#Tumblr fucked with the format
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Do... do you like
...the colours of the sky?
please tell me nobody did this yet 💀💀
#i PUT SO MUCH FUCKING EFFORT INTO THIS#please let it be worth it#also god fucking damn it tumblr is pixelating this so fucking much#ANYWAYS#pls look at this its funny#my art#zelda#tears of the kingdom#zelda totk#totk#tloz#do you like the color of the sky#we're not mentioning any proportion or formatting issues here#this took long enough#but hey look at the shading
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‘Because she likes people,’ said the witch, striding ahead. 'She cares about 'em. Even the stupid, mean, drooling ones, the mothers with the runny babies and no sense, the feckless and the silly and the fools who treat her like some kind of a servant. Now THAT’S what I call magic–seein’ all that, dealin’ with all that, and still goin’ on. It’s sittin’ up all night with some poor old man who’s leavin’ the world, taking away such pain as you can, comfortin’ their terror, seein’ 'em safely on their way…and then cleanin’ 'em up, layin’ 'em out, making 'em neat for the funeral, and helpin’ the weeping widow strip the bed and wash the sheets–which is, let me tell you, no errand for the fainthearted–and stayin’ up the next night to watch over the coffin before the funeral, and then going home and sitting down for five minutes before some shouting angry man comes bangin’ on your door 'cuz his wife’s havin’ difficulty givin’ birth to their first child and the midwife’s at her wits’ end and then getting up and fetching your bag and going out again…. We all do that, in our own way, and she does it better'n me, if I was to put my hand on my heart. THAT is the root and heart and soul and center of witchcraft, that is. The soul and center!'
Mistress Weatherwax smacked her fist into her hand hammering out her words. 'The…soul…and…CENTER!’ Echoes came back from the trees in the sudden silence. Even the grasshoppers by the side of the track had stopped sizzling.
'And Mrs Earwig,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, her voice sinking to a growl, 'Mrs. Earwig tells her girls it’s about cosmic balances and stars and circles and colors and wands and…and toys, nothing but TOYS!' She sniffed. 'Oh, I daresay they’re all very well as decoration, somethin’ nice to look at while you’re workin’, somethin’ for show, but the start and finish, THE START AND FINISH, is helpin’ people when life is on the edge. Even people you don’t like. Stars is easy, people is hard.’
She stopped talking. It was several seconds before birds began to sing again.
'Anyway, that’s what I think,’ she added in the tones of someone who suspects that she might have gone just a bit further than she meant to.
--Terry Pratchett, "A Hat Full of Sky"
#'anyway that's what i think'#reposting this as a text post instead of reblogging my years-old quote post from myself#bc tumblr always fucks up the formatting on reblogged quote posts for me for some reason#and turns them into a single-paragraph mess that it then won't let me edit#terry pratchett#discworld
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slaying choreo is hard
cr. namuspromised
#jimin#jimin*#park jimin#jiminedit#pjmdaily#btsedit#btsgif#dailybts#userbangtan#userpat#underbetelgeuse#trackofthesoul#usersevn#annietrack#usersky#usersan#usertaeyungie#usermaggie#*gifs#yes i am reposting this set after tumblr fucked up the formatting the first time#please pretend you've never seen it and reblog it again with the same enthusiasm <3 (and delete the old version lol)
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I need to post something here, so here's a poem I wrote a while ago! It's pretty dark so TW for mild gore, implied sexual assault and burning at the stake.
Lady Andesine
The swell of sound
from the evening partygoers,
And the clink of wine glasses
echoed in the vast hall.
Across the room I saw her,
with a feline smile and eyes
glittering in - what I thought was,
the light of the chandelier.
She beckoned me with her being,
teased me with a flutter of lashes,
yet I did not know of her yearning
to turn my soul to ashes.
She led me through barren corridors,
down stairs and across cobble straits,
I did not see the flash of teeth until it was too late.
Tearing at her corset,
as lust had me most keen,
only to recoil in horror
And suppress a hellish scream.
The woman laid before me,
was not a woman at all.
She was but a hollow vessel,
for Satan's creatures small.
Maggots, leeches, beetles,
gnawed at tendons strand by strand,
the clicking head of death had lain a kiss upon her hand.
Bile and puss and ooze had nursed the maggots at her hips,
the lugworms writhed and curled around
this creature's blistered lips.
Foul pearls of creatures's spawn
nestled in her lungs,
If left, they shall bring terror to this world,
shall have our Good Kings hung.
The woman before us now may be whole in flesh,
but from her heart those carrion beasts
have made a tender nest.
Heed not her pleads, her cries of peace,
for you know me best,
We shall light the torch and lay
these savage creatures here to rest.
A punishment most brutal,
for the woman who dared to dream,
a fate of lies and fire is what became
of Lady Andesine.
#Poem#Dark#im not sorry#I was going through an edgy phase at the time and thought this was cool#Tumblr fucked with the format#How do I fix it#Aaaaaaahhh
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lucifer on bottom …
tags—smut, gn!reader, crying, bottom lucifer, light bondage
lucifer is quite the crier. his blood practically glows with gold underneath your fingers as he lets out a yelp of pain and pleasure.
“no—! no, let me—agh!”
he whines as you thrust inside of him sharply, finding that lovely spot that seemed to make him sing the prettiest of notes. it was better when they were lyrics though. especially ones that included your name.
it’s been two hours since you guys have started. his hands had been tied at the first 5 minutes, his chest abused at the first 20, and finally filled at the first 40.
he hasn’t been able to come for the rest.
lucifer had already lost it at the one hour mark.
“pleasepleaseplease—i’ll be good, i promise—ah! wait—!”
he writhed under your touch, wailing and moaning as you kept your merciless rhythm, the loud sounds of lust and sin fitting for hell. but, they were just background music for the true star, the fallen angel falling to pieces underneath you. lucifer, king of hell, feared by all, hated by most, owned by you.
lucifer didn’t know how long it had been once you finally let him come, but all he knows of is bliss as you hit a sharp thrust in just the right place the hundredth time and loosen your grip on him.
“thank you—oh, fuck, thankyouthankyou—!”
the dried tears on his rosy cheeks come to life once again with the new ones rolling down his face, his final song coming to a close with a lovely crescendo, and his pitch going so high he could barely believe it was his own voice.
he opened his eyes. everything was blurry, but he could still make out your mischievous grin, and before he could even react, a loud whine tumbled off his apple red lips as his song began once more. an encore for you, and only you.
literally my first time making a tumblr post and i had to rewrite it like 10 times already because i dont know how it works. MY WRITING GOT DELETED 3 TIMES IT WAS ATROCIOUSJDKWNSL
#hazbin hotel#hazbin lucifer#sub lucifer#dom reader#i litetally dont know how to use tumblr bye#why is formatting so fucking hard????#sub hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel dom reader
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Esquire Singapore (2019)
#barry keoghan#giving up on formating because tumblr fucked it up like 3 times already im going to kms 😭😭😭😭#esquire
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(Read from left to right)
Had an intrusive thought about Kazuki's facial hair and just had to make a little comic about it! It's been a while since I've made comics, so sorry that it's kinda messy/ just sketches. I tried to clean them up as best as I could!
#buddy daddies#rei suwa#kazuki kurusu#kazurei#miri unasaka#comic#fanart#my art#(i feel like I should make a tag for my art that's a bit less generic since I rarely use my art account for things anymore)#anyway to the like 3 people still left in this fandom plz enjoy <3#sorry if this formatting is weird#im hoping tumblr doesn't fuck with it and idk how to make comics#I'd ideally like to clean these sketches up so they look nicer but I don't have the time or energy tbh#this has been sitting in my WIPs for at least a month now
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From the alternate ending of Fallen Angels (1995)
#fallen angels#Takeshi Kaneshiro#Michelle Reis#wong kar wai#film#hong kong cinema#c#if tumblr fucks up my formatting im going to be so fucking mad
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Who's ready for my Master Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss Crepus Theory!!
I originally posted this over at Hoyolab and people there seemed to really like my favorite joke theory that Crepus just tries to gaslight the whole of Mondstadt right after obtaining Kaeya
Majority of this will be the same but with little tweaks for the wonderful tumblr audience
This joke stems from Kaeya's introduction:
and the use of the word "rumored"
Cause it's not like it said beyond Teyvat or the seven nations just Mondstadt
And I mean like c'mon how many families are living off the grid in Mondstadt
(Actually... Don't answer that I forgot Glory's boyfriend is just
Out there in the bush with Razor...)
Initially I had the idea of Crepus walking around the markets one day carrying Kaeya with Diluc beside him running into Varka who asks:
"Who's the boy?"
"You mean my son?"
"Not Diluc the boy you're carrying"
"I have two sons? You know this??"
But then the Caribert quest came out mentioning Kaeya ran away from home near immediately and was dragged home by Crepus just as fast and it became even funnier
Cause imagine you're by the docks one day and richest man in town gets off the boat with no cargo but instead a tiny child you may not have seen before that Crepus seems to be very cross with at the moment and threatening to turn him into a leash kid if he runs off again
In a small town that loves gossip do you know how fast that information is spreading? Cause I do and Varka's knocking on Crepus's door 30 minutes later like:
"Is this what we're doing? We're just taking kids now?"
Both paths lead to Varka asking where Kaeya comes from and getting hit with a
"I think you're a bit too old to still be confused about the birds and the bees Varka"
Varka getting frustrated to the point he just starts demanding Kaeya tell him what's up
Love to see him following in his fathers footsteps of stressing Varka the fuck out
And upon hearing how his birth father left for juice and didn't return Varka went
"Good! That was ALL I needed to know!!"
Follow ups on if his father intended to abandon him or got lost in the storm and needed a search party?
Don't care!! You weren't kidnapped!!
Welcome to the knights! 🤝
Which bringing it back to it only being a rumor
In a town of alcoholics, who's gonna call out the one guy with the winery?
Here's some add ons that got sparked from the comment section 😘
Bonus panels would have included Varka showing up with Rosaria one day mimicking Crepus about "wHaT you ForGot I haD a Kid" sparking a trend within the community of just adopting random children to the point posters are made saying "In Barbatos name: See a child Take a child"
Alice seeing it and pulling a "when in rome" tucking both Albedo and Diluc(who is yelling he is an adult) under her arms and telling Klee if she ever sees someone in need of a mom let her know she'll send over the paperwork right away
And then the last bonus: Venti wakes up, walks in through the gate while playing a tune, and stops when he sees the poster, not sure if he needs to start yet another revolution, or if this one is fine actually
I imagine the posters had to be taken down because visitors were losing their kids left and right and the solution of parents pinning a note saying "not dead & still want custody" to their kids shirt didn't catch on but the saying still lives strong in the hearts of Mondstadt's citizens I mean look Bennett and his 27 dads Mondstadt may have a lot of orphans but the demand is even higher
Comment on original post:
"I have a headcanon where Kaeya fooled first Crepus, then the rest of Mondstadt but.this is too funny!! I want to see this happening!"
Which prompted one of my new favorite lines at the end:
"Wait by fool Crepus first do you mean like Crepus finding him out in the storm bringing him inside to ask him where he lives and Kaeya's just
"? I live here? You adopted me? Are you feeling okay?"
Cause I'm absolutely cry laughing over this that's so good but that also means when Kaeya runs away Crepus is just
"hey no no l'm not misplacing you a second time come home" "
#Kaeya may have wandered away from his last family (believes Crepus) but that sure as fuck wasn't gonna happen a second time#Kaeya#kaeya alberich#crepus ragnvindr#Crepus#dawn family#genshin impact#Genshin#thats right now I get to be the one with the many tags trying to get this out there lmao#dont worry I wont do this often here this blog is primarily a trap to get you guys to check out a very talented lore blog#uh I mean...#to show you various fan works of Kaeya?#hey what's that pinned post up there?#god I hope this is formatted right I havent made a tumblr post since we had post headers#and god damn did it keep fighting me#also it's like 5 a.m. if you see any mistakes...#that's tomorrow's problem
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I do enjoy dressing her entirely in canon outfits/cuts and the occasional top she's borrowed from nami and being like ye canon!sanji sure does own a pair of 3/4 pants with ballerina loafers he sure did wear that before with his whole cishet man ass and we didn't bat a single eye at it
#one piece#trans!sanji#sanji#sanami#zosan#nami#zoro#the two wolves that live in my head are in constant conflict between#'trans!sanji should be butch to live the gnc trans lesbian dream and to maintain the previous wardrobe sensibilities'#and 'canon!sanji is visibly straining against the limitations of male fashion she'd be way more femme than u think once freed from them'#like I feel like I'm not doing sanji as a character justice if I only ever dress her in the butchest possible stuff#but also god it'd be boring to just dress her straight-passing#I think we're going with 'dresses comfy at home and for practicality and goes all out femme when an occasion presents itself'#edit: it's not fucking showing this on my feed why tumblr it's fully sfw why are you like this I can't cut this one up to solve it aaahh#I tried different file format and resizing it and neither one worked smh#update: I cropped like 5 FUCKING PIXELS off the edges and it solved it WHY IS IT LIKE THIS TUMBLR WHY#is nami's hair now tangenting with the border oh boy it sure is but alas tumblr won't let me show you this post otherwise apparently smh
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gravity
Pairing: John Price x f!Reader
Rating: General audiences
Word Count: 3.9k
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: LIKE CHILEAN MINERS (iykyk). I want to express a tidal wave of thanks to everyone for waiting so, so patiently for this chapter. Life got hard and is remaining so, but the kindness I have received has been so incredibly comforting. Please enjoy the longest chapter of Neighbors I have written to date. Also a HUGE shoutout to Lev @yeyinde as ALWAYS for her advice, the pub is a direct result of her guidance.
MASTERLIST
Now on Ao3!
It’s a cold and windy morning that, as you hover just a little closer to his warmth, you ask him about decent places to eat nearby.
“Fancy pub food?” he asks in response, and it takes you a moment to process what he’s said. Today he’s in a thick, soft-looking knit sweater, which makes it infinitely difficult not to imagine huddling up against him.
You think he’d let you. You’re not sure how you know this. Maybe it’s the way he positions himself next to you, standing at an angle toward you just slight enough to be casual, but open enough to be purposeful. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to warm you up with his eyes alone—he asked you once why you always bundled up to be outside, and you told him you were just sensitive to the cold.
Since then, you’ve often caught him checking on you, surreptitiously. Simple once-overs that you think are searching for evidence of discomfort.
What would he do, you wonder, if he found any? Would he send you inside, as he had the first morning?
Part of you thinks that would be better. It would give you an out, open up a path diverting away from whatever this thing is that hangs in the air between you and John Price, this thing that you pass back and forth between the pages of borrowed books.
It’s a thing that breathes with the both of you into the early morning, and you don’t know how to look at it. You don’t understand its shape. It’s a thing you wish you wanted to walk away from.
“Who doesn’t?” you reply, sipping at the cold dregs in your cup.
“How ‘bout tonight, then?” John says, and you swallow a little too quickly.
“W-what about tonight?”
He smiles at you, as if he’s thrown you off on purpose. “Dinner, on me.”
You blink several times. “You—I—I mean—really?”
He shrugs, easy and casual as you wish you could be. “Could show you what’s best on the menu. And I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone besides m’self.”
You hesitate, because your gut reaction is to say yes, John, I’d like nothing more, and that is not a reaction you want to satisfy. These past several mornings have been nice—nicer than you could have expected. You’ve stopped interrogating yourself as to why you keep bothering, because each time his smile greets you as you step outside is answer enough. The routine has been easy to settle into, even comforting.
You need to protect that comfort, you know, even from the allure of something more.
John does not press for an answer, seeming content to savor the last few inhales of his cigar. You wonder if he’s guessed at your inner conflict, wonder if the quiet he’s giving you is an intentional moment to sort yourself out.
He never presses for anything, ever.
“I suppose I could meet you after work,” you finally say.
The smile that breaks across his face nearly knocks you off your feet. You’re relieved when he says, “Sounds good to me,” because if he’d said it’s a date you think you might have dissolved on the spot.
John texts you the pub’s address, and it’s close enough to walk to. You arrive that evening, in your usual two coats plus a knitted hat, to find that the place exceeds a set of expectations you didn’t know you had. The patio seating is closed in with a white picket fence and hung with strings of fairy lights, and it flanks a red brick building with a large, friendly lantern hanging over the door.
You might have expected something a little grubbier, if you’d given the place any more thought beyond this is John’s pub and he’s having me for dinner here.
Warm air envelops you as you step inside, and your gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to a table further in—John has already seen you, and beckons you over with a wave.
He’s still in the knit sweater, and his fleece jacket is hanging on the back of the seat across from him. He stands as you approach, rounds the table, and pulls that chair out for you when you join him.
You don’t know why the chivalry makes you falter, makes you want to turn and sprint all the way back home. All you know, as you sit down, is that you can practically feel the aura of his presence behind you as he helps push your chair in, can feel it move as he leaves your side to return to his seat. You feel yourself gravitate into it, leaning a little over the table as if trying to keep it close.
“This place is tidy,” you say earnestly, trying for that morning normalcy, as you begin to shuck your layers.
“It’s alright,” he agrees. He’s smiling gently, the cool blue of his eyes vivid in the contrast of warm lamplight.
“Do you—” and then you can’t help but giggle, because it’s such a cliche question “—do you come here often?”
He grins, huffs that little laugh. “Too often,” he says as he sits back in his chair, putting a hand on his stomach. “It’ll start showing soon, probably.”
You look at the flat of his stomach, the broad paw of his hand. Remember the trim waist of that very first morning. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”
He meets you eyes, laughs again, and it warms you to the bone.
Seeing him like this, at night, is an unknown quantity. The John you know how to interact with exists on his front doorstep, painted in the cool palette of sunrise, cold air, cigar smoke. This tableau, composed upon the table between you, might as well turn him into another man entirely. Who is this John, awash in warm light, nearly twelve hours older than the man you spoke to this morning? Who are you, now, seeing him after work and before the end of the night?
You feel a little untethered. Your feet still itch for the door, for the measured, predictable floorboards of your own home.
Maybe John notices, because he takes a menu from the stack of two at the end of the table and offers it to you with a reassuring lift of his brows. “Hungry?”
That question, at least, has an easy answer. You smile a little. “Starving.”
His advice turns out to be necessary—everything looks good, and you both end up ordering too much food. Over a spread of fresh, hot chips, halloumi kebabs, and katsu chicken served liberally with curry sauce, John also has a bottle of scotch brought to the table.
“No, that’s too much!” you protest as the waitress sets the decanter down with two clean glasses. “John, really.”
He sets to pouring, his expression pleased, though you’re not sure what about. “Humor me, love. I don’t get to share very often.”
He hands you a glass, and lifts his own above the food. You acquiesce, and clink the rims.
“Do I take a shot or a sip?” you ask, bringing the glass up to your mouth.
“A sip,” says John, and his expression is genuinely distressed. “Please, don’t ever suggest shooting scotch again. That hurt to hear.”
You smirk, and take a slow drink. It hits your tongue with the prologue to a burn, rolling across your taste buds as the twinge fades and you close your eyes. The flavor opens like smoke exhaled into still air; you purse your lips a little and swirl it in your mouth; nutmeg, vanilla, and even a little apple expand across your palate. When it hits the back of your tongue, a short floral burst surprises you, and you swallow it down eagerly.
You find John watching you when you open your eyes.
“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before.
It’s low. Resonant. Almost—purring. The look in his eyes, too, is different, the pale blue sharper somehow. Focused keenly, and with some unknown, honed intent, on you.
It pins you where you sit. John is looking at you. John is seeing you.
“Doesn’t everyone learn to drink at uni?” you reply, trying for airy and light. It doesn’t work. Your voice trembles, just a bit.
He’s still watching you, and you think he sees that. Recognizes, perhaps, a change in your expression, some telltale sign that he has shaken you. He looks away from you, takes a drink of his own scotch, and when his gaze returns the keen edge of it has softened. You breathe, and realize you hadn’t been.
You seek something comfortable, something you can measure and control. “How is Actium treating you, then?”
He smiles, and it’s a little rueful. “Octavian’s being a cunt.”
As talk of the most recent book he’s borrowed carries you into more comfortable territory, the two of you make your way through dinner, which is every bit as delicious as John had promised. The food is hearty, greasy in a way that isn’t too heavy, and pairs perfectly with John’s scotch, which you indulge in liberally.
When the alcohol has outpaced the food that is meant to offset it, you think back to what he’d said earlier, about not often getting to share.
“So am I the first person you’ve brought here?” you ask. “Or do you take every neighbor out to dinner?”
John lifts one dark brow, leans in with a tilt of his head. “Only the pretty ones.”
You give an unladylike snort and swirl a cut of chicken around in curry sauce. “You’re incorrigible, John, really.”
The smile he gives crinkles the laugh lines around his eyes, and you feel yourself want to melt at the sight. It is unfair how handsome he is, in that warm sweater, in that golden light, haloed softly in the haze of your verging intoxication.
“When will you believe me when I compliment you, hmm?” he asks, low and resonant in the depths of his chest.
You shoot the rest of your scotch in answer, stuff the chicken into your mouth, and proffer the empty glass.
John squints at your heresy, but obediently pours.
“I suppose your line of work isn’t really great for your social life, then,” you comment. “Always coming and going.”
“My calendar’s certainly empty,” John agrees. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down with someone like this. I suppose I’m out of practice.”
“You’re eating with a fork and knife and not your hands.” You grin. “I’d say that’s pretty good already.”
He smiles back. “Would that chase you off?”
You sip your scotch. “Not if you keep pouring.”
“And she complained when the bottle came out. What about you, then?”
“What ‘bout me?”
“How many blokes have you been to dinner with, lately?”
You scoff at that and wash your food down with a sip. “None. As if they’re throwin’ ‘emselves at me.”
John’s expression changes, and it’s slow grin that spreads across his face, a smile you have never seen on him before. It isn’t the sad smile he’s given you at times, melancholy and resigned; nor is it the one he gives when he sees you in the morning, warm and soft and friendly.
No, this one is—energized. Invigorated. As if someone has given him good news he hadn’t been expecting.
“They’ve got to be,” he says, and his tone is humorous. “You must have your pick of the lot. And none of them have struck your fancy?”
You press your hands to your too-warm face. “John, don’t tease me.”
“Seems I’ve got to count myself lucky tonight, then,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the table. “If you’re as choosy as all that.”
You give him a droll look, and swirl your drink around in your glass. “If you must know, I got out of a relationship not long ago.”
John’s brows lift, and you want to smack yourself for letting that little detail escape you. “Is that so?”
You drink. “That is so.”
“What kind of idiot would let you get away?”
“My head is already spinning, and you’re abusing that,” you protest.
“Sorry, love,” he says, clearly not sorry. “But now you’ve got me curious.”
You sit back in your chair, staring at your plate to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not all that dramatic. It just…didn’t feel right. I guess he liked me more than I liked him. We would go out, and I would think, ‘I want to leave him and go home.’”
And you still felt guilty about it. You hadn’t liked him that much in the first place, when he’d asked you out—you’d just said yes, because it seemed like the right moment in your life for something like that to happen. When you’d ended it, your extended social network had scratched its collective head, because there truly hadn’t been any good reason.
You just weren’t happy.
“Suppose I didn’t give it enough of a chance,” you say, downing the last of your glass.
“Hey,” John says, soft and gentle. You look up to meet his eyes—the expression on his face is a mixture of sympathy and resolution. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sure, John.”
“Love.” His brow creases, insistent. “You deserve something you want.”
You press your lips together tightly, and suddenly you’re struck again with that sensation from earlier, that feeling that John’s presence is a tangible aura, something that rolls and settles across your awareness like a physical touch. You realize you’ve been leaning into it again, drawn toward him like a comet into the snag of a planet’s gravity.
“I’m definitely drunk now,” you say, because the only other words that want to come out are an emphatic I want you.
John smiles. He doesn’t press the issue. “Will I be carrying you home, then?”
“Oh, John, really!” You give a scoff, surprised at the sudden humor. “You couldn’t carry me all that way.”
One dark brow lifts.
“No,” you say. “You’ll have to put me down. I’m not light.”
The smile remains.
You hold his gaze, suspicious, and finish the last of your glass. It does not take long to polish off the last of dinner, and when the two of you agree that the last chips have finally gotten too cold to eat, John pushes his seat back and stands.
“Done, then? I’ll settle the tab. Love, put that away.”
You sheepishly lower your half-lifted wallet back into your purse.
Accounts settled, you make it outside the pub, and then you have to lean against a wall as John watches you, amused. The world is swaying, its pendulum arcing near-horizontal at the amplitude of each swing.
“I just need a minute,” you whisper.
John does the worst thing he could possibly do—he gives you his back and kneels down, arms a little open. “Come on.”
“Come on? Come off it, John, really, you’ll drop me!” you exclaim.
He looks over his shoulder at you. “I won’t.”
You don’t know what convinces you to do it. Tomorrow, you’ll blame the many glasses of expensive scotch, but in the moment you know it’s the way the hanging lights limn his silhouette in gold. You know it’s the soft expression on his face that you are already too fond of. You know it’s the quiet confidence in his reassurance, and above all those things it’s the familiar comfort of his kind blue eyes.
“All right, John,” you say.
As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, John scoops your knees up into the bend of his arms, and you can add now the feeling of his strength to your mental registry of his body. He is broad against you, the width of him obliging your thighs to part farther than they have in a long, long time.
It brings a heat to your face that dwarfs the low simmer of your inebriation. When he lifts you, straightens up and hoists you a little on his back, like you weigh almost nothing, you are unable now to shove back and contain what he has inspired since that first morning.
“This feels nice,” you murmur, tucking your chin on his shoulder. The scotch has the reins of your tongue now. There is no stopping the words that come out. “I wondered if it would. This morning.”
John’s reply is low, humming in his throat as he begins the trek home. “This morning?”
You breathe. “You always look warm and soft. You’re so handsome every morning. Even the first. I wanted to touch you back then. I wanted you to hold me.”
He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s trying to focus on the walk back and not dropping you in the middle of it. He hoists you a little, cupping his hands beneath your knees, squeezing.
His silence prompts more of your honesty. “I don’t want to go to dinner with anyone else, John. Even if someone did ask. You’re the only one.”
“You’re drunk, love,” John says. You don’t recognize the tone of his voice, why it sounds…pleading.
Your face is very close to his, your chin pillowed in the fleece lining of his collar. You resolve fully to blame what you do next on the scotch, and touch the tips of your fingers to the coarse umber on his cheek.
His thumbs press into the divots beneath your kneecaps. John says your name, low and breathy. It must be the strain of carrying you that shows in his voice.
You lean in. You press your cheek against the bristles of his beard, inhale, take in the ever-present Maduro that saturates his skin. The friction is a million little pinpricks of sensation, and you think in that moment that if his beard doesn’t leave hot, welted scratches on your face, you might fall asleep crying.
“Oh,” you murmur, not recognizing the languorous, almost wanton sound of your own voice. “Feels good, John.”
“That’s,” he huffs, and audibly swallows. “That’s good. We’re—ah���we’re almost there.”
“Okay,” you say, sighing against him, settling fully into the expanse of his back.
You doze, unburdened now by what you’ve admitted. He does not waver once on the walk, makes no complaint of your weight as street lights pass and the night moves slowly by. He is as steady, when he makes it to your front door, as he was when he first picked you up.
“Where’s your key, love?” he asks.
“Oh,” you murmur blearily, “um. Let me down.”
Even after your feet are back on the ground, his steadying hand does not leave you, ballasting your elbow as you dig around in your purse. It seems like an embarrassingly long time before you find your keychain, and when you try to unlock your door you miss the slot twice.
John’s big hand wraps around yours then, engulfing it with long fingers and broad palm, and guides the key steadily into the lock. The slide of the deadbolt is loud in the quiet night. You have to lean against the door, suddenly devoid of the strength to turn the knob as you look up at John’s concerned face.
“Let me help you in, love,” he says, brow creased. “Please. I’m worried you’ll fall and hit your head.”
Your entire body feels like it’s sinking into a glass of champagne, his words caressing you like rising bubbles, little pearls of air tickling your face as they touch you. You openly stare at him, watch his throat work as he swallows again, rest your eyes along the broad tendon that flexes as he tilts his head.
“Sure,” you whisper, too out of breath to speak aloud. “If that’s what you want.”
So John turns the knob, loops your arm around his shoulders, and walks you inside.
It is very hard to focus now, as John sits you down on your couch. There isn’t much you can hold in your mind besides the moment his hands leave you, and you inexplicably want to cry at their loss. You don’t see where he goes, vision going dark and blurry around the edges—you think he might have left until he comes back with one of your glasses, filled with clear, cool water.
He kneels in front of you and proffers it, doesn’t let go of the glass until both your hands are wrapped around it. He watches you as you take a sip.
“Drink all of that, alright?” he says. “You had a lot.”
You hold the glass back out to him. “You did too.”
His brows lift, lips parting. Have you surprised him? He pulls the glass closer with a little tug, puts his lips to the rim and tilts it from the bottom as you hold it. His eyes do not leave yours as he drinks, as he takes only a little, and then he pulls away and gently pushes the glass back toward you. Your gaze falls from his eyes, down to the little droplets of water clinging to his mustache, down again to the steady line of his mouth.
You bring the glass back up and take a deep gulp.
“Good girl,” he says, low and rumbling, and heat floods your body.
You realize then that his other hand is on your knee, the weight of his palm heavy and broad, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle into the edge of the cap. You are washed in the blend of his warm comfort and the sudden, almost violent sear of your own desire.
When the glass is empty, he eases it from your hands and sets it aside on your coffee table. When he turns back to you, your hand comes up, unbidden, to curve itself along the angle of his jaw. Umber bristles are coarse beneath the sweep of your thumb.
“Not soft, is it?” John murmurs, and there is something stormy and intense in his gaze.
You take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m okay with that.”
His hand grips your knee suddenly, vicelike, and you know this is pushing too far. He does not lean in to you, makes no move toward you, but his entire body is a bank of energy that he is holding, holding, holding back. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His eyes pin you to the couch as he works the muscles in his jaw.
“You’re drunk, love,” he says. It is not the pleading assertion he’d given earlier. It is a conclusion—fond, but resigned.
The room has begun to gently spin, with John at its axis. “I’m drunk,” you agree, whispering and fragile.
It breaks whatever has been building since you’d left the pub. John draws back. Nods. Gives you a smile—that smile. The one that had taken hold of you the first time you saw it. Trying, with every scrap of willpower it had, to be happy, to be alright with what little it had. Failing to do so.
Unable to hide how much it wanted.
“You got a spare key?” he asks. “I can lock you in.”
“Key hook,” you say.
His hand drags down from your knee to stroke along your shin, and then he’s rocking back on his heels, standing to his full height. He looks at you for a moment longer.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
When you blink, he’s gone, and the deadbolt is sliding home.
Bonus A/N: Some housekeeping.
First, if you see your username on this list and it's struck through, it means you did not come up when I tried to @ you. I will try one more time, but if it doesn't work I'm taking your name off the list. Get right with the tumblr gods if you can.
Second, a few people have told me that they did not get the tag notification on the last update, so let me know if that's the case for you and I will see about trying a different format.
And third, I've been editing the format for neighbors across all chapters, so sorry in advance if you get notified twice. Tumblr knows even less about coding a website than I do.
Taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriiii @aduckingpain @jaimiespn @aconstructofamind @trashy-panda777 @lich1 @smoggyfogbottom @cielobgers @antigonusyuki @bubble-dream-inc @monsterhighsblog @so-scarlet–it-was-maroon @itsthetiredstudent @misshoneypaper @wasteland-babe @jxvipike @deadbranch @mildlyhopelesss @yes-music-is-my-religion @shuttlelauncher81 @xback1021 @zero-ice @hailstrum18 @ramadiiiisme @glassgulls @simonea27 @kitty-satan1 @tianotfound @solarslushee @mmmothballz @wiserebelpartypie @randomchick546 @stripeycatt @shurikan17 @staymetalmacie @capt-soaps-bbg @cold-blooded-girls @rdeville
The taglist is closed. Thank you everyone for your interest.
#john price x reader#john price x you#captain john price x you#captain john price x reader#price x reader#price x you#cod x reader#cod imagine#cod fanfic#mw2 x reader#mw2 fanfic#mwii#call of duty mwii#cod mw2 fanfic#cod:mw2#cod mw22#cod mwii#neighbors au#og post#honest to god i'm not sure about this one. struggled with the balance lmao#WHY IS TUMBLR FUCKING WITH MY FORMAT
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[ID. A digital painting of the Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared protagonists falling into a convoluted spiral. In the center are the antagonists, intruding upon the scene. The canvas is crowded with images of the Teachers and the house. End ID.]
:•)
#HIIII THIS IS EMBARRASSING BUT I WAS RLLY INTO THE WEB SERIES IN 2014 AND NOW IM UNEXPECTEDLY OBSESSED W THE SHOW#i kno this is kind of a tes centric acc but icant think of anything other than this show abt gay ass puppets. sory#artcorner#dhmis#don’t hug me i’m scared#dhmis spoilers#dhmis art#eye strain#had a realy fun time doing this!! i used a new lining brush and tried being more loose . i like it :-]#red guy#yellow guy#duck guy#dhmis lesley#dhmis roy#i shoudl animate this. put a little movemennt in there..#HEY THIS GOT REALLY FUCKED UP IN SOME OF THE RBS I AM SORRY. I HATE YOU TUMBLR FORMATTING#the source post is still good!!! there’s just a janky one going around rn..
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will we make it out of the first round? probably not. will we have a weirdly horny time anyway? YOU KNOW IT BABEY!
im also probably missing like- just a ton of info but this was what i could think of at the time <3 we are fueled by love and questionable choices
ALLCAPS BABEYYYYY 🦅🦅🦅
(tagging @stereax ✨)
#listen it was my goal to do this before the first game and somehow-;#somehow i managed- also FUCK tumblr for making the formatting so unnecessarily hard#anyway LETS GOOOOOO CAPS#washington capitals#hockey#nhl playoffs#caps lb#thats all the tags i can think of
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They love each other very much I think
Blank ver. Below cut
#i drew these at 1am#i need#sleep.#dsaf#dayshift at freddy's#dsaf dave#dsaf jack#jack kennedy#dave miller#davesport#valentines day#tangerine_art.png#EDIT: tumblr fucked up the format. should be fixed now though
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cosmo wanda I wish everyone posting their long fanfics on here just posted them on wattpad
#every fucking show or movie I look up I have to filter posts#because these fanfics take up the whole damn screen#you could always post it somewhere with better format and link it in a tumblr post‼️‼️
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was listening to music while driving, as one does, when my brain, the silly little thing goes:
wouldn’t it be funny if dick grayson killed the joker (who stays dead because he deserves to be) for killing jason and goes through a whole breakdown over whether or not jason would approve of what he did, ultimately deciding that no, jason the happy robin would not be happy with his big brother, no matter how strained their relationship may have been before his death, killing a man out of revenge
cue jason as red hood, pre identify reveal, asking nightwing about what happened to the joker (because of course bruce had it covered up, because in his twisted little mind, a vigilante permanently taking out the mass murderer who is singlehandedly the number one cause of death in gotham would break the gothamites’ trust in them). nightwing admits, because since the joker is dead jason doesn’t have a reason to push the dramatics as much, he’s just fucking with the bats and keeping crime alley safe, and jason has his turn at a breakdown because he just found out someone actually avenged him
emotional reunion. everyone is happy. the end.
#yes it was If I Killed Someone For You by alec benjamin that brought this on#yes i almost made myself cry while i was DRIVING#yes i know it’s unsafe. no my brain doesn’t know that. obviously.#dc fanfiction#dc fanfic prompt#nightwing#dick grayson#jason todd#red hood#the joker dies. fuck him.#i should write that. try my hand at a little angst#but for now it will exist as this silly little prompt and make people suffer on tumblr#both from the story and from the fact that it doesn’t (as far as im aware) exist in fic format#fanfic prompt#music makes my brain go brrr#overactive imagination#its a problem at this point#but lets ignore that
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