiro and seriously debate him when he can't even tell you the difference between a drag queen and a trans woman? When he can't accept the fact that gender and sex are two separate things with two separate meanings. These people will go on and on about how we can't define what a woman is and how women should be feminine, but I've never once seen them define "feminity."

Well, whatever, I'm side-tracking. Point is, great video. I suppose there's always Artemis Fowl or Harriet Porber, but idk, I don't read.

#contrapoints #poltics #Youtube