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actual-changeling · 7 months

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An angel and a demon walk into a bar.

It sounds like the beginning of a joke, one that would have annoyed Crowley greatly before- before. Maybe it would have been mildly amusing, were it not for the fact that it is a pub, not a bar (a mere technicality that somehow still mattered), and it is the first time in seven months that he is looking Aziraphale right in the face.

He chose the place, walked right out of the bookshop and across the street the second Aziraphale looked at him with his stupid purple eyes and opened his mouth. Same table, same drinks. New silence.

A demon leads an angel into a pub so he does not kiss him again.

Less of a joke, more like the beginning of a nightmare he has had every single time he tried to sleep, woken by whispered words either confirming his worst fears or greatest desires; both incite fear, one way or another.

The low table between them is enough of a barrier to prevent a repeat of their last interaction, it has to be, although this time Aziraphale is looking at him with violet-coloured longing and an apology on his lips, no longer pleading, no longer angry. He is asking for forgiveness, and if that isn't a deeply ironic twist of fate.

Before either of them says a single word, Crowley finishes his drink and raises his hand to order another one, clinging to the familiar sting of alcohol in his throat to burn away the questions lingering on his tongue.

An angel followed a demon into a pub because he loves him.

Aziraphale wishes he could tell himself Crowley looks like he did seven months ago, that he hasn't changed, but he is done lying to himself, to either of them. Behind his shades, dark, darker if that is even possible, he can feel his golden gaze heavy on his face, familiar and the answer to an empty longing in his chest.

His drink goes untouched as Crowley downs one, then another, and it is after the third that he finally begins to talk.

"What do you want?"

Bitter, sharp, spit at his feet with an anger he expected and yet doesn't know how to react to. Underneath it is pain—more pain than any being should ever have to experience—and instead of trying to carry some of it for him, he only added to it.

"I want to apologise."

"Fine." Crowley shoves his empty glass away and gets up. "I don't forgive you."

Reflexively, Aziraphale reaches out and curls his fingers around his wrist when Crowley tries to walk past him, blinking up at him with eyes the colour of dying Myosotis.

Forget-me-nots.

They both freeze, the point of contact a crack in the walls they have spent centuries building and seven months rebuilding, and he knows he has made a mistake immediately.

Crowley stares at him, still as stone, until he suddenly rips his arm out of his grasp, almost cradling it against his chest. With dawning horror, Aziraphale realises he is shaking, tremors running through him like waves breaking apart on a rocky shore.

"Don't you dare touch me." Panic, not anger. Pure, unfiltered panic blooming beside a mountain of fear that could outlast an eternity.

"I-" He doesn't know what he wants to say, what he is trying to say, what he needs to say to make him stay. Oh, the irony of it all.

Crowley leaves the pub, and the Supreme Archangel stays behind.

Not a demon anymore, not technically, he is done with sides, and deeds, and choices; he never makes the right ones anyway. His wrist hurts with the ghost of a kiss, and he cannot get the glint of purple where summer sky blue should be out of his head.

The Bentley is waiting for him, providing an escape from the noise, the people, him.

Apologies instead of I'm coming back.

A sickening aura of holiness tinged with the burn of ozone instead of books and dust and soft, silly angel.

Seven months of waiting, of pleading with God, of cursing Her, cursing him, cursing the entire fucking world for taking and taking and taking from him without pause, without even a fragment of mercy.

For this.

An angel returns to heaven. Crowley curses the stars and cries.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #emptying out my tumblr drafts which are usually full of posts that weren't worth posting #but this one was actually fun to finish #sorry no more fluff back to the angst #this is 700 words long my god i have issues #one short tumblr post and i end up with a fic #anyway #shoutout to the people that get the bojack horseman reference

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rafeandonlyrafe · 3 months

Text

unexpected consequences

words: 700

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, p in v sex, condoms breaking, pregnancy/breeding talk, unprotected p in v sex, established relationship, mention of marriage

“oh fuck, yeah.” you moan out, fingers gripping rafes shoulders. “right-right there.”

your moans are extra loud today, having been apart from rafe for nearly a week after he had business out of the country. rafe is just as pent up as you, thrusting harshly into your cunt to the chorus of his grunts.

“close.” rafe warns, but you could tell anyways by the swelling of his cock that he wouldn’t last long.

“oh my god, yes.” you moan out, back arching off the bed as your release pushes through your body, cumming with a final shout of your boyfriends name.

rafe drops his head into your neck as he cums inside of you, pushing as deeply as he can as your cunt pulses around him. you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press soft kisses to his head while rafe pants through his orgasm, until you shift slightly and feel it inside of you.

“rafe, pull out.” you shove at his shoulder, causing him to look up in concern, but he slips his softening cock out.

“what is it baby?” rafe asks. you look down at the condom he always wears, where theres always a bit of white cum gathered at the tip, but this time it looks practically empty, like he just rolled it on.

“rafe.” you hit his shoulder, causing him to flinch and look down.

“wha-” rafe suddenly realizes the issue, rolling himself off the bed as he walks into the bathroom, no doubt to inspect the condom and tell you what you already know is true.

“it broke.” rafe says when he comes out a moment later.

“i know.” you admit, shifting your hips from side to side again. “i can tell.”

“im so sorry baby.” rafe says with a sigh, laying on the bed next to you but not pulling you into his arms, not sure if you want to be touched.

“its okay.” you hum softly, mind still reeling. “you didn’t know.”

“what are we gonna do?” rafe asks, knowing you’re not on birth control due to affecting other medication you’re on.

“well, i can take a plan b in the morning…” you say quietly.

“or.” rafe encourages you to continue, able to tell that you aren’t finished.

“or we could wait and see. i mean i probably won’t get pregnant just from one time, right?” you shrug.

“what about if it does take? and you’re pregnant?” rafe asks, looking at your tummy.

as if you’re thinking the same thing, you lay your hand over your stomach, knowing that even if you are pregnant there is nothing in there yet, but the thought alone has you rubbing gently over your skin. “i don’t know.” you admit.

“i want to keep it.” rafe blurts out. “if-if you are pregnant.” rafe can’t take not touching you any longer, pulling you close to him and tangling your limbs together.

“are you sure?” you raise your eyebrows. you think rafe would be an amazing father, knowing how protective he is of you, and how he strives every day to take even better care of you. “we are so young.”

“i love you. i want to be with you, i want a family with you. why not start now?” rafe questions. he won’t admit it to you yet, but he’s been thinking about taking the next step, having even gone ring shopping to see his options. “besides-” rafe smiles, “why are you trying to talk me out of it? you’ve always wanted kids.”

you grin back at him. “i know.” you let a giggle free, feeling giddy about the possibility. you’ve always wanted to become a mom, especially because you have so many younger siblings. “so, are we doing this?”

“yes.” rafe says definitively, pulling you in for a kiss, a comforting one that you truly need.

“oh my god, im so excited.” you break the kiss to mumble against his lips.

rafe nods in agreement, lowering a hand between your bodies to touch your stomach. “probably too early to start talking to your tummy, huh?”

“definitely. i mean, we don’t even know if i’m pregnant, it may take a couple tries…” you trail off, hoping rafe gets your intention.

“well, i will just have to keep cumming inside you.” rafe shrugs. “in fact, we shouldn’t take any chances and i should fill you up again right now.”

rafes hand lowers from your stomach to your thigh as he grabs your flesh and pulls your leg over his hip, spreading your thighs for him as your cunt rubs up against his quickly hardening cock.

“rafe!” you shout with a laugh, but don’t stop him as he begins to grind his cock into your core.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @emma77645 @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart

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inkedells · 1 year

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I have a request if you’re looking for one! Your innocent reader with the plushies has my mind SPINNING. How about Joel making her squirt for the first time? I can just imagine the reader getting all anxious about the sensation she’s feeling and Joel realizing she’s about to squirt. I know he’d talk her through it so good 🥵😩

oh. em. ef. gee. thank you for absolutely blessing me with this request

A/N: sequel to my dbf!joel fic featuring plushies, and now squirting (things get absolutely filthy so consider this your content warning for a joel who's so absolutely obsessed with reader squirting). read the first part to this AU here, but this can also be read as a standalone!

words: ~700

joel masterlist

mdni! | requests open but responses not guaranteed.

Joel sat naked, propped up against your plushies just as you were the other night, his legs splayed out in front of him to make room for you. With the back of your head resting on his chest and your legs intertwining with his, he was rhythmically rubbing your clit as his hard cock subtly grinded against your back.

“You like it when I play with you like this, cupcake?”

Your head thrashing, your hands reached up behind you to find his face and bring it down for you to kiss him. The angle was difficult, but the way it forced the kiss to be nothing more than a sloppy clash of your mouths only made it hotter.

“Wore these stockings just for me, didn’t you?”

You nodded eagerly, biting your lip as Joel’s free hand caressed the lace that hugged your thigh.

“You’re my fuckin’ toy,” Joel rasped, stretching the fabric until it snapped back against your sensitive skin and pulled a whine out of you, “Say it. Say, ‘I'm your toy, Joel.’”

“I’m—fuck—I’m your… I'm your toy.” As Joel continued to rub your swollen clit, an urge began to creep up on you, something you didn’t know how to explain—but you blurted out what you thought it was despite the embarrassment of it all.

“I think I have to pee... oh god.”

Immediately, Joel knew you were about to squirt. But he said nothing, instead playing with you even more strategically.

“Joel, seriously, I’m,” a shaky whine when he let the fingers of the hand which was previously caressing your leg, slip inside your pussy, “I’m not lying, please.”

He didn’t say a word for a few seconds, seemingly contemplating something. “Touch yourself.”

“W-What, no, I have to…” You cut yourself off and began to push Joel’s hand away from you in an effort to get up and address what you believed to be “the issue” between your legs.

Joel immediately pulled you back against him. "You're my good girl, aren't you?"

Tears prickling your eyes, you blinked them away before nodding and forcing your tense muscles to relax.

"What are you?"

"I'm your--I'm your good girl."

"Then do what I say. Touch yourself, little girl, let me show you what it's like to fuck my face 'till you're dumb."

Whimpering, you shakily began rubbing circles on your clit. You felt extremely overstimulated, to the point where your legs were vibrating with it. With rapid breaths, you felt Joel slip out from beneath you and place himself with his face between your legs.

His eyes never left yours as he gripped your wrist and pulled your hand away from your pussy before licking a slow, long stripe along your seam. A few more licks, and his fingers were back on your clit, this time moving back and forth rapidly as his own hips fucked your sheets. The tingling feeling only grew more intense, forcing your pent-up energy to manifest into actions, actions like your hands flying to his hair, pulling on it with fervor, your convulsing torso, and the opening and closing motions of your trembling legs.

Joel saw all these signs and took it as his signal to give you your final instruction before he stuck out his tongue.

“In my mouth, fuck, please. Put it in my mouth.”

You didn’t understand what he meant until it was happening.

With your feet planted flat on the bed and your hands shooting to clutch your plushies, your entire body shook with it as clear liquid gushed out of you in pulses, splashing Joel’s tongue and soaking the bottom half of his face. It felt extraordinary, like nothing you had ever felt before, and you knew the pleasure of it all was intensely heightened by Joel’s receptiveness to it; the way he moaned as he drank you down and continued playing with your pussy, eagerly grinding his cock against the mattress, mumbling praises when he could, telling you how good you tasted and returning to finger fucking you in an effort to coax even more out of you.

“Beautiful, god, so beautiful, I need more,” Joel pressured, groaning in frustration when the stream stopped. “F-Fucking give me—give me more.” His mouth closed around your clit and began to suck. As if sensing that you were about to protest his ministrations, he swatted your inner thigh and rasped out in a voice hoarse from arousal, “I’m not stopping until you give me what I want, sweetheart.”

if you enjoyed, see the rest of my works here!

taglist for this AU: @777-wonders, @scarlettstarletts, @pedrosbabygirl , @deathsholywaterr , @devilmademewriteit , @jakegyllenhl

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grits-galraisedinthesouth · 9 months

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She NEVER disappoints!! MAUREEN CALLAHAN: "I demanded doddery Biden get off his sun lounger and go to Hawaii. But after THAT shambolic visit, I take it all back... The people of Maui have suffered enough."

Biden interrupted his Lake Tahoe vacation on Monday to fly five (5) hours to the island, and insist that the federal government was there for the islanders, despite the announcement of the paltry sum of $700 compensation for each household.

By Maureen Callahan 22 Aug 2023

We all called for the President last week. Where was he, days after the apocalyptic Maui wildfires?

Actually, we knew where he was: On the beach at his shore home in Delaware. Prepping for his next vacation in Lake Tahoe. Issuing a reptilian ‘no comment’ when asked about the thousand-plus people missing and the Pompeii-like damage and what his plan was.

When was he going to visit?

For what it’s worth, I wrote an impassioned column imploring the president to go.

Now I take it all back. The people of Maui have suffered enough.

Joe Biden finally saw fit to interrupt his second vacation since the wildfires, to don his well-worn mantle as Empathizer-in-Chief, put his feet on the ground in Hawaii and comfort the survivors, 13 days after the fires.

It did not go well.

‘F**k you!’ was the prevailing greeting to his motorcade. Residents held unwelcoming signs: ‘It’s too late’. ‘Actions speak louder than words’.

Right they are.

We all called for the President last week. Where was he, days after the apocalyptic Maui wildfires? I wrote an impassioned column imploring the president to go. Now I take it all back. The people of Maui have suffered enough.

Joe Biden finally saw fit to interrupt his second vacation since the wildfires, to don his well-worn mantle as Empathizer-in-Chief and comfort the survivors, 13 days after the fires. It did not go well. ‘F**k you!’ was the prevailing greeting to his motorcade.

Yet Joe Biden was not humbled. Joe Biden doesn’t know shame. Instead he gave a meandering speech invoking, yet again, his own tragedies, dosed as usual with a soupçon of exaggeration.

‘I don’t want to compare difficulties,’ he said. Spoiler alert: He compared difficulties.

Once upon a time, he and Jill had suffered a kitchen fire while he was off doing a glamorous TV spot on ‘Meet the Press’. He almost lost his classic Corvette! Parked at his waterfront house!

Would the people of Maui, living through the agonies of entire families burned to ashes in their homes, of a 14-year-old boy’s body discovered alone and clutching his dead dog, care to hear those details?

‘It was a sunny Sunday,’ Biden said — oh my God, is there no one in this White House who can keep this president on-message? — ‘and lightning struck at home on a little lake that’s outside of our home — not a lake, a big pond — and hit a wire and came up underneath our home into our heating ducts, the air conditioning ducts.

‘To make a long story short, I almost lost my wife, my ’67 Corvette, and my cat. But all kidding aside’ — there’s a joke in here? — ‘I watched the firefighters, the way they responded… they ran into flames to save my wife and save my family… sometimes smoke is so thick… it was that thick inside the home.’

Not so, said the firefighters who responded. The Biden kitchen fire, according to the Cranston Heights Fire Company, was ‘insignificant’ and put out in just 20 minutes.

But hey — Joe Biden never lets facts get in the way of a good story. And no one’s suffering can ever compare to his own.

His speech to the people of Maui was disgusting. It was all about him. Note this line: 'I give you my word, as a Biden.'

As a Biden? How about as President of the United States?

He had such a low bar to clear: Get on the ground, shake hands and offer hugs, look survivors in the eye and listen to their stories, and offer a clear plan of action.

All he had to do was deliver a brief, locked-and-loaded speech and cede the stage to local heroes — take a page from George W. Bush’s promise on the World Trade Center pile after 9/11.

But he can’t do it. Joe Biden is fundamentally, constitutionally incapable of allowing others their grief. He literally claimed that he had ‘a similar experience’ to the Maui survivors.

Protestors greet Biden with 'f**k you' as he arrives in Maui

He had such a low bar to clear: Get on the ground, shake hands, offer hugs - and a clear plan of action. But he can’t do it. Joe Biden is fundamentally, constitutionally incapable of allowing others their grief. (Pictured: Flames devastate Lahaina, Hawaii, earlier this month).

‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘for 36 years I was listed as the poorest man in Congress, so I didn’t get there based on my income.’

Can you believe that was part of his speech to the survivors? How is it germane? Remotely relevant? Does Biden really want to invoke his family’s suspicious riches?

To quote Barack Obama: ‘Don’t underestimate Joe’s ability to f**k things up.’

Biden went on to perseverate over the loss of his first wife and infant daughter in a car crash — a tragedy he blamed on the other driver, who Biden infamously falsely accused of being drunk.

‘So, I have a little bit of sense of what it’s like.’

No, Mr. President, you do not.

It was the same when he met with Gold Star families whose loved ones died in his botched Afghanistan withdrawal, repeatedly invoking his late son Beau, who he often claims died in Iraq. (Beau died of a brain tumor.)

It was the same when he was caught checking his watch every single time one of those 13 flag-draped caskets were loaded off military planes at Dover.

‘The most disrespectful thing I’ve ever seen,’ said Darin Hoover, father of fallen Marine Staff Sgt. Taylor Hoover. ‘They would release the salute and he looked down at his watch on every last one. All 13, he looked down at his watch.’

So now I know: Joe Biden should have stayed away from Maui. He should have sent thoughts and prayers and far more than a $700 check to each surviving family. He should have begged Barack Obama or another esteemed Hawaiian to go.

The Rock would have done better. Jason Momoa. Hell, anyone but tone-deaf, crusty old Joe.

Looking at a canine rescue and recovery dog with protective paw gear, Biden ‘joked’ to the press: ‘You guys catch the boots out here? That’s some hot ground, man.’

Ugh, that ‘man’. Joe’s such a cool cat, don’t you know, just one of us. Amtrak Joe. Watch out: He might beat you up in the parking lot after fourth period. Remember ‘CornPop’? The gang leader with a razor blade at the community pool back in 1962? The 'bad dude' Joe Biden beat back with a 6ft-long chain?

Joe Biden, pathological fabulist, national embarrassment.

He should have stayed away from Maui. He should have sent thoughts and prayers and far more than a $700 check to each surviving family. He should have begged Barack Obama or another esteemed Hawaiian to go. The Rock would have done better. Hell, anyone but tone-deaf, crusty old Joe. (Pictured: Joe and Jill on the beach in Delaware earlier this month).

Those canines, by the way, have only been able to work in short shifts because the ground in Lahaina remains sizzling hot. That’s cause for alarm, not a comedy bit.

How about that climate crisis, Mr. President?

Speaking of — please, for the love of all that is sacred, stay away from Palm Springs and Los Angeles and any future disaster areas in general. The American people don’t need to see their doddering, likely demented president wandering away from a podium, mouth slack and eyes vacant, needing to be guided, as we witnessed on Monday.

This sad showing is a microcosm of the Biden presidency: No one’s at the wheel. The whole world can see it. Is this who the Dems really want to prop up in 2024?

And where’s Jill Biden in all of this? Most wives would gently take their husband by the hand and say: ‘Time’s up. You did your best, but it’s time to leave.’

Most wives would want to protect what’s left of their husband’s dignity. Legacy.

Not so for the Bidens, now safely ensconced in an $18 million vacation home, out of sight.

Awkward moment gormless-looking Biden shuffles away from lectern as Hawaii Democrat tries to speak to him minutes after giving tone-deaf speech to victims of Maui's killer wildfires

Gormless-looking Biden shuffles away from lectern in Hawaii

By David AverreUpdated 07:30 EDT 22 Aug 2023

Biden had a cringeworthy moment with Democrat Hawaii Sen. Brian Schatz

President Joe Biden compounded his disastrous trip to Hawaii in the wake of devastating wildfires with yet another gaffe, blatantly ignoring a Democrat senator before gormlessly shuffling off at the end of an uninspiring speech yesterday.

The 80-year-old had a particularly awkward moment with Democratic Hawaii Sen. Brian Schatz when, at the conclusion of a press conference, Schatz offered him a sip of water.

Biden completely blanked the senator and turned his back on him. He then began shuffling off, mouth hanging open and gazing listlessly into the crowd, while his wife Jill and Hawaii Governor Josh Green ushered him away from the lectern.

Furious Hawaiians had already greeted the President with ire, shouting 'f*** you' at his motorcade and brandishing signs telling him to go home as the 80-year-old and his wife toured the island of Maui 13 days after the inferno broke out.

The awkward scene came shortly after Biden had delivered a meandering, tone-deaf speech in which he compared the wildfires - which have killed at least 114 people and left 850 missing - to his experience of a small kitchen fire.

Gormless-looking Biden shuffles away from lectern after speech

Biden had a particularly awkward moment with Democratic Hawaii Sen. Brian Schatz when, a t the conclusion of a press conference, Schatz offered a sip of water to Biden and gestured beside the lectern at a bottle of water

The President completely blanked the senator and turned his back on him. He then began shuffling off

His wife Jill and Hawaii Governor Josh Green ushered him away from the lectern

President Biden told Maui the nation 'grieves with you' in his first visit to the island since wildfires ravaged the city of Lahaina and the surrounding community

Biden and first lady Jill Biden look at a burned car with Hawaii Gov. Josh Green and his wife Jaime Green as they visit areas devastated by the Maui wildfires

People watch as the motorcade carrying President Joe Biden to visit areas devastated by the Maui wildfires passes by. One local gives the president a thumbs down

Furious Maui residents slam Biden before tour of Lahaina

Biden rental at Tom Steyer's $18MILLION home may breach housing code

Biden is back in Lake Tahoe mansion after his awkward Hawaii visit

The President and his wife were not greeted warmly by residents of Hawaii yesterday.

As their motorcade drove through Maui, several people lined the streets waving Trump 2024 flags and shouting obscenities at the passing cars.

One person brandished a sign contrasting the money spent on Ukraine with the assistance sent to Hawaii - calculating that each Ukrainian has received over $1,700 since the war broke out in February 2022.

Meanwhile, the White House announced that each affected household in Hawaii will receive $700 - a sum many islanders considered insulting.

Locals' fury mounted on Sunday when Biden, who was asked about the fires as he relaxed on a Delaware beach, simply replied: 'No comment.' 🤡

And last week, he appeared to forget the name of Maui, repeatedly referring to fires blazing on 'the Big Island'.

Biden interrupted his Lake Tahoe vacation on Monday to fly five hours to the island, and insist that the federal government was there for the islanders, despite the announcement of the paltry sum of compensation for each household.

Even Democrats were demanding to know why the federal aid had been slow to arrive and so meagre, joining their Republican colleagues in questioning Biden's delay in arriving in Maui.

The death toll in Maui has topped 114, with some 850 people still missing feared dead.

But Biden waited 13 days since the outbreak of the fires to visit the island.

Biden embraced with Hawaii Gov. Josh Green

#Maureen Callahan #biden crime family #maui relief #maui wildfires #hawaii #let's go brandon #go home Brandon!

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 3 months

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By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Feb 13, 2024

In his novel Shalimar the Clown, Salman Rushdie traces the deterioration of Kashmir from a place where Muslims and Hindus could live together in peace and co-operation to a country ravaged by conflict. This descent is signalled early in the novel with the arrival of a character called the Iron Mullah, a blood-and-thunder preacher with “skin the colour of rusting metal”. We think his name is metaphorical, but the Iron Mullah had risen from the scrapheaps of the Indian army, the junkyards of weaponry and tanks that have been left to decay. When he arrives, he removes his turban and raps his knuckles against his own head so that the locals can hear the metallic clang. It’s Rushdie’s way of portraying the idea that it was the actions of the Indian army that gave rise to the appeal of Islamic extremism in Kashmir.

Soon after the appearance of the Iron Mullah, a local Muslim man challenges him.

“Be off with you. We don’t want any trouble, and you, standing here in the middle of our little town and yelling your head off about the punishments of hell – you look like trouble to me.” “There are big infidels,” replied the stranger calmly, “who deny God and his Prophet; and then there are little infidels like you, in whose belly the heat of faith has long since cooled, who mistake tolerance for virtue and harmony for peace.”

For the likes of the Iron Mullah, moderate peaceful Islam is just another form of heresy. He soon has a mosque built in which he preaches from a pulpit made of scrap metal, old bits of radiator and “bent fenders spearing upwards like horns”. He is a frightening and ridiculous figure, but everyone is too intimidated to laugh.

Religious intolerance is something that Rushdie has had to live with for most of his life. Whereas extremists cannot reason and therefore resort to violence, Rushdie’s power has always been in his words. He is one of the handful of living authors whose work I genuinely adore, and Shalimar the Clown is undoubtedly my favourite. His depiction of Kashmir’s degeneration from an ecumenical paradise to a sectarian warzone is heartrending. It was published in 2006, seventeen years after the fatwa issued by the Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran following the publication of Rushdie’s novel The Satanic Verses, and surely the Iron Mullah was inspired by these experiences.

That evil spectre of the Iron Mullah was resurrected in August 2022, when an Islamist fanatic attempted to murder Rushdie at an event in New York, leaving him struggling for his life in hospital with multiple stab wounds. And although there was widespread condemnation, the silence from the Royal Society of Literature was curious to say the least. This week, fellows of the RSL have come forward to criticise the charity’s leadership for not being forthcoming on condemning this atrocity. The RSL’s former president, Dame Marina Warner, has said its leadership refused to issue a statement in support of Rushdie’s right to free expression because to do so “might give offence”. Do knife-wielding maniacs really deserve all that much consideration?

The RSL’s current thinking on the subject was outlined in a piece for the Guardian by its president, Bernardine Evaristo:

“Finally, to the matter of “freedom of speech”. There’s no question that the current leadership believe in this. However, the society has a remit to be a voice for literature, not to present itself as “the voice” of its 700 fellows, surely a dangerous and untenable concept. It cannot take sides in writers’ controversies and issues, but must remain impartial.”

The best response came from Rushdie himself. “Just wondering if the Royal Society of Literature is ‘impartial’ about attempted murder? (Asking for a friend.)”

Apparently, remaining “impartial” means not issuing statements of support for authors when there are attempts to cancel them both figuratively and literally. When activists hounded the poet Kate Clanchy with spurious allegations of racism and ableism in her award-winning book Some Kids I Taught and What They Taught Me, the RSL were mute. “They would not make a stand about the attacks on Clanchy,” said Warner, or any kind of defence “for all writers facing these social media attacks”.

In recent years, we have seen attempts by activists of many stripes to conflate language and violence, to claim that offensive words can cause the equivalent of physical harm. By this kind of twisted logic, bloody repercussions against authors and artists can be deemed a form of self-defence. A survey of American students in 2017 found that 30 per cent of respondents agreed with the statement: “If someone is using hate speech or making racially charged comments, physical violence can be justified to prevent this person from espousing their hateful views”. In this regard, today’s identity-obsessed self-proclaimed “social justice activists” have something in common with the mullahs of Tiran.

[ Protesters gather outside of the Batley Grammar School in West Yorkshire ]

Consider what happened to the schoolteacher at the Batley Grammar School in West Yorkshire who, in March 2021, was suspended for displaying a caricature of the Prophet Muhammad during a lesson on free speech. The protesters that gathered outside of the school couched their objections in terms of “safety and well-being”. One read aloud a statement in which the school authorities were accused of failing in their “duty of safeguarding”, and the teacher himself was charged with “threatening and provocative” behaviour. Here we saw a sinister alliance of religious fundamentalism and “safetyism” (a term coined by journalist Pamela Paresky to denote the elevation of emotional “safety” to a sacred value). The teacher from Batley Grammar is still in hiding to this day; I would suggest that his safety ought to take priority.

When activists say “this person makes me feel unsafe”, they are effectively saying “I don’t agree with this person and I want them to be censored”. Depressingly, this tactic generally works. Event organisers, school authorities, and employers feel obliged to act because they are gulled into believing that this is an issue relating to their legal duty of care. But disagreement and causing offence are not a threat to anyone’s safety, and we need to stop pandering to anyone who claims otherwise.

Of course, the RSL is not responsible for violence against authors, but they could at least offer their vocal support to the principle of artistic freedom. Let’s not forget that there have been many commentators over the years who have tacitly blamed Rushdie for writing his book in the first place. I recall one of teachers at school making the case that Rushdie “should have known better”. How exactly? The Satanic Verses is a brilliant and thoughtful work of fiction, and I daresay my teacher hadn’t even read it.

At the time of the fatwa, there seemed to be endless debates in the media over whether or not Rushdie deserved our sympathy and police protection. A case in point is the singer Yusuf Islam, otherwise known as Cat Stevens, who appeared on the Australian television show Hypotheticals soon after the fatwa was declared. When asked what he would do were he to encounter Rushdie in public, Stevens said that he would inform the Iranian authorities of the author’s whereabouts. As a grim final flourish, he went on to imply that he would rather enjoy the prospect of watching him being burned alive.

In a civilised and free society, it shouldn’t be all that difficult to reach a consensus that violence is not an appropriate form of literary criticism. Or that one of the most important novelists of our time should be entitled to write and say whatever he pleases, just as all of us should be entitled to write and say whatever we please.

I can’t help but think that we, as a society, failed the test of upholding artistic freedom at the time of the fatwa in 1989. We failed again after the massacre at the Charlie Hebdo offices in January 2015. At first, there were widespread declarations of “je suis Charlie”, until the inevitable victim-blaming began. PEN America initially showed much-needed support with a freedom of expression award for the satirical magazine. But then thirty-five writers signed a letter protesting against the decision on the grounds that Charlie Hebdo had mocked a “section of the French population that is already marginalized, embattled and victimized”. This is to misidentify the target. The cartoonists weren’t “punching down” at the Muslim minority. The target was God, and you can’t punch much higher than that.

And if you haven’t read The Satanic Verses, I suggest that you do – not because of the controversy, but because it’s one of Rushdie’s best. It was only a subplot of the book that caused the offence, those sequences based on the founding stories of Islam. The novel is really about the immigrant experience of living in London, but with the author’s characteristic touch of magical realism. It has one of the most audacious openings of a novel I’ve ever read, with the two principal characters – Gibreel and Saladin – falling from the sky from an exploded jumbo jet, dancing and singing deliriously as they tumble towards London. The novel is exhilarating, moving, and frequently funny; I can’t help but notice how many of Rushdie’s critics seem to lack that all-important sense of humour.

Of course, this wasn’t really about people reading a book and being offended by its contents. This was about philistines who hadn’t read the book and who were offended anyway because some Iron Mullah had told them to be. And when it comes to freedom of expression, we all need to be a little braver. We need to remind those who complain about works of fiction that their offence is their own business. They don’t get to decide what other people should or should not read, which cartoons should or should not be drawn, which ideas should or should not be ridiculed or critiqued.

In his memoir Joseph Anton (the pseudonym that Rushdie adopted during his time under police protection), Rushdie includes this letter to a reader:

“Thank you for your kind words about my work. May I make the elementary point that the freedom to write is closely related to the freedom to read, and not have your reading selected, vetted and censored for you by any priesthood or Outraged Community? Since when was a work of art defined by the people who didn’t like it? The value of art lies in the love it engenders, not the hatred. It’s love that makes books last. Please keep reading.”

And that’s exactly what we should do. We need to keep reading, in spite of those Iron Mullahs of the world who would compel us to stop.

#Salman Rushdie #Andrew Doyle #freedom of speech #free speech #freedom to offend #offended #blasphemy #safetyism #blasphemy laws #censorship #islam #this is islam #islamic violence #Cat Stevens #Yusuf Islam #Charlie Hebdo #religion is a mental illness

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reywritesstuff · 9 months

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I know you were asking about the hurt/comfort prompt for last night, but if you're still doing it could you do #14? 🥺🤗 thanks!

OKAY! so this is definitely NOT a drabble. Try more like almost 700 words lollll. But here, have some Orym and Dorian feels!!

“Your hair is a mess,” Orym says suddenly one night early into their travels together, after a long day of trudging through tangled branches and trailing leaves. Dorian huffs, hating the reminder.

“I know, I hate when it gets messy like this,” he grumbles, sitting down on the bed and starting to painstakingly separate twigs and leaves and tangled knots from his hair. Orym chuckles from the other side of the room as he takes off his armor.

“Will always got so many leaves tangled in his hair, too, I always told him to cut it but he refused, so I always made him let me braid it for him. Whenever he tried it just fell out in five minutes,” he says softly, a small smile on his lips as he recalled his stubborn love. He looks up when Dorian makes a small sound of frustration at a particularly nasty tangle in his hair, and he laughs softly again. “Here, let me help.”

“Oh! No that’s okay, you don’t–” Dorian tries to nonchalantly protest, but Orym just waved aside his protest like it’s nothing. And to Orym, he’s sure it truly is nothing. This is something kind to do for a friend, Dorian knows this. But he can’t help how he freezes in place when Orym sits behind him. He hates it, hates how quickly he’s transported back to being a child with his hair being yanked and pulled and painfully detangled without any care or thought. And he hates how easily Orym can read him. He feels the way Orym’s fingers still just before reaching his hair.

“Dorian?” Orym asks softly, confusion and concern lacing his words. “Is this okay?” He asks carefully, and Dorian hates the way he feels right now.

“I’m fine, it’s just… I don’t usually like… people touching my hair,” he explains lamely, knowing it’s not even remotely a fraction of what the real issue is but not really knowing what else to say. But Orym, gods bless him, somehow immediately understands.

“I won’t hurt you,” Orym says so achingly gently, and Dorian somehow immediately trusts him. He forces his shoulders to relax, closing his eyes tight as Orym starts carefully detangling each individual strand of Dorian’s hair. It’s a surreal experience. Dorian’s never felt anybody handle his hair with such care and gentleness before. His mother had always demanded he cut it, to make the nannies’ lives easier, but Dorian could never bring himself to cut it. So his nursemaids and nannies, and sometimes his own mother, had simply taken their frustrations out on his hair. But Orym? Orym made it feel like this was a luxury.

Dorian isn’t sure when Orym finishes detangling it, but eventually he realizes that Orym has started braiding his hair. Dorian is surprised, given the last time someone tried braiding his hair for him there was a lot more crying and yelling involved. Instead, Dorian notices Orym is humming happily under his breath, and he smells the light fragrance of flowers.

“Do I smell flowers?” He asks suddenly, so thrown by the novelty of this that he can’t even stop it. Orym’s fingers still for a moment mid-braid, and he chuckles softly.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, old habits,” he says shyly. “I used to do this for Will and my sisters, i always druidcrafted some flowers into the braids,” he continues, and Dorian feels warm inside thinking about Orym doing the same thing for him he used to do for his family.

“It’s okay, I like it. I just wasn’t expecting it,” Dorian assures him, and Orym continues humming softly as he continues braiding. Dorian lets himself relax even more, almost leaning back into Orym as he braids. He smiles to himself, listening to Orym humming a gentle melody and enjoying the way it feels to have his taken care of so well. So this is what it feels like to have people who care about you, he thinks to himself. He finds he quite enjoys it.

#rey writes #cr fic #critical role #cr #my fic #critical role fic #whump #h/c #orym of the air ashari #orym #dorian storm #orym & dorian #dorym #cr3 #cr3 fic #answered

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csmeanerr · 6 months

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(Nature Hearts) This is a long-dead equine closed species that was shut down almost 3 years ago now, but holy shit, am I glad it did. It was my first introduction to closed species, and my god, was it awful. I remember how often I'd think about this Nature Heart adopt that sold for $700 because I was like "wow, that's insane, I can't believe someone would spend that much money on a fucking adopt", and now I hear about someone spending $1000+ on an adopt and I'm like yep sounds like CS. That's sad. I think my biggest issue with it was that the owner, who was like completely absent by the way (you still had to send her money for MYOs, extra breeding slots, and trait add-ons, so she basically sat on her ass and got paid a ton of money), claimed that she had Nature Hearts copyrighted and that no one else could make a horse with flowers on the chest without a NH MYO. Obviously, you can't copyright some stupid shit like that.

I will say, I did make a fair amount of money off that species tbh. I'd buy breeding slots for cheap - maybe $20 for both parents' slots - make a foal, age it up, and sell its breeding slots for $20 each because my designs were pretty good for that community and people wanted foals that looked like my fancy little horses. I'd also buy NHs that people were selling for cheap, redesign them, and sell them for their max price (usually like $20-50). Do I feel good about it? Not really, because it feels kind of exploitative. A ton of people did exclusively use that species to make money, though. I'm glad it died. Community was shit.

ive had this experience too and i bet a lot of others have also

it's wild whenever a cs owner tries to patent a name that's oftentimes an amalgamation of two simple words for very barebones concepts

#help #nature hearts

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csvent-2 · 7 months

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Since ive recently left keychain rua heres some shit that bothered me!

- I wasnt allowed to say the word queer. It was blacklisted, so even if I was referencing one of my ocs identities I couldnt.

- There was an issue of the same few people spending HUNDREDS and buying out all the adopts using holds (they had to implement a rule where you couldnt have holds of over 700$ because of this)

- Someone sent something nsfw in a chat so I quickly dmed a mod but I got a warning because I dmed an underage mod. I understand not wanting to put your minor mods in nsfw situations but, 1) it was simply the matter of deleting a message, 2) the server has absolutely no "emergency" ping and theres no way to quickly get a hold of a mod. You can ask in the ask channel but when its simple the matter of deleting a message that's gonna take too long!!

- not really an issue just a nit pick but GOD the server is cluttered, so many unused channels that just sit there taking up space.

Hoping to distance from closed species now. If anyone has oc/art sharing server recommendations id love to hear them! The rua server was my main means of talking about my ocs so im kinda out of luck now.

🌸

#Keychain Ruas #csvent #closed species venting

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loud-brain · 2 years

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Midjourney output from prompt: “We are developing new integrated multi-sensor, power, and communications systems to address these issues to provide autonomous operational capabilities for months to year-long in situ observations --iw 5.0 --hd --ar 4:3 --s 700″

Text was taken from a list of conference abstracts about various aspects of deep ocean mineral development. Parameters at the end specify image dimensions, quality, and “style”, which is a still mysterious parameter that somehow controls “stylization” of an image.

I’m starting to explore the relationship between (mostly jargony scientific) found text and image outputs from Midjourney’s AI model. When a piece of text is taken out of context, how does the meaning change? And how does the resulting image reflect that change in meaning?

The notion of creating an image from words strikes me as somehow deeply fundamental to the construction of reality. There are the obvious biblical/religious connotations of “the word” and God speaking the universe into existence (”let there be light and crunchy almost realistic textures and uncanny humanoid figures and questionable but convincing physical relationships between objects and spaces...”). There are similar ties to the notion of (hu)mankind being created in God’s image. Does this imply an image existed a priori? Or that humans are an image of God, the real deal?

Something something chanting, mantras, ‘Om’, ‘amen’, ‘namaste’ in spiritual traditions... Also something something legal theory with verbal testimony, bearing witness, swearing on the bible to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth... These are stand-ins for ideas I want to explore further but don’t have the bandwidth currently to begin parsing out similarities and differences and what it all might mean.

My attitude toward generative AI like Midjourney, DALL-E, Google’s Imagen, all the others (generative of images, text, and beyond) is that conversations around the future of design work being uncertain are boring. I certainly care about designers and their livelihoods but my brief experience twiddling with Midjourney and beginning to understand its capabilities has shown me that there are deeper and more important philosophical/ethical questions these technologies raise.

What is an image? What counts as “training data”? Who owns the output? Who is the artist? Who is the creator? What are the ethics of scraping original artwork and other digital imagery from the web at large to feed to an AI? If an AI is trained entirely on data not owned by the engineers or company or who built it, to what extent should they be able to privatize the model? Does “fair use” doctrine in copyright law provide any useful frame of reference or is the world of big data and entirely new beast?

#midjourney #ai #artificial intelligence #machine learning #critical data studies #loudbrain #religion #God #theology

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yanbub · 3 years

Text

crack relationship headcanons

venti, zhongli, childe, albedo, xiao, diluc, kaeya, dainsleif x gn!reader

hcs, sfw, crack, no cws, 700 words

youre hot but youre hotter if you reblog <//3

note: i honestly wanted to make angst but my brain is full of fluff n crack and my angst writing abilities are missing (AGAIN). anyways unedited as usual and please enjoy the clownery my head made <3

diluc ;

diluc is sometimes clumsy in the kitchen. not only that, he’s playful too. he has the small tendency to start a random war between you two by throwing each other flour until the kitchen is drowning from the white powder. there are times when he rarely gets to spend time with you so he wants all of your memories together to be memorable until god knows when. diluc dislikes wasting time but if you gave him a chance, he would gladly waste many hours with you doing absolutely nothing.

venti ;

venti makes a lot of drunk confessions whenever you encounter him at taverns. although his words are slurred, it’s still understandable. he also acts clingy yet very affectionate whenever the alcohol he consumes takes over him. grabby hands, peppering kisses, you name it. venti has a slight chance to also get rather… pouty at times too. if you deny his affection, get ready to be greeted with a pout and crossed arms. even when he’s drunk, venti is slightly aware of what he’s doing.

albedo ;

despite having his smarts, albedo doesn’t have a sense of rhythm. he has heard a few songs and all that, yes, but he can’t dance. he doesn’t know how to, albedo’s moves would all be off timed - whether it’s early or late it’s always out of rhythm. he’s tried fixing this issue of his but it never seemed to work no matter what he does. so in the end, albedo just avoids dancing in general. unless of course, it’s you. he’s more than glad to dance with you - even if it meant embarrassing himself.

kaeya ;

although kaeya is charming, he’s similar to albedo. kaeya has a sense of rhythm, yes, but he cannot sing. every note he lets out is always off-pitched and hurtful to the ears. he asked venti for help since he’s a bard himself but it never paid off. poor kaeya, if someone asks him to sing he just simply declines or excuses himself for a while. but if you ask him though, he doesn’t mind. if it means bringing a smile to your face with his awful singing.

zhongli ;

zhongli sometimes mistakes the time or dates. he’s lived long enough but that doesn’t mean he made a few mistakes as to what’s the day right now. there are also times when he gets caught up in his own words, wondering if the date he just stated was accurate or not. zhongli doesn’t just forget the dates - he often questions you as well. zhongli would also forget the dates as a joke for you - he finds it cute on how you sigh at him, smiling right after before answering his question.

xiao ;

xiao has a habit of widening his eyes whenever he sees something new or unfamiliar to him. this always happens whenever you introduce him to a certain thing that he’s never encountered before out of all the years he’s living. you find this cute yet funny of him to do - he also asks you on why you’re staring at him while he observes what you showed him.

childe ;

water gun fights. i said what i said. childe loves to play the most silliest games with you, the one he loves the most is an old water gun fight. if it was winter or what not, a snowball fight would be great for him as well. similar to diluc, childe wants your memories with him to be something memorable - silly or not, he doesn’t care. as long as it’s something that your mind would hold onto he’s fine with that.

dainsleif ;

dainsleif likes to make messed up paper crafts (or origamis, it’s the same either way) for you. even though his paper crane’s wing is a bit folded and crumpled, he tried his best to make it look decent. dainsleif doesn’t like staying in the city often so his and your source of entertainment would be creating origamis. he doesn’t know if you hold onto what he makes (in which you do, you have a whole pouch of it where most of his creations are stored) but he wants something to be with you if you ended up parting ways.

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pencilofawesomeness · 3 years

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htryds: Retirement

September X780

He knew the tea was a trap. Or at the very least, that there were strings attached, because Porlyusica had been uncharacteristically vague about why she wanted him to come, but really, he should have seen this coming.

“I’m retiring.”

Acnologia set his tea down slowly. “Didn’t you already retire?” he asked tiredly.

Porlyusica huffed. “I tried to, but those fools of Makarov’s always needed me for something, be it some injury or magic ailment. As Magnolia doesn’t have a competent doctor of its own, I begrudgingly continued as a part-time physician for Fairy Tail. I never intended for this to last, however.”

“What, have you been training an apprentice all this time?” he asked, but it was more of a teasing statement. “I didn’t picture you as the type.”

Her scowl was expected. “Of course not. I don’t have the patience to train some human in my ways. But I don’t have to, now that you’re here.”

The words registered slowly, but he saw where she was going all the same. “No.”

“Acnologia,” Porlyusica scolded. “I know you don’t have the equipment I do, but beyond being a practitioner of healing magic, you are knowledgeable in medicine and ailment, despite pretending not to be.”

“I’m not pretending about anything. I haven’t practiced medicine in…” Shit, how long had it been? It was the 700s now, and it had been the 300s… “—in four hundred years!” It had been strange enough reawakening his healing magic, but that was only a matter of what amounted to muscle memory. Still, the nature of healing magic was simple; it was good for cleaning and closing wounds faster than the body could do on its own—but it only mimicked the body. It wasn’t medicine, or the study thereof. That was much more complicated. Porlyusica knew this. So, when he said he was rusty, he meant it. What little that he’s reviewed through readings barely scratched the surface of it.

Porlyusica could not produce magic, but she could still attempt murder with her eyes. “You’ll learn,” she countered, and it might as well have been an order.

Acnologia was in between a boulder and a canyon. She was persistent, but she was also out of her mind if the woman thought that he magically acquired people skills better than her own. (They were both hopeless.) Not to mention, for the first time in centuries, he was busy. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I can’t do anything full time either. Sure, I help out where I can, but between the emergency S-Class jobs and the kids, I don’t have that kind of time to dedicate. Besides, with my sleep schedule the way it is, somebody is going to die—and I tried re-syncing to a human sleep schedule, believe me: it didn’t work.” It took longer for dragons to reach the resting heartrate of deep sleep, and they stayed in it far longer. Toying with that cycle, back when he was afraid someone was going to totter off of a cliff or starve to death had been…possible, but stressful.

His (very logical) reasons didn’t persuade her. “And you think I dedicate my life for these reckless humans? I’m not asking you to change careers—just to let me retire in peace.”

“Porlyusica,” he argued. “I honestly don’t know as much as you do. Besides, I’m not even licensed anymore.”

He was fine playing medic and healing wounds, but there was something terrifying about truly being a doctor again. He… He couldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.

“If you have questions, ask. I’d much rather deal with you than some human brat,” she countered easily. “And you were licensed, so it wouldn’t be an issue stepping back up.”

“Yes, I was,” he pressed, emphasizing the past tense of it. “Four hundred years ago! Medicine advanced leaps and bounds since then. Not to mention everything I’ve forgotten.”

“Just as much as it devolved. Healing magic isn’t even practiced anymore. It died with dragons, gods, and prideful humans. Time doesn’t matter that much. It’s fleeting anyway.”

Acnologia clenched his teeth, trying not to stare at his palm. Saying he was “licensed” at all was a stretch. Back in the Minstrel region of a few centuries ago, doctors wore a badge—a tattoo on their left palm. It was something that had to be received from another individual with the brand, and nobody knew how the tradition started. He wasn’t even sure if people did that anymore, down there. The title came with the promise to do no harm and to help whenever possible; it was a creed he threw away when he chose violence. It was just as well that when the dragonization process transformed his body from the inside out, it removed that mark along with all of his old scars.

“Porlyusica, please. I get that you want to retire, but I don’t know what you expect from me.”

“To keep living,” she snapped. There was a note of desperation in her voice that Porlyusica rarely let show, so Acnologia wisely shut his mouth. “To be there. Acnologia, you know I’m aging. Quickly, even. I don’t know how much longer this body will last. This world may not be mine, and these humans aren’t my people, but I’m not so callous that I would abandon those sentimental fools that took me in.” Porlyusica sucked in a breath, swiftly turning so she was no longer facing him. “You’re still young. You’re understanding them faster than I ever could. You would be better for them.”

Damn. Acnologia wasn’t sure what he could possibly say to that. He…understood where she was coming from. It was hard enough to manage yourself when everything around you was a new and difficult concept to grasp. Honestly, he was amazed by the fact that he was interacting with people at all—with some understanding, even. Though Porlyusica gave him too much credit in that matter; he never would have managed it without the kids. Turned out, suddenly caring for time-displaced dragon slayer children presented the opportunity to learn things fast. Sometimes, his head was still spinning.

Not that it made him any more comfortable with the idea that Porlyusica presented. However, it was…true, what she said, about lifespans. Acnologia now aged like a dragon, like Porlyusica now aged as a human. Though he wouldn’t label her as about to kick the bucket, no matter how she spoke. It was also true that he was technically around everyone more often; if he was there, he would deal with a situation before somebody had to go get Porlyusica. He was begrudgingly more efficient, and Acnologia never minded until the notion that he really was the first line of medical defense slammed into it.

“Fine,” he relented softly. “But they’ll still have to bother you first in the winter.”

Porlyusica looked far too smug as she finished off her tea.

He…had a lot of reading to do. Acnologia focused on that, and not the unsettling realization that this was somehow…official now. Though, maybe he should be trying to give himself some more credit; if a killer could be trusted to raise kids, then maybe this wasn’t all that different.

---

One of the reasons I can’t hate the anime is that the bit they added about Acno being a doctor pre-war is just so golden for juicy contrasts and conflicts of character. Also, I know this is not a Frosch piece like I thought, but inspiration came to finish this so at least y’all get something this week.

#fairy tail #htryds #htryds microshot #acnologia #porlyusica #acno is trying his best #self-image is still poor though #but it makes the kids upset so he's trying #FT has such an influx of medics #porlyusica is absolutely taking advantage of this

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risingsunresistance · 2 years

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this description on some random skyblock youtube video i was watching has me in tears jkfhdsg, get those views king

text version below the cut

Why are you reading thisthis Minecraft YouTube video was made on Hypixel. Hypixel is a server with lots of games, such as Bedwars, Skywars, and Minecraft's biggest MMORPG Hypixel Skyblock. Hypixel has has a lot of notable players, such as Dream, Technoblade, and Tommyinnit. Hypixel Skyblock is Hypixel's most popular game. Some of the popular items are the Hyperion, Necron armor, Storm armor, overflux, plasmaflux, the 50mMidas sword, the Aspect of the end, the Aspect of the dragons, the valkyrie, and many more. Some of the bad things on Skyblock are Duping, irl trading, and scamming. I hope you enjoyed these words which are all relevant to the video! Also, a new farming island was added which has the Golden Ball item, which no one owns and is one out of one (1/1). Rat pet is cool. Swavy, Timedeo, Fairy Soul Guide, Money Making Method, and other things are all part of the server, along with Refraction. There is this mode called dungeons where you fight with your team to defeat necron along with other floor 7 bosses. Master mode is a thing as well. They recently nerfed the strength stat, making a lot of dungeons classes a lot worse such as Berserker and Archer. Mage, Healer, and Tank should be fine. God I keep adding so many keywords, this will be an entire bible soon. The hypixel admins have completely removed sword swapping and killed the bonemerangs. The giants sword is also dead now. The Astrea is still trash. This is a Hypixel Skyblock Tutorial, or a Hypixel Skyblock Dungeons Guide. please fix negative strength because of the Soul Eater enchant, and buff archer. #nerfmage tho. I voided the Hyperion, so sad. I love Technoblade and Dream and Tommyinnit and 56ms (Swavy) and Thirtyvirus, not just because their names get views as meta tags. This video is not a Dungeons Guide, Money Making Method Guide, Hypixel Skyblock Guide, or anything of the sort. Recently, Hypixel released the SMPS, similar to the Dream SMP with members like Skeppy and Sapnap. This is long lol. I recently hit 500 subs. Then 600 the next day. Then 700 the next day. What the freak! I AM AT 800 NOW GG! Also Hypixel Admins released an enderman slayer boss quest thing, and it is pretty difficult to kill which is why you would need an enderman slayer guide or tips and tricks on how to beat the new enderman slayer. The Juju bow is really good. I also like the warden helmet and Necron Armor. I recently got SCAMMED!!! They took my Strong Dragon Chestplate, I am in tears. At least they didn't take storm armor or superior armor. The crown of greed is bad. I crashed the NEW GAME MASTER RANK and got BANNED ON HYPIXEL! The anticheat Watchdog is broken. RATS. Floor. Catacombs. Badlion is not very good. I played dungeons not using the new Terminator bow, which is very op. Thirtyvirus does not like the god potion, he says it is not a good item. Personally, I am impartial. Recombobulators are cool though! Rend VS Soul Eater ultimate enchantments, which is better! I think Legion and Chimera are cool as well! Hypixel is currently down! Large DDOS attacks forced the server to close to resolve the issues. This video is NOT an auction flipping tutorial or Bazaar Flipping tutorial. It is not a money making method video either. The mini wither can bother some people if used in a certain way. Scammers are desperate in Hypixel Skyblock. The MELON HELMET is the NEW BEST HELMET IN HYPIXEL SKYBLOCK! SUB TO QUAGLET! idk what to add sorry. DREAM SMP TWITTER DREAM STANS MCYT MCTWT LOL! Undertaker01 is my favorite youtuber. I found out how to dye ANY armor in Hypixel Skyblock. This is kind of an Armor Dying tutorial. (not) REAL!!! I became egrill (girl). Foraging is a THE BEST SKILL. Fishing too.

please sub scribe also #TeamSeas is pretty cool #nerfarcher #nerfbeserker #nerfhealer #nerftank

#big fan of ''DREAM SMP TWITTER DREAM STANS MCYT MCTWT LOL!''#and also the ''56ms (Swavy)'' jkfhdkjg shut up i talk like that bc yall dont know him 😭#chat #sb

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jaxxandcomet · 3 years

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No One Can See the Moon Cleary If the Sun Does Not Set

jj maybank x reader :)

Summary: A late night binge in John B’s van can cause the sun to rise and set, and the world to spin from salt. A girl in an eating disorder has a conversation with one who promises to help.

Warnings: Bulimia, eating disorders, swear words, and if I missed anything let me know please!

Word Count: 700, not that long :)

I’ve had my own problems with binge eating, and I always feel better about writing something about those issues. I felt like this was sometimes how I felt about eating so much.

gif credit: @toesure

No one really understands the world, thats what you always thought. No one really understands the solar system and the planets. But most of all, no one really understands you.

Thats why you are sitting in the drivers seat of John B’s van, while the rest of your friends sit inside the Chateau, drinking, talking, laughing. Kiara and Sarah sit with their perfect stomachs, toned faces, thin thighs. You wish the world was understand your body, but some things aren’t understood.

Tears roll down your cheeks. It seems that they do that more often then not these days. You often have salty tracks pulling down your face, underneath your eyes. You try to wash them off whenever you can, but you swear that JJ and Pope sometime see them.

You spin the keys in your hand, around and around. Trying to distract yourself, stop yourself from eating more food. But it seems that the chips that are always stored underneath the seats in the back are calling your name.

Thats another thing you say too much these days, that something is calling your name. Nothing is ever really doing that, you know that to be true, but something is tying up your mind from really making a good decision.

You get up, set the keys in the console, and open up the bag of chips. They crunch in your mouth as tears glare down your face.

You had told the rest of the Pogues that you needed to check the car for something. But as twenty minutes pass, you don’t notice JJ coming out to the car, and pulling the sliding door open.

A scream latches into your mouth but it caught in your teeth as he comes in. His body makes the van sag a little from the weight.

His voice is guttural. “What the fuck are you doing, y/n?” He gives you are glaring look.

Its not like you and JJ have a bad relationship. Not at all. Just like the rest of the Pogues, though, the past few months he’s looked at you like a person in the before segment of a before and after look. He’s never looked at Kiara or Sarah like that.

You wipe the salt off of your fingers, some from tears, some from the chips.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, voice soft. You’ve never been caught binging before.

“Oh sure, y/n, like I can’t see you eating chips in the car while we are all inside. And just after dinner. If you were still hungry, you could have just gotten seconds!” JJ’s voice is so close to a yell you worry about what might happen if he does.

“Oh my fucking god!” Tears are leaping down your face as you slam your body back into the far seat. “Can’t you tell that I’m not trying to fucking eat this food, JJ? Can’t you tell that I’ve been starving myself for days and then eating so much I puke! Can’t you tell that Sarah and Kiara don’t look like me, they don’t have this body, JJ, and they are treated so much better.” Anger gulps down your body, shutters your frame until your shaking with a mixture of rage and complete terror.

But your not scared of JJ, just your own mind.

“I don’t care about your body, y/n. I care about your mind, and your soul. I look at you like that because I’m worried shitless about you. Your eyes are so dark, your body isn’t as strong as it used to be. You mean a fucking shit ton to me y/n, and you are deteriorating.” His voice is quiet after a few short moments of silence. He grabs your hands.

“Stop, JJ. I just can’t stop eating, and I see you and Pope and John B and your beautiful bodies and wonder why I just can’t stop taking in food. Why I can’t save myself and my mind.” You whisper, leaning against his body, the tension suddenly gone.

“I know I can’t stop you comparing yourself to other people, y/n, but I can stop you overeating. I want to help you be happy. But look at your body, may I?” He lifts up your shirt and runs his ringed fingers over your stomach, cradling your midsection. “Your beautiful, and no one can see the moon without the sun going down. You’ve recognized the problem. And I can try to help you fix it. Thank you for trusting me.”

The sun is down, the stars aren’t out. Maybe thats just the thing you needed.

#outerbanks x reader #outer banks fanfic #fanfic #reader x character #john b #pope heyward #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jjmaybank #outerbanks #obx #outer banks

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dershloop · 3 years

Text

i wrote this while sick nd did edit it while slightly less sick so excuse and weird discrepancies LMAO

Title: Get Well Soon, Gumball

Words: 1698

Warnings: a bit of swearing, some self-esteem/body issues mentioned

Relationships: Glacier, background Plasma

“Are you sure you should be training today Cole? You don’t look so good,” Jay said hesitantly, looking over at his friend concerned for his health.

“Yeah dude, you look rough. I’m surprised Zane even let you get out of bed,” Kai chimed in, narrowly avoiding a hard blow to the head from the automated training dummy.

“Don’t say my name too loud guys, he didn’t,” Cole croaked, “I just can’t afford to take a day off.”

“What?” Kai exclaimed, purposefully being as loud as he could to try to draw Zane’s attention from inside the monastery. This time, however, he wasn’t as lucky in regards to dodging the dummy while also attempting to look after his best friend, letting it land a well-placed blow to his ribs. “Fucking hell, ow,” He groaned from his new position on the dusty ground, splaying out his arms in legs, letting out loud, long, laboured breaths as he attempted to lessen the pain.

“Oh my God, firefly are you ok?” Jay said, abandoning his kendo helmet and Shinai on the ground as he rushed over to his boyfriend to help him up. Cole walked over too, though with a lot less urgency, not even taking off his helmet or dropping his own Shinai.

“Ok you definitely need to get back in bed,” Kai said through laboured breaths to Cole, taking Jay’s hand and hoisting himself up with a wince as his side stabbed with pain “You didn’t even drop your Shinai. I’ve known you for years and even if you’re feeling rough you’re always one of the first to help us if one of us falls. You’re not well.”

“I heard shouting, is everything ok?” Zane called, walking out into the yard to the sight of Jay fussing over Kai and Cole stood, fully geared out and standing shakily, looking as if he wasn’t 100% sure where he was.

“You’re boyfriends being a little shit,” Jay said, looking over at Zane as he practically dragged Kai away from the yard and towards Nya and Pixal’s workshop to get some kind of medical help for his extremely bruised and possibly broken ribs.

“Yeah Z, he is not ok. You need to sort him out and get him in bed,” Kai wheezed, hobbling slightly.

“Kai shut up before you do yourself anymore damage. This dumbass probably just broke a few ribs and he still has the nerve to lecture Cole about being out of bed. I hope he feels better soon, I’ll come and see him after I’ve dumped him on Nya and Pix,” Jay said, beginning to attempt to drag Kai away.

“You know you love me really,” Kai coyly remarked, stilling wheezing slightly. Jay didn’t respond, but Zane could tell he rolled his eyes.

Zane panned his eyes over to his own sick boyfriend, who was still standing, fully kitted out in his Kendo training gear. Even his shinai was hanging loosely from his large hands. He looked genuinely awful, worse than he had that morning in fact.

“Before you say anything, I feel fine,” Cole croaked, letting out a long sniff afterwards.

“Cole Hence Brookstone I told you to stay in bed,” Zane said sternly, looking over at the quivering mess of a boyfriend who was currently stood in front of him.

“I know but-”

“No buts, you’re coming with me right now.”

Cole knew better than to continue to protest; in situations like this, Zane usually got his way. Whether or not it was rightly so was down to interpretation. He shuffled through the blurred hallways, not 100% sure where he was going. He knew a bed of some kind would be involved but the question of whose bed was a largely unanswered one considering his brain was 300% more concentrated on keeping him upright and at least semi-conscious. The room he was led into was dark; too dark to be Zane’s and it wouldn’t be Kai, Jay, Lloyd or Nya’s because that’d be weird. Even he was conscious enough to know it was his room.

“Here, I’ll sort out your gear and stuff just try to relax,” Zane spoke softly, taking the kendo helmet off and placing it to the side, doing the same with the rest of his gear and gi. He then began sifting through Cole’s wardrobe, pulling out a hoodie and sweatpants to change into. Only then did he let him back into bed. Cole frowned and looked up at Zane from his place in bed.

“Get in with me. I need my teddy bear,” Cole groaned, his voice gravelly and even deeper than usual. Zane smiled.

“Ok, just give me a second to change. I doubt I’ll be leaving here for a while so there’s no point in being in my gi,” He said, walking over to Cole’s wardrobe again and pulling out a t-shirt and shorts, quickly changing and climbing into bed with him, any thought of training for at least that day discarded. Cole quickly readjusted himself, scooching over onto Zane, wrapping his arms and legs around him, resting his head on his chest for warmth.

“Why’d you get out of bed? I told you I’d be back with tea soon.” Zane said softly, running Cole’s hair through his fingers, twirling strands around and watching as the light reflected off it, showing at least another 10 hues shining through. The deep blues, browns and midnight blacks mingled and danced with the golden light streaming in through the curtains. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. Even if he didn’t always think so. Zane would always be there to remind him that he was.

“I can’t afford a day off,” Cole said hoarsely, “I’m already not as thin as you guys, the more days I take off the worse it’ll get.” Zane furrowed his brow and thought for a moment, trying to fully process what Cole had just said.

“Are you… saying what I think you’re saying? Because if you are, I’m going to have to take evasive measures,” Zane said matter of factly. If Cole really did think him being bigger was a bad thing, there would have to be action taken.

“What? You know it’s true. If I stop working out I’ll just get fatter, I can’t take a day off,” He croaked sadly, biting his lip. His head was spinning but he couldn’t just lay in bed all day; he had to do something. He had to at least get a few reps in.

“Hmmm,” Zane hummed, “It’s worse than I thought. Cole, it seems you are suffering from a serious case of negative body image. There’s only one known cure,” Cole laughed a little and played along.

“What is it, doc?”

“500 kisses and a whole day in bed of cuddles,” Zane replied stoically.

“Oh well then, someone who spent 2 hours downloading every episode of greys anatomy must know what they’re talking about,” Cole replied sarcastically, a goofy smile playing on his lips.

“Exactly, and I know you’re being sarcastic so I see I’m going to have to crank it up to 700 kisses.”

“Oh no! How terrible!” Cole gasped, still being sarcastic, however, it backfired as he began to cough aggressively.

“That’s what you get for being an asshole, I’m also cranking your prescription up to 1000 kisses but seeing as this might go on for a while, I’m capping it at that,” Zane said with a chuckled, rubbing his hand up and down Cole’s back slowly, just waiting for Cole to say the word so he could administer the treatment.

“You know me too well,” Cole laughed weakly, propping himself up on his chin which admittedly was uncomfortable but he was willing to endure so he could look at Zane’s beautiful face, “So doc, when’s the treatment starting?”

“How… about… now!” Zane exclaimed, beginning to pepper kisses all over Cole’s head and face, making Cole laugh hoarsely.

Zane pushed Cole off of him, pinning his arms down and kissing all up his arms and onto his hands and fingers, before moving to his torso and making sure every square inch was covered in his love. Eventually, he made his way back up to Cole’s face, making sure every little bit of his neck was covered as well, in some places even leaving small red marks behind. Whether or not they were unintentional, Zane would never tell. The final kiss was placed on Cole’s lips, making sure to press extra hard to accentuate his point.

“Wow, Z, you’re meticulous I’ll give you that,” Cole said through laughs shaking his head at the nindroid currently sat on his lap. His hands sat on his waist comfortably, a true testament to how much they really were meant to be. It was almost as if the sweet tin can sat on top of him was made for him.

“Why thank you. Are you cured?”

“If I say no, do I get more kisses?” Cole said coyly with a smirk, massaging circles into Zane’s waist with his thumbs.

“Depends. If you’re good and get in bed properly and don’t leave until your better, then most assuredly,” Zane said matter of factly, his own hands idly drifting over Cole’s torso. If he could see inside his mind for just a moment, Zane was sure he’d see himself the way he saw him. He was the perfect size for hugs and cuddles, and his larger stature just meant all the more Cole to hold and love. It also meant he could pick him up which, in their 2 years of dating, Zane was sure he’d never find it the most amazing and adorable thing ever.

“Oh well then, it’s settled,” Cole said quickly, moving Zane off of him and getting under the covers, quickly snuggling back into his chest. He could hear all the mechanical parts inside him buzzing and whirring, turning and pumping, keeping Zane alive. There was something comforting about the soft noises that emitted from his boyfriend that just radiated comfort. The mechanical buzz was a grounding constant. Always there, always around, always keeping him sane.

Zane smiled and wrapped his arm around Cole, holding him close.

“Get well soon, gumball.”

#glacier #glaciershipping #ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago kai #ninjago kai smith #ninjago zane #ninjago zane julien #ninjago cole #ninjago cole brookstone #ninjago fanfiction #ninjago glacier #ninjago zane/cole

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agapaic · 4 years

Text

tianshan top gun-AU drabble. 💞 on behalf of emma’s very generous donation to the ‘justice for jacob blake fund’ @plumb19. if you would like to donate to an organisation supporting black lives in return for a drabble, please see here for more information (closes monday evening). 🌸

///

‘No visual on Farmer! I repeat, no visual on Farmer!’

He Tian’s laugh comes through his headgear. ‘You don’t need a visual on me, sweetheart! This is a race not an op—there’s no bandit here but me!’

Guan Shan grits his teeth. He goes full throttle, flies blind. The finish line is in sight, ten miles out at his twelve o’clock. He can feel his face pulling backwards with the speed, the G-force making him lightheaded. He can’t g-LOC now—he’d die from the shame of acting out the funky chicken before his plane even hit the ground. He Tian will know what happened—he’ll see the Firebird jet tail out, the vape from the tail end stretching skywards.

Faster—fucking faster.

Guan Shan’s eyes dart to his mirrors. All clear. Where the fuck is He Tian? He can’t be ahead of him—there’s no way Guan Shan could go any faster. He’s got the jet firewalled, his head mashed backwards against the headrest. His bones are shaking; his teeth are aching.

He Tian again: ‘Right above you, sweetheart.’

Guan Shan’s head jerks up. He doesn’t know why he bothers looking. There’s nothing there but the roof of the jet: no window. He Tian’s a ghost on his radar.

‘The fuck do you think you are?’ Guan Shan spits, eye locked back on the finish line. The engine roars in his ears. ‘Fuckin’ God?’

He Tian laughs again. Guan Shan doesn’t hate that He Tian’s enjoying this—he hates that he’s enjoying it too. Why shouldn’t he? It’s a game, not a dogfight, and the winner chooses the reward. There’s no bogey or bandit on their trail, no spike on the radar. When’s the last time he got to go full throttle without the fear of a strike?

‘Come on, Guan Shan,’ He TIan croons through the headset. ‘We’re nose for nose.’

‘Are you even tryin’?’ Guan Shan barks back.

‘You should see my hand,’ says He Tian. ‘It’s never wrapped tighter around a stick before.’

Guan Shan swears under his breath. He Tian must hear it: he laughs.

Two miles.

‘Just—get off my back, would’ya?’ he grouches out. ‘Wanna see your face when I beat you over the finish line.’

‘Oh, Ah-Shan. You know I like to finish on top.’

Guan Shan veers.

There’s a damning thud, an awful shriek of metal. He Tian swears over the comms. Everything shakes and the engine judders as the underbelly of each jet scrapes against each other. The sky swings above him, pendulum-like, and an alarm blares somewhere.

Out the corner of Guan Shan’s eye, he sees He Tian’s jet wrench itself away. The Shenyang J-6 sidles up beside his own, evening out. He Tian’s face is shielded by his helmet and the high-alt oxygen mask, but Guan Shan imagines his mouth split open in a wide, white-toothed smile.

Fucker.

‘Daring,’ He Tian comments over the radio, his voice crackling. ‘Nearly took me out with that move. Yourself included.’

Guan Shan breathes shallowly. His heart is beating fast, and he wrestles it under 110. If it goes too high or flatlines Zhan Zhengxi will call in the cavalry from the base.

‘I’m not above playin’ dirty,’ Guan Shan mutters.

‘Oh, I know. You’re not a grape, Mo Guan Shan. Bigger balls than anyone gives you credit for.’

You’d like to think so.

‘At least,’ says He Tian, ‘I’d like to think so.’

700 yards. They’re at break-neck now. A final bend through airspace, and Guan Shan will be over the finish line. His face has started to go numb. He’s conscious only of the pressure in his ears, behind his eyes. Feels like bruising in his eye sockets. His knuckles must be bone-white beneath the gloves.

500 yards from the turn. Guan Shan bites down hard on his lower lip. The jet rattles around him like an earthquake in flight. If he leaves it too late he’ll veer off path and lose seconds he knows he wouldn’t recover. Too early and he might force the jet straight into He Tian’s and they could both go down.

‘You gonna tell me your action plan?’ asks Guan Shan, teeth gritted.

‘Oh, no. I’m leaving this all to you.’

Guan Shan swears, eyes on the blue-skied horizon. 200 yards. ‘Even if I kill us both.’

‘I think you know how to punch out if it gets too much.’

Now. Guan Shan yanks down hard on the controller, the skyline swerves around him; nausea wells in his throat. There’s no collision; he has no visual on He Tian’s jet and no time to wonder why that might be. He makes the turn, levels out, throttles forward to the finish line.

The base comes into view below him, and a green light blinks up at him from ATC like a traffic light.

He’s done it.

Guan Shan throws his head back against the headrest, breathes out shallowly.

A voice comes over the comms. ‘This is Mother to Firebird. Mother to Firebird. How do you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ Guan Shan says thickly. He starts to drop, pulls back the throttle. He’ll have to do a loop of the base to line up with the runway. He doesn’t mind the victory lap.

There’s a smile in Zhan Zhengxi’s voice. ‘Cleared to land at your leisure. How does first place feel?’

Guan Shan swallows a grin. ‘Affirmative,’ he says. ‘Feels pretty fuckin’ good.’ He checks his mirrors. ‘Where the fuck is Farmer?’

‘Uh, he hasn’t crossed yet. Looks like he pulled back at the finish. Problem with his radar, I think? Jian Yi’s working him through it.’

Guan Shan’s mouth falls open. ‘Bullshit,’ he gasps. ‘Bull. Shit.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger. Take it up with him.’

Guan Shan glares. He can feel his vision narrowing. He has half a mind to turn the jet around and shoot He Tian down for the sheer fucking hell of it—a fox two, maybe a three if he’s lucky. Guan Shan’s fingers go to the triggers. How fucking dare he?

‘Firebird, did you copy?’

Guan Shan sets his jaw. ‘Affirmative,’ he says flatly.

Take it up with him? He’d better fucking bet.

///

There’s a view of the runway from the changing rooms, a long strip of glass that means Guan Shan knows the exact moment He Tian’s Shenyang J-6 touches down on tarmac and pulls into the hangar. It means, also, he knows exactly how long it will take He Tian—second-place DNF loser—to walk through the base to the changing rooms.

It takes He Tian twenty minutes to land the jet and make his way to the changing room. Twenty minutes for Guan Shan to simmer and get himself close to boiling. The second He Tian walks through the door, he tips over. Guan Shan’s helmet smashes against the floor in fragments of plastic, metal, and glass.

The helmet nearly strikes He Tian in the face, but his reflexes are good. He dodges, swears, looks back to Guan Shan with wide, incredulous eyes. Glass crunches beneath his boot as he moves over to the ceiling-to-floor lockers.

‘Those are expensive, you know?’ He Tian says.

Guan Shan doesn’t care about a fucking helmet. He Tian’s father can foot the bill, mark it off as an extraneous expense. Being the commander of the base has its perks.

‘You fuckin’ fixed it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says He Tian, stripping off his gloves. ‘There was a malfunction. Probably after you rammed into me, I suspect.’

‘You let me win,’ Guan Shan growls.

He Tian shrugs. ‘Check the black box if you like. It’s all there.’

‘Who’d you pay to wire it?’

He Tian begins to unbuckle his suit. The black leather sticks to his body like a second skin, suggesting at lean muscle and broad shoulders that bare themselves as He Tian peels back its layers. Nothing about it is standard-issue. It’s been made to fit like a glove. Guan Shan hates it.

‘I didn’t pay anyone, Mo Guan Shan.’

‘Right. You didn’t have to. People will suck your dick around here for a look.’

He Tian looks at him.

Guan Shan snarls. ‘What the fuck do you even get by losing? Are you that fuckin’ desperate to disappoint him?’ He shoves a thumb upwards. Not God, but He Tian’s father, and doesn’t everyone act like he’s the same thing? ‘Fuck me over and bring shame on the family name? Two birds and one stone?’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ He Tian sighs.

‘Fuck, I wanna kill you right now.’

‘Go on, then. Try.’

‘What’s the point?’ Guan Shan sneers. ‘You’ll punch out at the last second. Blame the faulty mechanics.’

A thought strikes him: he could punch him. A realisation: he’s going to.

Five concentrated footsteps, the swing back of his right arm.

His knuckles bruise on He Tian’s cheekbone.

‘Fuck!’ He Tian shouts. He spits blood onto the floor, doubles over at the waist. Guan Shan steps back and his eyes go to the sharp nodules of He Tian’s spine as he bends over, curved out like a penitent. Guan Shan looks at him with disgust.

‘You didn’t even fight back,’ he mutters. ‘Who the fuck has you whipped?’

There’s blood coming from He Tian’s nose; some of it has spattered onto the toe of Guan Shan’s boot. He Tian, Guan Shan realises, is laughing.

‘You’d think—oh, fuck me—you’d think it would be fucking obvious, wouldn’t you?’

Guan Shan stares at him. ‘This ain’t fuckin’ funny—’

‘But it is.’ He Tian winces, straightens, dabs two fingertips against his bloodied nose. ‘You’re a good fucking pilot, Mo Guan Shan, but you are awful with analytics. Never go into the Intelligence sector, okay?

Riddles and disguise. Guan Shan hates it. There’s some truth to He Tian’s words, but he’s glad for it: he’s glad he doesn’t get it. Glad he can’t deal with conundrum and complexity. In the ten years they’ve been at this—flight school, their junior years, coming close to leading, wingmen by virtue of their shared skills—he’s never stopped hating the enigma He Tian enjoys wrapping himself around like a coat keeping him warm through the winter.

‘I don’t have time for this.’

He turns to his locker; he’ll take his clothes back to his room, save changing for somewhere that rHe Tian can see him. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He clicks in the combination, tugs the door open with a metallic clank. A hand falls to the locker beside him, just brushing the side of his head, and Guan Shan can feel the heat of He Tian’s bare chest through the fabric over his back.

Guan Shan swallows. ‘Move.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘I’ll hit you again.’

‘I might put up a fight this time—even if it’s you.’

Guan Shan stills. ‘The fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘What do you think?’

Guan Shan squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Tell me. Please, just fuckin’ tell me.’ Put me outta my misery.

He Tian’s mouth is level with his ear, and Guan Shan shudders as hot air moves across his neck. He Tian is too close. Guan Shan’s body still aches from the G-force, a strain that will last through the night, but he can’t distinguish it from anything else that might be bruising its way through his narrow veins like swallowing a tablet dry. Guan Shan puts his forehead on the frame of his open locker; the metal is cool to his skin.

‘Why do you think,’ He Tian murmurs, silken, ‘I would make sure you won?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Why do you think,’ he says, ‘I’d let you hit me if that’s what you wanted?’

If that’s what you wanted.

Guan Shan’s voice is tight. ‘I never wanted to win if you made yourself lose.’

There’s a pause. He Tian says, ‘You said you’d quit if you lost. Before the race. You said you’d move somewhere else if you couldn’t be number one here.’

Guan Shan frowns. ‘I was—that was a joke. I was just settin’ the stakes.’

He Tian moves. He’s a few paces back when Guan Shan turns to face him. His expression is unreadable, and Guan Shan’s head is working on overdrive trying to keep track of the conversation and all its hidden nuance.

‘Are you sayin’—you did that to keep me from leavin’? You seriously thought I’d quit over some stupid race?’

‘It wasn’t a stupid race. It was you and me—’

‘I’m never gonna be as fast as you,’ says Guan Shan slowly. ‘You’re never gonna be as good a shot as me. I know where we’re strong and I know where we’re not. I’m not gonna quit ‘cause of some stupid competition with you.’

‘But I didn’t know that.’

Guan Shan swallows. There’s a heat to He Tian’s words that blisters. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s conscious that He Tian is half-dressed before him and that there’s blood drying on his chin.

‘I’m not leavin’,’ Guan Shan tells him, feeling oddly inclined to reassure him. He Tian. The stalwart bastard who never gives him a break. Guan Shan can’t stop himself: ‘I’m—we’re a good team. General Qiu said we’re one of the best this fuckin’ base has seen in twenty years.’

‘You hate being my wingman,’ He Tian says flatly.

Guan Shan’s eyebrow quirks. ‘I get first seat watchin’ you fuck up and take none of the damage.’

He Tian drags a hand over his face. ‘God, he’s good,’ he mutters to himself. Louder, he says, ‘So if you weren't quitting if you lost, what did you want if you won?’

‘Probably the same as you,’ says Guan Shan carefully.

‘Ha!’ He Tian crows. His eyes darken. ‘Oh, I doubt it sweetheart.’

‘Wanna bet?’

He Tian’s brows lift. A smirk spreads slowly across his face, arrogance coming into steady effect. He swaggers forward.

‘My request,’ he murmurs, ‘would’ve been you.’

Guan Shan closes off his expression, puts his walls up. The news comes as no surprise: He Tian’s been clear with his intentions since they were in flight school, tugging at heartstrings like pigtails. Guan Shan doesn’t mind anymore. He’s used to it. He knows, with He Tian, the offer of intimacy is only sex and doesn’t go further. The walls Guan Shan has built are thick with cement.

Behind them, another jet comes into land. The windows rattle.

Guan Shan breathes out slowly, waits for the engine sound to fade. ‘Like I said,’ he starts, lifting his gaze from the floor. ‘Probably the same as you.’

It takes He Tian a few seconds. Guan Shan takes it as a win—a real one.

‘You—’ He Tian swallows. ‘So, all this time—all of our fighting. You could have just said so.’

‘Could’ve,’ Guan Shan admits. ‘But I never wanted sex, He Tian. I mean—I never just wanted it. Not like you.’

He Tian blinks at him. ‘Maybe I wasn’t clear. When I said I wanted to give you what you wanted: I meant it. Every word.’

‘You’re gonna regret that.’

He Tian nods slowly. ‘Very possibly,’ he says.

They’re close enough that when Guan Shan reaches out a hand and loops his fingers around He Tian’s wrist, He Tian comes forward with ease. His smile is indulgent.

He Tian continues: ‘But I’m willing to take a fox three for it.’

Guan Shan rolls his eyes. His fingers knot themselves in He Tian’s hair, and his mouth comes down to meet his willingly.

‘Shut the fuck up, He Tian.’

#19 days #tianshan #donation drabble

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aifastic · 3 years

Text

Winning Lines

The @talesofteufort zine has been shipped, and the PDFs sent! Thank you very much to everyone who contributed. I’m very glad to have been able to participate in this project; it was a wonderful experience and it’s been great working with everyone aaaa ♥

I’m really happy to share my piece for the zine! I really hope you all like it ♥ (Read it below the cut)

Title: Winning Lines Words: 1845 Warnings: None Summary: BLU has a drawing contest. Demo just wants his magazine back.

-----

“ARE YOU MANN ENOUGH TO DRAW THIS BETTER THAN US?”

The header caught BLU’s Demoman’s attention. He’d been reading the latest issue of Hat-Wearing Man when he found the ad at the bottom of one of the pages. There was a somewhat simple drawing of a monkey in a spacesuit. “If you draw Poopy Joe better than our extremely talented artist, we’ll give him the boot—and kick his ass in the process! And your picture will be the new image of our project and you, our lucky friend, will win nothing less than $700 dollars!”

“Huh, it doesn’t look that hard…” he said, pensive. Suddenly, the magazine was snatched from his hands. “Hey!”

“Ohohoh, what’s this?” Scout said, grinning at the magazine. “Hey, I’d win this in the blink of an eye!”

“Oi! Get your own!” Demo took the magazine back. “I’m gonna try this. Mum will love the extra money,” he added to himself.

“Pffft, no way, it’s a waste of mail money, pally. If someone should participate, that’s someone who actually has a chance.”

“Heh.”

They turned around to see Sniper in a corner, grinning.

“What’s your deal, Long Legs?”

“Shut up, ya scoundrel. If anyone has a chance here, it’s me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Demo asked. “Where’s your credentials, mate?”

“Don’t need any,” he said. “Quiet kid, hours at the back of the classroom sketching the teacher being eaten by a croc.” He grinned. “It should be easy as cake.”

“Oi, do ya remember the magazine is mine?”

“I agree, though—the chance should be for whoever’s got the talent.”

Demo sighed. “Aye, alright. But I’m not gonna just give it away.” His face lit up, an idea coming to his mind. “You’ll have to beat me for it.”

“Huh?” Both mercenaries stared at him quizzically.

Demo grinned, eye glinting.

“Let’s have a drawing contest.”

-----

They emptied the kitchen table in order to make room for their sheets of paper, pencils and pens. In the meantime, they threw evaluative gazes at each other, competitive strike flaring up.

The rest of the team slowly wandered to the room to find out what was going on.

“What is noise?” asked Heavy, scratching his chest. Medic, who was right behind him, had just closed it, having found himself too distracted by the ruckus to continue his surgery.

“We’re about to find out who’s gonna win 700 dollars!”

Medic perked up. “I am in. What is the bet?”

“We’re not betting, mate.” Sniper showed him the magazine’s ad. “It’s a contest.”

Medic’s smile turned dangerous. “Even better.”

“Heavy is in, too.”

“Aw, come on, guys! It’s not as if you’re gonna beat me!”

Heavy threw Scout an unimpressed look. “It is fun. I want extra money. I am in.”

“Alright, alright, mate. Sure.” Demo handed them both some extra sheets of paper they'd brought just in case.

Medic excused himself to go search for a couple of pens. On his way out, he almost crashed onto Soldier.

“Ach, watch where you’re going!”

“I need sustenance, maggot! And you’re on my way!” He shoved Medic away, making him stumble on the way out. A couple of German swears could be heard from the corridor. “Hello, everyone!”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna get in too,” Scout groaned.

“In what?” Soldier inquired, tilting his head. Demo showed him the magazine’s ad.

Engineer peeked over his shoulder.

“Oh, a drawing contest?” he said, looking at it with a fond smile. “Heh. It’s been a while since I tried my hand at one o’ those. But I thought they allowed only one entry per ad?”

“That is point,” Heavy said. “We are fighting to get chance to earn money.”

“Oh…” Soldier grinned. “I’m in, maggots! I actually studied art with Kickasso.”

Everyone stared at him.

“Sure, mate,” Demo said, patting his back and attempting to lead him into the kitchen.

“You don’t believe me!” Soldier looked at everyone. Engie shrugged. Scout picked at his nails, and Sniper scratched the table distractedly. Heavy’s eyes said it all. “I will prove it to all of you!” And he headed to the table, snatching a paper sheet from the pile.

Demo brushed a hand across his own face. “I hope Medic brings enough pens.”

“I’ll go for mine,” Engie said. He added, “And I’ll go look for Pyro; they’ll love this.”

Scout groaned. “Anyone else? Maybe Saxton Hale?”

Spy’s laughter can be heard from a corner of the room.

“Oh, this is priceless. I wasn’t going to butt in, but this looks like too much fun to pass on the opportunity.”

“The opportunity to what?” Scout said, miffed.

“You’ll see,” he said with a glint in his eyes. “Besides, you need a referee, don’t you?”

“Ugh,” Scout said, bonking his head on the table.

-----

Everyone looked at each other from their respective places. Scout’s leg bounced nonstop; Sniper picked unconsciously at his pencil. Heavy’s grip on his pen was strong enough for Medic to worry about it breaking.

“Alright,” said Spy. “You have to draw…” He squinted. “Poopy Joe, following the ad’s instructions; the best artist wins. The rules are: no interfering with anyone’s drawing. No kicking under the table. No destroying anyone’s drawing. No rising up from the table until all this is over. No showing your drawing until everyone is finished. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. Pyro hummed happily.

“Excellent. So, on the count of three: One, two… Three!”

Scout’s pen tore onto the paper. “Shit! Do you have a spare?” Spy handed him one. “Thanks,” he muttered.

The truth was, Scout wasn’t that confident of the fact he was going to win. When it was just him and Demo, he’d been sure he’d win to the unsteady hand of a drunk man. And Sniper was all bragging anyways. But Medic? He’d probably drawn lots of skeletons and stuff at college. And Engineer’s schematics always look exactly like the finished product. Shit. And—did Soldier really paint with Kickasso? Nah, he shook his head. He didn’t think so. Heavy was a wild card, though.

But he had to try anyway! He couldn’t back off now. So he put his all into it.

Engineer turned his sheet of paper down. Hell! That was fast. He tried to concentrate in the lines that formed Poopy Joe, and emulated them the best he could. Damn, his hand was sweaty… He hated drawing. His cousin had always been better at it, and it pissed him off even now, far from home.

He slapped his drawing on the table, face down. “Done!” He looked up to see everyone had finished. Crap.

“Alright, then,” said Spy. “Let’s see what you came up with.”

“Come up with?” That had many meanings, but the way Spy said it… “What do you mean?”

“The challenge was to improve on the design of Poopy Joe drawn by the artist, not to copy it.”

“Oh, darn,” Engineer said, showing a perfect copy of the Poopy Joe logo. Holy shit. “Guess I got a bit carried away. I’m more used to copying stuff, ya know.”

Soldier snickered.

“Let’s see what you did, Soldier boy.”

“Alright! Look at it and weep!”

He showed them all a mess of lines with dots in seemingly random places.

“Soldier, that’s…” Scout got elbowed by Demo. “That’s cool. What are… those?”

“Those are his eyes!” Oh, God.

“Let’s see Demo’s!” grinned Soldier, confidently.

“Ach, you know I’m no artist, mate,” he said, showing his drawing. It was… Actually, it was pretty decent. His drawing had a cartoonish style that drew everyone’s eyes in.

“Interesting,” said Spy, nodding approvingly.

“Demo did great job,” Heavy said, crossing his arms.

“Aw, thanks, mate.” Demo shrugged it off, somewhat flustered. “What about yours?”

Heavy showed his drawing. It was simple, a single line delineating the silhouette of the monkey astronaut. It was stylish, though it was difficult to guess what it was at times.

“Wonderful, mein freund!” Medic clapped, and revealed his. It was… Oh, my god. “I might have put a bit too much emphasis on his organs.”

“Next!” yelled Scout, tearing his eyes away from the gory drawing. Shit. Now he had to show his. Alright. You can do this, he told himself.

He turned the page face up.

“Mate,” Sniper said.

“Oh, buddy, we made the same mistake.”

“Y’know? I saw RED’s Scout draw once and I secretly thought we were doomed.”

“Oh, shut up!” Scout said, face beet red. It was true, he’d tried to copy the drawing, like Engineer did. And his lines weren’t as sure as Demo’s or Heavy’s. Shit. He screwed up big time.

“It’s good overall, mate,” Sniper said. “You just need more confidence.”

Scout flushed. “What about yours, Mister Expert?”

Sniper grunted, and showed his drawing. Oh, wow. It was really good! The monkey looked like it’d come out of the page and tear them apart. He felt as if he would be able to touch its fur.

“Wow, Slim! That’s one helluva good drawing!”

“Thanks,” he said, grinning. “I told ya: quiet kid.”

“Where is his spacesuit, though?”

His face dropped. “Aw, hell.”

“Hmmmph!” Pyro yelled, pointing at their sheet of paper.

“Alright,” Spy said, grinning along with Engineer. “The moment of truth has come.”

“What do you mean—?”

Holy shit.

The drawing was astounding. The monkey looked cartoonish enough not to look real, but in a way that made the drawing look alive. Everything was there, and in wonderful detail: The space-suit, the stars… Even an additional full moon in the background that was a perfect circle.

“Holy shit, Py!” Scout said. “How did you do that?”

“Hhmph?” Pyro asked, pointing at the moon. Everyone nodded. Pyro mumbled happily, grabbing another sheet of paper, and drew a classical Greek style face, then erased the rest of its features little by little until they got a perfect circle.

Oh, for the love of—

“Well, it seems we have our winner,” said Spy, handing Pyro the magazine. Pyro clapped with glee, running off with it.

“Aw, man. That was totally unfair. You knew this would happen!” Scout pointed to Spy accusingly.

“I had my suspicions,” he said, grinning.

“Hey, maggots,” Soldier said, sniffing. “Is that smoke?”

They all turned around to watch Pyro as they set the magazine on fire.

“Ach! My magazine!” Demo ran and stomped on it. However, many of the pages, including the drawing contest ad, didn’t make it. “Hell. Why, mate?”

“Hmmphmmphmmph!” they said, pointing at everyone in the room, then at their drawings. Then they clapped.

Everyone looked at each other, and found a common understanding. Who knew what Pyro said? But they had the feeling they meant they were all winners today.

“So it was a huge waste of everyone’s time. Fantastic,” Spy said. “Entertaining, though.”

“Shut up, Spy, we were having a moment,” Scout said.

And yes, indeed. Because even though Demo lost his magazine, he left the room with a good feeling inside. And he was sure that the rest felt the same way.

Poopy Joe’s artist could keep his job for another day.

#Team Fortress 2 #fanfiction #BLU Team #Tales of Teufort #Tales of Teufort zine #[♥]

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