https://fanlore.org/wiki/Angst
there's debate obviously and it's a spectrum but this basically sums it up
hmmmmm. okay, see, the definition fanlore gave me is basically what i imagined angst would be, based on context clues + searching through the angst tag on ao3. but i'm still sitting here going "well that just can't be right", because "a character feels bad in some way" is so broad. that's basically everything that isn't fluff. like a character feeling insecure could be angst. fake dating can be angst. main character death could be angst. sickfic could be angst. that thing that's like faux-unrequited love that's actually just a big misunderstanding can be angst. i actively filter out half of those things. committing to saying i like angst feels so dangerous. what if someone assumes i like miscommunication.
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Yeah, the longer I stew the more pissed I feel about it all.
My guess is it's because they couldn't get a hold of my former principals, which is kind of bullshit because of course they couldn't it's summer break, but also I gave them three different references that were expecting to be contacted that never got even an attempt at being reached.
Unfortunately the angrier I get about it the more snappy I get at the animals, who definitely don't deserve a short temper.
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“Just one more. For me?” Nanami’s breath is hot on your ear, tugging your lobe between his lips. He’s working overtime to pleasure you, pressing the fluttering vibrator deep into your clit, slipping it up and down your leaking cunt after every climax, only to smear your cum back onto your swollen bud. He’s still fully clothed while you’re sat completely naked on his lap on the couch, legs spread wide for him, your face buried in his shoulder, moans muffled against the fabric of his t-shirt that’s damp with your drool. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, holding onto him for dear life while his free hand massages gentle circles on your back, as if he isn’t just wrecking you apart right now.
“Too much,” you stutter, giving him yet another orgasm. It’s your third of the night. He asked for one more after the first, then again after the second. And, of course, he asks again, as he turns off the toy, setting you beside him as he shrugs his pants off his legs. “Another. Please?” he coos, giving you a naughty grin.
You nod, lying flat on the couch, spreading yourself wide for him once more. Your eyes are hazy watching him stroke his cock vigorously in his fist, licking his lips while he positions his head between your legs. When his tongue laps at your arousal, you let out whine, sitting up to stare at him. “Kento!” You were expecting him to fuck you, not eat you out. Not that you’re complaining.
He reaches his hand up to your chest, pushing you back against the couch, fondling your breasts. “Just one more, like this.” His lips latch onto your sensitive clit, slurping and sucking on you like he hasn’t already made you come three times, unrelenting and vicious. You whimper from the sensation, knees wobbly, toes curled into the cushions, vision blurry as you gaze up at the ceiling, reaching your fourth high. He chuckles into your skin, giving you a wet smooch on your bud before nuzzling into the plush of your inner thigh, humming. “That was a good one, wasn’t it?”
You relax, pussy fluttering around nothing, still feeling the euphoria coursing through your body. Before you can properly process what’s happening, too fucked out to think straight, he drapes your legs over his shoulders, fingers wrapped around his veiny shaft, tapping his cockhead on your puffy clit. He flashes you that winning smile you can never deny, eyes hungry for more. “Last one, I promise.”
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Simon has always been confused on why you gift him toys. Sure, most of the gifts you gave him were some of the things he liked. Bourbon, masks, gloves, make up for him to smudge his eyes with, some daggers and knives. Things that we're useful for him, just him. But later, you gifted him a toy airplane. He makes a comment about it, saying he is not a child anymore and you were better off giving it to Johnny instead.
"No, this is specifically for you, take it."
When he gets to him room, he walks toward his trash can, opening it with the tip of his boot. He gives one more look at the toy, his mood souring before throwing it into the trash. He goes on about his day, training, signing paper work, drills. Doing anything to ignore the pain stinging memories that the toy brought back. Emotions that were buried thousands of feet deep it could reach hell itself. Later, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, avoiding looking at the cylinder shape that's calling for him in his peripheral.
Fuck.
He pulls the covers off vigorously and stomps over to the trash can. He is standing over it like he's trying to intimidate it, as if it was an enemy he's trying to get rid of in battle. To anyone else, the scene would look comical.
He sighs to himself and reaches down to take out the toy he so cruelly threw away. He sets it on his desk and quickly walks toward his bed, facing away from his desk.
The next day, he wakes up feeling different. He swears he sees his room more vibrant, more lively. That energy follows him through out the day, having his other teammates notice his rather bright mood.
You catch him in the hallway. Pulling him aside to ask him about the paper work you left at his desk this morning. Of course, he notices the way you smile brightly, more so than usual. But he notices that you're not looking at him. More like looking at something next to him.
"What's got you so cheery?"
You turn to look up at him, feeling a bit embarrassed.
"I just..." You take a quick glance at the spot next to him, before bringing your eyes back upon his.
"I just hope you liked your gift." The same bright smile appearing on your face.
He stares at you, examining your words. Your expression.
You think you see his eyes crinkle a bit.
"Yea,"
"I liked it."
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