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depressedkakashihatake-fics · 3 years

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Burden

KakaGai Week: Day One

Prompt: Burden

Words:1699

AU: Mafia Au

Edited by: @mireleth

The stench of blood lingered in Gai’s nose, as strong as it had been when the first shot had landed on its target. His stomach churned with every breath that he took so he tried desperately to breathe through his mouth. To avoid that awful stench for just a few seconds.

It never worked.

Placing a hand over his stomach, Gai hoped that it would settle to queasiness just a little. He had already emptied the contents of his lunch onto the ground in front of him, and he wasn’t sure if there was any more food to come up, so he wanted to avoid a third round. The thought of bringing up his own stomach acid did not sound like an enjoyable experience.

“You done?” Hearing Kakashi’s voice behind him, Gai brought his head up just enough so he could look back at his partner. As always, Kakashi was unaffected by what had just happened in the small building they had been in moments ago. A steel stomach that never failed him when he had to take care of the dirty work.

His face was as emotionless as always. Not for a second betraying how he was feeling about the firefight that he had just gotten into. Their job had been to exchange money for information from the Kirigakure gang, but the other group had decided that they wanted the money without having to give anything in return.

Speaking of which.

“Did you…” Kakashi held up the suitcase, which only made matters worse for Gai when he saw the blood dripping from it. “Oh god.”

Curling over himself again, he twisted his fingers into the fabric of his shirt as his chest compressed and another round of vomit came rushing up his throat, this time with a burning feeling that confirmed he had reached the end of his lunch.

This was terrible.

“You know, if you keep barfing on the crime scene it’s just going to make us look bad.” Kakashi’s voice was as calm as ever when he spoke, not for a second betraying the disappointment that Gai knew he must be feeling.

Eight years. They had been partners for eight years, three of which Kakashi had taken up the job as Shikaku’s best fighter. The guy who could go in and take down the enemy without flinching.

The man who had just taken out seven Kirigakure thugs without blinking an eye.

And even after all of those years Gai still couldn’t handle it. The bloody scenes that Kakashi created with his shuriken, gun, or whatever other weapon he happened to have on hand at the time. It always made Gai sick to his stomach.

When was Kakashi going to finally get sick of him and ask for a new partner? They weren’t kids anymore, getting sent out on all of the easy, bloodless jobs. He needed a partner who wasn’t going to be useless to him.

Someone who wouldn’t spew his DNA all over the scene of a crime like a five-year-old who just ate some bad hot dogs.

“Gai?” A hand came down onto his shoulder, squeezing gently when he didn’t respond right away. “Gai, are you alright? You’ve been standing there looking at your own barf for… well for a little too long, honestly.”

A hint of worry cracked through the calm façade that Kakashi always had up. A weakness Kakashi only ever seemed to show when it came to Gai. At least, that’s what it seemed like. He had never heard Kakashi’s voice waver when he was talking to someone else.

Taking a deep breath, Gai stood up slowly just to make sure he wasn’t about to vomit again, and turned to look at Kakashi. It wasn’t just Kakashi’s voice that had allowed worry to seep into it, but his face as well. With his brows furrowed and eyes that screamed concern, Gai found himself feeling even worse for the position he had put Kakashi in.

Was he really so useless to his own partner that he couldn’t be there to support him during a firefight?

“Gai, you’re not talking.” The façade shattered. Worry dripped in every word Kakashi said and his eyes searched Gai’s desperately for an answer. “What’s going on? Did something happen, did you… did they hurt you?”

The worry morphed into anger, and Kakashi’s eyes started to search Gai’s body for any signs of injury.

“I’m fine.” Dropping his hands to his sides, Gai couldn’t help but chuckle when Kakashi glared back at him. Somehow that annoyed look he always got for worrying Kakashi just a little too much always managed to bring a smile to his face. “I promise. I was not hit.”

“Good.” Removing his hand from Gai’s shoulder, Kakashi rested it against his hip and turned his attention back to the mess that Gai had made. “I guess we should clean up before we leave…”

“I’ll clean up?” Kakashi gave him an unimpressed look. “I haven’t done anything in this fight. Let me clean up.”

“It’s a firefight, Gai, i don’t expect you to do anything.” Somehow, those words didn’t make Gai feel any better. “You’re the muscle man. Your job is to scare people off and make sure I get out alive.”

Kakashi had never really been great at pep talks, but this was just painful.

“I’m your partner,” Gai spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m supposed to support you. Not…”

Throw up? Leave you to do all the work? Wimp out?

There were a lot of ways to explain what he had done, but he couldn’t settle on the right one.

“You’re my partner.” Hearing his words being said back to him, Gai forced himself to look up and meet Kakashi’s eye. A mistake in his opinion, because suddenly all of the guilt and shame he had been feeling just moments ago was replaced by a fuzzy warmth in the pit of his stomach. One he didn’t deserve to have after he had failed to stay by Kakashi’s side through the fight. “We work together well, Gai, just the way we are.”

“You don’t think I’m… well,” he averted his eyes, unsure of how to word himself in the right way, “I’m not in your way? You don’t want a partner who will actually help you out with these jobs?”

A hand came up to rest against his cheek, the leather of Kakashi’s gloves rubbing against his skin.

“Turtle.” He couldn’t help but blush a little at Kakashi’s use of that old ridiculous nickname he had come up with when they were fourteen years old on a job to deliver food to one of the communities that Shikaku watched over “You’ll never be in my way. In fact, I kind of like that you’re not interested in helping out.”

“You-you do?”

“Ya.” He could almost see the smile hidden behind Kakashi’s mask. That soft, beautiful look Kakashi always reserved for the moments they could steal away together. “I used to always say I work better alone, didn’t i? Well that’s partially true. I work really well with you when we need to protect someone. I can’t imagine trying to keep Shikaku safe and alive without you by my side.”

That wasn’t really a lie. Kakashi was extremely good at keeping Shikaku safe, but he could also be a little overbearing sometimes. Always on edge and looking over their shoulders. He seemed to relax just a bit when Gai was by his side, focusing more on keeping an eye out for anyone who could strike from far away while leaving Gai to deal with anyone who tried to go in for a close attack.

“Still.” Kakashi’s hand moved down his face, his finger tracing over Gai’s jawline before settling on the back of his neck. With his hand firmly in place, Kakashi gave Gai a gentle tug, pulling him just close enough so that he could push their foreheads together without having to move himself at all. “I’m quite happy to be taking care of the bloody fights by myself.”

Meeting Kakashi’s gaze, Gai drew in a shaky breath. “Why?”

“Isn’t that obvious, Turtle?” His face only seemed to burn hotter with embarrassment when Kakashi used that nickname a second time. “If you were to stay and help in a fight, you could get hurt. If that happened…”

A dark look crossed over Kakashi’s face for a moment, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“If anything were to ever happen to you, I would burn down the world.” He said it as if it was a promise. “And then… well I don’t think you want to know what I’d do next.”

A shiver ran down Gai’s spine. The words didn’t need to leave Kakashi’s mouth for him to know what he was talking about. Kakashi had always been a reckless man, considering his life secondary to those around him no matter how much he and Shikaku tried to get him to change his outlook.

Most days he could tell that Kakashi only held on for those people who wanted him to stay in their lives. On those days he felt almost selfish for wanting Kakashi to stay alive. For demanding that he take care of himself and keep breathing, when he could see how much Kakashi was still suffering in silence.

Perhaps it was selfish, but then of course Kakashi wasn’t any better.

“Now,” pulling himself out of his thoughts, Gai focused on the feeling of Kakashi’s hand as it moved down to his arm and settled on his bicep, “let’s get this mess cleaned up and head back to fill Shikaku in. After that i can…”

Kakashi moved his head just enough to whisper the rest of his sentence into Gai’s ear, his lips brushing against the tender skin. Sweet promises of a long night, and Kakashi’s thumb rubbing small circles into his bicep helped to take his mind off of the bloodbath that they had left behind in the building, and the guilt he had felt over not staying by Kakashi’s side to help him.

He was where he needed to be now. Where Kakashi wanted him, and that was all that mattered.

#Kakagai #KakaGai Week 2020 #Kakagai week #KakagaiWeek #Mafia Au

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khangowrites · 3 years

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Is it a Complaint Essay or is the Workplace Unsuitable?

Ah, what am I writing today? Oh, well I suppose it’s almost 12am. Seems like a good a time as any. I wanted to just jot down a few re-occurring experiences I’ve had in the workplace and sometimes in other social spaces, and attempt to analyze them.

CW: mild mentions of abuse and bodily ailments.

A bit of forward: I tend to mask myself heavily whenever I am in any social situation; whether it be at work, at home, with friends or online (although I’m getting better at being myself on Discord at least. I owe a lot to my friends who accept me and whom I care so much about.) What this means is I often plan out what I’m needed to say in advance of a situation. I have an arsenal of about 5 minutes of small talk before I tank and several small greetings/placations I can cycle through on any given day if I’m not overloaded. I also limit my natural inclination to movement.

It’s called unprofessional/unsightly to sit with your legs folded under you, or to sway and shake your arms and legs back and forth in time to music in your head. But it’s okay if you tap your pencil. Everyone does that.

I have to wonder how noticeable my ‘masked’ self is. How real or fake it appears.

There have been a few trends I’ve seen with the way people treat me as an employee in the time I’ve been in the workforce. For clarity, I am a 23 year old 5’1” AFAB person with a face that looks like it stopped aging when I was 12. I’m non-binary, but I’ve seen that many have a hard time using a different pronoun for me because I look ‘so feminine’. I had one old man repeatedly tell me that my body was too pretty and that I shouldn’t hide it and ‘pretend’ to be something else. I was and still am quite unsettled and disgusted by that comment.

I haven’t used my full preferred pronouns at work simply based in fear of being fired or discriminated against further. Same thing at home- I haven’t told all my family out of fear. I may look back on this at some future date where I fully respect myself and I’m confident. I look forward to that day.

Oh, and I’m autistic.

Perhaps it is one of these things or all of them that cause people to treat me certain ways. I’d like to find out.

I worked outdoors at an Orchard for a season. They called me Cinderella because of the way I looked when I cleaned. They gave employees gloves and heaters. Only not me. When I asked, I was given a broken one and told to fix it. A coworker who had intellectual disabilities and poor eyesight was not offered a heater at all. I did not renew for the next season. Kim and I stayed in touch though.

I worked next at a gift shop at a historical site. I loved the history and the old buildings, but the cashier work was admittedly difficult. Most of the employees were kind, retired old ladies who treated me gently, like a child. Sometimes too much like a child. The assistant manager seemed wary of me, and she often avoided me. I don’t know why. I’m not good with eye contact, and I always fear that people will mistake my zoning out as being creepy or disrespectful; maybe it was that. She never brought her kids with her on days I worked.

The head manager was courteous, but always called me Special. We had an older man work in the last 2 years I was there who had a strong inclination to associate with the children at the shop, and in turn, me as well. He would always want a hug or pat me on the back, but ignored the other workers. I told the managers my uncomfortable feelings about him, but it went mostly unnoticed.

When it was found that I was decent with computers, I was tasked with entering jewelry into the system and creating labels with number associations. I enjoyed it, and they promised me a decent raise. My pay was raised a dollar several weeks later, and I found myself being tasked with more and more computer work, to the point of becoming an office manager myself, earning a grand total of 9 dollars an hour while my counterpart who started a year earlier owned a home on the same work.

I left that job after 4 years to be the music director at a local church. I love music and was excited. Maybe too excited. I developed acid re-flux and was hospitalized the week before my start day due to a panic attack. I realize now it was from stress. I also had an ovarian cyst removed a year later- it took up my entire pelvis and its formation was also attributed to stress. I’ve since been diagnosed with generalized anxiety, and I continue to have ever changing digestive issues, muscle problems and panic attacks.

After realizing I was autistic and also non-binary, so much of the stress of life started to make sense. The past few months I have been making life changes, and working towards finding a workplace that is accommodating and safe for me. My stress has lessened.

I worked at the church for 2 years. My last day is actually at the end of this month. As is the trend, I was not treated with respect when it came to my job. My pastor started choosing the hymns over me, and would make comments about me during services. His favorite was to say that my music made him fall asleep, and wait for laughter from the congregation. He had no musical knowledge, and forced me to play every song as fast as I possibly could. He didn’t believe I could do my job. Any attempts at mutual work failed to manifest. I unfortunately was groomed by a member of the hiring committee there as well, a type of abuse I didn’t even realize I had fallen into until several months after it was too late.

I currently work at a high school as a choir accompanist. I use she/they pronouns there, but no one uses they and I’m too worried to be fully they like I am outside of work. I am wary of soiling my relationship with the director further. She’s quite religious in the ‘gays don’t have rights’ way, so I have my fears.

The director is kind, but sees me as this innocent child that happens to have natural piano abilities, and the mutual respect that I’ve come to dream of just isn’t there again.

The director has the key to the doors and lets students in without fail, but conveniently forgets to let me in almost every day. At one time, I was in physical therapy and had a hard time standing and walking for any period of time. I almost went home because she didn’t answer any communication, class started 20 minutes previously, and it was 90 degrees outside and I needed to sit down because my legs were cramping. She plans the music weeks in advance, but doesn’t give them to me until the day the students get it, despite my repeated asking for time to prepare.

One day I was on zoom and she and the student teacher greeted me and then ignored my presence and played the piano herself for class. She struggled with the parts and commented to the choir that, “wow, Ms. Khango is actually pretty dang good at this- that little girl can play!”, but didn’t listen to me when I offered to play. I left the zoom after an hour.

The online students seemed to share my surprise at least, and I am grateful to them. They kept me grounded and reminded me that I matter and should have the same respect as everyone else in the room, zoom or not. They talk to me about not being heard and their chats not being read during class. It bothered me, too. The next week I brought it up to her in the form of making sure the zoom students were heard and she quickly dismissed it, like it was a puff of smoke. The students online now ask me questions directly and I relay them. It’s met with annoyance by the director.

They have voices too.

One of the scariest moments of my life was last week- I wore my ‘disability rights are human rights’ shirt to school. (Okay, maybe not scary to some, but it very much was for me.) After class, one of the students came to me and asked if I could help him find a way for his grandfather to get a seat at the concert, as he was disabled and he didn’t know how to proceed.

It filled me with joy to help him, and it filled me with rage when the teachers asked if his grandpa could just get out of the wheelchair instead.

My overall conclusion to all of these things is that people simply don’t understand, or don’t want to because it makes their lives harder.

Is discrimination and ignorance really easier than respecting people?

I’m not sure if this is all just one big complaint essay. I guess it is. What I needed to do was write it all out. All the things that make me uneasy or feel like lesser of a person. And I wanted to know why.

I note that at every job I am perceived as a child, or as someone naïve. I am not treated the same as another adult employee. I was ostracized for my way of moving and talking. Taken advantage of. My needs were not accommodated.

Even now, I feel guilt for writing this, like I’m just playing the victim for attention or something.

I want to be strong enough to stand up to it and ask to be treated with respect and have it follow through.

I want to unmask myself more and let myself move and talk naturally, and use my real pronouns.

My respect for myself and for others must become a powerful force.

My friends on discord- my real, genuine friends, have become monumental in my life. Most of my life I did not have true friends. Without them and their unconditional love and support, I would not be where I am right now. We are all equals. I want to embody that strong respect and bring it to others.

It’s getting late. 1 a.m. now. Well, I have tomorrow. Plenty of time for Star Trek.

#workplace problems #actuallyautistic #essay #nonbinary #figuring out life

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quoth-the-sparrow · 4 years

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Error 404: Gay Malfunction

A Sanders Sides One Shot

Warnings: Sympathetic.Morally Grey Deceit, one blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hint at something nsfw (If I need to add anything, let me know)

Pairings: Loceit

Description: Deceit enjoys flirting with a certain logical side

Word Count: 804

A/N Part 1: This was written for Deceit’s birthday, but mostly it’s just a self-indulgent fic of my two favorite characters flirting. So I hope y’all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

You can also find this story here on ao3

“Well well well, isn’t this a surprising turn of events? What would goody-two-shoes Patton say if he knew you agreed with someone as evil as me?” Deceit feigned a look of shock and horror, but Logan could see the delight sparkling in his mismatched eyes.

“I never said I agreed with you completely; I said you had a few solid points in your argument. As for what Patton would say, I can’t quite say it matters one way or the other. Despite your… at times questionable methods and beliefs, I am aware you only want what’s best for Thomas. You’re not nearly as bad or ‘evil’ as the others believe you to be.” Logan hesitated before continuing. “In fact, I think there’s more good in you than anything else. Certainly more than what you show to almost everyone here.”

Dee’s expression slipped from fake to genuine, and Logan gave his fellow side a small smile. He thought that would be the end of it, but then the look he was giving Logan went from surprised to mischievous.

“Oh no…”

“Aww, Logan, I didn’t realize you liked me so much! How embarrassing for you.”

A blush spread across Logan’s face as he struggled to think of a comeback. Normally he could quip back with no trouble, often one-upping whoever tried to verbally spar with him. There was just something about Dee’s teasing that always made him flustered. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with how attractive and distracting he was, especially in that outfit; absolutely not.

Deceit pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning on and sauntered towards Logan. Almost unbidden, his eyes drifted down towards Dee’s hips, down to the thighs that were peeking through from under his pastel yellow skirt with every step, the sharp contrast between scales and skin so mesmerizing. He could have stared at those gorgeous thighs all day but then a gloved hand cupped his chin, tilting his face back up and- oh. Deceit was incredibly close now, so close he could feel the warmth of his breath against his lips.

“As flattered as I am by your staring, my eyes are up here. Didn’t anyone ever teach you any manners?”

Logan’s brain short-circuited, his breath catching in his throat. Dee let out a low chuckle. “You’re so cute when you’re at a loss for words. There’s nothing I love more than being able to render you speechless like this.”

Logan couldn’t handle it anymore. Things had been slowly escalating between them for months; intense gazes and lingering touches and the constant flirting- it was enough to drive him mad, but hell if he didn’t love every second of it. Dee had been the one to initiate all the moves lately and it was Logan’s turn to retaliate. So he did the first thing he thought of to do: he wrapped his arms around Deceit and kissed him.

Deceit certainly hadn’t been expecting that particular move, judging by his muffled gasp of surprise. However, it didn’t take him long before he started kissing Logan back with a fierce intensity, and yes, all those months of longing and flirting had definitely been worth it.

His hands ran through Logan’s hair and their bodies pressed against one another. Logan’s hands roamed down Dee’s back and settled on his hips and he couldn’t focus on anything but the sensations Dee was making him feel. All of the flowery descriptions of what passion supposedly felt like now made perfect sense: the fire in his veins, the butterflies in his stomach, the electricity in the air.

Dee was the one to pull away, and Logan couldn’t help the whine that escaped his throat. Deceit grinned at this, looking for all the world like the cat that got the canary.

“We can continue this later, if you’d like. Perhaps somewhere more private?” Logan nodded, trying to school his expression into something that resembled calm composure, though the low tone of Dee’s voice made it difficult to do so.

Dee moved away and disappeared with nothing more than a wink. Logan stared at the empty space for a minute before sinking down onto the couch, his legs unable to support him any longer. He would have stayed there, trying and failing to make sense of all that had just happened if Virgil hadn’t come down the stairs and into the living room.

“Hey, L, what’s… up?” His voice faltered as he stared at Logan, his gaze shifting from curiosity to suspicion as he took in the logical side’s mussed hair and the still-present blush on his cheeks.

“Uh, do I even want to know what the hell just happened here?” Virgil asked.

Logan cleared his throat, one hand running through his hair and the other nervously adjusting his tie. “I don’t believe so, no.”

A/N Part 2: Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! If you’d like to be added or removed from my taglist, please let me know by sending me an ask. You can find me on ao3 at Storytelling_Sparrow. Thank you so much for your continued support!

Taglist: @theresneverenoughfandoms @galaxywitchwolf13 @magicallygrimmwiccan @daring-elm @creativity-killed-thekitten @007ardra @princeyssash @demigodnamedathena @khadij-al-kubra @im-shooting-straight @princewroammin @gayzelley @it-me-the-phi @elfarmyenby @sparkedawg @ironwoman359 @today-only-happens-once @areyousirius-noheisdead @madly-handsome @milomeepit @princelogical @silversmith-91 @xxladystarlightxx @poisonedapples @romanamongthestars @ab-artist @ninjago2020 @anuninspiredpoet @justanormalfoot @gemini-the-kitsune-rp @youvegotafiendinme @aizawaisnotstraight @therubyjailcell

#sparrow writes #sanders sides fanfiction #ts deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #logan sanders #loceit #fluff #flirting #boys in skirts #Deceit is a little shit #self-indulgent fic

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randomwriteronline · 5 years

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Double Crossed

a collab between the incredibly wonderful @insane-control-room and me, set in their Pathogenink AU.

Silvestro Agnes belongs to one of my AUs.

Silvestro had a specific type of way to walk. His gait was smooth, slow, and all (far too) important. It was the kind of walk that makes one’s hands itch terribly as soon as he came in their line of sight, barely resisting the urge to slap him across the face to wipe it clean of its damn cockiness. He knew very well who he was - the best, most handsome, most perfect person in the whole damn world. Sure, he might have worked for someone; but that someone wore a stupid, ugly, misshapen mask, hiding himself from fame. What kind of fool would do such a thing? Resist the limelight so violently?

(An example came to mind, and he gave a single, loud, contemptuous laugh. Birds of a feather, weren’t they, the weirdos and outcasts of the world? Although he had to thank his brother’s choice. At least, his wonderful face would have never been associated with a monstrous creep of his caliber.)

Silvestro decided that he wore a mask to hide his vile face - he had seen Mr. Joey Drew slip white gloves onto dark hands, marred with heavy scarring. It seemed likely to Silvestro that those scars were all over his “boss”’s face as well. And the pin on his chest solidified that - he was afraid. Silvestro almost laughed as he walked home. How could that poor, nervous, and gay fool not be terrified? Silvestro knew about the death threats as much as anyone else did, but he also knew that Joey could care less about them.

He was just a walking paradox, Silvestro decided. So scared, yet so fearless.

Naive.

A car pulled up beside him.

“Silvestro Anges?” a low and dangerous voice spoke to him from the window of it, the being wearing dark sunglasses. “We have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow. His blue eyes evaluated his interlocutor, and concluded that he was far better than anybody that might have been. “You don’t really think I will just accept anything from the first who comes by, do you now?”

“Sir, I’m certain you’d like to hear this one,” the person said, covertly showing him a stack of money. “This is… very important.”

Silvestro spared the dollars a quick disgusted glance: “That is the best you can do?” he mocked, lips rising in a joyless smirk.

Might have not been a prostitute, the agent thought increasingly angrily, but God if he wasn’t one expensive bitch.

“If your eminence would please let me give him a lift,” they hissed through gritted teeth, “We might just find a compromise.”

Finally. Someone who addressed him rightfully.

Silvestro opened the car door unceremoniously and stepped inside.

“So.” he began, “Who wants me?”

“You’ll see soon, your highness,” the agent replied, trying desperately to keep the sarcasm from dripping into their monotone. They pulled up to a fancy looking hotel, and Silvestro was bowed out of the car. “Right this way, my liege. He’s waiting. He’s heard much about you and is very… anticipatory to work with you.”

The smile on Silvestro’s face was beautiful - at least, it looked beautiful, as did his visage and body and whole being. But it wasn’t beautiful, not in the slightest. There was something that must have once been hidden deep within the person that he was, now taking the form of a revolting mucus oozing from his every pore, making his natural beauty slip and melt off his skin. And underneath it remained only a nasty, viscid, annoying, insufferable little man who believed too much in something he wasn’t ever going to be close to being.

They entered a room together, and Silvestro recognized the faces of Disney and his current co conspirer, Fleischer. They both studied him as he sat with self importance, splaying himself with his legs spread far and wide to assert his position in the room as the greatest one there.

“So, Mr. Anges…” Disney began, and pulled out a briefcase, sorting through a few files. “You work at Joey Drew Studios. I assume you see your boss often. Now, a man of your caliber certainly shouldn’t even be under someone, isn’t that right?”

Silvestro grinned. At last, someone knew who they were talking to.

“Undoubtedly,” he cooly replied, knowing it was he that should be on top, not Joey. “And?”

“We’d like to help you with that,” Fleischer leaned back, steepling his fingertips. “We can offer you quite a bit of… resources, to get the job done.”

“You want me to do your dirty work for you and kill him?” Silvestro rose an eyebrow and bent forward, making a motion to leave. He might have been a lot of things, but he was not some animator’s hitman. He hated getting his hands dirty as much as anyone else. “I think I’ll decl-”

“Not kill,” Disney interrupted him, looking at him with dark indifference. “Expose.”

For once, Silvestro shut his mouth. His eyebrows rose higher and his eyes widened ever so slightly, intrigued. He leaned back on the chair slowly, a cat contemplating whether to eat the mouse or play ruthlessly with it, head reclined in a silent order to continue.

“You see, Mr. Anges,” Disney smiled, glad to have his attention. “This Joey Drew is a menace - not a threat or problem, but clearly, if he was known for who he was under the mask, he would obviously lose his status, otherwise why would he hide himself? He must be a villain or bandit beneath it. And so, we’d like to hire you to discover who he is and spread the knowledge to us.”

“And once you do have that knowledge?”

“We will drag him into the dirt and make him regret he had ever decided to enter this business.”

Humiliation.

Silvestro’s grin grew wider and wider, face grimacing grotesquely at the thought of Drew’s impending, inescapable misery.

“I see we’ve got a deal.” he chirped, white teeth gleaming malicious from the small space between his parted lips.

Joey was not at work the next day. Or the one after. Silvestro managed to track down Henry, the elusive secondary owner of the studio, and asked where Joey was.

“Out,” was the only answer he got, Henry shrugging. “Don’t worry about your checks, though, I know how to sign my name.”

Neither did Bertrum or Cohen answer him, both apparently clueless.

Silvestro began to think of it as a covert team up against him, and so, one day, he went to work early, thinking that the rest of his coworkers showed up before time, and Joey gave them orders and vanished for the day.

The door of the studio opened noiselessly, and Silvestro put that to the younger twin. Of course that Franks lad would spend extra meticulous time to make sure that each and every door would be silent. Still, in this moment, he was glad about it - he was less likely to be noticed by any of the lunatics that bothered working at that studio. He strutted through the halls, finding them all eerily empty, not a soul around. He made his way down to Joey’s office, to check if the man was actually there and secretly leaving orders. He opened the door, expecting to catch him red handed, but found the office completely empty. He frowned. Where could the bastard be?

He grumbled to himself, handsome features now soured by not only that repulsive internal disgustingness, but also his annoyance with the situation.

Wandering about the silent and empty halls, he decided to do a bit of exploring. He knew the studio was quite vast, and nearly all of it was designed by Joey. A hint of where said man lived must be hidden in the architecture of the place, and so he began inspecting the area with a hawk’s eye.

Yet he found, to his growing frustration, absolutely nothing.

The building was as plain as Joey was.

It infuriated him, and he stalked upstairs to leave, when he suddenly noticed something strange.

Was there always an attic of the studio?

Part of him laughed at the thought, the other found it absurd, and at the same time, it made perfect sense. Where else would useless old things be stored? Of course Joey could not bear to part with anything. Being sentimental felt just pathetic enough to be right for the kind of person he was. Silvestro smiled as he made his way up the ‘extra’ set of stairs, already envisioning what he would find in the rooms above - everything neatly sorted away into little piles, each one hand marked with what they were, carefully and cautiously. And of course, among the mess, there were bound to be traces of Joey Drew’s elusive private life - little forgotten hints nobody thought would ever be found again, like letters, cards, anything that might have had an address printed on it. A bountiful chest of treasure awaiting none other than him and him alone.

Like a treasure chest, the door to the attic was locked. He smirked and rolled his eyes at the simple contraption, pulling a filched ring of keys from his pocket, and tested them one by one, and found that not a single one of them fit the lock. Perplexity turned swiftly into anger, and he went down to Lacie’s workstation, snatching a hammer.

At first, he wanted to smash through the whole thing, until he remembered he wanted to keep this covert. As a sentimental old fool, Joey would be bound to check the attic often, and once realizing that it was broken into, he would also understand that his situation was compromised.

So he set to work of carefully removing the door from its hinges, slowly lifting it away when he finished, excited to open up the trove and dive right in, discover all the hidden details of Joey Drew’s life.

But once he actually got into the attic, he found nothing of the sort: instead, his dismayed and stupefied eyes beheld what seemed to be a fully fledged apartment. He recognized a living room, a kitchen, a lunch table, a couch, pictures, flowers. Everywhere he turned he was assaulted by the feeling of having just broken into someone else’s home while they were away, not that he truly minded.

Honestly, he felt rather offended.

What kind of fucking joke was this?

He passed a hand over his eyes, blinked them a couple times, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then looked at his surroundings again. No, he found that he was not dreaming. The attic was a house. And somebody was living there, right above everybody else’s heads.

This felt like something out of a mystery novel, a hidden alcove in plain sight.

He shook his head: well, if this was someone’s apartment, the owner would have left something behind. Now, he thought. Who would be so desperate to sleep above an animation studio? Certainly not some decent fellow, oh, goodness, no. Nobody would stoop so low. Unless of course the ‘decent fellow’ was truly an efferate criminal, hiding under Drew’s wing and roof. Oh, that would have been perfect for Mr. Disney. Or perhaps… Agh, there it was again. That bony, unhealthy, disgusting face with bicolored eyes came to the forefront of his thoughts.

Of course. Of course! Of course Karpos would be the perfect candidate for being found living in some random guy’s basement. Or in their attic, in this case. No wonder he had not seen him often lately.

And wouldn’t you know it, as Silvestro tiptoed through the apartment and into a snugly furnished bedroom, there he was, on a bed far too comfortable for what he deserved, cuddling against another lanky being like the lizards he so disgustingly adored. Revolting.

Silvestro glazed over him, looking for clues.

An eaten bowl of soup on the side table, some papers scattered on the floor-

Then he realized what he had seen and - no no no, he slapped his cheek to wake up fully and checked again.

That was his twin brother, sleeping soundly just underneath the all too fluffy blanket. And next to him was a body, a human body, or at least it looked human, with an arm wrapped around him sweetly and gently and a book on its lap. He was seconds from having a stroke. Masks covered both beings’ faces, both of which were well known for Silvestro.

No way.

It was just so, so impossible, but all the pieces fit into the puzzle like so many intricate knobs and keys, fitting in so perfectly. Of course that gay artist would-

Hold up.

Gay. Brother. NO WAY. NOPE.

He recoiled. His brother. His twin. Gay. Having sex with his boss. Was it contagious? He’d spent more time than he would have liked - oh stop that, you know it isn’t. Gay brother. Gay brother… Well, it made sense. It made perfect sense, actually. He had to be gay, honestly, because Silvestro was the normal one, the perfect one, and he was a horrible mistake of nature full of awful perversions. It made perfect sense. He would have had to teach him a lesson, now that he had found out. The thought of beating his stupid brother senseless calmed Silvestro down a bit, allowing him to consider the situation a little better. Joey Drew, laying on a bed with the crazy handyman. Clearly, this wasn’t a coincidence. Oh no, it wasn’t. This was perfect slander to spread.

‘How could I phrase it?’ he wondered as he peeked at a sliver of Joey’s face that poked out of his mask. It had to be something shocking, something completely and totally demolishing, bringing Joey’s reputation down to the very depths of hell. ‘Let me see….’

Famed animator Joey Drew hires mentally retarded men to have wild sex with them, keeping them around for more.

No, no. That was not quite right, he knew there was a detail off. He inspected the strand of deep blue hair that framed his boss’s dark face from around his mask, and that slender arm around his brother: Joey clearly was not nearly strong enough to deal with that devil of his twin. He couldn’t have possibly forced himself into the damn animal even if he had tried with all of his strength. Ah, no, that was it! He wasn’t the one on top, no, he could never be! He liked the feeling of dick in his ass too much! And who would be better to pound mercilessly into his thin and pathetically weak frame than a mindless savage beast like Karpos?

Oh, it made such perfect sense, and was so good for anyone wanting to ruin the thin animator’s secretive reputation.

Famed and beloved animator Joey Drew pays mentally retarded men to fuck him mercilessly, then housing them in the attic of his animation studios and keeping them around under the cover of ‘employees’.

No wonder he had trouble walking. Oh, that sounded so good. He smirked, oozing maliciousness as his eyes trailed over what he could see of the man’s sculpted cheekbone, his mask tilted just a bit to keep off of Karpos, so gentle. Absolutely grotesque.

That mask needed to go, both figuratively and literally. As did those damned blankets and whatever kind of clothes he might have been hiding that voluptuous frame under.

Hold. Hold on. He frowned. What the hell? What the hell. Sure, he had seen his boss’ body before, but could only imagine what it was like under clothes, though he was certain of slender hips and slim muscles, but there was no reason to, to see it for himself. He shook his head, his eyes falling on the sleeping man’s neck, a small, thin, creamy scar peering over his dress shirt. He shook it again, more harshly, and again he stared at that inviting throat, gently moving with motions within deep and mysterious skin, just waiting to be claimed with a sharp and digging bite -

He leaned his head back, inhaled, and exhaled, shaking his shoulders out, slapping his cheeks slightly to snap out of his infectious thoughts. He was getting himself worked up thinking of the malicious, awful, simply delightful slander he was going to spread about the animator. He smiled to himself as he gripped the curve of the mask covering Joey’s face, ready to learn who he was.

Joey stirred slightly as Silvestro was taking the mask off, but he did not wake up. His head turned gently on the pillow, his dark skin streaked by a few fragile looking scars, one on his neck, another on his forehead, and a final one barely noticeable on his lip, fine china patterns on delightful night skin, turning into a sculpture of brown agathae. Silvestro’s mouth went dry as he bit his lower lip, eyes hungrily, predatorily tracing his boss’s features as he breathed heavily, from his blue eyebrows to the tired heavy eyelids and then down, down, down the slope of his nose to reach beautiful full lips that were just begging to be forced open and bitten and left hanging as the soft voice of Joey Drew moaned his na -

WOMEN. HE LIKED WOMEN. THIS WAS UTTERLY DISGUSTING. GOD, THE NERVE OF THIS MAN. TO SEDUCE HIM EVEN AS HE LAID SLEEPING.

He would have fucking torn him apart. He would have shredded his reputation into confetti, just like he would with his clothes and then fucked him in the a- NO! JUST THE REPUTATION. NOT THE ASS. Mental and social destruction. Not physical. Not physical. No shoving him on his dick for a whole night, keeping him awake and fully aware of his plight. Just slander.

Just slander.

Ok, maybe a bit of ass too - NOOO. Reputation. Only reputation.

Actually you know what? Fuck him. Fuck him hard. Goddamnit, he deserved it, Joey negatively and he positively. He had been denied by every single woman in the bastard’s damn studio (and also was slightly afraid of asking again because last time the manager had nearly killed him, as had the engineer, and the singers, and the writers - damn, every woman nearly sliced his head off, be it with a microphone, saw, or deadly sharp pen, or just… straight up nearly decapitated him with a punch… God that crazy Irish bitch of a manager was scary) and he had been too lazy to actually get himself some company for two whole weeks. If he wanted to get off, this was his chance. It did not even make him gay. He was just taking advantage of a shitty, lowly, handsome piece of fiery hot meat and teaching the pervert a lesson. He could twist the whole story and claim he was forced to do this. Perfect. More slander. All according to plan.

He was so caught up in his inner machinations that he barely noticed a groan (though his skin prickled from it, goosebumps breaking out on his arms), and a rustle, and finally bright, wonderful red eyes opening, still hazy from the long sleep.

And god, those eyes were so gorgeous and alluring, and Silvestro wanted them half lidded and misted over with pleasure and salacity, looking like that at Silvestro as he raked his hands over his sides and pulled away from deep lecherous kisses….

“‘ska…” Johan called, breaking the intruder’s fantasy, his voice like hundreds of star songs, suffocating a yawn, touching his face, silently questioning where and when his mask had vanished from it. “Whu'r’ y’ doin’…?”

Silvestro jumped back, finally aware of what was happening. As red as a bleeding heart robin, he mixed his anger and lust in a big, messy and nasty bomb that began the countdown to its detonation immediately. He undid his tie with haste, positively furious.

Joey’s eyes found him in the room, squinting to recognize him in the late moonlight.

“… ‘vestro?”

“Shut the fuck up.” he hissed in warning, his free hand going to press against Joey’s mouth as fast as he could. “Not a word.”

Johan muffled something, a confused request of explanations maybe, but Silvestro ignored it. He leaned quickly towards the other man’s face while trying to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Look at you,” he sneered. Joey’s eyebrows knitted together in question, so Silvestro took it upon himself to explain, leaning closer, his hand going down to Joey’s neck, feeling and relishing in the sensation of his palm against his beard, pushing on his gullet just enough to keep him from making noise, but giving him just enough air to breathe. Their faces were mere inches apart. “Disgusting. How could you sleep in the same bed as Karpos? You’re such a loser, you know? You make me sick. That’s why you’ll be having me tonight, to learn what it’s really like, to be fucked silly. Won’t you like that, a big fucking dick in your ass? Even if you say you don’t want it? Even if you say it hurts? Even if you tell me, beg me, to stop? You know what that will get you? A good old beating, choking every single little breath out of you - oh, won’t you be trying to scream tonight! You thought Karpos was a beast, you faggot? You thought he fucked you good? God, you have no idea what the hell is in store for you.”

Joey’s eyes were so wide, shocked and confused and hazy with sleep, and yet his chest shook with slight coughs stolen by Silvestro’s pressing hand, his mouth open with the need for air. Silvestro leaned closer, opening his own mouth to taste Joey’s, already thinking of all the delicious flavors and whimpers he’d get from him, their lips brushing for a moment, Silvestro tasting a hint of cinnamon, sugar -

- and TONK, went his head against an equally hard one.

The headbutt nearly sent him tumbling to the floor. Upon the bed a paranormal silhouette perched up on all fours to shield Johan with the little mass of his skeletal body, the artist gasping feverishly, rubbing at his throat, but looking at Karpos gratefully, and Karpos - Eska, his name was Eska, no matter what his brother insisted on calling him - Eska hissed at him violently like a murderous feline. He couldn’t bare his teeth, for they, much like the rest of his face, were carefully hidden, but those of his mask gave a pretty good idea of how he would have looked.

Silvestro shivered, but his ego didn’t give in: “You fucking animal!” he barked at his twin, and Johan covered his face in fear and shame, “Go jerk off somewhere else! You’ve had your turn!”

“EVERY LAST WORD COMING OUT OF YOUR GODFORSAKEN MOUTH IS BUT ANOTHER BRICK PAVING THE ROAD TO YOUR INEVITABLE AND UNSPEAKABLY PAINFUL CANNIBALIZED FRATRICIDE.” Eska thundered in response, his deep, raspy, crackling voice tearing at his throat. One of Johan’s hands searched for Eska’s arm to rest on it, trying to keep him calm and grounded.

Silence fell for a couple of minutes. All parties in the attic remained perfectly still, aside from Johan’s trembling hand on Eska’s arm, and Silvestro felt a pang of envy, but it was quickly quenched by the recalling of his brother’s terrifying words.

Finally, Silvestro’s voice rose, horrified: “Since when are you capable of complex thought?”

“SINCE EAT SHIT AND DIE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD.”

“Good point, Eska,” Joey rasped, coughing slightly. “Silvestro, you’re fired.”

The man stared at him with his blue eyes open wide. Never, not once, never before had someone had the gall, the audacity, the sheer rudeness to fire him. It… scared him, not that he would let that be known. He spat on the floor.

“Bullshit!” he screamed. He scrambled back onto his legs: “BULLSHIT!” he yelled again, a bit of drool dribbling down his chin, as if cursing a second time would have helped prove a point which he had not specified. He lunged at Johan’s throat with hands like claws, ready to tear him apart and bend him to his own will, completely forgetting Eska until he was being pummeled into the floor by his twin once again. He felt as if the realization of just how strong Eska could be had hit him as hard as his head had crashed into the pavement.

Johan shouted something, he could not exactly tell what, something in fear and worry - and then his mouth was agape and the air in his lungs was gone. He kicked his brother back as best as he could, screaming his head off, there were rushing footsteps from below, and he could hazily sense Johan running toward the door to pull it back into place from where Silvestro had leaned it against the wall, shouting that everything was under control. Silvestro felt his arm getting wetter and wetter, hurting like hell for no reason, no reason at all, he simply couldn’t get it, had that bastard bit him, had he fucking dared biting him hard enough to make him bleed, but it wasn’t on his arm or forearm because he could feel it all dripping all over, was it on his palm, he had to check, he had to run his fingers over it, his fingers, fingers, fin… Fingers…

He choked on his gag reflex.

Silvestro looked up at his brother, shaking like a leaf.

Eska stared back at him. His breath was even through his occupied teeth.

“Eska!” Johan shrieked, petrified. “O-oh god, oh no….”

Questions were shouted from behind the door Johan was holding shut.

“Good god!” Joey barked, his voice raspy and authoritative. Silence fell. “I have this under control, go to work or there’ll be hell to pay!”

The crowd that had gathered by the closed door ebbed away.

The man took a few gasping breaths, closing his eyes for a moment, then leaned off the wall, walking over, cane in hand, assisting his weary footfalls, head held high, looking down at Silvestro from his great height in heaven.

The gears in his head turned rapidly, and Silvestro could see a burning wisdom within those eyes, bright, blazing, compassionate and gentle. The eyes of a god. He could see judgement and repentance in those eyes.

“Silvestro, I have three things that I can do with you,” he spoke so softly, like the final judge of everything that ever was. “One, I can kill you, seeing as you clearly planned to sell me out.” (Silvestro’s eyes were as wide as a small child’s in front of something far greater than himself. They were scared, and shocked, and pleading.) “But I don’t want to. No, I can’t. I’m no executioner. Two, I can wipe your memory, completely and totally. Or three, we can work together, and swear you to secrecy; magically, in a way you would never be able to speak of this ever again, except with those I deign allowed. The choice is yours, but if you pick the first option, I will do the second.”

Silvestro looked up at the man, and saw compassion and care in his exhausted eyes.

He made his choice.

Silvestro had called in beforehand. They had arranged the meeting, the day, the hour, the place. Disney sat in the armchair of a hotel room, sipping a glass of liquor, ignoring all laws, being the rule breaker he was. Fleischer was standing and looking out the window restlessly, silently contemptuous of the alcohol in Disney’s hand, resisting the urge to slap it out of his hand or chew at his nails. There was no reason to be nervous, Disney thought to himself. Silvestro was such an unscrupulous man, he would have gotten all kinds of information on the menace that was Joey Drew, one morally and legally ambiguous way or another. With that narcissistic diva at the job, they were in safe hands.

Two quick knocks got the two business mens’ attention. They were fast and nervous. Tock-tock, followed by silence.

Far too uncharacteristic. Disney and Fleischer exchanged a glance.

“Mr. Agnes?” Fleischer called, moving from the window. “That you?”

A deep inhale, a bit fearful, maybe.

“Yes.” Silvestro’s voice answered. “It’s. Me.”

“Come in.”

The man who came through the door was indeed Silvestro Agnes… but something was oddly off. He had the same dark auburn hair and the same light cinnamon skin. Actually, Disney noticed, slightly confused, it was too light a shade of cinnamon. He was very pale, and he appeared to be shaking. His back was hunched forward, his shoulders closing in on his chest. His eyes were concentrated on the ground, terrified. Everything about him - his movements, his looks, his demeanor - chronically lacked the superb disgust towards everyone else which he had constantly displayed throughout his life.

He closed the door behind him and simply stood. His head bent a little downwards, nearly shameful. He did not say a single word.

“Well?” Disney encouraged him, though was somewhat… anxious of what the reply could be, “What do you have for us?”

No answer.

And Disney might have pressed further, if Fleischer had not risen his eyes above the trembling man before them and let out a horrified “Jesus Christ!” as he almost fell on the floor, leaping backwards in what could be described only as pure terror. Disney’s attention went first to his partner in crime, then to the silent Agnes, then behind him. And while he did not shout, his jaw and eyes fell open wide.

He could not have understood how he did not notice it. A giant dirty skeleton dressed in tight skin and enormous clothes, towering over Silvestro’s head. Hairs so thin they might have been made out of beams of light surrounded a naked skull in a dirty, brown and reddish halo, a pair of lone will-o’-the-wisps standing perfectly still deep in the recesses of empty eye sockets, to lead the wicked away to their just slaughter. Despite its hunched back, it was still taller than the doorframe; Disney would have bet it had just phased through solid matter like a ghost.

“Joey Drew knows you.” the skeleton said. The jaw did not move; a deep, crackling, croaking voice seemed to come directly from the depths of the earth. “Knows you well. Wiser than you.”

Fleischer and Disney were frozen in place. They did not dare breathe a breath, a sound, a word. They did not even know if they could.

The skeleton leaned towards them, Silvestro lowering with it, trembling as he tried to keep it from touching him - almost as if mere contact might have killed him. The voice grumbled from behind the skull once more, slowly and carefully articulating every word: “He will not have any of your threats. None. Not one.”

Those wild irises glowed without emitting the faintest hint of light. Demonic. Did Joey create the thing before them? Bendy was, after all, a demon. So was this as well?

“Your flesh tastes no worse than anyone else’s.” it advised, and Fleischer could imagine a macabre grin behind the skeletal mask. “I promise you that.”

The businessmen did not respond. They did not know how to respond. How could they? How could they have known, what exorcism would they have screamed? What can one say after being presented with a threat that implies the horrifying supernatural being currently standing in front of you has had a bite of your kind before, and maybe even more than one?

The skeleton’s long fingers slowly crept up Silvestro’s shoulder and closed their iron grip on it, making the man shiver harshly and attempt to mute a cry of pain under the pressure as his arms jolted upwards. His hand clawed at the air, missing the stump of the other arm’s wrist as if there had been something attached to it.

Disney paled as he noticed that.

“H-he says it’s a m-message,” Silvestro managed to say through chattering teeth and blurred vision, silently wishing the pain go away. Eska gave a drooping nod, too boneless, too bony. His voice added to the words, “So heed it.”

Eska decided he had already said a frankly excessive amount of words for today, so he thought it well not to allow a single one more to be spoken. He only turned slightly, dragging his twin with him in a silent yet angered order, hand still on his shoulder possessively as though Joey deigned him reign over his brother, and then they were both gone. Out of the room, out of the hallway, out of the building entirely (standing on the sidewalk, staring at each other with empty eyes on one part and a sinking fear on the other, strangers to everything about the person they were looking at, not even brushing against one another as the taller figure dragged his feet away, slowly, rhythmically, and his brother just stood, waiting for something before quickly heading home), leaving Fleischer and Disney stunned, fearful and less than inclined to try and disturb Mr. Drew again.

#bendy and the ink machine #joey drew #johan ramirez #eska (batim)#swearing #random writing #silvestro tries to fuck up johan's reputation but finds out he's hot and gets his ass kicked instead: the movie #disney and fleischer can go fuck themselves #cannibalism mention #rape attempted #blood tw #physcal abuse mention #homophobia tw #ableism tw #violence tw

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peachbowserandastrapon · 5 years

Text

smash ultimate sesual headcanons (very dirty seriously don’t read if you’re a baby)

cloud is too busy to have sex but he’s probably into some weird-level shit like knifeplay or something

snake has a gear fetish

bowser is 99% dom top, but very subby in the event he does get fucked. would unintentionally be into k rool but they have bad chemistry they have to work thru first, and finds dedede super cute but won’t admit it. he’ll also happily stomp on any foot lover he meets. the only guy who gets to regularly top him is midbus imo so bowser’s thankful the pig’s not in smash so he can keep his tough guy cred looking strong.

giga bowser only tops and will likely kill you accidentally in the process but it was probably worth it

incineroar is dom top but i could see him powerbottoming maybe from time to time. biiiiiig bromance with k rool. has a wrestling fetish - you can’t just fuck, you need to fight first. his finishing move is sitting on his opponent’s face. reeeeeeeally wants you to sniff his pits.

captain falcon is obviously into fisting

wolf is obviously a switch and into many things, wears different colored bandannas (look up gay handkerchief code) for whatever his mood is that night. dom as hell whether topping or bottoming. expects you to deepthroat him like right off the bat. has a ton of kinks... going off his bandannas you could say he’s into dildos, nipple play, armpits, fisting and pee and don’t tell me he doesn’t know about the handkerchief code seriously just look at his outfit and tell me he ain’t the gayest guy in space

fox leans way more to bottoming and subbing, he'll only top someone like falco maybe (and not in a dommy way at all). and he's clearly in love with wolf anyway and doesn't really wanna fuck anyone else. would happily let wolf put a leash on him but would act persnickety about the whole thing just to make wolf annoyed and more aggressive

falco talks big but he's a huge sub and would only want to top for bragging rights or something i imagine. so tsundere that it's a running joke with the rest of the starfox cast. i can't remember if he has an ascot too... but i could imagine maybe wolf does it for gay coding but the other two just do it cuz they think it looks cool and maybe don't know what they mean. also idk if falco would have a dick since he’s a bird

lucario is obviously 100% bottom considering his aura mechanic is all about taking a beating.

mario, luigi and peach all want bowser. daisy secretly wants wart from subcon but since she doesn’t see him that often she will settle for luigi, where she's the one calling the shots

adult yoshis would definitely enjoy a night with bowser if they were sexual but they're pretty asexual in general

greninja loves being cloaca fucked by bigger brutish types more than anything

the fire emblem cast all have sex with grave seriousness and they participate in small-scale eugenics projects to try to keep the blue haired gene alive

meta knight is a very considerate and skilled lover but no one wants to fuck him because he's a small blob. gives the best ____lingus in the world but few will ever know

kirby doesn't fucc

i don’t want to think of isabelle fuccing and she’s too busy living a full life to bother imo

villager is celibate but super into furries in an sfw way

olimar always wondered what having sex with a pikmin would be like but he knows it's wrong so he won't try it

wii fit trainer likes bending into different positions, and is not dominative on purpose but just seems intimidating so everyone just lets them do whatever

dr mario has a fetish for giving prostate exams and anal pills. always wears a condom. he never removes the gloves except when showering

mewtwo will use shadow magic to jack your dick/clit off

little mac hooks up with wii fit trainer after a stretching routine

ridley is 100% top but likes ass play like rimming as long as he's not penetrated. his idea of foreplay is killing your parents tho so be careful

donkey kong is a switch top/bottom dom/sub, honestly really just depends on who wins the dominance battle as is the law of the jungle. bad at kissing but can be taught. very experimental and wild style of fucking. will let you sniff his pits but he won’t really get it. wants to touch k rool’s belly but doesn’t know why

bayonetta is a dominatrix, obviously

anyone who tried to go up into rosalina's galaxy within her skirt was never seen again

ganondorf is 100% brutal top and so is ganon, you're going to be in pain in some way if you're under him

dedede loves bigger badder guys than him who will push him around and tease him, 100% bottom sub and wants bowser and k rool to tag team him with lots of demeaning dirty talk. drools while eating. dream land is so cutesy and pure that he’s come to fantasize about the darker types of characters elsewhere. thinks it’s wrong and messed up to be a king and have such fantasies, but can’t stop himself. wants k rool to smack him again. will act like a jackass just to incite others to bully him.

rob likes the idea of getting people off but no one thinks to ask him about sexuality

k rool is a switch and a complete wildcard. you never know what you’re gonna get, considering he has so many personas. he also knows people are obsessed with his belly and he’s just as into it as you. he’ll even remove the gold armor for a softer experience. wants bowser to stomp on him. also wants to stomp on bowser. hates eating bananas but likes having them shoved into his body. probably has a ton of different kinky outfits in his closet. but he's really only obsessed with dk and wants to dom him. would also do it with funky and chunky kong but not be into it as much and would make them pretend to be donkey instead. has pictures of dk in his room. he and dk are at a constant battle of dominance and wits imo, like two looney tunes characters except trying to dom fuck instead of blow each other up. uses bananas and coconuts as subtext and wonders why nobody picks up on it

dracula gets overwhelmingly horny when he’s in his demon form for some reason

and charizard? obviously dom top but secretly likes to bottom sometimes, is sad because no one is brave enough to even ask to top him.

simon and richter just missionary under the blankets with the lights off usually.

ken loves his wife but she’ll let him jack off incineroar sometimes if she gets to watch

the other adult characters strike me as pretty vanilla except maybe wario is into farts or something

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askemilydeanyo · 5 years

Text

Hello, yes. We had a threesome.

Before I start, I’d like to say that for the bulk majority of my life, I have identified as a relatively jealous person. Not jealous in a comparative way, but in a “tell me everything about your past, in detail, and then comfort me when I get upset about it because I will get upset” kind of way. That being said, when my urge to have a threesome crept up, I was honestly taken off guard. Imagining my partner with other people in the past used to make me queasy, but suddenly thinking of them with someone else was making me seriously horny. What the fuck was going on? I’ll paint the scene for you:

I was on the front porch eating strawberries, reading my final pages of Karley Sciortino’s Slutever, when it first came over me. In a lascivious daze, I looked up to my partner, then cutting the grass, and said: “Do you want to have a threesome?” to which they plainly responded, “Yeah, sure.” So like any self-proclaimed horny millennial sex aficionado, I immediately took to Instagram. (Obviously, I realize that not everybody can hop on their social media account and solicit for a sex partner, but I have a majority of family blocked and let’s be real they are all pretty aware of my sluttiness, so it seemed plausible to me.)

My request, posted in typewriter font over a photo of my leather flogger, simply stated: “Seeking a third for play *devil emoji*.” And voilà, just like that, she was baited. I will say, I got about 9 responses in total, but none of the others quite fit the description. We didn’t want anyone we knew too close, anyone we didn’t know at all, or anyone younger than me. I suppose this is my first tip, being that it might take a while for you and your partner to find someone that you are both attracted to, and it is both okay and encouraged to allow yourselves to be choosey (like, sure it only took us about 3 hours, but I’d say we are an anomaly to the rule.) I know a lot of people take to bars, or get on Tinder, or hire a sex worker, and I think those are excellent options for certain kinds of people, but we didn’t want to just pick from a sea of faces, we wanted to have some sort of connection to our third.

So, when she slid into my DM’s, we were stoked. We both knew her, but very, very vaguely. She and I had met a handful of times in social settings, but never engaged in anything beyond surface level conversation. However, like many of these types of interactions in my life, we had, at some point, talked about sex. I speak very candidly about sexuality – and my online presence is certainly no exception. I run weekly sex polls, I post pre-smut photos of me in full rubber lingerie, and I have an advice column where I answer questions about sex and relationship issues. So the chances that I have given someone sex-related advice online, while only having a conversation about their dog in person is surprisingly high.

Since we had some back-and-forth in the past, she approached it by saying: “If it’s not out of line, maybe I can reach out to you two about joining in the fun? I’ve always thought you’d be fun and comfortable to be around.” Finally! My outward slut-ass-ness had paid off! I was sold on her. I took the idea to my partner and they immediately agreed. As I said, the entire process of deciding we wanted to have a threesome and finding our third took, quite literally, 3 hours, but I’d imagine it is comparable to when you go to adopt a puppy, and think “omg! This is the one!” – it just felt right, you know? We knew that she was hot, and she was kind, and wasn’t a sociopath looking to come in and wreck our relationship, so it genuinely seemed safe.

It became a massive topic of conversation. We began vocalizing our fantasies out loud while we had sex (“You want to see me eat a pussy?” and yes LORD I did), we discussed our expectations and boundaries in depth, and on at least a dozen occasions I said “oh my GOD are we actually doing this?” jumping around like an idiot while doing the dishes. The thought was so exciting. We are both sexually adventurous people, both naturally hedonistic, seemingly born with a desire to please, so adding a third into the mix felt more like an extension of us. Just something and someone fun to do. We ended up running into her that weekend and fucked like literal maniacs afterwards. It was amazing.

The timeline of deciding on the rendezvous and actually putting it into action took a whopping 10 days. The closer the event came, the more and more I became the most annoying version of myself. “Oh my god, she’s coming in 3 days. Oh my god, she’s coming tomorrow. OH MY GOD SHE’S COMING IN 4 HOURS.” When the time finally came, I prepped my body as if I was going to senior prom all over again (except honestly significantly more.) I waxed my bikini line, did a facial, did a hair mask, shaved my legs, exfoliated my entire body, rummaged my closet, took 10 minutes on my eyebrows. We swept the house, washed the sheets, shined all the latex, and boiled all the sex toys. The energy was fun and frantic and flirty.

Within the comfort of your monogamous relationship, it’s normal to begin to care less about these things, which is not to be taken as a diss. When you see someone essentially every day of your life, you care a lot less about deep conditioning your hair and more about paying your rent on time. Knowing that someone was going to experience our home, our bodies, and our relationship dynamic for the first time took us back to those butterfly-in-tummy vibes – when you actually made an effort to match your socks and tend to your ingrown hairs. It was so sweet knowing my partner was taking the time to landscape their pubes and make sure they looked good in their outfit. I felt like I was going on our first date all over again, which was a really welcoming and unexpected phenomenon.

I’ll fast forward and spare you the visual of me crouched over cleaning the toilet in leather pants (just kidding, there was the visual): She arrived. My partner and I were sitting in separate rooms when I saw her car pull up. As one might imagine, I literally screamed. The following is a rough description of what happened: She came in, we gave her the house tour, we chatted over a glass of champagne (that I admittedly took no more than three sips of because I had taken two power shots when I saw her car pull up) (that and my partner refuses to fuck drunk people which is one of the hundred things I love about them.) And then… we showed her ‘The Drawer.’

Okay, look. My partner and I are sex freaks. If you know either of us in person, I can guarantee that our sex drawer is exactly what you are visualizing. It is filled with latex and leather, and sensory deprivation accessories, and cock lassos, and butt plugs, and dildos and vibrators and weird medical equipment that even freaks us out at times. This was the moment of truth. When you open your sex drawer to someone, you are essentially showing them your lifespan porn history, your darkest fantasies, your bank statement and your daddy issues all at once. It is vulnerable and spooky and oddly exciting. Anyways, she was into it.

After some chatting in the bedroom, we were all clearly getting antsy, so I decided to take initiative. I asked our third to strip to her comfort level. I asked my partner to blindfold her. I took myself in the bathroom, got into a latex get up, and had a full blown Issa Rae style pep talk with myself in the mirror. When I emerged into the bedroom I found our third blindfolded and stripped to her panties, while my partner was rubbing her legs. My first thought was “Oh my god, am I gay?” I was so turned on. The roles of my partner and myself became immediately clear. Here they were, prioritizing comfort and consent, not wanting to overstep any boundaries (especially while I wasn’t in the room), and I come in wearing full domme gear, leather riding crop in hand, alarmingly ready to turn some asses red. My partner is truly the yin to my yang.

I won’t go into too much detail, partially because I blacked a lot of it out (adrenaline, not vodka, I promise) but also because this is meant to be less smut and more narrative; so let’s just say I was in a deviant bitches version of heaven. As someone who identifies as a 96% heterosexual woman, I was honestly anxious about having a vulva in my face. Believe me when I say I am a huge preacher of “vagina’s are snowflakes,” but admittedly, I’m picky (don’t come for me I am literally just straight.) I was so relieved that when our third was naked before us, I was in absolute awe. My dreamboat of a partner, a beautiful naked person, and a nightstand covered with sex toys; I could’ve died right then and been totally cool with it (except our third did not sign up for Necrophilia 101 and let’s be honest I knew immediately that I wanted to do it again.)

The one thing that put me the most at ease was our ability to prioritize comfort. This has to take form in various ways. Being comfortable enough to assert what you want: harder, deeper, lower, just spread my butt cheeks more, being comfortable enough to fumble (i.e. having to literally remove our third’s fingers from my body after dropping the magic wand on the floor and watching it vibrate its way across the room,) being comfortable enough to show someone a drawer filled with electric stimulation pads and urethral sounds (unused, before anyone freaks out), being comfortable enough to ask someone to swap gloves so you don’t exchange bacteria. It is seriously vital. In porn, we often see someone take their dick out of one vagina and put it in the other, and in reality that just isn’t safe. That being said, when our third hopped out of bed and put on gloves without being instructed, I felt like a proud mom (except like horny step mom that fucks the girl next door), because not only was she prioritizing our safety, but she was also simultaneously not judging us for wearing medical exam gloves while we fucked. Truly a win-win.

In summary, we all came, we cleaned up, and we sat on the bed after and recapped straight slumber party style. A visual: All of us are wearing crop tops and undies, drinking Moscato from the bottle, a murder scene of sex accessories littering the floor beside us. During this time, I was paying close attention to my emotions. I had been a third to a couple once in the past, and the girl told me that immediately after the horny feelings subsided, she cried a lot. I was waiting for this feeling to sweep over me, but instead, my thoughts were more “oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to fuck her with the strap on.” It was all really, really pleasant.

After she left, my partner and I had sex once again, and for the next few days we brought it up at least once every hour or so. In the middle of an art fair: “Remember when you first walked into the room and grabbed her? That was my favorite part.” in the middle of eating pancakes: “Do you think she came good?” in the last few seconds of a Warriors vs. Clippers game: “My finger literally went into her ass on accident.” It was like a Facebook memory popping up to remind you that you are a sex goddess, rather than an unfortunate seventh grader with side swoop bangs.

In addition to these micro bursts of horny memories zapping me throughout the day, I also found myself feeling tremendously liberated all around. Suddenly, I felt like that bitch. I felt more sure of myself and my relationship than ever before. I felt proud of my ability to casually share my wonderful partner with someone else. I also experienced some unexpected but cutesy and innocent feelings of having a crush, like, omg I wonder if she’s told her friends, I wonder if she liked us, I wonder if she’ll want to come back. I still feel all of that.

Some people might read this thinking: Emily, was this really worth a 4000 word essay? It’s a threesome, chill, people do this all the time; while others might think: Hell no, I would never let my partner fuck someone else! Both to which I respond: I get it. A ton of people take comfort in routine, and monogamy, and would never think of sharing their partner’s bodies with someone else. Other people are more laissez faire, and are totally cool with the thought. I guess I fall somewhere in the in-between. The reason I am writing this is solely to inform others of one thing above all else, and that is: When you allow someone else to be with your partners body, it is solely that: their body. You must be able to compartmentalize your sexuality. The sex you have with your partner right after a fight, or at 7a.m. half hard and half asleep, or after a romantic anniversary dinner can never be replaced by a 10p.m Friday night Ménage à trois, nor is it meant to. You are not lending out your partner’s heart, you are lending out their oral sex game because you yourself find it to be phenomenal and you want someone else to experience it.

Your third doesn’t get to know the exact 45 degree angle at which your partner likes their penis stroked, or the exact string of words that’ll make you cum in seconds, or how you like your scalp rubbed before you fall asleep. They are there for newness, for fun, and for straight up sexual gratification. Their roll is essentially to cum and leave (after sitting cross legged blushing over the fact that you both have outie vulvas, and also, like maybe not leaving forever because you might want them to come back in the future!) not to rock your partner’s world and leave them looking at you like an old pair of beat up sneakers or whatever. If you are worried about your third outshining you, or your partner developing feelings, or your primary and secondary running off and having some kind of love affair, then a threesome just is not for you. Having a fear of infidelity as a result is a pretty clear indicator that something deeper is going on, and why subject yourself to unnecessary anxiety if you don’t have to? (PSA: You don’t have to.)

A threesome will not fix your relationship if it is on the rocks. It will not mend your trust issues. It will (likely) not cure your diminished libido. It will not grant you any otherwise unreciprocated respect in your relationship. You get no brownie points. A threesome is literally a novel concept. It is to witness your partner in action outside of your standard point of view. It is to learn new things that turn you on and turn you off. It is to remind yourself that you can be in a long term, serious, primarily monogamous relationship and still be able to experience the joy of other people’s bodies in a safe and controlled environment. It is to fuck, and to get fucked. To cum, and to make cum. It is to let someone eat you out that doesn’t eat you out every day.

If you came here for my recipe for a successful threesome, here is what I can suggest: (Please keep in mind that I am a literal amateur, but I do feel confident in my knowledge, so here you go:) First, plan accordingly. Plan around your menstrual cycle, around your work schedule, when you can get a baby sitter, etc. Then communicate! The communication is pivotal before, during, and after, but it is especially important beforehand as this can make or break your situation. Discuss your boundaries: What are your hard limits? What would you like to try? What are some things you know you like, know you don’t like? Which toys strike your fancy? What are some names you like to be called? What are your pronouns? What terminology do you prefer us reference your genitals with? Which parts of your body are off limits? When was the last time you were tested? Are you wanting to keep this between us three, or can I write a 4,000 word blog post about it? I could go on and on.

Other important things to discuss are rules and expectations (which fall under the umbrella of communication.) Some of my rules were that I didn’t want them being in contact without me knowing, so no exchanging of phone numbers or socials, and we also unanimously decided that there would be no penis in vagina intercourse. Some other rules to consider might be: Areas of the body that can and cannot be touched (anyone say asshole? Cause I sure didn’t), if the third can stay the night, certain sentimental pet names to avoid, etc. Some expectations that I outlined were basically just that everyone do what I say. Surprisingly, this was less of me being ‘the dick manager’ and more of me being more dominant in nature. Luckily, my partner and my third are (or at least were) more sub leaning, so they happily obliged. Other expectations were that everyone felt comfortable to speak freely, to take breaks, to vocalize their needs, and to stop if they needed to stop. Also I wanted to know a general idea of what I was expected to wear and what kind of energy I was expected to bring to the table.

Another massive thing to consider is safety. Do you have any transmittable diseases or infections? Are you feeling sick? Are you allergic to any materials? Are you willing to sanitize toys, change condoms, use gloves, use barriers, and wipe down the hitachi head when switching partners? If not, seriously don’t even consider. It is selfish, and potentially transmitting infections, getting someone sick, or GOD forbid pregnant is seriously not worth the extra set of hands. Clearly talk about safety, make it accessible (condoms and toy cleaner by the bed) and don’t let yourself get too drunk to forget about it.

Something that proved to be really important to us was someone who would honestly just accept us for the freaks that we are. Lack of judgement is important in any activity where you are putting yourself on display, but especially in a sexual situation. Imagine if you came to someone with your deepest desires and they crinkled their nose in disgust? It is honestly world shattering. So, plan your threesome with someone who you know is open minded. In my case, I am lucky that I am pretty outwardly filthy online, so our third likely had some type of idea, but in the case of anyone else, use your best judgement, and have some conversations around the topic. Be clear about your wants and your needs. You want to be able to proudly ask for someone to shove a dildo in your ass, not be hesitant and afraid. Both your orgasm and your dignity are on the line here.

Another thing I would like to highlight is that although the role of the third (in our case at least) is to essentially serve as a human sex toy, they are exactly that: a human. It is crucial that you are checking in, making sure they feel catered to, and safe, and comfortable. I’d like to think this is too obvious to state, but in the event that it’s not, I will say it: Everyone’s comfort and pleasure should be a priority. Only in some fucked up alternate universe does inviting someone new into the bedroom mean you start prioritizing one person’s body over the other. Everyone is equal and worthy of respect, and just because someone might get off on being called a slut in the bed, doesn’t mean they want to continue to feel like a slut once they leave your house. Be mindful. A good third understands that that their role is temporary and doesn’t need to be reminded through negligence of their basic human emotions.

My last point to touch on is how to bring up the subject to your partner, which will likely vary from relationship to relationship. My partner and I are very laid back. Our approach to sexuality is much less focused around ‘the art of seduction’ and much more on direct pleasure and connection. Like, instead of lighting candles to ‘set a mood’ we are lighting candles to pour the wax on each other… because it feels good… you know? So in my case, it was as simple as asking directly because we are always direct with requests. Other people might need more tenderness. You might consider saying: “While I am totally satisfied with our sex life, I was wondering if you would ever be interested in introducing another person into the mix? I think it would be a fun way for both of us to explore, together, and safely, as we would be in view of one another.” Clearly state your expectations, your desires, and your intentions. And if your partner declines, respect their decision. Nothing should be forced on anyone, and asserting time and time again that you want to fuck someone else will likely leave your partner feeling like they aren’t good enough. Then you don’t get your threesome and your partner feels like shit. Was it really worth asking that fourth time?

Returning to my first question (me questioning my overall sanity) – before, during, and after the fact, I realized what was going on inside of me was that I was finally dating someone that I trusted entirely. The reason that I was able to walk into a room to find my partner sitting in bed with a beautiful naked person and not literally vomit is because they weren’t doing anything to me, they were doing something with me. If you are proposing a threesome to keep your partner’s interest, or to prove something shallow to yourself, spare yourself the energy. I have said it before and I will say it again: Expanding outside of monogamy should always be from an abundance rather than a lack thereof. You should not be thinking “My girlfriend doesn’t let me fuck her in the ass, so maybe our third will.” You should be thinking “My partner does this really amazing thing with their tongue, and it would be really hot to see how someone else reacts to it.” (And maybe if you’re lucky your third will gladly take it up the ass?)

So, wrapping up, perhaps you should consider having a threesome if you: Are secure in your relationship, if you find your partner to be too hot to keep to yourself, if you have an abundance of trust and respect for one another, if you are both willing to respect boundaries and safety measures, if you are wanting to explore other bodies while keeping your partner included, or if you are horny hedonists looking for some good spank material. You should not consider having a threesome if you: Feel pressured to, if you think it will mend an otherwise crumbling relationship, if you are feeling insecure, if you have trust issues, if your partner has expressed romantic interest in the third, if either of you have had a relationship with the third in the past (could get messy), if you are not attracted to the third, or if it is a last ditch effort to impress your partner.

Realistically, there are probably hundreds of reasons why introducing someone into your bedroom is or is not a good idea, so please note that I do realize I am only speaking to a small percentage of people. The reality just is that: like a raw vegan diet is not for everybody, like funneling a beer is not for everybody, like adopting a cat, or backpacking through Europe, or learning how to unicycle is not for everybody, having group sex is not for everybody. It is okay to leave certain kinds of activities to certain kinds of people, no matter how intriguing they might seem from a distance.

By no means am I saying that all group sex configurations must be rooted in love. They can be rooted in lust, in adventure, in curiosity – but one thing that is absolutely CRUCIAL is that they are rooted in trust. I trust that you will switch condoms and sterilize shared toys. I trust that you will respect my body and my boundaries and my concerns. I trust that you won’t turn into a pussy crazed lunatic and start trying to have threesomes weekly. I trust my partner with everything from my social security number to my incest fantasies, which means, most importantly, that I trust that they won’t go off and try to fuck anyone without me. If you have any doubt in your mind that you are doing this for reasons outside of solely hedonistic, pure, and/or loving intentions, consider reconsidering.

Now to share some gratitude: Thank you massively to my partner for allowing me to fulfill my sexual destiny, for supporting all my impulsive endeavors, for prioritizing my orgasms, and for never making me feel small (unless I want to feel small, then thank you for catering to that too.) Thank you so much to you, dream third, for making us both feel safe, for coming into our dynamic with an open mind, for feeling comfortable enough to not only share your body with us but also your stories, and your requests, and your positive energy (and for tolerating my demands and recurring slapping.) And thank you to anyone who has read all of this x so so much love.

#scared to tag anything naughty

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kababage95 · 6 years

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Apophatic Feminism

As with my last “essay” (not sure it should be called that but as I can’t think of a better word it’s what we are going with), I am not an expert on anything written below. I have not studied sociology or gender studies or anything on feminism. The below is my opinion and I am always open to discussing anything written below (with one exception that is pointed out at the time).

There is a philosophical theory (Apophatic Theology) that the only way to truly describe god is through describing what he is not, so perhaps I will try applying this idea to feminism. There are a number of things that feminism does not mean, and once people understand what it isn’t, perhaps then they will be willing to admit to themselves and the world that they are in fact a feminist.

Feminism is not the hatred of men. Gender stereotypes are, in reality, against the nature of feminism. Given this, the notion of “men suck” falls squarely into the category of anti-feminist. Indeed, when you really get into it, feminism tries to challenge the ideas that men are emotionless, aggressive and impulsive. What feminism does realise it that men have privilege. It accepts that this privilege can be used for good or for bad depending on the person, but that privilege is undeniable. When people, whoever they are, use privilege to assert power over other people, its part of a democratic society that we are allowed to call those people out on it, and that’s what feminism seeks to do. At its heart feminism is a social justice movement. This means that it absolutely should place the welfare of those that are most harmed above the ego of any who would benefit from the privilege that it seeks to remove. Note however that this clearly isn’t about how men are, or how they should be. It is a fact of the world that men have more power than women. It is this imbalance that feminism seeks to change; not because it wants to hurt men, but because it aims to free people from expectations and stereotypes that are harmful to everybody.

Coming off of the first point, whilst feminism is not the hatred of men, it is also not the belief that women are superior. There are a lot of people out there that see feminism as a celebration of womanhood; it isn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that womanhood shouldn’t be celebrated, but let’s make it clear that they are not the same thing. In reality, feminism seeks to challenge the very idea of womanhood. Femininity is a construct of society, and in reality, whilst societal norms confer some benefits to being a woman, they are few and far between and it is for this reason that feminism seeks to challenge the idea of womanhood. Yes, it is considered more socially acceptable for women to be open with their emotions (another notion that feminism seeks to tear down), but is this really suitable recompense for disadvantages such as higher risk of sexual and domestic violence or for being economically disadvantaged? For being denied basic human rights in certain parts of the world and the many other negative side effects of being born with two X chromosomes instead of one X and one Y? Clearly the answer here is no, categorically not. Being a feminist isn’t about saying that being female is better than being male, it’s about wanting to be able to say that being a woman, or any other non-binary gender is as good as being a man and having it be true. At the moment, it simply isn’t.

Moving away from men for a second (feminism isn’t all about men?! Shocking I know), it should be clear that feminism isn’t the idea that dresses and the colour pink are bad. Feminism is not anti-feminine. You have to hand it to the patriarchy, managing to convince people that feminism is both a hatred of men, and the hatred of things associated with women was a stroke of genius. By doing so, you eliminate the vast majority of those that would otherwise support the movement. Feminists don’t hate the colour pink or wearing dresses (my best friend is the best proponent of feminism that I know and she wears more dresses than anything else). Far from the idea that those things are bad, feminism is the idea that those things shouldn’t be inherently associated with women at all. It’s about being able to understand that certain things have actually been devalued by being classed as feminine; how unusual is it to see things, and even people, being mocked for being feminine? Being a feminist means acknowledging that there is absolutely no valid reason at all for anything to have any gender associated with it and that more than that, gender doesn’t confer value. More than anything else feminism is about choice. If a woman wants to wear a pink dress and be a stay-at-home mum, that doesn’t mean she isn’t a feminist or make her less of a feminist. Equally, a woman who wears a suit and devotes her life to her career is no more or less a feminist.

Building on this idea, and I cant believe I have to make this point, being gay isn’t a bad thing. Let’s get this cleared up right now. Firstly, being LGBTQ is not, in any way, a negative thing. There is no link whatsoever between sexual orientation and being a feminist. More and more I see anti-feminists telling those that identify as a feminist that they are gay, with gay being meant as an insult. Feminist women being called lesbians because feminists must hate men. Feminist men being called gay because its “girly” to be a feminist. This is the one part of this “essay” that I am not willing to have a discussion over. Using any form of sexual orientation as an insult is not acceptable in any situation. Ever. The end. You absolutely can be gay and be a feminist and it is true that being gay may influence a person’s feminism, it’s called intersectionality, look it up. But the two things are not intrinsically linked. Just one final time for those that are struggling, “gay” is NOT okay to use as an insult and “feminist” is not a dirty word. I urge all of you to call out anybody that you hear using gay as an insult, it is not okay. It is despicable behaviour that should be called out at any opportunity.

“Feminists do nothing except complain”. Yeah okay buddy, go crawl back under whatever rock you just crawled out from. There are two things here, firstly, the idea that someone complaining must be feminist, have you seen any of the world ever? The human race took complaining and turned it into a skill that most everybody everywhere has mastered. I really wish that everybody who complained was a feminist, the battle would be over, the entire world would be feminists and gender equality would be achieved tomorrow. Clearly, that’s not the case. Secondly, the idea that the only thing that feminists do in the world is complain is clearly BS. Feminism gives people hope, it makes people laugh and cry and it inspires people. Without feminism women wouldn’t be able to vote, there would be none of the advances in the work place and it would still be acceptable for a husband to force his wife to have sex with him (something that wasn’t illegal in all 50 US states until 1993 and which will be covered in more detail in a separate essay). Feminism has achieved so many things in the last 100 years, it still has a way to go before its aims are fully realised, but its pretty clear that feminism is not only about complaining.

The final thing I want to point out that feminism is not is that it is not the aim of feminism to turn humanity into an identical whole. It is not unusual for feminists to be accused of trying to make humanity one great big homogeny by removing gender roles and for sure, if you are only willing to view diversity as things being male or female then feminism is going to challenge that. But is that really what diversity is? Two groups? To me, diversity is about having an infinite number of groups, of which each individual belongs to any number of. Instead of having men and women, male and female, masculine and feminine, diversity is about recognising that its stupid to try force fit 7 billion (and growing) people into one of two groups. If you were born a man that wants to masculine then that is absolutely fine, nobody is trying to take that away from you. If the stereotypes of the gender you were assigned at birth fits you like a glove then lucky you, and more power to you. But the truth is that for the vast majority of people, those stereotypes leave something to be desired. Feminism is saying that people shouldn’t feel pressured to feel or act in a particular way because the patriarchy deems, from the day you are born, that you should act in a way that conforms to their ideals. What seems to amaze certain people in society is that, when people act in a way that they are being who they truly are, and not in a way that society tells them they must act, the world goes on spinning and doesn’t implode. More than that, when people don’t feel the pressure to behave how others say they must, when people behave how they want to, the world doesn’t divide itself neatly into only two categories, and that’s okay!

So if that’s 6 things that feminism isn’t, then what do I think feminism is? To me, feminism is so many things, but more than anything else, its about choice. Yes it is the political, social and economical equality of the genders but its about choice. It’s about the freedom to choose to not wear make-up or to wear make-up no matter who you are. It’s about it being okay to aspire to be a full time mum or dad. It’s about everybody, everywhere being free to choose who they want to be, without the fear of being judged because “that’s not ladylike” or “that’s girly”. Yawn. Get over yourself. We aren’t born knowing that little girls play with dolls and little boys play with trucks and blocks. My partner of almost 6 years is an Early Years teacher, she works with babies from 6 months up to two years 5 days a week, and let me assure you that there are plenty of little boys who enjoy playing with the dolls and at that age, its generally the little girls who are better at building with the blocks. They don’t know about gender norms until society influences them and, given that, I am forced to conclude that far from trying to implement a new societal norm on society, what feminism is actually trying to do is to revert society back into the way that society would naturally be without 6 millennia worth of misogyny.

That concludes another essay! As before, I fully accept that some of you may not have read all of this as it is really rather long, if you read any of it, I hope you have taken something away from it! For those of you that are curious, I am a white, 22 year old male who currently lives in London and has never lived outside the UK, I had a number of DMs from people asking for that information after the last post so thought I would get ahead of it this time!

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frivery · 3 years

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Lion's birthday is right next to Smokes'! I didn't know that but I thought it would be cool if i connected the somehow so this piece takes place directly after the last one! So here is the previous part, Smokes Birthday part.

POV of Lion, featuring Zachandriel, Smokes, and Ethereal.

in other news, Ethereal is massively gay

The temperature in the lobby was scorching, causing the man to hook a finger into his fur-lined cloak and pull the slowly dampening thick hide away from his neck. He wasn't sure what he had just walked into and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. A large, monster-bone, circular-cut table was in the off-set middle of the circular pale room. The roof was high, a kind of doming structure, and various mismatched furniture was thrown around the large room. He was under the impression that a lot of this stuff was from previous Deepscorchers, ones who weren't around anymore, and that the same would likely happen to the current group's belongings when they too, eventually, were swallowed by the dangers of the elemental depths.

Ugh, Lightbinder's bloody sword he felt like he was overheating and he had just got here. Lion continued to pull the fur away from his slickening skin, looking at the Deepscorcher he had been working with a questioning look. Zachandriel, the Wind domain Deepscorcher who was an oxygenating metal gensai, blinked pale arcane eyes at him before stepping further into the familiar Headquarters.

"Is something the matter, Deepscorcher Smokes?" the metal gensai asked, voice flat like he was of Earth instead of Wind. Lion had been told that Zachandriel had once been Quem's apprentice, intended to take over as the Earth Deepscorcher when she disappeared, but was called elsewhere. Apparently, the seafoam-colored man's moodiness could be attributed to two sets of elemental forces working on him at once.

"No, why would there be?" the lightning gensai responded shortly, yeah, that was probably why the lobby felt like standing too close to an open bonfire.

"You are burning mercenary Lion out, I am afraid." A strange mix of suddenly playful energy and overly stuffy, polite, mannerisms. Lion liked Zachandriel, but the quick changes the taller man had could cause him frustration in longer expeditions. He also liked Smokes, to a certain extent, he was fun when he was in a good mood. The fire domain Deepscocher stretched over the back of his chair to look at Lion upside down with twisting, stormy, arcane eyes.

"Huh, the Gods have a sense of humor." Smokes commented, causing the imperial to raise an eyebrow at him and cross his arms as he further entered the burning room. Shimmering heat waves were rolling off the impatient gensai, Lion already felt disgusting with sticky sweat.

"Sorry?" he offered the gensai in his usual accent, continuing to give the man a questioning look. Smokes was about his height, very slightly shorter, and Zachandriel was... a good several inches taller than both. The metal gensai blinked cool eyes at his counterpart before breezing over to look at the counter.

"Is Deepscorcher Bluemoon here?" the seafoam man asked, which for some reason made Smokes cross his arms over his chest.

"You can tell or are you looking for him?"

"He often forgets to take his gloves with him when he does alchemy."

"I'll take them to him later, he just got in a spat with Ethereal." Lion frowned at the mention, Bluemoon was the Deepscorcher he worked with the most frequently. Frankly, if not for the Water dragon he wouldn't have agreed to becoming a long-term Mercenary for the group. Might not have even agreed the first time. Ethereal, on the other hand, was a strict, stern, tiefling with an attitude that he had worked with only once. He was pretty sure the both of them were on the same page as far as their thoughts on working together again.

"Again?" Zachandriel responded, frown on his features as he picked up the dirty gloves from the counter and turned to walk back over to the table.

"Ethereal is just... I don't know what's going on with him. Every little thing sets him off lately."

"Lately?" Lion muttered to himself, deep voice quiet but not soft enough for the elementals not to hear him. Smokes gave him a sharp look but said nothing on it.

"Ay'll take his gloves back to him, Ay'm not doing anything else." the imperial held out his hand to Zachandriel who blinked arcane eyes at him for a long moment before nodding and placing the cool fabric into his hand.

"Be careful, Blade Lion, Deepscochers can be dangerous when crossed." the taller man warned, to which Lion just nodded absentmindedly. Turning away from the familiar pair, the imperial left the overheated lobby with a lazy wave. The rooms in the Deepscorcher HQ were on the smaller size, and reminded him of a massive hermit crab shell. The main room, the lobby, a massive circle thing with the hall that all of the rooms were off of wrapped around the outside of it. Bluemoon's he knew, mostly from counting doors, he didn't know most of the other Deepscorcher's rooms.

"Oh, it's you." a dissatisfied voice, dark and biting. Could only be Ethereal. Lion looked away from the outer walls to glance over the gold armored tiefling. If Zachandriel was tall this man was a giant, it always was surprising when he ran into a tiefling and remembered that most subspecies of that group were naturally taller than humans were. Right now, though, the opalescent man was less imposing, seated on a velvetine piano-bench, blue, with a bolt cutter in his real hand and a puddle of oil leaking from his fake leg onto the pale floor.

"What are you doing back here, I don't recall giving outsiders permission to wander without an escort." Ethereal's voice was a warning, threatening like a rattlesnake. Lion held up the hands, submissively, to the touchy tiefling.

"Blue forgot his gloves on the counter, and Smokes turned the lobby into an oven, so Ay' volunteered to return them." the jade-colored man scoffed and rolled his eyes, muttering an 'of course' under his breath in distaste. The silence stretched for several long moments, the tiefling pointedly ignoring his continued presence.

Lion watched the gold-armored man attempt to cut away the damaged fibers of his golden leg, but his hands were shaking... no maybe that wasn't the right word. Shuddering.

"Do you want some help?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the Deepscorcher as he eyed the ugly tear in the otherwise beautiful work of pistons and wires. He could feel sharp light eyes glaring at him for his words, though.

"I don't need help from the likes of you." Ethereal snarled, causing the sellsword to shrug.

"Ay' know that you don't need help, Ay' asked if you wanted 'et." he returned back to the short-tempered man, lifting his own pale yellow eyes to meet those of the man he was addressing. A long beat of silence before Ethereal threw his tool on the ground in frustration, crossing his arms over his chest like an aggravated noble who had been scolded... or a child.

"Fine, sure." his voice sounded equally as indignant as he looked, Lion just rolled his eyes before taking a few steps closer to the tall tiefling and sitting down on the ground to better examine the hole.

"Why don't you just remove the leg so you can work on 'et better?" Lion asked, looking up at the lightning Deepscorcher who scowled at him.

"You don't think I thought of that?" he snapped.

"Show me." the merc responded evenly, picking up the wrench on the bench and holding it up to the tiefling. The jade-colored man's scowl only deepened, but he snatched the tool away from Lion sharply. The imperial watched intently as Ethereal pulled the black cloth at his waist away from the edge of his golden-leg. It was sheer luck that such a fabric didn't get caught up in the open mechanics. Taking a breath, the tiefling took a fumbling moment to attach the wrench to one of the bolts at his thigh, and twisted... it seemed that the fact that he was also dealing with a fake arm was giving him some flexibility issues. Not the right angle so the wrench just scratched the golden plating, or slipped off the bolt.

"See? Can't remove it." Ethereal said pointedly, seething aggravation in his voice. Sounded like he was clenching his teeth, even.

"Let me try 'et." Lion offered to take the wrench back from the Deepscocher, who frowned down at him.

"What makes you think you can do what I can not?"

"Better angle, doesn' hurt to try."

"Actually, I rather you didn't strip the bolt."

"I'll be gentle wi'h it, not looking to break your leg." a staredown that lasted several moments before Ethereal relented with a growl and dropped the cold metal into Lion's hand. The armored imperial placed his callused hand on the outside of the cold golden metal, to hold it in place, before he reset the wrench onto the bolt and twisted. Oh, shit, that thing was on there... Lion grimaced as he shoved all of his weight into the wrench. Which worked, the bolt twisting looser, the rest should be easy in comparison. A few quiet moments, the only sound of metal, before Lion twisted the bolt the rest of the way out with his hands. Victory. Hah, maybe the Deepscorchers weren't so all that after all.

Of course, there were several other bolts he had to remove if he wanted the leg to come away from the metal hip joint. Neither of them made comment as Lion quickly shifted further to the side and removed the bolts from the outer-side of Ethereal's leg. The merc scrunched down to try to figure out how to remove the ones on the back, currently facing the ground, when the tiefling lifted his golden leg and slid the toe of the metal foot over Lion's shoulder to drap across his off-arm. Offering a better angle to undo the bolts without being asked, strangely helpful for someone so prickly, but also strangely intimate in posture. Lion was suddenly very glad that most of the Deepscorchers spent their time in their own domain, he would never live it down if someone saw him like this. This angle also allowed him to easily remove the bolts from the inner side of the man's leg.

The last bolt dropped with a small clink into his hand, the merc ducking under the golden metal and putting the wrench back onto the velvet bench.

"Alright, Ay' think that's it." he said to the tiefling, quickly dropping the golden bolts into the man's hand when an expectant palm was held out to him. "Anythin' else you need help with, or-?"

"No, I can do the rest." Ethereal said dismissively, before a hand was placed on Lion's mantled shoulder causing him to look up at the taller being in question.

"Thank you, Lion." huh, he hadn't expected that.

"'eah, no worries." the mercenary responded, watching the tiefling gather up the tools he had on the bench and slowly get to his feet. Already, Lion could see the way that the hip joint had shifted due to how loosely on the leg was. Ethereal didn't seem worried about it.

"Maybe Bluemoon was right." the deepscorcher said, seemingly mostly to himself in reference to something that Lion didn't know about. He just raised an eyebrow, not bothering to further question the man as he left Lion to his own devices. He had very few interactions with the Commanding man but this was probably be the most agreeable one they would ever have. Lion shook his head, picking back up Bluemoon's gloves and returning to the top of the hallway to... count doors again so he could return them to the watery imperial. He already felt exhausted, his short time with Ethereal hadn't helped, but at least the most familiar of the Deepscorchers was a lowkey kind of guy.

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stunudo · 7 years

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A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction

Featuring: Spencer Reid x Male Reader Setting: Season 10

A/N: Trying something new. Send me feedback as gently as possible. xoxo Stu

Your name: submit What is this?

There wasn’t much you wouldn’t do for your grandmother. So when she asked you to help clear the garden before the first frost set in, you promised you would. That was almost a month ago, now home from a long drawn out case with your team at the elite FBI branch, the BAU, you called Nana and confirmed you would be over this weekend to get the job done.

“Yes, Nana. I will bring gloves.” You smiled at her list of reminders.

“Are you going to bring that tall one with you?” Nana’s voice teasing over the blaring Price Is Right in the background.

“Nana, I’m sure Spencer has plans this weekend.” You mumbled into the phone, blushing.

“What was that, dear?”

“He’s probably busy, Nana.”

“That’s too bad. Maybe next time? I love watching you fall over yourself.”

“Nana, you stop it!” You laughed, the horror and amusement battling on your cheeks. “I love you, see you Saturday.”

“Bright and early, Y/N.”

“Yes, Nana.”

“That’s my boy. Bye now.”

You shook your head and tucked your phone back into your pocket. Your grandmother had a knack for picking up on emotions, especially those one tried to hide. Maybe that was genetic, maybe that helped you be such a great profiler. Either way you loved her and she loved to see you happy. Unfortunately, happy was fleeting, when your long time crush was also your co-worker. The renowned scholar, Dr. Spencer Reid.

The BAU team had become a second family to you since you were promoted from the Internal Affairs Branch. That had been an intense two years ago, time where you met and bonded with the families of your teammates. Early your first year when Spencer started secretly dating Maeve, you were the first one to notice the change in his mood. Only because you were always hyper-focused on him. That was a particularly rough time for you, not only was the object of your affections in love with someone else, but all too soon he was devastated by her death.

Watching your love grieve was torture, but you kept quiet, letting him work through the loss alone. You chalked up your feelings to typical gay guy falls for a straight friend, and you became determined to get over him. Then one day, it just happened. Casual conversation while on a case and suddenly you were given the impression that Spencer had had feelings for men in the past. That dangerous spark of hope had reignited.

“Mrs. Y/L/N? Hi sweetie!” Garcia’s chipper voice squealed into the phone. Spencer was surprised to hear Y/N’s grandmother calling Garcia and not Y/N directly.

“Help? Sure, doll, what do you need?” Garcia continued. “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure Morgan would be more than willing to help Y/N with any yard work.”

Garcia put her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone, “Hey Reid, are you busy this weekend? Little old Mrs. Y/L/N is having Y/N do some things around her yard and she was hoping you would come over and help him.”

“Me?” Spencer was speculative, picking at his lunch on the break room table. “Are you sure?”

“Yep, she asked for the tall, pretty one.” Garcia grinned through her giggles.

Now Spencer was really confused, “What time should I be there?” Garcia turned back to the call. “Oh, and should I bring anything along? Like tools.”

Garcia rolled her eyes, “I’m sure you just show up, Reid.”

You had a long day ahead of you, you tossed in your earbuds and got to hauling all the dead branches and vines from your Nana’s vegetable patch first. After about an hour, you realized that Nana had gone back inside. You shrugged it off, she needed more rest than your youthful body did. Then suddenly he appeared, you wiped the sweat from your forehead with your wrist and stood up.

“What are you doing here, Reid?” You asked, slightly out of breathe. He stood there, uncertainly shifting on the grass. His hands were in the pockets of a pair of jeans. Never had you seen him wear jeans, not even on a night out with the team. They hung low on his narrow hips, you forced your eyes back to his twisted lips.

Removing the earbuds, you could finally hear him clearly. “Your grandmother called Garcia and asked that I help out? I’m not really sure what to do, but she seemed pretty insistent that she wanted me to come. And not, you know, Morgan or somebody?”

You laughed at the implications. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry Reid. That’s my wacky Nana, she thinks she is funny. I’m good, man. If you have somewhere you need to be. I totally get it. This really isn’t your thing.”

He glanced around the yard for a bit before answering. “I’m here already, why don’t I just give you a hand?”

You were impressed, Spencer wasn’t one to get dirty. You took in now that he wore a long sleeved tee shirt, faded words along the front, something about “mathlete”. He was adorable in his nerdiness. You gave in, let your Nana win, for now.

“Alright, grab some gloves, these vines are brutal.” And so you began explaining what to pull, what to leave allowing the morning to pass quickly. Spencer was known for his awkwardness, but he seemed to be struggling more than usual. With the unseasonable weather, you removed your sweat drenched shirt before Nana came waddling out beckoning you both inside for lunch.

Spencer had not been so physically exhausted since Morgan tricked he and Garcia into training for physical assessments. No wonder Y/N’s arms were so defined, he spent nearly every free weekend helping his grandmother with one thing or another. Spencer’s long hair clung to his face, walking into the decorative kitchen he paused at the sink to clean up before lunch.

“Y/N, I’ve got some spare shirts in the guest room. Don’t come to my table naked, young man.”

Y/N’s signature grin flashed at the old woman, “Yes, Nana.” And he strolled into the recesses of the old farm house.

“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” Mrs. Y/L/N asked Spencer, lingering for an answer.

“Yes, I suppose so. His facial proportions are indicative of the golden ratio.” The older woman’s politely nodding head told Spencer she didn’t understand. He improvised. “How long have you been gardening, Mrs. Y/L/N?” Spencer tried to change the subject from Y/N’s appearance, especially since it had been running through his mind all morning.

“My whole life, I was a toddler snatching tomatoes from my parents’ farm nearly eighty years ago.” She smiled with the nostalgia. “Times change, I’m just lucky that I have been around long enough for people to feel safe being honest about who they are.” Her words were heavy, she eyed Spencer slyly. She sat down plates around the square Formica table.

“Ay, Nana, it smells amazing!” Y/N was back, with a dark flannel button down, it brought out the color of his eyes nicely, Spencer noticed. Mrs. Y/L/N caught the faint blush on the doctor’s defined cheeks. She didn’t hide the smug look throughout the rest of the meal.

“Do you mind giving me a ride home?” Spencer’s voice caught you off guard, he appeared suddenly beside you next to the burn pile. You jumped back, barely catching yourself on Spencer’s arm before falling. His large hand caught your back, breaking your fall entirely. The look of surprise on his face, mirrored on your own. Spencer Reid had caught you, then the moment was over and you both fell. Luckily it was away from the smoldering pile of mulch and branches.

You rolled over, unable to contain the laughter any longer. Spencer looked devastated, it muffled your guffaw instantly. “Hey, are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” He sat up, resting his forearms on his peaked knees.

“Reid? Those were some pretty slick reflexes.” You tried to be sweet, sensing his insecurity.

“Yeah right, Y/L/N. You, we, still fell.”

You shrugged it off, standing once more. You held out your hand to the brooding genius. His dark eyes were relaxing, he took your offered help. When he stood, he didn’t let go, he looked you square in the eyes and blinked.

Spencer was flustered, the whole scene replaying in his mind as he locked onto Y/N’s bright, caring eyes. His palm was warm to the touch, both men still sweaty from effort. He didn’t know why he held Y/N to him until their lips were crashing together. Y/N’s arms encasing Spencer’s shoulders as he deepened the kiss. The cracking of the fire and the far off birds the only accompaniment to their gasps and heartbeats.

Spencer’s hands cupped Y/N’s face, while Y/N’s hand found Spencer’s long hair. The fingertips gently massaging through the tangles, it was so soothing. Y/N bit Spencer’s lip ever so slightly before pulling back from the kiss.

“I have thought about doing that for so long…” Y/N trailed off, shaking his head. Spencer brought Y/N’s chin up to look in his eyes once more.

“What stopped you?” Spencer asked, always curious.

“Would you like an itemized list?” Y/N grinned, slipping in little pecks between banter. Spencer enjoyed the feeling of Y/N’s forceful kisses, his hands roaming over Spencer’s lean frame.

“Wait, Y/N?” Spencer’s voice caught in his throat. Y/N pulled back, eyes hooded in concern. “How long? Um, how long have you felt this way?” His right thumb gently stroking Y/N’s jaw, while his left hand felt the thumping of his heart through his flannel-clad chest. Spencer was oddly comfortable being the submissive, yet taller kissee.

“Don’t freak out on me, Reid.” Y/N grinned, but his face relaxed into a confession. “Since the second case I worked with the team. Listening to you explain navigational programming fine print… I went to sleep dreaming of your voice.” His words just above a whisper, Spencer remembered the case well. He also remember thinking Y/N was a bit quiet. His face burned with the shame of the unknown, the time lost in his obliviousness.

“Hey now, did I say something wrong?” Y/N’s words were strained.

Spencer, for once didn’t answer, he just kissed Y/N again.

An hour later Spencer and you had arrived at his place, exhausted and filthy from the hours of labor and the slight roll around in the dirt. Nana had sent you home with a plateful of brownies and a know-it-all grin. That woman was amazing, annoying as a Yorkie, but amazing all the same. You had spent enough time with Spencer to know the lay out of his place.

You made yourself comfortable while Spencer showered and changed into his traditional absent-minded professor chic. This time he found a delicate purple button up to go with his navy sweater. His damp hair just starting to curl dry. His eyes sparkled when he saw you, your breath caught in your chest. You were in trouble.

The twenty minute drive to your place was filled with awkward silence, Spencer interjecting facts and then trailing off uncharacteristically mid-sentence. His soap filled the air along the ride, reminding you of his freshly cleaned body. The images burning through your mind as you shifted in your seat to accommodate the unasked for desire building within you.

Spencer carried in the tray of dessert while you fumbled with the keys in the rusted old lock of your loft. By the time you had both taken off your jackets and set Nana’s brownies on the counter, your lips had reattached to Spencer’s neck. He hummed in pleasure as his fingers scraped up your back. There was something serenely poetic about the moans that Spencer made as your searching hand found his growing arousal.

“Look whose packing,” You tease gently in his ear. “Dr. Spencer Reid, impressive in all arenas.” He kissed you fiercely, his pink lips leaving yours in the dust, trying to keep up with the assault. He nearly clawed off your borrowed shirt, the beading sweat reminding you of your unclean body.

“Spencer, I should, probably, , shower.” You tried convincing him and yourself. Somehow he was backing you into the bathroom, without so much as a flutter of those intoxicating eyelids. His hand held you between the shoulder blades as the other futzed with the bathroom doorknob. You felt yourself melting into him.

This wasn’t like him, Spencer didn’t know what possessed him to overtake the make out session. But the compliments fed his ego in a way he hadn’t felt outside of profiling or academia. Y/N’s bathroom was tiny, barely any standing space between the shower, the sink and the toilet. Reality settled in, Spencer pulled back, leaving Y/N and he heaving for breath.

“The Greeks were the first to utilize showers, though Roman baths are arguably more well known.” Spencer spit out, like usual a relevant, yet unnecessary fact.

“Are you asking to shower with me, Re-Spencer?” Y/N’s eyebrows perched in anticipation.

“Uh, no, unfortunately I don’t think I can manage about in the limited space, you have.” Spencer fumbled for words. “I mean, in the shower, as it is only a stall.” His face burned.

Y/N’s eyes danced in amusement, he leaned in and kissed Spencer gently. His rough palm, caressing the flush of Spencer’s cheek. “We’ll manage just fine.” Spencer’s mind running from the images of Y/N’s nakedness, attempting to stave his thoughts for the duration of the ritual. “Give me ten minutes, make yourself at home.” He grinned, stepping back to close the door in Spencer’s overwhelmed face.

613 seconds later…

Y/N sauntered out of the shower with a waist high towel cinched in his fist, Spencer gulped. In the time apart, he had dissected their entire professional and personal relationship. In the years working together Spencer had been distracted from the obvious affections of this generous man. The idea that Y/N and he were embarking on something much bigger than a weekend fling was apparent in Y/N’s gentle whispers as well as his adoring hands.

The give and take, the intense efforts after the day of labor, baring their devotion to each other. Spencer sighed as Y/N’s head fell on to his chest. The five o’clock shadow barely a tickle on his pale flesh. Spencer peeked down at the shining eyes of his lover and colleague, his face nearly comical with focus.

“Today was… amazing, Y/N.” Spencer confided.

“Yeah, well, Nana always had a way of spoiling me.” Y/N laughed, trailing kisses up to Spencer’s amused mouth.

@gubl-oser @starbucksreid @dontshootmespence @imagicana

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x male reader #spencer x reader #dr reid #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfictions #spencer is bi #we're all queer here #mlm #some fluff too #sneaky granny #pretty steamy #hinted at smut #i am a sucker for glib endings #always a punchline #i am such a tease #i'm sorry

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occupyscifi · 5 years

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Red state and blue state It was while he was in the bathroom hate-jerking to president Laura bank’s morning address to the nation that American Patriot (formerly named Alex Smith) noticed something weird with his screen. It might have been his imagination, or it might have been the bottle of super power diet pills he’d downed as part of his morning regime – all the better to prepare him for his live cast to his loyal patriotic fellow Americans – but then again it might have been something more. ‘Goddamn Feds, interfering with my feed’ he muttered, one hand on his stars and stripes tattooed member and one hand groping for his Russian issue hacking glove. He’d had that dronexed from a guy who swore he was in deep with one of Putin’s favourite hacking gangs, and it was guaranteed to cut through anything the Feds were doing to his live feed of the president’s liberal ass tirade to the poor working American people. ‘….which is why we have to provide abortion clinics on the corner of every high street’ the president was saying, her sober business suit as always decorated with every goddamn lapel pin from Blue Lives don’t matter to SJW’s united against men but no room for the good old Stars and Stripes. “And remember that our daughters deserve better than…” and at that point the screen juddered again as if hit by old school static interference. But one important thing prevented Patriot from reaching for his encryption scrambler that enabled him to avoid the fakenews networks from making him pay for their fake news biased media sheep feed. For while the image of uber cuck bitch Banks flickered and strobed the background of the Rose garden stayed steady. Her cabinet of assholes, cowards and cucks also wavered – women vanishing and being replaced by older white men before changing back. And yet the security guys required to stop honest Americans from second amendmenting the President to death remained the same. “What is this bullshit?” Said Patriot, sensing conspiracy . After all conspiracy was his trade, there wasn’t a corner of the internet he hadn’t visited in his crusade for the truth. Never mind how many facts he’d been hit with, never mind how many people tried to convince him otherwise once he smelled truth he never gave up till he had the evidence to back up what his gut had been telling him all along. His heart beat faster as he shrugged on the hacker glove. Although his increased heart rate might have been more due to the pills, the bottle of which rested on the cabinet of his palatial bathroom. Its fittings and fixtures had been paid for by the subscriptions of honest Americans upset by the biased expert filled and fact laden un American media. Patriot tapped the glove on the screen that filled most of the bathroom mirror. The reflection of himself, toned muscle and tumescent member, vanished to be replaced by the boring ass stats behind the live feed he had been watching. Unlike a great number of his colleagues Patriot had actually been to college- where he studied computer science- and despite his dislike of experts was something of an expert when it came to deciphering the complex numbers behind the digital images he had been rage-sturbating to. “Okay, so what do we have here?” He muttered, tapping the screen. First he removed the usual subliminal ad routines that were meant to inculcate in him a desire for whatever brands had paid the president's people the highest. Most of them were brands that had sponsored his show, the pill makers and the financial services giants, brands he was happy to use himself. Then he broke the images down into their composite layers and narrowed his eyes. It was a live feed of the White House lawn, that much he could be sure of, and it was also definitely true that the President was there. Patriot raised an eyebrow, he had been hoping one of his favorite conspiracy theories – that Laura banks had died of AIDS before the beginning of her second term and been replaced by a CGI mockup – was true. That theory had got enough traction that her rival in the next election was already using it in his campaign ads. Then again Holden Reston would have used any evidence to try and score a knockout blow against the liberal witch. Not that the lame stream media would ever even give him the time of day. “So what the fuck am I missing?” Said Patriot, grabbing with his other hand a Wellness Super Ass nutrition shake to focus his mind. He popped the can and chugged the caffeinated goodness inside, feeling it fill him with the power of ancient Chinese wisdom and definitely certified brain power. With his gloved hand he tapped more at the screen. There was clearly someone interfering with the source, changing the audio of the address as well as some key visual features – swapping out entirely some figures from the background and making sure that Bank’s face matched her words ‘who the fuck is doing this?” He tapped more and frowned more “and why? Ain’t she liberal enough that someone has to change her words?” He looked closer at the screen, at a chunk of code that seemed to control the whole thing, enabling one of two outcomes. Currently it was stuck on the A signal. Patriot wondered what would happen if he flicked it to B. “Maybe get the goddamn truth for once” he muttered to himself, forgetting that he had always assumed that Banks’ divisive and dangerous liberal rhetoric was already inflammatory enough. With a gesture he flicked the settings onto B, praying that this really was a proper conspiracy and not just his TV fucking with him “here we go. Truth bomb time” “….which is why we have to give every high schooler in America access to the latest military grade firearms” Banks was suddenly saying, her accent having changed mid word from east coast liberal whine to red state cutesy drawl “because folks, the only way to stop a bad eighth grader with a gun is to give a good eighth grader a gun. I mean, c’mon. Giving em recess detentions ain’t gonna cut it, right?” “What the ever loving fuck?” Muttered Patriot, watching in horror as Banks then went on to explain why the US should leave the UN because it was a plot to make honest Americans into gay Muslims. When she began to explain why climate change had been invented by the communists Patriot almost had a joygasm. “Goddam liberal media…” he breathed, a mantra he repeated so often it had almost lost its truth. Well not this time. This time he’d caught them at their game. A game so vast it beggared belief. That they had been changing Bank’s message all the time. That she had been an honest god fearing American, fighting for the red white and blue while all the time the feminazis of Silicon Valley had been undermining her message “this… this is so fucking huge I can’t even…” He scrabbled around for a piece of un-networked media to record this on. Were he in his home studio room in the lower level of the bunker he shared with a hundred or so other survivalists he’d be surrounded by gear for secretly recording data beyond the reach of government goons intent on undermining his constitutional rights. However his bathroom was slightly less well appointed, and as he usually used the place to wash and jerk off in he didn’t like to keep cameras around, even if they weren’t linked online. “Shit, I’m losing it…” he muttered as the screen started to strobe again and the code stream on the right filled with ident numbers that Patriot recognized as being some heavy duty semi sentient subroutine starting to take an interest in what he was doing. The last thing he needed was the cyber Feds sending their digital goons after him. While the bunker – a former minuteman missile silo in rural Kansas- had enough digital protection to match its physical equivalent Patriot had no illusions that it could stand up to a full scale assault. The Fed’s were using the same next gen anti encryption software developed not in the fight against terrorism but the much more lucrative fight against movie piracy. You might fuck with Homeland Security and survive, but fuck with Hollywood and you were going down. Desperately he looked about him, trying to find something with some media storage, no matter how meager. In the networked digital age every household item up to and including the common toothbrush was not only linked wirelessly but contained enough memory to store a record of its users habits, ready to sell onto the highest bidder. However Patriot’s toothbrush was currently out of charge and there wasn’t much else that would be able to record what he needed. Desperately his eyes fell on the box of pills he’d been knocking back. The bottle was pretty much generic, but the smart label on the side had enough computing power to order him more pills every time he had finished the last one. “Shit, shit, shit” Patriot cried, seeing that the all seeing eye of the godless software was about to find out where he was based even through the heavy screens of VPN’s and TOR routers. His thick fingers scrabbled at the label, picking the edge to bring up the contact and slapping it to the screen. With his gloved hand he grabbed at the code, copying as much as possible onto the bottle before the Feds could come crashing through the window “cmon, c’mon” he muttered to himself as he tried to sync the smart label with the screen. As they did so he noticed two things. The first was that the label had changed from ‘PowerBro True American Eagle strength Wake me up to Freedom’ to ‘Earth Mother’s all natural high’ – decorated with a cheery lo fi smiley face and claiming to have been made by hippies in Portland. The second was that the interrupt code was already stored on the label. However before Patriot could make anything of this revelation the screen on his bathroom wall exploded, firing fragments of glass at his unprotected body and blasting him backwards into his bath. His apartment, being fully connected to the internet of things – albeit through enough encryption software to keep a Chinese dissident hidden from his government – then shut down totally plunging him into darkness. The only light coming into the bathroom was from the lounge, where a screen the size of a wall usually showed a live feed of stirring patriotic images from around the states and served as a good backdrop for his casts. Now it just hummed and shone in an unhealthy blue. “Blue screen of death” said Patriot, impressed despite his injuries “now I know that I’m onto some serious shit” “Your system’s fried” said Stetson Cole, fellow bunker survivalist and former Silicon Valley whizz kid that Patriot called in to the ruin of his apartment. He had been thorough in his assessment, and he was certain “and anything on it is fried” “You're sure?” Insisted Patriot “I got backups for my backups. I record everything, you know that” “And they all got fried” insisted the programmer, hitching up steampunk e-glasses and scratching his beard. He’d given up Silicon Valley for the lure of living in an underground bunker and only came to see Patriot because it had been Patriot who’d inspired him to become a survivalist in the first place “dunno what hit your system but it was the equivalent of a nuclear missile. Shit, even those old VHS tapes you got in the back there have been erased. I didn’t even know there was malware that could do that” he shook his head, impressed at the skill involved. “Fuck, I need evidence” said Patriot “if you’d seen…if you could have heard what Banks’ was saying…” “That bitch never said nothing that wasn’t a straight up lie from the mouth of Satan himself” said the programmer, his MIT educated voice sounding skeptical. “No, no she wasn’t like that” Patriot looked around the ruin of his bunker apartment. The curved wall ran along the inside edge where once a missile would have sat snugly, waiting for a chance to end the world that had never come. Patriot had decorated in lots of pinewood and hunting accessories in homage to American survivalist from ages past. The walls had been hung with prints of patriotic martyrs, from Bundy to Mcvee to Jared Kushner. However the explosions of the screens had torn these from the walls too. Patriot gritted his teeth, this was more than a patriotic man could bear. He had paused long enough only to put on a pair of Stars and Stripes undies before calling Stetson on his old ham radio “she sounded honest. Sounded American. Sounded like the kind of woman we should have running the country” “Well she don’t sound like that to me” said Stetson “Cause they interfering with what you've been streaming, Stet” insisted Patriot “they got us all fooled. Even me. Till now” “Gonna need more than your bathroom story I’m afraid, old friend” “Well there is one thing” said Patriot, pulling out the bottle of pills “Earth Mother’s natural High?” Said Cole “my wife takes those, gets them from some liberals pharmaceutical place” he looked at Patriot worriedly “didn’t have you down as the wellness type. It’s all juju berries and hippy crap. Thought you’d be a PowerBro man like me” “I am” said Patriot “and this was a powerbro bottle. Till I tried to interface it with my screen. Now its got all this crap on it” he picked at the side “but I kinda fried the circuit along with the rest of the house. Was hoping you might be able to get something from this” “No chance brother” said Stetson “whatever data was on it is long gone. It’s as fried as the rest” “no, no but that don’t matter” said Patriot “cause whatever code was fucking with my screens was on these pills too. So I guess if we just buy another bunch..” “I got some in my apartment” said Stetson “And I got my wife’s hippie crap if you wanna compare” “make it scientific, yeah” said Patriot, who had long railed against the scientific method as un American. However in moments like this it hardly mattered. There was a higher truth at stake. Cole's apartment was, if anything, even more stereotypically survivalist than Patriot’s. The only difference in the Deer Hunter aesthetic was the nerd shrine that was a requirement for anyone who’d made a buck in Silicon Valley. Ancient Apple II’s jostled with illegally made knockoffs of first generation Star Wars toys. There was also marked evidence of feminine inhabitation, which Patriot sniffed at. Letting a woman inhabit a man’s space was the first step towards being a cuck. Next thing you knew you are acting like an SJW and mailing your balls to the Feminazis. “in here” said Cole, featuring to a room filled floor to ceiling with stacks of computer hardware. Enough cabling to garrote a giant connected to more computing power than had put the Chinese on Mars. He sat and placed on a desk the bottles of PowerBro and Patriot’s slightly crisped bottle “should be able to crack this in no time” However two hours later they were no closer to getting the code, both Patriot and Stetson having taxed their expertise to the limit. Patriot was getting antsy. He had a show to tape and he wanted to be able to bring down the government before the evening. “why the fuck isn’t this working?” muttered Patriot in frustration “ can’t even find the code at all” “Hey, I mean look” said Stetson looking awkward “s'no shame to admit you had a fugue. You know we all get em. I trashed my screen after I took too much PowerBro and tried to complete Call of Booty on dead man mode. I was hallucinating them zombie Nazi strippers, y’know. We’re dudes. Sometimes we fuck up...” “Hey, what the fuck?” said Patriot, looking furious “the fuck makes you think I have breakdowns?” “Umm, cause on your show.. “ said Cole “what do you mean…” began Patriot, then thought again. He did act like he was on the edge of a breakdown, jumping around like a lunatic and spitting as he talked. But that was just the standard Alex Jones rant mode that every shock jock, right and left always used “shit, you know that’s all scripted, right? I don’t actually get so mad I tear my clothes. And I don’t wanna burst your bubble but when I start spitting blood, that ain’t real blood” “I just thought…” began Stetson, chastened somewhat “You know, it’s showbiz. Don’t mean I don’t mean all I say. Now we gotta crack this shit or else the bad guys gonna win. You wanna say that you let the traitors get away with it?” “no I don’t” said Stetson. Looking again at the bottles “Okay, there is one person I can call to help us. But I don’t think you’re going to like who it is” “listen, I don’t care what kinda asshole guy you get to do this. Just call him and get us our code” “We’ll that’s just it” said Stetson “isn’t a him. She’s a she” “Okay, I can deal with that. But she tries some SJW crap then I ain’t gonna hold back…” “nah, she won’t” said Stetson, then raising his voice “honey, could you come in here a moment? We got something we need a little help with” Stetson wife was just about acceptable to Patriot, her only flaw being that she was a hot woman who dressed in a casual way. Naturally Patriot knew women only wore makeup to attract and beguile men to do their bidding, but he felt Mrs Stetson Cole could have worn more. However she greeted him with a smile and a nod. “I watched your show” she said, her voice carefully neutral “it’s pretty… illuminating” she smiled politely. “Ella hate watches it” admitted Patriot “she gets real worked up over it” he looked sheepish, not least because when his wife got that angry the sex was out of this world. For that he could easily forgive the completely opposite views of politics. That and the fact they had been in love since they’d first met at a coding party in college. “well hell” said Patriot, who wasn’t surprised. He knew his demographic figures well enough to know that probably as many people watched him to get angry at him as did to get angry and with him. “one subscriber is as good as another. Keeps the wolf from the door and all that” Stetson explained the situation to Ella and handed her the bottle of pills, she turned them over in her hands. “You know these are the exact same pills, right?” She said “I mean the bottles sure look different but the pills inside are identical” “Bullshit” said Patriot “I been sponsored by powerbro pills long enough to know…” “Identical” insisted Ella “to the point where whenever Stetson runs out of powerbro I just sneak a couple of my bottles into his bathroom cabinet. Label changes automatically” “You’re shitting me” said Stetson “how their fuck does that work?” “That's…that's it. Must be it anyway” Said Patriot “cause, don’t you see? They got a code on there that changes what people see. I read about that” he tried to think which particular conspiracy site he’d seen that had told him. Then he remembered it had been in the Wall Street Journal, a magazine he’d never admit to reading because it was part of the MSM establishment and as close to Satan as you could get. However if you wanted to be a savvy entrepreneur it paid to keep up with things. He took the bottle in his hands “its like with the adverts you see. They aren’t just a bunch of random plugs for shit you don’t need. Every time you pass a smart screen or a smart fridge or whatever it picks up your personal metadata, all those tags you generate every time you buy something online…” “Which is why I ain’t bought on line since I was eleven years old” said Stetson proudly “there isn’t any data that big brother has on me” “Except they’ve got algorithms that can predict with a high degree of statistical accuracy what a man of your age, -occupation and ethnicity would buy” interrupted Ella, idly connecting the labels of the bottles to the nest of machinery. She looked up at Patriot, an annoyed expression on his face. There was a reason he did live casts without a live audience. He hated being interrupted “I did a girl’s guide to semi sentient software programmers” she shrugged “hey, its not all about man hating…” “Yeah, so what happens is that the makers of those bottles see whose looking at them. If its some hippie dippy liberal snowflake it goes all Paltrow. It’s a real honest American patriot then its turns to powerbro” “Sure, okay” said Stetson “but how does that help us show that the US president isn’t some liberal whiny bitch?” “Because clearly she isn’t like that when its some liberal asshole watching” said Patriot “its only red blooded Americans that have to stomach a woman whose feminazi agenda is ruining this country…” “Wait, what?” Said Ella “that doesn’t really make any sense. Why hide the fact of who she is to half the country? Why not just pretend to everyone who she really is?” “Because they wannna laugh at us” said Patriot, imagining his favorite hate image of the east coast liberal elite “in their fancy ass parties quoting The NY Times and talking about how anyone outside a city is a dumbshit redneck. They wanna lord it over us, laughing at us…” “…but what if liberals and conservatives have a conversation about politics? Wouldn’t they find out pretty quickly that Laura Banks isn’t a Liberal? What about…” “Come on darling, you know that don’t happen” said Stetson kindly “you know since the Twitter wars and the social media cleansing people don’t talk about politics face to face. It just ain’t done…” “Yeah, yeah I can see it clearly now” said Patriot, his eyes wide “and it’s just as I thought. A goddamn liberal conspiracy to keep good Americans down and pretend that our president is some godless liberal do gooder. I think it’s about time that the American people knew the truth” he looked at Ella whose eyebrows were raised so high they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline “can you get me that code? Can you show me how it can change what people see?” “Sure I can” said Ella “but I still don’t get how…” “You don’t need to honey” said Stetson patronisingly “cause Patriot’s gonna explain it to everyone, live at 5. That’s the kinda broadcast that could bring down the government” he started eagerly pottering around his apartment “I better get my best clothes ready. I wanna storm the state capital looking good, you know?” “You’ve done the American people a great service, little lady” said Patriot, as Ella wordlessly handed him an ancient looking non networked USB stick with the data on it “and I hope you’re going to be watching” “Wouldn’t miss it” said Ella, but Patriot was already heading out the door so he missed her sarcasm. It was a great show. Patriot hit all his best notes, he grovelled, he growled, he shouted and went so red he was in danger of bursting something. He told the American people everything he about the conspiracy to hide the fact that Laura Banks was really an honest red state American. He was somewhat surprised however when he left his home studio to find someone in his living room. His surprise only increased when he recognised who it was. “spokeswoman Tori” he said to the smiling face of the regime he despised. Every true American knew to hate Tori Al-Sperring. She had been the one to hector the media, to pour scorn on honourable news networlds like Foxbart and InfoDrudge. To have the audacity to demand evidence where gut feeling should have been enough. Patriot’s surprise though ended when he saw in her hand a slim pistol. Clearly her repudiation of the 2nd amendment ceased when it came to bumping off honest truthtellers like Patriot. He had guessed, and maybe even a little hoped, that this would happen. After the livecast his suddenly murdered body would only add weight to his words “what a surprise. We’ll I’m afraid you’re too late. The word is out. You leave me dead and it’ll only prove me right” “Two things” said Tori, her voice clipped and naturally bitchy “number one, if we wanted you dead we’d have killed you soon as you caught the code. Secondly the word may be out but the word is wrong. So wrong in fact you’re kinda doing us a favour” her smile widened “not for the first time, by the way” “so what’s the gun for?” asked Patriot, wiping sweat away from his forehead this was not caused by the stress of the situation, but from his livecast. He was a very active performer, what with the studio lights, the foaming at the mouth and screaming about how honest Americans were being genocided by liberal hate he was quite exhausted. “same reason anyone has a gun. To look cool. To make people listen” “Okay, so I’m listening” said Patriot, plonking himself down on an easy chair “what are you going to tell me?” “the truth” she said “a concept you may have heard of, but I don’t think you have much contact with” “and the truth is what? That you got the real Laura banks hidden away while we have to listen to the fake bullshit liberal one? Cause I ain’t stupid. I know how easy it is to cook up liberal shit. There’s meme generators on the internet more believable than the liberal crap she comes out with. I could do better. I’m amazed no one but me has noticed that it ain’t the real Laura banks” “Well this might disappoint you” said Tori, idly spinning her gun around her finger “but they’re both as false as the other. There isn’t a real Laura banks. You get a choice, either liberal Laura or conservative Laura. Take your pick” “Wait, what?” “It’s simple. You were half right. We do use algorithms to write her liberal speeches. But we do the same fir her conservative ones. Basic algorithms overlays all the broadcasts she makes, some of them are for a conservative audience, and others for a liberal one. It’s a trick as old as TelePrompter. And saves us a ton of work” “So what you're saying” growled Patriot “is that the Laura banks I been hating on is the one that liberal want to be watching? That I should have been getting gun tooting Laura all along?” “Oh no” said Tori “quite the opposite in fact. You get liberal laura because you’re conservative. If you were some latte sipping liberal on the East Coast you’d be getting wall to wall Mexican hating small government loving god fearing laura” “What's the fucking point of that?” Said Patriot, totally lost. He could get his head around the idea of. A virtual president, hell there’ been rumours of that since Trump’s second term. Some of old orange Julius’ insults had started going on repeat and there were plenty whispers that he’d had one Trump steak too many and died of a heart attack. His aides had just used some off the shelf adobe program to stitch bits of old speeches together and hope no one noticed. As for twitter there were enough random Trump tweet generators to keep the old man’s legacy going forever. But it was just the idea that whoever was secretly running the government was giving people a president they hated was just beyond him “you mean you make sure that everyone sees a president they fucking hate? Why?” “C’mon American” said Tonos “I’ve seen your show. You more than anyone know the power of hatred. You think if on your show you gave thoughtful deconstruction of liberal arguments that anyone would watch? You think if you didn’t pander to the lowest prejudice people would still subscribe?” “Well, yeah” said Patriot “but I give people what they want. They're already angry. I give ‘em something to be angry about. Don’t know why the fuck you make us watch something we hate” “Seriously?” Said toni “you mean to say you’ve never hate watched something? You’ve never deliberately tuned into a channels, viewed a live cast or seen a movie knowing it would make you angry and then just did it anyway?” “I might” he said, his eyes narrowing “And, hand on heart now, how many of your viewers do you think are what you would call ‘card carrying liberal ass wimps’?” “I got a few” he admitted “More than a few” said Tori “remember, I’m from the big bad people who run the Government. We know everything about you, including your show stats. Last time I checked you had more than seventy percent of your audience share coming from locations described as liberal, and from households where average data suggests a heavy voting average towards your hated liberal agenda” “Yeah, I don’t get how that means you make the President an asshole” “Because to be honest everyone wants the president to be an asshole” said Tori with a sigh “look, I represent a shadowy cabal of Silicon Valley billionaires and other dark money industrial barons. When we took over running the government it was the end of the second Trump term – and yes, you were right. We did replace the old bastard, but not because he died but because he couldn’t hack being president any more. Being a businessman he sold the office of President to the highest bidder. Luckily that happened to be us – and we outbid the Russians by a hair only. Anyway when we took over we thought the American people had had enough of hating on each other, they were exhausted by division. Defeated after fighting each other at every turn. They were sick of blue state and red state, republican and democrat. They wanted a uniter and not a divider and so we gave it to them” “What, you mean Buckwheat was your guy?” “Buckwheat wasn’t real” said Tonos “he was a bunch of code and an actor we’d mo capped to get the moves right. But more than that he represented what every focus group, left and right said they wanted. He was the middle bit of the venn diagram where even the most divided American could agree. He was pro second amendment but could talk round the gun lobby. He was anti abortion but he did more for women’s reproductive rights than any president. He was a church going Christian who was at home chatting with atheists. He was…” “The most boring goddamn president ever” interrupted Patriot “no fucker cared what he was doing. He didn’t have no opinions, he was always been the nice guy. Always talking when he should have been kicking ass…” “Yeah, that was what everyone seemed to think” said Tori “Buckwheat had the lowest approval ratings of any president since post 1929 Herbert Hoover. But no one knew why. You asked people on the street their opinion of him and they’d shrug, like yeah, he seemed like an all right guy, but no one gave a fuck. No one supported his policies, but then again no one really opposed them” “Hey, I’d have thought if you'd were running the government that’s exactly the kind of patsy you’d want. Don’t rock the boat. Cause apathy is the real enemy of democracy…” “Yeah, it isn’t” said Tonos “and you forget. We bought the presidency. The presidency is a brand and we need our guy front and centre of everything. If people don’t care about politics they don’t read the news. They don’t share click bait bullshit articles. They don’t argue online for hours. They don’t even buy stupid goddamn shirts and they certainty don’t contribute to election campaigns” Tori shook her head “no, Buckwheat was one of the most expensive goddamn mistakes we ever made. And so when his first term ended we knew we had to do it properly. Cause we’d realized, like you, that hate sells. But the problem was how do you launch a president that no one likes? I mean, sure, we didn’t have to worry about the votes because we just fixed whatever numbers we wanted. But how do we create a president that every American, no matter their creed, thinks is a fucking number one asshole?” “Pretty fucking easily” said Patriot, seeing now how it was done “you’d just have to get access to their news feeds and their social media history. Search for keywords that really pushed their buttons and you get an algorithm to do the rest” he shrugged “hell, I thought about doing the same thing for my show, but you know I’m a craftsman. People start to notice after a while if you get a computer to do your hating for you” “Naturally, and I respect that” said Tori “which is kinda why I’m here and not some black bag assassin ready to shoot you down” “Err, what?” Said Patriot, looking fearfully around “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but Banks is getting a bit repetitive. Hating on the same imaginary conservative fears that no actual liberal believes in. The same is true, if you’d ever watched, about conservative laura. The hate hits are dropping off, the number of people hate jerking to her has gone way down, to almost Buckwheat levels in some places. We need some new writers, because the computers are not enough. In short, we need someone like you to come and write content for our Banks” “and if I say no?” “like I said, I represent a shadowy cabal of silicon valley billionaires and industrial barons. How do we usually deal with our problems?” “I dunno, outsource them to India?” “Funny, but no” tori leaned closer “what will happen is that I shoot you in the face, here and now. Then some of our guys will come in and plug into your network. A CGI version of you will keep broadcasting, so that all your fans and haters think you are still alive. But because we’re cruel we’ll make sure that over time you become less and less believable until gradually all your audience will desert you. Then we’ll announce that you died, and in the most embarrassing way possible. It’ll probably involve cocks. I haven’t thought about it yet” she smiled as Patriot through about his options “on the other hand you can make an ass ton of money and we’ll even let you keep your show. The choice is yours”

#Sf #trumpian

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angelicwritingoflesilva · 6 years

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Thursday, Finalization

Hey there! I’m going to post the character finalization, a little bit about setting, and then the plot. :) Have fun reading!

Summer Jefferson & Aleicia Patel (1988)

Starting off with Aleicia Patel. Aleicia is a quiet, demure woman. She is the kind of person who wears mint-scented/leafy-smelling perfume. She never goes out without touching up her face or wearing her gloves. She rarely wears dresses, yet subtle jewelry is something that she never lacks. Her hair is always worn in some type of tight wrap, whether it been a braid or a bun.

A germaphobe, she only removes her gloves to wash her hands or change her gloves. At all other times, her white gloves are firmly yanked over her hands.

She has a quiet, lilting voice. Soothing, it is the perfect voice for a receptionist, which she indeed is. She works at a therapist’s office, welcoming customers and informing their respective therapists when they arrive. There is one therapist, white with red hair, who seems suspicious of her life at home, but Aleicia has managed to evade further pressing from him.

She does indeed have an abusive boyfriend. Physically and psychologically abusive, he often blames her for the wrongs that befall either or both of them. Often, he takes out his anger on her in the form of slapping her face and punching her torso. She pretends that she is control of the situation, that she can break up with him whenever she wants, but the truth of the matter is that she’s kidding herself. She no longer has control over the situation, as much as she wants to. She never wears anything revealing, because, one, she doesn’t like to show off her body, two, she doesn’t want anyone to see a bruise.

Secondly, we have Summer Jefferson. Summer is, first and foremost, a dreamer. She has so many wishes and desires that she keeps a little book full of them. From visiting Venice to buying a new washing machine, she scribbles down every want that comes to her.

Summer’s dresses outnumber her t-shirts and pants 3-1. However, the dresses are not elaborate or fancy; they are homey, rather. Comfortable to wear and usually decorated with copious amounts of lace, Summer’s dresses are a little older than the fashion trends around her.

She comes from one of the few relatively well-off African American families. She was able to recieve her Bachelor’s in Library Sciences and is working to get her Master’s. She is full of ambition and cheer at all times.

She is also currently learning how to bake. Although her cakes and scones are in need of some work, she makes killer chocolate-chip cookies. She often brings them into work for her fellow librarians.

Her coworkers are kind and sympathetic to her plight, as a black woman living in a relatively conservative area. Despite knowing this, they just treat her how they would treat anyone else. When a lender seems to be giving her flack for something, any one of them will come rushing to the rescue, if Summer doesn’t tell them off first.

Summer is attached to the world by a balloon string, and a fraying one at that. She often is lost in thought, dreaming about a better time, and a better place. Preferably a warm area with lots of sunrises.

Charming all of those around her wit her happy-go-lucky attitude, Summer appears carefree but also has razor-sharp instincts and notices more than most realize. For instance, besides the man who had been working beside her for years, Summer was the first to pick up on the fact that Aleicia was in an abusive relationship.

Marcus Zimmerman (2018)

Cold and calculating are only two of the words used to describe this man. Ruthless as a businessman, he has climbed his way to the top with his insane intuition and risky business plans. He now sits in a comfortable position in a company called Building Co. (often called BC by outsiders and workers alike). Despite its uncreative name, BC has found recent success of buying and selling apartments in the Cleveland area. A recent population boom has made their property there worth much more than before, quickly sky-rocketing their sales off the charts.

Marcus likes to play with women. He knows only lust, not love. For some, this is a life that they continue to live until the day they die, and when they do indeed fade away, they know nothing better than the short-bursts of passion that come from bedding a woman. However, when the ghosts of Aleicia and Summer contact him, he becomes acquainted with love and regrets that, when something so pure and fragile such as the love between Aleicia and Summer exists, he is having late night affairs with married women.

Before he changes, he was a cocky braggart. Believing that his position in BC was rock-solid, he never took precautions with his actions at work. He often flaunted his wealth by wearing new suits every day, each one fancier than the last, and wearing expensive watches to work.

He bought a large house tucked away on the outskirts of suburbia outside of Cleveland. It was run down and extremely cheap on the market. However, Marcus bought it so he could renovate it, further proving his obvious wealth to his “friends.”

Plot

This is definitely going to be a long story, so bear with me! I want to make his night/day times balanced, so there is a clear line between his story and Summer’s and Aleicia’s. I feel that neglecting either would lead to a less powerful story. :) Anyways, this is the plot.

The story starts out with Marcus and his buddies at work, rating their female colleagues on a scale of one to ten. Make sure to note that there are many more men actually doing work than the five (marcus and four unimportant friends) not doing so.

Have a woman print something out, and head towards the printer that the friends are crowding around. When she gets close, Marcus reaches for the back of her skirt. Whirling around and turning bright red, she stabs a finger in his face and says that she doesn’t care how high up he is on the company’s ladder, if he did that again, she would report him. End section that day of work there.

Marcus goes to his house, where the bedroom, kitchen, and a bathroom have already been renovated. He recently moved out of his apartment, so there are a lot of boxes lying around.

He goes to bed, but hears a woman softly crying. Each sob is delicate, as if anything would break it. Confused, he gets out of bed to go downstairs and get a drink of water and to poke around. As he is getting the glass, the crying fades away, and he passes it off as pre-sleep audio illusion.

The next day, Marcus finds out the woman’s name who had threatened him yesterday. He spends a lot of time poking around before he can get someone to tell him. Most just give him disgusted looks before looking away.

He goes to his boss and tells him that the woman has been lacking in her duties, that she rarely gives him the information that he needs to purchase buildings. His boss frowns and says that he’ll look into it. Marcus is triumphant. End of work day here.

The next night, Marcus hears the crying again. This time, he ignores it and goes straight to bed.

He dreams a strange, realistic dream of two women going to work. The weather is warm, almost balmy. Definitely summer. An African American woman is running to the stop, a side bag swinging by her hip and a lacey, pink dress forming to her figure. She nearly runs into an Asian woman. Who is standing, back-ridged, with folders neatly placed in her crossed arms. The African American gasps out a question, asking why she had never seen the asian woman before. The asian woman replies that her bike had recently broke and that she had to take the bus to her workplace from now on. The african american woman expresses sympathy, introducing herself as Summer. The asian woman says that she is Aleicia. Summer asks what bus she’s waiting for, and she says the 815. Summer is impressed that she’s there a whole 13 minutes early. Summer says that she’s waiting for the 800. Aleicia seems surprised and tells her that it pulled out about a minute ago. Semi-cursing, Summer thanks Aleicia and runs off, presumably in the direction of the next stop. Aleicia smiles after Summer’s retreating form.

The next day, Marcus quieter, weirded out by his dream. He half-heartedly participates in his friends’ conversation, but only mumurs mhhmms, and yeses to show that he is listening. When one friend asks him a question and he responds with ‘yeah, definitely,’ they ask why he is so spacey. Strangely protective of his dream, he shrugs off their concerns and goes back to his desk to do some work.

At night, Marcus dreams about the two women again. Some time has passed--it’s now a little chillier, and many clouds hide the sun from view. Summer is wearing a winter coat and Aleicia is wearing a turtle-neck sweater. They’re at dinner together, in a relatively laid-back restaurant. Summer and Aleicia talk about their jobs for a little bit, complaining but also rejoicing in the small joys. Through the conversation, the reader also learns that this is not the first time that they have gone out together. Suddenly, Summer turns serious and she fidgets uncomfortably in her chair. She comes out to Aleicia as being gay, and tells her that she really likes her. Aleicia, surprised and flattered, blushes fiercely as Summer continues, the first wall that has been breached in her emotional barrier for a long time. Summer rambles on, eventually stopping as Aleicia raises her hand to silence her. After a pause to gather up her courage, Aleicia says that she feels the same way. The dream ends with them looking into each other’s eyes in a totally different way from when they began.

Marcus goes through the motions at work, not even bothering with his friends. When he gets out, he drives to the library that Summer mentioned working at. He asks around about Summer, and one ancient librarian says that she knew Summer. He talks to her, and finds out about her dream book, her cookies, and her general kindness to her coworkers. He asks about Aleicia as well, but she says that she never knew much about her, except that she and Summer disappeared on the same day, over 40 years ago.

Shocked by this revelation, Marcus is slow to fall asleep the next night. When he does, he dreams of Aleicia and Summer standing at a dark balconly, presumbaly in Summer’s apartment. The air is biting and most of the leaves are gone from the trees. They talk about how rough their relationship is, with having to keep it mostly a secret in fear of being discovered as being gay. Summer keeps a hand on Aleicia’s arm as she confronts her about the hand-shaped bruise on her wrist. Aleicia stiffens, but when Summer reminds her that their relationship is built on honesty, she relaxes in a way akin to admitting defeat. She reveals that her boyfriend is ‘rough’ with her. Shocked by the things she hears, Summer can do nothing but shake her head and grasp tightly onto Aleicia’s arm. She also learns that her boyfriend, in a fit of rage, slashed her bike’s tires and knocked off the seat with a hammer, which is why Aleicia had to take the bus. The dream fades as Marcus wakes up. He is confused, terrified, but determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Continuing plot from here on 7/6/18 at 11:25!

Marcus calls in sick the next day, saying that he has the flu and would not be able to go into work. Over the course of the week, he gathers newspaper articles on everyone he meets in his dream, looks them up on the internet, and talks to the people who knew them in their time. There are none of Aleicia’s family left in the area, but Summer’s mother (~80 at the time) is still alive. He goes to talk to her.

Mrs. Jefferson is tearful, talking about the lost pea in her children’s pod. She had a son, who, after going to therapy for several years, was able to get over his sister’s disappearance. Marcus asked if Summer had any Asian friends, but her mother says that there was only one asian librarian, and they weren’t that close.

Frustrated that he knows so much about Summer, but next to nothing about Aleicia, he stays up for most of the night, trying to track down the therapy office that Aleicia used to work at. He found out that the building was torn down and replaced by a Wendy’s. However, he does find a living retiree who used to work there--the irish child therapist who suspected Aleicia’s abusive relationship. He talks about her fondly, saying that she herself could’ve made an amazing therapist if she had decided to pursue the career path.

He returns home late at night, around 11 or so. Aleicia and Summer were dancing at a night club together, cups of fizzy bear splashing their drinks everywhere as they skip-danced. They didn’t say anything, just laughed uncontrollably and smiled at each other brightly. Tipsy, but not anywhere close to drunk.

Smiling, Marcus draws closer to watch them. For a second, Aleicia sets her drink down by her feet, motioning at Summer to do the same. They join in a pseudo-waltz, picking up the speed of the dance to match the beat of the rock ‘n’ roll music. While they were busy whirling around, a man slipped by and discreetly slipped something in their drinks. Heart sinking, Marcus began to shout Summer’s and Aleicia’s names. Of course, he has no effect on the dream, so they continue dancing until their waltz is finished. They end the dance with a small kiss, a simple brush of their lips. All the while, Marcus is panicking, screaming at them to not drink what’s in their cups.

But, they pick up their plastic cups and knock back the rest of the contents. Instantly, they appear to become more drunk. The same man who had slipped the drugs into their drinks pretends to notice them wilting, and rushes over. He explains to a suspicious, burly looking guard that the Asian woman is his girlfriend. Aleicia is still lucid enough to answer the question, but not aware enough to know not to. The man throws the two unconscious women in the back of his car and, when he gets to the wheel, an angry muscle ticks in his jaw. As he pulls away, the dream leaves Marcus’s consciousness.

Unable to comprehend what he had witnessed, Marcus could do nothing the next day but wonder. So, that was it. They were drugged and kidnapped. Somehow, Aleicia’s boyfriend must’ve found out about their relationship and decided to take care of ‘problem’ himself. For some reason, Marcus believes that the ghosts will no longer show him anything. He spends the day, shellshocked, trying to figure out a plan to exaplain what he had learned.

When he falls asleep that night, he is shocked to find himself in another memory/dream. He follows Aleicia’s boyfriend to his house, a large, strangely-familiar looking house. He slings Summer over his shoulder and drags Aleicia along the ground.

When they enter through the front door, it hits Marcus--this is his house. He was living in the same house that Aleicia’s boyfriend had been.

He watches as he drags the two unconscious women underneath a loose floorboard in the basement. He is too shocked to scream, just feels hollow as he watches Summer and Aleicia are dragged to their deaths. He knows that he can do nothing as Aleicia’s boyfriend ties them up and waits for them to wake up.

About twenty minutes pass before Aleicia twitches, her eyes opening. She exclaims the boyfriend’s name, Andrew, in fear and horror. He reveals that he had known she was doing something when she returned late every night, and that he had been following her for a long time before he had done this. He seems strangely sane, his voice cool and collected. He explains that he is going to make sure she regret everything she’s done. Suddenly tearful, Aleicia slurridly begs for Summer’s life, but her pleas fall on deaf ears.

Something that had never happened before during this dream--several days passed in a blur. He was aware for each of them, but remembers little but screams, knives, and blood. He believes that his brain blocked out the majority of the torture that Andrew inflicted on the two women.

Summer was the first to go, as Andrew was much rougher with her. Aleicia did not last much longer, perhaps a day or so. Even if Andrew hadn’t killed her, the wound in her soul was too great--as soon as Summer breathed her last, she was as good as dead.

After a week, Summer and Aleicia lay next to each other, their eyes glazed over with death. Marcus, covered in their blood, had slung them into a corner. They were missing all of their fingernails, patches of their hair were missing, and both had fresh cuts slicing up their bodies. Despite all the pain, their hands almost appear to be resting lightly on each other, their heads resting on top of the other.

Andrew spits at the bodies of the two women, suddenly appearing less sane than before. He calls them fags before turning to leave. Marcus sadly notes how quickly Andrew cut of connections to his girlfriend. He goes out of the basement, chuckling while humming to himself, pressing the floorboard back into place. The room is cast into darkness.

Waking up in a cold sweat at three in the morning, Marcus leaps out of bed, bolting down the stairs to the basement. He flicked on the lights, and pounded down the steps. When he reached the bottom, his heart sank when he noticed a floorboard slightly pulled up. Ripping it out of the floor, he is stunned to find two skeletons. Their clothing hangs on them like rags, barely even covering themselves up.

Marcus throws up outside of the room, onto the basement’s false floor next to hin. He calls 911, explaining that he had found a secret room in his basement while he was cleaning up, and that two bodies were located inside. He didn’t pretend to not know who they belonged to--eventually the research would tell them that he had been looking into Summer and Aleicia before he found their bodies.

Temporarily, he was held and questioned. When they asked why he had suddenly looked into Summer and Aleicia’s past days before he had found their dead bodies, he said that he had heard that the two women were missing and he was curious about their lives. Of course, many were extremely suspicious of Marcus, and theories ranged from him being a master detective to the killer who traveled from the past. Although his perculiar involvement in the case, no one could solidly connect him to the women. He suggested looking at the house’s previous owners to see if any of them had shared a connection. The previous inhabitant, an 80 year-old woman had never visited the house, but quickly, Andrew’s name was discovered. It was found out that he had been previously arrested for armed robbery, and that he was sent to a mental hospital instead of jail. While there, he hung himself with his belt from the ceiling.

The bodies were returned to the respective families. Summer’s mother was insanely grateful for Marcus, whispering that she didn’t know how he found the bodies, but was so grateful he did. He asked if she wanted to know the story, the real story, promising her that even he didn’t understand the specifics of it. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he made the offer, and he swore he could feel two ghostly hands interlace their fingers with each of his own. So, Marcus sat down on one of her couches, and began with, “I wasn’t always the best man...”

Ending this here! This is taking a lot longer than I thought it would take to write, so I will finish this tomorrow, seeing as I have to get up at 5 o’clock, and I don’t want to be a TOTAL zombie. c: So, see you tomorrow! Thanks for reading!

Phone died while I was on the road (on a car trip), so I didn’t have teh chance to finish this until I got to a hotel. Finished editing this at 7:21 PM!

- L.E. Silva

#writing #plot #80s #characters #romace #paranormal #writers on tumblr #short story

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