#please accept this entire novel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shadowandlightt · 3 months

Text

Of Nightmares and Memories | nine | Azirel X reader

Series Warnings: Kidnapping. Mistreatment. Cursing. Pining. Violence. Depression. Talks of suicide. Eventual smut

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

A/N; *to the tune of Britney Spears* OOps I DID IT AGAIN. Also I'm more nervous about this part than I have been for this entire series, so be nice and kind and I hope you enjoy <3

Mor showed up a few days later. She appeared as you were lounging in a chair, attempting to read some random romance novel you’d come across.

“He’s taking her to The Weaver,” She stated in lue of a greeting.

“Well then he’s a fool,” You snorted, not looking up from your book.

“YN,” She warns, “He’s taking her to The Weaver.”

“Yes I heard you,” you roll your eyes and look up, “What difference does it-”

You stop upon seeing the look on her face. The worry and the pain hidden there. You swallow the lump in your throat at the sight. She looked at you like you would break at any moment, and maybe you would. Maybe she saw the truth in you.

“They’re mates, aren’t they?” You question, voice sounding strange.

She only nods and moves to sit on the couch across from you. You nod slowly in understanding. You wanted to be happy for them, but somehow you couldn’t feel it. Like there was something wrong with you. Like you were broken.

“I had a feeling,” You tell her, “From the moment she became Fae and he came for her the first time. I had a feeling.”

It was true, you did have a feeling. Something deep within you told you that they were drawn to one another in ways that neither of them could explain. You often wondered if that was the same with Azirel too. If you were secretly mates, you used to pray for it as a child. Because you couldn’t imagine a better mate than him

To this day you still couldn’t imagine a better mate. But how could he want you now? Mate or not. You’d never have the same relationship that you had before. Nothing would be the same. How could you pretend to be the same person you were when you were taken when everything around you was different? You weren’t sure how you were going to do any of this.

“Please come home,” Mor begged.

“I can’t,” You try to keep your voice from breaking, “I can’t go back there.”

“Why?” She demands, standing from the couch, “Why are you denying yourself this? It’s Valaris! Your favorite place in all the world! You hate being here, you always have.”

“Maybe I deserve to be here,” You mumble, “Maybe I deserve to be away from all of you.”

“What are you talking about?” She questions.

“I didn’t try to run when I could have. I gave up. I fucking gave up and accepted my fate there,” You explain, slamming your book shut, “I let myself become Tamlin’s little play thing, I allowed him to strip my powers away. I let him do everything to me and I never fought back.”

“You never deserved what happened to you,” She shook her head, “I’m not so sure that I wouldn’t have given up either, if I’d been in your shoes.”

“I spent fifty years thinking all of you were dead.”

“Oh, Y/N.”

“I really did give up then. Because I realized Rhys wouldn’t be able to come for me. Up until that point, up until she took him, I was convinced he would come save me. That all of you would somehow find out I was still alive and come marching into the Spring Court and raze it to the ground.”

You shake your head, trying to clear the thoughts that were swirling about. Your back ached along the two big scars. Everything about you just hurt. Your skin, your head, your chest, your heart…everything. You just wanted it to stop. You needed it to stop.

Mor sat back down and reached over to take your hands in hers. There was nothing but love in her eyes, no sign of the pain that you saw when she first arrived. You want to pull away from her, pull away from the tender touch that reminded you too much of your mother.

“You survived,” She swore, looking deeply into your eyes, “You made it out. You were brave and cunning and you survived. That’s all that matters now.”

Your head shakes again, “No, it’s not all that matters. You can’t understand, none of you can.”

“Then help me understand,” She begs, “Help me understand what’s going on. Help me help you.”

“You can’t help me, Morrigan,” You said, standing up and ripping your hands away from hers.

You walked to one of the large widows, wondering how bad it would be if you flung yourself from the Palace. How much would it hurt when you crashed into the mountain below? Would it be enough to bring you the release you so desperately craved? Would Mor be able to stop you in time?

You thought long and hard about it, but in the end you turned away from the window. Hating yourself for even thinking such a thing. It would destroy Rhys to get you back only to lose you again. You couldn’t do that to him. That was the only thing stopping you.

“Azriel knows we’re hiding something,” She says from her spot on the couch, “I’m not sure how much longer we can hold him off.”

You nearly cringe at the sound of his name. Cauldron, what is he going to do when he finds out about you? How will he react? Will he even want to be in the same room as you? Will he be able to stand to look at you after everything you’ve done?

“I don’t care,” You lied, “I don’t give a fuck if he thinks you’re hiding something. You don’t tell him about me.”

“Yes I know, Rhys’ order was very clear,” She rolls her eyes.

“You should go,” You tell her, “Before they wonder where you are.”

She sighs and gets up from the couch. You can tell she wants to say something else but decides against it. You watch as she disappears into darkness. You finally felt that you were able to breathe once she left.

You fell deeper and deeper into the darkness as the days went on. The feeling in your chest only got worse with time. You wondered what would happen if you went down to The Hewen City. What would they do if their princess suddenly reappeared after so many years.

You wondered if they’d kill you, just to spite Rhys. Or if they’d bow down to you like they used to. But then you remembered one of the last conversations you had with Azriel, and how he hated the way so many of the males talked about you and you felt sick.

Everything surrounding Az seemed to make you feel that way these days. You could feel it deep in your chest, the sort of ache you always seemed to feel whenever you were away from him. After all of these years it still hadn’t subsided. In fact it seemed to be getting worse as each day passed by. Like being back in the Night Court and being so close to him was making it worse. Or maybe it was the fact that the Faebane was finally starting to wear off and your powers were coming back.

No matter the reason, you weren’t sure that you could go on like this any more. You didn’t know how you could live with the constant ache forever. Because you never planned on going back to Valaris, you couldn’t face the city you loved after what you did. After how you allowed your mother to be killed. She loved Valaris, and loved flying over the city. And it was your fault she was dead, no matter what anyone else said. You were to blame.

You didn’t expect Rhys to appear several days later. He looked tired. You wanted nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and tell him that it was going to be okay. But even you didn’t believe that. You couldn’t believe that it would be okay. Too much had happened.

“We’re going to the Summer Court,” He tells you, “Feyre, Amren, and myself.”

“Enjoy.”

“Little Star, tell me what to do,” He begs, stepping closer to you, “Tell me how to help you.”

“I’ll tell you like I told Mor,” You sigh, “You can’t help me.”

“Come back to Valaris, be with your family.”

Your head shakes. You couldn’t bear to face Cassian and Azriel. Not now, maybe not ever. It’s something Rhys could never understand. He was able to readjust easily after Amerantha. But he hadn’t spent hundreds of years being beaten and mistreated. He wasn’t starved and drugged every day. You couldn't be mad at him, as much as you wanted to be. Because you knew he suffered too.

“I can’t come back.”

“You keep saying that but you never say why,” he challenged.

“Because it’s all my fault!” you finally broke, tears streaming down your face, “It’s my fault, Rhysand. She could still be alive if I had just done something. Anything. But I didn’t.”

“If you’re to blame, then so am I,” He countered, “It should be just as much my fault. I told Tamlin where you would be. I’m the one who didn’t come to meet you as I promised, I left you undefended.”

“It’s not your fault, Rhys,” You felt anger boiling up in you now.

Because you didn’t blame him. You never did. He had duties to attend to that day, you understood that he couldn’t get away. He trusted Tamlin. The son of spring had him fooled, and that was not Rhys’ fault. Not in the slightest.

“Then it isn’t your fault either,” He gently argued.

You can’t help but shake your head again. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. He wasn’t there. He didn’t hear her. He doesn’t see her every time he closes his eyes, he doesn't hear her screams in his nightmares.

“You don’t understand,” You cried, “She didn’t even beg for herself. Even as they cleaved her wings from her body, she only begged for my life. Begged for them to set me free. Even as they hacked her to pieces, she cried for me.”

“Y/N-”

“I’ll live with that knowledge forever,” You sob, “Do you have any idea what that’s like? To know that you failed your mother? That she died for nothing, because you are nothing?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s true. I have nothing left to give,” You shrug, fighting back the tears, “There’s nothing left for me.”

He surges forward and grabs your shoulders, “Don’t say that. Don’t you even think about it. Never think about something like that. There is so much left for you in this life.”

“It doesn’t feel that way, Rhys,” You feel numb all of the sudden.

The void is back. And you’re once again a shell of yourself with no fight left to give. You sag against Rhys’ hold on you, wishing you could just crawl back into your bed and forget that this conversation ever happened.

You wish he would just leave already so you could just disappear within yourself again. You wished he would just leave you alone to waste away. It seemed to be the only thing you could think of doing these days.

He looks into your eyes and goes silent for a moment. You know the look he has, he’s speaking to someone, mind to mind. You feel anxiety well up within you, because you have no idea who he’s speaking with and what he’s telling them.

You can only hope that it’s Morrigan and nothing else. You can only hope that he’s trying to ascertain how serious you are about having nothing left. But then shadows ripple in the room, subtly at first, but enough that you realize it. And it’s not you calling to them

“You promised me,” You cry, hitting his chest, “You fucking promised.”

“I won’t let you wither away to nothing,” He says sternly, “Not when there’s someone who can stop it.”

The shadows take form. You rip yourself from Rhys’ grasp and try to run but you hardly make it out of the room before the man is then flesh. You know the second he’s here, because you can feel it in your very bones. Like a song in your blood. You try to keep moving but your body betrays you and stops. You think that maybe he won’t take notice of you. Maybe he’ll be too focused on Rhys. But then you hear footsteps. So hesitant, so light you hardly hear them.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, or maybe it’s his. You think you might drop dead here. Right in front of both of them, and then where would they be? Your hands are shaking, just like the rest of your body. But you keep your back towards him, too afraid to turn around.

A hand reaches for your shoulder. His touch is featherlight, but you can feel his scars through the thin material of your shirt. You knew it was him, long before he touched you. You could smell him better now though. Could feel that void in your chest slowly starting to fill.

As if his very presence was enough to bring you back to life.

Hesitantly, he speaks. Voice so silky and deep, just as you remembered it in your dreams. Only now it’s a dream made real, and he’s here. You’re alive and he’s alive and suddenly he’s gently spinning you around to face him.

There are tears in his eyes as he opens his mouth, “Y/N.”

It’s the only thing you hear as he studies your face. Your lip trembles as tears fall anew. You can feel the air filling your chest, nothing but the scent of him filing your nose. For the first time in years you want to smile, because he’s here. And more devastatingly beautiful than you remembered him being.

“Az,” you cry out softly.

He pulls you into his chest, holding you there tightly. For the first time in a couple of hundred years, you felt complete. You nuzzle into him, still crying, getting his leathers wet with your tears. You couldn’t bring yourself to care though, because it just felt right. You could feel it deep within your chest, the part of you that always seemed to connect you to him.

“You’re alive,” You can hear the disbelief in his voice, and the wonder too.

“You’re alive,” You cry, finally allowing the words to sink in.

He was alive, after all of these years. He was untouched during Amarantha’s rule. Valaris was untouched. Everyone that you loved was okay, and so were you. Somehow, for the male holding you and your brother, you would fight to be okay.

He pulls away from you and cups your face. You watch as he looks you over, carefully scanning your body. Any of the lingering bruises from Tamlin had faded away into nothing. There was nothing to prove that anything happened at all besides the two long scars on your back.

“Y/N,” He whispers again, “Oh my Y/N.”

Then he leaned in to kiss you and it was as if your whole world shifted to just him. He was the only thing that mattered. Just Azirel. Always only Azriel. Your Azriel. Your perfect, beautiful, scarred Azriel.

Tag List

@historygeekqueen @queerqueenlynn @hnyclover @thelov3lybookworm @witchymomfrien @one-big-fangirl @amara-moonlight @annamariereads16 @maddybraps @saltedcoffeescotch @wallacewillow0773638 @minnieoo @st0rmyt @hunterksmith @sleepylunarwolf @sh4n @emryb @mikatanazaki @nickishadow139 @ilovespideyyy @mysticalfuncollectorus @judig92 @tele86 @oksloan3 @darling006 @dr4g0ngirl @weasleyreidstyles @ren-ni @sstrohma @fleurrreads

#acomaf #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar fic #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger

476 notes · View notes

seniaasaysstuff · 7 months

Text

hopelessly devoted; ryomen sukuna (og form) x fem! reader.

not culturally accurate; will have aspects from both chinese culture and japanese culture tho it is based in heian era where sukuna was at the height of his power.

smut next chapter🤭

Ryomen sukuna, the king of curses. This name was known all around and was reasonably feared. People worshiped the man as if he was the second coming of Jesus. Those who were trying to curry favor with the man sent him beautiful women, including many of their daughters as concubines for sukuna.

Sukuna gladly accepted them and frequently visited the beauties. The beauties were all focused on pleasing sukuna and wished to birth him a son and elevate their status to a consort. Sukuna was like a deity to them and they believed pleasing him would bring their family luck and glory.

Now on the day, your parents were about to send you off to emperor sukuna’s palace as a concubine, your vicious sister born from concubine fed you poison in the guise of a nourishing soup.

Your concubine birthed sister thought if you were killed she would take your place and become emperor sukuna’s concubine. She didn’t anticipate that you would wake up and act like nothing happened.

In the modern world, You were drunk and ran out of the club. You didn’t expect to run onto the road in your drunken stupor and get hit by a truck.

When you woke up, you were assaulted with memories of the body you were inhibiting. You felt enraged at the way that low-birth sister and that wretched concubine pei treated you.

Since you were from the principal line, the rest of your concubine-born siblings were envious of you. You received love from your parents, and grandparents and it made them filled with jealousy.

You hated the way the body you were inhibiting was so naive. She treated the siblings like they were all birthed by the same mother. She gave away her clothes, her hairpins, and everything they wanted. You made up your mind that you were about to make these ugly bastards suffer.

You were about to enter the palace as a concubine today and you made up your mind you were going to grab the emperor’s golden thigh and make all that made the previous owner of the body suffer face a fate worse than death.

First, you had to see what kind of golden fingers you had. Since you were a gen z kid who read ancient-era novels and watched anime and Asian dramas you knew you could stir some shit up and wreak havoc.

When you heard from your parents that the man you were being gifted to as a concubine was sukuna who had quite a monstrous appearance it felt like you had hit a jackpot.

Ryomen sukuna was someone you were quite familiar with. Considering the simping you had done when the original designs of his body were released, you were very excited to see the man in the flesh.

Night time was approaching and it was time for you to be sent off in a carriage to your new home with your entire family seeing you off. Your parents and grandmother had tears in their eyes while your grandfather looked sad.

You could tell all of them didn’t want to part with you but this was something that had to be done and you understood that. The carriage reached the palace and you were ushered off to your tiny estate. You brought five dowry maids along with you. You were bestowed with two eunuchs and a maidservant.

You were given a rosewater bath and the maids dressed you up in a sexy negligee and put a huge ass wedding dress on top of that. A huge veil was placed, making you unable to see anything. The maids then left you alone in the room.

The room was dark and the only glimmer of light was from the candles.

You were squirming in excitement. You were about to meet one of your favorite anime characters even though his fraudulent behavior was questionable at times you loved him.

You yawned, feeling bored out of your mind.“When is sukuna coming? Like this is so boring. Been waiting for that guy for so long for fuck sake,” You grumbled loudly. You weren’t aware of your surroundings and failed to listen to the footsteps of someone approaching.

A deep chuckle was heard. “Did I just hear someone calling out for me?” The voice crooned, making you squeak.

“Aww is my concubine shy?” Sukuna spoke in a low voice. You shyly nodded.

“Words love.” He softly said. “M’not shy,” you replied, your face covered in a red hue.

Sukuna removed the veil from your face and gently caressed your cheek. “Your father didn’t lie when he said you were beautiful.” He whispered as he softly tilted your chin upwards.

You gasped, “You think I’m beautiful?” Hearing one of your favorite characters say that you’re beautiful was just sending butterflies down your stomach.

You huffed, “Look at you. You're hotter than anyone on this planet well… except Toji but he doesn’t exist right now.”

You added as a second thought, “Well if you have two dicks and we can count that stomach mouth of yours then you are the best man alive.”

Sukuna let out a deep chuckle. “And pray tell how do you know about my body anatomy?”

You cursed, you should stop babbling. “I have dreamed about you a lot actually.” “Well, shall we make your dreams a reality?” Sukuna teasingly spoke. You nodded your head.

Sukuna wrapped his hand around the back of your neck and pulled your face close to his. He rubbed his thumb on your lower lip. You were feeling a bit mischievous so you stuck your tongue out and licked his thumb.

“Sweetheart just say the word I can give you another thing to lick,” He smirked. “Oh I’d love that,” You winked at him.

“You minx,” He growled. He picked you up and sat you down on his lap, so now you were facing his humongous chest.

His stomach mouth decided to be cheeky and licked your hand, making you jump. “Pfft-” Sukuna chuckled. “Hey! It wasn’t funny!” You whined, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden.

Sukuna kept looking at you with that enamored look in his eyes, it made you feel shy and it made you want to run for the hills. It felt like the man was slowly getting obsessed, and if that obsession grew even deeper? You wouldn’t be able to escape, not that you wanted to.

You caressed his cheek. “You’re a beautiful being sukuna ryomen and being able to meet you was a pleasure,” you whispered.

“C’mere you sweet sweet vixen,” he spoke as he grasped your chin, tilting your head upwards so that you could look at him. His one pair of hands gently ran all over your body. You ground your body against his thigh, a feeling of bliss washing over you.

You gasped as his hand brushed over your waist, slowly and steadily making his way towards the inner of your thighs. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against your lips. His tongue brushed yours, he tasted like sweet sake.

“My sweet girl, you are a treasure,” Sukuna breathed out as he broke away from the kiss, a smile etched on his face as he glanced at you.

502 notes · View notes

spockandawe · 10 months

Text

It's time! for! 2ha!!!!!!! I've had 'the husky and his white cat shizun' on my radar as a bookbinding project basically from the very start, back when I thought it was impossible that any of these danmei novels would ever be licensed for english translations. But this book is so long, and besides, the translation wasn't complete, so it went onto the backest of back burners. Until now! So, the book has been licensed. It's started releasing! As usual, please support these authors, they have a passionate english-speaking fanbase, and I very much want them to enjoy that success in a practical sense and not just an abstract one. And I also want more of these novels translated, haha. But the nature of licensing means I've also gotten a lot more interested in preserving prior translations in formats that can't casually be yoinked from the internet.

Now, this is a big novel. This was 1.1 million words. The stack of pressed text quarto blocks was over 15 inches, and once I added covers (very thick, for reasons I'm about to cover) and boxes, this thing was 22 inches long. Oh my god. This sustained effort naturally overlapped with an international trip and two crucially Important work presentations. I almost died. I had to split it into multiple boxes because I wasn't sure I could laminate boards thick enough to support so much weight at so much length and still cut it with any precision, lmao

And those covers? I took inspiration from notebooks I've sent with cover flaps like these, and also decided to see if I could incorporate the strip magnets I bought for peller box experiments and barely used. The downside that didn't make itself apparent until late in the construction process was that laminating boards to match this depth made the covers REAL thick, and difficult to cover with a crisp finish. Duo bookcloth can get wrinkly and fragile when it's wet, so it didn't entirely take me by surprise, but it's something I'll be accounting for next time I try this construction!

I tried to stick to a black and blue and silver color scheme, because it matches the book, but I also accepted some gold highlights on the endpapers. The duo bookcloth tends to photograph with a bit more brown in the color shift than I see in person, but I think it plays out well in person or in photos! The endpapers make for a nice striking pop when the book opens and don't blend into the cover fabric, which was something I definitely wanted to avoid.

And, speaking of thematically appropriate, I found this image for chapter headers that was almost perfect, but the wrong kind of flowers. So I did change those to haitang blosoms, haha. That happened early in the typesetting process, but I did also have that on my mind as I worked out decorations for the boxes! Mostly, I just titled what book of the novel it was on the top and left it there, but the very last detail I added was a pair of foil flowers done in pink and silver, on the outside edges of the boxes for book 1 and the extras. I finished that last night and then went to bed SO excited to take pictures in the morning. I really had an incredible time with this book, and the whole adventure reminded me just how much I love 2ha. I'm so happy I did this, I really had just an incredible time!!!!!

#crafts #bookbinding #2ha #the husky and his white cat shizun #erha he ta de bai mao shizun #long post #with any luck ill be pulling together instructions for my case construction here soon

1K notes · View notes

kentopedia · 3 months

Text

❝𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄❞ welcome to kentopedia's love through the ages collab. in honor of another lonely valentine’s day, i wanted to combine my two greatest loves: history and literature! so this is for anyone who wants a passionate romance and loves the aesthetics of the past. because i know that no matter when you live and die, your favs will always choose you ♡

STATUS: OPEN

♛ — TO JOIN

submit a piece based off a time in history you find interesting. it can be an au of your favorite classic novel, a song you enjoy from a period before your own, a piece of art you enjoy, or something entirely your own. be creative!!

please reblog this post & send me an ask with the character you'd like to write about and the inspiration. for example: "nanami + renaissance" (which is what i’ll be writing teehee).

♛ — REQUIREMENTS

no fandom limitation, but i will cap it off at 2 entries per character (i won’t count mine in that limit!). and you can join as many times as you want.

this is a historical au collab, so i will not accept any submissions based in the 21st century :) but it can go back as far as you want!

there is no deadline. minimum of 500 words, but no maximum. i love long fics! please use the read more feature on your posts.

♛ — OTHER

anyone can join, this is not limited to followers. no age requirement, but you must be 18+ to submit nsfw pieces, with an age indicator. make sure to follow the rules of all creators involved (including me!).

submissions can be as historically accurate or inaccurate as you want them to be, and could include fantasy elements too! this is all about capturing the aesthetics of a time period, but i will never limit anyone’s creativity. it can be extremely niche too!

all forms of art are welcome, not just writing, as long as they are of your own creation.

nsfw, sfw, dark content, etc. is all acceptable. be sure to tag accordingly!

♛ — TO SUBMIT

tag me in your submission so i can also add you to the masterlist. also, link this post on your submission to spread the love to other readers! i will be reading all the submissions and reblogging with feedback as well. let me know if you have any questions!

bungo stray dogs . . .

fyodor dostoevsky and hades & persephone by @lovedazai

nakahara chuuya and post wwii yakuza by @cheriiyaya

nakahara chuuya and the 1800s italian mafia by @osaemu

dazai osamu & fyodor dostoevsky as rival painters in the renaissance by @aureatchi

dazai osamu & fyodor dostoevsky in the trojan war by @fyorina

fyodor dostoevsky and victorian era royalty by @verlainepaul

dazai as a fallen angel by @chuuyrr

jujutsu kaisen . . .

nanami kento and the renaissance by @kentopedia

okkotsu yuta as an edo period samurai by @anqelically

gojo satoru & geto suguru and the medieval period by @flowerpersephone

geto suguru as a nineteenth century vampire by @todorokies

nanami kento and the victorian era by @starsinmylatte

gojo satoru and orpheus and eurydice by @forest-hashira

geto suguru and the american old west by @forest-hashira

geto suguru and phantom of the opera by @mynahx3

geto suguru and ancient greece by @mochimooon

nanami kento and the heian period by @purpleqilinwrites

fushiguro toji as a medieval bandit by @honeybleed

true form sukuna ryomen and ancient greece by @girlwithsharpt33th

okkotsu yuuta and post apocalyptic 1600s by @atsquie

nanami kento as a medieval knight by @mynahx3

nanami kento and the regency period by @kentopedia

nanami kento and ancient japan by @mynahx3

attack on titan . . .

reiner braun as a wwii soldier by @thel0v3hashira143

levi ackerman and the impressionist era by @be-co-me

armin arlert and the early 20th century by @crazychaoticizzy

eren jaeger and the age of piracy by @bloompompom

demon slayer . . .

shinazugawa sanemi and antony & cleopatra by @mitsuristoleme

tengen uzui and the roaring 20s by @forest-hashira

haikyuu . . .

kuroo tetsurō and the space race by @ktsumu

kuroo tetsurō & iwaizumi hajime in regency era inspired japan by @jarjarwinx

persona 5 . . .

akira kurusu and the prohibition era by @clubkira

genshin impact . . .

albedo as a renaissance by @clubkira

blue lock . . .

noel noa and indonesian colonization by

#𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓫 ❤︎#painting in graphic romeo and juliet by frank dicksee :)#if no one joins … pretend u never saw this.#jjk x reader #aot x reader #csm x reader #jujutsu kaisen #attack on titan #haikyuu #x reader #jjk x you #aot x you #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #bsd #bllk x reader #bllk x you

232 notes · View notes

checkmate-stuff · 3 months

Note

Hii! Could I request Albedo, Tighnari, and Cyno (seperatly) with a fake dating scenario. Like the reader's family keep pestering her about getting a boyfriend, so she asks the guys to pretend to be her boyfriend at a family gathering to get them to stop asking her, but the guys kind of have a crush on her anyway and they get together in the end?

the sweetheart scheme

wc. 1294 words

tw. fake dating, happy fluffy ending

a/n. hello anon! i hope this is what you wanted :3

Albedo

“Please be my boyfriend” now don't get him wrong, while your truthfulness is something Albedo appreciates, it might also be the death of him, judging by how fast his heart is beating. “is this a joke of some kind?” You take a seat next to Albedo, looking at him with uttermost seriousness. “My parents think I have a boyfriend and we have a family dinner tonight. You would be an amazing friend if you could pretend to be my boyfriend for tonight.” “I suppose I could…” your face lights up, getting up from your previous spot on his desk. “You’re the best, thanks bedo!” you press a quick peck to his cheek, missing the way his cheeks are set aflame by your action. And while the chief alchemist has no idea what being your boyfriend for the night might entail, he hopes it can make you see him in a different light.

When you asked your best friend to be your pretend boyfriend for the night you never accepted him to be so… nice. Albedo isn't exactly known for his social skills in Mondstadt and you expected him to act the part as the reserved boyfriend, knowing how much he dreads social interactions. You were pleasantly surprised to find him at your door, flowers in hand. The rest of the night felt like a dream, or one of those romance novels Lisa enjoys so much. Albedo suddenly became the perfect image of a boyfriend, one that had your entire family swooned. He offered flowers to you and your mother, played with your baby sister and entertained a conversation with your father about Mondstadt politics. He even insisted on taking you home. Arriving at your front door, you turn around facing the alchemist. “thank you bedo, you did great tonight.” Albedo offered you a smile, taking an envelope out of his pocket. “I've read that sending a letter to the person you are courting is considered a romantic gesture.” he presents the envelope to you, as if he just asked you about the time. Your eyes grow wide, and you can feel your cheeks burning. “i- are you asking me out?” “Indeed I am, and I hope you can return my feelings.” You must be feeling bold tonight, considering you pull the boy by his collar, pulling him into a soft kiss. “so, when's our first date?”

Tighnari

“By any chance do you happen to know a plant that would make my parents forget I don't have a boyfriend yet?” Tighnari is at his desk, reading documents which you assume are forest ranger reports. “I do not. Why do you ask?” you let your body lean on his desk, silently noting the way his ears picked up at the sound of your voice. “My parents are holding a family dinner, which will basically be a lecture about how I am still single.” you sigh, already dreading the yearly family dinner.“is this really an issue?” “Yes, my parents and relatives are a pain in my ass when they want to.” You both sit in silence for a couple of minutes, an idea forming in your head. “could you pretend to be my boyfriend?? please?” Tighnari put his documents down, now giving you his full attention. “Now, this might work since we have been friends for quite a while now…” While he's trying to keep his composure, Tighnari can't ignore the way his heart jumped at the idea of ‘dating’ you. The forest ranger has been aware for quite some time that his growing affection for you was no longer platonic, so the thought of being able to call you his – even for only an evening – sounded great to him. “I don't see why not.” You smile upon hearing his answer. “perfect! I'll see you tomorrow!”

Dinner with your family was relatively nice. It might be because your parents are too busy bombarding Tighnari with questions to pay attention to you or perhaps it's because Tighnari is by your side, hand on your thigh. The whole family seemed pleasantly surprised by your boyfriend, your cousins going as far as asking you for boy advice – something you never thought would happen – all due to Tighnari's acting. Acting that seemed a little too real, so real that you're reminded of why you came to develop romantic feelings for your long time friend. Your family deemed Tighnari worthy of you, especially your mother, who seemed overjoyed to know you're in a relationship with such a serious, handsome young man. Both of you announced that you were leaving when questions about childrens and marriage came into the conversation. Tighnari insisted on walking you home, keeping up the boyfriend act until you reached your house. “Now that we're done pretending, can I take you out on a real date?” you're not sure if you heard him correctly, heart beating so fast it's all you can hear. “what?” “i like you, can i take you out on a date?” oh, ok so you did hear him right. to say you're happy is an understatement, you're not even able to keep a straight face, smile forming without your own accord “yes, I'll look forward to it”

Cyno

You enter Lambad's Tavern and let your body fall on one of the chair at a table. Your friends; Kaveh, Tighnari, Al-Haitham and Cyno move their attention from their TCG game to you. Kaveh is the first to break the silence. “What's the matter?” you sigh “family dinner. I may or may have not told my parents that i have a boyfriend.” you can hear the quiet snort Al-Haitham lets out, probably thinking you dug that grave yourself. “so.. when's the dinner?” “tomorrow night.” Tighnari lets out a long sigh, putting down his cards. “you're fucked, i dont think you'll be able to get a boyfriend on such short notice” a few rounds of TCG are played in silence while you try to find an reason your parents would believe as to why your boyfriend couldn't make it. Kaveh, having lost yet another round, put his cards down. “hey Cyno you said you didn't have anything to do this weekend right? why don't you go with y/n?” an innocent smile arbording his lips

“Why didn't you tell me?” “tell you what?” “that you are dating THE general Mahamatra!?” your eyes narrow looking at your sister “we aren't dating, i told you it's just so mom and dad get off my back.” Now it's your sister's turn to look at you weirdly “oh really? then you guys are awfully good at this whole ‘we are in love’ act.” She makes a face. “ I’ve seen the way Cyno looks at you. It's not the usual, super serious, downright scary look he always has. He looks at you like you're a gift from the gods'' To say you are taken aback is an understatement. Cyno? looking at you like that?? there is no way, you would have noticed. if not Kaveh would have probably said something. Since you’ve let slip out your feelings for the general, Kaveh has been trying to push the both of you together, which lead to several awkward moments. The ride home is quiet, Cyno insisted on taking you home even after you left your family's house. He suddenly stops, and turns to you, serious as ever. “I know you have feelings for me, and I do too. If you are interested I would like to be your boyfriend. for real this time” your mouth opens and closes, nothing coming out of it. “yeah I'd like that.” Cyno smiles, looking relieved. He accompanies you to your door, hugging you before taking his leave. “Hey Cyno, how do you know??” “Kaveh told me” “I'm gonna kill him”

repost, likes and comments are appreciated. Requests are open!

#*ੈ✩‧₊˚stellawrites #✧˖*°࿐mail #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x gn reader #genshin impact x you #albedo x reader #albedo x y/n #albedo x you #tighnari x reader #tighnari x y/n #tighnari x you #cyno x reader #cyno x you #cyno x y/n

242 notes · View notes

she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 11 months

Text

An interesting thing about Kaz is the way he views a hierarchy within everyone he meets, an attitude probably defined in him by the Kerch culture of trade and the environment of Ketterdam. Kerch is a country that in many ways is designed to reflect the American Dream as it is portrayed in classic literature such as The Great Gatsby: as an ultimately unattainable and useless lie, designed to control and quell the masses in the danger of extreme capitalism. The social hierarchy in Ketterdam is well-established and discussed throughout the novels, though mostly in Crooked Kingdom since the plot stays almost entirely within city limits, and the attitude of viewing a miniature hierarchy amongst those around you as part of the overall societal structure is evidenced in Kaz, and possibly reflected in Wylan; a link both to their different upbringings within the Ketterdam social structure, and their position as literary foils. (I wrote a whole long thing about how Kaz and Wylan had/have the potential to become each other, so feel free to check that out for more detail if you want it). The city’s hierarchy and the unattainability of joining the rich upper echelon of society is cleverly hinted at from the very beginning of Six of Crows, when Kaz is jumped and then wakes up in what he expects to be the deb of a rival gang. He instead finds himself in Councilman Hoede’s Manor House, which I believe is on the Geldstradt, and the way he makes the distinction is by realising that the decor in the room he’s in “takes real money”. We know that people like Pekka Rollins or Tante Heleen have become truly rich from what they do in the Barrel, and so it’s strange to suggest that you’d need “real money” for this since we would generally use that phrase to refer to a large amount of money. What Kaz actually means here is “old money” or “family money”; you need the kind of money that the Merchant Council have been hoarding for generations, making supposedly risky trades when they have millions of savings to cushion the blow if things go wrong, not the kind of money that comes from the popular gambling dens and brothels of the Barrel. He means the kind of money that Daisy and Tom have in Great Gatsby, people who’ve never worked a day in their lives and yet like to think of themselves as very successful at life when all they’re truly succeeding in is spending their parents money, not the kind of money that Gatsby scraped and saved and began to chase through undisclosed illicit means. Even when men like Gatsby and Rollins make their money, and their name, they are never equal in the social hierarchy to people with old money. (To be clear, not that this is a defence of either character, I have criticisms of both, especially Rollins).

But the hierarchy Kaz places upon himself and upon the others is slightly more subtle, and arguably subversive. He looks down on Matthias because he “stinks of decency” and because he supposedly hasn’t struggled, arguably gaining slightly more respect for him when he learns of him losing his parents and baby sister but still maintaining the idea of ‘everyone has a sob story and you were clearly more lucky in your options to deal with it than I was, it’s not my fault if you made the wrong choice’. We as readers obviously know that Matthias had no options but to go with Jarl Brum and spent the next 6 years of his life (I think that’s the right amount of time, please correct me if I’m wrong) being emotionally manipulated and abused by him, but Kaz simply refuses to accept has suffered because it would be psychologically damaging to him to admit that Matthias was able to go through that and still come out a good person, when Kaz sees himself as having become truly demonic. Matthias looks down on Kaz for the exact same reason, unable to understand - especially since he knows far less detail about Kaz’s trauma - how someone who ever had a core of decency couldn’t maintain it through their pain, he assumes Kaz was never a good person, or never had the potential to be one. Kaz also looks down on Wylan, arguably far less for his attempt to maintain a core decency but because he views Wylan as having had the option to do so. Kaz seems to have more respect for Wylan in Crooked Kingdom than in Six of Crows, when he knows more about (but never, it should be noted, the full extent of) Jan Van Eck’s abuse to his son, once again showcasing that he struggles to accept the idea of someone feeling bad when they have supposedly suffered less than him. His trauma has clearly warped him in many ways, and one of them is losing the ability to see relative pain and how different things can affect different people in different ways; he effectively views everything in the manner of ‘I had it worse, and I’m fine so you need to get over yourself’. He labels Nina “a snob” for staying away from the Crow Club and the Slat despite being a Dregs member, and her response is “she didn’t much care what Kaz Brekker thought”. I think that Nina is possible the person Kaz holds the most respect for in his platonic relationships, and that is mostly because she simply couldn’t care less whether he respects her or not.

His relationship with Jesper is more complex; he judges Jesper for his addiction and yet continually eggs him on, giving him a line of credit to play cards at the start of Six of Crows and having the first step of his planning in Crooked Kingdom to make Jesper play all night, although it’s unclear whether Jesper has ever shared anything about his mother if anyone knows then the most likely parties are Kaz or Inej and yet Kaz forces Jesper to give up his revolvers in Crooked Kingdom, his most treasured possession and his constant connection to his late mother, he consistently infantilises Jesper, but mostly in his head and this is possibly an interesting link to the final nail in the coffin of their relationship; Kaz sees Jesper as a substitute to Jordie. I think it’s possible that he likes to see him as younger because that’s how he remembers Jordie - it’s also important to remember that Kaz is now several years older than his elder brother ever was so seeing him in someone his own age is possibly even more painful because that’s a point Jordie never reached (he was only 13 when he died). Jesper is someone that Kaz feels the need to keep at arms length, not because he doesn’t respect him but because he fears having a close relationship with someone who could so easily slip away from him like Jordie did. I think we can also arguably see aspects of Jordie within Jesper, the naïveté of thinking you can make it Ketterdam followed by the city swallowing you whole, killing Jordie and driving Jesper to his slow self-destruction - “I’m dying anyway, Da. I’m just doing it slow”. (If y’all have read many of my analytical posts you may have begun to notice that’s one of my favourite quotes)

Then we have Inej. Kaz places Inej on a pedestal whatever she does. I’ve spoken before about how she claims to be bad at picking locks whilst he claims to have done “a shoddy job at teaching her to pick locks” because he’s incapable of accepting that she is incapable of something; if there are flaws, they must be his because she cannot have any. In a lot of situations this can be harmful, going back to the romance of Daisy and Gatsby where Daisy is placed on a pedestal and idealised so much that she become more of an image than a person, so when she does not live up to his every high expectation Gatsby is destroyed by it. But with kanej this seems only to elevate their position, possibly because Kaz isn’t claiming that Inej is flawless, but rather that she is capable of working on her flaws in a way that he isn’t; it is almost a form of envy. For example, Inej also has a fear of touch and human contact, but she purposely forced herself to cope with small amounts of it, such as allowing Nina and Jesper to hug her even though it makes her flinch, because she fears it becoming a debilitating condition, as it has done for Kaz (not that she knows that initially when it’s first implied that she too fears contact). In the bathroom scene when she admits to him that she also struggles with touch, it has such a massive effect on Kaz not because he refuses to accept that she has flaws but because he sees her as so much stronger than himself and wishes that he could be more like her. Although both of them are ultimately unable to go any further than a few light brushes of contact, it’s suggested that what trigger Inej more than the touch itself is the sexual implications of those touches based on everything she went through at the Menagerie. Kaz doesn’t see Inej aligned with with himself or the other gang members, but as above them - and not in the way he labels Nina as a snob, but in a genuine manner he refuses to acknowledge her as low in society because he sees her as deserving of so much more. He notably never refers to her as “a canal rat” and he never even comes close to defining her by her time at the Menagerie, a start contrast between him, the supposed low of the hierarchy, and Van Eck, the supposed upper, he yells at her “you little skiv! You little whore!”. However, there is one way in which Kaz arguably looks down on Inej and it’s in a similar way that he looks down in Matthias: how dare she still try so hard to remain truly good, and decent, and to find her Saints and to politely ask them for forgiveness, when it would be so much easier to let the world beat that out of her? Arguably, it’s not that he judges either of them for their faith, but it’s that he fears them judging him for losing his, be that in religion or in the world at all. (I don’t think we know if Kaz was raised in a religious household or not, but based on societal structure in Ketterdam and the way most of the population in most of the countries are religious I think it’s safe to assume he at least grew up with an understanding of Ghezen). Kaz fears that they’ll judge him for failing to maintain his core of decency, which is exactly what Matthias does, and so he aims to offend or challenge them before they can him.

Ok I’m not gonna lie to you guys it’s like quarter past one in the morning as I’m writing this, and oh my god it just got so long out of nowhere… I might have lost my point somewhere in there, I don’t even know, this came from one quote I was thinking about and I’m not sure I even wrote that quote in there so, yeah, I guess. If you bothered to read this far the tysm I hope it made sense

#grishaverse #leigh bardugo #six of crows #crooked kingdom #inej ghafa #kaz brekker #nina zenik #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #kanej #kanej my beloved #kanej bathroom scene #kanej supremacy #matthias helvar #freddy carter #amita suman #ketterdam #kerch

496 notes · View notes

vanessagillings · 24 days

Note

Please talk about your favorite animated movies and what makes them special to you! I'm really curious about what you enjoyed about them both in the past and now?

haha, okay you asked!

I LOVE animated movies. My theory on this is that it took me a long time to emotionally relate to most media growing up, where I felt next to nothing watching most movies and shows as a young kid, and didn't relate to books until I was quite a lot older (I read picture books until I was around 10, and then suddenly in middle school, I hopped right to adult novels like 1984 and the entire Darkover series by Marion Zimmer Bradley, ha). But even before I emotionally related to fiction, I really enjoyed watching animation. It was nice to look at, and I enjoyed watching everything move and change. I grew up in the 90's where animated movies were largely 2D, and I spent hours watching and re-watching my favorite movies just studying how the characters moved -- it's definitely a lot of where I got my understanding of human expressions from. But I also think as I got older and started to relate more to fiction, animation was easier to parse emotionally than live action. The body language is clear. The stories are direct and not as forgiving of bad human behavior (I get frustrated sometimes with the defeatism in adult media, that assumes that People Just Act Badly, and that just needs to be accepted). Facial expressions are also exaggerated and more stylized -- think of a single arched eyebrow, for example, an expression that's commonly drawn to express one particular emotion in animation/illustration but which you next to never see on a real human face. My first introduction into serious reading was also manga -- a highly visual medium -- which uses a lot of the same tactics stylistically as western animation: big, expressive faces, bold gestures and big stories. Compare manga with western comics being printed at the time and it's even more obvious to me why I didn't particularly like comics until I was given manga as an option -- and thankfully I lived close to a kinokuniya, so I could spend all my allowance on untranslated books and magazines, which is also where I learned Japanese (もうたくさん忘れてしまいましたけど).

As far as my favorite movies? THAT IS SO HARD. The first animated movie that BLEW MY MIND was The Lion King. I saw it in theaters when I was eight and I was obsessed; it was definitely one of my first special interests. I know that entire movie line by line, frame by frame, and I had the stuffed animals and the trading cards and the clothes (man, was I teased for those clothes!). My other favorite movies as a kid were The Land Before Time, American Tale, and The Secret of NIMH (I was a big Don Bluth fan!) which have left deep impressions on how to approach storytelling for children; I warn you, I go hard on emotions for kids, because I needed that as a kid, and I know I'm not alone. Some of my other favorites are anything Miyazaki but especially Howl's Moving Castle (I relate to Sophie a lot), Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (what I watch when I'm In A Mood), Ratatouille (a huge source of echolalia for my husband and me, we often detect nuttiness, let me tell you), Wallace and Gromit and Fantastic Mr Fox, which I watch every fall as an autumnal tradition. Even as an adult who likes live action, too, I still tend to like slightly over the top directors like Wes Anderson and Guy Ritchie, or movies that are highly cinematic like Road to Perdition, which is still one of my favorite films of all time.

In my opinion, animation is a super important medium outside of it being a very beautiful one. I truly believe it helped me access and understand emotion better as a child, and as an adult, it's a massive source of inspiration in my own work 💛

(Sorry for length, but you did ask!)

#actually autistic #asks

135 notes · View notes

diedikind · 21 days

Text

the first chapter of TGCF “spoils” the entire novel

The two stories presented in the first chapter / prologue of tgcf act as miniatures of the larger story/theme.

The first story, “Upon the Grand Avenue of Divine Might, A Fleeting Glimpse of Beauty”:

“At the Heavenly Ceremonial Procession, the God-Pleasing Warrior wore a golden mask. Dressed in glamorous attire and with a sacred sword in hand, he played the role of the subduer of evil, the number one martial god for the past thousand years: the Heavenly Emperor, Jun Wu.”

Here it’s hinted that Jun Wu wears a mask but more importantly Xie Lian was “supposed” to become Jun Wu. In the revised version he has the nickname “Little Jun Wu”. Interpreting the idea of a mask in two ways:

Bai Wuxiang wears a physical mask but

Jun Wu also wears a metaphorical mask insofar as he hides his true identity under three layers: A. His literal identity as evidenced by “After blood-washing the heavens, he returned to the mortal realm, patiently waited for a while, crafted a new name, and fabricated a new identity. As a 'human,' he 'ascended' once again. All the former divine priests of the heavens perished, leaving no one to know who he truly was, nor did anyone know what he was like before. Now, the widely circulated tales of the ‘Heavenly Martial Emperor'—his origins, anecdotes, amusing stories, appearance, temperament... all are false, intricately woven lies by him!" B. His hatred / what he truly thinks or feels about the common people and the world as evidenced by: “Now, he is the number one Martial God of the heavens, radiant and glorious on the surface. Yet within his heart, he harbors boundless darkness. Resentment, pain, anger, hatred... these emotions need to be released. Only by doing so can he maintain his equilibrium, continuing as the leading Martial God overseeing the Three Realms, instead of embarking on a massacre.” This layer of his mask only comes off after the final battle: 【As the number one Martial God of the Three Realms, Jun Wu's appearance and demeanor are always impeccable, pristine. However, now, stripped of all his aura, Xie Lian realizes that even without the three faces, his complexion is too pale. His features are too sharp and cold, with slight darkness under his eyes, casting an indescribably gloomy air, far from the gentle demeanor presented under the halo of light. But now, he seems more alive, albeit in a languid state.】 C. His dream/idealism. This is the most important layer in my opinion because it relates to the theme of the novel. Jun Wu was in effect “forced” to give up on his dream/idealism / the third path after hitting the wall that is reality. I mentioned in another meta that the crown prince of Wuyong’s vassals accused him of changing and forgetting his original intentions, suggesting that in the pursuit of his dreams, he had deviated from his path, gradually breaking his principles and the basic decency of being human, losing his humanity in his quest to become a god. This criticism was what executed (Zhu) his heart (Xin) rather than anything that hurt his body physically, which relates to the meaning of 杀人诛心 (sha ren zhu xin). By abandoning his own values he conformed to the expectations of society, becoming the God-Pleasing Warrior.

Xie Lian is different from Jun Wu in all these ways.

He does not accept Bai Wuxiang’s physical mask and refuses to come to his side

A. After 800s years he still lives as Xie Lian. He tells Yin Yu: "Look at me, I've also managed to live up to now with quite a thick skin." He lives in his own skin and own body and does not hide behind a false identity out of shame. B. He does not construct a grandiose image of holiness. C. He does not give up on his dream/idealism.

Xie Lian is unlike Jun Wu in all the ways that matter, and Chapter 1 / the prologue tells us this.

【People only had time to glimpse a bird-like white shadow soaring against the sky, before the Crown Prince, holding the child, safely landed on the ground. The golden mask fell off, revealing the young and handsome face hidden behind it.】

The mask fell off to reveal his true self. He is not Jun Wu. He will not follow in his footsteps.

Why did the mask fall off? Because he went to save Hua Cheng. In other words, he did not become the second White-Clothed Calamity because:

Intrinsically, he is the type of person who would save the falling child. He is the type of person who would give the common people one last chance by postponing his revenge for three days. He is the type of person who would wait for someone like the bamboo hat guy, the type of person who would search for a flower in a city of ruin, who would hold on to his idealism despite a world that punishes him so.

Extrinsically, people like Hua Cheng and the bamboo hat guy played an important role

The second story, “At Yinian Bridge, Demon and Immortal Meet”:

【Legend has it, to the south of the Yellow River, there exists a bridge named “Yinian Bridge,” haunted for years by a ghost.

This ghost is terrifying: clad in tattered armor, stepping on flames of karma, its body covered in fresh blood and pierced by swords and arrows. With each step, it leaves behind a trail of blood and fire. Every few years, it would suddenly appear at night, wandering at the bridge’s end, blocking passersby to ask three questions:

“What place is this?”

“Who am I?”

“What should be done?”】

The ghost at Yinian bridge is a symbolic representation of the crown prince of Wuyong. The bridge, the armour, the flames, having been pierced by swords — everything lines up perfectly. Xie Lian only had a chance to answer the first question before they start fighting, but I think the other two are also important.

“Who am I?” Again, Jun Wu has lost his sense of self hidden beneath the mask. He does not know what he stands for.

“What should be done?” The dichotomy and cognitive dissonance have driven him crazy. He does not know whether he can still turn back after the choice he’s made.

That said, Xie Lian defeats the ghost at Yinian Bridge. This foreshadows that he will defeat Jun Wu at the end of the novel.

If you read this from a succession lens it also works, the good ol’ conflict about boys either having to kill their fathers or vowing to never become their parents; it’s portrayed over and over again in modern media such as Daenerys Targaryen saying “I am not my father” but going mad in the end of Game of Thrones anyway or Siobhan Roy growing into her mother in Succession. The trope usually ends in tragedy but TGCF is a novel about dreams and idealism and defeating your fate.

Anyhow, this is my two cents — that the first chapter of TGCF sorta-kinda-if-you-squint-hard-enough “spoils” the entire novel.

#tgcf #heaven official's blessing #xie lian #jun wu

126 notes · View notes

queer-reader-07 · 2 months

Text

a love letter to trans romance

because i can't be normal about media and i'm making it y'all's problems

hi hello and welcome to my mildly unhinged ramblings about love and gender. this post comes to you in three sections, enjoy <3

t4t romance novels made me believe in love again

the first romance book i ever read was The Feeling of Falling in Love by Mason Deaver. TFOFIL is a t4t (trans for trans) romance that follows a teenage trans boy, Neil Kearney, and a figuring-out-their-gender teen, Wyatt Fowler, as they get themselves wrapped up in peak YA romcom shenaniganary and eventually fall in love. cute, right? just a fun little romcom, not much more to it?

yeah well that's what i thought going in, but coming out of that book i was in tears. tears because i'd never read a story about trans love before. tears because at that point in my life i'd never allowed myself to fully claim the word "trans." tears because Wyatt made me feel so seen and so real.

there's this one scene where Wyatt is talking to Neil and they describe themself as being the kind of person who sometimes wants to wear makeup and dresses, but other times they like their body hair and scruffy beard. and i just remember nodding along and then absolutely melting because Neil takes it in stride, he comforts Wyatt and let's them know that they don't need to have it figured out just yet. Neil makes it clear that he's there, and that Wyatt doesn't need to come out to anyone unless they're ready.

Mason Deaver has another t4t romance, Okay, Cupid. and that similarly had me in my feels because there is something so special about finding people who embrace you for all that you are.

every t4t romance I've read has one thing in common, the fact that the love interests do not love each despite the other's transness. their transness is not an obstacle to love or to attraction or to adoration, it is an object of it. their transness is something to be admired and to be loved and to be cared for. it is not something the other has to "get over."

reading The Feeling of Falling in Love was the first time i ever thought to myself "maybe, just maybe, i can call myself trans and still be loved." because up until that point i hadn't let myself accept that i was some flavor of trans. up until that point i'd said "not cis" without ever saying trans because i was so scared my being trans would make me unlovable. t4t romance books showed me how wrong i was. they showed me that my ability to be loved was not dependent on my girlhood.

ha you thought i could write something this long on tumblr and NOT mention good omens? think again bestie

i have held a trans reading of crowley since i read the book and the show only solidified it for me. crowley canonically plays with gender.

he's dressed femme during the crucifixion scene, his modern look is a mix of men's and women's pieces, his hair is a Whole Thing in and of itself. i could go on but i digress.

but it's not just the way he plays with gender that informs my trans reading of him. it's also how his character arc can very easily be read as an allegory for transness.

an angel who falls (a girl who isn't a girl anymore)

a fallen angel turned demon (a girl who is a boy now)

a demon who isn't really a demon anymore (a used to be girl, a thought to be boy, is now nonbinary)

girl = angel and boy = demon is entirely arbitrary in this please don't read into it

now, you may be thinking "A how in god's name does this apply to trans romance?" to which i say, aziraphale falls in love with every version of crowley. aziraphale beams heart eyes at angel!crowley before the beginning and loves crowley as a demon for millennia and is so deeply and unabashedly in love with crowley in his not-quite-demon form of s2.

aziraphale loves all the versions of crowley because crowley's angel or demon-ness (gender) is not the reason aziraphale loves crowley. aziraphale doesn't love crowley because he's a demon or because he used to be an angel, aziraphale loves crowley because it's crowley. crowley in whatever clothes he chooses to where, crowley with whatever hairstyle he's fancying at the moment, crowley as he inhabits the shades of grey just a little more.

to me, that is so easy to read as a trans love story. you could argue it's t4t depending on how you read aziraphale, but to me, it's at the very least a love story between a mostly-demon who gets down to some gender fuckery and an angel who loves him very much.

fuck it let's talk about fanfiction

i don't think i could make this post without mentioning @ineffabildaddy's fic I'm Beginning to See the Light.

i have a complicated relationship with my body. i don't plan to ever medically transition because i don't want to make any permanent changes to my body. but there are days where all i want is to have a flat chest and hips that are flush with the rest of my body but instead i'm stuck with tits and an hourglass figure cis people always seem to focus on.

i don't hate my body, but the idea that anyone could look at it and not just see A Woman is beyond me. i walk through life being perceived as a very feminine woman even on the days that i feel the most androgynous. the idea that a lover could look at my body and still see me for who i am feels like a dream that could never happen.

and IBTSTL slapped me (lovingly) across the face with the message that, actually, i can be loved as my whole self and that there are people out there who don't look at me and see A Woman and those people don't love me any less. IBTSTL made me feel safe in my trans body because it said "you are worthy of love and adoration because your transness is not something to get past it is something to admire. it is something to love."

i think the point i'm trying to make here is this: trans love stories are so special to me. they've been so vital in my own journey to love and accept myself. they're the reason i can imagine myself maybe having romantic love in the future.

representation matters, it can quite literally change your life.

#well wasn't that fun?#now excuse me while i go hide from the internet because my feelings are being perceived #anyway #trans love everything!#good omens #trans books #t4t romance #trans

110 notes · View notes

agentmarvel · 7 months

Text

Pairing: John Price/Reader

AU - Professor!Price & TA!Reader

MDNI - 18+ (minors and ageless blogs will be blocked)

Part 1 of 2

Summary: in which professor john price is head-over-heels for his teaching assistant but cannot reconcile the risks until he's faced with the thought of losing you entirely

Read on ao3

♡

“Would you mind handing these back, please?” John asks softly, handing you the stack of essays due for return. You give him a sweet little smile and nod, taking them from his hands and brushing against his fingers in the process. His flesh is alight with want, and he can’t help but curl his hands into fists beneath the desk in an effort to stop himself from reaching out and touching you again.

“Yes, sir.”

This is wrong. This is so wrong, and John knows it.

He never meant for this to happen; the plot of his plight is typically reserved for bored housewife fantasies, a semi-interesting arc for a television series, or the shit romance novels that Kate reads and tries to hide (poorly, might he add) whenever someone walks into her office. It’s not something that happens in real life, and it’s not something that happens to men like him.

When it was suggested he take on a teaching assistant this semester, John was skeptical. He wasn’t quite so sure that his courses would benefit from having someone else pouring over every facet of his work, and frankly, he was a bit incensed by the notion that he’d even need help; but in casually surveying the department in passing conversation, he realized that he was the only educator in the English department without a TA.

Enter: you. Your application was impeccable, and you came to the department with such glowing endorsements from your undergraduate instructors. Pack that in with the essay you wrote and the accolades decorating your previous work study, it was a no-brainer. John tossed every other application he received without a second thought.

The two of you began to exchange emails shortly after he agreed to taking you on. He quickly found you to be whip-smart, wicked funny, and absolutely wonderful. Looking forward to your replies became a new hobby of his as he jumped to check his phone every time it buzzed. He looked forward to putting a face to the name every day until that day finally came. Then, he knew he was doomed.

You strolled into his office the day before classes began and introduced yourself with a scintillating smile, holding a hand out to shake his. He swallowed hard and accepted your greeting in kind, a bit taken aback by how goddamn gorgeous you are. The image his mind constructed through the internet didn’t hold a candle to what stood before him, what with your doe eyes and pretty smile and the shape of your hips and… wait, what’s that? The smell of your perfume made his brain stutter; something akin to cedar and coconut milk with a smokey vanilla note like a cherry on top. It still has the same effect on him, honestly.

Over the first few weeks of the new semester, he grew to adore you in your entirety, learning all the subtle nuances that previous exchanges didn’t convey properly. He digs every shade of your personality (especially when you’re being snarky and teasing him, even if you don’t know how much of that teasing goes straight to his dick). You engage him in conversation and listen intently to what he has to say, usually with that red pen of yours tucked between your teeth. Drives him crazy when you do that, but there’s something so inherently innocent about the way you look at him; boulders of shame pile on his chest until his ribs cave in with an airy exhale, and he’s crushed beneath the weight of the reality that you’re untouchable.

He’s the professor; you are the student. It’s far too risky, even if he didn’t already know you’d reject him on the spot.

Entranced, he watches from the corner of his eye as you lean over another student’s table, pointing out something on the graded tests you were handing back. The edge of your cute little skirt rides up your thighs just enough that he swears he can see the gentle curve of your ass beneath the hem. How he wishes he could bend you over further, pull those barely-there panties to the side, and fuck you to within an inch of your life.

But this certainly isn’t the most opportune time for him to think about that. No, not with a classroom full of students that could, at any moment, point out the flush creeping high across his cheeks or notice the massive tent he’s sporting in his slacks as he strategically moves to the podium to begin his lecture.

He isn’t sure how he makes it through, truthfully, not when he’s stealing glances at you in between parts of his notes. You’re sitting at your own table on the far side of the room, legs crossed demurely with your laptop open in front of you. Those pretty, manicured fingertips click and clack away at the keyboard, making detailed notes of your own, and he struggles to keep the image out of his mind of those same nails gripping his shoulders while he’s buried inside you.

It doesn’t help that you’re looking back at him every single time his eyes flit over to you, focused so raptly like you’re hanging on his every word. You seem so enthralled by the most minute details, watching him with that darling doe-eyed stare. Your eyelashes kiss your cheeks with every blink, and god, he just wants to know what it feels like to touch any part of you.

You’re the kind of woman Shakespeare wrote sonnets about; a beauty so overwhelming that it’s hard to decipher in ordinary thought. It requires prose, grandeur, and sophistication. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for him to find an eloquent way to speak when he’s sharing space with you.

It’s embarrassing, the way he keeps almost losing his place and fumbling his words like an absolute moron. He can’t help it, though. Not when his heart skips a beat every time you catch his wistful gaze and give him that gentle, supportive smile that reassures him he’s doing well, even when you can hear as clearly as everyone else how much he’s fucking up. He swears he keeps hearing snickers sprinkled across the classroom, but maybe his mind is playing tricks. Not a single student presents anything other than a straight face, save for the brunette in the front row that’s always making eyes at him.

He wonders if you’d be the jealous type, if another girl looking at him would spur you into a fit of marking him up and reminding him who he belongs to, something that could take all night if he played his cards right. The thought of finding all the bruises and love bites and claw marks on his body (and the subsequent downward rush of blood again) further serves to remind him: you’re not his, but he is yours.

♡

John sighs as he digs a bottle of Tylenol out of his desk drawer. He takes three and chases them down with his cold tea, ignoring the bitter bite on his tongue.

Office hours can be absolute hell with the wrong students, and boy, did he pick a list of winners today (sarcasm, full sarcasm). After hours of students passing the buck and making excuses for missing work or seeking extra credit because of said buck passing, he finds himself corralled by Abigail Briarton, the bright but conniving brunette from 20th Century Lit. Another odd scenario, given the feedback he’s gotten from you on her work. You’ve told him more than once that she shows immense capability in her writing, and yet, she always seeks John out, presenting concerns that she doesn’t quite understand the material.

He’s not stupid; he knows why she schedules office hours. She has a little crush on him - daddy issues, no doubt. It’s clear in how she approaches him, wearing low cut tops, short skirts, subtle (and not so subtle) hints that she’s of legal age and unattached. Their interactions are strictly professional on his end, and after today, he’s remanded her to seeking further clarification on lectures from you.

“If you’re struggling to connect with my lectures or our discussions here, I think it would be best for you to start seeing my TA instead. She’s got a different way of explaining that may be more relatable to you.”

You’re going to hate him for saying that, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take if it keeps him from being unbearably uncomfortable in his own office twice a week.

Speaking of, he wonders how you’re faring until he hears an exaggerated sigh in the silence that befalls both rooms. That seems to be a sign that he should really check in on you, especially since Victor Denley was your last meeting. The kid can’t put his phone down long enough to pay attention in class, so he imagines the scheduled session don’t go much better.

He tugs open the door separating your offices, hinges squealing in protest. Leaning against the frame, he folds his arms across his chest and lets his ankles cross, balancing his weight between the frame and floor. A sympathetic frown tugs at his lips as his gaze falls on you.

The bridge of your nose is pinched between your fingers, and your eyes are squeezed shut. He’s pretty sure you’re using whatever willpower you have left to stave off one hell of a migraine.

“You look bloody miserable, love. Everything okay?”

One eye cracks open, and the grimace on your face tilts into an adorable little half smile.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you answer, moving your fingers to rub at an achy spot on your temple. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“You’re not a good liar,” he laughs. “If you need anything for your head, I’ve got half a pharmacy in my desk.”

“Save it. You’ll need it more than I do.” He raises an eyebrow, imploring you silently to continue. “Mr. Denley is more focused on his phone than his grades, so I suggested he start scheduling his visits with you instead. Maybe you can get through to him.”

“Suppose it’s a fair exchange then.” John shoots you a haughty smirk, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands in the pockets of his slack. You return his cocked eyebrow questioningly. “Oh, I’ve asked Ms. Abigail to start scheduling with you since she’s having so much difficulty grasping my explanations.”

“You’re violating my eighth amendment rights, Professor,” you groan.

“There’s nothing cruel or unusual about this, and you’re definitely not being punished.”

That’s only a half-truth. It is both cruel and unusual, given the fact that he’s awfully sweet on you and that girl is borderline insufferable, but it’s most definitely not meant to be any sort of punishment. You’ve done nothing to deserve that. He just knows that if he insists on her meeting with you instead, she simply won’t show up. Win win.

If you do want to be punished, though, he can think of dozens of more pleasurable ways to do that. Needn’t but ask, really.

“And for the last time,” he adds. “Please just call me John.”

“That just feels too informal.” You shrug. “You’re my boss.”

John scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes with a growing grin.

“We’re alone, right? No students?”

You nod. He abandons the doorway and places his palms against your desk. He leans forward, arms bearing his weight, and he’s less than a foot away when he says, “Then there’s no need to keep it so formal, is there, love?”

“I guess not.” He can almost feel the warmth creeping up your neck, and he’s relishing the fact that he’s practically witnessing you getting all hot under the collar before you cheekily add, “John.”

John ducks his head, moving just a little bit closer to you, saying, “See? Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Oh, it was awful,” you reply right away, pulling a facetious face of disgust. John chuckles, standing up straight. He scrubs a hand across his jaw, shaking his head at you.

“You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m professional.”

♡

“Professor Price?” You poke your head through the doorway to his office, voice sweeter than honey. He hears you, but he doesn’t acknowledge you. He won’t until you call him by his name.

His fingertips plod away at his keyboard, the rhythmic tapping counting out the seconds until you let out an exaggerated sigh.

“John?”

“Yes?” he hums, hands stalling as he looks up, heart leaping into his throat. Your outfit is simple, nothing that should be getting him worked up; and yet, it is.

You’ve got on those pants that he loves, a hunter green, high-waisted number with large buttons up the front and a built in pair of suspenders that curve around the swells of your breasts. It accentuates your waist in a way that makes his palms itch with the want to hold you there while wide, flowing pant legs give way for your shapely hips. When you turn away, it gives him a full view of the fabric that pulls tight around your pert ass. The fact that you wear heels with them every time is just a bonus, but he likes to consider what you’d look like in just those heels; patent black leather stilettos with a pointed toe that just barely peek out beneath the hem. Neatly tucked into the waist is a plain, white button down with a lightly frilled collar and a black ribbon tied into a bow beneath the lapels, the perfect knot balancing the loops as to keep from looking lopsided.

You have no right to look that fucking good.

“Can you help me really quick?” He raises an eyebrow, not entirely sure if he’d even be able to stand with the way his knees are knocking together. “I’m having a little trouble deciphering this paragraph; it makes sense, but not in the context of the paper.”

“Yeah, bring it here, love.”

You move into his office, heels clicking against the hardwood floor as you approach him. Instead of sitting across from him in the vacant chair, you perch on the corner of his desk, crossing your legs as you set the stapled stack in front of him. Your finger finds the section in question, but John can’t focus with you sitting so close to him.

In his head, he reaches out and puts a hand on your thigh, slowly kneading its expanse from the curve of your hip to the outside of your knee and back, talking sweet to you about how pretty you are and how badly he wants to ruin you; in reality, your perfume is too overwhelming for him to make heads or tails of what he’s reading, so he passes it over three or four times before shrugging.

Looking back up at you proves to be a mistake. Your pillowy lower lip, coated in a neutral shade of lipstick, is trapped between your teeth as you eye him closely, anticipating a clearer explanation than what you could conjure yourself. It crosses his mind what it would feel like to have your lip between his teeth instead, the erotic noises you’d make when he tugs on it. He was halfway hard just looking up at you for once, but the thoughts have him at full mast. He scoots a little tighter to his desk, hoping to hide it.

“I see what you mean,” he finally says, eyes jetting back down to the essay before him. “Right thought, wrong context. Have you checked it in the system for plagiarism?”

You shake your head.

“No, but that’s a good idea. There’s another section - “ You lean down, moving closer to him as you flip ahead to the next page. It’s too much, and his resolve is crumbling by the second. “ - right here. It sounds very similar to a paper I graded this morning.”

You’d think he’d learn his lesson the first time, but not John. Never John. He glances back to you, and the two of you lock in a heated stare, faces only a few inches apart. Your eyes dart down to his mouth and back up. He wants to kiss you right now, so fucking bad, and it looks to him like you want to kiss him, too. Your head tilts just in the slightest; it seems like you’re leaning in…

A knock at his door yanks you away from him as you scramble off his desk, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in your slacks before moving to open the door. He can’t see who’s on the other side just yet, but he doesn’t care. He can’t move, frozen in place with shock and dismay.

“Professor Riley,” you greet politely. “How are you?”

Simon gives you a wary once over, addressing you by name in a stern but polite tone, and that’s enough to start flagging John’s erection right away. It’s the saving grace he needed in that moment to stop him from acting on an impulse you’d surely both regret.

Still, he wonders what would’ve happened if Simon had waited just thirty seconds more.

♡

Being sick by itself is fucking miserable, but being sick, alone, and having to stay sequestered in the house all day? That’s pure torture.

John hates taking sick days. Sure, the students appreciate an extra day of not having to listen to him prattle on about John Wyndham this week; there’s only so much they can take of discussing the underlying themes in the Day of the Triffids before they’re ready to pull their hair out. But it throws a comically large wrench in all of John’s plans, both for the day and for slightly longer-term, especially when he forgets his laptop in his office.

It’s only with a slew of curses, grunts, and grumbles that he manages to convince himself to go get it, crawling out of bed begrudgingly to throw on a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt. There’s no way he’ll get through the weekend without his computer, so he knows he has no other choice but to drag his tired ass onto campus to get it. If he’s going to take an unintentional long weekend, the least he can do is finish grading the previous unit. He doesn’t want to in the slightest, but the consideration that he may run into you puts a little spark in his step.

He’d texted you when he awoke with a sore throat and a nasty sinus headache, asking you to put a sign on both his office and lecture hall doors to let students know class is canceled (a group email was sent from his phone around 7 this morning, but he knows a vast majority of his pupils don’t check their damn emails). You texted him back shortly after with a simple affirmation and a sweet get well soon message. There was a pause, and then you texted him again, asking if he needed anything. He was sorely tempted to take you up on it, just because he wanted to see you before the weekend, but there’s no need now if he has to come in anyways.

It’s a quick jaunt, since John lives less than five miles away. He parks in the staff lot and sneaks in the back door of the building, cautiously optimistic that no students will see him. How he’s dressed falls far from the guidelines of professionalism, and the fact that he’s sick wouldn’t bode well for any sort of interaction, lest he spread whatever foul virus has crawled into his body this time.

He’s surprised to see an ‘Out of the Office’ sign hanging on your door, too. He thought for sure that you’d still keep your office hours as scheduled, even without him being around. It occurs to him that maybe you don’t want to hang around the office without him, but that thought, while very sweet, is certainly just wishful thinking. You definitely don’t share his vested interest, even if it did seem like you were about to kiss him yesterday.

As he pushes his key into the lock on his office door, he picks up the faint thrumming of a heavy bassline. He’s surprised he didn’t notice it before, considering it seems to be coming from his office. The light is on, odd since he’s obviously been out all day. Curiosity forces his hand to move faster, and what he finds awaiting him is far better than he could’ve ever imagined.

You’re in his office, standing on a chair, deftly dusting the old birch bookshelf behind his desk. All his books and knick-knacks are stacked neatly on a lower shelf as you wipe the top one. The music he heard is twice as loud as he would have guessed, and you’re rocking to the beat, hips swaying in time. It’s equally as amusing as it is downright sexy. The way you move is tantalizing, and John has to take a moment to catch his breath, swallowing a harsh cough before he speaks.

“Really? This is what you listen to when I’m not around?” he laughs as he closes the door behind him. You don’t seem startled as you throw a hazardous glance over your shoulder, your movements never once faltering, even with the sudden audience. You’re not embarrassed about being caught, and that impresses him. Shameless thing, you are.

“Please, Professor, Backstreet’s a classic.”

“Didn’t take you for the boy band type,” he counters, barely suppressing another cough behind a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. You set down the can of Pinesol and your rag and climb off the chair, leaning across his desk to turn the volume down on your phone.

“Good to know I can still surprise you then.”

“I was really hoping superior taste would prevail if you hung around me long enough.” The way your lips curve up at that feels like a match into gasoline. John isn’t certain if it’s you or the fever that’s starting to bead sweat along his hairline.

“You saying I have bad taste?” you laugh, arguably his favorite sound.

“I’m saying I thought you’d enjoy something a bit harder or faster than those bubblegum muppet boy types.”

“Faster doesn’t mean better, John.” The way you say his name (unprompted, might he add) sends a chill up his spine in the best way. Innuendo hangs on every syllable, and he considers how correct you are. He wouldn’t want to be fast with you, not in any sense of the word. He’d take his time, making damn sure that you’d remember every second for the rest of your life.

In conversation, however, he ignores the comment.

“What do you have against 90’s boy bands, sir?”

“Nothing, I just don’t quite get the fascination. Didn’t get it in the 90’s, either.“

“Can’t handle infectious melodies, huh?”

You’re so comfortable with him; he can tell. Much snarkier than usual in a less professional setting, dressed down, and he can’t help but think that this feels a bit more domestic. You’d act like this far more often in the privacy of his own home, wearing his t-shirt while you shuffle his things off the desk for a quick wipe down, calling for him when you can’t reach something. He loves the thought, honestly.

His pause is noticed and mistaken for hesitancy.

“Oh, I get it.” Your expression moves towards something of agreement as you nod, but it quickly falls right back into the same snarky little simper. “You can’t dance, can you?”

His mouth falls open in a silent objection, then closes, then opens again, like a fish out of water. He wants to argue that he’s a great dancer, but that wouldn’t be accurate. Sure, theoretically, he is, but he’s never really tried. He’s never really done more than a simple stand-and-sway at the odd wedding here and there. There’s nothing to it, though, right?

But that’s clearly the reaction you wanted, isn’t it?

You look at him so expectantly, rapt and ready.

He shrugs, “What, like it’s difficult? Of course, I can.”

“Right, because the hand jive totally counts,” you snicker, narrowing the chasm that separates you. “I almost forgot how old you are, Professor Price.”

Again, his mouth opens, this time in feigned offense.

“I’m not that old.”

“Oh, please! You’re practically geriatric! You’re, what, 58?”

“I’m 42,” he barks with a laugh. “We’re barely over a decade apart!”

“Then you’re still young enough to learn,” you answer with finality, putting your hands firmly on your hips. Your fingers dig into the soft cotton of your apparent cleaning day shorts as you pause, though he’s unsure if it’s due to nerves over what comes next or simply for dramatic effect. “Do you want to? You’ll be able to take it to the clubs.” Your voice gets sing-songy on the last sentence, and John can’t help but chuckle. As if you’d ever see him in a club, as if he’d ever be caught dead in a nightclub.

He contemplates it for a moment, the line between a professional and personal relationship blurring further with each passing second. It’s an interesting opportunity, one that he really should pass up, but he won’t. He gives you a noncommittal shrug with a fairly neutral expression, sighing, “If it’ll get you to stop listening to the bloody Backstreet Boys in my office, I’ll do whatever you want, love.”

You do this adorable little clap, showing off that sweet little smile he loves so much. It’s cute that you’d get so excited about something as simple as showing him some silly little dance he’ll have no need to remember (though he knows he’ll never forget the way your body moves; it’s already on a loop in his head that doesn’t end).

Grabbing your phone off the desk, you scroll a few times before your face lights up again. The volume is pushed to full as you hit play and set it down.

John is ashamed of the fact that he recognizes the song from its first line.

“If you want it to be good, girl, get yourself a bad boy.”

He stands stock-still, eyeing the way you’re already getting into it. You’re dancing your way over to him, and the air in his lungs freezes when you stop close enough for him to smell the remnants of the morning’s perfume spritz. His head spins when you reach out and grab his hands, encouraging him to feel the beat and just let loose. It’s a little step-touch-sway at first, but you spin yourself under his arm, turning your back to him as you maintain your hold over your shoulder. It forces him to take a step closer, and a primal part of him urges him to bury his face in your neck, smother it with kisses and love bites, mark you up and make you beg for him to give you more.

He ignores it. He ignores it very, very well… Until you bring his hands to your hips. The same place your palms once occupied are now covered by his, his fingers twitching against the barrier separating him from your soft skin. It’s taking every ounce of effort he possesses to stop himself from allowing his fingertips to dig into the fat around your hips hard enough to leave bruises, a small memento of how badly he wants you that will only ever exist in his mind.

“If you wanna make it last, gotta know just who to ask. Babe, it's gotta be the best, and that's me, my lady. If you want it to be good, girl, get yourself a bad boy.”

John has no trouble keeping with the music as your body’s sway guides him. The twist and swing of the hips beneath his splayed fingers dictate where to follow, and he does so mindlessly, focused entirely on keeping a gap between the curve of your perfect ass and his ever-hardening erection. He’s cursing himself profusely for opting to go commando under the sweats, but in his defense, he never would’ve imagined in his wildest dreams that this was something his day would hold.

“See? Not that hard,” you murmur, keeping your hands on top of his. Oh yes, it is, he thinks. You give him a gentle squeeze, and it catches him entirely off guard when you take a step back, pressing up against him. His brain starts screaming about how wrong this is, but when you tip your head back against his shoulder, everything goes silent. He can’t hear the music now, he can’t hear his thoughts, he can’t hear his own breathing anymore. It all slows down, feeling like delayed motion as you look up at him, still with that stunning smile painted across your mouth. You say something, but the words don’t reach his ears. His gaze locks on your mouth, and he’s itching to kiss you. That’s all he’s focused on until he sees the smile fade, and you gently pull away, turning in his hold.

“Price? Are you okay?”

He hums in question, narcostic. You repeat, and he processes it with a few blinks. His arms are still wrapped around you, and he can’t stop himself from meeting you in the middle. His forehead presses against yours, noses brushing. There are mere centimeters between his lips and yours, and he knows he can’t take much more of this. He needs to know if you want him as bad as he wants you.

“I need an answer,” you whisper, heated breaths washing over his skin. He nods almost imperceptibly, giving you a soft ‘yeah’. You close the gap just a little more, lower lip grazing his so lightly. It’s so tempting to chase after you, get what he’s so desperately been craving for the last three months, but the logical part of his brain finally catches up, redirecting him to the safest path; the one that protects you.

“You know we can’t do this, right?” he sighs, already regretting the words as they’ve formed. There’s a hope that you’ll tell him it’s okay, that you want this just as bad as he does and will keep this dirty little secret between the two of you. Reality, though, tips the scales, and John has to steel his resolve.

“Even if I really, really want to? Just once, and it’ll never happen again, I promise.” Your tone is pained, and he feels his heart clench. He doesn’t need to question how you feel about him anymore; he does, however, need to protect you.

“There’s no going back once we cross that line.” It fucking kills him to say that. He’s functionally just ripping out his own heart and throwing it on the tracks before an oncoming train, but it needs to be said.

You close your eyes as you let out a sigh matching his, and he feels your eyelashes crest across the apples of his cheeks. His grip on you tightens just briefly, fingertips digging in to show you he means it.

“John - “

He shakes his head. He can’t take that chance. If he kisses you, even just once, he’ll only want to keep doing it. That would be his undoing. It’s a gamble he can’t afford to take on your behalf.

“No, love. I’m not risking your education, your future, over one little kiss.”

You nod understandingly, creating a new space between the two of you. John can hear a shudder in your breathing as he lets his arms fall to his sides, and it leaves an ache in that hole in his chest, one that’s only furthered by the dejected look on your face. He wishes things were different so he could kiss that look away.

He briefly wonders if it’s too late to change his mind, but you make it clear for him when you grab your phone from his desk, shut off the music, and climb back up on the chair, intent on continuing to clean like nothing just happened.

“Just so you know, I am sorry,” he says in a hushed tone as he grabs his laptop off his desk.

You smile at him softly over your shoulder, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He can still see that hint of hurt in your expression.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Professor Price.”

♡

He can’t focus. Try as John might, he can’t draw his brain away from you.

The cursor on his laptop blinks impatiently at him as the blank document on his screen awaits its transformation into the following unit’s lecture notes. A white blanket does no favors in occupying his mind with things that are of dire need. His section on 1960s literature begins tomorrow, he’s feeling far better physically than the days prior, and yet he’s still wrapped up in the feeling of his hands on your hips, your touch on his heated skin, the look in your eyes when you said, “even if I really, really want to?”.

It’s not a question anymore, if you want him as badly as he wants you. He knows you do. And there’s something about the fact that he can’t have you that just makes him crave you more.

He’s not sure what about you is making it so difficult for him to keep his head straight. Obviously, you’re stunning. It’s impossible not to see that - even half the students that come in for your office hours are just stopping by to try their hand at flirting with you (he can hear it from his office; drives him up the fucking walls). But he had a more intimate connection with you before he knew how goddamn gorgeous you are, which also somehow doesn’t seem to be the solidifier for his borderline obsession.

He pushes himself away from his kitchen table, deciding a shower and some food might push you out of his mind long enough to get his notes prepared. Anything that can provide some sort of distraction from feeling like such a colossal jackass, both for turning you down and for falling for you in the first place.

Stripping off his clothes, Price throws them in the hamper. He mindlessly guides himself into his en suite bathroom. The sunlight peeking through the window gives him more than enough light to abandon any consideration for the switch by the doorway. He cranks the handle on the faucet over, continually checking the temperature until it’s just right before pulling the lever and letting the showerhead spit to life.

Water just this side of scalding pelts his skin, and he feels his entire body relax, tension melting from his knotted shoulders. It feels good. It allows him to let go of everything in his brain and just feel. But that empty head doesn’t last.

John starts washing his hair, scrubbing at his scalp with the tip of his fingers, and a wave of warmth, warmer than the water, ghosts across his skin. He swears he can smell your perfume, and he imagines the hands in his hair are yours. He can practically hear your little giggle as he tilts his head back to rinse, whispering sweet nothings at a volume only perceptible to him.

It’s a constant struggle to block out the thought of you, even for just a few minutes. As he rakes a hand through his hair again, phantom hands follow behind. He imagines your fingers threading through, grabbing a fistful and giving it a rough tug. It’s enough to get him half hard, and he has to swallow the pleased noise in the back of his throat as he pictures those tugs while his face is buried between your thighs.

His hands map the contours of his body, lathering them up with the scent of leather, vanilla, and pine. He takes his time, picturing your hands running across his skin instead. His fingertips brushing across his hips sends a jolt through him, the image becoming far too vivid all at once. He can’t stop the harsh sigh he lets out, and he’s done pretending that he isn’t going to get off on this.

Not that he hasn’t been jacking it all weekend thinking about you. Honestly, if his math is correct, this puts him in double-digits since Friday night; it’s the third time today, even.

Wrapping a soapy fist around his cock, he allows himself a few short, quick strokes before squeezing around the base and slowing himself down. He’s going to savor this one because he is not going to be doing it again (that’s total bullshit, but let him believe it).

He imagines how pretty your mouth would look wrapped around him, those sweet doe eyes looking up at him as he nudges the back of your throat, making you gag on him.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he sighs, picking up his pace a little. “Take it for me.”

His grip tightens around the tip as he twists his wrist, letting out a long, low moan. He likes to think you’d be making all sorts of saccharine little noises for him, sweet like your mouth is full of honey. There’s no way he’d finish like that, though. He’d reserve that for being so deep inside you, you could feel it in your stomach.

He throws his head back, wet hair falling away from his forehead, as he pictures having you bent over before him, bracing yourself on the edge of the tub as he runs his cock through your folds a few times. He’d relish how fucking soaked sucking him off would get you.

“Fuck, sweet little thing, is all that for me?” He thinks you’d nod, biting your lower lip as you look at him over your shoulder, wiggling that cute ass as if you’re asking for more. He’d give it to you. Fuck, he’d give you anything you want.

Again, his fist tightens around his dick. Even with as much as he’d work you up, Price still believes firmly that it’d be a decent stretch for you to take all of him (he’s not bragging; he just knows that he’s well above average). That pretty little pussy would be squeezing him so good, so he does his best to make his grip match.

“Your cunt feels so good, love,” he grunts, fucking his hand hard and fast. “Made for me, huh?”

You’d agree, wouldn’t you?

He licks his lips, adding, “Yeah, that’s my girl. Sweet little hole made just for me.”

He’d grab you by the throat, pulling you back against him for a sloppy, awkwardly-angled kiss while he fucks into you, on the verge of cumming purely due to the way you’re looking up at him. He’d be a gentleman, of course, offering to pull out, but he thinks you’d decline. He thinks you’d beg him to cum inside you. That’s what does him in.

“Want it inside me… Please, John… Inside… Fuck, don’t stop.”

With a stutter to his rhythm, Price feels the knot in his stomach burst, and he spills over his knuckles, hot, white streaks painting his fingers.

He doesn’t feel bad about it, touching himself, thinking of you; not when he knows without question that you want him just as bad.

♡

The changing of seasons comes far too soon, in more ways than one. As fall gives way to the bitter temperatures of the ever impatient winter, you, too, grow colder.

You don't call him by his name anymore. No longer do you inquire after his weekend or surprise him with his favorite tea in the mornings or recommend books you'd just finished. You don’t smile at him through lectures, nor do you greet him in the hall with your standard enthusiasm. You're still you with everyone else, but only the picture-perfect persona of professionalism with him, and that hurts.

It stings. Thousands of yellow jackets prick the inside of his chest at all hours of the day, driving their thorny needles in as deep as they'll go. He gets no reprieve, awake or asleep. Every icy interaction is another pang of regret, and how curious, he thinks, that those pesky wasps have managed to hold out so long with the changing weather.

As much as he'd like to, John can't blame anyone but himself. By all accounts, he did the right thing. If he would've kissed you, he wouldn't have been able to stop. It would become compulsive, habitual. Someone would find out sooner or later, and there's no doubt it would be cemented as part of your reputation. There's no telling what degree of damage that would do to your career. You've worked too damn hard to get this far; it wouldn't be right of him to take that all away for you over one moment of selfishness.

But is this not selfishness? The devil on his shoulder scolds him. It tells him it was never his place to make decisions for you, that you’re a grown woman capable of doing as you please, that you wouldn’t have practically begged him to kiss you if you didn’t want it just as badly as he did.

It isn’t until he overhears you talking with Johnny MacTavish, a TA from the science department, that he considers that little devil may have a valid point.

“I just feel so stupid, Johnny. One minute, I think he’s just about to kiss me, and the next, he’s turning me down. Did I do something wrong? Do you think I misread the situation? Or am I just gullible enough to think that someone like him would ever want me?”

“Oh, pish. I’ve seen the way that mook stares at you. Nothin’ wrong with you, bonnie; you’re the whole damn package. Seems to be him with the problem, aye?”

It breaks his heart that you’d think so lowly of him to diminish yourself in any way on his behalf. He has half a mind to intrude, to burst into your office and tell you the facts as they stand - that you’re the only thing he ever thinks about anymore, his only vice, that you are perfect to him, for him, that it is him who feels the need to address the issue at hand, that, as much as John may loathe to admit, MacTavish is spot-on (it’s nothing personal; he’s a good kid. Price just isn’t big on being called out for acting like a complete fool).

However, where Price hangs himself for this is the dichotomy of his apparent staring problem.

On one hand, he knows he chances a glance far too often for his own posterity. He catches himself looking in your direction time and time again during his lectures, hoping to catch you staring back, and has to remind himself how inappropriate that is under any circumstance. On the other, though, how is he supposed to just ignore the way you’ve been dressing as of late? It’s like you’re actively trying to kill him. His palms itch with a need to touch, fingers twitching with a want to squeeze, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel like you were doing it intentionally. What better revenge than showing him what he’s missing out on?

It eats at him daily, knowing his own indecisiveness is the root of anguish for both of you.

Just this once, he tells himself he should've been selfish.

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price imagine #john price #john price cod #cod writer #cod x reader #cod x you #jj writes

225 notes · View notes

fatalfairies · 6 days

Text

SECOND PRINCE!SATORU GOJO x CARETAKER!READER

art credit: @/iorighin on X

a/n: not proofread but it’s cute

When you first saw Satoru,you felt sorry,such a beautiful man in the peak of his youth,he was sitting on the bed with his back supported on the pillows on the headboard slat of the large,luxurious bed.

“If you feel pity,please leave and do not return” were his very first words to you as you looked at him feeling questioned. Yes,you did feel sorry for him but you did not pity him.

“Well then,Your Highness,there is not any chance I am leaving.”

At first,he was distant to you yet polite. He tried to avoid as much help as he could from you. But maybe he forgot that the only reason you’re present here is for the sole reason of taking care of him and if that required you to use a little force,then you wouldn’t really mind. A part of you was being selfish and you were fully aware of it.

You had been recently widowed after your stupid bastard of a husband sacrificed himself to a war which brought no fruition and you were relieved. But the consequences which came along with was something you wouldn’t accept by any means,neither were you ready to become a nun and devote your life to god nor did you want to remarry most likely yet another man.

And this was the perfect opportunity for you for to become the second prince’s caretaker. To the eyes of others,a woman who had been recently widowed is helpless and serving a member of the Imperial Family would help with that.

During the first few months,Satoru disliked you,no that’s being too harsh,he by no means disliked you but he disliked how even a flutter of his eyelashes would draw your attention to him.

He had been pampered and taken care his entire life,as a prince it is nothing surprising.

Yet why is that under the gaze of your eyes,he feels so vulnerable and cared for like never before.

Satoru feels as though he had been brought back to his childhood when you promise to read him a book or take him to a stroll in the lovely imperial gardens or play board games with him.

In all these months,you had find out many things about him and one thing you were definetly sure of is that he never craved the power of the throne and crown as many might assume. All he wanted was to be free and enjoy his life.

As a Prince who has no way of inheriting the throne,he should have these luxuries but that is utterly wrong. He is always followed around by some guards or maids as though he is a helpless child and that is all because of this sickness.

It might be the cause he’s weak despite being born in a dynasty of powerful men and women but that is no reason to treat him as a porcelain doll that can break at any moment.

And he hates himself for it,sometimes.

Spending all these months with you he has rediscovered many things he thought were long lost in his distant memories. You were reading him a novel as a gift after he had his meal and medicine like a good bo..prince.

“Why are you staring me with such intensity,Your Highness ? Are you not enjoying this book ?” You asked him,your eyes leaving the pages of the book as you stare into his cerulean eyes. Hearing your voice other than reading the lines of the book,he looks at you,snapped back to reality as his mouth gapes open slightly,”No,you’re a good storysteller and have gotten the voice of a heavenly nymph.”

“Why,thank you. I’ll be sure to read them more to you since you are so fond of me doing so.” You return words back,playfully. Maybe there were improvements in your relationship with him afterall.

You didn’t quite expect the distant man you met months ago to have this playful. Although,it is indeed infinetly better than a man who acts like he’s constipated,such as your dead husband.

“Say,My Prince,what is your favourite flower ?” You asked looking at him as your hands were supporting his tall figure as you strolled with in the vast garden with a smile on your face.

“Any flower you bring me.” He says,chuckling. “I’m serious. Do not be silly.” “But you do prefer that.”

“Hm,alright then,I’ll just consider my favourite flower yours too.”

“I’d prefer that far better,anything favoured by you suddenly becomes favoured by me as well.”

“You’re being such a deceptive charmer. I am relieved I am the only lady who knows this side of yours,Your Highness.”

“It’s Satoru. Also,why ? are you afraid they would inevitably fall for my princely charms ?”

“Quite the opposite,My Prince.”

“Rude. But it’s sweet coming from you.”

Maybe this was the starting of something much more intimate yet unknown to both of you what would end up blooming in your hearts.

60 notes · View notes

moondirti · 1 year

Text

a pearl

Still scarred; you don’t think he’s ever not been. Still scarred, yet vivid enough to accept a gentle caress he said helped muffle the phantom pain. He’d tell you the stories as you did (hardly ever pleasant), and you’d cherished them enough to remember.

But the John that pistons into you now does so with muted malaise, a concoction that clusters too heavy on his tongue to fully form words around.

pairing: Captain John Price x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.5k summary: what follows bloodshed warnings: angst, seriously - angst, canon typical violence, gore, allusions to childhood abuse, lots of unresolved feelings, hurt/comfort, a happy ending (the bare minimum), rough sex, marking, p-in-v notes: i have nothing to say for myself. there's no plot, just vibes. sorry (not). very much based off the mitski song of the same name.

It starts a little something like this–

Moments caught in the rhythmic flicker of a bedside lamp; golden, dim, dark. Golden, dim, dark. Pink flesh, blushed in foreign warmth, mottled in crops of chestnut hair you can’t help but run your fingers through. It’s sticky when it presses to you, slicked in half-dried sweat and the brine of a sour mission. You lick the salt from his collarbone, trying your best to place a firm kiss to it against the bludgeoning thrust of his body.

He fucks you like he hates you.

Not always. No.

But tonight, and in that perennial week that trails behind him when he comes home, he does. He finds you, supple enough for the two of them, with a restrained agony swimming in florentine eyes. It bleeds into blunt fingertips (calloused, too. Barnacles that rub rough on your breasts), staining you across the chest. You feel it in your lungs, scraping bone to marrow, your ribs a collapsible cage of sponge. And with the way he bears his weight on top of you, you think you just might.

It’s entirely too much, violent in a way you don’t find behind a plate carrier, the heavy security of a gun in your arms. Vulnerable – some crushed flower, one might say. Ripe with gallons of water at its centre and nothing to use it on. You’re plucked, right off your stem, your petals caught between teeth.

His hands stay planted on your hips, pinning them down to a sleep-soaked mattress while he plunges into you. One, ten, fifty times – years together and you’ll still never grow used to how thick he is. His cock is splitting, cleaving your cunt into two halves, filling you until a mushroomed head meets the gummy wall of your cervix. It falters then, nestled in that sweltering heat, before pulling back out to bruise you again.

And you take it. Your own limbs remain wrapped around his back, curved to fit rippling muscle, your nails digging into the sinew. You could push him away, should you please, you’re far too familiar with this routine to kid yourself into believing he wouldn’t listen to consent. Fight and watch as he reluctantly breaks away, turning to less delicate vices; a Maduro cigar, toasted. Scotch with a water back, neat.

But you cling to a sweet nothing he’d whispered to you once, crowded in the back of his old Audi Q5, his beard abrasive on the soft stretch of your neck, trailing desperate kisses.

Bloody christ. Can live off you alone, sweetheart.

It had held some semblance of truth then, caught under bad weather with the sky open to the heavens, a great cataclysm of rain pelting down on the car. A revenant vow, no witnesses; something for just the two of you until the day’s promised wedding – a novel, diamond-encrusted band, thin on your ring finger.

(You now wear both his and yours on a chain around your neck. His embellishments narrow down to those dog tags, the ones that hang over you when you fuck – silver slips the only indication of the man beneath the uniform, a body to be brought back home once it’s been bled through.)

Younger. You remember it distinctly; right out of SAS training, his skin a canvas for memorised marks. You’d been able to map each one to its source; rings of red concentrated at the wrist, cigar shaped but not self inflicted. Silver lines on his knees, founded atop the Brecon Beacons from his long drag assessment. Scabbed knuckles that never seemed to heal, not since he’d punched through a concrete wall the night he decided to leave home.

But the John that pistons into you now does so with muted malaise, a concoction that clusters too heavy on his tongue to fully form words around. You imagine it tastes bitter, bitter and much like the ichor that blooms to your cuticles. You don’t expect him to reel those horrors back with him – the sight of a dead mother after his executive order to shoot all potential hostiles. You know he’d much rather find sanctity here, with you. But he bends under the perceived punishment you inflict, groaning when you carve crescent shaped divots into him; and it comes clearer to you than anything else.

His burden as Captain finds him far beyond the field. You’re just not made privy to it.

You let him express it in the only way he can.

It goes a little something like this–

You don’t ask, despite the named tension that floods the chilled bathroom.

He lets you shower first. Actually, almost commands you to, murmuring the words into sex clogged air while he cradles your quivering thigh. He waits until you find your strength again, nudging a tear away from your cheek with restrained tenderness. He guides you while you make your way, his touch smoothing from the small of your back to your shoulder, where it clamps down to steady you.

You can’t pinpoint the expression that twitches beneath his moustache as he does. It’s much too complex under the varicoloured delirium that clouds you. You see, you hear, you feel and smell and taste the oceanic headiness at the back of your mouth, yet none of it crackles back to your synapses where you can properly process his disquietude.

So, you whimper a little asseveration in place, the sound of it lost amidst hissing pipes when he sets the shower for you.

I missed you.

Maybe he doesn’t hear it. Maybe it’s drowned in the same chasm that eats him alive. But his eyes catch yours before he turns to leave, and they flicker with the light reflected off the faucet. Or, you’re tricking yourself, and it’s recognition of something he can’t reciprocate.

By the time it takes you to clear your throat, he’s gone – off to his spot on the balcony, no doubt, stretched on an armchair you’d bought especially for him. You’d set a Maduro box on the coffee table between his seat and yours.

And you can smell it on him when he returns.

He must time it so you’re already out when he comes to wash up. You check it on the watch he’d discarded by the sink – forty five minutes to the second, a gratuitously long stretch to press on sore legs, but the water had been nice. He’d known the exact temperature to turn it to.

(He used to avoid the spray during your times together, too.

Any hotter, eh? It’s barely blistering.

You were the one who insisted on joining.

And kneaded your reddened flesh when you asked him to moisturise your back.)

His baths are militaristic in comparison to yours – he’s always in, soaped, and out before you get to your hair. You’d teased that he does it to avoid those grim thoughts that taint deluge silences – the ones no one is immune to. Perhaps you’d been on the mark.

So, you don’t ask. But you try and bear through ten more minutes upright, standing in front of the mirror, a towel around your bust, untangling the jewellery that’d been neglected in his absence.

You hardly get through your wedding chain when he finishes, picking at the same stubborn knot.

“You’ll get sick,” John gruffs, padding up behind you. You move over for him to reach the towel rack and pointedly avoid the large mass in your peripheral, hanging between thick thighs, nested in chestnut curls.

“If rearranging my guts wasn’t enough to ail me, then what harm can a bit of cold do.” You jibe. He gives you a grunt in response, tucks a corner into the wrap around his waist and sticks his hand out.

“Let me see that.”

You blink, looking up at him for a split second, before handing over the chain. The bathroom provides a brighter luminescence than the glow of the hazy bedroom.

It’s then you notice a hardly healed cut on his shoulder, sutured with black stitching.

And one on his chest.

And leg.

A purpling bruise, stippling the expanse of his abdomen, furling over the side of it to darken into black.

You’re caught like that – staring, hands at your chest – for far too long. If he realises, he doesn’t say, pulling at gold strands until something gives.

But his elbow tucks closer to hide the discoloration, the gesture veering on childish insecurity. Though that conclusion rolls between your teeth; a pearl that won’t dissolve and is much too large to swallow. Things can never be so simple with John. He fits the world in ways you’ve spent your entire marriage attempting to figure out – like a sole jigsaw piece, made with no greater picture in mind.

(You cut yourself to suit it, sometimes. He changes shape before you can catch up.)

The action is an inclination you can never fully acknowledge, then; not until it’s you racing to see what can heal first – your body, or your mind. So you single in on the bulk of his arm instead, expanding thew with the movement, choking back the stone lodged in your chest. It becomes easy to lose track of time like this, returning to your perpetual dysthymia.

You’re only snapped out of it by the smokey gravel of his voice, somehow simultaneously full-bodied and edging on a whisper. It pops like wet wood on a campfire, seething with an undercurrent of resignation, like it’s aware of its failure to fully fuel the kindling heat.

(You still feel it though; like a deafening salvo in the chamber of your hollowed gut. Butterflies turned gunpowder. It holds the same effect.)

“Here.”

And he hands you your necklace back, unravelled.

Brushing your teeth, you point to the hickeys decorating the column of your neck, then at his own wounds.

“Look, we match.”

His reflection tenses, the razor pulling away from his jaw. John opens his mouth – knuckles blooming white, clutching the edge of the sink – then snaps it shut upon scanning your foamy grin.

He goes back to lining his mutton chops, his lips pursed in a grim line.

Maybe you should’ve stayed quiet.

It ends a little something like this–

Moonlight filters through sheer curtains, ballooning with the tranquil breeze. You left the window open to allow some air while he finds his rare sleep.

You’re usually the first to knock out, but you stay awake on certain nights, these nights, stuck on vigilant duty against forces you can’t quite keep at bay. You know where he keeps his guns – taped to the sides of dressers or under a chair. They aren't anything you need. No. Now, you weaponize your hand, spread flat and smoothing over a coarse head of hair. You brush the strands that stick to his sweaty forehead and pull down the duvet when you notice his continuous battle with the heat.

Then, the nightmares start.

It’s subtle at first. No stranger would notice.

You cradle his forearm and his pulse quickens under your thumb. Doldrums, a war cry. His body thrums with awakened adrenaline as his pupils thrash behind fluttering eyelids. It’s an unsettling tremor that vibrates through you, the mattress, the still midnight where things tend to find their peace. You bite your lips through it and hope the worn-film memories go easy on him.

His breathing breaks into a stuttered pace. He’d forgone a shirt, clad in just plaid bottoms, and his chest gleams with a thin layer of cold perspiration. It shakes with him, rapid inhalations, his lip twitching while his body tries to regulate the instinctual fear. Your touch never leaves his head, your other, freer hand wrapping around twitching fingers.

And so begins the paralysis. The purgatorial state where nothing exists outside of stifling sheets and the distancing sounds of fusillade. You can tell when he comes to uneasy wakefulness – wavering in and out of a fight long since filed away in manilla cabinets – when his digits go rigid underneath yours. He gasps in one final, drawn-out convulsion, assured in his survival, before his eyes snap open to the present.

He grabs your wrist and flips you over in the split second afterwards.

You can’t help the scream that pitches at the assault. It’s not the first time this happens, but never has he been so quick to act.

“John–”

“Fuckin’- Fucking hell.”

His inflection warbles, still a victim to whatever profound helplessness overtook his dream.

“Are you okay?” You lament into the scant space between you. His nose brushes yours. You can feel the red-hot distress radiate off him in waves.

“Y-You… Affirm– Yes. Yes, I’m solid.” Though his eyes don’t meet yours.

You nod. He doesn’t let go of you.

“Water?”

“Scotch.”

“You’re not going back to sleep?”

“No.”

He flinches when you caress his cheek, brushing over wrinkled crows feet.

“You need your rest, John.”

“You haven’t slept, either.” The reaction holds more venom than he likely intends. You use the lowlight to memorise the way he appreciates his anger, the hissed admonishment echoing back with full force. Before his brow can crease again, you place a tentative peck to his chin. His jaw ticks at the movement.

“I will if you do, yeah?” He doesn’t agree, but his shoulders drop with an exhale. “Let me go, I’ll fetch a bottle for you.”

His face bows, a retired concession. It’s a side of him you hadn’t had the privilege of seeing, not until your first morning together, post-honeymoon.

(I have to go, love. My flight’s in an hour.

Stay. Just ‘till I fall back asleep.

He had.)

You’d miss it if you had stayed basking in the thought. His lips, chapped and bitten and cracked, brush over your knuckles when he pulls away.

You smile like a fool on your mission for refreshments. And, on your way back from the kitchen, you clasp over the rings on your necklace. An old habit, a happy tick.

(You almost drop the water when you feel only one; your classic, round diamond ring.

But you find his adorning his finger when his left hand reaches for the bottle.

You hadn’t noticed he’d taken it off the chain.)

The next morning, he tells you about Serbia and the calamity that brought upon new disfigurements. He grieves it in between thrusts, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck, his grip unabashedly bruising on your breasts. So we match, he echoes.

Still scarred. Always will be. But he dives deep into the personal upon remembering the comfort in your low hums.

(Your nails circling the marks on his palms - he’d told you about his dad two years in.

It helps.

What does?

When you trace over them like that.)

A week after every return to his house, John finally settles and rediscovers home.

taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis @s-u-t @sweetybuzz25 @hypernovaxx @glassgulls @superbafango @eternallyvenus @thoticious @noassparetime

join the taglist!

966 notes · View notes