#a person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about but thoughts
Note
plsss would u do sukuna taking care of his pregnant wife? like noticing his robes keep disappearing, only to figure out its his wife. or more dad!kuna 🙏🏾
robes — ryomen sukuna x f!reader
a/n: me👰♀️ ➕ 👹heianera!sukuna
sukuna is a deeply preceptive man.
it’s something he prides himself over, and since he is observant, he quickly notices that his robes start going missing.
in the beginning, he thinks that it’s probably the increased number of bloodied robes because he has been going on a higher number of rampages the past couple of days.
so, he goes to uraume to inquire about why the delivery of his robes has been later than usual.
uraume quickly responds that they have been personally delivering the clean robes to his chambers and ensuring that they are placed where he can clearly see them.
the revelation makes sukuna annoyed because that means that someone has been stealing his robes directly from his chambers.
he is presented with two courses of actions—excluding the option of saving himself the trouble and just killing all the servants: sending uraume to spy on the whole ordeal or investigate it himself.
considering how he has been pretty bored the past couple of days, he decides on the latter. the past few rampages have given a clear warning to the rest of the villages surrounding his castle.
so, with nothing else to do, sukuna takes it upon himself to monitor the main entrance of his chambers to see whether anybody enters the room after uraume places the robes in the room.
so, he situates himself near the room but far away so that they can’t catch him.
he stays there for a good couple of hours, yet he sees no one, not even in the darkness of the night: the supposed prime time for a thief.
perhaps the thief has been made aware of sukuna’s inspection? but that would mean that the robes would still be in the chambers. so, sukuna enters his room in search of his robes, but, to his surprise, he doesn’t find them.
that immediately leads him to concluding that whoever is stealing his robes is someone who has access to the hidden door of his room.
and no one knows about that door except—
“y/n.”
you yelp and slowly turn to your husband. he is standing there, arms crossed, brows furrowed, and an everlasting frown on his face. you have been caught and are in some big trouble.
you don’t falter immediately though. you try to act normal. you smile nervously, “yes, my love? is something bothering you?”
keyword: try.
he repeats your name lowly, and you quickly crumble. you visibly deflate and lower your head as you murmur, “yes…”
he nods in satisfaction before asking the awaited question, “where are my robes?”
your hands rest on your lap, and you fidget with your fingers.
you still can’t figure out what his reaction will be. so far, he is just gathering information. he is giving you nothing to work with, so you have no other option but to comply and just keep answering him.
sighing, you answer him, “my closet.”
he quirks an eyebrow and sits in front of you. his hand is placed on your head, and he raises your head, so you’re looking him in the eyes. it’s something that you have noticed only being done to you.
you had absentmindedly asked your head servant about it, and said servant, uraume, had told you that it’s because he views you as an equal and does not take pleasure in your fear and acting inferior to him.
and in the end, sukuna only does what pleases him. if it doesn’t please him then why do it?
he hums as if in thought before egging you on, “and why are my robes in your closet? in fact—” he smirks, eyes observing your frame, “why are you currently wearing my robes?”
you pull the robes tighter around yourself, and you purse your lips. sukuna wants an answer right now, and while he is enjoying your ‘suffering’, but he also wants to know what’s wrong.
if there is anything that he hates then it’s not knowing, especially if it’s something about you, his very pregnant wife.
his hand travels to your jaw, and he grips it lightly.
“so?” he says as he tilts your head to the slide slightly.
“you…have been gone for longer than usual lately, and I have been missing you,” you admit softly as you try your best to maintain eye contact, but you end up looking away.
he is still silent, so you continue laying out your reasoning, “and for some reason, the robes alleviate the pregnancy pain. I couldn’t find any logical or scientific reason, but I think—
—it’s because the robes are filled with your cursed energy, maybe acting as a kind of assurance to the baby that you are beside us even if you aren’t.”
he doesn’t grace you with any reaction nor reply for quite a while, and it makes you think that he is probably thinking about how foolish the entire scenario is.
so, you add hesitantly, “or something like that…”
after a moment, though, he sighs and simply says, “you could’ve just asked me, you foolish woman.”
you blink confused, “and you, my ‘no one takes what’s mine’ husband, would’ve allowed that?”
“you, idiot, are mine, so my belongings are yours anyway,” he states, and his hands rest on your stomach, “this is mine too, so you have to take good care of it.”
a smile takes over your face, and you nod happily, “of course, I will!”
you pause for a second, and it has sukuna confused.
you frown and you point your finger at him while reprimanding him, “and don’t call me an idiot, mister! I am your wife, and I am blessed with a good name.”
a pinch is delivered to your butt which makes you shriek. you jump away from you husband and start rubbing the spot in attempt to soothe it.
sukuna smiles wickedly before suggesting, “how about I help you with that?”
“no! keep your hands off of me, you brute!”
he chuckles, and it echoes throughout the room. it’s kind of creepy. you always said that you wanted to add more furniture to avoid that situation.
you start thinking about the new design for the room when your husband speaks up, “and regarding my absence the past few of days.”
you turn your head to him, and he continues, “I will be putting my plans on pause for a while, so you don’t have to resort to the robes for the time.”
he turns his back to you before announcing, “I am expecting you at dinner and later in my chamber. is that clear?”
you feel giddiness fill you up, and you reply enthusiastically, “yes, my king!”
“good,” he smirks.
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take me home, country road
[ao3]
You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description.
Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 12)
[note: trigger warning for a pretty rough spanking scene with a belt and minimal aftercare. if you need to, you can skip to the midway point (there's a line between the first half and second).]
first chapter >> last chapter
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He keeps your hands tied behind your back on the ride home.
All that does is confirm the fact that he must know. Graves must have tracked him down or perhaps he was approached by someone who did consider your sudden arrival in town suspicious. Why else would the sheriff chase you all the way into the mountains on horseback and then take you back with him? He would’ve within his rights to leave your thieving self to wander alone in the woods and succumb to the elements.
John doesn’t say a word the first hour of the ride back. You can feel the anger emanating from him though. He almost shakes with it. His anger somehow upsets you more than whatever is left to come.
“Anytime you wanna start talkin’, I’m all ears,” John finally says, breaking the silence.
You keep your lips pressed together, stubbornly silent. There’s no use giving yourself away before you’ve learned how much he knows. You haven’t built this life of yours with loose lips.
“I don’t know what in the Sam Hill has gotten into you,” he continues, and his voice is cobblestone tread rough in the night. “Running off all by yourself. There ain’t nothing out in these parts except outlaws and highwaymen. There are men out here that’d love to get their hands on a woman like you—not even a knife to defend yourself with. You haven’t even got a scrap of food on you, never mind water. You’d’ve been dead in a week if the men out here hadn’t picked you off themselves.”
His words make your stomach ache. You know that there are worse things out there. A thousand gruesome ways to die. You’re less of a lady than John might think—you’ve heard stories. You’ve brushed close to that reality yourself. You wonder how he’d take it if you were to tell him about what had happened back east.
Maybe running away this time hadn’t been your smartest idea, but it had been your only. You can’t fault yourself for the instinct to survive.
“I know,” you mumble, dropping your chin to your chest.
“You gonna explain to me why you stole my horse and ran off in the first place?” he asks.
It’s the strangest interrogation you’ve ever heard of—sitting on the same horse with your back to the man questioning you and your hands tied together at the wrists. You wonder if you leaned back whether you’d feel his heart beating furiously in his chest.
You remain mulishly silent though, reticent to answer the question.
“Maybe I’ve been spoiling you,” he continues, trying to rationalize it to himself. “After the fuss you put up those first few days, I thought a bit of structure and discipline would do you well, and it did. Giving you a bit of slack was my mistake.”
You frown at that. Those don’t sound like the words of a man with any knowledge of the circumstances leading to you running off. He might not even have come across Graves at all in the hours since the man made his appearance in the general store. Otherwise, you can’t imagine how he wouldn’t make the connection.
Still, you can’t make yourself come right out and say it, even though every iota of your being aches to let the truth out. Call it nerves overpowering the need to be truthful and good. You vacillate between honesty and self-preservation, but each avenue feels like being dropped into a nest of vipers.
But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. If he knew, he wouldn’t question you like this. It’s a boon you can’t give up, not yet. Not when the thought of his inevitable righteous fury fills you with dread and self-loathing.
“I don’t have to explain myself,” you spit out suddenly, and it’s not you saying those words but something ugly and sad in you. “You’re not my owner.”
“I damn sure am your husband though,” John growls, winding his free hand around your hair to tug you back into his chest. “And I know these parts far better than you, little miss. Beyond running off on me for no good reason when I thought we put your reticence behind us, you went and put yourself in danger the likes of which you couldn’t even fathom.”
“I’m not an idiot,” you snap. “I know what men are like.”
“You’re telling me you pulled that stunt knowing what kinda danger is out there in the woods?”
“I wasn’t thinking!”
“I know you weren’t,” John grunts. “That’s the issue.”
The rest of the ride home is uncomfortably quiet. John keeps one hand clamped on your waist while the other holds the reins of both horses, the two walking alongside each other back down the trail towards the house. The ride home is a lot longer than the ride out into the woods since John refuses to let either of them go faster than a slow trot while your hands are tied behind your back.
He snorts in derision at your suggestion to undo your binds. “That eager for your punishment?”
That gets you to zip your lips.
When you get drowsy, John tips your head back and makes you sip from his waterskin. His hand fits carefully around your throat to hold your head in place, his fingers curling around to just graze the nape of your neck. Your throat pulses under his palm when you swallow. It’s far too intimate for how restless you feel, damn near shaking out of your skin, but it briefly shushes the voice in your head until he pulls his hand away.
A shadow under the doorway of the house startles you at first before it takes a step into the faint light of the setting sun and you recognize the bristly blond of Simon’s shorn head and the red bandana shrouding the bottom half of his face. The tension ebbs back into you when you realize with creeping humiliation that the black horse you rode home on must belong to him.
He watches the two of you approach with predictable disinterest, his eyes betraying nothing. The shame is excruciating.
John brings the horse to a halt some feet from Simon, not bothering to greet him. You wonder if it’s the anger choking him or if this is just routine, men trading favors in silence lest a word in gratitude break the spell. After dismounting himself, John helps you down, all but picking you up and lifting you off the horse.
Simon doesn’t say a word to either of you when he takes the reins from John’s hands, giving him only a curt nod and you a cursory glance before leading his horse away to mount. He doesn’t spare you a backwards glance before taking off back towards town. You watch him over your shoulder while John guides you up the porch steps and into the house, until the shape of him disappears into the horizon. Then the door shuts behind you.
Alone now, your attention turns back to John. He stares down at you consideringly, a hand planted on the door he just shut until he lets it fall to his side. You can see the gears turning in his mind, weighing something out.
It wouldn’t be right to call it anticipation; it’s not quite dread either.
“I don’t make idle threats, you know,” he says, apropos of nothing.
His words make you frown until you glance down to find him undoing his belt. Your blood turns to ice. He tugs the thick strap until it comes sliding out of each loop around his waist. The buckle rests heavy in his palm, thick fingers curling around it, and when he bends the belt in two, you already know that he intends to follow through with his threat from earlier, the one you said you’d gut him for.
“I’ll scream,” you warn, heart in your throat. It almost chokes you. “I mean it. I’ll scream like the devil.”
“Don’t go makin’ no empty threats now, darlin’,” he says in a low voice, almost taunting. You can hear the hard edge in his voice though. It’s not something he craves, but he’ll take it.
“You touch me with that thing and I’ll never forgive you.”
John’s eyes go hard. “I’ll just have to take that chance.”
And then he’s on you.
He hooks an arm around your waist when you try to rush past him back out the door and it forces the breath out of you.
You struggle as best you can with your hands tied behind your back, trying to wriggle out of his hold even as he heaves you up into his arms and climbs the staircase towards the bedroom. The steps creak under the added weight of you in his arms. The screams come tearing from your throat, ripping your vocal cords and nearly sending you into a coughing fit.
“Let—me—go—” you shriek, kicking out wildly, hoping to catch something that’ll make him lose his balance.
“All that squirmin’ ain’t making me feel more merciful,” he growls.
John kicks the bedroom door open with his foot when he reaches the top of the staircase. The room looks ominous without the oil lamp lit, the shadows growing in the corners swallowing up the end table. The bed is just as you made it this morning, the sheets pressed tight and neat, and you only get a second to take that in before he marches towards the bed and throws you down onto it.
You hit the bed hard, bouncing slightly. He sits down heavily enough to jostle you and when you try to roll away on instinct, a hand catches you by the bicep and pulls you back. He hauls you across the bulk of his thighs this time, far different from your first meeting back in the sheriff’s office all those weeks ago. Your feet don’t even touch the floor this time around, dangling in the air and flailing for purchase.
“You brute—you bastard!” you screech.
“I’m not gonna be as charitable this time,” John says, yanking your dress up and your drawers down until your bare bottom is exposed. You gasp at the cold air, murmuring something like please, please, please under your breath. “Even if I knew why it was you decided to run off, that doesn’t excuse the fact that you did. You coulda been hurt or worse out there, darlin’, and I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m gonna make sure the lesson sinks in this time.”
He folds the leather belt to hold it in one hand, leaving the other to pin you down over his thighs, making sure you don’t wriggle out. The leather is cool at first when he drags it over your butt. It makes your breathing pick up. It’s so gentle that you can almost trick yourself into thinking that it’s all he intends to do.
The first lash comes so quick that you barely register it. The second knocks the wind out of you, and then the pain sets in.
It stings something fierce. Where his palm hurt that first time he bent you over his desk and spanked you, the belt burns. It goes deep and it lingers when he pulls the leather away from your stinging bottom.
“Hurts like the dickens, don’t it?” John asks, not bothering to wait for confirmation before bringing the belt down again. “You’re lucky it’s only ten this time.”
You howl into the bedsheets, eyes tearing up and spilling down your cheeks. When you try to cover your ass with your bound hands, John grabs them and pins them to the small of your back.
“What’ll you never do again?” he growls.
“I—I’ll—”
“Say it, darlin’: I’ll never run off on my own again.”
“I’ll—n-never gonna—oh, it hurts, John—please—”
At some point, you must say the words he’s looking for. You lose count of how many times his belt has struck across your ass. Like thunder coming after lightning, you feel it and then you hear it. The sharp snap comes as a second wave of agony in and of itself.
Your throat is stripped raw by the time it’s over. The aftermath finds you with a puddle of drool under your cheek, hair matted to your face. Sweat slicks the backs of your thighs and down your spine. Even the gentlest brush of John’s hand over your backside, the belt deposited off the side of the bed, makes you flinch, the skin there tender to the touch. You’ll surely feel it deep in your bones come sunrise.
Too exhausted for anger, all you can do is lie there. It sits heavy in your stomach though, a pit at the center of you. You want to say, who gave you the right? The answer burns a ring around your finger though. You want to say, you don’t understand, it had nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with him and you.
You can tell he wants to say something. It gets choked in his throat, but you can hear it in the way his breath draws in, like he’s trying to coax it from his chest but it simply won’t come out.
“Stay right there,” John rumbles instead, shifting you onto the bed to let you lie on your belly.
You moan in pain when he moves you, sniffling into your arms. The crook of your elbow is sticky with your tears and snot.
The bed dips under his weight when he comes back. You flinch violently when he draws the skirt of your dress up again and smooths his hand over the tender cheeks of your backside, spreading a cool salve over your skin. The first touch of his hand makes you hiss, tears beading in the corners of your eyes again, but then the cool sinks in, alleviating the ache.
He does that for another few minutes in silence. Gentle, tentative touches, only stopping when the salve has been spread evenly over your bottom. He’s quiet when he shifts you up the bed until your feet are no longer dangling off the end. You’re distantly aware of him taking off your shoes and tucking you into bed, but the events of the day have finally gotten the better of you. It would be easier to push a boulder up a hill than crack even one of your eyelids open.
Time passes slowly; sluggishly. Your thoughts can’t quite catch up with it, either too quick or too slow. You’re stuck in thoughts of the desert, caught in a sandstorm that manifests too suddenly for you to take cover. All you can do is close your eyes and wait it out.
Morning comes like a brutal summoning into the waking world.
It hurts, but you expected that. Before your eyes even open, you’re aware of a throbbing pain coming from your backside. You wince when you shift to your side, squeezing your eyes tight. You contemplate rolling over and taking your chances with John’s temper. The thought isn’t as appealing in the light of day though.
It takes some time to get out of bed and when you do, you have to step tentatively from floorboard to floorboard, the ache making it decidedly uncomfortable. You can’t imagine what sitting down will be like. Riding a horse is just out of the question.
From the bedroom window, you see John standing in front of the house with Simon, back again not even twelve hours later. With the window closed, you can’t hear their conversation, nor can you read their lips. Their exchange doesn’t last long though. After another minute or so, and a nod goodbye, Simon walks back over to his horse standing nearby and lifts himself up and over onto the saddle, taking off towards town.
When John turns back towards the house, you see him glance up towards the bedroom window where you stand. The circles beneath his eyes are dark, pronounced. On another day, you might’ve ducked out of sight or jumped away from the window, but now you hold his gaze.
He breaks your stare first this time, heading back inside. It’s less satisfying than you thought it’d be.
You spend the day resting in bed and avoiding John for the most part. He spends the majority of the day out of the house. You hear him downstairs in the kitchen around midday, fixing himself up something to eat, and you listen attentively to the scrape of the chair across the floor and the pan on the stovetop. Like the day he brought you home, he brings you up a tray only to leave it at the door, rapping the door with his knuckles to let you know before heading back downstairs.
When he comes up for bed, you’re already lying down with your back to the door, the oil lamp left unlit. John doesn’t say anything to you as he changes into his nightwear. He smells fresh when he climbs into bed, like he bathed in the creek out in the woods. You breathe in deeply, trying to keep your breath quiet enough to not disturb the silence. The pillow under your head is saturated with his scent. You turn your nose into it when he lies down on his back instead of curling into you like he usually does.
Your chest aches at that simple denial. There’s a wall between the two of you and you know where it came from. Any trust that you’d built lies in ruins now.
Perhaps that’s not quite right though. It’s a romantic notion that you’ve been building something together all this time, but it doesn’t feel right now that you have the wherewithal to look back and reflect. All this time, whenever you’ve touched, you’ve held him steadfast and at an arm's length away, stopping two degrees short of intimacy.
Deliberately effusive; and worse, you’ve called it affection.
The tenderness in your heart is the worst of it. There’s a bruise there, and it’s been there awhile. It’s only grown with your recent troubles. You tell yourself every year that you’ll air it out come spring, but then the winter comes and it freezes over again.
The pillow under your chest grows damp with your tears.
Your dress the next morning is cornflower blue. The wheatfields are golden stalks swaying in the breeze. It’s a pleasanter day than how you feel.
The ride into town is as painful as you thought it might be. You wince with every stride, your bottom still tender as a rose. John’s arm tightens around your waist when you squirm, like you might slide off the saddle and try to flee again, and you bite your lip to hold back the urge to snap.
The little bit of independence you’d grown to enjoy is snatched away from you. You expected that as well, but that loss of privilege comes with a biting ache. You fight the urge to gnash your teeth and bark at him that you’re not a child when he grips you under the arm and leads you down the road. It wouldn’t do you any good.
When John leaves you off at the general store, you’re surprised to find Kate back, hale and hearty. She looks up when the chime over the door jingles and raises her eyebrows in greeting. The sound makes you flinch, memories coming back unbidden.
You look over your shoulder to say something to John before he leaves, but the door is already closing behind him by the time you turn around. Your lips are pursed on a word that dissolves in your mouth. It has a bitter aftertaste.
“Thought you wouldn’t be back for a few more days,” you say instead, turning back to Kate. There’s already a chair pulled up for you by the wall and you make yourself comfortable there, grimacing at first when your sore backside touches the wood before settling in.
She shrugs. “Plans changed. Gaz and I made it back late last night.”
You frown. “Gaz?”
“Kyle Garrick. Sorry—slip of the tongue. You’ve met him already. He used to go by Gaz way back when.”
“Way back when?”
“Not my story to tell. You should ask one of them, if you’re curious.”
You are, but not enough to ask. “Maybe.”
The two of you lapse into silence after that exchange. Before leaving the house, you remembered to bring with you some needles and wool to pass the time. They’re not as familiar in your hands as you’d like them to be, but you suppose, barring the possibility of Graves or another bounty hunter showing up in town to cart you off, you’ll have time to learn.
The thought leaves you anxious. It feels distinctly more possible now.
“You met Miles while I was away?” Kate asks, out of the blue.
Your head comes up at her question. “Miles?”
“He was minding the store for me while I was away. Said you came in the other day.”
You swallow reflexively. “Oh. Yes, I suppose I did meet him. I didn’t stay long, since you were gone and all.”
She hums and looks back down at the book in front of her. You feel nervous all of a sudden.
“He said you were very helpful,” she says abruptly, breaking the silence. You flinch. “Told me some gentleman came by with a warrant for a murder back east and you were kind enough to take it to your husband for him so he could keep minding the shop.”
Your throat constricts. She pins you under her gaze, unblinking eyes staring into yours but not looking for anything. Wispy blonde bangs brush along her forehead when she tilts her head ever so slightly.
You nod instead of answering.
“Did you give it to him?” she asks.
“I didn’t have a chance to. The day got away from me,” you say tersely.
“I heard something about that. Kyle said John had to borrow Simon’s horse the other day. Said something about him taking off in a hurry.”
Again, you don’t answer. It feels like without knowing it, you’ve crossed over a threshold.
“Do you still have it?” Kate prompts when again you don’t respond. You don’t tell her that you don’t because in all the fuss the other day, it must have slipped out of your pocket and drifted off into the wind. “The warrant?”
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head.
“That’s alright. I have a good enough idea about what it might’ve said.”
Sweat beads on your upper lip. She all but says it outloud. You’re as still as a ferrotype under her gaze, imprinted in place, unable to move so much as a muscle or force a word past your stiff lips.
“You’re under no obligation to tell me or anyone,” Kate says, and her voice is suddenly gentle, softer than you’ve ever heard it before. “I’m sure you had your reasons. I won’t be telling John, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh. Thank you,” you breathe, throat so tight that the words almost don’t come out.
It’s the closest you’ve come to admitting to it, tangentially or not, and even now it’s spoken only out of the corner of your mouth. You don’t think you have it in you to recite the events sequentially. Even in the privacy of your memory, it comes piecemeal, in fragmented images that flicker across your mind because maybe to remember it whole would be too much.
You don’t say much more after that, and neither does Kate. That wasn’t the point of bringing it up, you think. You'd know if it was.
When John comes to fetch you at the end of the day, you leave without saying goodbye to Kate. Only a stiff smile before heading out on your way. If she returns your smile, you don’t notice it. To John, you simply duck your head and follow him out the door, letting him help you up onto the horse without a word.
If it bothers him that you refuse to speak to him, he doesn’t show it.
It’s so many steps back that you might as well be back where you started. Maybe even further back, a voyage gone so wrong that when you look over your shoulder, you can’t make heads or tails of where you came from. The trees from the other side of the trail never look quite the same.
If you could open your mouth and say it, you would. If you knew he’d listen. But you don’t think John is that kind of man. Against the gold of the setting sun, he cuts a figure from times of yore. He speaks plain while you tend to speak in fricatives and bilabial stops, incapable of enunciating the words.
You feel like a wound on the world. Getting it wrong again and again.
It’s an old pain, one that started back when you were too small to hold it all. Now, you’ve grown large enough to hold it, though it holds you back in turn. You remember your parents studiously ignoring first creation like some noxious cloud billowing from the chimney. There’d been too many children for them to care about the runt. Shipped off to your aunt’s and uncle’s just for the cycle to repeat itself.
It’s an old grief, this one, friendly because it nudges at your hips when you brush by, striking in the blue-green. And when it burns, it burns.
“John, I—” you say when he helps you down back at the house.
He stares down at you, waiting you out. Your mouth goes dry, the truth beyond your grasp again. Your heart aches when his brows furrow and the lines around his eyes crease again, frustration welling beneath the surface.
You understand. It sits under your skin too.
"Go inside," he says instead when you don't go on. "I'll bring in the horses and start supper."
Your God sits at the edge of the bed, wholly lacking praise. It’s not His fault that it’s been awhile. These days, you can hardly muster up the energy to say hello. You gargle saltwater before you bathe and scrub your skin free of blood, waiting for the next morning to come.
And you think, lying on your side while John sleeps on the other side of the bed, wouldn’t it be lovely to get it right now, rather than in retrospect?
#ceil writing#cod mw2#cod x reader#john price x reader#price x you#price x y/n#price x reader#price/reader#john price/reader#captain john price
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KITTY KAT — art donaldson + reader : art has a tendency to show up late to your lessons.
tags: mdni, tennis lessons, coach!art donaldson, p in v sex, fingering, art is kind of an asshole, cheating (not on reader)
a/n: sorry to tashi… this goes out to my dear @murdrdocs
thirty minutes ago.
art donaldson was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago, your teeth grit against each other, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete floor below you.
art was a sweet guy, sure, but his time management was beyond infuriating. it almost made you feel like he thought himself above you, like you weren’t worth his time.
“one to talk,” you mumble to yourself, dragging your racket on the ground, “rich from the guy who was coached by his wife.”
ahem.
you spin around, and of course, he’s standing right there, looking the same as he always does. his dirty blonde hair was messed up and falling over his eyebrows, blue eyes, with a mix of brown, staring directly at you with an almost amused expression.
you blink at him, once, twice.
a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “sorry for being late.”
it sounds condescending, like he would never actually mean it, especially not after what he heard, it felt like a sort of karma for what you were previously saying about him.
and he knows that, of course he does, so he masks it with a sense of sweetness, one that would typically gaslight people into thinking they’ve been forgiven, but you know better.
you’ve been coached by art for a while now, and his little habits became far too predictable. this was odd, though, you couldn’t make out the glint in his eye, especially when you mumble a, “sorry, i didn’t mean—“
“let’s get started, yeah?” art cuts in, bitter, yet his voice still sounded like it was dipped in honeysuckle.
he whisks right past you with that same, tugged up smirk, he reeked of rich cologne and mint.
your lips press together and you silently, albeit ashamed, nod in agreement.
maybe silence will earn points back from your coach.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾
silence did not earn anything.
art served hard, hit the ball hard, it was as if he wanted to make the ball break through your racket and hit you square in the face. he clearly took your miniscule words personally, and he was testing you, trying to break you down, to see how much you could take until your bones turned soft and you felt like giving up.
the first time you called a pause, art smiled, “don’t tell me you’re giving up.”
“pause,” you repeat through heaved breaths, sweat sticking to your skin underneath the relentless sun. art had that same playful look in his eyes that he always did, he knew that what he was doing was working, he knew that he was getting under your skin, and as cruel as it sounds, he really did enjoy it.
if you ever were to ask him about it, he’d just shrug and say it’s all a part of the practice, it always happens in tennis, especially professional, he’s just preparing you. but deep down, he really just wanted to say that he was doing it for those reasons but for his own personal pleasures, karma comes in many forms, but art picks the harshest form first.
he watches you drink water with a desperate urgency, stifling his own chuckles, “you sure you’re okay?”
“‘m fine,” you speak after gulping down the last drop, finally satisfied, “let’s keep going.”
art’s brows furrow ever so slightly, but as soon as you’re back to being ready, he rolls the tennis ball in his hand a little, observing it, before throwing it up in the air and sending it your way. he’s so casual with every hit, despite his grunts and the way his nose scrunches whenever ball meets racket, he makes it look like it’s nothing.
to make it even worse, he starts trying to conversate between passes, “you know—“ smack! another grunt leaves his lips, “it’s really rude to—“ smack! “speak about people behind their—“ smack! “fuck.. backs.”
you’re so busy trying to decipher his words you almost miss the next hit, but thankfully you snap out of the trance quick enough to hit it last minute, which he chuckles at and quickly sends it back.
smack! “‘m sorry, art, really—“ your shoes scratch against the concrete below, smack! “i was being very—“ smack! “childish, i apologize.”
he hums, content with your apologies, but still not outwardly saying he forgives you, instead his hits start to soften, he’s less trying to kill you with the ball and now rather trying to actually play tennis. “you’re all good—“ he confirms, smack! “just make it up to me, yeah?”
ball meets floor, his words had completely caught you off guard, and you missed your hit on the ball he sent your way. you felt almost stupid, standing there, staring at him and trying to decipher what he meant by making it up to him.
and of course, he didn’t elaborate, he never did, he simply just picked up another ball, smiled at you, and said, “ready?”
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾
art said he forgave you, right?
ever since that day, he’s been acting.. off. he was more focused on your figure now, not in a crude way, but in a way where he wanted you to position yourself correctly when playing. he watches you serve the ball, then his tongue prods at the inside of his cheek and he stands, “hey, hey, wait a second— your uh… your stance is wrong.”
“it is?” it was the fifth time he’s corrected you, today, and it’s safe to say you were getting annoyed, he picked up on the bitterness of your tone as he approached you.
“‘ts not my fault, kitty cat,” he shrugged simply, noticing the way your eyes narrow in frustration at his nickname, he only smiles. he leans in behind you, “may i?” his hands are ghosting over your arms from behind.
“whatever helps,” you remark.
“good,” it’s softly spoken at the shell of your ear, making you swallow thick, his fingers wrap around your wrist, other one holding your fingers grip on the racket’s handle. his grip is tight, yet gentle at the same time, veins flexing against his flesh with every movement as he helps you move into the right position. “just gotta.. do it like this,” he’s still whispering against your ear, nearly making your knees buckle.
once he’s satisfied with your position, which is far too quick for your liking, he backs off and lets you serve the ball again. he smiles once he’s gotten what he’s wanted, “perfect.”
eventually, after a while of hitting the ball, you decided to take a break. there was a silence between you and art, a tension you couldn’t place, you had nothing to blame it on, nothing to apologize for, and he constantly looked like he was trying to say something indescribable.
“hey,” he starts, before tugging his bottom lip under his tongue for a mere second before continuing, “remember when i said you had to make it up to me?”
you stare at him, curious, “yeah, of course.”
“you know,” his hands smooth over each other, skin underneath his right eye twitching as his pupils dilate in thought, “i’ve been having a.. problem, lately.”
“with tennis?”
“nono,” he laughs nervously, moving to scratch the back of his neck, “it’s personal, y’know? well— not entirely, since ‘m telling you, but uh— actually, nevermind.”
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾
you and art hadn’t discussed much after the last meet, you found yourself standing in the court yet again, whilst he was no short of an hour late at this point. you wanted to ask him what his deal is lately, what his problem is, but he wasn’t even here to be questioned. it was almost ridiculous, like he was toying with you.
“i like your skirt,” it comes out of nowhere, but it’s the same, smooth voice that art holds.
yet again, you find yourself spinning around to meet him, he’s closer, now, clearly eyeing you— but that’s.. weird, is it not? he has a wife, he shouldn’t be complimenting your obviously short skirt, or eyeing you like that, or wishing to tell you things that he had apparently not told anyone else because it’s personal. but who are you to question his relationship? maybe he’s just.. being nice, really.
“thank you,” you offer, nice, short, sweet.
he rolls his shoulder, meeting your eyes, flickering his gaze to your lips for a mere second, then saying nothing and walking by. rich cologne and mint. that’s what wafts into your senses immediately, as if it was some sort of distraction from his odd behaviors.
“do you always call people kitty cat?” you eventually ask him, it was something you’d been wondering, truly, especially since you’ve never been called that before.
“to pretty girls with an attitude, yeah,” art says it so casually.
“like your wife?”
“like you.”
art corrected you.
he corrected you, and his correction didn’t annoy you like how they always did, it made your stomach churn in a way you couldn’t decipher, you couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. you liked it, maybe, but isn’t that so sickening? art seems to think no big deal of his own words, as he doesn’t even react, so you try to be nonchalant about it as well.
the whole entire test match you play with him, he has a certain glint in his eye, his grunts are louder, his shorts look tighter, he looks like he’s having some sort of reaction to playing tennis, to playing tennis with you. your tongue runs along your lips between breaks, noticing the way his eyes linger on it, the way his pupils widen at the shine of saliva over your lips with each swipe.
at the third break, art was convinced you were doing this on purpose.
“why do you keep doing that?” he asks as he’s walking over to grab his water bottle, right where you’re sitting on the concrete floor. you blink up at him, watching him hover the bottle near his lips and squirt the water into his mouth. did he always look this good when sweaty?
gosh, maybe you’re just tired, maybe your mind is just foggy.
“what?” you frown, confused.
“licking your lips,” he speaks after swallowing the water, towering over you. his muscles were nearly bursting out of his white t-shirt with every movement, especially when he puts his water bottle down and crosses his arm, head cocking to the side. sweat causes some of his hair strands to stick to his forehead, lips puffy from how much he bites them when playing.
“my lips are dry,” you explain, so simple.
“yeah?” again, another smile, he had to be toying with you, “do you need some other help with that?”
“what do you mean?”
art hums, not explaining anything when he opens his mouth and swipes his thumb along his tongue, moving down to rub the saliva from his tongue onto your lips, memorizing the pillowy soft touch. your eyes widen, slightly, “art, this is—“
“not helping?” art tuts in faux disappointment, mumbling a small, ‘why don’t i..’ before he leans down further, licking his own lips and getting closer and closer until his lips are brushing against yours.
“wrong,” you mumble out, but you sound unsure, like you don’t really believe what you just said, you don’t think this is wrong, you’ve always thought art was attractive, it was his wife that kept your crush on him at bay. you mumble against his lips, “you have a wife, art..”
“do i?” he smirks against your lips, a near chuckle slipping out, “i must’ve forgotten.”
“art,” it sounds like a warning, but again, you wanted nothing less than for his lips to fall against yours right now.
“make it up to me, yeah? remember that?” his hand moves to hold your cheek, tipping your head up at him, eyes meeting yours in such close proximity, “i’ve got some marriage problems right now, so why don’t you play wife for me, hm?”
you nod at him, ever so slightly, he clocks it immediately, and that’s his que. his eyes flutter shut, and he’s leaning in only a mere centimeter before his lips fall against yours. the kiss is soft at first, sweet, new, but then art starts taking the lead, and it quickly becomes something on the faint lines of cannibalism, he kissed you like he wanted to eat you, like he loved you.
when he said he wanted you to play wife, he wasn’t lying.
he pries your lips open with his own before his tongue makes it’s way inside your mouth, tasting the peppermint of your gum on your own tongue, memorizing the noisy breaths that leave your mouth and move into his. your nails are quick to run along his arms, making him pull back to speak, “hold on, kitty cat.”
“you call your wife kitty cat?” you watch him peel off his sweaty shirt from his skin.
he tosses the shirt to the side, exhaling a breath that showed he hated the feeling of the wet fabric on his skin, “mm, i call you kitty cat, ‘nd you’re playing my wife, so.”
“right,” you agree, letting his cold hands brush against your skin when he takes your clothes off of you, of course looking at you for approval beforehand, which you nod to.
“did you start wearing shorter skirts on purpose?” art questions when his fingers reach the waistband of your skirt, ever so slowly dipping underneath.
“no, ‘course not,” you speak breathlessly, feeling his fingers move under your underwear as well until his fingertips meet your clit. you swallow thick, lashes fluttering as he starts moving his fingers in an almost cruel slowness.
“look at me,” he whispers a simple command, free hand holding your chin and forcing you to look at him. his fingers move further down, immediately feeling how wet you are, he chuckles in surprise, “god, you’re this wet for a married man, huh?”
“for my husband,” you mumble out, playing the part.
“that’s right,” his middle finger circles your entrance for a second before ever so slowly dipping it inside. he watches your lips fall apart, the way your eyes get glossed over, the way your hips push up against his finger. “needy.”
he doesn’t take long to push another finger in, letting go of your chin so he could guide your hand to his clothed cock, hard and pushing against his flimsy shorts. as soon as you start rubbing his dick through the fabric, his breath shudders slightly, as if he’s been waiting too long for like, as if he hasn’t had sexual pleasure in weeks.
soon enough, only a mere minute or two in of foreplay, art gets antsy and he has to have his dick inside of you, he pries his fingers from your cunt and takes your skirt off next. “lay down for me, yeah?” he smiles at the fact that you do it immediately, even spreading your legs for him.
he hisses at the feeling when his bare knees meet the concrete floor below, harsh on his skin, he tugs his shorts and boxers down ever so slightly until his cock is finally freed. you inhale sharply upon seeing it, he had a big dick. he spits in his hand, coating his dick with a grunt before he finally lines himself up with your entrance.
“ready?” he hushes out.
“yeah, yeah,” you’re barely able to finish the last yeah before his dick is moving into you, his nose scrunching from the tightness of your walls around him, it’s like you were purposefully squeezing his cock with an attempt to milk him dry already.
“fuck,” he grunts out, pulling back, then moving back in, earning a pathetic moan from your lips. it sounds like music to his ears, so he keeps going, his thrusting was slow at first, gentle, kind— but just like the test matches, or the kiss, he gets hungry, and he wants more.
his thrusts turn relentless almost immediately, maybe even like he was taking out some sorts of sexual frustrations out on your poor cunt. whimpers, whines, moans, all of those leave your lips, matching up with the grunts and the occasional whimper from his own mouth as well.
sex was intoxicating for art, and there was something so dangerous, so forbidden about this, you weren’t really his wife, he was married to another woman, he was solely your coach. some sick part of art loves that, maybe that’s why he leans down and starts nipping at your neck, sucking at the delicate skin until maroon and blackberry starts blooming on the blank canvas.
“art, oh my god,” you moan out, hands moving to scratch at his bare back, and maybe art should be smart enough to tell you not to leave marks, but he lets your nails dig in as his thrusts get harsher, surely drawing blood, or at least noticeable scratches.
in fact, the feeling of you tearing into his skin only makes his orgasm come on faster, soon enough wracking his body and making his hips stutter. he keeps going though, despite the overstimulation that makes him pathetically whine softly, just until you’ve reached your own orgasm.
he pulls out, panting, smirking down at you, “thanks, kitty cat.”
#୨୧ (jules yapping) .ᐟ#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#mike faist#mike faist x reader#mike faist x you#art donaldson smut#art donaldson challengers#challengers#challengers smut#mike faist smut#mike faist challengers
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I usually see fics where Sukuna is 'the experienced one' and reader on the other hand is the shy one who never had those types of experiences before so Sukuna has to ""teach"" her how to do it.
However, as Sukuna canonically has never experienced love and attachment to someone in his life, what if he's the one who needs to learn?
What if it's Sukuna who finds himself trembling when he and reader are going to kiss
What if he finds himself ashamed when he wants to go further with reader but doesn't know how to do it because he has never done it so it's reader who softly shows and explains to him how to do it?
I love to imagine and write Sukuna as someone who is experienced when it comes to sex but completely inexperienced when it comes to love.
Modern!Sukuna is used to casual, little flings that mean nothing. Trueform/King of Curses Sukuna is used to admirers throwing themselves at him, begging for a night with him, or people bringing him their daughters to sacrifice their virginity to him in exchange for his blessings. And Sukuna lets himself indulge in those desires of the flesh. He takes what he wants and selfishly uses those strangers' bodies for his own pleasure. Oftentimes, he doesn't even ask for their names or forgets them again because he simply doesn't care.
Sex is easy for Sukuna. But what absolutely terrifies him is when his heart and his stomach feel so strange anytime you are near him and smile at him and treat him with so much affection and love. It scares Sukuna out of his mind that you mean something to him. The thought of losing you makes him almost sick with worry. He fears it would destroy him.
And he catches himself being reluctant to go further. For the first time in his life, he doesn't want to fuck, but wants to make love. But it is a concept so new and strange to him that it scares him. He doesn't know how to proceed because so much is at stake all of a sudden. He doesn't want this to just be a night of meaningless fun. He doesn't want to risk seeing you walk away from him afterward.
Sukuna never cared that deeply about someone. For a long time, he assumed he wasn't capable of love. Maybe because no one ever treated him with love either. Maybe because no one saw him in that light. Maybe because he always was just the guy for one night. Or maybe because he was a god-like monster that people admired but also feared. Maybe because he scared everyone off with his intimidating looks and personality.
But you somehow saw something more in him. Sukuna thinks you are the first and only one who saw his true self, which was hidden so deeply behind his perfect mask of arrogance and indifference.
And now Sukuna's world has been turned upside down. Suddenly, he doesn't want to take but wants to give instead. He doesn't just care about his own pleasure but wants you to feel good. He wants to see your eyes roll back and hear you moan his name, not because it gives him a feeling of power but because he wants to make you happy. He wants you to stay in his bed and in his arms afterward. He wants to wake up with you snuggled against him. He wants to kiss your hands and your lips and tell you that you own his heart. He wants it to mean something.
Sukuna doesn't know how to return to the person he was before you loved him and taught him how to love, too. And he knows he could never share this with anyone else. So please forgive him if his large, strong hands tremble slightly when he touches your cheek. Even a man like him can be scared of something.
#i am crying because i am way too soft for him :((#sukuna x reader#sukuna#sukuna fluff#jjk x reader#sukuna x you
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Rage, rage | three
prologue | one | two | three |
Pairing: Azriel x Hybern!Princess!OC
Summary: Nimue was a gift for the King of Hybern. His shining jewel, the perfect heir. However, she is clear about who the villain of the story is. When she saves her father's enemies from a tragic end, she realizes that now it's the Cauldron who has a gift for her: a mate.
Warnings: heavy injures, description of injuries, blood, violence, weapons, bad language, english not being my first language
They look at each other, adrenaline boiling and screaming in everyone's veins. Nimue doesn't take her eyes off Rhysand, but she feels everyone looking at her.
She feels naked, unprotected.
She blinks to get used to all that light. She had never seen so much light and it's beautiful.
Her senses come to life as she lets go of Rhysand's hand, which she had unknowingly been clinging to. She breathes over and over, trying to calm herself, but involuntarily she begins to tremble.
What has she done, what has she done, what has she done.
Father is going to kill her.
Amidst her frenzy of thoughts, Rhysand starts barking orders. She doesn't hear them well, only scattered words: healer, help, house.
Nimue glimpses a huge house to her right, and realizes she has brought them all to the courtyard of a mansion. Around her, everyone seems to spring into action.
The blonde female runs into the house, and seconds later comes out accompanied by another woman, shorter and slighter. She can't tell if she's fae or a creature. When Nimue and her lock eyes, it's like they're looking in a mirror. Both frown but decide to ignore each other.
For Nimue, it's as if everything is happening in slow motion: when she wants to realize, there's another person there, attending to the two injured Ilyrian. A glow emanates from her hands, its warmth reaching the princess's face. A healer, she supposes. She had never seen one.
She fights against her own panic, trying to get used to all the hustle and bustle and all those sounds. The birds flying above her head, the sunlight, the smell of the sea, the smell of pine and cedar, the voices around her, the poor Ilyrian screaming in pain...
She lowers her gaze, and without thinking, she starts speaking: "I can help."
Everyone looks at her again, judging her. They scan her from head to toe.
The two females who were thrown into the Cauldron are to her left, crying and hugging the one who was with Rhysand. Are they sisters? They looked so much alike...
"I can help," she repeats, this time firmer. She starts walking and sees how Rhysand prepares to attack her, "I can heal both of them, if you let me."
She analyzes the High Lord's face, and sees how little by little he is giving in. No one articulates any words, with a simple nod of the male's head, he grants her permission. He has nothing more to lose.
She kneels beside the one with the shattered wings and begins to do what she does with herself and the wounds she has ever suffered: with her magic, she grasps every little nerve ending, every small piece of skin. She pulls them and threads them, weaves them, joins them and separates them as if making a tapestry. So little by little, she shapes the wings of that Ilyrian. It's all pure instinct, what her nature dictates to her.
Father always told her she was his Goddess of Destruction, but Nimue knew deep down that she was capable of fixing, of healing, of bringin good to the world.
Under everyone's watchful eyes, she was piece by piece, shred by shred, joining and repairing the broken wings of that male. When she reached the bones, she simply imagined how they should have originally been: she ordered them to return to their form, to be soldered, and they obediently complied.
With a final grunt from the male, Nimue finished her work. But before she could get up, he grabbed her arm:
"Thank you," he whispered. Nimue is stunned. Thank you?
Had anyone ever thanked her for anything? Had anyone shown her gratitude?
No, her real doubt wasn't that. Had she ever done anything worthy of others' gratitude?
She swallowed her fear and terror, kneeling on the ground. She watched as the male limped away from her and enveloped the blonde female in a hug, how he squeezed her tightly as they both cried on each other's shoulders.
She was so, so lost. Where was she? What was happening around her?
"What a miracle of a girl," the healer whispered. Standing between Rhysand and the slighter female, the more aged-looking woman never took her eyes off her, "You are a Cauldron's blessing. When you're done, I'll need you to teach me how you do that. You are a–"
"Silence, Madja," Rhysand's voice resonates under her feet and in the very mountain, as if he had spoken those words inside Nimue's skull. She shrinks, intimidated. That's the power of a High Lord, "Now him. Heal him.”
She looks away from Rhysand and sets her gaze on the last remaining male.
Kneeling on the ground beneath him is a pool of his own blood and something that seems to be shadows, moving frenetically back and forth. She had never seen anything like it, those... beings, moving around the man. Nimue hears faint noises that she can't quite understand.
Behind her, she feels a presence moving. Rhysand looks down at her, those violet eyes so deep that Nimue feels hypnotized, "Don't just stand there gaping and do what you did to Cassian. Now. Or I'll cut off your head, you filthy Hybern rat."
She nods, and when she turns back to the winged male, he looks back at her. His amber eyes follow every small movement she makes: from the slight tremble of her lower lip to the way she raises her hand.
When he tries to speak, a trickle of blood runs down his lip to his chin, "Touch me and I'll cut off your hands, traitor."
Nimue trembles.
What the hell is she doing? Where has she gotten herself into?
Before she knows it, two streaks of water run down her cheeks. Is she crying? She had never cried before, what a strange sensation.
Her gaze travels to the hands of the male in front of her. He grips a beautiful black dagger, its tip directly aimed at Nimue's chest.
She swallows hard and, in a quick motion, grabs the arrow he has lodged in his chest and pulls it out with all her strength. She has been so fast that the male collapses forward, falling on top of her.
Rhysand and the healer, Madja, take care of getting him off her, and when Nimue tries to touch him again, the High Lord growls at her, "I told you to heal him, not to open up the damn hole in his chest further."
By pure instinct, Nimue snarls back at him, "I am healing him, you idiot. Back off."
Where she found the courage, she doesn't know. But they obey her, and she gets back to work.
The male is lying on his back on the ground, and Nimue places her hand on his chest, where the arrow was previously lodged. She begins to weave again, slowly, thread by thread.
Her gaze rests on his face, which, with closed eyes, lets out the occasional groan between his teeth.
Azriel feels like his chest is on fire. He feels the edges of the wound burning, he feels combustion from within. He takes gulps of air as he struggles not to lose consciousness, and blinded by the pain, he reaches his hand into the air and grabs onto the first thing he finds.
Nimue startles when his hand grabs her elbow, but she lets it be, the touch of his glove is a new, pleasant, and different sensation. She looks back at his face, and in a low voice, she speaks to him, "I'm almost done. Just making sure there's no trace of the poison that the arrow was coated with."
Azriel lets out a growl. He couldn't care less about the explanations. He just wants it to be over already.
The pain reaches the core of his bones and he opens his eyes abruptly, looking at the girl in front of him.
What is that?
Around her, he sees a thread, a small golden rope encircling her: it descends down her shoulders and arms, caresses her wrists and fingers, and wherever her skin meets his, he sees how the thread enters his own body.
Is he hallucinating?
Hasn't he had enough with the arrow between his ribs, that now the poison is making him hallucinate?
Behind the girl, he sees Rhysand, Amren, Cassian, Mor, even damn Madja. He sees how in slow motion their brows furrow, he sees how they lean forward, looking puzzled at something that makes Azriel scared.
"What's going on?" he asks agitated. He tries to sit up on his elbows, but although the pain has already diminished, it still doesn't let him breathe properly, "What are you all looking at like that?"
Nimue furrows her brows as she pushes the man back to the ground so he stays still. She frowns, as she begins to feel something on her fingertips...
Something is not right.
The sensation travels up her forearm and shoulder, and settles in her chest. There inside, like a caged bird, that sensation starts tumbling, back and forth, faster and faster.
She removes her hand from the man's chest and he sits up in front of her, like a spring.
Azriel feels like he's going to explode. What has that witch put inside him? What kind of magic has she used on him?
"What the hell have you done to me?" he shouts. Azriel brings a hand to his chest when that pressure keeps growing.
Nimue mimics him, feeling like her chest is going to burst.
What has she done? Has she made a mistake? Perhaps her magic has betrayed her now for the first time...
She's hyperventilating, and when she feels that, indeed, she's going to explode like a firework, she looks into the eyes of the male in front of her.
And then everything suddenly calms down.
They stare at each other, stunned, not knowing what to say. Their breaths come together, equally fast and choppy.
And when their bodies stop vibrating and calm down, she feels it there.
There's something, something pulling her towards...
Towards him.
Azriel jumps to his feet, as if they hadn't just removed a poisoned arrow from his chest or he hadn't just lost liters and liters of blood. He finds Truth Teller in its usual place and with a practiced motion after years and years of battles, he grabs the girl by the collar of her clothes and lifts her up like a feather. The dagger rests comfortably against her neck, and she does nothing but look back at him, wide-eyed.
"Azriel!" Rhysand shouts. He ignores his High Lord, although every fiber of his being tells him to obey him, "Azriel, let her go!"
Then, Nimue comes to her senses. With a practiced movement, the winged male is kneeling on the ground again. The pretty black dagger is now in her hand, while with the other she pulls back his hair.
Azriel doesn't know when all this happened. He just knows that he blinked and now he's the prey. He clings to the girl's hand pulling his hair and tries to break free, but he can't understand how such a small woman can have the strength of a thousand men.
"Now I'm going to let go of you and you're not going to attack me. Understood?" She utters each word slowly, as if speaking in another language.
Nimue takes a step back, releasing the dagger, which falls to the ground with a dull thud.
Azriel stands up, and in a leap, he's next to Rhysand in an attack position.
Before Nimue, everyone present is on high alert. Some in attack position, others simply ready for whatever may happen.
The first to speak is Azriel, with the same accusatory tone as before, "What have you done to me? Undo it." He's trembling, and Nimue can't tell if it's from fear or from the pure rage she sees in his face.
Even if she wanted to, she couldn't undo it, because she herself doesn't know what has happened.
What is that pulling her? What is that feeling in her chest, an anchor dragging her toward that winged male?
Everyone remains silent, looking at each other.
However, it's Rhysand who speaks first, the voice of reason in a desperate situation, "Let's all calm down."
Because he doesn't know if he's the only one who sees it, who feels it. That sudden change in the air. It smells like cedar and mist, like Azriel. But if he pays attention, he smells the sea salt and the sweetness of poison in the air. The scent that the girl in front of them emits. It's intoxicating and chilling at the same time. He couldn't say.
What he can say, however, is what he sees crystal clear. Azriel's essence, mixed with that of the unknown girl. He sees how both mingle in the air.
And then, Rhysand would swear that he stopped hearing Azriel's heartbeat next to him.
"My mate," his friend whispers. His face, a complete expression of surprise, something that the Shadow Singer rarely showed, "She's my mate.”
Taglist:
@lilah-asteria @agentsofsheilds @leptitlu @just-here-reading @glitterypirateduck @donttellthecats
A/N:I really hope you are all enjoying it. Every kind of support is greatly appreciated, and thank you so much to those who already support it!! If you want to be added to the taglist, just let me know 🥰
#azriel x you#azriel x oc#azriel imagine#azriel x reader#azriel#azriel acotar#acotar fic#acotar fanfiction#acotar#rhysand#cassian#azriel fanfic#azriel fic
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Greece - CC
Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader
Summary: You go on a holiday to Greece with CC and the girls - Based on THIS request
Warnings: none, just some fluff for ya
Word Count: 2.8k
Sweetbans Masterlist
AN: Hi all! Here is a cute one for you!
It was summer break and you and some of the girls from the team decided it would be super fun to go on a vacation somewhere. You all got together to choose where you wanted to go. Jada had the great idea to do that trend of everyone putting a place into a hat and each person would draw at random until there was only one left.
You and Cait had talked endlessly about where you two thought would be fun. Caitlin knew where she wanted to go and was incredibly hopeful about her choice. Meanwhile, you were naming off every place under the sun.
When you both got to Jada's apartment to figure out where you all were headed, Caitlin couldn't contain her excitement. There was a group of 8 of you going which meant that eight locations were going into a hat to be chosen from.
You all sat around her living room and took turns writing down where you wanted to go. You looked over at your girl and saw her writing 'Greece' on her piece of paper. You smile, thinking about all the times she has talked about vacationing off the coast of Santorini.
Caitlin had wanted to go to Greece ever since she was a little girl. There was something about it that just seemed so enticing to her. Ever since you started talking to Caitlin you heard her talking about wanting to go to Greece. Any time you talked about going somewhere together, it always came up in the conversation. It was quite cute.
She put her paper in the bowl on the table. You looked down at your piece of paper and pondered the list of places you were thinking about. Nothing seemed as great as seeing your girl live out the vacation of her dreams. So you secretly write down 'Greece' and place it in the bowl on the table.
After everyone sticks their paper in the bowl, you all take turns pulling out pieces seeing where you will not be going.
As the bowl goes around the room, you hear 'Spain', 'Australia', and 'Japan'. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Caitlin's knee bouncing with anticipation.
'Amsterdam' is read next followed by 'Canada' and 'Thailand'.
It was your turn to pick a place and you already knew how this was going to play out. You pull out a paper and look at it. Caitlin's eyes are intensely staring at you. You give her an apologetic look and show everyone the paper that reads 'Greece' in Caitlin's handwriting.
"Greece," you say as you lean over to kiss Caitlin's temple. Her disappointment doesn't hide well. She tries to compose herself because she is the one who is saying where they are going to be going on vacation.
Little does she know, that her disappointment isn't going to last long. You pass her the bowl knowing that the last piece of paper remaining is yours. And you know you would do anything to bring joy to Caitlin.
You rub her arm as she grabs the remaining piece of paper. You try to hide your smile but are failing. She grabs the piece of paper.
"We are going to..." she begins as she unfolds the paper. A scream escapes your girlfriend and she jumps up on the couch.
"WE ARE GOING TO GREECE!!!" She exclaims as she jumps on the couch like a little girl.
You are so caught up in how Caitlin is reacting that you don't hear that some of the girls are excited and the others say it's not fair that you two can vote the same.
Caitlin jumps into your arms, wrapping her legs around your waist and repeatedly mumbles thank you in your ear. This reaction alone was worth writing down Greece, you can't wait to see what being there with her will be like...
*2 months later*
The time has come and your girl's trip has arrived! Speaking of arrival, your plane just landed in Athens, and are now in a cab on your way to the Airbnb you rented.
Everyone is so excited to be there, especially Cait. It is all she has been able to talk about for the last two months - so much so that you have had to threaten her to get her to stop talking about it. Now that you are actually here, all the work put into planning this trip is paid off.
As the cab pulls up the Airbnb, you all take in how beautiful it is. You all decided to splurge and get a 5-bedroom villa that overlooked the city. It was unanimous when it came to finding a spot - since it was your big trip for the summer, it was worth every penny.
You all run into the villa and being freaking out over how stunning it is. Everyone running and excited about a different thing - Kylie ran to the balcony, Sydney ran to the infinity pool, Jada and Hannah ran to the bedroom with the biggest mirror (those girls and their Tiktok dances), Kate ran to the courtyard that housed a beautiful outdoor patio set, Gabby and Caitlin ran to the living room that was practically a movie theater and you of course ended up in the kitchen.
If there is one thing you love to do, it's cook. Making and serving food is your love language - at least how you express love. When looking at places you were 100% biased to this place because of the kitchen. It housed a beautiful island that had a 4-burner stovetop attached on top of the 6-burner over stove tucked along the wall. Two sinks - one of which was on the island for convenience. A walk-in pantry that was already stashed with all the spices and staples you could ever need. On top of it all, it had one of those foot vacuums where if you dropped anything on the floor, you could push it over to the opening and press a button for it to get sucked up, never to be seen or stepped on again.
As you are falling in love with the kitchen, you feel a pair of familiar arms come and wrap around your torso. Your arms come to rest on top of your girl as you lean back into her. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder and she squeezes you even more.
"I know we just got here but this is the best trip I have ever been on," she says as she turns you to face her. You rest your backside on the island and admire your beautiful girlfriend.
"I am glad you are happy with our choice of summer vacation," you say teasing her.
She pokes at your stomach, which results in a laugh from you.
"Ya, well, I have a pretty amazing girl who would do anything to make me happy," Caitlin says genuinely as she takes hold of your hand. You decide to poke at her some more.
"Well I don't know about anything to make you happy," you say, exaggerating the 'anything'. When she looks down at you, you give her a smile and a peck before grabbing your bags and heading to find the room you will be staying in with Cait.
"I already put my stuff in our room, let me show you where it is," she says as she leads you down a hallway that leads to a whole other wing of the villa. It is like its own separate house within the villa. When you arrive, you notice it is the only room on this side of the Airbnb.
"I chose this room intentionally," Caitlin says. "It is the only room on this side of the villa - completely separate from everyone else." She gives you a suggestive look as she begins to approach you. Right as you wrap your arms around your girlfriend's neck you hear the phone ring.
You both look to see a landline on the bedside table. You pick it up and say 'hello'.
"Hey! You two lovebirds need to come back to the main house - we are going out to explore," Gabby says and the other girls are yelling at you two to hurry up.
"Okay okay we are on our way," you say as you motion for Caitlin to change into lighter clothes. You hang up the phone and begin to change yourself.
Once again, you feel Caitlin's arms wrap around you.
"It's a good thing they won't be near us tonight - because I have some ideas on how I want to say thank you to you and I know you have trouble staying quiet," she says as she kisses your neck.
"Why don't we just stay here and start now," you say as your eyes close and your head leans back into her shoulder.
"As tempting as that sounds, we are burning daylight baby!" She says as she completely removes herself from you, earning a groan.
"Tease," you mumble as you finish changing out of your travel clothes.
The first few days are spent exploring Athens. Going to see different historic sites and museums. The place is beautiful and the food is delicious. Everyone is having the time of their lives, Caitlin especially as you all explore a new city.
The next morning you and a few girls head to a local market. You plan on making dinner that night for everyone. As you are walking around, you buy everything you will need and more. You are overwhelmed with everything they have and have an absolute blast. Jada and Kate are with you and get flowers and other small things that will liven up your stay.
When you get back, you start some of the prep while everyone else is lounging or doing their own thing. Caitlin is sitting on the counter watching you do your thing in the kitchen. Watching you cook is one of her favorite things. She could sit and watch you all day - it’s when you are in your element.
Every now and again you would bounce over to her to give her a little kiss or to squeeze between her legs to be held by her. Being held by your girl makes you melt every time.
Once everything is all done, Cait rounds the girls and everyone meets at the patio table. You come out bringing the last dish. Family dinners are where you feel most at home (the only exception being Cait). Everyone sits and feasts and life is good.
The next few days are for sightseeing. Everyone heads out to different museums and places that hold Greek culture. Some things are done together while others you all break off into small groups, you never leaving Caitlin’s side. It didn’t matter what you were doing, doing it with Caitlin was better than doing any of it without her.
You are all back at the Airbnb enjoying the amenities that are there. Everyone is out by the pool, some in it and some sitting next to it. You are reading a book when you feel a sudden cold reach your legs. You tilt your book to the side to see nothing out of the ordinary - no one is looking at you or acknowledging the fact you made any movement. Going back to reading, you pass it off as a phantom splash until it happens again.
You immediately sit up and look around to find Caitlin in the pool trying to conceal a giggle. A smile forms as you get up from your chair and make your way to sit next to where she is. You sit poolside and dangle your feet in the water.
“Why don’t you come all the way in,” Caitlin says. “We can race!” It was cute how she was playing in the pool like a little kid. Seeing her here in Greece has you believing that this trip is healing a part of her inner child and it makes your heart swell.
“Maybe in a little babe, I’m about to go in to make everyone lunch,” you say reaching over to take some of her wet hair into your hand and combing your fingers through it.
She moves to position herself in between your thighs, leaning her arms on them, and looks up at you with puppy dog eyes. “Please please please,” she begs.
You lean down and kiss her on the top of her head.
“Maybe a little later love,” you tell her. “Actually you should probably get out of the pool and do some packing.” You tell her.
“Pack? Why? We have another 4 days here, I have plenty of time to pack babe,” she says, slightly offended you suggested leaving this wonderful place so soon.
“Not pack to go home, pack to go on a little adventure,” you say with a little smile. She immediately perks up.
“Wait, what?” She says as she tries to get your attention back. You were not leaning back and looking up at the sky. She starts tapping on your thigh and splashing you with water.
“Hey! Don’t splash, I need to make lunch,” you give her a look.
“What do you mean adventure?” She says. She is too cute.
“Well, I thought it would be fun if we broke away from the group for a couple days and headed over to Santorini,” you say with a smile.
“We’re going to Santorini???” She exclaims, jumping up and down in the pool.
“Ya babe, we weren’t going to come to Greece and not go to Santorini,” you say with a laugh.
She gets overly excited and grabs your arms, pulling you into the pool. She wraps herself around you as you instinctively wrap your arms around her. You try to act mad that you literally just told her you didn’t want to get wet because you were going to head in and make food but you can’t keep a straight face when you see how excited she is. There isn’t much you wouldn’t do for this girl.
“Ok now go pack. We leave tonight and you need to be ready,” you say and you pull yourself out of the pool and grab a towel.
You make everyone lunch and make sure Caitlin packs. Before you know it, the two of you are on a plane heading to the beautiful island of Santorini. The second you knew you were all going to Greece, you started booking this little side quest to Santorini. It was fun to be able to get some of the girls' help as you wanted to keep it secret from Cait until you were there. They helped get some details out of her about things she would want to see and do without it coming straight from you.
The two of you have a small little Airbnb that is right in the middle of the classic white hillside. As you are settling in, you tell Caitlin what your next few days look like. The hikes you have planned and the markets she has mentioned to Gabby. Places to eat and you even have a nice little boat ride planned. She is over the moon with all you have managed to plan without her knowing.
The two of you have the time of your lives exploring Santorini. This was literally her dream - to be here. And being here with you was the cherry on top. She has no idea how she could ever thank you for all of this.
It’s your last night in Santorini before you head back to be with the group. You have planned a nice little candlelight dinner overlooking the coast. As the two of you sit there and just take in each other’s presence and the scene around you, you take hold of her hand.
“I hope this has been everything you dreamed it to be,” you say to her as you grab your glass of wine. She gives your hand a squeeze and just looks at you.
“What?” You say beginning to squirm under her eyes.
“You are the most beautiful human being I know,” she begins. “Not just physically, but your heart is so big and full of love for others and the world. I truly cannot believe you have chosen me to love. You are the best thing that has happened to me and I am the luckiest girl in the world to call you mine.” As she finishes, there is a little twinkle in her eye from the moon hitting the tears that have begun to form.
You don’t say anything. Nothing you say could even begin to describe your love for the girl sitting in front of you. So instead you stand, her hand still in hers. You guide her to a little spot near the edge of the patio where you were having dinner and pull her close to you. Your hand free hand coming to her waist, hers coming to your shoulder. You begin to slowly dance in the moonlight, soaking up this moment.
A moment you would never dream of forgetting.
AN: This was a fun one to write! I hope you all enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think! And as always, thank you for your love and support 🤍
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Hello my fellow Criminal Minds fan! 😊
May I please request headcanons for Spencer falling for a female agent who’s cynical about love and relationships due to being hurt in the past?
a/n: thank you sm for the request! i'd be happy to write this for you! :-)
Falling in Love Again | Spencer Reid Headcannons
pairing: spencer reid x f!reader
content: mentions of reader having been cheated on in the past, uhhhh that's really it haha
word count: 1,478 (sorry she's so long)
Spencer Reid had always been excited about falling in love, the thought of being so close to another person- to share so much with someone was such a wonderful thing to him.
Especially after watching his mom and dad growing up, and the way his father treated her-Spencer was dead set on never becoming anything like him, he looked forward to treating a woman right and spending the rest of his life with her.
But, for as excited as he was he was probably 20 times more nervous about the whole falling in love thing.
So when you came around, and he started to experience that warm, creeping feeling in his chest- he felt a little bit like his world was going to end.
Spencer had never made a move on anyone before, sure he did make out with Lila Archer that one time but he didn't exactly initiate it.
Spencer decided just to channel all of his romantic interest in becoming friends with you, at least he got to spend time with you, that's what really mattered to him. Maybe one day it would turn into something more.
Well.. he hoped until he couldn't help but overhear...
"I went on my first date in months last night, and all this guy did was talk about himself the entire time- didn't let me get a word out, I mean, can you believe it?" Emily says, exasperated
You look up at her as she stands in front of your desk, "Oh, trust me Emily, I can believe it." You shake your head
"I mean," She throws her hands up, "What is it with men? What's wrong with them."
"Everything," You smirk, "They're men. I can't remember I had a good experience with one of them- never maybe?" You laugh. "I've given up on dating."
Your words sunk into Spencer's brain, leaving him with a heavy feeling all around he felt awful- not just about the fact that his chances with you seemed to reduce to zero right there in that moment, but because of how upset you seemed under your sarcastic exterior, he could tell you'd really been hurt before.
A few weeks later you're out for drinks with Emily, Penelope, Morgan, Spencer, and JJ. Amidst the loud, drunken conversations and music at the bar- you can hear the faint chiming sounds of your ring tone, Who would be calling this late?
As you take your phone from your pocket, your stomach drops when you see the number flashing on the screen. The mere sight of those 10 digits making you want to throw your phone to the ground and stomp on it until nothing remains.
"Ooooh, who's that calling." Morgan smirks
You look him dead in the eyes and respond flatly, "My ex."
Morgan's smile doesn't fade instead his smirk seems to deepen, "You two got a little thang goin on?"
"No," You shove your phone back in your pocket, "More like he's trying to get back in my pants after cheating on me- twice."
"Ooh!" Morgan responds, wincing, "So he's a dog."
"A pig is more like it." You scoff, "Who does he think he is. I can't even imagine giving my time to another man again, and even if I could- what makes him so confident I'd give him the time of day."
That familiar heavy pain hits Spencer again.
He's staring at you, and it's like the rest of the bar doesn't even exist. Only you, as you bite your lip, trying to hide any emotion in your face.
Spencer has become good at reading your emotions, maybe it's because he spends so much time with you- maybe it's because of how often he finds himself staring at your face. As much as you try to seem nonchalant, he could tell how upset you are.
Spencer would spend more time than he wanted to admit fantasizing about treating you well, about giving you the love you never seemed to have.
Every time you made a snarky comment about love, or how men had treated you in the past Spencer would want so desperately bad to just tell you about how well he would treat you, how he would never ever hurt you, how he would spend his entire life taking care of you.
The words were practically scratching up his throat, begging to be let out. But still, he would just swallow them down, and give you a sympathetic look, he couldn't muster up being able to do anything more.
At the very least, Spencer's plan of becoming friends with you was working.
The two of you would become very good friends.
Spencer would learn everything he could about you, he would want to know as much as possible.
Not in a weird creepy way- but in a he just thinks you're so amazing he can't get enough of you sort of way.
Every time you and Spencer hung out he wouldn't be able to ignore that nagging feeling, the thought of putting an arm around you and pulling you close, of holding your hand in his, or placing a delicate kiss on your cheek.
The thoughts would eat away at Spencer, and he would only fall more, and more in love with you.
Still, he would lose more hope every time you divulged information about your prior encounters with love. He couldn't blame you for feeling so cynical it, not after what you'd been through.
Spencer would think about his mom, about all the wives Rossi had been through, about Hotch and Hailey, about you- he would wonder why love had to be so painful for some people. He was sure he would never hurt somebody he loved.
One day you're over Spencer's apartment, watching a rom-com, and you make a snide remark, "Oh, real love isn't like that." You scoff and roll your eyes.
Spencer doesn't know what it is, but something in him makes him respond, "It could be." He says meekly
You look up at him, caught off guard at his disagreement, "Hm?" you hum
Spencer wasn't able to take it any more, he hated hearing your cynical nature. He would need you to know how you deserved the entire world.
"Love- It can be like the movies." He affirms his stance.
"Not in my experience."
"I would give you love like that." Spencer would tremble as he makes his confession, so unsure of what would happen next.
He would be terrified of your reaction, scared he was about to mess everything up, ruin any future the two of you had together, and even worse, lose your friendship.
"W-what do you mean, Spence."
"I mean, you always talk about how you've been hurt before, and it just-" He takes a deep breath in, contemplating what he's going to say next, "I love you, y/n," He looks down at his lap, then back up at you, "I would never hurt you."
Despite the obvious passion in Spencer's voice, you were still hesitant about it, but everything inside of you told you to give Spencer a chance.
Spencer would insist on taking things slow, you were his first real relationship and he wouldn't want to rush things, for both his and yours sake. He wouldn't pressure you to put a label on things, or even say you're "dating"- those would come on your own time.
Spencer was determined to make you believe in love again, and he would do everything in his power to make sure you knew without a doubt how he felt about you.
Spencer would often get to work before you to surprise you with coffee and a breakfast sandwich, or a donut on your desk in the mornings.
He would insist on having a date night at least once a week, even if the two of you were on a case, ordering room service or finding a local pizza restaurant way late at night was sufficient, as long as the two of you got to spend time together.
Spencer would be hesitant about PDA or really moving too quickly into being too affectionate, still, he would frequently hold your hand, squeezing it tight when he could tell you were stressed or upset- either by a case or by life in general, he just wanted to give you that extra reassurance that he was there for you.
Spencer would really put the work in, he'd exert more effort than you had ever seen from any past relationship into even the tiniest things.
Spencer wouldn't mind though, anything he could do to reassure you that he loves and cares about you, he would do it.
Every little act of love and gratitude would be worth it to him.
He would savor and cherish every hug, every shared glance, every peck on the forehead, on the cheek, on the lips.
It was all worth it to him, every second of it- all he wanted to do was make you smile, to make you fall in love again.
#spencer reid#spencer reid headcannons#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fic#spencer reid imagine#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n
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YAY! i greatly enjoyed your shoujo au!!! it was amazing to read, ty for your contribution to humanity u r doing god's work frfr!!! would you be willing to write a hanahaki au for the twst second years? (preferably an angsty ending, but if you would prefer something happier, that's 100% fine with me!! i'm not picky!!) 🤭♥️
hanahaki + second years
hanahaki: a fictional disease caused by unrequited love in which you vomit blood and flower petals (flowers tend to relate to the person you) and although there is an option for treatment, you become numb to emotions. if you don’t get treatment, you die.
(I decided to add how the twst seconds years would treat the disease— will they get treatment or not?)
not very good angst warning under the cut!!!
riddle rosehearts
riddle grew up alone, mostly. every time he seeked for comfort, for company, it’ll fall apart. it would always go wrong, he’d lose everything the moment he got too greedy.
riddle still struggled to properly face trey and chen’ya after all those years, even if he got better with it. it was too embarrassing, too lame. he felt like a loser. a sore loser who deserved nothing. oh sevens, did the world have something against him?
things were looking on the bright side. he was out of his mother’s furious grip, he has more freedom than he ever did (even if he goes by strict rules) he could make as many friends as he liked and hang out with them as much as he liked.
he still preferred being private, however. he liked his friends, you included. they were more understanding of him than any other member of the school. although he’d twist and turn in bed when he thinks back to his overblot (how embarrassing of me! he thinks) he would still much prefer being with those who accepted him a long time ago.
you weren’t too big on sweets. you liked them, sure, but the more you ate the more your mouth felt itchy. knowing riddle’s sweet tooth, sometimes, you’d secretly pass your unfinished slice of cake or unfinished strawberry tart to him. riddle rosehearts, the strict, germaphobic, lowkey a dictator, heartily took it.
if it were anyone else, he’d just stare at them in disbelief. but the thought that you bit into the very sweet treat, it threw him over the moon. he’d read of indirect kisses before, in cheesy romances he read in his spare time. he doesn’t know if this is actually an indirect kiss, but don’t make fun of him, he’s still learning!
riddle has a lot of firsts, like the first time he tried that strawberry tart, or the first time he learned that playing with friends is fun, or the first time he ever overblotted, or the first time he fell in love.
you were his first love.
he turns red when alone, imagining your face and your laughter and your joy. your silly mishaps that he has no heart on lecturing you over, or your inability to understand some of the assignments. he finds all aspects of you cute— wonderful? he doesn’t know how to describe what he’d feeling, but it gets him all giddy.
he’s frustrated often, the way he started blushing violently when you ever get in close contact with him and how you always, always seem to be unaware of this. oblivion would send you to hell.
he’s been feeling quite nauseous lately, probably because of his failed attempts of clumsily sending you signals about how he feels.
it was to a point where he threw up… petals? petals…??????? oh my god, he’s throwing up petals!!!
riddle distinctively remembers reading about this during his first year, a disease of romance, love, and failure.
his heart sinks. maybe that’s why you failed to notice.
things never go his way, riddle thinks. he’s always feeling alone. every time he gets greedy for comfort, he loses it at the highest point of his life. when things are getting better, it takes turns for the worse. that’s why riddle likes to follow the rules.
by his third year, riddle’s back to being his strict, controlling prefect. except something’s different, he’s not as angry anymore.
that’s to be expected, though. ever since the surgery, riddle has never been the same.
ruggie bucchi
he has grown up to treasure everything he has.
ruggie isn’t as financially stable as others, he wasn’t lucky to be fortunate enough to get what he wants, whenever he wants.
so when he does get what he wants, ruggie makes sure to keep it close to his heart like it means everything. most of the time, it does mean everything, all of it. his life.
he hardly gives away his things (please don’t mention the kids at the slums, he’ll turn awfully shy.) and takes anything he’s given.
when you would give him the tiniest amount of food, he’d gladly snatch it from your hands and walk away snickering.
easy target for food is what you are, he thinks.
most of the time, when people give things away to him, ruggie just assumes that it’s unwanted. he’d take leftovers no problem. it’s only when you’d constantly hand things to him, always have something to give him and remember he exists, does he think you’re odd. I mean, he’s fine with taking the forgotten leftovers, but what could he possibly do when you don’t forget him?
watch ruggie clumsily fiddle around with his fingers, scanning the area for your presence. he has learned to not worry, as you always manage to come find him everyday without fail. he feels noticed.
he starts to crave for that attention.
ruggie treasures things. he keeps them close in his heart very carefully. but what would he do when you steal his heart instead? where can he hide all the things that mean everything to him?
somehow, he doesn’t mind. he wants you to see him more, ruggie bucchi, his true self.
the crave he has for you is for some odd reason, unmet. you’re oblivious to his shy antics, the way his ears turn flat when you walk away or the way he holds onto the hem of your shirt just for a second longer.
notice him.
notice him.
notice him.
when you see the way he unconsciously covers his mouth whenever you meet eyes with him, or the how he’s constantly going to the infirmary, will you finally notice him?
there’s a trail of your favourite flowers.
ruggie bucchi keeps all the special things close to his heart. when you take his heart away, how else can he express his pathetic, unrequited love? by coughing up a disease ruggie would’ve called embarrassing and shameful if it weren’t for you.
azul ashengrotto
azul is sensitive. he notices things way too easily. the tiny, insignificant details of someone and how they react, he will notice. that is how azul finds out how a person truly feels about him.
even if azul and that other person were considered close friends, azul would still notice the tiny little details that make him unlikable to them even just a little. it’s been a habit for as long as he could remember.
everyone always had something they disliked about azul. it was fine with him, that was normal. everyone dislikes everyone about anything. it’s not like it deters long lasting relationships. azul shrugs it off, it doesn’t bother him. it’s comforting, even, knowing what people think about him.
so it was obvious to say it was near-horrid when no matter how much time azul spent time with you, he could not spot anything off about you, anything that said you didn’t like him.
as much as azul notices how people act around him, he also notices other people. he knows all their flaws, their good sides and their bad sides. even if he couldn’t read your thoughts about him at all, he still expected to see something out of the norm about you, a bad trait, something that made you human.
to him, you had none.
were you god? how come you were near-perfect in his eyes? during cold months, the tips of your nose and ears would flush pink like a cute plum while azul turned embarrassingly red. he thought it was ugly and didn’t make him look good, but there nothing to prove that you thought the same. he couldn’t tell anything about you at all.
you were like a confusing puzzle piece to him. unsolvable, unreadable, flawless. perfect.
it took a while to adjust, but his unwavering respect for you turned into wavering thumps of his heart and dodging eyes. maybe you weren’t perfect after all, maybe azul just likes you.
the terrible urge to impress you grew stronger everyday.
he wanted to look as perfect as you did to him.
but how can he possibly ever look perfect,
when he is sick?
hovered over the toilet, azul clutched his chest as petals slid out of his mouth as if it were apart of him. well, it is apart of him, I guess. his love for you is one with him after all.
azul is sensitive, but he tries not to show it. not only is he good at catching the little things, he’s quick to anger or get hurt. the best he can do is hide them. so he hides the feeble emotion he calls love and comes back after winter break just as the same. he’s dutiful and runs his business like he normally would, and still hangs out with you time to time. he just feels more… empty? you’ll never know why he seems to be this way, no one really knows about the surgery.
jade leech
jade is often avoided by many people.
people find him creepy, odd, off-putting, unnerving… and more comments he hasn’t bothered to find out about.
those names don’t really bother him. in fact, he enjoys it. he loves watching people squirm in fear over something he says out of the blue. It’s exciting to watch a person try to decide if they should run away or not, unaware of jade’s capabilities.
he’s used to people avoiding him. for the sacrifice of entertainment, he isn’t all that popular. jade leech is used to it.
you were different, however.
your simply didn’t find him creepy. anything he said that was weird, you’d laugh it off and say something weird back too. jade’s height, creepy smile or the way he talks, it doesn’t seem to throw you off at all. you’d smile and wave at him when no one else dared to, you’d easily graze your skin against his and pay no mind, you’d approach him without second thoughts. It was like mutual trust, something jade has learned is difficult to find when you’re him.
so you meant everything. you were just as new and exciting, a pleasant surprise from the predicted fear everyone else has. you made him feel… seen for the first time in his life.
soon, everything you did was like a horror movie (weird analogy, I know. but it’s jade leech we’re talking about!) the intensity of when the killer would approach, or when the character is alone and vulnerable, his heart pumps like wildfire as he watches expectantly to see what the new surprise would be. his favourite feeling was when the victim would die or escape, the tightening in his chest releasing as he excitedly watches what would happen next. that was you. you were his favourite feeling.
he loves the way your eyebrows moved in expression when you talked, he loved when you sneezed and looked around expecting a “bless you,” he loved the odd ways you attempted to hold your mug comfortably and most of all, he loved you. he love you very, very much.
jade leech is used to all kinds of things. he’s used to people avoiding him, he’s used to his brother’s tendencies to groan and complain at everything, he’s used to azul’s creepy capitalist tactics.
what he’s not used to, however, are the bubbly, excited emotions he feels when he gets to experiment with his beloved mushrooms, the way you took over his thoughts like the plague and most of all, he wasn’t used to the flowers spilling out of his mouth.
this was odd, per say. jade knew of the hanahaki disease. he knew of all the downsides of it. but he never worried, because, how could he, jade fucking leech, ever love someone so pathetically?
he hoped that you’d love him back too. he oh-so deeply wished he was just as new and exciting to you as you were to him.
the blood meticulously dripped amongst his fingers, flower petals sticking to it alike. he laughed at himself. he’s always imagined that if he’d ever possibly get this disease, it’ll be flowers related to the water like lotuses or water lilies. he never thought he’d start coughing up such pathetic land-dweller flowers.
it was fine, though. jade would get used to it, eventually.
because after all, he’d rather die than stop loving you.
floyd leech
floyd is scary, he knows that. He’s quick to anger, moody, tall and intimidating. He’s doesn’t really care, though. He just does what he wants. He doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal.
he likes fun surprises, something new, exciting. he thinks you meet that of that.
you’re not as scared as others, you respond to his pranks and squeezes positively, you respect his mood swings and he even caught a few glimpses of you defending him. he thinks you’re so cute!
it’s not odd to talk about the leech twins without mentioning you. floyd follows you every and jade just goes wherever floyd goes. it’s like a little trio.
you don’t get scared like others when he gets upset, return his squeezes (hesitatingly…he hugs tight!) and find him rather silly than scary.
jade thinks you were almost made for floyd, considering how well you two get along. although jade has been with floyd the longest, he can only tolerate to a certain point for you, however, it seemed to go endless. you were so much more patient with floyd then with anyone else. although floyd made be subtle about it, he’s grateful.
floyd adored you. you were everything he loves, for he loves you.
loved you.
loved? (love)
floyd started to ignore you. you’d tilt your head in confusion— you were upset. why would your best friend suddenly act like you weren’t even there? he wouldn’t even get mad, he’d just turn the other way.
it was only so long ago when floyd was hunched over in his bed from a terrible stomach ache. jade was horribly surprised to see bloody petals staining floyd’s bedsheets.
floyd never bothered with these things. for the first time in a while, he read a book out of his own volition to figure out what it was, only to rip the pages apart when he read what hanahaki was.
childishly declaring that he loves you no more, floyd would stay away from you like the plague, whilst secretly filling his system with flowers that will kill him for ever loving someone so deeply.
floyd is gonna disappear from your life completely eventually. you’d wonder what caused your best friend to suddenly hate you, while his family mourns over the loss of a loved one, as floyd refused treatment, because he foolishly decided to love you.
kalim al-asim
kalim grew up very sheltered in a loving family. The only concept of love he has is of his parents, who hold hands tightly and gush over the cutest things. they often warn him of the danger of love, and that he must be careful about the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with.
kalim, although clumsy and stupid, always kept that in the back of his mind.
you were like a breath of fresh morning air. growing up knowing very little, you were the newest, most brightest experience there was. kalim was sure you were the one. he was completely sure, why else would his heart thump so fast?
he’d hug you and hold your hand, give you gifts you could never even imagine having and tell you how much he appreciates you.
kalim hasn’t gone around to mouthing the word “love” yet, but he knows that you know anyway.
so when he started coughing up petals, jamil was quick to inform the al-asim family. kalim was confused, he didn’t understand. this love wasn’t unrequited, there was no way!
it doesn’t matter, though. he’s gonna continue loving you, you and him are gonna be happy together someday, eventually. maybe not in this universe.
kalim woke up in a hospital bed, his heart heavy.
he loves you. but he forgot what that feels like. he loved you. somehow.
jamil viper
jamil is smart. he’s smart and knows his worth. this is why he hates being in second, he knows he deserves so much more.
why does he always to have do worse than kalim? why does he always have to be second place? jamil is smart enough to know his potential. he also knows how much he’s holding himself back for the sake of hierarchy. he hates it.
it’s not a surprise when jamil finds himself unconsciously doing slower than certain people to appear normal. his main purpose in life is to not stand out, hide in the shadows, survive. like predator hiding from prey because if found, it will be caught by the silly humans.
you’re completely different from him, though. you’re as normal as a person can be, yet you aim to reach for the stars and hold it close to your heart. jamil understands your desire to outshine people all to well. he’s been in that spot, is in that spot. he pities you.
so he sticks around. he’d casually follow you, hang out whenever he can, help you with assignments so you can be the best version of yourself. he’s voraciously living through you. if you achieve your goals, that’s enough for him. at least he was apart of something meaningful for once.
it catches him off guard, however, when you encourage him to reach for his goals as well. it’s like you’re holding his hand and pull him amongst the galaxies to gently place your hands onto the hot touch of a star.
he knows that’s near impossible to reach, from the moment he was born, his life was chosen for him. but he thinks he could reach the small goals.
jamil secretly pats himself on the back for grazing against your skin for a second longer than usual, treat you to a nice meal or help you ace a test. he hopes that at least one of the goals he could reach in this lifetime is to be with you.
jamil is smart enough to know that he’s not just sick. not when blood trails down his chin to his arms, as flowers spill from inside him.
he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could have something for himself for once. not hold himself back, grasp tightly to what he wants the most.
jamil is smart enough to know his own worth. he’s definitely not worth enough to you.
silver
silver likes the little things. he enjoys the way birds chirp in the early morning, or the way the dandelion petals flow against the wind as he watches you scrunch your nose and blow on it. and then both of you guys start sneezing. ah, summer pollen, a reminiscent part of nature.
he loves the way you hold your pencil, the way you like to tie your shoelaces, how you cut your sandwiches. these small, unnoticeable traits catch his eye quite often, and he’s developed a fondness for them.
he’s a man of little words. silver doesn’t talk much, so when he thinks of these things, he never says it out loud. maybe that’s why it took you so long to notice how he felt about you.
he was so calming, and so gentle, it tugged at your heart when he’d smile softly and tilt his head ever so slightly so the cute birds could carefully place a beautiful flower crown on his head. he’s so princely, you think. a perfect knight in shining armour, loved even by the nature.
often you’d tell him how lucky any girl would be to be loved by him. your comments made silver hopeful.
silver is a man of little words, he likes to spend his days watching rather than showing. when he does finally speak his true thoughts, he genuine, honest. his words roll off his tongue so easily and smoothly, perfect fit for such a princely man (as you call him)
so when silver does finally open his mouth to speak, talk, say of what he felt in that very moment, he throat closed up. maybe he was nervous, maybe he was lame, because to both of your guy’s horror, blood spilled.
he didn’t really know what was happening. only when he felt the urge to throw up in the infirmary did he realize what was going on.
he was familiar with hanahaki. his father always told him stories of how fae would love so strongly to humans who hated them, that those who were unlucky would be induced to vomiting flowers.
when silver thought he was fae, just like his sweet old father, silver swore to himself that he’ll never love a human. now that he knows that he is, in fact, human, silver starts to doubt himself. maybe is, in a way, a fae.
it’s alright, though. silver is man of few words. he likes to watch rather than show. he doesn’t mind what could happen to him, he won’t tell anyone. he’ll just watch you from afar, filling his heart with melancholy love until he reaches his end. which might be soon, for he loves you so strongly.
a.n: my phone is on 6% as I type this I will edit this tomorrow morning when I wake up. sorry for replying so late I had tests coming up and I had to study!!! </3 thank you so much for the kind comments and I’ll catch up to requests soon! feel free leave any requests :3
#twst#twst x reader#twisted wonderland#hanahaki#riddle rosehearts#riddle rosehearts x reader#ruggie bucchi#ruggie bucchi x reader#azul ashengrotto#azul ashengrotto x reader#jade leech#jade leech x reader#floyd leech#floyd leech x reader#kalim al asim#kalim al asim x reader#jamil viper#jamil viper x reader#silver twst#silver x reader#twst second years#twst fic
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I have an idea for a full-season Eddie arc that I want to put into the universe. tim, feel free to plagiarize me yet again (but this time. i want a dm. i know you're around here somewhere come say hi). So. Anyways. Season 8
8x1: Eddie has broken up with Marisol. By the time this episode rolls around, they've already been broken up for a couple weeks/months. As mentioned in 7x5, he's struggling with the idea of Catholic guilt, struggling with the idea of faith in general. He mentions, in casual conversation, to Buck, Chim or Tommy (who is still with Buck on screen *coughs loudly*) that he's thinking about going down to Texas for a while. His grandmother is the most religious person he knows and he's always found comfort being in her space and soaking in her presence, so he wants to talk to her about his feelings. Whoever he's talking to agrees that's a good idea.
8x2 - 8x7: A couple episodes pass with the idea of Eddie taking some time off in the background of the audience's mind. Nothing major, just little throw away lines about getting the truck tuned up before he makes a big road trip, paying bills before he leaves, things like that.
8x8: The 118 responds to a call of a fire in a church. Two people are getting married and their families are in attendance. Eddie doesn't go inside the church but he fights the fire from outside and helps treat the injured. Almost everyone is pulled out safely but the mother of the bride. Her daughter is crying because she and her mother aren't on good terms and she doesn't want it to be too late for them to patch things up. Eddie and the bride get to talking, and the bride mentions she always felt like she wasn't enough for mom, that she found it impossible to live up to her standards. They had an argument before the fire broke out because the bride realized, on-screen, that she didn't actually want to marry the man she was going to marry because she was in love with someone else (that's what started the fire, her making that announcement caused someone to pass out, and blah blah blah). But she was only marrying this man because her mom thought he would be good for her, and the brides makes a comment about always feeling like she was living her life for someone else, in service of a standard she could never reach. Eddie, of course, can relate. The bride's mother passes away and, it's a tragedy and is treated as such, but at the end of the episode during the voiceover (*coughs louder*), we see the bride reuniting with the person she's actually in love with because her mother's death means she's free from having to try to, like, be perfect.
8x10: Eddie's been getting a call from his dad all throughout the episode but he's been ignoring it because [shenanigans]. This is a light-hearted episode and the tone will be important because when he finally answers the phone during the last five minutes of the episode, he's like "Dad, come on, jesus, what is it" and his dad tells him that his grandmother has passed away.
8x11: Midseason premiere, the episode begins with Isabel's funeral, mainly because I want to see Eddie/Ryan in a nice tailored black suit (timothy, i'm sure you can relate). Anyway, the funeral is outside because it's important Eddie doesn't go inside a church yet. When it's finished, he goes back to the reception at Isabel's house. His sisters are there, everyone is there. He offers to help his mother in the kitchen and she tries to make conversation, but Helena Diaz has never actually learned how to relate to her son, so she says the wrong thing. It doesn't go well (but that's something to be circled back to in another season). Eddie looks at the pictures on his grandma's wall / mantle / whatever and sees himself and his sisters and his cousins when they were kids, smiling big at church christenings or whatever, and he's like... "I don't recognize this kid who was so happy to be inside of religion. I didn't know who I was then, and I definitely don't know who I am now because of it". He doesn't say it, but that's the vibe ofc, and Ryan's face is expressive enough that he can pull that off.
8x12: He's back in LA. Everyone is treating him with the utmost care because they are good people and they love him, and one evening, Eddie gets a visitor. He opens the door and it's his sister. (one of them lives in LA, remember?). In my head, that's always been Sophia, so he asks what she's doing here, and she holds up a bottle of wine. They sit on the sofa, they talk and reminisce about their grandmother, make apologies for the fact that they haven't been around for each other much despite living in the same city (but this isn't Eddie's family issues storyline, this is the Catholic guilt storyline. We will circle back to this in S9). So Eddie pitches the idea of faith to her, and asks what it means to her. It's the same question he wanted to ask his grandmother. Sophia says she has faith in the universe, faith that things always happen the way they're meant to, and it's a good answer but it doesn't speak to the core of Eddie's problem, which is that he always feels beholden to something he can't name/place.
8x14: Eddie continues to ask the people around him (Buck, Athena, Tommy, Chim) about faith and what it means to them. They all give him different answers. Athena has faith in purpose. Chim has faith in his family. Buck has faith in the inherent good of humanity. Tommy has faith in himself. It's not very helpful in the sense that no one gives him his answer, but it does reveal to him that faith can, does, and should exist absent of guilt, that maybe he's been doing it (or was taught) all wrong.
8x15: Insert an embarrassingly on the nose call about a kind, nerdy, reserved man who's lived by an unspoken rulebook all his life. He came out to Los Angeles on a whim and suffers from a hiking mishap where he's physically blinded by [something] and subsequently needs to trust that the 118, these people he literally cannot see, will save him. When they pull him to safety, he berates himself for even coming out to Los Angeles in the first place because he's not the kind of guy who does this, he just wanted to do something for him and now he feels stupid. And Eddie (because of course it's Eddie) is just like "no, you didn't do anything wrong. Look, you took a leap of faith (episode title btw). That's more than what most people can say. Maybe it didn't work out in this instance, but who knows how it'll work out tomorrow, or the next day. You don't know the future. None of us do, so maybe stop trying to live according to some giant colossal plan and just... live, and try your best. Isn't that all we can do?" And he watches the guy get airlifted away (thanks Tommy! *coughs even louder*) and it's like his lightbulb moment, like, oh. Yeah. He finally gets it.
8x16: Eddie walks into a church for the first time in years, and for the first time all season. It looks exactly how he remembers; wooden pews, high ceilings, the works. He takes a seat on one of the benches and prays / talks aloud to God and is just like, "I don't really know who you are and I don't know how to be what you want me to be. All my life I've been trying to be what everyone wants me to be to the point where I just don't even know who I am anymore, if I ever knew. So I don't know who you are, but I know I am who you made me to be, and I don't know who that is, but I know that person is enough for me right now. And maybe I'll figure you out along the way, maybe I won't. But, right now, what I know is that i can't be your perfect son because I can't be perfect at all, and I need to let go of the idea that I can and start living my life for me." So he walks out of the church and not much changes, but everything changes. You know?
And, like, obviously the story would need to be flushed out a little more. Obviously, this story centers more of the idea of faith than the idea of explicit guilt, but they're one in the same anyway because you can't have guilt without failed/presumably "failed" expectations. In this case, religious or spiritual expectation. So. I don't know. But there's just something so sexy about the idea of Eddie systematically and intentionally dismantling and releasing himself from all the things that have kept him from growing over the years. Starting with his survivors guilt in S5 and working his way through Catholic guilt in S8, I just love the idea of Eddie being purposeful in his own healing, especially in this post-breakdown era. Plus it'll give him a chance to have a storyline that's not romance-focused cos we've been leaning a bit too heavily into those. 🙃 But anyways. (Next up is his issues with Helena. btw. because we have yet to circle back to his family issues in canon but we certainly need to).
#Sorry Isabel you were the sacrificial lamb#I wrote this instead of working ermmmm okay back to the grind as they say#jack.txt#tv: 911#jack answers mail#8a speculation#8b speculation#ish#no read more sorry. i talk a lot and you should all be used to it.#tim minear#ok no for real i got work to do lmfaoooo bye#EVERYONE MANIFEST IT WITH ME GIRLS
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Still in love/obsessed ex-husband
A still in love and obsessed ex-husband can be answered in various ways. I thought I'd make this one a little loosey goosey and stretch the definition of "ex-husband" here a tad bit. I also split "still in love" and "obsessed." My personal HC about these characters actions around those two phrases will certainly vary.
Anyway, here are four quick drabbles on the topic (And thank you for your patience as I fulfill requests.)
Find the Imagines & What If Series Masterlist HERE
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): reconciliation, fluff, light angst, suggestive themes, swearing, marriage, strained and established relationships, stalking
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“I still have it.”
“Have what?” you ask.
“Your wedding dress,” answers John.
“I told you to return it. And the ring.”
John shakes his head. “Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Still in my closet.”
“You don’t want to.”
“No.”
“Why?” you ask.
“You know why, love.”
You sigh. “Did you sign the papers?”
“No,” he answers automatically. “Why would I? When you’re clearly still in love with me.”
“John.”
“You promised me an army.”
“I’ve given you three,” you murmur, thinking of your children with him.
John smiles, and you melt. “We can make number four right here.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“What’s this?”
“Nothing.”
“Show me.”
You keep your hand behind your back. Johnny grins down at you, one eyebrow raised. Johnny is fast, snagging your arm and bringing your hand into the light.
His gaze drops to the diamond on your finger.
“You still wear it,” he breathes.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, love. It does.” He steps closer, one warm hand cupping your cheek.
You lean into him, not wanting to admit out loud what still holds true in your heart.
“You still love me,” he teases.
“And?” you prompt.
He draws you close. “And I still want you.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“Signing this won’t change anything. You know this.”
Kyle is right and you hate that he is. Grasping the back of your neck, Kyle threads his fingers through your hair. Twisting. Gripping. Arching your neck.
He draws you forward, lips nearly brushing over yours. “You know I’d burn everything down for you. Walk any distance. I will never be rid of you. Never.”
Kyle’s words are searing. They sit heavy in your chest.
“Do you not feel the same?” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”
The divorce papers are scattered across the kitchen table.
You swallow. “Shred them.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost is a wraith.
He watches from the shadows. He knows your every step, who you talk to, and what your day looks like. He has always known. Even before you called him husband—and before that boyfriend—Ghost learned your habits.
He sits. Waits.
You glance over your shoulder with no idea how close he is, trying to find his in. Because he will. He will have you.
The current boyfriend will disappear.
Just like the last one.
Because Ghost made it happen.
All he needs is time and then, he can put his ring back on your finger.
Taglist:
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#task force 141 x you#task force 141 fanfic#task force 141 fanfiction#task force 141 fic#task force 141 x reader#task force 141 imagine#task force 141#captain john price fanfic#captain john price fanfiction#captain john price fic#simon riley fanfiction#simon riley fanfic#simon riley x you#simon riley fic#ghost imagine#simon ghost riley fanfiction#kyle gaz garrick x you#kyle gaz garrick x reader#kyle garrick fanfic#soap mactavish fanfic#soap fanfiction#soap fanfic#cod fic#cod fanfiction#cod fanfic#john soap mactavish fanfiction#john soap mactavish x reader#kyle garrick imagine#john mactavish fic#john mactavish x reader
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I have never understood this whole notion that the companions don't take Durge seriously when they talk about their urges. it's not that they don't take Durge seriously, I just don't think they comprehend just how bad it is for Durge.
Shadowheart acknowledges that everyone has these thoughts and everyone seems to indulge in them. But you and the others have a conscious. She truly believes that you have the ability to fight them because she has faith that you do have a conscious.
Gale interprets it as if it just ordinary anger, something that everyone has from time to time. But, he also stresses that thoughts like that should remain only as thoughts because he knows that they should not be acted on.
Lae'zel says that there is nothing wrong with enjoying a little bit of murder, as long as there is a purpose to it and isn't done too often and without restraint.
Wyll also sees it as anger, but feels that that anger is justified considering what everyone has been through the past few days. However, he sees no issue with the problem, as long as it is directed to those who deserve it (like your enemies).
Karlach immediately applauds you for admitting your problem and suggests that you can either change, or also direct your urges out on those who deserve t.
Halsin perceives your situation as any other illness, but one that you may not be able to rid yourself from. He advises you to engage in mindfullness and self control.
None of these come off as people who aren't taking Durge seriously, but merely people who do not comprehend that the urge is pathological. Astarion, Minthara, and Jaheira are the only ones that truly know and understand just how bad it is for Durge from the get go.
Astarion will actually approach Durge if he notices the symptoms as he himself knows what it's like to be feral and driven by impulses he cannot control. All the companions (except Minthara) will tell Durge to resist the urges but Astarion is by far the most convincing because he has literally been in Durges place. He truly and fully understands what it means to have another force compel you to do things you don't want to do.
Minthara has personally witnessed people driven by darker urges both in Menzoberranzan and by being the plaything of Orin. When Durge confesses to her, she will admit that she fears that Durge is like those that even Lolth would destroy for the greater good (and Lolth has no concept of greater good, that's how serious it is). She admires the power of the slayer, but she believes it to be a power that should be controlled. If the slayer cannot control themselves, then she will destroy it.
Jaheira clocks Durge as Bhaalspawn not too long after joining camp. Considering that she has personally traveled with Bhaalspawn in her past, she literally does know better than anyone how deep things go for Durge. She has witnessed it herself, many times.
When Durge reveals to everyone about being Bhaalspawn, they are all surprised (except Minthara and Jaheira) because they are forced to recognize that these aren't fleeting thoughts, but the core nature of Durge. They are forced to recognize for the first time that these are persistent thoughts that Durge has to resist every single damn day. They are forced to acknowledge that if not for the incredible restrain, Durge would have killed them all.
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Hii I love your work so much!! I was wondering if you would do Frank Castle x reader based off of Sunlight or Francesca By Hozier? I don’t know I just feel like with how deeply this man feels that one or those would be perfect for Frank and the reader.
I WOULD DO IT AGAIN ➵ F. CASTLE
Summary: A glimpse into the way Frank feels for you.
Warnings: Fem!reader, violence, reader has unspecified mental health issues
Word count: 1.2k
Author’s note: I fell in love with both these songs thanks to this request!! I tried to combine both of them, though I suppose I got more out of Francesca. I’m a little on the fence about this one shot in general, but I hope you like it! Thanks for your patience <3 Also, I keep forgetting to say this, but thank you so much for 700 followers!!! It means so much to me that we’ve created this little community of traumatized Frank lovers :)
There was nothing Frank wouldn’t have done for you. He had known that quite early into your relationship, his devotion for you growing more and more every day, even if you weren’t officially dating. In fact, your feelings for each other had gone unspoken ever since you had met, but he couldn’t deny they were there — he cared for you so much it terrified him, it kept him up at night.
He thought about the first time he met you often. He’d never forget the way you looked in that dress you had dug out of your closet just for the occasion, how the warm bar light illuminated your starry eyes and how you had been nervously gnawing on your lip while glancing at your phone for the millionth time.
”Whoever’s standin’ you up would regret if they saw you in that dress”, he had spoken up from across the mostly empty bar counter, and you had immediately looked up only to find a man so attractive your stomach did a somersault. Rough around the edges but undeniably easy on the eyes, even more so when the corner of his mouth had twitched upwards in a sneaky smirk, even when his stare was focused on the crowd behind you. You had shuffled on your feet, looking around to see who he was referring to, but when you had turned back to him, you found him gazing right at you, making your mouth run dry.
”I was supposed to have a date”, you had explained over the music, ”guess it was a waste of a pretty dress.”
He had chuckled at that. ”Well, for what it’s worth, you made this old sucker’s heart skip a beat”, he had shrugged before gesturing at the empty seat next to him. ”Buy you a drink?”
And ever since then, he had been hooked on you. You made him feel alive, you gave him a reason to get up in the morning. So when you had told him you felt like you were doing the opposite, his heart had shattered in his chest.
”I realize I have a lot of baggage. So I don’t blame you if you want to, I dunno, check out now”, you had explained meekly, distance between you as you both stood in your kitchen at an ungodly hour, fresh stitches on Frank’s abdomen. ”I guess I’m not a very easy person to be around, is what I’m saying”, you had added with a quiet chuckle, and at that, Frank had closed the space between you, his hand coming to rest on your cheek as he swallowed all the air from your personal space.
”You think I am?” he had stated matter-of-factly. ”You’re wrong, sweetheart. I don’t remember the last time it was this easy for me to be around someone. You make me feel… Yeah, you just make me feel. I can’t get enough of you. Don’t ever think I’d wanna get rid of you, ’cause shit, as long as you’ll have me, I ain’t goin’ anywhere”, he had explained, passion behind every word, and it had made you tear up.
”You know everything that’s wrong with me and you’re saying you still want to be my friend?” you had asked to confirm, and licking his lips, Frank had glanced at yours before nodding. He had forced himself to withdraw, not wanting to cross any lines, but he had given your hand a squeeze, nonetheless.
”Never been more sure of anything.”
He wasn’t letting go of you. As much was confirmed when his enemies caught whiff of you being involved with him — before he knew it, your name fell from the lips of his latest target, and he had seen red. The men were coming from left and right, punching him, stabbing him, each of them claiming their piece of the Punisher, but he wasn’t going to rest until he’d know you were safe. Their taunts of getting to his little girlfriend had pushed him over the edge, and with feral anger, he slaughtered the lot of them, not letting a single henchman slip out and get to you.
He had wanted to avoid you seeing him like this so badly. But as soon as he was done, as soon as the men lay dead at his feet, he was rushing out of the warehouse he had been lured into, just to make his way to you.
The urgent knock on your door in the middle of the night wasn’t a completely unfamiliar sound — you had stitched Frank up more than a few times, but you could tell something was wrong. As soon as you opened the door, a bloodied Frank burst through, his eyes wide and alert, his shaky hands clamoring to find purchase on your shoulders.
”Hey, hey, what is it? Are you okay?” you asked with worry, eyebrows knitted together as you tried to balance Frank’s larger frame, your hands resting on his arms.
”I—I needed to know you were okay”, he managed to get out, breathless and panicking, and nodding to promise him that you were, you attempted to meet his frantic eyes and calm him down.
”I’m okay, Frankie, I’m okay. Breathe, honey”, you reassured, and slumping against your body, Frank pulled you into a vicelike hug, squeezing you tight, breathing you in. Blood stained your clothes and hair, but your priority was getting Frank across the panicked state he was in, to assure him everything was okay.
”They said they were coming for you. I—I couldn’t let them. I wasn’t gonna let them”, he repeated, before grunting, ”I killed ’em all.”
Pulling away slightly, you looked into dark eyes with a disbelieving frown. ”You did that for me?” you whispered, and finding solace in your gaze, Frank found it in himself to catch his breath and understand that the imminent danger was over.
”You’re goddamn right I did. I’d do it again and again. I’d do anything for you”, he swore, letting his forehead fall against yours. You closed your eyes and took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze before pulling him towards the bathroom.
”Let’s get you cleaned up, big guy.”
Even after he had had time to shower, he was still on alert, constantly checking the windows and pacing around your apartment. You had to fight him to the bedroom, insisting that you both needed to get some rest, and he supposed he could do that — watch over you, make sure you’d get to sleep soundly. Soon enough, you were cuddled up in the bed and Frank was sitting next to you, resting against the headboard with his eyes laser-focused on the closed door.
”Hey, you can relax. They’re all gone. No one’s coming for me”, you reminded him softly, caressing his arm with tender fingers, and swallowing, Frank slowly and reluctantly sank deeper into the mattress to be closer to you.
”I ain’t ever lettin’ anythin’ happen to you. You know that, right?” he grunted, and with a nod, you reassured him.
”I know. You always make me feel safe.” His eyes softened at your words, and gently, he reached over to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering for a brief moment.
He really would have done anything for you.
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Practice Makes Perfect
Pairing: Elizabeth Olsen x Female!Reader
Word Count: ~700
Warnings: fluff
Summary: You're working on a movie alongside your celebrity crush, Elizabeth Olsen. Can you overcome your nerves enough to get through it?
Squares Filled: wanda maximoff for @badbitchesbingo
Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3
x
Action movies are your specialty. Action movies are what make you comfortable. You like doing your own stunts, getting makeup done to look bloody, and getting your adrenaline going because of how extreme they want you to act. It’s what you’ve always known since all the movies you’ve been in have been action films.
Not this time.
Your agent got you a role in a modern romance film since she thought you’d be perfect for it. You are but that doesn’t mean you don’t know how to act in one. All the action films had a bit of romance to it but nothing like what they‘re asking you to do now. You only accepted because the director is a really good friend of yours and you couldn't turn her down.
Not only are you nervous about being in a romance movie, but you’re even more nervous that you’re acting beside the legendary Wanda Maximoff. Elizabeth Olsen has been your celebrity crush for years and you’re not sure how you’ll be able to film a romance movie with her without freaking out.
Actually, she’s more than just a celebrity crush you have. You’ve met her a few times over the years and she is the sweetest person you’ve ever met. She is shy and reserved but she is down to Earth and genuinely cares about people. She is a good person and that’s hard to find nowadays with celebrities.
You pace back and forth in your trailer with the script in hand for the few scenes you’re going to be acting out later. The director feels like it helps to get all the awkward and uncomfortable scenes out of the way so you don’t have to feel it later on, so the script is nothing but kissing scenes here and touching scenes there.
God, why did you think you can be able to do this? If your costar was anyone else, you wouldn’t have a problem with it. It’s only because it’s her that you do. What if she doesn't like the way you kiss? What if she doesn’t want to kiss you? What if she becomes repulsed by kissing you that she doesn’t want to do the rest of the movie?
Making her feel uncomfortable is the last thing you ever want to do, and you don’t want to ruin what you two have if there is anything there to ruin.
Someone knocks on your trailer door, interrupting your thoughts.
“Who is it?” you ask.
“Lizzie. Can I come in?”
You practically throw the script somewhere in your trailer so it doesn’t look like you’ve been obsessing over it. You lean against the counter in an attempt to look nonchalant.
“Yeah, sure. “ The door opens and Lizzie walks in with a smile on her face. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you before we head down to set for the day.”
“Oh? What about?”
She looks around the room and sees the script half on the couch and half hanging over it.
“About that. I’m guessing you read most of it if not all?”
“Yeah, I did,” you nod, your resolve fading fast.
“Anything I can do to make it better? I figure we should talk about it so it doesn’t become awkward when we’re actually doing it.”
“I gotta know, are you in a relationship? I know actors who have these scenes are, but I have to know.”
“No, I’m not,” she smiles and walks closer to you. “Are you?”
“No.”
“Good. We got that out of the way.”
“Yeah.” Your breathing picks up the more she comes closer to you. “So, what are we going to do about it?”
“Well, you know the saying, ‘practice makes perfect’?”
“Yeah.”
“I think that applies here, don’t you think? You don’t want either of us messing up and having to redo the scene dozens of times to get it right, right?”
Now that you think about it, it might not be a bad idea until you think of everyone watching you mess up.
“Right,” you whisper.
“Then come here.”
She pulls you in by your belt loops and kisses you softly at first to test the waters. Only when you cup her jaw with both hands does she kiss you a bit harder. Butterflies explode in your stomach from the contact because this is everything you thought it was going to be and more.
You two don’t need practice because this comes naturally to both of you.
“You give me butterflies,” you whisper against her lips.
“Same here,” she grins.
And that is how you started dating your wife, Elizabeth Chase Olsen.
x
Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)
#elizabeth olsen#elizabeth olsen x reader#elizabeth olsen fic#elizabeth olsen fanfiction#elizabeth olsen fanfic#elizabeth olsen fluff#elizabeth olsen fiction#elizabeth olsen fan fiction#elizabeth olsen fan fic#marvel fanfiction#marvel fan fiction#marvel#marvel fanfic#marvel fan fic#mcu#marvel fic#marvel fluff#mcu fanfiction#marvel fiction
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Day 6
No Refunds or Exchanges by badwolfbadwolf - (Rating: Mature, Words: 18,916, sterek)
Stiles is the newest deputy in the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, and has maybe just been a little in love with Derek Hale since Stiles had made a fool of himself in front of him at the SD summer picnic a few years ago. Being married to him—only for the sake of not getting deported—is going to suck in new and unusual ways.
Survival of the Species by Lissadiane - (Rating: Explicit , Words: 19,370, sterek)
“I think I’m dying.” Nothing makes sense – and now Derek has left him.
“No, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says grimly, rooting around in his special cupboard of herbs and remedies. “I’m afraid not. You’re merely suffering from a biological imperative to bear your alpha’s children and strengthen the pack.”
Stiles considers that for a moment, as best he can with his mind a hazy mess, and then he says quietly, “I think that might be worse.”
“So, so much worse,” Scott agrees.
*
In which Derek's pack is apparently stable enough to begin planning for the future, and somehow, the universe has decided Stiles is the perfect candidate to bear his alpha's children.
Imagine Me And You by callunavulgari, hiza-chan (callunavulgari) - (Rating: T, Words: 16,080, sterek)
“My name,” the kid tells Derek, sounding amused. “It’s Stiles. I figure if I’m going to wrestle a complete stranger for a pumpkin the least I can do is offer my name afterwards.”
“Stiles,” Derek tries, testing the way the name sits on his tongue. “I’m Derek.”
“Derek,” Stiles breathes, like he’s testing the weight of the name too. He grins, bright and blinding, which Derek guesses means that he likes the sound of it. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but since we almost got to second base a minute ago, I’d say we’re past that point.”
Bitten Saved Pack by TheRealDanniX - (Rating: T, Words: 7,488, sterek)
Gerard didn't just rough Stiles up. He was aiming to kill. Derek can't take that. Scott doesn't like how Derek fixes it.
*nobody dies
All Coming Back, Like It Was Never Gone by LadyDrace - (Rating: T, Words: 2,756, sterek)
Stiles and Derek spend a summer looking for Boyd and Erica. During that summer they're... something. Something that never becomes much of anything.
But then, years later, it all comes back.
Point me where my life begins by Gotta_seduce_the_Rainbow - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 39,430, sterek)
When Derek wakes up without his memory, he is left with nothing but a note he wrote himself. He no longer remembers anything personal, not himself, not anyone else.
The note is pointing him towards the town Beacon Hills and once he is there, he is greeted by strangers telling him “Dude, I didn’t know you’re back in town”, which is confusing. Apparently, he grew up in Beacon Hills, but left a few years ago without telling anyone about it.
There is this one stranger, who calls him dude and has the most amazing scent. Derek might just want to start his new life here. With this person.
Stupid Over You by Wolfspurr - (Rating: T, Words: 10,461, sterek)
It's a Friday night, and instead of enjoying any of the numerous things he'd rather be doing, Stiles has been roped into dinner with his dad at the Hale's. On the plus side, Derek Hale will be there. On the minus side, Derek Hale will be there, and Stiles already has a hard enough time not making an ass of himself in front of the hottest guy in school. There's no way this can end well.
the shape of my heart by Winchesterek - (Rating: Mature, Words: 4,807, sterek)
Stiles never thought he'd meet someone like Derek. Someone that was in a similar situation as he was - raising kids that weren't biologically his. It was even wilder because Derek was his god daughters first grade teacher and she was best friends with Derek's niece and nephew.
And Derek was hot. So hot that Stiles couldn't help ogling him every time they spent any amount of time around each other, including play dates and lunch in the school cafeteria with their kids. So Derek asking him out for Valentine's Day? That was just icing on the cake. Plus, Stiles was already head over heels for him.
My Wolf by Dexterous_Sinistrous - (Rating: T, Words: 7,654, sterek)
“If he wants to mate Stiles, why not let him?” Jackson asked, ready to part with Stiles if need be.
“Because if I did that, I’d be demoting Lydia,” Alpha Stilinski replied.
“We don’t even know how good of a Beta he is,” Lydia countered, bristling some that her status was being challenged.
“That’s because he’s not a Beta,” Alpha Stilinski stated. “He’s an Alpha.”
A Divine Move by alikatastic - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 2,138, sterek)
After Derek died, Peter was the one to let Stiles know. Stiles rushed to Beacon Hills to attend Derek's funeral and take care of Eli. When Peter takes Stiles to the Nemeton to show Stiles what happened, they make a discovery. Derek was trapped in the nemeton. All they had to do was pull him out.
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if you think agp is a thing(and presumably exclusive to trans women) what do you think of cis women claiming to masturbate in front of mirrors and CIA women who report being aroused by breastfeeding?
literally every single answer to these questions is available on my blog. I'm tired of writing the same posts over and over and over. if you can't find sufficient answers scrolling my blog, searching key words on my blog (or on google citing my blog, which yields better results oftentimes), going through the links in my pinned, or checking the tags referenced in my pinned, then I'd say if it's reeeeally important to you to get answers, your best bet will be to sit tight and occasionally check for updates to my Pinned as I am gradually adding more and more links detailing my views, and/or skim my blog from time to time - it's pretty much guaranteed to cycle through again within a month at most 🤷
I was actually gonna put a partial (that is to say, just not my usual thorough, detailed, and nuanced) answer at the beginning, but honestly I'm getting VERY tired of anonymous strangers who most likely just stumbled across my blog for the first time today thinking they're entitled to a personalized thinkpiece from me when almost every time I get an ask like this (which are distinctly different from good faith curiosities, which I'm more than happy to answer), I've already posted my answer, I've already written about the subject in depth on my blog. so I'll put my answer below instead so you have to read all of the above first, so you at least sort of vaguely kinda earn some response by putting in a miniscule fraction of the work/time I've put into both reading/informing myself about all sorts of different opinions, ideologies, experiences, perspectives, and views (rather than just demanding opinions from strangers on anon, lmao) and writing countless posts (& that's just on here, ignoring the offline side which is where I'm wayyy more active), which are almost always VERY long and detailed and proofread and edited and polished several times over.
btw, kind of a side note -- I have NEVER sent a single anon in my life, and I have NEVER, anonymously or not, demanded someone give me a personalized just-for-me explanation of their opinions (or any at all). the reason I call this entitlement is because you (most likely) aren't asking out of genuine curiosity or good faith. you (most likely) are asking because you dislike what you think my views are (you are most likely misinformed and think I believe things I do not) and you (most likely) think this is some kind of gotcha rather than the same ignorant, unoriginal, boring ass points that I've read countless times as far back as when I was a transactivist and trans-identifying myself. they've been debunked/responded to by a LOT of other women, too, and I'm very confident you could easily find at least one such response. I'm not holding you to a standard I don't also hold myself to; in fact, that I'm going to give you any degree of actual answer at all is demonstrative of my holding myself to a HIGHER standard. because again, nothing I'm about to say on this topic is just now in this post being born into the universe as a novel thought. or even a novel tumblr post; like I said, you could find the radfem answers to this ask yourself with just a tiny bit of effort - and while radfems are far from a monolith, and I am a frequent vocal dissenter on a variety of radblr hot topics, this isn't even really a matter of opinion. read on to find out why.
Part A - Not answering the questions here per se, but a clarification of terminology that may help you (any reader, not necessarily anon) see my perspective:
The word "cis" has different definitions. It used to mean someone who is not trans, whereas trans referred to sex-dysphoric transitioners, a demographic who now often prefer terms like transsexual or transsex or simply "sex-dysphoric" BECAUSE they don't agree with gender identity ideology (GII) and object to the way GII has been actively hostile to them and erased transsexuality (and thus their identities, needs, beliefs, and experiences as well), similarly to the ways in which GII engages with pretty much everything that isn't complete and total blind allegiance. These include but are far from limited to:
1. Obfuscating people's (especially children's/young adults' - as they are the primary consumers of most GII content by far) understanding of biology, particularly as it pertains to the sexes of human beings and sexual dimorphism, and inserting "gender identity" as a direct (but importantly not synonymous or remotely parallel) replacement for the material and biological reality of sex. Sex, absent patriarchy and the gender construct, is simply a neutral and factual categorization of human beings: sex categorizes human body types according to the two developmental pathways that evolved solely for the purpose of producing one gamete type or the other to enable perpetuation of the species via sexual reproduction. What this statement does NOT imply to anyone reading it with even an ounce of integrity/intellectual honesty: "women are defined by having babies," "infertile/childfree adult female humans are not women," "humans with anomalous sexual development of any variety are not male or female, but rather a 3rd sex or even proof sex is a spectrum," or anything along these lines; I refer to these arguments as intellectually dishonest because they are originally intentional (disinformation -> misinformation) misinterpretations & serve to moralize, dogmatize, and essentially theologize facts of nature.
This obfuscation of biology is committed via a variety of tactics that frequently include outright gaslighting; "gender and sex are different" turned into "sex is actually a spectrum" (it's not - read on to learn why not!) and then outright science denial while gaslighting others as being the unscientific, uneducated, "3rd grade understanding of biology" ones (again, this is simply factually not true*).
*Feel free to request to see a peer-reviewed neuroscience journal publication bearing my name and/or my thesis (original research regarding the overlapping genetics + epigenetics of norepinephrine dysregulation in both dysautonomia and attention deficit disorders) if you are skeptical of my credentials regarding biology. alternatively, feel free to cite your sources and I will provide a free-of-charge peer review service :)
2. Building from #1, the erasure of patriarchal sex-based oppression of women & girls (by definition: human beings of the female sex, adults & children respectively) via aforementioned tactics obfuscating sex biology & human biology in favor of an innate, internal "gender identity" which is extremely poorly defined with the individual "gender identities" themselves left utterly non-delineated. Gender identity ideology is to be taken entirely on pure faith, despite the fact that there is absolutely no evidence to support gender identity as a universal component of human beings/universal human experience. In fact, the existence of absolutely any nonzero quantity of human beings who do not experience gender identity firmly disproves it as universal human experience - and we know not all humans have a gender identity. However, every human being experiences sexual development, be it typical, disordered (DSDs, congenital infertility, etc), or otherwise anomalous; the vast majority experience typical sexual development, and one's sex is entirely clear in the vast majority of atypical cases as well. Female humans are oppressed on the basis of our biological reproductive capabilities; patriarchy desires control over the female sex as a direct product of its desire to control reproduction. Patriarchy created the gender construct to instill and enforce a caste system between the sexes upholding the patriarchal dogma of male supremacy and female inferiority. Similarly, patriarchy created father-gods in order to make the creation of life a male act. Erasure of sex in favor of the gender construct serves male supremacy and cannot ever be anti-patriarchal or feminist. Evidence of sex based oppression abounds offline (frankly, you need look no further than menstruation stigma in all its forms up to and including menstrual huts, but there is infinitely more evidence) and right here on my blog as well; I even have some posts tagged to serve as proof of sex based oppression.
3. Erasing homosexuality via working toward erasure of exclusive same-sex attraction (this is particularly targeted at lesbians, and this is VERY well documented. I have many examples of this in my TRA Receipts tag, including a particularly excellent masterpost containing, in total iirc THOUSANDS of screenshots), once again replacing sex with "gender identity" as if one's orientation being defined as attraction to another human's invisible, internal, and highly individual "gender identity," which not all humans even purport to have in the first place, could possibly make any sense. This is uniquely absurd.
As stated in the 2nd link in #1 on my Pinned, I object to the usage of "cis" for non-trans-identifying people. Why? At the core of it, because the most commonplace definition of "cis"/'cisgender" that I see at this point in time is "having a gender identity that aligns with what was assigned at birth." As stated above, gender identity is not universal, rendering "cisgender" equally as personal and internal of an identity label as "transgender" - and these are not a pure dichotomy by any means. Radical feminism does not grant any degree of objective factual legitimacy to the gender construct; thus, no radical feminist is or can be, by definition, transgender or cisgender (this does not carry over to whether or not radfems can have dysphoria or even be medically transitioned). Radfems are not the only humans without "gender identities," and it is dishonest and disrespectful to force the term/label onto everyone else according to an ideology we/they may not share.
Part B - The Long-Awaited Answer! [I changed my mind since this ended up significantly longer than initially planned so here ya go]
Autogynephilia was coined as a term with a specific definition. That definition is still the same one in use today. That definition explicitly states that only males can qualify. That definition is: "a paraphilia that describes when a man experiences sexual arousal from the thought of himself as a woman" per Google, and "a male's propensity to be sexually aroused by the thought of himself as a female" per Blanchard's original stated intention for the term he created. Wikipedia goes on to add "intending for the term to refer to 'the full gamut of erotically arousing cross-gender behaviors and fantasies.'"
I have many criticisms of Blanchard himself and of the quality of his research methodologies. However, the evidence for the existence of the paraphilia itself is abundant and undeniable given that many males outright refer to themselves as autogynephiles and many have openly discussed their experiences as someone with this paraphilia. What I do not believe is that all trans-identifying males are AGPs, that there is proven legitimacy to the HSTS/AGP dichotomy (even Blanchard himself said not all OSA trans-identifying males are AGPs - just a whole lot of them), or that non-trans-identifying males can't be AGPs - actually I think it's likely that most AGPs don't identify as transgender.
The core of the paraphilia, the source of the arousal, is a product of the patriarchal sex caste system; autogynephiles are aroused by the idea of themselves as women - as they themselves have stated - because of the sexual objectification of femaleness and/or because they're aroused by degradation and humiliation (as is blatantly obviously on brilliant display in the existence of and obsession with "forced feminization" and similar female-degrading sexual concepts), and the AGP male views femaleness and the gender that patriarchy has forcibly ascribed to femaleness ("femininity") as inferior and thus sees his engagement in performing femininity as degrading - which in turn sexually excites him.
One reason some women find themselves arousing in their own bodies and natural non-performative states is the same as when men find themselves arousing in their own bodies and natural non-performative states: self-confidence increases libido and associations can be made between A and B. Where women and men inevitably differ, however, is about the arousal surrounding performing femininity and/or sexual self-objectification. It is not at all unreasonable to speculate that some women can be turned on when they "feel hot" for a reason other than just self-confidence; for one speculative example, it's possible that some women may see herself in the mirror all dressed up in hypersexualized clothing and feel that they've succeeded in mirroring the pornified images and sexually-appealing-to-males beauty expectations. Ultimately, this is self-objectification. It's patriarchy and the male gaze that have forced these associations onto all of society, and hypersexual associations have a tendency of causing sexual arousal in people (duh).
Oh and I've never heard of women being aroused by breastfeeding, only complaining about it being painful asf, but like. Nipples are among the most common and well-documented non-genital erogenous areas so? This seems terribly unlikely to be a common phenomenon, but utterly irrelevant to the existence of autogynephilia regardless lol. If this is a thing, like I said I doubt it's commonplace at all, but even just hypothetically, I'd say it would distinctly fall in line with everything else I say in this answer. Patriarchy and its pornographers have indeed sexualized breastfeeding - there are a concerning number of men who ask their partners NOT TO BREASTFEED their babies - his own children! - because it makes him JEALOUS and even resent the baby. I'm dead serious you can look this up, it happens. So... read on for elaboration.
I neither know nor care precisely what you're referencing in this ask, because the answer remains the same: autogynephilia by definition can only affect males, and males who have a fetish for the idea of themselves as female, be that through imagining themselves Fucked (anatomically female, specifically in a sexually objectified - aka Fucked - manner; the anatomical/biological form of autogynephilia fetishizes the male subject imagining himself as the female Fucked object of pornography) or Feminine (as discussed above) fundamentally are not and cannot be the same as women who are turned on by feeling like they look sexually appealing or by their own natural anatomy or biological functions (which have been violently hypersexualized by patriarchy). This is a form of internalized misogyny; when men do it, it's just misogyny. These are not the same.
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also one real post about this and like, plenty of ink has been spilt on how disconnected watcher entertainment seems to be from its fans but i think the missing piece here is how disconnected watcher is from the rest of youtube. when the catastrophe hit i went to all my terminally online friends, the same way i did after the hbomberguy james somerton video, or after the ned fulmer fiasco, or the creepshowart scandal etc, or every time jenny nicholson dropped a new evermore video, including the ones behind the $2 patreon paywall we all gladly pay for, and for the first time...
no one knew who i was talking about.
these are not insulated people. these are people i can trust to have at least name recognition of almost any youtuber i mention. they know downtherabbithole and strangeaeons and cjthex and kappakaiju and miniminuteman773 and kazrowe and somemorenews etc etc etc
so when i put in the group chat, with no context, 'he wasnt even on cribs' or 'we have no cats kathleen' or 'only humble pagan commune schemes' or whatever, i usually do so with great trust that at least half the group will know what im on about.
this time, crickets.
i backpedaled a little and pulled up the 'ive connected them' meme and the fuzzy blue professor, and i got nothing at all. the only recognition i got was when someone belatedly realized that he had seen the goatman video when it dropped (although he had no idea that they had their own company now), and another person remembered that they had offered to collab with danny gonzalez, a youtuber with twice the subscribers
because she had checked back to see if danny went ghost hunting again, and lost interest because he hadnt.
i also brought it up in my dedicated buzzfeed unsolved group chat but ummmmm i am the only one in that group still watching ever since the shift to watcher oops
the only splash they had made in my again, TERMINALLY ONLINE friend group that watches hours and hours of youtube a day was a buzzfeed video seven years ago, and when they had failed to collab with someone more famous than them. i found myself in the unusual position of having to explain the situation to a bunch of dirty internet gremlins, all of whom heard the whole story and said 'why would they do that'
not 'why would they do that to their fans' but 'why would they do that as youtubers'
even aside from the moneygrubbing, we watcher stans were confused about why they tried to offer us a service we didn't need or want, and i think it obscured the confusion on why they thought it was a good idea at all, when so many other models were available to them. why werent they using their patreon like other youtubers? why weren't they collaborating with other youtubers? why weren't they putting out regular, lower quality content like other youtubers? if they wanted higher quality content, why weren't they partnering with nebula, like lindsay ellis, or netflix, like bo burnham. why didn't they run their ideas past someone like the green brothers, who have jumpstarted scishow and many other similar projects successfully, and are famously good to work with/consult with? why would they try to pull a roosterteeth? don't they know what happened?
and i think the answer is no. i think they just don't know those things. and they didnt bother to check, because they think all those things are beneath them. because they think corporate content is the only worthwhile kind there is.
why else would they think they have to have an office building, keep dozens of people on staff, buy expensive cameras, and build a streaming platform? why do they only collaborate with actors and singers who have corporate entertainment approval? why are they reinventing the wheel on buzzfeed when thousands of youtubers build perfectly stable careers with a mic and a camera, and sometimes hire an editor?
i guess my takeaway from this is that, at least they didnt break my heart as a fan entirely because they fundamentally misunderstood me. they did it, at least in part, because they do not understand how youtube works, or what part they play in it.
they dont understand how people use youtube. it is not a cinematic event worthy of the big tv, it is line goes up playing in the background for the 400th time as i wash my face and put my laundry away.
that is why they spent months and months planning this without ever noticing it was a bad idea, while millions of youtube viewers knew instantly. thats why they didn't start with a more moderate solution, why they never used their patreon properly, why they cared so much about the production value, why they thought a youtube audience, any audience at all, would jump at the chance to leave youtube.
bc youtube as a creator sucks, and we all know that, but youtube as a viewer is extremely comfortable. all i ask of youtube is to be mildly interesting in the background while i do other stuff. it is filler. some of the filler is extremely good, yes, but there is no room or reason in my life to give more of my money and attention to my filler, let alone to get a bigger screen for it.
and honestly, this is why i and others stayed on with the ghoul boys even though their quality dropped. because it's filler. im not even looking at the screen you apparently spent 100k on. im flipping my eggs. im washing my hair. im waiting for the bus with my headphones in and my phone in my pocket. thank you for being my background music. in return i will sit through your ads and push your view counter up by one. i may even hit the like button by accident bc my phone is in my pocket.
this is not to say i dont enjoy my filler. i would absolutely die without it. but it is not and never will be exchanged for the instances when i make popcorn in The Big Bowl and turn on a Real Movie on the Big Screen (my old laptop that is 15 whole inches) with my phone turned over so nothing can distract me.
my filler can't be my movie, and vice versa. nor should it be. but watcher doesnt understand that, apparently. they think youtube is cruelly preventing them from being netflix, and they think we want netflix, and they don't understand that, even with that half-assed apology that they didn't explain their dream correctly and they are jsut so destitute they had to take extreme measures after they went to europe 6 too many times...
there is a fundamental misunderstanding about how people use youtube , both as creators and as consumers. they didn't just misunderstand their fanbase. they continue to misunderstand the entire ecosystem. idk guys. maybe you should have learned something from those youtubers that you apparently think you are too good for.
and as for me, welp. i've booted people from my filler line-up for less. and there are soooooooooooooo many other fish in the sea, and they are not asking me to pay them 27 corporation salaries from my own pocket. they are asking for me to bump their view counter up by one.
goodbye boys. i really hope you find a way to fulfill yourselves artistically or whatever. but you have burned this particular bridge, like. forever. and i don't think i'm the only one who feels that way.
and not because i dont support people getting a living wage, you guilt-tripping vultures, or because i dont believe in following dreams and wishing on stars and whatnot.
but because i prefer to consume content from people who know what they're doing, and i simply no longer trust that includes you.
#watcher entertainment#steven lim#shane madej#ryan bergara#this is truly all i will say#just amazing how the average youtube viewer immediately identified all the problems with the new plan#and none of the executive big boys involved did
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