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sanemisstalker · 9 months

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Incel! Gyutaro, but it's a modern western college! au and you whip him into shape real fast. My ex won't talk to me, so I'm very much fantasizing about a man that will be obsessive over me ---> gyutaro NSFW

CW// Fem reader / AFAB genitalia / Breasted Reader / INCEL MENTALITIES : Sexism, Poly Hate / BDSM dynamics/ Implied ED (Gyutaro is a gym junkie who should definitely be eating more) / SH / Men's Mental Health / Inconsistent POV because I'm writing this with my hand down my pants (I am joking)

PART TWO <-

-You go to community College with him. He's some fucking dude in your necessary math course they wouldn't let you drop. He sits next to you in the booths.

-He's not awful looking. He's got some weird scars across his face, but like, they're kind of artsy. They add a flare the guy would be lacking otherwise.

-His vibe is a little... weird. He doesn't talk in class ever. You see him around campus and he doesn't seem... at all versed in social interaction. You once watched him get into a fight, which was a little sexy, but since it was with Tengen Uzui, your eyes were much more interested in the latter.

-Gyutaro is used to that though. Never being the one looked at. Typical of women like you. You're always frothing at the mouth over fucking Chad's like Tengen- He got it. Tengen was built, strong jawed, and just reeked of sex appeal wherever he walked. He always had the glaze of one of those five sluts he hung out with on his lips-

-Tengen was lucky. He's apparently been training since he was young- to look like a Greek God and all. Gyutaro spent the first years of his life fighting to survive in a hospital, and then every year after fighting to live in his home safely.

-and girls like you- sluts like you were always going to favour Tengen. Always assholes.

-After that fight, you began speaking to Gyutaro. You didn't come onto the topic immediately- you didn't want to pry- So You'd mention his shirt.

-'Is that Death Cab For Cutie?' His heart dropped when you spoke. He didn't even register you were talking about his shirt.

-'Are... Are you talking to me?' He'd croak. His voice was quite nice. Soft, but low.

-'Yeah- Your shirt? That's... That's death cab for cutie, right?'

-'Y-Yeah.'

-As classes rolled by, you came to understand that Gyutaro was a very... disturbed individual. Aside from being generally jumpy and odd, his moral opinions specifically toward women were less than desirable.

-You came to know of his opinions toward Tengen as well. The level of insecurity dripping from every word was palatable... even through the venom.

-He called women 'femoids' and constantly tried to express that Tengen had been given a bigger genetic stick in life. You could never decide if he was referring to Tengen's dick or not.

-You were different, though, He'd assure. You always got what he was saying. Even if you were just letting him mindlessly ramble about his awful, borderline questionable mentalities.

-with said mentalities, you began to realize that Gyutaro was a very easy man. An incredibly easy man. Who was incredibly attracted to every woman he met- but especially you.

-'Gyutaro, have you ever slept with anyone?' You'd ask one day, on the way to the cafeteria. On the few days he chose that over the gym, he'd walk with you. You worried about him, occasionally.

-The question would visibly startle him.

-'I-No. I'm - ha- I'm not... Why?' He'd cut over his own words, face burning.

-'Just curious. You seem all cool, like you get around.' You'd melt a little at that prideful look on his face. How absolutely smitten.

-Maybe the power went to your head, but you began to seek little moments of affirmation from Gyutaro. You'd bend over, a little too close to him- The chronic porn addict. Knowing what it did to him.

-You'd always compliment his shirts- All of his bands incredibly main stream despite his insistence that they weren't.

-You remembered the noise he made when you grabbed his arm in class, once. The teacher had decided to round up the class grade- just barely passing you- and you turned and clung onto his arm, and it was almost like he choked.

-'Hey, Gyutaro, can I come over and study?' You'd pose one day. His face would turn red, a hand flying to his scarred wrist. He itched the skin off- almost always raw.

-'To my- my dorm?'

-'Mhm.'

-'My room isn't-' He'd pause. 'Why? What do you want?' His emotions would flit, unsure of your reasoning. You'd roll your eyes.

-'To hang out? You know? On the one night a week we don't have homework?'

-'Aren't you going to go... party? You do every other weekend.' You found the tang of malice on his tongue adorable. Irritating, but adorable.

'One, I don't party every week. Two, I think you'd be fun to hang out with. What, am I not pretty enough to bring back to your roomate? Am I not allowed in the great and powerful lord Gyutaro's room? ' You'd taunt.

-'N-no. You're pr- no I-'

-'Cool! You live in the good dorms, right?'

-Gyutaro did live in the good dorms. He was also very lucky to be in a one man dorm. Apparently his old roomate, Akaza, had moved out to join a frat.

-Not that you could tell it was a good dorm. The thing was filthy. It smelled like hell, too. Like Gyutaro.

-'I'm sorry for the mess.' He'd grumble. 'I get really busy...'

-'You're fine. Are you a PC gamer?' You'd point to his massive set up.

-'Y-yeah.'

-'Thats cool- ooooh, a Scott Pilgrim poster. I love that movie.' God, you just knew everything, didn't you? All the things girls weren't supposed to like. Gyutaro had been fantasizing about this very moment since you bothered to open your mouth at him. He guessed his work outs had been paying off.

-'Yeah its a good comic, too.'

-The conversation would sway too and frough. Not every really finding a groove. A girl in his room, and he could barely speak to her- you decided to take drastic measures.

-'Hey, Gyutaro, do you want to like do something? Like... a game.' You'd ask, turning to face him.

-'I- um- I have some two players-'

-'Not a game like that.' You'd laugh. He'd quirk an eyebrow. 'I'm like... horny. Like a party game'

-If you'd suddenly fired a gun next to his ear, the effect those words had on Gyutaro would've been the same. He gaped at your bluntness.

-'You're horny?'

-'Yeah... I want to do something... Dirty, I don't know.' You jerked the air off.

-'A-are you gonna leave?' He'd ask, sounding pathetic. 'Do you need me to leave?' What a dumb question, he realized, the second it left his mouth. This was his home, why would he let you jerk off-

-'Do you want to watch? It'd be rude to make you leave.' You completely understood the absurdity of the words coming from your mouth. Every word made Gyutaro's face twist into something akin to... excited disgust. It was fascinating.

-'W-watch?' He didn't understand why he stuttered so much around you.

-'Yeah... Watch? We don't need to like- play like... strip poker or anything. I just want to do something raunchy.'

-'We-we're not dating. You should do that with your boyfriend.'

-'Gyutaro, you know I don't have a boyfriend.' You'd remind. 'Are you scared?'

-'I'm not scared- I-'

-'We're adults. We can do what we want.' His traditionalist mindset was wanning by the word. He wanted you something awful, and here you were, offering to... touch yourself infront of him-

-He'd been leaning on his bed, and you began to creep forward.

-'Do you have any toys?'

-'You mean like vibes?' If his voice wasn't cracking, it was dry. Painfully so. 'I-'

-'Any you haven't put in you?'

-'I'm not into that.' He'd defend. A lie. A painful lie at that. 'I-'

-'Into what?' You'd bring your hand toward the edge of his shirt. He'd begin shaking under your touch. 'No bandaids over your nipples?'

-You'd been so kind and casual to him thus far. Always appreciating his bands and asking about his games. You're eyes had never even fixated on his birthmarks- He never expected you to actually like him-

-'I-I'm not some... some freak.'

-'You think I'm a freak for being into that?' His heart would ache at the sigh in your voice, guilt growing in his stomach as your hand left. 'Sorry, I guess I'll just go back to my dorm.'

-As you turned to leave, Gyutaro would scramble off the bed, eyes blown wide. His foot would knock into an empty can on the floor, and He'd probably tip over some of the comics on his nightstand.

-'Wait-wait!' He'd step over a pile of clothes, and begin rummaging around in the drawer behind his bed.

-His thin hand would come back with a small pink vibe- attached to a thin white wire. You could barely fight back the evil grin on your face as he resurfaced, face just as pink as the vibrator.

-You feigned needing help onto his bed, just so he'd pick you up and set you there. His tenseness was comedic. As you fully situated yourself, Gyutaro just stood, hands in his pockets-

-'Well, come on?' You ushered, nodding to the space between your legs. Gyutaro looked to the spot and then back to you.

-This couldn't be real. You couldn't be fucking real. Even as you spread your legs infront of him, revealing your dripping fucking pussy-- it could not be fucking real. It was too pornographic. You couldn't be serious- Any second you'd snap your legs shut, realize how fucking disgusting he was- how worthless and weird- and you'd spit on him, get up, and leave-

-But you didn't. You pressed the vibe to your clit and Gyutaro watched in awe as your pussy clenched around nothing. Begging, pleading for a cock to fill you, just like all the forums said it would.

-You swore you heard him whimper- gasp- Feeling all powerful under his watchful eye. You were very pleased to find he was bulging through his sweats, a small wet patch already forming.

-He wouldn't be able to get over how fucking wet you were. How good your pussy responded to the vibrations, how good you looked when you craved dick-

-'You should... Your hard on looks like it hurts.'

-Fuck, everything hurt. Your voice made his balls ache, begging for release. He didn't want to cum so early- Didn't want to be a minute man infront of you.

-You wanted him to cum early so bad. His dick had already soaked through his sweats with pre- you knew you could get him worse.

-'Gyutaro, can you- Can you finger me?'

-So fucking cruel. So fucking evil-

-You knew he'd be no good. Too rough and fast, but to your surprise, he shook his head. Very admant.

-'Why not?'

-'I- my hands are gross.' He'd whisper. The poor thing sounded close to tears. He wanted to finger you so bad, but he was all to aware of the cracks and scabs along his knuckles. 'I don't want to get you dirty.'

-'Do you have gloves?' You were surprised by the desperation in your own voice. Fuck.

-'L-like latex?'

-'Mhm'

-Gyutaro had cleared the bed and rush to his bathroom, yanking the gloves from the medicine cabinet. You heard the faucet start, and then a crash and a bang-

-And then Gyutaro was back infront of you, one hand covered with a glove. And he smelled like cologne. You held back a laugh.

-He shivered at the way your pussy sucked his finger in. And then a second not even a minute later.

-'It hurts... You should get on top of me. It'll help.' You reasoned.

-Gyutaro watched you with wide eyes as he bent down next to you, the curve of his wrist allowing him to begin an all too gentle thrust into your pussy.

-His face was right by yours, drinking in the sight of you growing heavy eyed and huffy with awe.

-He picked up his speed. Fuck- you were a real doll, alright. So fucking perfect. All for him. All his- you were his, he decided, deluded by the intimacy of the situation.

-You weren't going to be allowed to go anywhere with any other man- ever again. Nobody else could see this. Nobody was going to see you cum other than him, make you cum, other than him.

-'You keep going just past it-' You'd groan with frustration.

-'Past- What?'

-'I need you to- my g-spot you keep hitting everything but it-'

-His face would turn bright red at the critique.

-'Your g-spot?'

-'Of course you wouldn't know what that is.' You'd snark, reaching down to grab his wrist. His jaw would tighten as you began to guide his hand in and out of your pussy, back arching as he grazed a textured part of your walls.

-He felt like a dildo, an object for you to chase your high-

-Gyutaro came before you, his free hand rushing to try and prevent it, but you'd feel him shiver and hear a soft-

-'Fuck- fuck!'

-And you' look to see a wet patch on the crotch of his sweats. It looked like he pissed himself, the stain starting at least midway down his thigh-

-You imagined such a gigantic load being forced past your cervix. His cock had to be huge- fucking huge- with enough cum to spill for days after.

-'I'm-I'm cumming-' You'd squeak as the vibrator paired with Gyutaro's shame sent you spiraling. His head would snap up to watch-

-You'd leave with nothing but a thanks, and a small comment on how he needed to clean his room - The look of shock on his face borderline second orgasm worthy- He'd already gotten hard again. He wanted to go- wanted you.

-But he'd get a text from you later that night. You'd be at a party- like he knew you were supposed to be.

-'Lol' would accompany a photo of you in a slutty little dress next to Tengen Uzui and those three bimbos always by his side. It would dock his confidence, send him spiraling- panicking-

-But it'd be there...a thin little wire peaking out from between your thighs.

-You'd send him your address and hope he'd have the balls to do something about it.

#demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut #upper moons x reader #upper moon smut #gyutaro x y/n #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro smut

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burningvelvet · 8 months

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Lord Byron writing about book-burning, queer representation, and the value of poetry . . . in 1821:

“Let us hear no more of this trash about ‘licentiousness.’ Is not ‘Anacreon’ taught in our schools? translated, praised, and edited? Are not his Odes the amatory praises of a boy? Is not Sappho's Ode on a girl? Is not this sublime and (according to Longinus) fierce love for one of her own sex? And is not Phillips's translation of it in the mouths of all your women? And are the English schools or the English women the more corrupt for all this? When you have thrown the ancients into the fire it will be time to denounce the moderns. ‘Licentiousness!’ — there is more real mischief and sapping licentiousness in a single French prose novel, in a Moravian hymn, or a German comedy, than in all the actual poetry that ever was penned, or poured forth, since the rhapsodies of Orpheus. The sentimental anatomy of Rousseau and Madame de Staël are far more formidable than any quantity of verse. They are so, because they sap the principles, by reasoning upon the passions; whereas poetry is in itself passion, and does not systematise. It assails, but does not argue; it may be wrong, but it does not assume pretensions to Optimism.”

Context: this letter was written during the Bowles-Pope Controversy, a seven-year long public debate in the English literary scene primarily between the priest, poet, and critic William Lisle Bowles and the poet, peer, and politician Lord Byron. The debate began in 1807 when Bowles published an edition of the famous writer Alexander Pope’s work which included an essay he wrote criticizing the writer’s character, morals, and how he should be remembered. Today, we would say that Bowles tried to “cancel” Alexander Pope, who had affairs without marrying, and whose works had sexual themes. Lord Byron defended Pope, who was one of his all-time favorite writers. Pope had been dead since 1744, so he was not personally involved. This debate shows that while moral standards have changed throughout the centuries, the ways people have debated about morality have remained similar.

Source of the excerpt: — Moore’s Life of Byron in one volume, 1873, p. 708 - https://books.google.com/books?id=Q3zPkPC8ECEC&pg=PA708&lpg=PA708&dq=%22Are+not+his+Odes+the+amatory+praises

Sources on the Bowles-Pope Controversy: — Chandler, James. “The Pope Controversy: Romantic Poetics and the English Canon.” Critical Inquiry, vol. 10, no. 3, 1984, pp. 481–509. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/1343304. — https://www.britannica.com/topic/Pope-Bowles-controversy — Bowles, Byron and the Pope-controversy by Jacob Johan van Rennes, Ardent Media, 1927.

#literature #english literature #romanticism #poetry #lord byron #aesthetic #dark academia #history #writing #alexander pope #literary #lit #english #reading #lgbt #sappho #book burning #book banning #libraries

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starlitangels · 1 year

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William Solaire is not a father

He never held a baby in his arms that shared his flesh and blood

William Solaire never conceived a child

“I am not your father,” he chides his eldest progeny when she’s new to the vampire life and stirring up trouble and he had to pull her out of the situation

She scoffs and mutters something unflattering under her breath that William pretends he can’t hear

William Solaire is not a father

He uses a silky handkerchief to wipe blood off his youngest progeny’s face when his training of his new powers went awry and he ran face-first into a wall and broke his nose

William Solaire knows he’s not the boy’s father. The boy is angry at what’s happened to him and is all too eager to remind William that he’s not the boy’s father with acidic words that cut deeper and hurt more than any pain the Old Blood King has felt in centuries

William Solaire is not his progenies’ father. The world changed so much between his turning and their births. The world changed. He did not. Not much, anyway. How could he ever be their father?

“You’re not my father!” William’s eldest’s own First Blood snaps in an accent that’s different from those he’s been around for the last hundred years. William knows this former-Freelancer has been through too much, and a great deal of that pain has been tied to blood relatives

William Solaire is over five hundred years old and well versed in patience. He takes the man’s vitriol without so much as a flinch. A daemon six miles away senses an overwhelming tidal wave of sorrow

William Solaire is not a father

He never raised a child from infancy, but guided three new blood vampires in the last fifty years, mostly on his own

His progeny and their progeny do not share his flesh, but they do share his blood

William Solaire is a Maker and a clan king, he insists to himself, not a father

William Solaire is not a father, he believes, even as his youngest progeny takes his name as the boy’s own

William Solaire is not a father, as he tells his eldest progeny he is not mad at her, merely disappointed with the choice she made

William Solaire is not a father, though he guides his eldest’s First Blood through caring for two newborns on his own

William Solaire is not the boy’s father, mopping up the boy’s tears after a terrible attack that forced the boy and his young partner into an impossible decision too soon, and made the boy a Maker himself

William Solaire is not a father. He will insist he is not, if you ask him

He is aware that his youngest progeny calls him the “old man,” which is a common modern phrase often used to denote a person’s father. He does not believe the boy means it that way. Even when the boy gives him a long, crushing hug with a broad smile on his face

William Solaire is not a father, but he lets the boy’s partner get away with playful mischief that his three—two, he reminds himself—progenies never could

William Solaire was never a father. He will insist, if you ask

So don’t ask. Merely watch

You’ll see that William Solaire is not a father

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a dad

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #Redacted William #William Solaire #Redacted Vincent #Redacted Lovely #Redacted Sam #Redacted Alexis #Vincent Solaire #Sam Collins #Lovely #i spent way too long on this

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takeme-totheworld · 4 months

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Aziraphale and Forgiveness, Pt. 2: The Source of Salvation

This series is now complete! Here's where you can find the other parts.

Part 1 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here.

(This post ended up being way longer than I intended, oopsie! And no fun GIFs to break it up this time. Hope you like reading lots of words!)

So why would Aziraphale, an angel who has not fallen despite bending/breaking the rules many times, have so much emotional baggage around the topic of forgiveness?

Some disclaimers:

Disclaimer 1: I've seen enough of tumblr already to know that "does Aziraphale really have religious trauma?/how much does it motivate his actions?" is the subject of Discourse around these parts. I don't want to have that argument here. Aziraphale's experience with Heaven has strong parallels to my personal religious history, and those specific parallels are what I'm here to talk about.

Disclaimer 2: I am not a bible scholar or religious historian, if I mention specific church doctrines or bible verses it's only to illustrate the experience of growing up in my church. My actual biblical/theological accuracy may be sloppy.

Disclaimer 3: I haven't read Good Omens the book. I know there are differences, but I'm not addressing them. All my thoughts are about show!Aziraphale and show!Heaven only.

Okay. Here goes.

The next point I want to make is that Aziraphale has spent his life inside a system that has weaponized the concept of forgiveness. Because Heaven, in the Good Omens universe, operates a lot like a particular flavor of toxic Christianity that I happen to be very familiar with.

In the version of Christianity I was raised with:

Your only purpose is to serve God's will. Our own needs, wants, goals, etc, were all understood to be secondary to that purpose.

The specter of eternal punishment is always present. Like any self-respecting Evangelical church, we believed that if you weren't "saved" before you died, you would go to Hell and be punished forever. How do you make sure you're saved? Well...

The rules are not clear or consistent, so you're always left guessing. We were a Protestant denomination, so a foundational doctrine was "sola scriptura." (We weren't fancy enough for the Latin, though, we just called ourselves "bible-based.") The basic idea is that the bible is the word of God, it's infallible, and it's the only authority we need to follow. But the bible is a cobbling-together of texts written thousands of years ago, that have been translated multiple times. It's not self-evident to a modern reader what any given passage means. It contains internal contradictions all over the place. So...the bible is the only authority we need to follow, but it's confusing and needs interpretation. Enter pastors and other church leaders to help us interpret. Only...they each have their own pre-existing biases and preferred scholarly interpretations, so even within the same church, different pastors might have different ideas about things.

So, to summarize: Follow what the bible says! Don't understand what it's telling you? Ask your pastor! Different pastors give different answers? Ugh, you're thinking about this too hard. Go pray about it or something. Just figure it out.

New ideas and experiences are, at best, begrudgingly tolerated. Because doing God's will is your only purpose, remember? And the Bible (and your pastor) are the source of the only wisdom you need to fulfill the only purpose you have. So really, you don't need anything outside what the church has to offer you and it's all a distraction anyway. (...okay, if you really must, here's a watered-down, church-approved version of the thing, now shut up.)

This isn't just the church being a buzzkill. It keeps you dependent on them and ignorant of the outside world to whatever extent they monitor and censor outside influences. My church was not even that extreme about this, relatively speaking, but it was still enough to profoundly impact me and leave me confused and floundering in the larger world after I left.

No matter how hard you try to measure up, you're ultimately at God's mercy. So you spend your life trying to follow a bunch of confusing, opaque rules in the hopes that you can be "saved" and avoid eternal punishment. But here's kicker: none of it truly matters anyway, because we were also taught that everyone falls short in the end and that the only real salvation comes from God forgiving you for your sins. All you really have to do to be saved is accept his free gift of forgiveness...by...believing the right things in the right way and praying the right prayers about it. And then spending the rest of your life still trying to follow all the convoluted rules, because doing so is proof that you were sincere...in your acceptance of God's forgiveness...which you accepted by following even more instructions regarding what to believe and how to pray to ensure that you were accepting it correctly.

How do you know if you've done any of this right? You never can, truly, until you die and find out. Because God's not actually talking to anyone. So in the end, no matter what you do, you end up in the same place: at the mercy of God, who decides whether you're forgiven or not.

If you're thinking that sounds like an incredibly confusing and exhausting way to grow up, you are correct! It also has a lot of parallels in Good Omens.

If you are an angel working for Heaven in the world of Good Omens:

Your only purpose is to serve God's will. This one is obvious. If you're an angel, it's literally the only thing you were created for.

The specter of eternal punishment is always present. The eternal punishment that can happen to an angel is falling. We know it's a punishment, because we know Crowley's fall was painful and because we can see that Hell is a miserable environment for the demons. This isn't The Good Place, where demons gleefully sit around eating snacks in conference rooms and brainstorming new fun ways to torture humans. Hell in Good Omens sucks for everyone there. And we can assume falling is meant to be permanent, because if it wasn't Crowley and Aziraphale wouldn't have been so gobsmacked by the Metatron's offer to restore Crowley to angelic status. Because there's no precedent for that. Crowley himself says that being a demon has automatically rendered him unforgivable. As far as anyone in this universe knows, "fallen" is a permanent state.

So how does an angel avoid eternal punishment? How do angels make sure they don't fall? Well...

The rules are not clear or consistent, so you're always left guessing. Was falling a one-and-done mass exile of everyone who rebelled, right after the war? The way both Heaven and Hell talk about the fall and the "casting out" of the demons would seem to suggest so. But fear of falling is obviously ever-present among the angels, so they clearly don't know for sure one way or the other. And what would cause an angel who wasn't part of the original rebellion to fall? Aziraphale thought he would fall for lying about Job's children. The archangels threatened Aziraphale with falling for "consorting" with Crowley in S1. Gabriel expected to fall for saying no to Armageddon the Sequel in S2. But none of those falls actually happened. Clearly even the angels in the highest positions of authority don't know exactly what the rules are about falling. And who decides who falls? Gabriel says the demons were "cast out" after the war, but who did the casting out? Did God handle that directly? Was it the Metatron? Did the transformation just sort of...happen, leaving everyone unsure about the details? And what about present day? The Metatron said that Gabriel would have his memory wiped instead of falling, but does that mean the Metatron gets to decide if an angel falls, or was he covering for the fact that he doesn't know how it works either?

We, the viewers, don't know the answers to any of these questions. But it's fairly clear that the angels also don't know.

New ideas and experiences are, at best, begrudgingly tolerated. The angels know little to nothing about the world or humanity and are disdainful or outright suspicious of earthly experiences. In the case of the ones who have never been sent to Earth, this makes sense, although it begs the question of why there are so many angels who have never once been sent to Earth, the planet that is supposed to be central to the Great Plan.

It's obviously, at its core, about control and keeping the angels ignorant of anything that would broaden their perspective. But listen to how the angels themselves talk about it. When Gabriel sees Aziraphale eating sushi, he asks, "Why do you consume that? You're an angel." (Subtext: You don't need to eat, so what's the purpose of indulging in this experience?) When Aziraphale suggests he try the food himself, Gabriel starts talking about sullying the temple of his body or whatever. (Subtext: It's not technically forbidden but it would be a deviation from my function as an angel so I'm suspicious of it.) And look at Aziraphale himself. He lives on Earth for many hundreds of years before he can be persuaded to even try human food, and Crowley has to work at convincing him it's okay. He seems to know it's not forbidden but he's deeply distrustful of it anyway. (I have a theory that a holdover of this mindset is why he's so set in his ways, behind the times, and still more ignorant of humans that you'd expect in the present day, but this post is already too long.) The attitude cultivated among the angels is These things are not meant for us, we don't need them, and they are a distraction from our higher purpose, so it's better if we don't.

No matter how hard you try to measure up, you're ultimately at God's mercy. So, if you're an angel, you're meant to be doing God's will, and if you fail badly enough you can be punished forever by falling. But the rules are unclear, the way falling works is unclear, in most cases you're kept ignorant of everything but the bare minimum you need to know to do your job, God isn't talking to anyone, and the (seemingly) officially appointed Voice of God is also pretty remote and mysterious most of the time.

So the only time you'll ever know for certain that you've crossed the line is once you've already crossed it, when it's too late to do anything about it. At that point, the only thing that could save you from falling would be if God just...decided to be merciful, to grant you a pardon (i.e. to forgive you) and not do the casting out thing.

Believe it or not, I had to work really hard to keep this as short as it is. If you've read this far, I salute you. Now, what's the point?

Aziraphale and the other angels are part of a system where they understand very little, they have no real power, the stakes are eternal, and their only hope of escaping endless punishment if they fail is the possibility that God will decide to show mercy and forgive them.

Yes, in the real world this is all just bullshit spread by religious leaders to scare and confuse and manipulate people into compliance and in the world of Good Omens it's actually real. But the emotional impact of feeling that confused and powerless and at the mercy of a higher authority is going to be the same. Of course Aziraphale has some Big Feelings about the subject of forgiveness. Of course it's one of his favorite things. It's not just a nice thing you do for people. It's powerful enough to rescue someone from eternal punishment when nothing else can. Powerful enough to wield as a devastating weapon by withholding it. It's a tool of control in Heaven, but it's also the source of salvation.

I was going to segue from here into what I think the specifics of Aziraphale's mindset are, but it took me so many more words than I expected just to lay out the parallels between GO Heaven and (my experience of) real-world toxic Christianity so I'm gonna stop here. Next time I'm going to dig into what I think is happening in Aziraphale's head when he forgives Crowley, and also when he does things like shelter Jimbriel (a very forgiving action, even if the words "I forgive you" don't accompany it).

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens 2 spoilers #character analysis #aziraphale #religious indoctrination #religious trauma #forgiveness #i forgive you #i'm very normal about this #this post is so long i apologize

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thiswasneverthat · 7 months

Text

him as your bestfriend (who's secretly in love with you.)

happy belated birthday, sweetest christopher.

First and foremost, the term 'secretly in love with you' didn't quite apply to Chris.

It was not because he ever vocalized his affection; but rather, the poor guy's emotions weren't the type that could easily be concealed. There were times when the heat would slowly creep up his cheeks at the moment you unconsciously grabbed his arm during movie night; or when you simply sit a little bit too close to him.

From the very moment you crossed paths in college, your lives became intertwined. Fast forward a few years, and even in the professional world when the two of you worked at the same company, nothing had altered. You and Chris remained inseparable, like two puzzle pieces that had found their perfect fit.

All along, you were acutely aware of his feelings for you. It wasn't like he was the master of subtlety, despite his best intentions. He convinced himself that his emotions were a well-kept secret, solely because he never uttered a word about them.

But, oh, the truth was far from his perception.

Your mutual friends, the ones who witnessed the sparks fly whenever you two were together, were not as oblivious as he thought. They quietly shared knowing glances behind your backs, exchanging unspoken truths that floated in the air, forming an invisible thread of connection between you and this affectionate but seemingly covert admirer.

Knowing Chris for years had granted you an unparalleled understanding, almost as though you possessed a special ability to read him like an open book. It was in the subtle nuances, the unspoken gestures, and the way his eyes lingered on you just a moment longer than anyone else. The way he uttered your name held a unique cadence, a tenderness that set it apart from the rest of the world.

His actions also spoke volumes, a silent declaration of his affection. From those daily post-work rides that ended at your doorstep to the steaming cup of coffee that appeared magically in your hands each morning, even though he was no coffee aficionado himself. As if it was the most natural thing, he wove his affection into your everyday life.

And then there were the moments of solace where he held you close when tears welled in your eyes, offering hushed comfort when words fell short. On holidays, Chris became your reliable chauffeur, ensuring you reached your parents' house with ease.

But perhaps the defining moment was when he stepped inㅡ a knight in modern armor, to protect you from the advances of an unruly drunkard during a night out with friends. It was in these moments, when his affection for you transcended mere words and blossomed into the unspoken verse of actions.

Well.. How endearingly oblivious he was.

He carried this fallacy that by keeping his feelings unspoken, they would remain a well-guarded secret.

More often than not, you also found yourself yearning for a different script, one where Chris would step out of his best friend persona and take the role of someone more than that.

You really couldn't help but wish he would just muster up the courage to articulate those elusive words, breaking free from the confines of the 'best friend' charade that he maintained with such dedication for years.

The frustration, like a relentless drumbeat, echoed within you because you had lost count of the times you teetered on the edge of confessing your own feelings.

However, in the grand scheme of things, you were very much aware of the added layers of complexity. The cliché was undeniable: you wanted him just as fervently, if not more so. Yet, your hesitation served as a sentinel against reckless decisions.

You understood the profound risk involved. The weight of the question lingered in your mind like a persistent echo: was it worth jeopardizing the treasured friendship you shared for the possibility of something more like.. love?

Because the fear loomed largeㅡ that one day, if the tides turned unfavorably, your beautifully woven friendship with him might fray and unravel.

And more than you would like to admit, the mere thought of losing him shattered you into a gazillion pieces.

So, until the time you would be ready, or until that one point where you just really couldn't take it anymore, you convinced yourself to put on a smile and pretend to be blissfully oblivious as he was.

#bang chan scenarios #bang chan headcanons #bang chan imagines #stray kids headcanons #stray kids imagines #bang chan x reader #bang chan fanfic #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #skz headcanons #skz imagines

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athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 3 months

Text

NSFT Alphabet: Fool's Gold

Thank you @turbulentscrawl for this help on this!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

There is no aftercare nor does he expect aftercare, sorry guys. He is not the touchy-feely time at first and it takes a lot to get him there. He will humor you, let you get your cuddles in but you can feel how onesided it is.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Considering his body is mostly rocks rather than flesh, he will be crude and say his dick. At least that still is there and working. On you, everything, you are still soft, still alive, and your heart beats and races for him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

His cum is not white, full monster fucker, his cum is black and he likes how it looks smeared on your face and stomach

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

This guy would just tell you most of his thoughts, however, he has one: he wants to watch his survivor self fuck you. It is because he wants to see himself, as he was, touch you, and you touching him. Though he def not going to be nice to Norton during the whole thing.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

So tbh he only has ever slept with you, the man doesn't trust like that even though he makes some dirty comments he actually won't follow them through unless it is with you

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Full nelson heh

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

He can be an asshole and kinda funny in bed

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He has no hair on the skin parts of his body

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Simple guy, i dont think anything special, he teases a lot and can get really possessive in the moment

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He does it if bored and you aren’t around to keep him busy. He rather your mouth or hand on him

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He won't outwardly say it but making you bark is prob the hottest thing he has ever seen you do and will use his belt more often as a leash on you (sorry guys lol I'm not)

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere and anytime (in front of Norton too lol)

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Anything he just a simple man with simple needs and he will do it during a match (tie or flawless only)

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

He will not sub or verse (receive like pegging)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Both he likes receiving more so but he 100% will give (let you sit on his face too)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Fast and rough

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Often does quickies with you just to make you pent up for later

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

He will do most things so long has the end goal is reached (he cums you cum, maybe mostly him cumming he can watch you get yourself off)

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

As a hunter he can go on for hours, often you have to tell him to stop because he can go on for a long time

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Why is his cock not enough? He might entertain a vibrator (a modern one) but tbh no just use him

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Very unfair

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He can be loud and he talks a lot during the do but you like hearing him become a mess where he is only groaning and moaning

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He often doesn't know his own strength and often you are covered in bruises. You have to tell him ease up and he does

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

12inches, the dick of life-changing (his survivor self too) no lie he is packing pray you can handle that

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High with you

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

He doesn't need to sleep tbh and if in the mood he might stay around to watch you sleep

#idv #identity v x reader #idv x reader #reader insert #identity v #identity v x you #idv fool's gold #fool's gold x reader #fool's gold #fool's gold x you #norton campbell x reader #norton campbell #norton campbell x you #identity v fool's gold #idv x you

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heartsofminds · 2 years

Text

Blooming (III)

“Scoot over then.”

(Y/N)’s eyes almost explode out of her skull. “You want me to what?”

“Jesus, chick. It was just a suggestion,” he chides, “Getting your panties all in a twist because I won’t sleep but then won’t let me sleep? Kinda counterintuitive, don’t you think?” or Rooster gets caught up from a hospital bracelet and she finally gets that kiss she wanted.

Warning: Contains curse words and mentions of an age gap.

A/N: Welcome back to part three of the Blooming series! I’m so incredibly excited to share this with you all. Thank you much for your continued support and patience. Stay tuned for more of the Blooming-verse as part four will be out soon! But for now, enjoy 10.8k words about the story of Rooster Bradshaw facing his relationship fears.

Blooming, Blooming II

(Y/N) considers herself to be a private person.

She’s an extremely private person, actually. But that’s only until someone wants to get information out of her and gives her that look. You know, the pointed one with the raised eyebrows and the slight smirk, the corners of their mouths serving as picks to the lock of all her inner thoughts.

She swore she could give Ella Enchanted a run for her money by how quickly she would fess up if simply asked for the truth.

(Y/N) partly blames herself but mostly blames her parents. Growing up in a military household with a greatly admired and high-ranked father meant that honesty and excellence were never not expected from her. And after the dissolution of her parents’ marriage, growing up with her helicopter mother who didn’t believe in keeping secrets put a nail in the coffin for her sub rosa thoughts and actions.

Her high school friends joked around with her saying that they could never sneak out or drink or do anything outside of the agenda she had told her mother before leaving the house because the minute that someone with authority asked her for the truth, (Y/N)’s mouth was running a mile a minute with the hurried apologies following suit after. She simply couldn’t help it, and her upbringing paired with her innate desire to always do good and always do what was expected of her cemented her truth telling tendencies even farther.

And so when she comes home in a stormy mood after being out past three AM and slams Penny’s guest bedroom door shut (waking Amelia up in the process who had school in the morning), her god sister knew something was up and was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Amelia is mischievous and so fucking precocious. She had been raised around adults all her life so how could she not be?

She didn’t know what the kids table at Thanksgiving looked like or what watching cartoons on a Saturday morning felt like. Hell, (Y/N) doesn’t think Amelia has ever played with a goddamn Barbie doll ever in her life, let alone relished in the thrill of going to a Build-a-Bear Workshop.

She, much like her twenty-one year old god sister, liked the more “classic” things in life. They liked Raisin Bran and sudoku puzzles. They liked older 80s movies in comparison to their more modern remakes. They liked playing Scrabble and checkers.

And while (Y/N)’s “refined” taste (which, the more she thought about it, really happened to emulate all that of an eighty year old man who resided in a nursing home) came from her own father and didn’t make an evident appearance until she was an older teenager, Amelia had always been this way.

Because of that, Amelia was a bit of an odd ball to her peers but (Y/N) loved it. Her parents had split when she was eight and because of her father’s age and her mother’s anxiety towards parenting, they never dared having another kid after (Y/N). So when her Aunt Penny announced that she was having a baby,(Y/N) was more than ecstatic.

She still remembers damn near exploding from joy when she found out Amelia was going to be a girl.

Amelia was the closest thing (Y/N) has to a sibling and despite the seven year age gap, they’re so extremely close. It’s unusual; to have someone so much younger than you somehow be on the same page all the time but with (Y/N) and Amelia, there are no questions or genuine thinking required to read each other’s minds.

They just knew how to.

And despite how much (Y/N) adores Amelia or how much Amelia looks up to (Y/N), they irritate each other like no other. Getting under each other’s skin is each of their favorite pastimes and in true sister fashion, they go from ruthless screaming matches to braiding each other’s hair while sharing funny stories about their day.

When the fighting gets really bad, (Y/N) usually drives to the closest Dunkin Donuts and buys Amelia her usual; wordlessly leaving it outside of her bedroom door. Amelia usually slips a note under (Y/N)’s door with a “One free ‘Yell at me’ coupon,” which makes (Y/N) laugh and embrace her in a huge hug stating, “I only yell with love,” which makes both of them bust out laughing at how ridiculous they both are.

Even though Amelia is rather mature for a fourteen year old and her and (Y/N) basically share the same brain cells (even though they both joke about letting the other have ownership over them the day of a huge exam), she’s still a kid. And boy, does Amelia do all the shit that kid sisters tend to do.

She doesn’t mean to be, but Amelia is fucking nosy. She’s always hated being out of the loop. In her humble opinion (which, okay she does admit that she’s only fourteen and that her credentials in the age category aren’t looking too hot), being the last to know is the deadliest punch in the gut. Being blindsided is the absolute worst, and if she can do anything to prevent it, she will.

So as she lies in bed at three fifteen in the morning because (Y/N) came home pissed and slammed her door shut, Amelia knew something was up. (Y/N) had big emotions, but not big actions. Someone or something must have had to really piss her off for her to act that way and because she’s so goddamn private, Amelia knows that she won’t spill unless she absolutely has to and she won’t unless she’s made to sweat.

And that’s what Amelia plans to do.

The younger girl is spitting her toothpaste in the sink of the bathroom that stands between her bedroom and the guest bedroom when she notices that (Y/N)’s sour mood carries over to that morning.

The door is closed and there’s no sign of life other than the faint sound of ocean waves in the background that (Y/N) has to put on in order to calm her mind to be able to sleep. It’s a quarter till eight, and (Y/N) being in bed still is extremely odd.

Amelia knows that (Y/N) is usually up and awake by now; having done her morning run or sunrise yoga or whatever the hell she usually does before Amelia gets ready to leave for school. She’s usually sitting on the porch with her mom by now, those ceramic mugs that have some cringey ass quip printed on them and sipping raspberry tea while they gab about life and college and boys.

But she isn’t, and Amelia almost convinces herself it’s a good idea to knock and see if her god sister is awake before she chickens out. Her thoughts are interrupted by (Y/N) swinging the door open harshly.

Her hair is thrown up messily and the dark circles under her eyes say that the ocean wave white noise she had on did little to assist her into slumber. The collar of the gray USD Law sweatshirt she has on sat crooked on her shoulder and her sleeping shorts are twisted. Another noticeable sign that it was a more than rough night is shown through the one sock on (Y/N)’s foot and the other being bare.

She rubs at her face with her sweatshirt sleeve and shoots daggers at Amelia with her eyes; as if she was saying “I dare you to fucking speak to me right now” to her god sister. (Y/N) brushes by without as much of a wave or a “Good morning.”

So yeah, she’s fucking pissed and cranky.

And Amelia is clever but sometimes her curiosity goes against her own best interest. Was it smart to follow (Y/N) to the kitchen when she had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed? Absolutely not, but Amelia always claimed that smart was something that she is occasionally, and not something that she is all the time.

Also, she just had to get to the bottom of this.

The honey-blonde teenager holds her breath as she waltzes into the kitchen, finding (Y/N) aggressively shaking the bag of Special K cereal into a ceramic bowl. Amelia goes to the fridge and gets out the almond milk. She shakes it and puts it next to (Y/N) who mumbles out a weak, “Thanks.” before filling her bowl and stabbing at her cereal with her spoon.

Amelia leans on the counter, eyes lasered in on the back of the older girl’s head. She was gonna get her to talk and the only way to do so is to corner her. But right now her god sister’s rage emulates that of a rabid raccoon and she’s animal control with no equipment.

She knows she’ll get her head bit off, but the void she has in her life that’s absent of her own drama desperately needs to be filled and she’ll be damned before she’s left out of anything going on with the people living in her own house.

“Are you gonna fucking speak, Meals? Or are you just gonna stare laser beams in the back of my fucking skull like a dumbass?” (Y/N) grumbles and she knows that what she said is mean and uncalled for, but she’s just really not in the mood for her kid sister’s shenanigans today.

Bradley Bradshaw really pissed her off last night and the feelings she feels are burning her up from the inside out. (Y/N)’s hurt, embarrassed, even because who the fuck does that? Who flirts and flirts and flirts and then unloads all their childhood stories before almost kissing her goodnight and then dipping out because she’s “too young”?

“Too young” her ass. She’s a woman, for Christ’s sake. A smart, likable, kind (okay, well maybe not right now with how she just answered Amelia, but usually she is) young woman who is going to law school and is a college graduate.

She’s not too young. Amelia is too young; especially to be butting her nose into (Y/N)’s business the way she is.

(Y/N) knows that Amelia is just dying to ask her what’s wrong; hopeful to get a taste of whatever drama is brewing in the older girl’s life. She can see it now - the slightly upturned eyebrows and the small open mouthed gasp that Amelia does when she’e intently listening. She also folds her hands together in front of her and hangs on to every word that’s being said because Amelia ponders long and hard over what she hears and psychoanalyzes everything about it.

(Y/N) would say that she hates that about Amelia but can never find herself to because she knows that she’s the same exact way. Her god sister’s nosy tendencies are simply learned behavior.

So as she stabs at her cereal and almost grinds her teeth as she chews because of how angry she is, she tries to find it within herself to withhold taking out her anger on Amelia. She almost throws her a bone and lets her in on what had happened, but realized that she’d have to omit so many details that Amelia would never be satisfied and would keep picking and picking and picking until she finally broke and (Y/N)’s just not ready for that. She’s not letting her fourteen year old god sister know how embarrassed she is. She’s not letting her know how little sleep she got over the entire situation or how irritated and disrespected she feels.

“Wow. Aren’t you a goddamn ray of sunshine this morning,” Amelia snarls back, already having enough of (Y/N)’s piss poor attitude. (Y/N) may be pissed, but she’s not the one who got woken up at three in the morning because of some hissy fitted rage party. .

(Y/N) drops the cereal off of her spoon back into the abyss of milk. She sets her utensil down before turning her head to the side, adjusting her vision so she can see Amelia a little bit better.

“Language. You know how your mom and I feel about you cussing,” is all she can manage to say and seriously, when did Amelia get so sassy?

Amelia rolls her eyes. She may be younger than (Y/N), but she’s certainly not a child. She’s always been told she’s mature for her age, so why is her god sister acting like the seven year age gap is a big deal now? And besides, she already has a mom and a dad.

She doesn’t need (Y/N) trying to fill in for what’s missing.

“So it’s okay for you to say an entire dictionary of cuss words but the second I say some “is it or not” cuss word you’re lecturing me?”

(Y/N) rolls her eyes. She’s totally, absolutely, positively not in the mood today. “If you’re trying to be nosy and play Nancy Drew or whatever you’re doing, please don’t try it,” she snaps, “M’not putting up with your bullshit today, Meals. Go find something else to do.”

Amelia raises her eyebrows. “Seriously?” she quips, “You wanna be like that with me when I’m not the one who pissed you off?”

(Y/N) groans because great; not only is she pissed, but now her appetite is ruined. “You’re pissing me off right now because you won’t butt out. Leave me the fuck alone.” She slides the stool away from the bar top counter and puts her bowl in the sink.

She’ll just come back and clean it later. She just seriously needs to get away from Amelia right now because she’ll explode if she’s around her pestering god sister for any longer.

“And you’re pissing me off because someone obviously peed in your Cheerios and you’re making it everyone else’s problem.”

(Y/N) rolls her eyes again and starts to stalk back up the stairs. She knows that she’s being childish and she can’t believe that she’s about to argue with a fucking middle schooler, but she’s standing her ground. The last thing she needs is Amelia teasing her relentlessly about Bradley Bradshaw and how he basically curved the fuck out of her the night prior.

Amelia follows her. (Y/N)’s not getting away from her without any answers just yet; especially taking into account that she really just wants to know what’s wrong with (Y/N) and how she can help. She may be nosy, but she also has a conscience.

“Can’t you just leave me alone?” (Y/N) damn near growls. God, why did Amelia have to be so damn stubborn? “I’m obviously mad and you’re not making my day any better!”

“Can’t you just not get all pissy and aggravated and slam doors at fucking-” (Y/N) shoots her a death glare before Amelia corrects herself.

The cussing, right.

“Freaking. I meant freaking. You can’t just be all mad and slam doors at freaking three AM when I have school and you know I was asleep,” Amelia continues, “That’s just crappy, (Y/N), and I would never do that to you.”

(Y/N) stands at the top of the stairs and angrily huffs. Amelia has a point and a pretty fair one at that but she’d rather die than back down now. That’s (Y/N)’s problem in a nutshell; she’s too goddamn hardheaded but also strives on being a people pleaser and if you asked her (or anyone on the street, really) that would be considered a combination for disaster.

“And I would never put my nose in business that’s clearly yours. Fuck off, Meals.”

(Y/N) stomps back to her bedroom and slams the door even harder than she had the night previously. She’s so enraged and she feels so stupid. She’s never been this embarrassed over a boy since she was a freshman in high school and she knows she’s being childish and she knows that what she said to Amelia isn’t fair or kind in the slightest, but she can’t help but fall back into that “being mad at the world” teenage narrative she had thought she left behind.

Hell, she’s only not been a teenager for two years but the amount of growth that she’s done since then has just drastically taken a decline. She feels like she’s sixteen again and fighting with her mother about a stupid boy who convinced her to sneak out or break her curfew or lie about where she was going or whatever melodramatic teenage drama bullshit that seems like a big deal at the time but ceases to pose a real threat the minute you move out of your parents’ home.

Amelia groans in frustration before turning on her heel. She’s not sure if her irritation is because of her lack of sleep or because (Y/N) is being, for lack of better term, a total bitch right now. The teenager slings her backpack over her shoulder, and stomps obnoxiously to her front door.

(Y/N) lays on her stomach and puts back on the ocean wave sounds she had turned on late last night and her stomach drops when she realizes that that was the background noise to the memory that had Bradley Bradshaw cupping her face and telling her that she’s too young.

ii.

Jake Seresin had really done it this time.

It wasn’t a secret that him and Bradley weren’t the greatest of friends.

Well, actually, scratch that.

Rooster and Hangman weren’t friends at all and that fact was made so obviously apparent to anyone who found themselves in the same room with the two pilots for longer than fifteen seconds.

The constant banter and low blows, the “joking” that wasn’t really a joke, the more than aggressively sarcastic handshakes and back pats; it was a limbo contest of who could go the lowest without one of them jumping up and trying to beat the brakes off the other.

It’s stupid, they know, but what else is expected when you’ve been told you were great all your life? Competition obviously rises and “survival of the fittest” starts to kick in and the sooner you can push someone out, the sooner you can be pushed into the vacancy that person had left.

Jake is charismatic and can get anyone to do his bidding if he so much as put his hand on their shoulder and stared deep into their eyes. He has a talent for getting anyone to follow him, but he’s selfish and extremely reckless. Jumping off the bridge is certainly his idea until his loyal followers do so, and then he bails after realizing how stupid the idea was in the first place. He’s a leader who never asks for a crowd, and that’s evident once he leaves them hanging.

Hence, the call sign, Hangman, but that doesn’t take a genius to decipher.

And call Bradley old school but that’s definitely not how military men should be and it drives him absolutely insane.

Bradley is more calm and is the literal epitome of a dad, but a good one. He listens intently and gives everyone his full attention. He’s stubborn but adaptable. He takes his time and plays it safe always, even when he knows that he should take a risk every now and then. He’s always looking out for other people and is constantly sacrificing his happiness and successes for the well-being of others.

Bradley is a skilled pilot; the patience and meticulous practice made him so whereas Jake was good because he was a natural (by some freakish fluke of nature). The difference between the two is their confidence and Bradley can’t wrap his head around how Jake gets a thrill from putting himself and his team in constant danger, and Jake can’t understand why Bradley acts as if he’ll spontaneously combust every time his F-18 goes up in the air.

Bradley has a tendency to parent everyone else and he never means to, and it always just sort of happens, but being told what to do (which makes joining the Navy an odd career path for him) is one of Jake’s biggest pet peeves. It’s just annoying, Hangman thinks, how Rooster corrals everyone and is constantly playing dad.

Jake already has a father; he doesn’t need a guy who’s only four years older than him trying to parent him.

Their rivalry started as just friction. They have vastly different personalities and it’s not like any of that isn’t okay. It wasn’t like either of them had to be best friends after graduation. But then Jake realized that “Holy fuck,” Rooster was good and then Rooster realized that “Holy shit,” Jake was good.

And the innate, primal need to succeed, to prove who was better and who would come out on top, just started one day and it never stopped. It was a conscious effort at first, but then it spiraled into a muscle memory-like performance.

They competed over everything. They competed over who could get their flight gear on the fastest. They competed on who could lift heavier and for longer durations of time. They even fucking competed to see who could complete a crossword puzzle fastest.

Jake and Bradley know that they’re ridiculous and that the dick measuring contests that they always seemed to be having were quite childish for grown men. They shouldn’t be fighting like rowdy first graders at recess after eating a lunch packed full of sugar, but they can’t help it and they would rather die than lose and let the other having bragging rights.

But then somewhere along the road the competition changed into an uncontrollable beast; a means to be watching each other constantly to see what could make the other tick and thus a new game was created: Who could make who lose their composure first?

To be totally fair, Bradley started the war by moving Jake’s things one day after a training session. He hadn’t meant to move the items in a way that would’ve set the pilot off, but he did and then Jake came barreling in and freaking the fuck out because his water bottle and shirt were placed in a different stall than he had originally put them. The thought to fess up and apologize definitely crossed Bradley’s mind, but he withheld.

He liked seeing Jake frantic and upset. He liked knowing that he could toy with him and that he could make the blond sweat if he truly wanted. Bradley was raised better than that, he had known, and he’s sure his mother and father were looking down on him with some disappointment about being so mean, but fuck it.

Jake Seresin was like a canker sore when you’re eating salt and vinegar chips; annoying and downright painful to be around.

Over the years and time spent freakishly observing each other, they had learned quite a bit. Bradley hated the sound of teeth scraping against utensils and Jake made sure to find a seat near Bradley but never next to him, and would bite the hell out of his fork whenever he ate his dinner. Jake loathed the sound of styrofoam rubbing together, so whenever Bradley would get handed a styrofoam to go box, he always made sure to be around Jake before opening and closing the box repeatedly. Jake knew he was doing it on purpose but couldn’t help but wonder how the hell someone could find the willpower to open and shut a fucking takeaway box over and over and over again.

And yes it was annoying and yes it garnered many eye rolls from their friends, but it was entertaining and always kept the pair busy. If anything, it was like a big brother, little brother relationship; irritating the hell out of each other but never going too far.

Except this wasn’t a big brother, little brother relationship and that they were both, in fact, fighting to be the big brother because big brothers always have more respect.

And they usually never went too far until one day, Jake just did.

He was raised by a more than conservative Baptist pastor in Texas, and Jake knew that his parents would have a cow if they ever pieced together that he was having premarital sex; let alone, premarital sex that was with someone else’s girlfriend. He was raised better and he knew it, but he was also raised in a family full of sisters and if there’s one thing he learned from having five older ones, everything was an eye-for-an-eye.

So when Bradley off-handedly joked about fucking Jake’s ex-girlfriend one day, he couldn’t help but let the comment grind his gears until his gears started turning on the perfect way to get back at the brunette pilot.

While what Bradley said was a joke and was exactly just that, Jake was plotting, and he wasn’t joking in the slightest. So the true hatred and resentment started when a leggy red-head (That amazed Jake with how flexible she was because goddamn, girls can bend like that?) was scratching at his back and calling him “daddy” in a supply closet, and he can truly say that that exact moment was when he knew that there were no limits to the competition he and Bradley Bradshaw had.

“An eye for an eye” it was, and “an eye for an eye” it would always be.

So when he notices the tension between Captain Mitchell and Rooster, Hangman can’t help but find him studying the two. He notices the golfball like bulge that emerges from Rooster’s jaw whenever he has to speak to Maverick. He notices how Maverick’s eyes nervously dart across Rooster’s face; as if he’s searching for answers in the younger man’s features without having to ask him questions.

Jake is always looking and always scheming; even going as far to ask Phoenix if she thinks Bradley is acting weird to which she rolls her eyes and says, “If this is you trying to get under his skin, please leave me out of it. Had enough of you two dumbasses in flight school. I don’t need this shit now.” And then she slammed her locker shut before slinging her duffle bag over her shoulder and leaving the base for the day.

But little to her knowledge did she know that her answer gave Jake all the information he needed. Phoenix had a protective streak to her, but she never stuck up for someone unless she felt they couldn’t do it themselves. So with the aggravated body language coming from Rooster and Maverick’s interactions in the past two days they had been training and Natasha’s head biting whenever he asked her a simple question, Jake Seresin had an sparkle in his eye and his smirk saying that he was up to no good.

He snoops around the headquarters for more evidence to further solidify his suspicion and what he finds truly falls upon him like a lucky accident.

It manifests itself as a labeled picture on the wall with Maverick Mitchell and Goose Bradshaw, arms slung across the back of each other’s necks along with Admiral Kazansky and various other pilots whom he’d encountered from his time floating from base to base; the Top Gun class of 1986.

And holy fucking shit, did Seresin have some ammunition for Bradshaw.

He likes to play dumb; like all he happens to be is a pretty face with a hot body but no one is that dense to not give Hangman credit for being intelligent. So he waits to unleash his findings until he knows Rooster is at one of his most vulnerable moments.

He waits and waits and waits and then he strikes, which sends the entire fleet of pilots into a fit of gasps and has Bradley beet red and ready to wring his neck.

Jake Seresin wasn’t afraid of many things, but the absolute anger and rage encapsulated in Bradley Bradshaw’s face was a look he had never seen before; even when he had been caught fucking that red head all those moons ago. This was different and he swears Bradley’s eyes are completely black with fury and his body emitting so much heat that Jake feels like he’s on fire himself the minute the other pilot has him by his collar.

The knife was already plunged and it was too late to back out now; no matter how truly terrified he was of Bradley in that moment. He knows he should quit, but a job half done isn’t a job well done.

And in true asshole-ish Hangman fashion, he has to be calm and collected and to twist the knife even more he adds a, “You know he’s not cut out for this mission,” which makes Bradley completely seethe and molt into one with his anger.

Jake softly grins to himself as soon as the altercation is broken up and Maverick announces that they’re done for the day. He knows that he won and Bradley lost.

Bradley can feel it too and he’s so inexplicably pissed, but nothing makes him feel more angered than the deceased father he never had the pleasure of getting to know and the stand-in, who let him down and let an entire fifteen years pass with Bradley thinking he didn’t believe in him.

iii.

(Y/N) likes to tell herself that she doesn’t hold grudges; that she’s understanding and empathetic and “noble.”

Her entire life was wrapped up in achieving the nirvana of selflessness and she doesn’t know if it’s because she was raised by such charitable and giving people or if she was born with some freakish gene that always made herself put her well-being last no matter what.

She was the kindergartener who would cry in solidarity whenever a kid scraped their knee on the playground. She was the third-grader who donated all her birthday presents to kids whose families were in need. She was the middle schooler who still invited everyone in the class to her birthday parties (even if they were weird or cruel or just downright annoying, but she could never find herself rejecting anyone). She was the high schooler who offered everyone rides home after soccer practice despite her mother yelling at her for “wasting” her gas.

She was the girl who was always said to be kind and helpful with a sweet heart and bright eyes.

But here she is on a Tuesday night at 11 PM about to crush a shot glass in her bare hand because of some stupid comment some pilot said about her age. If she could punch Bradley Bradshaw square in the face and break his stupid aviator sunglasses (and maybe his nose too, but then she figures that that’s too much harm to wish on someone), she would with no hesitation.

The main problem she’s finding with directing her anger is that Bradley wasn’t rude about it. What he said about her being too young wasn’t some idiotic flirtatious remark that came off creepy. It wasn’t an insult. It wasn’t even a true comment, and from the way he said it, it almost seemed like it was a thought he had had that was never supposed to grace her ears; as if he was thinking hard and his thoughts were too loud for his liking.

There are better things to be upset about and she knows this, but she still can’t help but feel the hot anger in her chest. It’s the same kind of anger that flourishes when you’re just on the cusp of getting what you want and it’s pulled away from you; taunting you as the picture of it grows blurrier and blurrier and you’re left screaming because you’re so damn frustrated; because you were so fucking close.

And yeah, (Y/N) does admit she’s being dramatic, but she can’t remember ever wanting someone’s attention so badly before. The last boy who she found enticing cheated on her after two and a half years together, and that was during the summer of her Junior year of college. Nevertheless, the disrespect still hurts her feelings if she thinks about it too hard and the lack of sex she’s had since then was almost insulting.

So sue her if she was hoping Bradley could provide her with a few orgasms and some cuddles. He also wasn’t a bad storyteller and despite her anger, she wasn’t blind. He was hot as hell, too.

But she just can’t get over the way he held her cheek that night. The way that his hazel eyes found her’s; searching for a reason to say what he said. She can still feel the gentle squeeze of his palm on her face. Her ex-boyfriend had tried to make that their “thing” when they had first started dating and it always made her uncomfortable.

He was too rough, too unthoughtful, and ultimately too unfaithful. She thinks her feeling borderline disgusted by her ex cupping her cheek was a foreshadowing of him cheating on her. It was ironic how he was holding her face with that same hand and then smushing the face of another girl into a pillow soon after.

But Bradley was different.

His actions were slow and thoughtful. He was gentle, almost like a child holding his mother’s good China and not wanting to drop it. Bradley was cautious and sweet and that was something that (Y/N) had never truly experienced with a man; no matter how interested or in love with her she thought he was.

She was dying for him to kiss her and dead she is because he didn’t.

“You’re too young.”

It echoes in her head and she finds her face growing hotter and her knuckles getting more white the harder she squeezed the shot glass she had in her hand. Her age and Bradley’s disdain for it rings in her ears as if it's a fact and it is one, which is the shittiest part about it all.

“You’re too young,” patronizes her mind as if she wasn’t successful and brilliant and mature.

“You’re too young,” taunts her and embarrasses her, as if she’s ten years old again and being banished to the kids’ table at Thanksgiving.

“You’re too young,” screams at her as if her lack of experience and lack of opening herself up to the world is the reasoning behind why things never seemed to ever work out for her.

And the pressure of the thoughts her mind is bogging her brain down with starts to shut off her oxygen. She can’t see the empty bar. She can’t feel the shot glass in her hand. She can’t even feel her heart beating.

Her knuckles are white from trying to hold on for some explanation, some reason, why she can’t seem to shake this statement and there’s no other thoughts floating around in her brain that allow her to dislodge it.

“Fuck you, Bradley Bradshaw,” she thinks.

And she squeezes her hands together so tight that she’s snapped out of her hateful thoughts when she feels a shooting pain in her left hand and oh fuck.

The scarlet flowing from her palm sends her into a panic and her face turns white.

Holy shit, there’s no way this is happening.

There’s no way this is happening at 11:15 PM on a Tuesday night while she’s closing at the Hard Deck with no one else around.

“Penny is gonna fucking skin me alive,” she thinks, the blood dripping down her baby blue tube top-covered torso the closer she pushes her wound to her chest. The fabric is stained purple from how quickly her blood is absorbing into it.

Napkins, she needs napkins.

And she frantically scans the bar for a table that has a dispenser on it, knowing that Penny doesn’t keep any at the bar top. Her eyes look around almost comically before landing on the man of the goddamn hour: Bradley fuckface Bradshaw who has his eyes wide and his mouth gaped open.

“Holy shit! What did you do?”

iv.

Bradley knows he should stop coming to the Hard Deck when they close, but he needs to see Penny.

He figures showing up unannounced at her house isn’t the best way to go; especially considering he hadn’t been there in close to fifteen years. It doesn’t matter if he sends her a Mother’s Day card each year or knows that she would never turn him away. Something about it doesn’t sit right with his soul.

He tends to not do a lot of things if it doesn’t settle right in his stomach.

He’s usually calm. He’s usually collected. He usually has it all together but ever since he received orders to come back to Miramar, he’s been losing it. The bags underneath his eyes are prominent and he’s been averaging a total of four hours and twenty-two minutes of sleep each night (per the Sleep Cycle app on his phone which he knows isn’t very accurate but he can certainly feel the exhaustion so he’ll let it slide).

Bradley was really set off today with Jake and Maverick and the lack of sleep he’s been experiencing. He needed guidance. Truthfully, he needed his mother and he would have rather died than admit that when she was still alive and he was a prideful eighteen-year-old, but here he is now at thirty-five with an ache in his chest and a hole he’s not quite figured out how to fill.

Penny Benjamin, his old babysitter, is the closest thing he had to a mother now and he just has to find her.

So Bradley barrels into the Hard Deck and slams the door open on his quest to find Penny and figure out why the fuck he’s feeling this way.

The jukebox has been turned off and all the stools are stacked on the tables. The Hard Deck is a sorry excuse for a hangout spot at this hour and the smell of draft beer and scotch that usually soaked the atmosphere was gone; dried up like water spilled on the sidewalk on a hot day.

Bradley wrinkles his nose, using his curved pointer finger to roughly rub the end of it; a nervous tick he developed when he was a kid.

He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous to see Penny. She was comforting and sweet; the best kind of woman and someone who Bradley could say he trusted with his entire life. He used to say the same about his Uncle Maverick, but like they say, things change.

And things change indeed when he bursts through the doors and sees Penny nowhere in sight.

Well, fuck. (Y/N) is Penny’s replacement, he guesses.

The avalanche of actions tumbles down on him the minute he sees her; baby blue tube top sitting perfectly pretty on her body and her shoulders slightly shiny from either sweat or leftover tanning oil she may have put on earlier in the day. The sight makes Bradley’s mouth water with want and dry with embarrassment, simultaneously. His eyes drink in the sight of her face and his palms can feel the ghost of her cheek he held the night before.

(Y/N) has a frown on her face and is dissociating. The shot glass in her hand and the purple rag she has in the other serve as simple distractions for her hands. Bradley takes in how she doesn’t look up at him and how white her knuckles are - almost like she’s holding onto dear life to keep her from spazzing out.

And then it clicks that she’s probably angry with him and Bradley, despite his better judgment, decides that he needs to do some damage control.

He’s such a fuck up, he thinks, and he can’t afford to fuck someone else up in the process too.

“(Y/N)?” he asks softly, cautiously approaching the bar top; eyes swimming in her appearance to see if she was okay.

She doesn’t meet his gaze. She just stares ahead, her fingers gripping the glass in her hand so hard that her arms are shaking.

“Hey! Are you okay?” Bradley asks again, footsteps approaching her cautiously.

A small pop, a sound that could be made by someone stepping on some small fragments of glass with their boots on, can be heard and Bradley is just astonished. The crimson falling from her hand gives proof of what she had just done; her eyes widening comically and her face looking solemn like a child who had just been caught stealing cookies from the jar.

Her face is drained of color and Bradley figures it still hasn’t clicked that he’s in front of her. She clutches her hand to her chest and the fabric of her shirt is covered in blood. Bradley’s never done well with blood and other things like that; almost threw up all over himself whenever he would skin his knees when he was little.

But his instincts kick in and he lives up to his call sign: Rooster. He’s about to corral her and protect her the best he can. He has to.

“Holy shit! What did you do?” he yells, rushing towards her.

She looks at him wide-eyed and no words can rush out of her gaping mouth. She looks fearful and shocked. While he suspects her injury isn’t extremely drastic (okay well getting a shot glass crushed in your hand has to hurt like a bitch, he admits), she’s bleeding a lot and she’ll definitely need stitches.

“I-I don’t know. Fuck, my hand,” she pauses before turning to him again, “Fuck! Penny’s gonna kill me! I got blood all over the bar. Oh my God, she’s gonna skin me!”

Rooster shrugs off his Hawaiian shirt and pulls the white tank top underneath off by its straps. He needed to get her something to help her apply pressure and absorb the blood. He knows that the thin, poor excuses for napkins Penny has at the bar won’t do much to help, and asking her to take her tube top off to wrap around her hand would be a little too much.

She definitely can’t have on a bra with that top. He had been around enough girls in his life to know that for a fact and besides, it wasn’t like he was here to make her uncomfortable purposely.

“No she won’t,” he comforts. He has his shirt in one hand and folds it vertically to maximize the surface area.

“Here,” he directs, taking her arm gently and inspecting her wound, and God, did that glass cut fucking deep.

Two deep cuts carved their way into her left hand and the pools of crimson flowing from them tell Bradley all that he needs to know.

She indefinitely needs stitches.

Bradley wraps the tank top around her palm and instructs her to hold it tight. She presses her lips in a faint line and tries to calm herself.

One deep breath in, one deep breath out. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, the-

“Where’s your purse? I’m taking you to the ER.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Now he wants to play hero, she thinks. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

“I can drive myself,” she snaps.

He chuckles and shakes his head and she instantly feels patronized. It was the kind of laugh her babysitters used to do whenever she asked if ten was a grown-up age. Newsflash, it wasn’t and she came to know that pretty quickly, but not before she felt the fury and embarrassment of being chortled at; especially when she had done nothing amusing.

“Really? You want blood all over your car? And what’re you gonna do about using your turn signals,” he tries to reason, “You don’t have the fingers to do that, chick.”

And God, does she want to punch him in his stupid, handsome face.

“Fuck you,” she mumbles underneath her breath. No matter how upset she was, she couldn’t not agree that he had some valid points. Being a bitch got Amelia pissed at her earlier. The last thing she needs is to be left hanging with glass in her hand with no ride home because of her own childish emotions.

Thank God he didn’t hear her.

“Where’s your purse? I’m locking up and taking you to the hospital.” She opens her mouth to argue with him again, to insist that she can call an Uber or Penny, but Bradley shuts her down.

“Non-negotiable.”

She puts her head down like a scolded puppy and points to the back by the kitchen with her uninjured hand.

Rooster offers her a warm smile. “Good girl,” he says, patting her shoulder as he walks past her to grab the bag from the back.

He tosses the keys to his Bronco on the bar top. “If you want, you can start the car. Just promise not to drive off with it?” He offers her a weak smile.

(Y/N) puffs and exhales her annoyance. “Can’t promise I’ll be there still once you lock up.”

Bradley knows that she won’t take off. She can be snippy and has proven it to him time and time again with her quick remarks and her attitude toward him right now, but to her core, she’s a good person. She would never intentionally do something like that to anyone; no matter how pissed off they had made her.

As he hears the front door to the Hard Deck open and close with (Y/N)’s exit, he looks up at the clock. It reads 11:30 PM and fuck, waking up tomorrow is gonna be a pain in the ass, he knows. But he would rather have a late night with her than his own thoughts.

And yeah, Bradley Bradshaw thinks he can start to get used to the smart ass girl sitting in the passenger seat of his car right now.

“Are you planning on buttoning up your shirt anytime soon? I’m sick of the nurses coming by and gawking at you,” (Y/N) gripes, “Giving you all the attention when I’m the one with my hand damn near hanging off.”

Bradley scoffs. “You’re being dramatic. And besides, this is kind of your own fault. No one told you to turn into the Incredible Hulk and crush a shot glass with your bare hand.”

The emergency room is bustling with people; moms in labor, car accidents left and right, and people coming in screaming in pain. There’s no way her low “high” maintenance stitches would be taken care of any sooner than later. That was predetermined the minute they decided to drive instead of calling an ambulance.

It’s nearing 2 AM and (Y/N) is still clutching Rooster’s white (well, dark red now) tank top in her left hand and with a sulky frown on her face. Her ass hurts from the vinyl plastic that serves as an awful mattress that makes up an ER bed. She knows that Bradley is more than uncomfortable from the way he shifts constantly in the mossy blue chair next to her bedside.

She ignores his statement. What she had done was rather childish and she can’t come to grips with it herself, so what does she look like telling the person who caused her rage-induced tantrum?

“You’re sunburnt,” she states. That’ll have to do for now. Bradley already knows a lot about her. He doesn’t need to know everything.

“In a sexy Baywatch kinda way?” he jokingly asks and (Y/N) gives him a soft laugh.

“No. Your chest is pink,” she continues, “More of a Patrick Star kind of way.”

“You like it though.”

“We’re here to fix my hand. Not your self-confidence.”

Bradley laughs before starting to button his shirt up. “You’re a hoot, chick.”

(Y/N) raises her eyebrows. In the past two and some hours she’s spent with Bradley Bradshaw (and the various other times she’s been with him, but she’s not sure that those can actually count for something) she’s learned a lot about his mannerisms.

He’s always tapping his foot or rubbing his hands up and down his thighs when he’s sitting down. He uses old people's jargon. He leans on his right arm more than his left and he’s always checking his watch. When he gets tired he mumbles and then swipes his hand over his face before sitting up straighter.

A big yawn comes from his pink lips and (Y/N) knows that she should speak up. He has to be up at five AM tomorrow morning for training at six. He should at least be able to go home and get some sleep.

“Bradley?” she softly asks.

“Hmm?” he answers, slouching down in his seat a little bit more but instantly shooting up to sit straight.

(Y/N) chuckles softly and Bradley can’t deny that the sound makes his heart melt the smallest bit.

“You can go home if you need to. I’ll get stitched up and figure out a ride.”

Rooster sits up straighter; confusion plaguing his features. “Why would I leave you here?”

Her eyes widen. Holy shit, he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

“You have to be up early tomorrow. Just go home. I’m a big girl,” she flexes the small and albeit mushy muscles of her right arm, “I can handle it.”

“Are you kidding? A shot glass took you out. No way I’m leaving you at the hospital by yourself.”

And like how it was at the Hard Deck, the look he shoots her tells her that what he said is “non-negotiable.” He was staying, driving her home, and that was final.

“You need sleep, Bradley. You can’t just pull an all-nighter and then go and operate a plane. That’s just dangerous,” she lectures and Bradley lets out a yawn during her sentence.

She almost says some snide remark about him being rude and how she’s not that boring but Bradley beats her to fill the silence with his voice.

“Scoot over then.”

(Y/N)’s eyes almost explode out of her skull. “You want me to what?”

“Jesus, chick. It was just a suggestion,” he chides, “Getting your panties all in a twist because I won’t sleep but then won’t let me sleep? Kinda counterintuitive, don’t you think?”

She’s at a loss for words but he can’t have the final say. No one else could ever have the final say with her.

“Be my guest,” she says as she scoots over on the ER cot and makes enough space for him to lay down.

Rooster smirks to himself. He didn’t think that would work, let alone work on her. She doesn’t know it and he sure as hell will never tell her, but his heart was racing during that entire interaction. The rejection would have been rather embarrassing; especially considering they didn’t know how soon she could get stitched up and that he promised to drop her off at home.

He slides onto the bed next to her but he’s too broad. His shoulder is nudging her off the bed and he knows that she’s uncomfortable but is such a giver that she won’t say so and would let him fall asleep like that if he really wanted to.

But Bradley’s not an asshole (at least he isn’t one consciously) so he speaks up after he clears his throat.

“Yeah, this isn’t gonna work. Not at all,” he says and turns his head to the side to look at her. Her eyes tell him that “Well no dip, shit.” but he knows that she wouldn’t dare say it out loud. Not right now when she feels indebted to him for driving her to the hospital and staying with her while she waits.

He nudges her shoulder before sliding back out of the bed. Bradley reaches for her right hand. “Here, budge up.”

He pulls her up as if she weighs nothing and she stands in awe as he lays down first on the bed but spreads his legs. And oh, now she knows what he’s doing.

“Come lay down with me. You deserve to sleep some, too,” he says and she cautiously meanders her way to lay between his legs; her back pressed to his chest and her head falling into the crevice between his neck and shoulder.

“Won’t your arm fall asleep or something? I just don’t wanna be a bother.”

Bradley lets out a puff of air before wrapping both his arms around her front. His hands are joined together beneath her sternum.

“(Y/N)?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and go to bed.”

She rolls her eyes but she can’t fight him on it. And as they lay there she can hear the soft snores of the older man laying behind her and allows herself to drift off to a comatose state as well.

vi.

The doctor comes in about an hour after they doze off.

She’s a short woman with dark hair and tan skin; some crow's feet by her eyes and the skin on her hands slightly thinned. She looked kind and motherly and as she pulls the curtain back softly, she finds the two dead to the world in their slumber.

Doctor Tharp has to stop herself from audibly cooing.

The position (Y/N) and Bradley are in makes her think of her and her husband years ago. Lovebirds, she thinks, and while she would rather sit there and stare at them in awe, she knows that she has to get this poor girl stitched up and sent on her way home as soon as she can.

She nearly had a cow when she had heard that they had been waiting to see a doctor for stitches since 11:30 the night before. How the hell they had slipped through the cracks? She doesn’t know, but she makes a mental note to be extra kind to them while she performs her services.

Doctor Tharp gently shakes (Y/N) awake; the younger girl stirring with a gasp and some anxiousness before a hand is placed on her shoulder.

“Good morning, (Y/N). Have a good rest?” the doctor asks and (Y/N) hopes that this is who is going to stitch her up and send her on her merry way.

“It was okay. Would’ve been better if bozo here wasn’t snoring in my ear the entire time,” she answers and that makes Doctor Tharp laugh softly.

“Let’s get you stitched up,” she says, and (Y/N) unwraps Bradley’s arms from around her midsection and scoots closer down the bed to be near the tray that holds the instruments needed for her stitches.

Doctor Tharp numbs the area with lidocaine and asks her to move her fingers and her thumb on her left hand and as she starts suturing the wound and picking out the shards of glass left in her skin, she finds things to talk about with the younger girl.

(Y/N) tells her the basics that she’s seemed to be telling everyone older than the age of twenty-one these days; that she just graduated from undergrad and that she was going to law school in the fall, that she’s not from here and visiting her godmother, that she loves California and doesn’t know why she left it.

And Doctor Tharp knows she shouldn’t and it goes against her own beliefs but she just has to know who the young man sitting behind (Y/N) is and wants to comment on how sweetly he was holding her just a few moments prior.

“You and that boy are such a sweet couple,” she says and (Y/N)’s eyes bulge out of her skull.

“Oh me and Bradley? No. No, no,” she starts and she knows that she’s rambling. She does it quite a bit when she gets nervous and doesn’t know what to say.

Her damn Ella Enchanted gene is kicking in.

“We’re just friends. Sorta just met a week and some change ago,” she answers and while what she said wasn’t a lie in the slightest (they were friends and they did just meet not that long ago) she can’t help but feel the ache in her heart that adds that she wants more than a friendship from him.

But she can’t risk sounding ridiculous or getting ahead of herself before the race even starts, so she leaves her statement at that; just a statement and not a wish.

“Well, you’re quite cute friends, then.” Doctor Tharp says. She can tell that what she had said had made (Y/N) uncomfortable.

Too far.

It takes (Y/N) all of ten minutes to get stitched up before Doctor Tharp pats her arm with a smile and tells her that she’ll have the papers for proper care at the front desk.

“You take care. Of yourself and your heart,” the older woman says and (Y/N) knows that she should find some wisdom in her words, but they almost sound like a sort of doomed prophecy.

Whatever, she thinks. She’s just excited to get home and to sleep in the comfort of her own bed.

“Bradley,” (Y/N) whispers, shaking his bicep to get him to stir. He’s like a lump on a log, soft snores coming from his mouth and his head thrown back. His arms have crossed themselves over each other and made a home on his chest to replace the space (Y/N) had taken up before she moved.

“Bradley!” (Y/N) shakes him again.

He still sits asleep; completely dead to the world.

(Y/N) twists his nipple through his shirt and bingo. He wakes up with a scream and shoots daggers at her with his glassy eyes.

“M’all stitched up. We can go now,” she says and they exit the stall and make their way to the front desk where the charge nurse goes over how to properly clean her stitches and that she’d need to be back at the hospital in a week to get them removed.

She gives the charge nurse a weak smile and her and Bradley walk back outside to his parked Bronco; the ocean breeze making the night sky chilly and (Y/N) shivers. He notices as he opens the passenger door to let her in.

He rounds his way to the front and locks the doors before sliding into his seat.

“Cold?” he questions and she gives him a slight nod.

He purses his lips before turning the key in the ignition and starting the car. His hand instantly finds the heat dial and turns it up and they pull out of the parking lot.

“Penny’s house. Right?” he breaks the silence again and (Y/N) nods, leaning her head on his window.

The fifteen-minute ride from the hospital to Penny’s driveway is quick; the stillness of the night comfortable and washing them in warmth.

His Bronco is parked in the driveway before (Y/N) turns to him again.

“Before I go, I have to ask one more favor,” she says and Bradley raises his eyebrows in amusement.

“Not gonna ask me to donate a kidney to you or something like that. Right?” he jokes and she playfully rolls her eyes at him.

“No, you dinky dink. I just need you to rip my hospital bracelet off. They put it on my right hand and I can’t use my left to cut it off.”

Bradley reaches over and takes her hand without hesitation and pulls at the plastic band wrapped around her wrist.

“Thank you,” she sheepishly praises, “Thank you for everything. I could never owe you enough.”

Rooster grins, all the anguish of the day forgotten with the dopey-eyed grin he gives her.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds her palm in his hand; the action muscle memory and leans forward; their forehead resting against each others.

Her breath hitches in her throat because she swears to God if he doesn’t kiss her tonight she might rip out her stitches with her teeth and jump off of Penny’s goddamn roof.

“Please,” (Y/N) whimpers and she didn’t mean for her request to be said out loud.

Thankfully, Bradley ignores her words. She doesn’t know how she would live down the embarrassment of that one if he did manage to bring it up just then.

He presses their lips together. His lips are plush and soft; the right amount of dry and moist. They move in sync with hers, molding together like the perfect puzzle. His kiss is deep but gentle, all-consuming but allowing her space if she wanted it. He kisses her once. Twice. Three times. And then he pulls away, his hand still on her cheek as he licks his slips subtly.

She’s certain Bradley Bradshaw needs to add “perfect kisser” to his resume if he hasn’t already.

“Didn’t take you as a beggar, chick,” he says, and fuck, there it is. That smart alecky remark she was waiting for.

“If that’s the case, I’ll go inside and not give you my number,” she teases and Bradley feigns a gasp.

“You wouldn’t. Don’t leave me out to dry now. Your blood was all over my shirt at some point. Too late to turn back now.”

She gives him a toothy smile; one that’s reserved for her happiest and flirtiest moments.

(Y/N)’s grabbing a napkin from the middle counsel of his car and a pen from his cupholder. She scribbles her phone number down on the napkin with a cute, “Text me! :)” written after it.

She gets out of the Bronco and shuts the door, damn near running inside and waving at Bradley through the window of the living room where she can see his car in view.

Bradley just shakes his head and smiles with glee.

vii.

One thing Natasha Trace was proud of was how well she could read people.

Any boyfriends her sisters ever brought home didn’t have to get the stamp of approval from her father. Oh no, they had to get the stamp of approval from her.

And she had always been right. She knew the ones who lied about their jobs or the ones who were chronic cheaters (because they had done it so much they were pros at hiding it, just not from Natasha) or the ones who were just downright fucking nuts.

So if she can read people she had barely spent ten minutes with and could draw up a pretty good judgment of character, she knew that her analysis of people she knew well was never wrong.

When Bradley Bradshaw, her right-hand man and one of her best friends, pulls up to her government-supplied housing in his Bronco at 5:25 the morning after his huge blowup at Hangman, she knew something was off.

He didn’t have that shitty cassette mixed tape playing like he usually does and he’s basically inhaling a peach-flavored Red Bull. The thing about Bradley and energy drinks was that Bradley never drank them unless he was about dead from exhaustion.

And from their text exchange last night, he was home at 8 PM and had all the intentions of going to bed soon.

And well shit, that was apparent to be a lie.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet. Rooster wasn’t a morning person but once he was awake, he was awake and was always ready to chat which drove Phoenix absolutely crazy, but the silence they’re sitting in on their way to base is deafening. She knows something is up, yet she can’t quite put her finger on it.

“Good sleep?” she asks, testing the waters to see if Bradley would lie to her.

He curves his pointer finger and rubs it against the tip of his nose. This bastard was about to lie to her.

She can feel it.

“Great, actually,” he says with no delay so she knows that he’s not telling the truth.

Phoenix knows that Rooster doesn’t do well with confrontation. He’s a born people-pleaser and anything that wasn’t able to be handled maturely made him want to get up and flee. She’d save calling him out for later.

Besides, they had bigger shit to worry about for the time being; one of those being the fact that they’re being sent on a suicide mission in three weeks.

Natasha turns her body to the side of the car and looks out the window until something catches her eye. She turns to look at Bradley and sees that his eyes are cemented on the road. She bends down to pick it up swiftly; her movements so fast and contained that from Bradley’s peripheral vision, it just looked like she moved a little bit to get comfortable.

It’s a fucking hospital bracelet and as she turns it around to read what’s on it, she sees a name she doesn’t recognize and her eyes nearly bulge out of her skull when she sees the birth year.

The year starts with a 20 and she feels sick to her stomach.

There’s no way Rooster had a little girl in here. There’s no way that that’s the reason he’s acting so weird. There can’t be.

And then she starts counting the current year from the year on the bracelet, and then it clicks that, “Oh shit, this chick isn’t underaged.”

She’s just young, and math has never been Natasha’s strong suit.

She audibly exhales which makes Bradley turn his head to look at her and she stuffs the bracelet underneath her thigh before snaking it down to her pocket.

“You okay?” he asks and Natasha eagerly nods.

“Yeah, just a little jittery,” she answers and Bradley nods in agreeance.

He brings his Red Bull back up to his lips before taking a swig and placing it back down in the cup holder.

“Me too.”

#bradley bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster top gun #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #top gun #top gun maverick #miles teller #mt #rooster bradshaw fic #rooster bradshaw fanfic #rooster fanfic #bradley bradshaw fic #writes #rooster

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weebsinstash · 3 months

Note

Now that I saw that doodle Vox made again, I'm just wondering how tf he knew Alastor has hooves

Also noticed that he was a lil fixated on Al's ass in that same doodle so there's that :>

I literally searched the Hazbin wiki for the source and couldn't find it but I've seen multiple people posting some screenshot of some website that says, Velvette previously stated Vox had an Alastor body pillow, and I don't know if that's an old Voxtagram post or more recent but it's been living in my head rent free ever since

Like there have been so many Viv streams and q&a's that have mildly spoiled things or mentioned facts that have since become non canon so I'm not sure what to listen to anymore but dude, reading the wiki of all the amalgamated facts is A TRIP. Vox is Actually Totally Correct: despite Alastor having his gentlemanly persona and some weird "serial killer moral code, like dexter", he canonically has awful oral hygiene and both Vivzie and... Fautisse? Have mentioned this. His demon form has black gums. Vivzie said he "probably doesn't prioritize oral hygiene" and also probably wasn't a cannibal in life so that's literally a new hobby he picked up in death so also um. THE SECOND THIS MAN HAD FREE REIGN AND THERE WAS NO RULE OF LAW OR CONSEQUENCES HE DECIDED TO START EATING PEOPLE SO LET THAT SINK IN.

You start reading Alastor's wiki page and it makes it pretty clear he's like DERANGED, hypocritical, he's like borderline a megalomaniac? It's all hidden behind this, persona, this wall he puts up, his well put together demeanor that allegedly never cracks, but underneath his showmanship he's a haughty, insecure, judgy, gossipy, genuine FREAK who responds with insults and violence whenever he can who relishes in trolling people and scaring them, literally enjoys knowing when he's making people uncomfortable

I have so many conflicting feelings but like PRETTY SURE HIS VERSE IN THE FINALE WAS A VILLAIN SONG, HE'S LITERALLY SINGING ABOUT BEING PISSED AND WANTING TO RETALIATE BECAUSE HE'S BEING FORCED TO DO STUFF HE DOESN'T WANT TO

THUS

I AM CONVINCED VOX IS JUST A BOTTOM AND A SLUT WHO THINKS ALASTOR IS JUST REALLY COOL AND HAS A ONE SIDED PATHETIC BOY CRUSH

Bro the sound I fucking made when his wiki trivia says he's been described as "painfully white, like phlegm in the back of your throat white" NO DONT DO MY TV MAN LIKE THIS 😭🤣

Anyways, you've probably seen the posts but for someone who claims to be so hip and modern, Vox goes out of his way to dress similarly to Alastor. The coat with lapels in the front and a tail in the back, a bow tie with a cravat, cuffed sleeves, intentionally or not the color contrast of Vox's hands resembles Alastor's and Vox CAN customize his body...

He's just. I just completely forget sometimes that Alastor literally called him OLD PAL in episode 3 and yes he was obviously saying it to talk down to him but like ALASTOR DID ACKNOWLEDGE HISTORY BETWEEN THEM, and also oh wait what's this, Vivzie has confirmed Vox and the Vees are major antagonists of Season 2 and that Vox and Alastor's history is going to be expanded upon so.... radiostatic shippers stay winning ha ha

I read a post that I meant to reblog that was something like "Vox is actually an incredibly cunning charismatic manipulative businessman who is a legitimate threat and we see this for all of 5 minutes and the second Alastor is mentioned he starts completely coming apart" and it's SO TRUE, he can be ur angel or ur devil. He's a legitimately OP threat and he's also A PATHETIC SAD FAILHUSBAND. Give me Vox who's efficiently marketing more hypnosis equipment to substantially grow his own wealth and manipulating his shareholders and then he's going back to his computer room with some popcorn and kicking his little feeties as he watches his darling and Alastor on like 30 different monitors. Give me Vox who can know the INSTANT someone is trying to go behind his back and double cross him because he has mass surveillance all over the city and he's using his endless resources to develop high end 3d printers to make posable figures of his crush and Alastor.

Give me Vox who loses his cool and insults you to your face and you two get into a huge argument and maybe Velvette and Valentino lash out at you in defense of him and he's going to his room and crying from frustration into his body pillows totally not plural, totally not ones of you and Alastor and calling himself a stupid idiot because he hurt your feelings and then spends the next like week SUFFOCATINGLY showing up almost every single place you are and embarrassing himself as he tries to bond with you and prove to you what CLEARLY AWESOME boyfriend material he is

#yandere x reader #yandere hellaverse #yandere hazbin hotel #sinprompts #hh

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thesiltverses · 6 months

Note

Hey I wanna buy the rpg but none of my friends have listened to the Silt Verses. Will the game still make sense to them?

Hey! This is actually something The Gauntlet figured might be a concern for some listeners, and they've factored it into the advice for Keepers/GMs:

Obviously there's never any guarantee that any group will click with any setting, but as they mention, the rulebook does have a ton of helpful text to introduce the world of TSV to players who've never encountered it before.

I actually ran a short session last week with some friends who'd never listened to the show, and this was the one-pager introduction text I gave them (which seemed to work just fine!)

The game is taking place in a modern world much like ours, a nation-state called the Peninsula, but with one crucial difference - gods are real, and they’re everywhere. All of them hunger for attention, all of them hunger to be fed, and all of them yearn to transform the world around them into their own image. In the cities of the Peninsula, major businesses conduct industrial-scale mass human sacrifices to appease the gods of electricity, oil and coal, while ordinary citizens walk past huge billboards for deities of coffee, processed pork, and breakfast cereal. In the countryside, towns and villages may worship their ancient gods of harvest, hill, river, and forest in secret, conducting ancient, brutal rituals and holding to their old traditions even as modernity threatens to overwhelm them. The government of the Peninsula - the Legislatures - do their best to control and regulate worship, licencing certain faiths while banning others outright. Depending on who you ask, this is simple common sense to prevent population collapse from unsustainable sacrifice, a safety precaution to keep certain dangerous gods from spreading too far and wide, or a deeply corrupt act of oppression to help their friends in the world of commerce maintain a monopoly of worship. However, there is no such thing as a ‘safe’ god. Illegal or legal, in the cities or the countryside, any god may break free from the control of its worshippers, evolve or grow beyond their understanding, or bestow its horrible blessings upon ordinary citizens, transforming them into the twisted image of the deity. The world around you is broken-down, often abandoned, and always dangerous. ‘Angels’ and ‘saints’, reshaped manifestations and servants of a god’s will, stalk the land, uncontrollable and almost unstoppable. Local law enforcement, when it isn’t corrupt, apathetic, or compromised, has a tendency to go missing in the backwoods if it interferes too closely with the affairs of an illegal faith… You begin the game as Custodians - government stooges and former convicts who’ve been press-ganged or ‘volunteered’ into a dangerous and thankless field role, travelling across the territories of the Peninsula to investigate cases of volatile worship, or to mediate in situations where an angel or saint has gotten loose. Each of you has your own history of dangerous, fanatical, or illegal worship, a past life where you were beloved by a particular god, and even now its whispering shadow haunts your steps… Where you go from there is up to you.

#the silt verses #putting it in the tag because I think it's helpful

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thejujvtsupost · 7 months

Note

Can i please request some wedding day headcanons for Gojo? Like how he proposes and the day itself and the honeymoon 👀 thank you ❤️

Gojo on Your Wedding Day

I have no idea how this got away from me honestly but here we are. I’ll do a separate post for an extra spicy honeymoon later but it ended up too cute and wholesome to add smut. Also this is from a western/American standpoint of wedding practices. I’m relatively familiar with ‘traditional’ ceremonies but not well versed in modern Japanese wedding practices. I know some people prefer traditional over modern/vice versa but I’m not knowledgeable enough on the specifics so I hope you don’t mind. <3

Notes: F!reader, marriage proposals, implied nsfw, nervous Gojo and lots of fluff.

For @joyfulenthusiastwitch

First of all, Gojo is such a boy fail.

Like seriously, a total boy fail. Asking you out was an accomplishment in itself- and you’re literally his closest friend. He’s all smooth and put together until it comes to romance. He tripped over his own feet and he stuttered.

The great Gojo Satoru, stuttered.

Of course you found that hilarious and struggled to not laugh at him- until he finished with “Will you date on me?” And you lost it. You nodded and agreed but you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

It’s okay though, because he was laughing with you. He built it up asking you out in his head so bad and you didn’t even hesitate. So he’s laughing with you and at himself, it’s just you after all, he doesn’t know why he was so worried.

You started a real relationship (his very first one!) after three dates. You laugh and learn, and you take things in stride together.

Gojo tries his hardest- too hard sometimes. He read somewhere that relationships shouldn’t have secrets and that resulted in him revealing every single secret about himself.

“I never wear my pants just once, I hardly ever do laundry and I reuse them to make them last- as long as there isn’t a stain.” -you tell him pretty much everyone wears their pants more than once. But to him it’s a secret because he grew up in such a prestigious clan and that wouldn’t be acceptable.

And “I don’t like washing my hands unless the soap is scent free. I’d rather use hand sanitizer.”

None of these things are necessary. You live together now, he does laundry and you already figured out his preference for scent free soaps after the bottle of pumpkin spice hand soap at your friend’s house made him gag. -He didn’t want to be called out for not washing his hands, anyone would be able to tell if he hadn’t because the scent was so strong.

Cut to three years later and he’s back at it again.

He doesn’t like keeping secrets from you. He took that too seriously and it stuck. But now he’s definitely keeping something from you and it’s irritating because you’ve never had to press him for anything. You’ve never felt like you were on the outside of an inside joke with him. And it goes from irritating to just hurtful when he comes home super late

“Sorry baby, I was hanging out with Nanami.”

Spent hours ring shopping because he’s picky and couldn’t find the perfect one.

You kept face, but you already asked Nanami where he was when you got worried and he said he hadn’t seen Gojo all day.

You know there’s a lot he can’t tell you, but he’s never kept personal secrets from you and this obviously was one.

You’re five seconds away from confronting him after he comes home four hours late without a heads up or a simple text. You aren’t controlling but he has a dangerous life and he always used to text you at least- and you were always understanding! You didn’t know what you did to be treated differently.

He’s got something behind his back and he’s sweating, and Gojo doesn’t sweat. You’re concerned more than anything else. Nothing else matters, you can be angry and hurt after you make sure he’s okay.

“Baby what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

You get up from the couch and reach out to touch his face but he dodges and refuses to let you get closer.

“Just hold on, please? I finally found it and I can’t wait any longer.”

“Wait for what toru?”

His breath hitches and you don’t know if he’s gonna start crying or hyperventilating or both. Then he’s on not one, but both knees in front of you. Again, boy fail.

So he’s struggling to get his words out but he’s determined. He found the perfect ring for you and he knows he should plan out how to ask but he can’t he needs you to wear it immediately- assuming you say yes. He needs everyone to know you’re his.

He’s always been a possessive man, he tries to hide it and be respectful. He just reinforces how cute you look in his clothes, prompting you to wear his hoodie to the grocery store and other little things. A ring is the ultimate “she’s taken” and he doesn’t even have to be present. Everyone will already know. (not that he doesn’t trust you!)

“So the relationship- our couple, is nice I think.”

You tilt your head because what the fuck is he even saying??

“I mean you’re really nice. And cute too. And you love me so that’s… nice.” He cringes and looks so pitiful.

You decide to throw him a bone. “Slow down, you sound like you’re having a stroke in kindergarten.” You get on your knees in front of him, getting on his level.

But no that’s not what’s supposed to happen! It’s not part of his plan! He’s supposed to be the only one on the floor- he scrambles to stand up and pulls you up with him, guiding you to the couch. Except… is that a ring box that he dropped nearby?

Then it clicks for you, and you feel giddy but you’re so fond of him. “I think you dropped something baby.” You point to the box on the floor and he groans.

“Aw fuck-” he picks it up and kneels at your feet, you hand in his and presents it to you- he’s not sure where his speech went but he’s looking up at you from the floor.

And that’s when he hits you with “Marry you me?” And then his head falls into your lap with another groan and several expletives.

Of course you lost your shit, laughing so hard you’re crying while running your fingers through his hair to reassure him. “Yeah, I’ll marry you me.” You managed to get out between giggles and he finally pulls back to look at you.

You’re smiling at him and his face is red- so red. He’s grumbling when he’s sliding the ring on your finger and then finally leaning forward to kiss you with his own smile.

Again, he’s not sure why he got himself so worked up. It’s just you, you’re his person. The anxiety, while worth it, was unnecessary.

And after the laughter he gets choked up, “I love you so much, so much.”

That night the bed needs replaced- because of reasons.

A year later you’re headed towards him down the aisle.

And during your vows he doesn’t stutter at all- he’s not nervous or shy about how much he loves you. Everyone already knows how down bad he is.

The wedding is relatively small, your dress is so beautiful and he thinks you look like a cloud.

When he tells you that little thought later on during the reception it results in: “Just because cloud are white doesn’t mean everything white is a cloud, Satoru.” He pouts, because obviously. But you just giggle and kiss him on the cheek.

And he’s honestly just so happy to be there with you- he was never one for “real relationships” and now he’s married.

He’s married to you.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #asks

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dejwrites · 1 year

Text

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀human, choso kamo

it's been two years since the fall of the jujutsu world, and now choso kamo is finally able to keep the promise that he made with special-grade sorcerer yuki. to no longer live life as a curse but as a human. just his luck; his bubbly next-door neighbor is the one that helped guide him through it.

♔ ˖ ✧ — general warnings: female reader, her/she pronouns, female anatomy described, black reader written in mind and their will be descriptors, modern au but also in jjk verse, kinda my own interpretation and theories on how jjk will end, super self-indulgent bc it's my bday, neighbors to lovers (is that a trope), love making yay, mention of other jjk characters, a lot of jumps that are separated by dividers btw, somewhat plot twist at the end // smut warnings: missionary position, hand holding, mentions of hickeys/love bites, usage of spit, big d*ck choso is a warning in itself, implied of oral (m.receiving), handjob // word count: 5.5k, minors dni.

YOUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR, CHOSO, WAS EXTREMELY MYSTERIOUS. He only came out of his apartment for a couple of things—going grocery shopping, possibly working, and jogging. You never saw him being friends over. You never saw him bring a lover over. Nothing. Your curious mind always wondered if he was just a loner; maybe he didn’t have any family members alive. It was just him in the small countryside of Japan, and he was just taking his very lonely days day by day. Or was it cruel of you to assume? It wasn’t really your business as a young foreigner just enjoying her youthful years of traveling.

You’ve been everywhere, searching for a permanent home after deciding to step away from your actual job. Malaysia, Nigeria, Brazil—you have been traveling for a while, and now it seems you may have found your permanent home for good. The small town wasn’t as busy as Tokyo, but it got lively when the people got together to throw small festivals to celebrate things. If you recall, tonight’s festival celebrated the anniversary of the eldest married couple living in the community. Everyone was prompted to bring a dish, baked goods, or gifts. You took it upon yourself to make onigiri because it was one of the easiest dishes you couldn’t butcher without the eldest questioning your cooking skills.

With your best outfit, you glanced at Choso’s door and began your journey down to the main court of the community with your dish. You could hear the laughter and music of the people in the community as they were setting up. You could see the eldest couple, Mr. and Mrs. Aoki, slowly dancing to the music that was blasting through the speakers. Huge smiles on their faces caused their eyes to crinkle and for them to hold on to each other a bit tighter. Despite such a fast-paced song playing, they took their time indulging in each other’s company as if they wouldn’t have each other anymore the next day.

“You look gorgeous,” You heard one of your friends, Hinata, say.

“I can’t let you outdress me this time,” You joked while placing what you brought on the table with the other variety of foods.

“It’s only room for just one hot person in the small community, and it seems like it’ll be me,” He responds. “Now it’s three,” He jokingly sighed in despair.

“Three?” You questioned as you were glancing over the drinks that were offered.

“You, Me, and your neighbor,” Hinata responded. He ran his fingers through his sandy brown colored hair before speaking again, “I’m so jealous. I’m stuck with Old Man Keigo as my neighbor.”

“He’s not that bad.” You laughed.

“He knocks on my door at three in the morning, asking if I have seen his cat. I didn’t even know we were allowed to have pets.” Hinata sighs.

“Choso literally never leaves his place. I don’t even think he watches tv,” You responded.

“Still better than Keigo,” Hinata answered.

“Is it, though? You’re not curious about why he’s so lonely? If he has a family? Friends? If he wants to make friends?” You asked, and Hinata’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“Maybe he’s running away from his past life,” Hinata said while searching for a plate. “You should give him some food.”

“Why do I have to do it?”

“You have an adorable, friendly face. Would you rather Old Man Keigo do it?” Hinata’s head motioned to the older man, who was nodding off to sleep in the corner. The children in the community managed to begin to place items on his lap to see how long he wouldn’t notice.

“The goal is to get him out of his apartment, not scare him in.” You grabbed the plate out of Hinata’s hand. “How am I supposed to know what foods he likes? If he’s allergic to anything?”

“Hm, just give him one of everything. Now my lovely friend has arrived to help me get through this party. Toodles.” He disappeared in the sea of people, leaving you alone with a plate of food.

You knew he was most likely meeting with his local drug dealer, getting his weekly weed fix to get him through his work week as an administrative assistant at a law firm.

You did what Hinata suggested, placing one of everything on the plate. You were positive that the amount of food on the plate would have been the same amount that the community's people would give him. Especially considering that some already whispered about him. They weren’t bad whispers or gossip but whispers of kindness. You remember Mrs. Aoki telling you how he helped her carry her groceries in her house. Or the young mother that lived in the home down from your complex told everyone that Choso taught her young son how to ride his bike without training wheels. So, if Choso were to finally leave his home—maybe he would see how kind everyone was and how this community was like a huge family. He had already been helping out around here.

As soon as you were done, you returned to your apartment. Your steps were slow and steady to prevent you from spilling food everywhere. When you reached Choso’s door, you mentally prepared yourself for what to say. Should you do an introduction first before giving him the food? Should you lie and say Mrs. Aoki told you to bring the food? What if he doesn't accept the food? Well, that wouldn’t be so bad. You were his neighbor who only said hi or bye to him, giving him food. He’ll probably think it’s been poisoned or something.

You knocked three times. Two times softly before a loud one that could be heard in the small apartment. You stepped back when you heard the sound of the door unlocking. When he stepped out with a towel wrapped around his waist, your heart glanced down in embarrassment. Your brown skin heated, and your heart felt like it was flinging around your chest like a balloon that had just deflated. You never thought a plate of food was so interesting until now.

“Uh, I’m sorry for interrupting your plans. I just thought that I should bring you food from the festival. Mr. and Mrs. Aoki are celebrating their anniversary.” Your words were moving so fast that he even was trying to comprehend what you were saying.

You took a deep breath before speaking again, “You never leave your apartment, so I thought it would be nice to get you some food. I wasn’t sure what you like, so I bought a bit of everything.” Your hands extended the plate outward, and he grabbed the plate out of your hand with the hand that wasn’t grasping on the blue-colored towel that was wrapped around his waist.

Now that the plate was no longer in your hands, your curious eyes couldn’t help but take a peek at his body. His body was like it was sculpted by the best sculptor in Japan. The many Greek statues of God’s body used him as a reference if possible.

“Thanks,” Choso says, and his lips curve into a sly smile before he returns back into the comfort of his own home.

With a smile on your face, you turned around to return to the celebration and Choso on your mind. The festival continued, and you even shared a rolled blunt with Hinata to end the night as you gossiped about random things. He asked about Choso and could tell by how your glossed lips curved into a smile that it went well. He didn’t question more of it since the intoxicating high of marijuana finally hit him. However, he did point out that he believed Choso and you would get along quite well.

Hinata’s prediction wasn’t far off, considering two weeks afterward, Choso tagged along with you to go grocery shopping. You remembered dragging your shopping cart down the stairs loudly as he followed you.

“What’s up with the cart?” He asked as he walked by your side; he noticed that you didn’t take the usual turn towards the community exit but instead went towards one of the elder's apartments.

“Oh, I usually go grocery shopping for some elders. It helps so I won’t have to carry all the bags from the grocery store.” You gave him a smile. “You have to work smarter, not harder, so you won’t have back problems in your early thirties.” You joked.

Choso’s lips formed a perfect shape ‘o’ as he realized how smart the idea was. The closest grocery store is about a fifteen-minute walk from here; it would make sense to have something that would be easier for you to carry your bags. His dark eyes followed you as you went door to door, asking some of the older people if they needed anything from the grocery store. You did with such a bright smile that Choso found his cheeks growing hot as he watched you respectfully bow before wishing farewells to your neighbors.

Kindness, you had so much of it and weren’t afraid to give it out. Perhaps that’s why Choso admired you so much. You were like a ray of sunshine; he questioned where you were during the Shibuya, Culling Game, and other events that shook the sorcerer world. How could someone like you be so kind and bubbly when such events happen? He wondered if you had family members that died during the Shibuya incident.

“I have three people's grocery lists and money. You know you don’t have to tag along if you don’t want to.” You said as you dragged the cart behind you.

“I have nothing else to do, and I have grown to enjoy your company compared to your friend,” Choso admits as he walks by your side. “He’s a hyper one.”

“Oh, Hinata? Yeah, you have to catch him when he’s off work. Other times he’s either high on weed or caffeine.” You chuckled. “I appreciate the company, then. It isn’t a lot of people around our age that live here.”

“I noticed,” Choso responds. He shoved his hands in his leather jacket pockets. “I like it like that compared to the city.”

“You used to live in the city?” You asked as you stopped at the crosswalk.

“Well, I work in Roppongi as security at some clubs. That helps pay the bills and such. I did live there originally, but it was too busy there. As if Roppongi never sleeps or something. So, I moved.” Choso explained while you two crossed the street.

You noticed that your arms kept bumping into each other with each step you took next to each other. It was like two magnets that kept gravitating toward each other despite being far apart.

“You as a security guard? You don’t give me security guard vibes,” You chuckled.

“Really? My boss says otherwise,” He runs his fingers through his hair. “He said I look intimidating.”

“Maybe it’s the mark across your face.” You motioned to your own face. “What is that anyway? A tattoo? Birthmark?”

You watched as Choso rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. His cheeks staining the color of red before speaking, “Birthmark.” He says before his eyes averted downward in embarrassment.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” You nudge his side. “It’s cute.” She adds before skipping ahead to enter the grocery store.

Choso followed behind you with heated cheeks as you held the first list. You were putting stuff in the cart you brought along. “Have you always lived there? Seem like everyone knows you.”

“Only for about four months now. I traveled a couple of places before settling here.” You answered. “I must say that Hinata did make it much easier. I was like you at first. All bottled up in my apartment, and then Hinata became my friend. The rest is history; Hinata even decided to set me up with one of his friends.”

“And how is that going?” Choso asked.

“He canceled the first two dates, and we’re supposed to hang out another day,” Your shoulders shrug as you look at Choso, who couldn’t quite comprehend how nonchalant you were taking the situation.

“What about you? Anyone special in your life? Met someone nice during your security gigs?” You asked while grabbing another thing off the shelf.

Choso took the other list out your hand and started to search if any item on the list was in the aisle you two currently were in. You couldn’t tell if he started helping to avoid your question or if he was genuinely being kind. He reached behind where you were standing to grab something behind you.

“I don’t really do relationships. Yeah, I have had flings here and there.” Choso explained. “So, there’s no one from my security gigs.” He chuckles.

Your eyebrows raised in curiosity at his question, but you didn’t want to pry anymore into his business. You took the list from his hand and motioned for him to pull the cart. With a sly grin, Choso followed behind you. The dark-haired male was growing comfortable with you, and he couldn’t explain to himself the warm feeling he felt when he was around you.

A DRUNKEN HICCUP ESCAPED your lips as you let your head fall into the palm of your hand. Your mind felt like it was spinning, and your body felt like it was a bowl of Jell-O. You brought the glass to your taking another sip of the intoxicating alcohol that you knew you had too much of. Finishing the last bit in the glass before letting your face collide with the table you sat at. You knew it was irresponsible to drink alone, especially considering you had to travel about five blocks to your house. But you didn’t think you would get stood up by Hinata’s friend. They were supposed to be here to walk you home and ensure that you got home safely. But they didn’t bother again.

You sat up, running your manicured fingers through your coils, before you saw a familiar figure walking by the bar that you were in. It seemed like he felt your drunken glare since his eyes met with yours when he turned around. Choso. You hadn’t seen him since he told you about his brother when you guys walked together to the grocery store. You watched as he raced to the door to approach you, and you couldn’t hide the foolish grin on your face.

“Choso! Come, sit down and have a drink with me!” You shrieked, holding up the empty bottle of sake.

“You’ve reached your limit, Y/N. It’s time to go home.” He says.

“But he hasn’t shown up yet. Hinata’s friend didn’t come.”

“Just stay here while I pay your bill, okay? Don’t move!” His finger points at you, and you can only smile and give him a thumbs up.

You plopped back into your seat, watching as he paid for the drinks you had within the night. He returned and helped you up, but you stumbled back, causing him to grab a hold of your wrist to catch you. He noticed the short skirt you wore tonight and wanted to question if you were cold, but right now, he had to get you home. A long sigh tumbled from the dark-haired male before he unzipped his hoodie. He tied the hoodie around your waist and turned around. “Hop on.” He says, motioning to his back.

“Choso, you’re going to carry me all the way home. You’re such a gentleman.” You happily sigh as you climb onto his back.

He carried you in silence until you were so curious about why he was out so late. “Why were you out so late? It can be dangerous out here when the sun goes down, you know?” Each word that left your mouth was interrupted by a hiccup.

“Says the drunk one; someone could have taken advantage of you if I didn’t see you.” Choso lectured. “You’re so irresponsible, you know?”

Your lips formed a pout as you wiggled your legs with each step Choso took. “I just thought he would show up. I’m sorry for my ir-responsible-ness.”

Choso chuckles at your words, considering that you completely butchered the last part of your sentence. “It’s okay. But to answer your question, I just went to the cemetery to visit my brother. It’s much more peaceful for me when I go at night.”

“Well, did you enjoy your visit?” You asked.

“I did. I’m sure he’s tired of me bothering him, though.” He responded.

“Well, I wish I would have been able to meet him. If he’s as cool as his older brother, I’m sure I would have liked him and his company.”

“He would have liked you also. Especially considering you being so nice to me. Seeing the good in every fuckin’ body. Including that guy that stood you up.”

You grew silent. Choso’s words suddenly sober you up. You blink several times before speaking, “He promised he would come.”

You found yourself repeating that phrase again and again.

“I heard you the first time you said it,” Choso answered as he began to walk up the steps connected to the complex's top level. “Just wish you would see that the guy clearly isn’t interested in you.”

“And how would you know that? You told me weeks ago that you don’t do relationships or haven’t even been on a date. Just hookups,” You backfired.

“I don’t need to be a relationship expert to see that you deserve better than to get stood up in some busted bar that hardly anyone knows about as if the guy is ashamed and is afraid to be with a foreigner. Now, can I have your keys to open your door?”

Silence overcame the two of you again. Why were you two so comfortable enjoying each other’s silence? Why was his silence so comforting? Why did it calm you down? Why did his words hit you so hard like that?

“I think I left my purse at the bar.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ll just go wake the landlord up; I’m sure he has a spare key. Then I’ll just go get my purse tomorrow. I'm friends with the owner, so I’m sure she’ll put it up for me.”

Choso didn’t say anything. Instead, he walked next door to his apartment, unlocking the door. “No need to be a nuisance to the landlord so late at night. You can crash here until the morning, and I’ll get your purse.”

“You’re so kind. One day I will pay you back plus some.”

Choso opened his apartment, and you were in awe at how he decorated his small space. Maybe, your mind was mentally hyping it up due to the alcohol in your system. But you felt at peace in here; it could have been because it smelt like Choso. A scent that you grew familiarized with the more you spent time with him. You noticed how clean his place was. He had a couple of plants in the corner that were clearly taken care of. He had a record player in the other corner with a stack of vinyl records. Your eyes couldn’t help but remember the small details in his apartment. So caught up in your surroundings you don’t even notice Choso kneeling down to remove your heels after your feet finally hit the ground.

“I could have done that myself.” You said.

“Mhm, sure.” He sarcastically responds before searching his closet for something you can change in. He gave you a shirt and some shorts. “The bathroom is all yours.”

You stumbled into the bathroom to change into the clothes. The shorts and shirts are clearly too big for you. Your arms wrapped around your waist as you glanced at yourself in the small mirror above the sink. You looked a mess, and you couldn’t believe that Choso saw you in this manner. Felt like he was viewing you at your lowest all because you got stood up by some guy.

Choso seemed to be getting ready to shower when you were done in the bathroom. You swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in your throat before walking further into the room, “I can sleep on the floor. I am the intruder here.”

“Nonsense, I don’t mind sharing the bed. Unless you’re like-“

“No, it’s not that. It’s just you’ve done so much for me tonight. Carried me home, paid my bill at the bar, now this.”

“It’s okay. It’s kinda on my list to be kind to someone similar to how my brother would be.” Choso answered truthfully.

Your eyebrows raised at his comment, but you didn’t argue as you climbed into the bed and got comfortable. You rolled over on your side and tugged the blankets further on your frame to attempt to sleep. Choso went on to take a shower, and minutes later, he joined you in the bed. The bed sank downward when he joined you, and you hated to admit that you wanted to move closer foolishly. You bet he was a wonderful cuddler; he had the arms for it. Before you could utter goodnight to Choso, the alcohol you consumed caused your body to finally relax on the fluffiness of the bed. Your eyes fluttered, attempting to fight your sleep until you finally fell into a deep slumber.

When morning came upon you, you woke up and could feel an arm around your waist and warmth upon the back of your neck. If you concentrated hard enough, you could even feel Choso’s face upon the top of your coils. It took you by a shock that you didn’t fall asleep twisting your hair and throwing on a scarf, but then you remembered the events of last night. You remembered the piggyback ride. You remembered the talk about you being too kind and always seeing the good in everyone. You remembered forgetting your purse. You figure you were such a nuisance, so you had to make your grand mistake.

You attempted to wiggle out of his grasp, but the grip got a bit tighter. A subtle groan escaped from Choso before you wiggled your way to turn around to face him. Your lips gasp apart to stare at the sight in front of you. His black hair sprawled across his face creating the most reckless bed hair. You took in the way he let out a soft snore here and there. How long his eyelashes were. The birthmark that decorated his pale skin started from one cheek to across the bridge of his nose and to the other cheek. Your cheeks heated, seeing his eyes flutter open and catch you staring.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.” You stuttered your words out in embarrassment before turning around to break eye contact. You’ve given up wiggling away at how close the two of you were, but he didn’t loosen up the grip either. Actually, he pulled you closer. As if he didn’t want to let you go.

“Choso?” You asked as you could feel the tip of his nose on the back of your neck.

Your skin was littered with goosebumps, and your body's hair stood up.

“Hm.” He groggily answered.

“I may have been drunk, but I do recall you mentioning a list. You said one of the things on the list was to be kind to a person the same way you would think your brother would. Is that what you’re doing with me?”

“Yes.”

Now you were back, turning around to meet his sleepy alluring gaze. “And you think your brother would do this? As in, cuddle his neighbor?”

“He’ll carry you on his back if you were too intoxicated, but I don’t know if he’ll do this. I can stop if you want,” His arm detaches itself from your body, and your body suddenly feels cold without it.

You grabbed it and put it back on your waist. “No, I’m okay with it. It’s just I’m curious to know why me. Why be kind to me?”

“Because you’re kind to me. Always been kind to me.” He answers truthfully. His fingers brushed one of your coils out of the way, and those goosebumps returned again.

“I know, but no amount of kindness equals cuddling and shit.” You said. “I’m not complaining because this is very comforting, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to be kind to me-“

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“What? Choso, that’s such a-“

“I know, and I’m not expecting a response to that just yet. I know it’s quite hard to process especially considering that you’re most likely hungover at the moment. But I am willing to wait whenever you’re ready.” His eyes shifted closed as if attempting to fall back asleep.

“And what if I have a response to that right now?” You asked.

“Then, spit it out already.”

When those words left his mouth, you rolled a bit closer to place a kiss on Choso’s lips. It started off innocent at first. Quick, subtle pecks before the kiss deepened. Before he pulled you closer, by the way, to taste more of you eagerly. Just as his strong arms brought you closer, you could feel his cock poking at your plush brown thighs—rubbing against you for some form of friction that caused Choso to let out a breathy sigh in between breaks of the kiss. Your hand climbed in between the two of you to rub at his hardened cock through the gray fabric of his shorts.

“Shit,” Choso’s head fell back on the pillow after biting at your full plump bottom lip.

The heated makeout session lasted until the two of you were breathless, and your mouth was wrapped around his cock until he began to feel your pussy around him. You tore each other's clothes off until they decorated the wooden floors. The taste of Choso stained your tongue, and you felt like you were intoxicated. Not due to the alcohol you consumed the previous night but to Choso’s actions. He kissed your neck and collarbone with his body on top of yours. The kisses on your golden skin made you whimper out for more, and for you to grow wet. His teeth bite down, and the gasp that you let out causes all the blood to rush to his cock. Choso’s fingertips tip toed in between your bodies to cling onto the fabric that was in between his callous fingers from indulging in toying with your clit.

His plush lips kissed your lips, and in between the heated kiss that was causing Choso, he could only say. “Tell me what you want, Y/N.”

When you made eye contact with Choso, you felt so soft inside. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as you stared up at Choso. You lean up to kiss his lips, but he pulls back. “Tell me what you want,” He’s dipping down to kiss upon the bite mark he left on your flesh. “Use your words.”

“I want you.”

Those were the words Choso wanted to hear. In just a quick and eager motion, he’s pulling your panties down. Like a hormonal teenager, he’s letting his hardened, clothed cock rub against your wet folds teasingly. Your juices staining the cotton fabric of his grey-colored Calvin Klein briefs. You wouldn’t believe labeling him as a tease, but he drove you insane. How can he make you confess that you wanted him and edge you on until you can feel your own essence staining the inside of your thighs?

He kisses you lightly, but it feels heavy and rough because it takes your breath away. His right hand tugged down his boxers fully, and you couldn’t help but feel your heartbeat increase at the weight of his cock on your abdomen. He hawks some spit in his hand to coat his cock in it, wanting to make this experience pleasurable and comfortable for you. With his fingers intertwined with yours, he’s sliding inside you. Choso felt how tightly you gripped at his hards, with your eyes squinted shut, getting used to his large size.

“I’m sorry.” He’s repeatedly saying as he’s peppering your face with subtle kisses. His cock rested inside you until you finally opened your eyes.

The once intense feeling of his cock stretching you out was replaced with the satisfying feeling of wanting more. Choso didn’t need to hear your voice to begin moving. His hips rotate forward into the cushion of your spread thighs. It was quite a sight to see how your pussy was swallowing his cock with each thrust forward or roll of Choso’s hips. However, the half-curse-half-human couldn’t think straight with how your moans echoed in his ear. They sounded so sweet, so wonderful. One of the most beautiful things he has heard after that band Tame Impala. His callous hands, you were sure had many sins imprinted on them, push your thighs apart just to tug his cock out of you.

“You’re going to make me come, fuck.” He said breathlessly.

Even with his comment, he still pushed himself fully inside of you again. Surrendering in wanting you to feel full once more. The sound of his headboard smacked against the wall, and Choso was so grateful that you were his neighbor because any other person would have been knocking on his door for him to keep it down.

You never really thought that this would happen. That you and he would cross such a line to express how you felt for each other. But you weren’t complaining; you enjoyed the way Choso’s hand grasped at every part of your body. You enjoyed the way his face was red as ever due to a mixture of the feeling of his cock being balls deep inside of you and exhaustion. Or how he let his fingers rub at your clit to send the most dangerous electric shock down your spine.

“I’m about to come.” Your words tumbled out like a broken record.

Before capturing your lips onto his—Choso says, “That’s what I want.”

And with those words cursing your lips, you felt like you were on cloud nine. The enthusiastic feeling felt like you were tugging a rubberband back and letting it snap back into its rightful shape. The lower half of your body felt like it went through a slight shock as Choso fucked you through your orgasm. In your mind, you were screaming for him to just come inside you. But you knew that could have just been the bliss of the moment. As if he read your mind, he’s pulling just as his face scrunched up in pleasure. His cock twitches in anticipation as thick ropes of cum begin oozing out, decorating your tummy. The only thing you could do was admire the sight of Choso coming down from the fleeting feeling of busting a nut.

Just like that, your relationship with Choso blossomed when his body collapsed next to yours, and the only thing that you could hear was your loud thoughts about a mere promise you made two years ago. But you knew that the only thing that mattered right now was the fact that Choso was happy.

The autumn leaves crunched under your shoes as you walked around the cemetery. You grew accustomed to visiting here once every month since you managed to start the progress of that promise you made to him. When you finally found the tombstone you were looking for, you could tell that someone had stopped by possibly a day before you. Bright red tulips were next to his picture to replace the ones you put out a week ago. Placing the flowers down before kneeling to pay your respect, you smiled brightly before speaking. Quite odd to be talking to a tombstone, but you were sure he could hear you somewhere.

You placed the flowers on the grave as you kneeled to show your respect. You smiled brightly before speaking to the tombstone that sat in front of you. It was wonderful to see that the gifts and flowers that were around still looked fresh. You assumed someone else most likely was here before you.

“Hey, Itadori, it’s me. Y/N. I just wanted to update you on the promise I made to you.” You let out a sigh, realizing that you had lied to Choso.

You fed him some story about moving here to Japan after exploring the world, despite you technically already being familiarized with Japan. You’ve witnessed it all before deciding to leave the sorcerer world behind for good. Granted, it sat heavy in your heart, and you felt like a coward not helping in the gruesome war of taking down Kenjaku and Sukuna. But you had to put yourself first, which you wanted many of your friends to do.

“Choso is doing well, just like you said he would. He’s okay, and he’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about him, Itadori. He’s adjusted to the human world quite well. He no longer feels like a curse but a human. ”

━━ ♡ TAGS // @maydayaisha @eiflawriting @violxtbxbyy @shirohyorin @kama-star @maxi8898 @calandra24 @tashniko @certifiedlovergir1 @alekstraszas @soumies @thismf7 @shyartnerd564 @longloes @succubusonthedoorstep @stunnababyyabyyy @comatosebunny09 @si00p

#choso kamo x reader #choso x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #choso kamo smut #anime x reader #anime smut #female reader #black reader #jjk x black reader #anime x black reader #x black reader #black fem reader

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 1 month

Note

how does blanche pay his bills 😔😔

no fr tho where does this guy earn money ??

Tw: gore, violence

Despite having a mostly vegetarian diet, Blanche is scarily good at butchering animals, especially mammals. He knows where all the joints are, the right places to cut, and the correct technique to extract all the pieces whole. You thought that he obtained his skills from eating his chickens, but he would rather let them die from natural causes than slaughter them himself. It was rather strange to see him opening up a bag of store-bought raw chicken whenever you told him you were craving for some, while you knew he owns a coop full of those noisy fuckers a few minutes walk away.

He has no qualms about killing and butchering rabbits if you're craving for them. Blanche sees them as pests, munching on his precious lettuces and cabbages, it is scary how he has no hesitation while impaling those fuzzy little creatures with a kitchen knife. You wouldn't know this fact without having a suitable personality for it; as in, you will have to be cold and uncaring towards cute critters in general. If you have a big heart and a tendency to cry when living beings are hurt, you wouldn't know Blanche is a bunny killer.

Similarly, if your humanity is still intact, you wouldn't know that he is a serial killer and an organ harvester. The victims that he didn't beat into a bloody pulp are cut up into individual pieces and have their organs prepared and preserved in wet ice. Blanche's knowledge isn't only localized to creative endeavors or gardening, he also has a deep reservoir containing all things biology. Especially humans. He also has a good grasp of the value of organs in the black market, negotiating with his usually desperate or depraved customers to give him the highest payout possible.

How he sells them is interesting to learn; he would sell them through the internet. Blanche is well-versed with this shiny new modern toy enough to evade authorities for decades. Those who tried to trick him and lure Blanche into a trap were turned into piles of fresh organs for him to sell. And there is no shortage of those idiots who tried to best Blanche at his own game. Well, it isn't really a game, all he wanted was to make some extra cash for him to spend on you. He isn't in it for the power, notoriety, or anything.

Back then, he would have done his business through word of mouth, or even through phone calls. Getting a solid customer base was much harder but easier to hide from the law since Blanche had a lot more experience in pre-internet days. But he has enough luck and skill to become famous yet undetectable in cyberspace.

He understands his market very well. The majority of his sales come from patients who are willing to do anything it takes to get that transplant, but there is a handful who buy them for personal consumption. Blanche would sell organs that aren't as fresh or somewhat diseased to the former, as they're desperate enough to take almost anything. Cannibals would normally demand the best quality, Blanche isn't one to complain. They have the funds to afford them.

All this while you thought he earned his money through back-breaking hard work from his youth. You asked him what he did for a living back then, he described a life with no fun, only becoming a slave to his numerous employers, doing jobs that are as menial as paperwork, or as life-threatening as hacking a tree with a blunt axe until it falls. It made sense how he has this much money until now, it sounded like he doesn't even go home to sleep, eat or sleep. He does that at whatever workplace he was in at the time.

While there are some truths to that, he cannot deny that his organ harvesting business was what bought him the comfortable and romantic lifestyle he could only dream of achieving in his early years. He wasted away years being tormented by constant work, but that wasn't what allowed him to garden, knit and bake freely to his heart's content. Blanche's horrific crimes did.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader #oc blanche

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jokeroutsubs · 10 months

Text

Bojan on the cover of Astro Suzy, special summer edition of Suzy Magazine, focusing on astrology and spirituality. Scans and ENG Translation by: @kurooscoffee Cover Title:

Bojan Cvjetičanin: "We have a duty to change things for the better"

Article title:

We are driven by our love of life

WITH JOKER OUT, WE HAVE WITNESSED A MENTAL LEAP AND A SOCIAL PHENOMENON THAT WE HAVE LONGED FOR. THE BOYS GIVE HOPE THAT YOUNG PEOPLE ARE CONNECTING INTO A STRONG COMMUNITY THAT CARES ABOUT THE FUTURE, EVEN THOUGH PREVIOUS GENERATIONS HAVE LEFT THEM IN RUINS. IN A FLOOD OF STARLETS AND ARTIFICIALLY CREATED ONLINE INFLUENCERS, WE GOT ROLE MODELS WHO DON'T OFFER DISCOUNT CODES, BUT IMPORTANT MUSICAL MESSAGES ABOUT VALUES. IN THE MIDDLE OF A SLOVENIAN AND EUROPEAN TOUR, THE LEAD SINGER AND VISUAL OF THE BAND SHARED WITH US WHAT HE'S THINKING ABOUT, WHAT CAUSES HE'S STANDING BEHIND, AND WHY IT'S BENEFICIAL TO DEEPEN YOUR SPIRITUAL KNOWLEDGE. What are you thinking about as representatives of the new wave, the new generation? What is your attitude towards the dynamics in society, climate change, pervasive social networks, in short, everything that weighs on modern man? On the one hand, we ourselves are involved in all the processes that actively and continuously prolong the problems you are talking about. On the other hand, we are deeply aware of them and we are afraid of what is coming. It seems to me that in our generation the desire for change is very strong. There is a universal language of youth that has come together on the basis of feeling obliged and able to change things for the better. The song New Wave is about just that. We are ready to celebrate this common strength because we are encouraged by the idea that we are not alone. At the same time, we know that we are compelled to do something because someone before us has seriously 'fucked up'.

In your hit song 'Novi Val' (New Wave), already the very first verse has you wonder where to go from here. Do you know the answer?

If we want to do anything other than burn the horizon, the only way is towards community, away from egocentrism, with an onlook towards common good.

Let's stick to the anthem of the generation of love, as you named your peers and loyal supporters. The phrase 'We were born yesterday and everything is already our fault' is powerful and worrying. You have been given a pitiful lagecy by your ancestors. How do you defend yourself from taking a role of a victim and instead get actively involved in creating a brighter future?

Great question! It would be hard to change anything for the better if we put on the victim's cloak. The fact that in recent years it has become clear that there is a rebellion by people who have had enough is already a cause for optimism. When you put yourself in the role of the one who carries a scepter as a synonym of the leader of change, you move away from being a victim. And each one of us in this community carries it. In reality, we are taking the position that society is currently a victim and it is our task to defend it.

How?

We all contribute in our own way. The role of musicians is to connect people with positive messages. So by constantly reminding people about friendship, love and other social components that can be tapped into through music. In Slovenia, we have a lot of organisations that are trying to change the situation for the better in many different ways. It does not require much to at least educate oneself about what these organisations are doing. I have the feeling that many people would like to get involved and help. At the end of grammar school and at college, we were encouraged to find out about collective organisations. It was clear to them that many people would want to join of their own initiative once they knew what they stood for. I know many former classmates who are very active members and supporters of various movements. Even if we minimise our own negative energy on social networks, it is a big step towards a good state of society, and of mind.

(picture 1: Family Cvjetićanin knows how to stick together)

You seem to care about a world that is increasingly drowning in chaos. You have become idols, not only of young people, but also of their parents. Is this a burden of responsibility or does it encourage you do even more activism?

It's a great feeling when the little ones take you for an idol. As a teenager, it was also inspiring to be surrounded by the music of Big Foot Mama and Siddharta. It gave me a message in a language that I could not compare with anything else. But our creativity does not depend on what people think of us or how they perceive us. But it is a great honour to know that you are one of those who encourage someone. Many people are listening, but not hearing. Joker Out is made up of five individuals who, in real life, when the cameras and the spotlights are off, are just normal guys. We went through all the processes of growing up on the streets, socialising and playing. We went through the process of going to school, and we were not problematic adolescents. Even today, our most extreme departure from an ideal is what 99% of young people do. To party sometimes. We are not outlaws by nature.

Your work is a beacon of light, a source of hope and strength. Many have done it before you, especially the Beatles. A lot has changed since their era, much of it unfortunately for the worse. How do you keep optimistic? Why is it worth the effort?

Every musician in history who has sung about ending war and living for love has failed miserably. I believe that at least those people who follow the messenger are convinced of peace and love. If every musician encourages someone to to do so, it's a hefty amount of opponents of hate. We are driven forward by love for life.

Writing texts is a responsible job, and you are baring your soul at the same time. Where is the line, to what lengths are you willing to go to protect the most vulnerable part of yourself?

I have never consciously inhibited the process of looking inside myself. But I feel that with age and experience I understand more and more what can lead me to a deeper state of mind. In the beginning I didn't dare to dig into myself. Today I have no problem in fully exposing my feelings, because they are, after all, states that happen of their own accord - and it is impossible to force them

(picture 2: The boys of Joker Out became even closer)

No Slovenian artist has enjoyed such a fierce international success as Joker Out. Concerts in iconic European clubs are literally sold out in hours, even minutes. How do you accept fame? Is it a blessing or is there also a bit of fear?

There are certainly Slovenian musicians with international experience. Maybe not at our age, but that doesn't take away from their importance. We have achieved a very nice success here in terms of listeners, we have honed our skills and we have grown with the band as a collective. We have grasped who and what we are as a whole. We are a group of people who make music purely because we really enjoy it. Whatever feelings our music-making evokes, it all comes from us in the most sincere way, Fortunately, our music is liked by a larger crowd and we have managed to transmit our unforced joy, happiness, joy across national borders. There is no better catalyst for such a breakthrough than Eurovision, we chose the moment to participate wisely. It paid off as a successful project, because for a good band it doesn't matter which part of the world it comes from. It's important to be heard - and we were heard by a lot of people. The only thing that has changed so far is that the bonds between us have strengthened. Suddenly we have been forced to talk about emotions and experiences that we did not have before. There has been a lot of filtering of unfamiliar feelings. The desire to create increased a thousandfold for all five of us.

Are you aware of the role that the public attributes to you, to act as a beacon of light in a crowd of frustrated, bitter people?

No. I would hardly say that I can understand that. Every time I hear something like that, it strikes me that it is saying too much. I really cannot think of myself in such a strong context.

You are giving yourself away. You are constantly on the road, interviews, concerts, promotional tours. It's exhausting. How do you recover? What calms you down, fills you with grace?

It's true that we give a lot of ourselves. But we get so much more in return. Nothing calms me more than coming home and being close to my family. And of course the company of Kris, Jan, Jure and Nace. The people we were with friends before this euphoria, have stayed with us, this team surround us with a lot of love.

(picture 3: He's noticing, that young people are connecting into a strong community that cares about the future)

As a front-man and lyricist, you are even more exposed. You've crossed the magical 200 thousand followers on Instagram, which is a mega number, but also a mega stressful situation. Most young people who find themselves in such a situation turn to intoxicating substances. Can you consciously stop and say that you need time for yourself?

The only thing that made me a bit anxious was the sudden exposure to such a large audience'on social media. This brings with it unimaginable dimensions of human imagination, including malice. Imaginary stories emerge in which people literally compete to see who can come up with something more bizarre. This stress got to me at the beginning, because I felt that I had to defend myself in front of the public. In the end, I realised that I didn't need to convince anyone and that it was enough to know the truth. With the help of colleagues who have similar experiences, I have calmed down. As for the substances, I have a natural protection against those, because I am an incorrigible hypochonder. I dare not take an aspirin unless it is really urgent. Above all, I know when to stop.

You come from a close-knit, loving family. That is certainly a solid foundation on which to build your personality. What is their view of everything that happens to you?

They are very proud! Of all my achievements and of me for being able to pull off a music career combined with the academic milestone of graduating. My parents and my grandmother are definitely my biggest supporters. They accompany me on my journey with warnings, but they are more about eating regularly, to not get a stomach ache, to consume enough water and to get enough sleep. I have been chronically lacking the latter in the last few weeks.

What is your relationship to astrology, esotericism, in short, something that is intangible but can be felt?

Superstition is the one I use the most. For Eurovision I had a special pair of underpants and I was haunted by the feeling that if I didn't wear them, everything would go to hell. Jan's mum gave me a lace clover, which I didn't dare leave in Ljubljana. I asked the stylist to sew it on my outfit as a precaution. I got a clay horseshoe from a little girl, and it went with me to Liverpool. It will seem strange to some, but I believe in energies and ghosts.

How do you strengthen your spiritual side?

Not very well. I wish I had managed to acquire more spiritual knowledge in the last year. For example, basic meditation techniques and the laws of yoga, because I am definitely not physically active enough. The feeling of being 90 years old eats up most of my spirit. My back hurts all the time. The best thing I do for inner growth is to read books. Not enough, but I'm going to get better. A little less phone scrolling and more self-reflection, that'll do the job! Author: Tomaž Mihelič, PHOTO: VITA OREHEK

Scans and translation by: @kurooscoffee (jokeroutsubs) DO NOT REPOST!

#Joker out #bojan cvjetićanin #bojan cvjeticanin #a sociologist rambling about sociological issues... this interview was so much fun to translate #but also challenging!!#i hope I did it justice #Bojan is SO well spoken in Slovenian <3 #and anyway people who have been following us saw the stuff like Bojan/JO doing these random acts of kindness that'd almost stay unnoticed #because JO never mention them - but the people who they made happy posted about it on their websites and social media so we learnt about it #they're also doing another charity concert next week in Ljubljana for a kid with a unique illness that requires very expensive treatment #there were also reports of Bojan donating to charity before he was even (that) famous #so yeah he's not just bullshitting but really stands behind what he says #he's a good bean

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