#going back to the post format I used to use

[jbbuckybarnes]

Soulmate Subscription [LN4]

✨ Lando Norris x Reader (Y/N)

Author's note: Listen, the state of the world has become so ass that now after almost two years of not writing fanfic this 26yo is back at writing a bit to reduce stress. Don't expect me to be back fully because this unfortunately doesn't pay the bills (oh to be a nepo partner that can just do this on the side...i digress).

Warnings: Bro, I have never been to a GP, especially not as a VIP, so I have no clue how this shit works logistically. Reader is Lan's age because I said so, have fun being 25/26 y'all. Also zero proofreading and written past midnight. Formatting is bad because I posted from my phone...we run on vibes here the way Ferrari engineers do.

Prompt Used: Soulmate AU where you receive a monthly box containing clues to find your soulmate. (by @soulmate-au-bargain-bin) & "Please tell me you want to kiss me as much as want to kiss you"

Since the day you turned 18 in 2017 you had gotten small things sent to you in the mail that hinted at your soulmate. Some people took the clues and figured out their soulmates pretty fast, others took well into their 50s because their soulmate had such an average and difficult to guess life. The problem with your boxes was that you could tell this soulmate had a very uncommon hobby, motorsports, but you couldn't pinpoint it much further.

You had gotten sketches of helmets, a rag with motor oil on it, a map of the Silverstone circuit in the UK, an F1 pass, a nameless boarding ticket for a flight to Las Vegas, a small container of hair gel and a black shirt. All of those things didn't narrow it down. You could tell the person was into racing, but if it was as a fan or a hobby driver themselves didn't quite get across. Anyone could go to a race somewhere and anyone could be into tuning their own car or driving karts every now and then. The small clues weren't of any help so far and at age 26 you wondered if your life was interesting enough to even get your soulmate any closer to your identity. You liked taking the occasional dance class and walks in nearby nature. A concert every couple months and writing personal essays also weren't very identifying.

This months package arrived at the expected time, but it was bigger this time. You took it to your bed and grabbed the way too oversized cutter knife. Inside the box was a blue and orange piece of cloth with a number four on it. It seems to have been cut out of something actually wearable but the material was thicker than a usual shirt or jacket. You looked at the striped orange design of the number and grabbed your phone to look up the couple racing series you were familiar with by now, Formula E, NASCAR, Indycar, WEC, MotoGP, F4, F3, F2, F1. Who has a number four? F1 – "Number 4, Lando Norris, driving for McLaren" you mumbled to yourself. So your soulmate must be a fan of him maybe. He looked cute, a little fuckboy-ish if you were honest.

You looked at the cut out of the cloth more closely and noticed something stuck to the back of it. A piece of paper with something bunched up behind it.

"One of these days it'll have to work. No clue if I can will into existence what the universe sends you, but I'll keep trying to get you to a race. Watch this arrive after the race..." you quietly read the semi-fucked up handwriting and grabbed what is stuck between the cloth and the note. A pass reading "All-Access VIP – Belgian GP in Spa-Francorchamps – Hosted by: McLaren F1 Team"

Your eyes went wide, "Holy..." You didn't know a lot about racing other than the basics but you knew these were probably worth thousands.

"Guess I'll have to figure out how to get to Belgium."

—

You were standing in the humid heat of the European summer. The denim jacket that you had sewn the #4 cloth to on the back was already tied around your hips because the heat was unbearable. How were people doing this three days in a row?

You finally entered the circuit, not a clue of where to go next, but you were sure you'd figure it out. After all, VIP means there aren't many places you couldn't go. And somehow asking someone in a VIP area for help felt less odd to you, there must be rich people here all the time that don't usually do this.

Orange and McLaren is all you knew to look out for. Not that you would mind accidentally ending up in Ferrari heaven, but at this point you had caught up a bit on the sport and knew they weren't doing as well this year as expected. You walked down a mini road full of people between the paddock and mini houses that the teams brought with them everywhere.

A stressed-looking man in blue and white team gear walked by you with a bit of an entourage. You knew that one from the algorithm playing out a video of his to you. Carlos something with S.

In the distance you could spot shiny orange on one side and a bustling entry to the garage on the other side. Like orange little worker bees. You knew the shiny home is most likely where you'd find some water aka what you were sweating out in buckets at that moment.

You dodged your way through media representatives and people making a thousand times what you make a day and finally made your way in and beelined for a worker next to a barebones bar setup.

"What can I get you, Miss?"

"Just cold water, it's like walking through soup today."

"July races will do that to you." The person answered politely.

"At least there's some cooling in here." You took the cup with a small thanks.

"Almost too cold." You looked at the worker noticing them wearing a long sleeve. And they were right, five more minutes in there and you'd probably feel like you're in Antarctica. That electricity bill must be insane.

You drank the water and put your jacket back on.

"I don't know how people do this almost every week. I'd go insane from all the sensory inputs."

"You get used to it." They shrugged with a smile.

You heard the entrance to the motorhome become louder and a man entered with his racing overall half down. You knew that one, he was leading the championship right now. You weren't very keen on asking for pictures here, it's not like you were a big motorsports fan. He also just looked like he wanted his peace, so you focused back on staring holes into the walls of the McLaren home. You didn't notice the little lookover he gave you once he had walked past you.

Free Practice wasn't interesting you that much if you were honest. You'd watch the second one today but cars going fast were just cars going fast at the end of the day, you had two more days to see that. Plus finding your way to a place where you could watch was another mission.

"What do you mean it worked?" "Look." You heard two voices going back and forth behind you.

"I think I might throw up." "God, you're so dramatic." You looked towards the entrance but not behind you. You were nosy but not THAT nosy.

"Oh my god, how would I even introduce myself?" "Like you usually do?" "Os, this isn't fucking usual, not everyone magically went to school with their forever person the way you did." "If you don't talk to her, I will." "Oh hell nah, mate." "Well, I tried. Good look, Lan."

It got quiet around you, the two bickering voices had stopped, many people were already heading out to go watch FP2 in a bit, the worker had struck up a conversation with a rich-looking older lady.

A male figure appeared next to, "Nice jacket. I mean, hi. I mean...ugh, I won't even attempt to save that first impression." You giggled and looked up. Oh, the cute fuckboy-ish guy looking thrown off was kinda adorable, you had to admit.

"Hi. Lando, right?" He gave a small nod.

"Can I ask where'd you get it from,..." "Y/N" "Y/N" He said it very carefully as if he would need to remember it.

"I don't know, just kind of arrived one day." "Like a certain box that arrives every month?" "Maybe..."

He eyed you more intently, "That's from a race suite in my first season of F1. I figured I'd try to attach something to it and lose it on purpose."

You blinked at him trying to process, "HUH?"

"I'll need a little more input than that." He gave a boyish little grin but looked unsure.

"I just thought my soulmate would be a big fan of yours or working for you or something." He shrugged innocently.

"Oh boy." You exhaled, making him raise an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, are you expecting me to process that immediately surrounded by that much sensory input?" He chuckled and shook his head, "My bad, I should've expected absolute confusion."

There was a short silence, "I assume you're not much of a motorsports fan?"

"Eh...it's not my first choice, but some of the faces are hard to dodge in advertising." He gave a wide grin to you.

He looked down at his watch, "10 more minutes of being allowed to dodge my responsibilities. You wanna talk...uh, elsewhere." You nodded.

You weren't really expecting to be dragged into a tiny room while Oscar gave you a look that read as "He's always this idiotic."

"Well, uh, this is cozy..." You stood there, a bit too close to him.

"Yeah, they don't really make big drivers rooms." His hand went through his curly hair.

"At least it's more quiet." You exhaled at the relaxation level your nervous system reached.

"You need ear plugs for the weekend?" He grabbed a round little plastic casing and handed it to you.

"Uh, thanks." "If you needed it I'd literally give you what I'm wearing right now if I wasn't legally required to wear it." He chuckled.

You blinked at him again, processing.

"Sorry, that was a bit over the top. But I meant it as in 'I'd give my soulmate anything', you know?"

You nodded, still processing.

"Am I making this awkward or are you just overwhelmed?" He asked half concerned, half to lighten up the tension.

You exhaled, "Both."

"I'm not the best with first impressions I've heard." He admitted.

"No no, I think it's cute." Now both of you were flustered.

"I always expected there to be this ideal way I'd meet my soulmate. You know that moment some people talk about." "Oh, like the, we don't need to know each other, we'll kiss first and talk second kinda stories." You both giggled.

"I mean..." He looked at you clearly jokingly flirty.

"You excude too much fuckboy energy for that to ever have been a possibility." You laughed.

He feigned offense but instantly stopped and said, "Yeah no, I can see it, my PR people were working hard on that one."

"Oh, I have not seen any PR surrounding you, that's literally just your energy." "Okay NOW I'm offended, wow!"

You both broke into laughter.

"If I win this Sunday, will you change your mind?" He looked like he liked to play with fire.

"Things only a fuckboy would ask." "Well, would you?" "Are we still talking about a kiss or me not calling out your fuckboy energy?"

He caged you in a little, not in an overbearing way, you could easily leave.

"Bit of both." A short silence, "Blushing, are we?"

"Shut up." You mumbled looking away and he chuckled.

"I'll just assume that's a yes?" You met his gaze, "Yeah."

He looked at his wrist next to your head, "Well, gorgeous, wanna watch FP2 from the coolest place of all?"

"You're assuming that wouldn't be my couch for me." He laughed at that.

"I mean I guess that's nicer than in the garage with my headset on." He eyed you, "But that wouldn't be very future wife of you."

You hid your face behind your hands, "Stop it!"

"I'll think about it, darling." He grabbed one of your hands and opened the door of the drivers room again.

His hand switched to the small of your back, guiding you through way too many people to the garage and all the shebang in there.

"Lando!" Someone in the garage called out. "Gimme one second!" His face was focused putting his headphones on you, then he gave you a self-satisfied smile, "See you in a bit, Y/N."

You had to admit, a man in a race suit wasn't the worst person you could've gotten as a soulmate. You definitely didn't mind looking at him. Or his driving.

Or the way he still looked good while sweaty after the helmet came back off after the hour of free practice.

"Is it legal to still look good when sweaty?" You joked as he walked towards you.

"I don't know, you tell me." He brushed over your forehead with the towel he was holding.

"Didn't even give me the opportunity to be offended." He grinned self-satisfied at that.

"I should probably get you some team gear so you won't die out here tomorrow." He said more to himself than your while taking the headphones from you again.

"Ew, orange." "You could also wear my shirts." He shrugged and smirked as he watched you processing yet again.

You were dragged back to the driver's room, "I like the way your brain just short circuits when I flirt with you."

"You just wait until I feel comfortable enough to throw that back at you." You pretended to be offended as the door shut behind you.

"Looking forward to it." He winked at you before taking off his fireproofs. Act normal, act normal, act normal.

He put on a shirt before his hands went to the rest of his overalls...you turned around, this man was insane, unhinged, crazy.

"You can look again." He looked at you a bit sorry when you turned around again, but only a bit.

"You're unhinged." He giggled because you were right.

"You like it." "...unfortunately."

He caged you in again, "Please tell me you want to kiss me as much as want to kiss you right now."

"Dunno, it's giving kiss first, talk second soulmate stories." You teased, but put your arms around his neck.

"I still can't believe that deliberately losing something worked." You could feel his breath on you lips.

"Still can't believe my soulmate is a dumbass driving 300kph." You both giggled before closing the distance.

You didn't expect him to be so...soft and featherlight.

"I have a feeling I'll be in trouble if I don't win this week." You gave him a challenging smirk in response.

"I'd date you either way, but I'd say it's a bonus." "I feel like your existence in my life now is already a bonus."

"You're so corny." You laughed at him.

"Well, damn, I'm sorry?" He held his hands up.

"Don't be. I like it." Soft smiles were interchanged.

"Wanna sneak off and order food?" "As long as an AC is involved." He laughed and grabbed you, expertly sneaking you out of the circuit, into his hotel and spent all evening explaining his life to you between slices of pizza.

[gimmethatagustd]

wanna stream a porno | kth

At this point, attempting to deny that you have feelings for Taehyung is laughable. Even his subscribers can sense the chemistry between the two of you.

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Frenemies to lovers, sex work, fluff (?), smut

Word Count: 4,847

Content Warning: Sex work (cam), MC uses they/them pronouns, Tae refers to MC as bunny and bun - aka rope bunny which is the term for the person being tied up in a shibari scene, BDSM, bondage, impact play, spanking, use of degrading language (that isn't actually meant to be mean), voyeurism, exhibition kink, Tae makes MC call him daddy so they won't dox him lmfao, blow job, vaginal fingering, sex toys, crying during sex, subspace/dropping, vaginal sex, forced orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, implied aftercare

A/N: I first posted this on Valentine's Day 2024, can you believe ?? Abandon all hope, ye who enter

Soundtrack: One Of The Girls (Sped Up) - The Weeknd, JENNIE, Lily-Rose Depp

the wannabe-photographer chronicles: part four

“Too tight?” Taehyung murmurs against the curve of your ear, his breath tickling your neck. 

It’s embarrassing how your body reacts to the sound of his low, velvety voice. You’d snorted when Taehyung first told you that people on the internet paid money to listen to his dirty talk and watch him jerk off. There was no fucking way; he had to be lying. You’d been sure of it. 

But now… 

Taehyung reaches around your body and tugs on the rope he’s just tied your wrists with. It looks rough, black, and twisted but smooth as it rubs against your skin when you move. 

You shiver and shake your head, forgetting what you’d discussed earlier in the day until it’s too late. The smack to your ass stings, and you bite your bottom lip to keep from making any sound. 

“What did I tell you, bun?” Taehyung asks softly, running his palm across the skin he just smacked. He squeezes your asscheek and jiggles it before removing his hand. 

“I have to use my words,” you speak up like he told you to, even though your voice is hoarse with desire and nervousness. Because, fuck, are you nervous. 

“Mhmm…” Taehyung hums in agreement, though he sounds distracted. 

You can’t see him from where you kneel on the floor in his bedroom, but you can feel it when he gets up. If you wanted to, you could twist around to face him. It would be difficult, though, with how much of your body is tied up. 

Taehyung spent at least twenty minutes carefully weaving intricate patterns against your naked skin, crossing the rope in what almost looks like a star formation across your back that wraps around to the front of your body, keeping your arms tied to your sides and your hands bound in front of you. The rope cages your chest like a harness and extends down to wrap around your legs, forcing you into a kneeling position and making you unable to straighten your legs. 

It took you three weeks of practicing before Taehyung could fully tie you up without you going into a panic attack. 

“It’s not too tight,” you announce after clearing your throat. 

You watch as Taehyung circles your body until he stands in front of you. He reaches out to flick his middle finger against the underside of your chin, prompting you to tilt your head back to look up at him. 

“My little rope bunny looks so pretty, all tied up for me,” Taehyung says with a sparkling grin that makes your whole body flush with heat. 

“I want to tell you off so badly right now,” you hiss through gritted teeth. Your frustration only makes Taehyung’s grin widen. 

“I bet you do. It’s a shame you can’t, but rules are rules.” Taehyung shrugs, not at all nonchalant in his mocking tone. 

You close your eyes as he trails his finger down your throat and past your collarbones until he reaches one of your nipples. Usually, it would take more than a gentle brush of a fingertip against your nipple for you to feel aroused, but there’s something about being tied up that has heightened your senses. Every minor touch has your nerves sparking and fraying at the ends. Taehyung isn’t even doing anything, and you’re already wet and aching. 

“Taehyung,” you do your best to sound steady and fail. 

“Let me fix the cameras and figure out what I’m gonna wear, okay? I’ll be quick; I promise.” 

Taehyung rearranged all the furniture in his bedroom to leave an open spot in the corner of the room where he set up cameras and photography lighting. His laptop rests on an end table nearby, the screen showing a mirrored image of you kneeling on the floor on a pale pink silk sheet, fluffy pillows surrounding you in a half-circle. It’s all very Y2K, softcore aesthetic – not what you’d expect from Taehyung. His followers are mostly young women, though, and he says he likes to play up his soft side for them. 

It sounds ridiculous, but there’s something about being tied up in such a gentle environment that’s making your pussy throb. 

Taehyung is quick, as he promised. He returns, shirtless and wearing a pair of black joggers to match the black rope wrapped around your body. You drag your eyes over his torso, admiring the flat plane of his abdomen and the swell of his pecs. Smooth – it’s the best word to describe Taehyung. His voice, body, and charisma when he murmurs sweet seductions in your ear are always so smooth. 

When he catches you staring, Taehyung winks at you. It makes you flustered despite your desire to remain neutral, and you quickly look down to find something else to focus your attention on. In Taehyung’s hands is a long, rectangular purple box. He sets it down next to you on the floor and opens the lid. 

You gasp when you see what’s inside. 

“Taehyung…” 

“It’s for later. Don’t worry about it,” Taehyung says softly, pressing his index finger against your parted lips to quiet you. 

On instinct, you close your lips around Taehyung’s finger and suck it gently, swirling your tongue around it. Taehyung’s eyes flutter closed for a few seconds until he pulls his hand away. 

“You’re such a slut.”

“Fuck you.” 

You can’t help but grin when Taehyung sticks his tongue out at you. He’s an idiot, but you love it. You love him, maybe. To be determined. 

Or never. Never is also fine. 

“So… what the fuck is gonna happen now? I’m starting to cramp,” you complain as Taehyung messes around with his laptop. 

“What?” Taehyung spins around quickly, nearly sending one of his floor lamps crashing when his elbow collides with the stand. “You’re in pain? Where? Let me loosen–” 

“Oh my god, Taehyung, I’m fine. I just don’t feel like kneeling naked on the fucking floor while you dick around!” 

With a snort, Taehyung turns his back on you. 

“I’m just trying to take care of my little movie star, alright?” 

The nickname, if that’s what you can even call it, makes your stomach flutter. It doesn’t matter that you’re trying your best to stay unaffected by Taehyung’s bullshit; Taehyung has you under his spell like he always does. 

“I know what to say…” you insist with a pout, flexing your fingers. “Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for good…” 

It’s elementary, but all the prep Taehyung made you do leading up to this moment showed you how important having a system is, be it a random safe word or the colors. What you don’t want to tell Taehyung is how comforting the rope is. You don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that you like being restrained. It’s like a tight embrace, and the rope causes goosebumps to spread across your body when its silkiness rubs against your skin every time you shift positions. 

Watching you over his shoulder, Taehyung calls you softly, “I’m going to start the session if that’s okay?”

You nod, adrenaline buzzing through your veins as you hear the little pings from Taehyung’s laptop, indicating that people are paying to join the livestream. It’s still shocking that Taehyung has such a large following. However, it makes sense now that he has been so interested in erotic photography and film for his projects as a university student studying art. Funny how your roommate, Hoseok, never bothered to tell you that his friend does amateur porn – though Taehyung was quick to make it clear that he has never had anyone else on his stream before you. 

You’re special.

You wonder who might be sitting on the other end, paying to watch Taehyung pleasure himself every Wednesday night. 

“It’s hump day,” Taehyung had said with an exasperated sigh when you’d asked why he chose Wednesdays, as if you were the stupidest person on the planet for asking such a question.

The worst part is wondering if someone watching Taehyung’s stream will recognize you. Taehyung doesn’t shy away from showing his face, but he’d offered you a mask or only to use camera angles that wouldn’t expose your identity. You’d turned down both offers, though you can’t remember why. You can’t remember much of anything, your mind going blank the moment Taehyung addresses the anonymous subscribers waiting for porn. 

“Hey everyone, it’s nice to see you all again this week,” Taehyung greets his followers with a deeper and richer voice than you’ve ever heard him use. It makes your body tingle. “For those of you following me on my socials or who joined last week, you’ll know I promised to do something special for Valentine’s Day, right?” 

You can’t see the laptop screen; Taehyung is standing in front of it. He’s also blocking the camera, so the people logged into the session can’t see you yet. 

“I have a special guest,” Taehyung shifts to the side so you’re in view, “This is Bunny, and it’s their first time on camera like this, so please be kind.” 

Unsure of what to do, you wave your fingers in a greeting, unable to do much else since you’re all tied up. It must be enough because Taehyung smiles when he looks at you, and you feel your face heat up from the gentle gesture. 

Luckily, Taehyung’s attention quickly returns to the livestream chat. Apparently, Jimin is hanging out in his bedroom, moderating the chat to ensure no one posts anything inappropriate. Knowing Jimin will be watching excites you a little bit. 

“Ah, no, we’re not dating,” Taehyung chuckles, and it’s strange to be able to say that you know Taehyung well enough to know that this laughter isn’t genuine. “Don’t get any ideas, though. Trust me. Our little bun might look harmless, but it’s a ruse.”

You can’t help but snort. You’d think Taehyung is stalling, but you’ve learned that his subscribers expect a sort of parasocial relationship with him. He usually warms up by feeding into that. As weirdly cute as it is, your nerves are making you impatient. 

“Even though it’s my bun’s first time, I don’t think we need to take it easy on them,” Taehyung smirks into the camera, and more pings ring through the bedroom. 

Each ping indicates that the livestream viewers are leaving messages in the chat and sending Taehyung money to request specific actions – actions he refuses to tell you about because that would ruin all the fun. 

“Hmm…” Taehyung murmurs, eyes dragging from the streaming platform’s chat feature to you, wrapped up like a pretty present for him. The look is weighty and dark, which Taehyung has never had while looking at you. 

Suddenly embarrassed, you drop your gaze as Taehyung approaches where you kneel. 

“Are you ready, bun?” Taehyung’s question is softer than the look he gives you. 

You nod in return and hope your nerves aren’t visible to Taehyung’s loyal fans. It would suck to fuck this up for him, as much as he annoys you. Admittedly, ever since that impromptu threesome with Jimin, Taehyung has been acting different around you. He’s been almost… sweet. 

Taehyung takes out a black, wide-end riding crop from the purple box. He hits the palm of his hand with it a few times as though testing it out. He looks good, the muscles in his biceps shifting and bulging every time he winds up to flick the crop. Your entire body shudders when his dark eyes flit down to meet yours. 

“How many times do I have to tell you to speak up, hm?” 

Taehyung falls into character quicker than you expect. It gives you whiplash watching him push back his hair, now a light minty color that looks pretty against the pink surrounding you, his gaze an oppressive force crushing you harder than the rope ever could. Your attention briefly falls on the laptop when a few pings ring out. 

What if people don’t like you? What if you don’t do well? You’d agreed to do this because Taehyung wanted to expand his portfolio, just like every other time you agreed to spend time with him. You both know that isn’t why you’re here, even if neither of you want to say it out loud. 

“Bun.” Using the flat end of the crop, Taehyung lifts your chin to look at him instead of the laptop. “Don’t think about them. Just focus on me, okay?” 

“Okay,” you breathe, suddenly feeling lightheaded. 

Taehyung drags the crop down your chest, tapping lightly at your tits to watch them bounce against the black rope. Goosebumps rush across your skin like waves in the wake of the crop’s path down your body. 

“How many should I give you?” 

You blink a few times, eyes suddenly bleary as you watch Taehyung walk around to stand behind you. The camera captures your side profile, allowing viewers to see you and Taehyung clearly. Despite Taehyung’s reassuring words, it’s hard not to think about the anonymous people watching Taehyung caress your body. 

“How many what?” Your breath hitches when Taehyung’s hand replaces the crop to run up the length of your spine until he reaches the back of your neck. 

“For your punishment, bun. How many hits do you deserve?” Taehyung asks, his voice with a deep timbre. “Lean forward.” 

Taehyung squeezes the back of your neck and pushes, forcing your upper body down a bit further while you stay kneeling. Lifting the crop, he smacks your ass three times in quick succession, each hit a sharp sting that makes your body jolt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp as you struggle to keep your balance. “Is that really necessary?” 

Taehyung clicks his tongue, and even though you can’t see him, you’re sure he has an infuriatingly smug look on his face. 

“Count them,” he murmurs loud enough for the stream to pick up. 

It’s strange how pliant you become with each hit. Something about the pain zaps something in your brain, sending your nervous system haywire until the stings turn into pleasure. Taehyung focuses each hit on the same spot until your skin becomes tender, but he doesn’t stop until your entire body shakes. 

“T-twenty,” you count with a shudder, tears lining your eyelashes and fingers squeezing the ropes on your chest to give you something to hold onto, though it does nothing to ground. 

“Very good.” It’s a simple statement, but Taehyung’s praise does something to you. Either that or it’s the feeling of the crop being dragged over your sore asscheek to dip inward. 

You gasp when Taehyung pushes the crop through your pussy, spreading your lips open and running the crop along your folds. You’re soaking wet and on edge from him spanking you, so the glide is easy for Taehyung as he begins rubbing your clit. The crop is warm from your body heat, and though the shape is sharp and angular, any amount of stimulation feels good. 

“Please,” you beg, bending forward further to expose more of your pussy. 

The ropes around your legs keep your thighs spread, putting you on display for easy access. Even though you can’t see it, you’re sure your arousal glistens in the bright lighting, and you can feel your juices leak down your folds. 

Taehyung runs his thumb through your pussy lips, swishing your arousal around, dragging up and down your clit before he eventually sinks his index and middle fingers into your pussy. 

His name almost slips out when your thighs begin to shake. You want to call out his name and beg him to fuck you, even though everything in you doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction. It’s just too good, and you haven’t fucked since that time with Jimin. Taehyung said it would be better that way to help with your nerves, but now you’re feeling desperate, and you hate the feeling of needing to be filled. 

“Fuck, look at you. You like being tied up like this, don’t you?” Taehyung smirks when he tosses the crop to the side and uses his other hand to stimulate your clit while he continues fucking you with his fingers. 

You moan loudly, completely forgetting about the people watching Taehyung getting on his knees to finger you, twisting each time he pulls out, just to plunge back in and press downward to stimulate your front wall. 

Remembering the rules, you swallow your pride and do what Taehyung wants. 

“Yes, daddy.” 

It’s humiliating to call Taehyung that. You hate it, but you can’t say his real name on air, and this was what he’d told you to call him – or else you’d be punished. He won’t let you cum if you don’t behave. Though you can’t deny how good Taehyung sounds when he groans at the name, nor how good it feels when he speeds up his fingers. 

“Say it again,” Taehyung murmurs, leaning forward to press his bare chest to your back so he can reach your ear. “Baby, say it again.” 

“Yes, daddy.” 

“Fuck.” 

Grabbing your hips, Taehyung yanks you back so he can switch places with you, now kneeling in front of you. Being on this side gives him a better view of the livestream chat. Whatever he finds there makes him smile, something lopsided and suspicious. 

“They do have a pretty pussy, don’t they?” Taehyung grins into the camera, reaching forward to cup your pussy. He crowds your space, forcing your face against his crotch when he leans in. 

Despite how embarrassing the action is, you mouth at the bulge in his joggers.

“Hurry up,” you whine, knowing Taehyung might scold you but uncaring. “Fuck me already.” 

A slap to your tender ass makes you cry out in pain. 

“Our friends think I need to do something about your bratty mouth, bun,” Taehyung points out with his arms crossed against his firm chest. “They’re right, of course. You’ve always been so bratty with me.” 

“Fuck you,” you hiss quietly, both hoping no one hears you and also that they will.

“You’re cute when you’re acting like a slutty little bitch.” 

Taehyung tongues the inside of his cheek and turns to the box that had held the riding crop. The insults scratch some itch in the back of your brain, and your pussy betrays you by pulsing with need. 

From the box, Taehyung pulls out a pink cordless wand vibrator. The head is smooth and fat, the rest of the wand sleek like Taehyung’s fingers as they grip around the handle. Anticipation burns in the pit of your stomach while you wait for Taehyung to turn the wand on and press it against your swollen, neglected clit. 

Instead, once the wand is on, Taehyung presses against the bulge in his joggers.

“Oh my god,” you moan as Taehyung drags the wand up his cock until he reaches the head. He circles it slowly, hips subtly thrust forward. 

It makes sense that people pay to watch Taehyung masturbate. He’s pretty when he does it, staring directly into your eyes as he whimpers, breathy and sweet.

Each of his little moans makes you wetter, and your body continues to tremble with need. It’s so unbelievably hot how he tilts his head back, exposing the V of his jaw and his Adam’s apple, bobbing each time he swallows. 

“Do you think I’m pretty, bun?” Taehyung smirks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he finally removes the wand from his clothed cock. It’s hard to see the wet patch in his clothes from how dark the material is, but you know it’s there. 

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper as Taehyung grabs a hold of your jaw and gives you a quick but firm squeeze that pushes your cheeks inward.  

“I know you do.” 

Letting go of your face, Taehyung hooks his thumbs in his joggers and pulls down far enough to take out his cock. It bobs and hangs heavy in front of your face, close enough that the tip brushes your cheek and smears precum across your face. 

“Be a good bun and suck my cock, yeah?” 

Not needing to be told twice, you lean forward to lap at the precum dribbling from Taehyung’s slit, making him groan. His body trembles slightly as you suck him into your mouth, and it feels good to know you’re not the only one affected.

Reaching for the wand again, Taehyung runs the tip along his shaft as you suckle the head of his cock. You can feel the vibrations in your mouth, and the sensation seems to travel down the rest of your body as your pussy pulses. 

“Fuck,” Taehyung moans, throwing his head back as you take more of his cock down your throat. “Don’t go any faster. Keep it nice and slow.” 

He only lets you suck him off for a bit longer, just enough to get his cock nice and wet from gagging around him. Then he tugs on your ropes, pulling you off of his cock as you gasp for air. 

“You okay?” Taehyung brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, wiping away spit and precum, you’re sure. It’s disgusting, but he’s so gentle when he does it that your face grows hot.

“I’m fine.” 

“You look pretty like this,” he murmurs. “I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. Been thinking about it for weeks.” 

It isn’t until Taehyung cradles the side of your face and slots his lips with yours that you realize you haven’t even kissed. You usually don’t, too caught up in the carnal need to consume each other in other ways.

But kissing Taehyung feels good.

He holds you gently as your lips glide together, Taehyung tasting himself on your tongue and moaning into your mouth when he does. You pant against each other in between kisses, Taehyung using the opportunity to bite and suck on your bottom lip until you’re pushing yourself against him, seeking more. You just want to be close, closer. 

“Turn around,” he breathes against your spit-slicked lips. It isn’t easy, but he helps you move until you’re facing away from him. 

Without being told, you begin to lower your upper body onto the floor, but Taehyung stops you with an arm around your chest. 

“Wait.” It’s spoken against your ear, his breath hot like your core as it pulses when you realize what Taehyung is doing. 

He turns on the wand to the lowest vibration setting and carefully slips it through the rope wrapped around your hips. Placement presses the head of the wand directly to your clit. 

“I can’t,” you squeak, hunching over as the subtle vibrations ripple through you. Normally, the setting would be too low to get you off quickly, but Taehyung has been edging you this whole time. 

“It’s okay if you cum, baby. I wanna see how many times I can make you cum.” 

Taehyung bites the curve of your ear before shoving the middle of your back until your upper body rests on the floor and your ass is in the air. He’s gentle when he presses his cock against your entrance, the glide easy from how sloppy wet you are. You can hear him bottom out, the sound of your arousal gushing around his cock with each wet slap of his thighs against yours as he thrusts in and out of you. 

It only takes three deep strokes before you cum, pussy fluttering around Taehyung’s cock and your body shaking underneath him. The ropes prevent you from wriggling and writhing, and the vibrator on your clit prolongs your orgasm. You feel like it never ends, just wave after wave of pleasure, making your body lock up. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, Tae-” You’re cut off by Taehyung’s hand slapped across your mouth. 

“Behave, bun,” he growls, never letting up his pace despite how violently your body reacts to the prolonged orgasm. 

Grabbing the rope tied around your back, Taehyung pulls on it, forcing you to rock back and forth on his cock at the pace he wants. You’re so wet that he slips in and out of you with wet squelches loud enough to be heard by all his subscribers. 

“Oh my god,” you moan as your body rocks against the pretty sheets and fluffy pink pillows. It helps stop you from chafing against the floor, but you don’t care. All you can focus on is how good Taehyung feels, his cock filling you up and his hands tightening the hold the ropes have on the most sensitive parts of your body. 

“God, you’re always so fucking creamy,” Taehyung groans, slapping your ass to watch it jiggle on his cock. 

You feel another orgasm ripple through you, having barely recovered from the other one. Taehyung fucks you through it still and then fucks you through the next one. 

By the time you’ve cum for the fourth time, tears stream down your face. 

“Please,” you sob, the buzz of the vibrator and Taehyung’s moans flooding your brain until there’s nothing left. 

“One more, bun,” Taehyung grunts as he reaches over to pull the wand out of the ropes. He tosses it to the side and replaces it with his fingers, rubbing quick circles over your clit. “Come on, give me one more so we can finish together.” 

The remaining pressure inside of you bursts the moment Taehyung starts playing with your clit. You feel your pussy gush around his cock as you cum even more than before, so much that you can feel it leak down your thighs and soak the bed sheet below you. 

A flurry of pings reminds you that you’re on camera. You can barely think straight long enough to understand what that means when Taehyung lets out a broken moan behind you. 

“Oh fuck, you just squirted, fuck baby, why are you so hot.” Taehyung’s grip on your hips hurts when he finally cums, still thrusting even when you’ve both been pushed beyond overstimulation. 

When he finally pulls out, you sag to the floor. Your entire body aches from being tied up and pounded into, not to mention how sore your ass and clit are from the constant stimulation. 

“You’re trying to kill me,” you accuse weakly as Taehyung takes a deep breath, head thrown back, chest sweaty. He’s still wearing his joggers, and his soft cock hangs over the waistband, shiny with cum. 

“Fuck,” Taehyung groans, running a hand over his face, “Alright, that’s, that’s all for today.” He crawls over to the laptop and gives the camera a salute. “See you all next week, assuming I’ve recovered.” 

The final pings ring out from the laptop before Taehyung snaps it shut and falls back on his butt. He finally tucks his cock back in his pants and turns to where you lie, weak on the floor. 

“Shit, let me get you out of this.” 

You’re in a haze, something floaty and free, like a cloud, and Taehyung caresses your wispy body as he unwraps you. Your head lulls to the side, and you let Taehyung lift your limbs and shift your body until he’s finished with all the ropes. 

“How are you feeling?” Taehyung asks, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

Content. Satiated. Happy. In love.

“Tired,” you mumble as you stare up at Taehyung. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks are a soft pink, youthful, and pretty. 

“We can take a bath and then go to bed. You’ll stay over?” His voice is a hopeful lilt when he asks, and your stomach flutters. 

“Yes, daddy.” 

Taehyung’s mouth morphs into that lopsided grin you pretend to hate so much. 

“I love it when you call me that.” 

“I hate you,” you spit out, but Taehyung kisses you before you can pout more.

It’s a slow kiss, far too gentle for what you’ve all just finished doing. Taehyung sighs into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen it, though his lips glide languidly rather than rushed with need like they had before. 

You slip your arms around his broad shoulders and appreciate the stretch of being free from your restraints. 

“You did so well, seriously. I’m really proud of you. You were so sexy and, fuck. I’m…” Taehyung trails off as he helps you stand up, keeping you cradled against his body when you start to sway. “Thank you for doing this with me.” 

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and find no bratty comeback, only a flood of happiness that nearly chokes you. 

“Maybe we can do it again if you wanna,” you offer with your lips against his neck. His skin is salty with sweat, but you flick your tongue against him anyway, just to make him squirm. 

Taehyung pulls back slightly to stare at you. “For real?” 

“If you keep asking, I might change my mind!” 

You try to wiggle out of Taehyung’s arms, but he keeps you close. It’s fine; you don’t really want to be anywhere else but here, pressed against Taehyung’s broad frame, blanketed by his gentle attention.

Even if he is annoying. 

[texanpanda]

Bob Reynolds x gn!reader

This is the first thing I've written in a very long time and probably the first story I've ever posted. Not sure how to format but I'll figure it out. I cried on my floor listening to the Let Down cover by Mack Lorén and then this idea popped into my head and wouldn't let me rest so here ya go.

I think I've kept the description and interactions with the reader pretty neutral even though I was picturing my oc Stella the entire time. Let me know if you like it and I might try to be creative again lol.

It had been over an hour since Bob saw you disappear into your bedroom. You had come out in an oversized sweatshirt and gotten a cold bottle of water from the fridge. When he offered a quiet "Hey-" you had hummed quietly in response then continued down the hall.

His leg bounced as he sat in his usual reading spot, occasionally glancing down the hall to your room. You had been acting distant that day and it sent his mind into overdrive. He wasn't sure if you were mad at him or if maybe something else was bothering you but he felt an overwhelming need to fix it.

He tried to go back to reading his book but couldn't get past the first sentence on the page before needing to lift his head to look down the hall again. His gut was telling him that something was wrong. He wanted to brush it off as his usual anxiety but couldn't because what if something really was wrong with you? What if you were hurt and hid it from him? What if you were mad at him for not helping with the dishes or for leaving the coffee creamer out yesterday? Did he even do that or was he making up reasons for you to be upset with him?

Snapping his book shut, he stood and made his way down the hall. There was nothing wrong with checking in, right? You always told him that he could come talk to you about anything. And that you wouldn't be mad if he asked a dumb question. Even if it sounded rude or inappropriate, there was always a way to move forward with the conversation.

You were helping him figure out how to communicate better. Not just with you but with everyone else in the tower and beyond. You had been in therapy for several years and had done your own research on the coping skills you had learned so you were the go-to person when anyone in the tower was struggling. But who do you go to? Who checks in with you when you are struggling?

Bob wanted to be that person. Not just to help you, because he definitely cared about you and wanted to make sure you were okay but also to be useful. He wanted to help in any way that he could so that him being here meant something. So that he meant something. To you.

When he reached your door he hesitated. He could faintly hear music playing from behind the door. Tilting his weight from side to side he contemplating actually knocking on your door or trying to go back to reading. What if you just wanted some alone time and him checking in was actually ruining your day? He shouldn't be trying to take up your time with his stupid need to help. He'll just make it-

His thoughts were cut off when he heard a sniffle sound. Had he heard correctly? Were you okay? He leaned his head closer to the door, the scolded himself mentally for trying to eavesdrop. But got distracted when he heard the sound of you blowing your nose and something almost like a whimper.

All doubts forgotten he knocked and called out your name. The sniffling stopped and he knocked again. The music went quiet and he faintly heard you call out "come in" . When he opened the door he was met with a sight that made his stomach drop and his head spin.

You were curled up on the floor hugging a pillow. Tears were streaming down your face as you blew your nose again then tossed the tissue into your nearby trash can. You looked like you had been full sobbing the entire hour he hadn't seen you and his chest clenched at the very idea of you suffering alone.

"Oh my God- ar- are you okay? What happened? What's wrong?" He stumbled into the room and knelt next to you, hands uselessly hovering in the air as if to grab you and check for injuries. He couldn't see anything immediate but that didn't mean there wasn't something hidden.

You let out a snort of laughter then sniffled again. "I'm fine, Bob." You replied so casually like your eyes weren't red and your breathing wasn't stuttering.

"You don't look fine." He fired back, no longer worried about upsetting you. "You look- what happened? Why- why are you crying? On the floor?" His hands flexed mid air as if instinctively wanting to hold you but not knowing if that would be welcome right now.

You blinked up at him then reached for the water bottle sitting beside you. "Oh, it's floor time." As if that would answer any questions he could possibly have about your current state.

"Floor time? What's floor time?" He'd never heard of floor time and was a little afraid to find out if it left you in tears.

"Oh yeah. It's a coping thing my old roomate and I used to do." Even with some context he was still confused. You had taken a small sip of water and then let out a deep sigh. When you looked up at him again you could see the confusion clearly on his face. "Lying on the floor and listening to sad music is a good way to cry." You explained simply.

"Uh, yeah. I can see that. But-" He couldn't quite wrap his head around you seemingly happy to have a full meltdown on the floor, like it was normal. "I don't get why?" His hands dropped to his knees as he looked you over again.

You nodded as if his confusion made perfect sense to you. "It's not for everyone. But with our line of work, I don't always have time to express my emotions in a healthy way, y'know?" You waved your hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. "We're constantly on the move with missions stuff and it gets pretty overwhelming, so I decided to pick a time to cry before my body decided for me." You cracked a smile at your joke and he felt his lips twitch in an attempt to match it.

He nodded in understanding. There were times when the others got loud or someone made a comment that had him holding back tears. He never really thought about how often he felt overwhelmed with everything. Most of the time he tries to push it aside or hold it back.

"Yeah, so I like to set aside time every couple of weeks to just, have a good cry." You gesture to you self and your little set-up on the floor. That's when he realized that everything around you had been placed deliberately. The water bottle for hydration, the pillow for comfort, even the tissue box and mini trash can were all within easy access.

He'd never heard of purposely setting yourself up to have "a good cry" as you called it but he could see the benefits if letting all your feelings out.

"So you...you're not hurt?" You smiled at his concern and shook your head.

"No, I'm not hurt. And I was pretty much done when you knocked anyway." He nodded along, feeling embarrassed that he had freaked out about something you considered so normal. You watched him sit there staring at the bottle in your hands like it held the answers to the universe.

"Would you like to have some floor time too? I've got a good Playlist." His eyes trailed up to your face where you held a calm smile. His gaze dropped back down and he shrugged a shoulder.

"I don't think I'd be very good at it." His voice was quiet, still embarrassed and now wondering if he should have just stayed in his reading corner. Your hand reached out to brush his arm gently.

"There's no being good or bad at it. There's just letting yourself feel." You squeezed his arm slightly and he leaned into the touch. "It can be hard to do and there's no pressure to do anything but lying on the floor and listening to sad music helps me personally so if you want to try it you totally can."

Now that he was sitting on the floor with you, in your bedroom, there was a part of him that wanted to take any excuse to stay with you. Even if that meant crying in front of you.

He chewed on his bottom lip in contemplation. You sat beside him, body relaxed with your thumb gently rubbing his sweater.

"What do I do?" He finally asked. Your responding grin was bright enough to make his heard stutter.

"Alright first things first, make sure you have comfy clothes." He looked down at his usual ensemble of sweater, and sweatpants. "Check. Next get something for hydration. If you're gonna cry you gotta replenish that water. I've still got some in mine if you like." You'd managed to drink about half the bottle and handed it to him. He took it without question and held it like a life line.

"Check." He said softy.

"Next we lay down and get comfy on the floor. C'mere." You gestured to the emtpy space next you and lay down on your back. He followed your instructions and lay down on his back beside you.

It was then that he noticed you had tiny glow in the dark stars on your ceiling. His eyes traced over the imaginary constellations as you shifted and brushed your shoulder against his.

"Alright, final step is play some deep emotional music and then let yourself feel whatever you feel." You reach up to grab your phone and press play. Instantly the room is filled with a soft piano song that he doesn't recognize. "Don't forget to breath."

You both lay on the floor quietly breathing and letting the notes from the song wash over you. Bob let's out a deep breath and feels his body start to relax into the carpet. He isn't really sure what he's supposed to be feeling but he knows he's feeling something.

You reach over again and brush your fingers against his. He wiggles his fingers back until they are hooked with yours. Not quite holding hands, but connected in a way that feels comforting. Something in his shoulders let go and a tension he didn't know he felt finally releases.

The song changes to the ballad cover of a rock song. As you lay there next to eachother he thinks about everything that's ever happened in his life. His parents, his addiction, the vault. None of it really makes him cry but it feels good to think about everything without a voice in his head bringing it up first.

A sniffle pulls his attention back to you. He glances to the side to see slow tears seeping out of your eyes. Your face isn't scrunched but relaxed as the tears slide down the side of your face into your hair. You slowly reach up to wipe one when it gets to close to your ear.

Bob watches you for a second before turning his eyes back to the stars on the ceiling. He lays there for another minute, listening to the vocals of the ballad and waiting...

But nothing happens.

His body is more relaxed but no tears come. He wants to cry. He has so many reasons to cry but it just- isn't happening. His body isn't in the moment and he doesn't feel the need to cry. He let's out a frustrated huff.

"I don't think I'm doing it right." He speaks finally, annoyed at himself that he can't do something as simple as cry. You sniffed again then turned to face him.

"You're not doing anything wrong, Bob." You told him and gave his fingers a slight squeeze. "If you don't need to cry right now then don't worry about it. We can just sit here and listen to music." He turns to look at you again and you offer him a teary smile. He feels a pull in his chest at the sight, but nods and searches the ceiling for constellations again.

"We can just...sit here." He repeats like the concept of simply existing was entirely new to him. Your fingers curl into his his again and together you simply...exist.

The next half hour is spent mostly in silence as your tears dry up and you both enjoy the peaceful atmosphere in the room. Bob didn't shed any tears but let his body relax for the first time in a long time and that was kind of the whole point wasn't it?

@may-daye here's the full one-shot for you

[akari-of-moonlight]

[Matchbox, Yearbook, Pen.]

Hasemura Week Day 5: [Tribute]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Tetro Danganronpa Pink

Relationships: Kamimura Kazutoshi/Hasegawa Ken

Characters: Hasegawa Ken, Kamimura Kazutoshi

Additional tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Angst, Symbolism, Freeform-ish?, who knows it reads like a fever dream, there's some mild blood and stuff but if you're into tetro I don't think it should matter, I still don't know how to tag fics help

Hi guys I still don't know how to format these fics. uh I wrote this whole thing in one day and then spent three weeks editing it and not posting it because I got scared but HERE IT IS!!! Be warned it's very long I got a little carried away.

Thank you to @thewhimsicalenderdragon for betaing I love you

Kazutoshi sits at the desk next to Ken in an empty classroom. 

He’s just… there, arms crossed gently in his lap, like this is normal. As if the two of them were simply going through another day of school. 

Which is strange, because they never went to school together.

He is looking out the wall of windows, to something Ken can’t see. The sky outside is blindingly white. Looking at it, the impression of clouds sears into Ken’s mind, although there are no discernible outlines. And it burns as if it is the sun itself.

A simple arrangement of objects is laid out across Kazutoshi’s desk. A small matchbox and a yearbook, with a single black pen laying over them.

Kazutoshi doesn’t touch any of the objects on his desk. He simply looks out the window. Out into the light. Maybe it doesn’t burn his eyes.

He is beautiful. Fleeting and perfect, drawn in sharp lines and rimmed by that white light. 

His fingers tap light rhythms on the desk in a subconscious habit. He always did that when he was thinking. The small motion is so achingly familiar that Ken’s breath catches again.

Ken’s eyes fix upon those same small, angular, agile fingers that had traced over his hands and shoulders nervously or casually, like a light breeze, leaving burning prints behind in its wake. 

Kazutoshi’s hands look like paper in the light, pale and beautiful against the warm brown wood of the desk. A blue tinge afflicts them like a layer of time and decay, and Ken can’t focus on them for too long, he just can’t.

The light from the windows burns at Kazutoshi’s figure, yet he remains undesecrate, like the pillars of stone and cement left behind after flood or famine, burning disaster, bloody wars. Relics of before times. Untouchable.

Even though Ken can’t see his face, his very silhouette is beautiful. His posture looks relaxed, casual, his small frame curving perfectly in the light like the arching porcelain centerpiece that stood in the fountain outside of Ken’s favorite restaurant. 

Ken hadn’t thought about that restaurant in weeks. 

He wants to reach for Kazutoshi. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows he doesn’t deserve to be here, next to the brilliant cobalt singularity that had believed that Ken would never taint his hands with the blood of another. He knows this isn’t real, can’t be real. He knows he is dead.

Terminal Agitation: the tendency of one to experience disorientation or hallucinations before death. Not to be confused with one’s life flashing before their eyes.

As a child, Ken often used to worry that nothing was real. That maybe “he” was just a single flash of consciousness in the burning, ruinous slop that was some sort of a plane of existence. That maybe he was imagining everything, a fabricated universe built around the only consciousness the void would ever know. 

Maybe he was only ever experiencing this moment, and nothing else had ever been real. 

Maybe he hadn’t even really started that sentence. 

There wasn’t a way to know, and there would never be a way to know. He hated that. God, he hated that.

Back then, the brush of his mother’s hair would bring him back. Her touch, her soft voice, her words of reassurance. 

Now, the pain brings him back.

If he really is only living in a delusion of this one moment, then it’s a stupid fucking moment to gain consiousness for.

Ken finds himself crying. 

His body is crying, at least. Tears stream down his face as his limbs shake more than they should be able to, and his chest heaves in tempo with the ticking of the clock behind him. 

Why is the clock so fast?

Ken doesn’t cry in public. He could never understand people who could just let themselves go under the watchful eyes of others like that. Only three people in the world had ever seen him cry before. 

Well, that isn’t true anymore, he supposes.

The tears don’t stop his thoughts. They never have.

There is blood on his hands. There is death in his lungs.

He’s spent a lot of time around dead bodies lately. At a certain point you get used to it. 

Ken knows he is guilty, but he doesn’t feel guilt. He should, probably. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. He closes his eyes, and he sees it again.

Stilted rules that destroyed everything he had planned for.

Five rotting corpses, faces in familiar fixtures of horror.

Blue eyes that had asked a question he couldn’t answer, and the tears that refracted their light that had felt somehow soul crushingly familiar and incomprehensibly foreign. 

He had nothing to say to them.

A hand grabs his wrist, jolting him back to reality. 

Kazutoshi had turned around, red eyes piercing as the day they had been extinguished. 

“Ken.”

Kazutoshi’s grip is tight, almost fierce. Ken wants to look at him, but the light enveloping him makes it hard. He can only focus his eye on Kazutoshi’s hand, which pulls at his skin, nails digging into him like little pinpricks.

Ken is silent. He doesn’t try to pull his wrist back, or pry Kazutoshi off. Kazutoshi stares him dead in the eye as he whispers four words.

“What have you done?”

Ken closes his eyes. He deserves it, the scorn, the hate, the blame. Kazutoshi was innocent. Ken was guilty. It was as simple as that.

Kazutoshi pulls Ken’s wrist sharply, bringing it next to his head. Close, too close, to that luminescent celeste hair. Kazutoshi’s hand is tensed, still clutching, digging into Ken’s limp wrist. Ken is pulled forward, catching himself with his legs as he starts to lose feeling in his hand. Strange that he had feeling in his hand in the first place. Strange that he could catch himself with his legs.

Kazutoshi is so close to him now, but Ken still can’t see his face. He can only make out his small frame, his cerulean silhouette. His wrist hurts from Kazutoshi’s grip. 

“Say something, Ken,” Kazutoshi says, and it’s desperate and angry and hollow all at once.

Ken knows he should apologize. He knows he should fall apart in front of the boy who saved him, broke him. He knows he should beg for forgiveness or stumble to explain himself. He knows he should want to lean forward and embrace Kazutoshi. He knows he should want to hold him while he still could.

Instead, Ken stays silent. He stares past Kazutoshi, into the burning sky. He realizes that his right eye is still covered by bandages. 

The blazing light from outside tinges his vision red, his bandage only becoming an amplifier to the horribly beautiful, almost sentient light that comes from Kazutoshi and from beyond him at the same time. 

“What… happened to you?” Kazutoshi asks. His voice is raw and broken, and Ken feels dizzy. 

Dizziness is a common side effect of blood loss, due to a lack of proper oxygen in the brain. A human can usually lose about 30% of their total blood volume without a high chance of death. Vitals will likely be heavily affected.

Her body probably didn’t even have time to replenish the blood she’d lost.

“Say something,” Kazutoshi repeats. He sounds like he’s on the verge of falling apart. Ken’s head is throbbing in time with the clock, but he forces his eye to lock with Kazutoshi’s anyway.

“Please, Ken,” Kazutoshi begs. “I need to hear you. I– I don’t care if it’s an apology or some stupid fucking fact. I need–”

His breath hitches, and Ken should reach forward to comfort him. He should say something.

But he is tired. He is so, so tired. 

He was ready to go. He was ready for his consciousness to fade away. He was ready to not think anymore. He wanted to die. 

He didn’t want Kazutoshi back now. He wanted to never have lost him. He wanted to never have known how much he lost.

Why isn’t he allowed to die?

Matchbox, yearbook, pen. 

Hand around his wrist.

Sped up clock.

“I need to know you still care.” 

Ken doesn’t know how to reply to Kazutoshi’s plea. He doesn’t know how to be what Kazutoshi deserves. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than tired.

Kazutoshi waits. The clock doesn’t. It drones on, a cacophony in a single sound, and Ken wants to break it. He wants the broken glass to bite into his hand and tear into his body. He wants it to just shut up already.

“Do you care?” Kazutoshi asks. 

Ken doesn’t have an answer for him.

Apathy syndrome: categorized by indifference and emotional detachment. Sources from traumatic experiences. General apathy may also be a symptom of other neurological conditions.

Ironically, he doesn’t remember as much about this topic as he used to.

Kazutoshi stands up, still holding Ken’s wrist next to his head. Every part of his body is tense, drawn taught and shaking with pressure. His silhouette almost blocks the light from behind him. 

Ken lets himself slump to the side as Kazutoshi pulls his arm up instead of forward, standing over Ken and casting a shadow over his face.

Ken can make out Kazutoshi’s features now. His eyes, which before Ken could only make out the burning red of, are narrowed and marred with exhaustion. Blood drips from a few stab wounds on his face, but the rest of the damage Ken knows should be there is covered by his sweater. Tracks of dried tears trace down his face. 

Kazutoshi slowly lowers his hand, never loosening his grip. Ken’s elbow folds immediately, his limp arm giving Kazutoshi no resistance. Kazutoshi pulls Ken’s wrist into his shadow. Ken can see that his jagged nails have broken skin, and Ken is softly bleeding too.

Kazutoshi watches him, quietly. It is a different kind of quiet than what they know. 

The clock is almost louder now.

In his free hand, Kazutoshi grabs the pen. He lifts it, discarding the cap with a flick of his fingers. He places it on the desk momentarily, using his left hand to wrap gently around Ken’s wrist, right below where his other hand is. Slowly, he releases his tight grip, shifting Ken’s hand to rest much more lightly in his left hand. His gentle touch hurts so much more than his cutting grasp.

With Ken’s hand in his grip, Kazutoshi reaches for the uncapped pen, bringing it to Ken’s wrist. 

He presses down, hard enough that droplets of blood grow atop the cuts from his nails. Slowly, strokes form under the pen, as Kazutoshi drags it across Ken’s wrist.

When he is finished, he examines his work. He shakes his head disapprovingly, as if unsatisfied, and uses his other hand to wipe at Ken’s wrist.

Ken’s blood mixes with cheap pen ink, smearing across his wrist and onto Kazutoshi’s hand. Whatever Kazutoshi wrote is ruined by blood and ink. 

Ken’s eyes lay listlessly on his bleeding, ink stained hand. Kazutoshi still holds it softly in his left, gazing at it with an unreadable expression. Then he lets it fall onto the desk. 

Ken is jolted by the sudden impact. He meets Kazutoshi’s eyes. 

They both look tired.

A single word falls out of his mouth.

“Kazutoshi.”

Kazutoshi’s eyes widen, then he shakes his head, a small smile not reaching anywhere near his eyes slipping through his face.

“Ken,” he whispers back. It is not a question, but Ken answers anyway, reaching for Kazutoshi. He expects to be stopped before he can make contact, but his hand meets Kazutoshi’s face. He hesitates, still waiting to be slapped away. His hand brushes lightly over Kazutoshi’s cheek. 

Kazutoshi stares at him unflinchingly. The Kazutoshi he knew would never have let him do this. The Kazutoshi he knew wouldn’t be doing any of this.

Ken reaches for the trail of dried tears. Instead, he makes contact with warm blood. Kazutoshi’s blood. 

A small trail of it has dripped down from the small wound under Kazutoshi’s right eye. It is achingly familiar to the touch. 

Kazutoshi brings his hand up to meet Ken’s, guiding it to smear the blood away, and then letting go, still staring at Ken with something unreadable. 

Ken drops his hand, staring at Kazutoshi, in his blood stained, sunlit, opalescent glory. 

“Ken,” Kazutoshi says again, a little bolder. A little more commanding.

He takes a breath, pushing his chair back and stepping between their perfectly aligned desks. He gazes around the room, looking at the rows of perfectly aligned desks. With a simple eye roll, he pushes his own desk out of place, destroying the perfect lines of the room. Ken stares at the broken pattern, eyes tracing lines that don’t make sense anymore. 

It feels freeing, untameable. It feels broken and wrong.

The yearbook falls to the ground, opening to a white page. At the top, bold text labels it as a page for signatures. 

Small scrawling handwriting drowns in the white of the page. 

I’ll see you later.

No name. No signature. No goodbye.

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi picks up the matchbox from his desk, eyes tracing over it. 

He lights a match, letting it burn in the air for a second, before throwing it away, casting it off to the side. 

As soon as the match hits the ground, it lights up the floor, racing up the walls and forming a perimeter around him and Ken. He smiles another strange, sad smile at Ken, backlit by the searing light of the windows and the angry, hungry, all consuming heat of the fire.

Fire needs three things, fuel, oxygen, and a source of ignition. Heat. Classroom floors made of linoleum don’t provide enough fuel for the fire on their own to keep it going. It would have to use gasoline to burn like that.

Why is it burning like that?

Ken stands up, suddenly able to move again. 

Kazutoshi looks up at him. Ken almost forgot how small he was.

“Kazutoshi,” he whispers.

“So you feel the fire, at least,” Kazutoshi notes, voice softer than Ken had ever heard it before. There was something almost provoking to it, in a way unlike the familiar teasing that Kazutoshi usually took up. 

Ken knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Kazutoshi wouldn’t do this. That this couldn’t be him. Even if aching familiarity was imbued in his every movement. Even if Ken could swear the burning warmth of him was exactly as he remembered.

“I… Kazutoshi,” Ken’s voice cracks like glass under the heat of Kazutoshi’s gaze. The clock ticks, and no way is it going at the right tempo. The fire traces up the walls and envelops them.

Ken notices now that the room doesn’t have a door.

Strange.

Kazutoshi lets the matchbox fall to the ground, and the matches spill out across the floor. He kicks a few out of his way, then reluctantly gazes up at Ken. 

“A– Are you… What is this?” Ken chokes out the question, Kazutoshi’s piercing eyes drawing out the barbed words that should come easily to him. 

Kazutoshi smirks. “That’s a change. The quiz guy himself, looking to me for answers, I mean.”

Ken’s breath catches in the familiarity of Kazutoshi’s easy tone. He doesn’t find it so strange. He was always looking to Kazutoshi, after all. Even if Kazutoshi didn’t see it. 

Kazutoshi shrugs. “Maybe you just need a button,” he muses. 

Ken has had enough of buttons lately. He doesn’t think he could bear to stand at a podium again. 

“I– I don’t have the answers. Not anymore.” The words slip out before Ken realizes. “There’s… god, Kazutoshi, there’s so much.”

Kazutoshi nods like he knows what Ken means. He sighs, hands slipping into his pockets. Ken wants to memorize this moment. The soft curve of Kazutoshi’s shoulders, the brilliance of his colors in the light, the light, thin strands of blue hair that frame his face. He really is beautiful.

“You were so close,” Kazutoshi says softly.

Ken nods. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Kazutoshi shakes his head. “I guess I did mean something, then.”

“Everything,” Ken chokes out. “Y– You meant… everything.”

Kazutoshi is silent for a few seconds.

He glances past Ken, at the fire ravaging the classroom. 

“Funny,” he notes. “I never took fire to be much of our thing.”

His eyes trace the room’s slowly burning form. Posters with unreadable text blacken and crumble to ash. The fire spread across the floor and two of the walls. Only the windows and the giant chalkboard at the front of the classroom remain untouched. That, and the middle of the classroom, where the two of them stood. 

“It really is clean, huh,” Kazutoshi muses. “I mean, I never had to work on a fire scene before. It kind of just… takes everything. If there’s anything left behind, it’s not exactly something that can be cleaned or salvaged.”

He locks eyes with Ken again.

“You know something about that, yeah?” Kazutoshi prompts. 

Ken doesn’t respond. Kazutoshi shrugs and continues. 

“I mean, you’re a facts guy. You know a lot. Maybe too much. There’s got to be some facts about fire in there.”

Kazutoshi leans in a little closer, gazing at Ken. 

“I… I can’t…” Ken tries to choke out something, anything, as his vision blurs. “I don’t know.”

The heat of the fire claws at his skin, and the cuts on his wrist have started to throb. 

“Right,” Kazutoshi says, almost disappointed. He moves back, and Ken chokes. It’s like he can’t breathe without Kazutoshi. Or maybe it’s just smoke inhalation. 

Kazutoshi picks up the pen from the desk again. He brings it up to Ken’s face, and a part of Ken expects Kazutoshi to drive it through his flesh, making Ken a mirror image of him, bloodied and marred. A part of him wants that.

Instead, Kazutoshi slips it through one layer of Ken’s bandages. He places his other hand against Ken’s chest, bracing him, then pulls at the bandage with the pen. 

Ken doesn’t stop him, but something in his face must cue Kazutoshi to his lack of understanding.

“I want to see your eyes,” Kazutoshi whispers.

He slowly pulls at the bandage, tightening the other loops around Ken’s head. Something about the pressure makes Ken lightheaded. Kazutoshi pulls a little harder, and the bandage unravels, falling away.

Ken wonders if maybe the strips of gauze were the only things holding him together.

Kazutoshi pulls the pen back. Ken’s bandages drape over it, and looking at it, Ken realizes that the outer lining has cracked from the pressure. A single fissure traces down the side of the pen, and ink flows out, staining Ken’s bandage a dark, not-quite-black tone. Dark ink spills onto Kazutoshi’s left hand as he looks up at Ken.

Somehow, Ken can see out of his right eye. His vision is blurry for a second, before it focuses. 

He stares at Kazutoshi. Sea glass and coquelicot make up heaven itself in front of him. He breathes a little easier, just for a second. 

Kazutoshi stares into Ken’s eyes in return, then unwraps the now more black than white bandages until he’s holding a long strip of stained gauze in his hand. He motions for Ken to lift his hand, and he does.

Kazutoshi gently wraps his wrist with the bandage, pressing hard enough to close the cuts and allow them to clot. The gauze eats up the excess blood on Ken’s wrist, ink and blood mixing in every place and consuming the white material.

Every language has different words for every color. Black and white are almost always the first two colors given a name to in every culture, with red shortly after, making black, white, and red the three most basic color terms. This is theorized to be because these colors make up the most contrast in color as humans perceive it, making it not only a cultural phenomenon but a biological one, although full research on this topic is mainly theory.

The fire is burning closer and closer. It fills the air, hammering into Ken’s skull like the ticking of the clock. The yearbook sits dangerously close to the flames.

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi seems to track Ken’s line of sight. He leans over to the book, picking it up and moving to sit on the edge of Ken’s desk, like they’re just classmates who stayed late to chat after class. Like the room isn’t burning around them.

Kazutoshi flips through the pages, looking unimpressed. Ken leans over to look.

“We’re not in here, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Kazutoshi says. Ken doesn’t know how to respond to that. 

The yearbook is full of pictures. Terribly familiar faces greet Ken on the pages. 

Isono. Sasaki. Chiba. Harada.

Tsuno.

Okazaki.

Ken wants to throw the yearbook into the fire, but he isn’t the one holding it. 

Okazaki’s face fills a page, in vibrant colors and bright hues. Ken can’t look too long before his vision turns red. He coughs, and wonders how long it will take to die from smoke inhalation.

Kazutoshi flips through the pages, looking bored. 

Hama and Watari. Hiroaki, Ojima, Tamba, Wada. 

Yanagi. Hayashi.

Kazutoshi pauses on another page of photos with some over-the-top, flaunting caption at the top that Ken can’t get himself to read. Kazutoshi points to a small picture in the left corner. Blue hair catches Ken’s eye, and he sees the two of them, blurred and out of focus, in the background of a photo.

“I mean, it’s better than nothing,” Kazutoshi mutters.

Ken stares at it. His eyes burn, maybe from the smoke. 

In all the pictures, is all proof they existed a blurred memory of someone else? 

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi finishes flipping through the yearbook, setting it back down on his desk. Ken hopes it burns. 

“I guess we didn’t mean that much, in the end,” Kazutoshi says.

Ken stares at the fire. They didn’t, did they? 

Even when the others shared memories of their dead peers, Kazutoshi’s name lingered like a taboo. Even to Ken. 

And now the two of them are here.

Choking on smoke, and burning to death in an empty classroom.

Background features.

“You meant something,” Ken hears himself say.

“Oh yeah?” Kazutoshi prompts, almost detached.

“Kazutoshi, you–” Ken chokes out. He cuts off. 

He doesn’t know how to tell Kazutoshi that he was so much more than something. That he was the air in Ken’s lungs, the blood in his veins. That in his absence, Ken became a negative. He no longer was. He became an amalgamation of everything he wasn’t.

“You were everything,” Ken repeats, unable to say anything more.

“But I wasn’t. Not while I was alive,” Kazutoshi says, crossing his arms.

Ken doesn’t know how to respond to that. He truly doesn’t know if there was a time where Kazutoshi wasn’t his only tie to life. He knows there must have been, but…

“What do you think I am? What did you turn me into, when I died?”

Ken can’t say anything to that. 

Kazutoshi’s red eyes cut into him.

“When did I become everything, Ken?”

When I became nothing.

The fire burns. The clock ticks. Ken breathes in smoke. 

“I don’t want to be everything,” Kazutoshi says.

“I– I know,” Ken stammers. “I’m sorry.”

Kazutoshi’s hands reach up, and he pulls his hoodie a little tighter around his neck. 

“I… I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t your entire world.”

“I know,” Ken repeats.

Kazutoshi looks to Ken with something like a plea in his eyes.

“I… That scares me, Ken.”

“...It scares me too.”

Kazutoshi’s left hand is still covered in black ink. The wounds on his face have started to bleed again. The largest one leaves a trail of red down his face. It almost looks like a tear.

Ken reaches for him, wanting to wipe away the blood again, but he pauses. He doesn’t want to touch Kazutoshi. Kazutoshi wouldn’t want Ken to touch him. Even if this isn’t actually Kazutoshi.

“It’s okay,” Kazutoshi whispers, noticing Ken’s hand hovering like a hummingbird over his face.

Ken pauses, still unsure.

Kazutoshi’s ink stained hand rests on Ken’s wrist, and he can’t tell if the ink of his bandage soaks into Kazutoshi’s hand, or the other way around. Ken closes the distance, hand gently smearing the trail of blood off Kazutoshi’s face. 

Kazutoshi’s hand traces up Ken’s arm, drawing a trail of black ink along Ken’s white shirt. He pauses, then brings his hand to rest on Ken’s shoulder. Ken takes a step closer. 

Kazutoshi stares into his eyes, and Ken feels like he can breathe again, despite the claustrophobic fire ravaging the very air around them. Ken’s hand lingers next to Kazutoshi’s face.

“God… what happened to us?” Kazutoshi asks, letting out a dry laugh. Ken closes his eyes, content to burn with Kazutoshi, even for just a second.

Ken doesn’t know if he leans forward, or if Kazutoshi pulls him down, but in a moment, their lips collide. 

The burning classroom disappears, and all that is left is them. 

Kazutoshi’s lips move softly, but with warm urgency. Ken follows his motions, letting go of everything. He doesn’t think about what any of it means. He is only in the now, in the here, in Kazutoshi, as he finally breathes into what he should’ve done when they still had time. Kazutoshi feels warm, feels alive, and Ken lets his hand wrap around Kazutoshi’s head, gently intertwining his fingers with Kazutoshi’s cobalt hair. Ken feels his knees buckle under him, but he doesn’t dare pull away. 

The two of them kiss, slowly sinking to the ground in each other’s arms. 

Kazutoshi pulls away for air, not far enough to create any more distance between them. Ken only realizes then that both of them had slipped to their knees. The dropped matches lay scattered around and under them. Kazutoshi laughs into the gap between their faces, before kissing Ken again, pulling him even closer. Ken’s white shirt is stained with black and scarlet, and Kazutoshi’s beautiful face is marred with tears and blood from both of them like paint across his features. 

Ken pulls away from the kiss this time.

“I’m so sorry, Kazutoshi,” he whispers. 

Kazutoshi finds Ken’s left hand without turning away. His thin fingers pull Ken’s closer. Kazutoshi’s other hand shifts to wrap around Ken’s neck, soft but steady.

“It’s over now,” Kazutoshi replies, and it feels something like forgiveness.

Ken doesn’t know if he’s the one crying, or if maybe both of them are, but it doesn’t matter. The two of them fold into each other on the classroom floor. Ken can feel the fire burning closer and closer, and soon it is upon them.

Kazutoshi grabs for Ken’s stained shirt, and Ken pulls Kazutoshi into him, their bodies meeting flush, as fire and ink and blood and tears converge on the only thing that matters anymore. Even if it isn’t real.

As Ken’s vision goes black, his thoughts slow, for the first time that he can remember. He lets himself go as he holds Kazutoshi. 

It’s over now.

[wistfulnightingale]

An Unexpected Encounter (or, 2 Angels and a Demon walk into a Park...)

[From the "Moments That Matter" scene analysis series]

The fight at the Bandstand in S1 is a painful conflict to watch. It seems to establish a pattern of how Aziraphale conducts himself. He doesn't just prattle heavenly platitudes occasionally -- in times of stress, he praises heaven and devalues Crowley, hurting him deeply and damaging their relationship.

Except, I don't think that's what really happened here. Back in 1862, at St. James Park, Aziraphale said awful things to push Crowley away --because the angel realized that hell was still closely monitoring Crowley, watching and listening, after finally releasing him from the 1827 kidnapping and punishment. Azi was never going to let that happen again. I talk more about it in Anything to Protect Crowley and also in The Night That Changed an Angel.

I believe something very similar happened at the Bandstand. Our Angel wasn't speaking freely. He knew that they could be overheard and discovered at any moment, because there was another angel in that same park -- a very powerful and potentially dangerous angel.

The Supreme Archangel Gabriel had taken up jogging. In that park. On paths in view of the Bandstand itself.

Crowley and Aziraphale had agreed to meet at their "third alternative rendezvous", the old Bandstand, to share info and plan what to do next. Instead, it all quickly fell apart. Aziraphale was closed off, tense and edgy from the moment he arrived on the scene.

When Aziraphale approached the Bandstand for the secret meeting, he was frantically looking around. Crowley was already there waiting.

Aziraphale, I believe, had unexpectedly seen Gabriel just minutes before in the park, or even had to speak to Gabriel while on his way to meet with his-best-friend-a-demon to subvert the Apocalype -- and there was no safe way to warn Crowley that this absurdly impossible and incredibly dangerous thing had happened. To say it aloud was to risk being heard in an alliance. To leave Crowley there alone with the Supreme Archangel so close by was unthinkable.

To protect them both, Aziraphale had no choice but to turn the meeting into a confrontation.

Let's break down the two park scenes to see how all this comes together.

Tricksy as always, Good Omens separated the two park scenes into separate episodes. In all my re-watches of GO Season 1, I'd never noticed that the bandstand from E3 was literally in the background in E4 when Gabriel jogs away from Aziraphale after their conversation, miracles back, and jogs away again.

(Clue #1) I didn't catch on until I was formatting photos for my post on Good Omens & The Existential Art of Not Giving Up. That's when I realized that, in the E3 bandstand photos I showed above, the small figure of Aziraphale wasn't just casually glancing around to confirm their privacy. He was practically walking backwards as he approached the bandstand, arms and coat swinging wide as if he were turning around urgently.

But why?

The answer that makes the most sense is that Episode 4 wasn't the first day Gabriel went jogging in the park. So I started examing the scenes. And in my down-the-rabbit-hole gotta-figure-it-all-out way, I found more to justify this solution.

(Clue #2) In E4, just after the intro, Aziraphale is just hanging out in the park (4:02). We see him strolling aimlessly and looking widely around, as if looking for something (or someone!), just before the "Last Day of the World" sign is shown to us. Then he gets distracted by the golden "angel" busker. (Since when does Aziraphale just wander around a park alone? Especially when there's an Earth and all humanity to save by teatime??).

(Clue #3) Gabriel, confident as always, seems quite familiar with his route. He doesn't react to either the golden "angel" human or the easily recognizable Principality. No weird glances, no mocking eye roll. He just jogs on. As if neither one is unexpected. As if he's seen both in the park before.

And why wouldn't he? Physical training programs are typically a daily thing (so I've heard!). E4 is literally the day of the expected Apolcalypse, which the Supreme Archangel declares is "right on schedule". He knew exactly when it was coming. Even if Gabriel doesn't actually need to train, it's unlikely he would go for his very first run on the actual day of Armageddon Far more probable that he's jogged here at least a few times. Good ol' Gabe understands the assignment -- he's got a custom-made sweatsuit and running shoes, after all!

(Clue #4) Nor does Aziraphale appear upset to see Gabriel jog by. He's startled that he didn't see him coming, but our Angel's face is steady, determined. He's not surprised or anxious to see him here.

Azi gets his bearings and immediately jogs after the archangel and tries (quite unsuccessfully!) to pull ahead of him to talk.

Azi already knew that Gabriel would be there, because he'd seen him there yesterday (E3). Our Angel came back to the park today to wait for him, hoping to convince him to cancel Armageddon. He'd apparently planned to flag the archangel down, but missed his chance when he got distracted.

(Clue #5) Aziraphale had eagerly grabbed for the phone in E3 when Crowley called (around 49:43). The moment he hears Crowley's voice, he starts to light up, then his expression becomes perplexed as Crowley uses their code words for the rendezvous location. Azi looks stressed, but otherwise normal as they arranged to meet at the old Bandstand in 15 minutes.

Aziraphale's manner towards Crowley is entirely different when we next see him, presumably only 15 minutes or so later. He walks up the few steps of the Bandstand and stops, hands tightly clasped, body tightly poised, keeping Crowley at a distance. He is no longer open to or eager for this meeting.

(Clue #6) Look at Aziraphale's face -- he's not greeting his dear and familiar friend to talk together about something that makes him anxious. That's his trauma mask, wide eyes and a frozen expression to hide his feelings and his fear. The angel's sightline doesn't even seem to be focused on Crowley's face yet.

He's encountered Gabriel on his way to their meeting. Possibly that's why Crowley arrived first and is waiting for him -- Aziraphale might have gotten delayed by the surprise encounter. If our Angel had been forced to speak with Gabriel, as is likely if Gabriel also saw him, it would be absolutely unnerving!

Gabriel is somewhere in the park, right now, training for a war to destroy demons. Crowley is vulnerably standing in that open structure where paths through the park intersect, one behind our dear demon and one behind Aziraphale. The Supreme Archangel could turn onto a path that leads him back towards the bandstand at any moment, from either direction. He could spot them from a distance, possibly even miracle close enough to hear everything before Azi sees him approaching.

Aziraphale had no safe way to warn Crowley, or tell him that Gabriel was on the park paths that day. He could only hope they wouldn't be discovered -- or do his best to ensure that, if Gabriel did come across them at the Bandstand, nothing would be seen or overheard that could be used against them.

(Clue #7) Just like in the 1862 conflict in St. James Park, Aziraphale's eyes keep darting around watchfully every time Crowley says something too familiar, something that sounds like they're friends. When Azi refutes this, he can't meet Crowley's eyes -- because he doesn't really mean it.

And, for awhile, Crowley knows that the Angel doesn't mean it.

A: I don't even like you!

C: You dooooooo-oooo.

When Crowley steps in too close, Azi sometimes glares, sometimes looks down. If you watch it without sound, it can easily look to an outside observer like Crowley is threatening Aziraphale, and that the angel is defiantly resisting.

Aziraphale is struggling to keep up the act. He wants to respond genuinely, and has moments where he does, before forcing himself to continue provoking Crowley and pushing him away.

Finally Aziraphale aggravates Crowley enough with heavenly rhetoric and a superior attitude that their argument becomes mutual. Crowley is angry, and it hurts to watch.

Our Angel knows that Gabriel could circle back around at any time. Crowley, especially, is in grave danger. The Supreme Archangel would be furious to find them "fraternizing" -- who knows what further harm he would inflict on Crowley in his anger. (We know from S2 that Crowley is terrified of Gabriel when caught unawares.) If Aziraphale appears to have the upper hand on Crowley, perhaps Gabriel won't feel a need to step in to smite the demon.

Crowley has to be kept safe... He has to leave. NOW. Aziraphale pushes the ultimate button. "There is no OUR SIDE, Crowley. Not anymore. It's over!"

He says it deliberately. It sounds Final. It breaks Aziraphale's heart.

(Clue #8) Need further proof? Despite how definite Aziraphale sounded at the bandstand, his manner is very different when Crowley finds him the next day outside the bookshop (E4). Crowley jumps out of the Bentley to apologize -- and Aziraphale literally exhales a sigh of relief that Crowley hasn't actually run away hating him. We can see his breath in the chill air (around 33:41).

He didn't need the apology. He's pleased to see his demon.

Because Aziraphale never meant what he'd felt forced to say in order to protect Crowley.

Unfortunately, everything is still happening too fast -- Crowley gives so much rapid information to react to, Aziraphale is distracted and determined to contact God, Crowley is in a panic about the powerful demons coming after him, and they don't get to sort out what happened the previous day.

But their trust still holds. As soon as each deals with their immediate crises, Our Ineffables reach out to each other. Aziraphale still calls Crowley to tell him where the Antichrist is. Crowley apparently tries to call Aziraphale back on his cell phone, which manifests a flame image and sends Crowley racing to rescue His Best Friend.

We don't need to condemn Aziraphale to defend and protect Crowley.

Aziraphale has already completely dedicated himself to doing so. And Crowley, when he's not in a temper flare, trusts him completely.

*****

Thanks for listening! If, like me, you believe in the strong bonds our Ineffables formed across the milennia, you might be interested in some of the other weird MOMENTS THAT MATTER:

Crowley on Patrol (They Weren't Entirely Caught Off-guard)

"They're Not Talking..." (But are they communicating?)

Fearful Memories (Aziraphale KNOWS)

Other posts I mentioned, about 1827 & 1862:

Anything to Protect Crowley

The Night That Changed an Angel

[cyberstudious]

sunday, december 8th, 2024

today's productivity:

did laundry

spent 1 hour taking notes from PMA ch. 16

backed up files on my laptop

planned out my week

today's self-care:

went for a run (well, mostly a walk lol)

made myself good meals throughout the day

[licorishh]

no way she's alive ?? yea those mental health breaks because social media makes people suck are wild huh

[milkywayes]

GARRUS VAKARIAN: DATABASE IMAGE ACCESS. > PT. 1 : 2160, 2166, 2170. > all files backdated according to user preferences: (terran_coordinated.calendar).

[unnamedcrane]

Hi hello, I'm here to talk about my... fairy? sona? fairy!sona? One of them!

So like i roughly mentioned before my fairy is a "pwetty faiwy" variant of fairy, which is whatever you imagine when hearing disney fairy/barbie fairy/fairytale-book-w-pretty-pictures-fairy. Sorry guys I'm not into creature-like faeries or whatever. 😔😔😔

The fairy village she lives in (alongside erineas fairy 5am) is conveniently placed in a forest that neighbors certain's skeleton's garden. And while little magic that 5am has comes from like weeds and stuff, Anna's come from flowers. Like I mentioned the magic isn't very figured out at all so pls don't ask me about details. thanks ✨

Either way Anna has more magic - giving her wings that pretty shiny magical look you usually get with fairies (doesn't change the fact that I still can't settle on their shape sigh)

In her everyday silly fairy life Anna spends her time sewing little clothes for her and her fairy friends with whatever fabric her grubby fairy hands can find (ie flower petals, leaves, whatever junk 5am brings her). She's the one that told 5am to wear some freaking clothes for once and stop being a damned nudist. (snail police tried to jail her for being indecent multiple times 😔)

After 5am meets Oak (Horror Sans) and Anna also gets introduced to him, she starts visiting his garden very often to take borrow some new materials for whatever she might be making.

With that said she also meets her eventual bone-interests through Oak. While at first this au was purely for erineas weed-indulgment needs, I quickly realized that I also want to have fairy fun with skeletons so here we are.

On that note here's fairy clothes I drew at some point last year:

the purple ones are supposed to be for Anna and spider lily dress was specifically for 5am but i couldnt figure out how to make it look nice :c

@lylia9000 as soon as u mentioned a poppy fairy, which btw so cool! hypno magic is such fun idea! I immediately remembered I drew poppy clothes before hkskjfd

(the quality is bad ik, let's not worry about that)

[moonlightsmasquerade]

Smoke break

[lights-at-night]

i am! really struggling with this fucking animatic. in one part it's just the fear of getting started but theres also like. the sheer scale of it. like there are going to be over a thousand frames. it's overwhelming. and obviously the solution is break it into easily digestible pieces which would work if i could only overcome the 20 seconds of a bunch of people doing fucking ballet at the beginning. it's way harder than anything i (animation newbie) have done before. it has to be good because it cant be anything else and so i somehow have to make it like that?!! like im contemplating going back to just 7fps but i dont think that would satisfy. and on top of it i have the weight of the homework i could be doing. so. head in my fucking hands

[kodokberjamur]

Uhh so I blacked out, and—

[sophfandoms53]

It cannot be understated just how unwell Striker has made me since December 2021, this goofy sadistic snake cowboy has completely altered my brain chemistry in a way that I have never been able to recover from

[seaofolives]

🎭 #torokatober2024 day 29/31: zero 🎻

“Quatre? Quatre.”

He gets like this at particularly…stressful moments of his work. Staring into space, facial expression unattended, posture straight, but unmoving. A remnant of something best forgotten, but keeps creeping up on Quatre whenever he starts to get scared of the decisions he has to make.

“Quatre.” Trowa cups his cheeks and turns his head to face him. “Quatre, it’s okay. I’m still here. Quatre.”

Little by little, the light of recognition returns to his eyes. As do his old fears.

Quatre latches onto him, and Trowa nods, brushing his back. “It’s okay. I’m still here. It’s okay.”

find the list of prompts here!

[scionshtola]

i went for a walk and came back and in that time tumblr changed aesthetically but did not fix any of the problems i’ve been having on the app lmao

[benetnvsch]

PUT TWO PAWS ON THE FLOOR TWO IN THE AIR AND THEN JUST-