#i wrote this from the perspective of his wife
Text
better than.
a/n: i fell in love with danmeshi over the weekend! i have so many thoughts and feelings about chilchuck and his wife and their daughters, so i wanted to write something about them.
i wish we knew her name! since there's no canon name for her (yet??? please! i'm manifesting), i gave her one mostly for ease of fic writing but also because i think she should have one haha.
fandom: dungeon meshi
pairing: chilchuck tims / chilchuck's wife
genre: angst, general
info: told from the perspective of the wife; she is named (junnimay); takes place pre-canon
warnings: might not be canon-compliant
synopsis: for the better, she comes to learn that moving with the tides of life is a mercy in itself.
word count: 3.3k
Chilchuck Tims / Chilchuck's Wife
The apple trees were starting to clothe themselves in pale pink blossoms, releasing a sweet fragrance into the air. Kahka Brud took it as a sign of the winter's end, shedding off the furs and double-lined coats of the coldest months, and so did Junnimay. Reaching for one of the thinner woollen cloaks hanging by the front door, she whispered, "I'll be back soon, Fler," to her still-sleeping daughter before setting out for an early morning walk.
A contrary breeze made it difficult for her to shut the door quietly, a rather unceremonious slam of wood against wood following a series of laboured grunts from her lips. Fler had always been able to sleep through even the most turbulent of autumn storms; a little noise a ways from her bed surely wouldn't stir her from her needed rest.
Junnimay wiped her palms down on her cloak even if they weren't sweaty, and she started on the unpaved path that led to one of the larger streets of Kahka Brud.
At the place where the narrow local paths merged into the cobblestone main street, she greeted the elderly gnome couple having breakfast in their front yard. The younger of the two women stopped her with a shout in Gnomish and then waved for her to come closer. She approached the line of potted miniature trees that formed a makeshift fence between the public walkway and the gnome couple's property, and the elderly gnome pressed a still-warm bun into her cupped hands.
With a smile, she thanked the women in Gnomish, biting into the bread and telling them how delicious it was before she continued down the main street. As she chewed on a particularly large cluster of candied orange peel bits in her next bite, she pondered visiting the farmer's market on the way home so that Fler could have some candied orange buns to share at the tailor shop where she worked. It would be good to make a larger batch to share with the neighbours, too.
A splash of deep reddish brown dragged her attention to the present, the burst of colour out of place among the blush-pink apple blossoms and the grey-brown tree barks and the yellow-streaked blue sky. Junnimay almost dropped the last bit of the bun gifted to her, eyes wide as she took in the sight before her.
There were two half-foots under the large apple tree at the end of the street that opened to the southern market district. One of them shook out a grey bedroll that was much too large to have been designed for half-foot use, and the two of them took turns scooching into it and then reclining to watch the clouds.
The taller of the half-foot pair sported an uncannily familiar head of auburn hair, poking out of their shared bedroll that was made for one tall-man but could apparently fit two half-foots comfortably. She chucked what was left of the bun into her mouth before she took slow steps towards the mouth of the market district, keeping her eyes on the half-foot couple the whole time.
They paid her no mind, even if her gaze never left them minutes and minutes after coming from behind them to appear in front of them. They were too in love to notice her.
Chilchuck was lying in bed next to her, but his back had never felt so far.
Even when Junnimay was a child relentlessly chasing after him and his older siblings in a game of tag melded with hide and go seek, the distance of rows upon rows of tomato plants between her parents' house and his was tiny in comparison to the hand's breadth that separated Chilchuck's sleeping form from her. The entirety of the vast tomato field was easily crossed under her quick and stubborn feet, possible to traverse. She didn't feel the same way about stretching her hand out to touch her husband.
When she had yelled something or the other about getting caught in the tomato vines, Chilchuck would've instantly turned around and run to her. He always did, even if it meant that he would lose to his older brother, the person he hated losing to the most. She remembered that being the reason why she liked him; when she called for him, he made haste to come to her.
If she woke him up at this point in their lives, years and years after playing games with ever-changing rules in the tomato field that belonged to everyone in the village, would he be quick to awaken and ask her if there was anything troubling her? If there was anything he could do to help?
Chilchuck shifted as if her thoughts were so loud that they woke him. She squeezed her eyes and mouth shut, pretending to sleep the way their daughters did when they were still red-faced in the way half-foot children usually were in their most tender years. His blanket swished when Chilchuck pulled it tighter around himself, curling in on himself and inching all the more away from her. All was still on his side of the bed after.
She fell into a true sleep as she pretended. While pretending, she was trying to remember the last time her husband broke out into a run coming to her simply because she had called his name.
The neatly placed line of dark bottles filled with various alcohols that Chilchuck accumulated over the years never looked so inviting to Junnimay.
Between her and her husband, he was consistently the more avid drinker. Since she first discovered she was pregnant with Mei and Fler, she found that she hadn't had the same taste for alcohol that she once had as an adolescent. She used to sneak sips from her father's hidden stash of ales from time to time, careful never to take more than a single large mouthful off the top of the bottles that were full.
With Chilchuck out accompanying yet another party of adventurers to one of the dungeons scattered around Kahka Brud and her three daughters asleep, Junnimay thought it was a better opportunity than ever to indulge in a little alcohol. It has been years since the last time she partook, after all.
She tiptoed to grab hold of the bottle she felt was most appealing, the scarlet label on the front boasting that the mead within contained floral honey from a well-known apiary on the Southern Continent. Pouring herself an economical portion into a dark glass cup, she settled into the alcove overlooking the sea and cracked the window open to feel the salty night-time winds on her face.
"Mama," came a sleep-addled voice from past the kitchen and down the hallway. Junnimay made it to the dining table when she found her firstborn daughter rubbing her eyes at the threshold that separated the kitchen from the rooms.
"Mama," Mei said again, sounding a little more awake than she did the first time. "I think Dad's not coming back yet."
The staunchness in her daughter's statement made her inwardly flinch, and she tried her best not to show it on her face. Mei had always been an unusually perceptive child, and it worried her that her daughter might be picking up on the growing unhappiness between her and Chilchuck. She wouldn't be able to bury it from her girls forever, but she wanted to keep any marital issues hidden from their young and still innocent eyes. The world should be sunny and kind when they gazed upon it, more beautiful and right than when she was the one looking.
Junnimay put on a smile, approaching her daughter and putting her arms around her, stroking at her head of wild ginger hair. It soothed her somewhat when Mei immediately buried her face in her chest, her comparably smaller fingers clutching at the cotton of her sleeping tunic.
"Not for a while, little heart," she said, vacantly running the fingers of her right hand through Mei's hair to untangle the knots. "But he'll be back."
It had only been two days since Chilchuck left for his most recent dungeon expedition. He had never been one to complete a job sooner than he said he would, diligently seeing to it that the task he agreed upon beforehand was carried out as promised. It made him an excellent addition to any adventurer's party, but she realised it also made him an absent father and an unavailable husband.
"He'll miss my birthday again," were the condemning words Mei chose for Chilchuck, muffled from the way she was pressing into her mother and clinging. Junnimay's heart twisted at the disappointment in her daughter's voice, as if her father had let her down for the final time.
Mei suppressed a sniffle and tried to mask it with a sound of exasperation, little fingers starting to pinch at her flesh beneath the fistfuls of fabric already within her hold.
It reminded her that Mei, while able to pick up on subtle things that most children weren't, was still a child. It reminded her that Mei still needed her protection.
It reminded her that she was failing quite miserably.
Chilchuck was at the door for the first time in almost three years, and it was akin to seeing a ghost when she swung the door open, not quite knowing if it was definitely him after hearing his voice on the other side. Junnimay blinked twice, squeezing her eyes shut as she quickly completed a simple incantation of protection taught to her by one of the gnome neighbours, and then opened them once again. He was still there, so she moved aside so he could come in.
"The girls are all out today," she said, leaning against the closed front door to resume lacing up her work boots. "Puck's staying with a work friend in the meantime, so you won't be seeing her until she comes back at the end of winter."
He seemed rather displeased at her lukewarm reaction to his return home, but he didn't mention it. Mirroring the burgeoning pile of her grievances about their marriage, she kept silent when he pretended there wasn't anything to complain about. It was a complicated dance that the two of them had perfected over the years, intimately familiar with each step.
"Where you are headed?" Chilchuck asked, sweeping his eyes over her attire as if he were scanning his lock-picking toolkit for signs of wear and tear. She hated it, and it was bitter when she swallowed the feeling with an increasing level of ease, automatic.
"To the bakery," she said, needlessly undoing the fastening tie of her cloak and doing it up again, tighter the second time around. "My shift ends late, so don't wait up for me. There's leftover cured meat and cheese from Mei and Fler's birthday dinner last week in the pantry, if you want to eat."
Chilchuck crossed his arms rather aggressively as she spoke, and she felt validated at his show of displeasure. She was starting to become suspicious that he believed their marriage to be as intact as it was when they were walking away from the ceremony, but it gave her a twisted sense of unity that they were both looking at the same cracks and being afflicted with the same unpleasant feelings.
"The one along Third Street, right?" he asked.
It sounded to her like he was running out of things to say, and it made her all the more eager to get out of the house and fall back into the safety of her daily routine in which he was entirely absent. She had become comfortable as a mother of three daughters whose father's only contribution was a pouch of gold coins every full moon, delivered to the door by an administrative employee of the local Adventurer's Guild.
The money he provided for her and for the girls has been slowly and steadily increasing over the years, and she was glad that he appeared to be making a name for himself as a skilled locksmith. There was a sudden jump in the weight of the pouch put in her hands a few months ago. She wanted to ask about it since Chilchuck was here, but ultimately decided not to, keeping her questions about his work and his time in the dungeons of Kahka Brud close to her heart instead.
There was once that he had snapped at her for being too curious about his work, and that one time was enough for her to become unnecessarily cautious when speaking to her husband about the jobs he undertook.
She nodded, putting a hand on the doorknob and finding solace in the coolness of the metal against her skin. The silence between her and Chilchuck felt awkward with how large it was, taking more space in the house than even the house itself. When it became apparent that he had indeed run out of things to say, she pushed the front door open and stepped out.
"I'm off," she said, expecting him to regroup with a new adventurer's party on yet another dungeon expedition by the time she returned from her own work at the bakery.
In the early hours of the morning when she found herself home again, Mei and Fler were asleep in their beds. They left a note for her on the dinner table, saying that they ate at the tavern close to the main street and that they brought back a portion of wild boar stew for her in case she was hungry.
For once meeting her expectations at the exact line where she drew them, Chilchuck was nowhere to be found.
Mei was taller than her now.
It was obvious that her daughter was bending at the waist to give her a greeting hug, the height difference between them further exaggerated by the thick soles of Mei's work boots. A bittersweet sense of awe nipped at Junnimay as she was reminded once again how much Mei resembled her father.
"Mama," Mei said, linking her arm with her mother's as the two of them wandered the Central Market on an impromptu stop on the way to Fler's home. Junnimay thought it would be nice to take a long walk with her firstborn, since Mei had taken the opportunity to surprise her by picking her up from the bakery on one of her rare free days. "You deserve to be happy, you know?"
Junnimay froze mid-appraisal of the many kinds of honey on display at the store on her left, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as she turned her head to face her daughter. Where was this coming from? Briefly, her thoughts led her to the husband she recently left, and it brought to the forefront of her mind once again her every reason for finally acting upon what was in her heart.
Mei seemed to be taken aback by her mother's inarticulate but apparently tumultuous contemplation, so she cleared her throat, eyes darting to the side as she visibly mulled over her next words. "I saw you talking with a gnome uncle at the bakery. Your smile was so bright," she said, beginning to pick at the unoccupied holes in her belt with her free hand. "And I can't remember the old man ever looking at you the way the gnome does. I think you can be happy with him, now that the old man's out of the picture."
Bodies were skimming the pair of them in the passing as they stood in one of the many footpaths in the Kahka Brud's largest market. There were many sights to behold and smells to contemplate, and there were even more wares on sale. She had to be mindful of pickpockets in a crowd as thick as the one that eternally thronged this market, but she could only focus on the determined jut of her daughter's chin.
"I'm just saying," Mei said, making eye contact with her after allowing her a moment to ponder. "I want you to be happy. Fler and Puck, too. You deserve it more than most people."
Junnimay moved her arm from its curled position around Mei's and used it to pull Mei into a one-armed hug, squeezing. The wet warmth of tears pricked at her eyes, and she gave her daughter the widest smile she could muster in an attempt to keep her face from crumpling the way it did when she cried.
"I am happy, little heart," she said. "But I think I'm not made for a second marriage."
She watched the gears turn in Mei's head from behind the screen of tears in her eyes. Wiping at her face with the back of her other hand, she apologised instinctively to a male voice that yelled a phrase in Elvish for her to move from somewhere in the mass of people behind her.
Mei sported a scowl as she scanned the crowd over her mother's head to see who was intruding on their conversation. Junnimay laughed, making sure to steer herself and her daughter closer to the wall between the honey store and the one beside it.
"Did the old man ruin it for you? Marriage, I mean," Mei said, after her sweep of the crowd proved unsuccessful. The majority of the market-goers were tall-men who unintentionally blocked her view of the offending elf, lost in the commotion.
Junnimay felt the need to put on a smile, but remembered that Mei was too old to fall for it. Mei had been too old to believe her fanfare of a reassuring smile since she was just a child.
"His father told us that since we liked each other, we should marry. So we did," she said. The memories trickled into her mind's eye slowly, obstructed by years and years of trying to fill the space of both mother and father for her girls. Looking back on her childhood in a small village where everyone was a half-foot was akin to looking into an old spyglass, trying with much difficulty to spot something on the far horizon.
Chilchuck's father was far more authoritarian than hers ever was; if he said something was to happen, everyone around him made sure it happened. Her father, while affronted by the other half-foot's demand, was agreeable to the match and gave her his blessing since she had insisted that she liked Chilchuck enough to marry him.
"I wanted my parents to be happy, and I liked the idea of marriage at that time. I didn't stop to think about if marriage was the right thing for me," she said.
Noting Mei's silence and hoping to assuage any anxieties her daughter might have, Junnimay gave her another squeeze, smiling without the express intention of consoling. "But I don't regret marrying your father. Because of him, I have you and Fler and Puck. I gained the world's best daughters."
Mei chuckled at her bold proclamation, sighing affectionately when she leaned up to press kisses to her daughter's cheek. "Mama, you say embarrassing things sometimes," were the words that Mei spoke, but Junnimay knew her well enough to hear the words she actually wanted to say. She smiled into Mei's jaw.
"Are three daughters better than a husband?" Mei asked, a cheeky glint lighting up her eyes.
Junnimay squeezed her yet again, a tense fist of unease inside her chest loosening with the surrender of a long-kept confession that bared her heart. Even the golden afternoon rays of sun became brighter and more beautiful, her secret feelings being received most graciously by her firstborn. She was sure they would be received similarly by Fler and Puck too; the three of them were all warm-hearted women whom she was proud to have birthed and raised.
"By a thousand tall-men leaps and bounds, three daughters are infinitely better than a husband."
#dungeon meshi#delicious in dungeon#dungeon meshi scenarios#delicious in dungeon scenarios#chilchuck tims#chilchuck's wife#chilchuck tims x his wife#chilchuck tims x chilchuck's wife#fic#angst#general#kaija writes#kaija writes: dungeon meshi#i'm anime + adventurer's bible scans only#so there's still some things about chilchuck and his family that i haven't come across yet#but still!!!#it doesn't stop me from having so many thoughts and feelings!!!#i wrote this from the perspective of his wife#but what i really want to write a little something more from the perspective of meijack#meijack chils i am writing a fic about you next#something about her eldest daughter syndrome makes her a sister to me#i don't know if it comes up in canon#but i know her#it is there and i want to write about it#i also think a lot about the fact that chilchuck and his wife are childhood friends#childhood friends + exes to lovers???#maybe maybe maybe#i am frothing at the mouth thinking about it
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
saw a post about how DBK and PIF are bad parents and if I had less self control I’d make a whole post explaining why they are good parents cause you see-
#lays down u don’t get it#he didn’t see his dad for 500 years he doesn’t know what his dad is like or how his dad will react#so red son constantly overshoots to make his dad proud#and even tho he fails a WHOOOOLE BUNCH#his dad (who also hasn’t seen his son in 500 years and doesn’t know who he is or how he reacts to things)#constantly gives him the chance time and time again to fail and try again#cause he can tell that this is importsnt— THEY ARE BONDING#THEY DANCE AROUND EACH OTHER AWKWARDLY BUT ITS THEM BONDING#rubs eyes I gotta go back to sleep but I have lots of thoughts about the demon bull family#mainly cause I was watching this whole show with friends and they were all like#‘wow that family sucks. they all suck. why does dbk keep giving his son a chance? just tell him no and do it yourself’#and I slowly watched the opinions turn into ‘they’re a good family. he loves his wife so much and he would do anything for his son’#and it’s tRUE!#I think in the beginning it’s meant to be implied they’re all horrible towards each other cause they’re demons#it’s meant to warp your perspective until later episodes and you realise that was just them bonding#cause its tang telling the story right? so I’m guessing he just jumps and assumes a bunch unreliable narrator type beat#I say it’s tang telling the story cause it ends/starts with him and he’s constantly writing down in his diary the tales#LIKE WUKONG AND NEZHAS FIGHT- if he wrote it down from Nezhas perspective it would prolly be different but we only saw wukong perspective#so that’s what tang writes down (and this what the audience sees)#it’s why there’s that whole thing of seeing the bad guys version of events but not seeing wukongs- which is why people like macaque so much#oh I could analyse this show so much#me? me? I’m ill I could connect dots that don’t even exist#smudgie talk
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
Reading Really Old Books has given me another angle of perspective to why "show, don't tell" is so important: you can always tell what you can see, even if you can't know for sure what you're looking at. It helps mend the gap, both intentionally when you're not 100% sure of what you're talking about, and as an insurance just in case readers of the future might know more about it than you currently do.
If a book from the 1800s just dismissively says "his previously so strong-willed wife developed hysteria after the incident", I'm going to roll my eyes and dismiss this right back. But if the same incident is illustrated by describing the way she becomes frightened and starts shaking at the sight of something only marginally related to the tramatising incident, I can draw my own conclusions and go "oh, she's triggered by the sight of horse reins. The reins remind her of the Someone Got Stomped To Death By A Horse -incident, and she is triggered by the sight of them. This woman has PTSD." And I'll have more respect for the author, who clearly looked at whatever he saw in the enviroment of his time, instead of dismissively assuming that he knew what he was looking at, and trusting that the readers would do the same.
The concept of ADHD wasn't known during the time when William Stearns Davis wrote his book A Friend of Caesar. And had he known a term for it, he may not have used it. But in the way he wrote the book, you can see that Davis had read multiple accounts of the kind of shit that Julius Caesar apparently did in his life. And wrote the man who had died centuries before the author was born having The Symptoms exactly the same way as I do whenever I'm unmedicated.
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
EDIT: DO NOT TAKE MY WORD AS THE 100% TRUTH!!
I took some classes and wrote a paper about ancient Greek culture, but I am in NO WAY an expert. Please read through the reblogs to see some good criticisms and discussion about this topic further. My point overall stands that you can't apply modern rules and standards to ancient stories, but my evidence is undoubtedly flawed!
I'm seeing everyone pointing out the possible issues with Epic the Musical's deviation from the original story of Circe and Odysseus, and as someone who's studied Ancient Greece/ancient Greek myths a bit, I wanted to say some stuff about it. This will be a bit of a long one, so apologies for my rambling!
Note that I'm not trying to shit on SA survivor's perspectives and (completely valid) arguments. I'm just trying to offer some context surrounding the original myth and how it fits (or rather, doesn't fit) with a modern audience. If I'm wrong with any of this, feel free to call me out! Criticize the shit out of me! I like learning about Greek culture and myths and would 100% love to hear other perspectives on this.
So, a few points about Ancient Greek myths to kind of explain the context around Circe and Odysseus:
Greek myths generally did not have good views/depictions of women. Women were almost always depicted as conniving, selfish, sexually insatiable creatures. To largely summarize the process within actual Greek society, women had three/four stages in their life: child, dangerous/wild virgin (after first menstruation), married woman (whose wildness was tamed by her husband), and then a "real" woman (a mother). There are a few deviations from the "evil" trope, the most prominent of which being Penelope herself—she's basically the ideal Greek wife, staying loyal to her husband for 20 years and all that.
Adultery only applied to women. Husbands cheating on their wives wasn't merely tolerated, but expected. Marital sex wasn't seen as enjoyable, rather something that had to be done for the sake of reproduction and continuing the bloodline/securing inheritance. Men cheated on their wives with various kinds of prostitutes, concubines, mistresses, etc, but sleeping with unmarried women (that weren't specifically prostitutes) or married women was looked down upon. Women didn't have this same standard. They could only sleep with their husbands, hell, their husbands were pretty much the only men they could even interact with (excluding family, obviously).
The original myth has Hermes very plainly lay out how Odysseus' confrontation with Circe will go: Odysseus will eat the moly, draw his sword at her, she'll proposition him, and Hermes directly tells Odysseus to accept. Basically a "sleep with her if you want your men to live" situation. (See this post for more specifics on this).
So, let's apply this to Epic: The Musical. Here's some reasons I think may explain the Circe myth being changed:
The Greek "women being evil" stereotype is... problematic. While I 100% understand that it's important to acknowledge male victims of SA, I don't think the original myth was focusing on Odysseus being a victim—I saw it more of an emphasis on Circe being a sexually selfish woman, as all Greek women were believed to be. Changing Circe to be less conniving and evil deviates from the concerning Greek stereotype.
The SA in the myth is not actually very clearly SA. Yes, with a modern perspective, it absolutely is sexual coercion, but for Greeks, not so much. It made sense to them that sex could be transactional. It's already been established that Epic, while still generally accurate to the original myth, does change things relating to morality/themes in order to better align with modern Western ideas (i.e. OG Odysseus not being as remorseful and merciful, as that was expected of a Greek hero, but Epic Odysseus having more empathy because that's more modernly heroic). If something from the original myth doesn't translate well into modern culture, then it's understandable to want to change or omit it.
In the case that the original Circe myth wasn't SA (I'm not saying one is more right than the other, I'm just covering all the bases), then it wouldn't even constitute as cheating. Like I described earlier, it was perfectly acceptable and expected for men to sleep with women that weren't their wives. Plus, being a goddess, she's already kinda exempt from being blamed if Odysseus slept with her—only women are ever really blamed for sleeping with (or being SAed by) gods, and even then, their husbands sometimes don't even give a shit. But modernly, we would not see it that way. To us, it's not societally acceptable for a married man to sleep with another woman (without his wife's consent, at least). While Ancient Greeks viewed Odysseus as a good (or at least okay) husband, a modern audience wouldn't. Making Odysseus loyal to Penelope and not sleeping with other women (assuming this wasn't SA, but again that's one interpretation) makes him the good, loyal, empathic, modernly heroic man that Epic is clearly aiming for. Repeating my last point: If something from the original myth doesn't translate well into modern culture, then it's understandable to want to change or omit it.
Applying modern perspectives on Ancient Greek society and mythology isn't worth it. Like, we all joke about Ancient Greece being super gay, but they didn't actually like gay men. Homosexuality was literally only acceptable when it was between a young man and a prepubescent boy (it was called pederasty if you want to know more) or between women (they only considered penetrative sex to be 'real' sex so they didn't really care what women did with other women). Y'know the Hades and Persephone story? Like, the original one with the kidnapping? Yeah, that was normal. The myth of Demeter and Persephone is tragic, yes, but it was so normal that wedding ceremonies often included references/recreations of it! Girls got married off ASAP after their first menstruation to men of at least 30 years old. We don't tolerate that shit today (for the most part, at least)! But it was normal in Ancient Greece. Applying modern rules and standards to ancient culture just does not work.
Anyways, I'll shut up now! I'm gonna go keep listening to The Circe Saga lmao
#can you tell im a history major#seriously tho im not trying to shit on the opinions of SA survivors talking about this#the greeks were just kinda fucked up#greek mythology#epic the musical#odysseus#the odyssey#circe#circe saga#the circe saga#hermes#epic the circe saga#ancient greece#history
466 notes
·
View notes
Text
Author & Mensch: Reflections on the impact of @neil-gaiman on my life, in essay and doodle
As a woman of a certain age, I am a well-practiced overthinker. Nerd, geek, know-it-all, intellectual, the names have been biting or praise depending on who wielded them. They’re all true, and I embrace them.
In the early days of adulthood, when I was a wee 20-something overthinking nerd, geek, know-it-all, intellectual (20+ years ago), I became deeply interested in image and text and text-as-image. While friends were watching and arguing over Survivor, I was obsessing over Peter Greenaway’s The Pillowbook and Prospero's Books and Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. (To this day my copies of the Sandman graphic novels and the English translation of The Pillowbook of Sei Shonagon are proudly displayed on the good bookshelves—you know, the ones I want people to peruse.)
Sandman isn't merely good storytelling and good art, it teases at some of the fundamental questions to which my religion-major heart was consistently and reliably drawn. It modeled a way of rendering the questions—and suggested answers—I would never have imagined on my own.
In those days, I created an artist's book: an altered gift edition of Hamlet. I explored Ophelia’s femininity and the inevitability of her break with her mental health, caught as she is between Hamlet and her father. I imagined her story if she’d had true agency. I investigated the way art (fan art?!) had shaped my understanding of the play and my relationship to it. I layered in my story—my resonance and dissonance with hers—and my art, along with images of famous and not-so-famous paintings of Ophelia. I proudly named Greenaway and Gaiman as influences.
I imagined myself an artist. And, truthfully, I suppose I was one.
I read Good Omens back then, too, delighting over the religious tropes and subversions, the humor, and the fundamental faith in humanity that shone through.
In the two decades since then, below the din of “responsible” choices (that have mostly moved me away from imagining myself an artist) there has been a melody quietly bringing me comfort, shifting my perspective, and reminding me who I want to be. When I stop to listen for and name the music, I realize much of it generates from Neil Gaiman.
The Graveyard Book gave me comfort and hope as a new parent.
Ocean at the End of the Lane reminded me of the layers and the depths⏤the archetypes and metaphors⏤present in everything around me, if I am willing to seek them.
Neil’s anecdote about meeting Neil Armstrong has been a talisman against imposter syndrome. Or, more precisely, it has been a permission slip for forgiving myself when the imposter syndrome inevitably surfaces.
The episode of Dr Who he wrote (“the Doctor’s Wife”) changed the way I understand the entire Dr Who experience before and since.
Lucifer (tv), which his work inspired, gave me joy, comfort and distraction through a tough time in my life.
When, a few years ago, I realized he is Jewish, I had that swelling of pride and resonance that I always get when someone I admire shares that identity with me.
And now there’s the Good Omens tv series. It has opened something in me I didn’t realize was closed. Crowley and Aziraphale are helping me better understand myself, and love, and gender, and storytelling, and, believe it or not, Torah. I am writing again for the first time in ages. I'm drawing more often and with more joy than I’ve known maybe since childhood.
I’ve been getting back into my gratidoodle practice, drawing and writing what I’m grateful for. And when I decided to add Neil Gaiman’s face and some words about my appreciation for his work to my sketchbook, I realized he’s brought me full circle.
Text and image and text-as-image + Neil Gaiman + story is an old constellation for me. And once again, I find my thoughts dancing, shifting, blossoming to the quiet melody of (one of?) the greatest storyteller(s) of this generation.
And now that I am actively engaging with other Gaiman fans, I see how responsive and kind and encouraging he is to those of us who love his work, and his name is permanently etched on my heart: a benefactor, a teacher, a role model.
How satisfying and fitting that such a powerful and resonant voice, miraculously, thankfully, beautifully, also seems to be a genuine mensch.
B”H (thanks to God) that I am alive at the same time as such a one.
#I didn't realize I was going to write AND draw when I started this #but I felt I needed both #I wish I had a flatbed scanner #this photo doesn't do it justice #there's greater nuance in the color in person #Stories matter #Art matters #like, really matters #Neil Gaiman is a gift to this world #Good Omens #Crowley and Aziraphale #Ocean at the End of the Lane #The Graveyard Book #Neil Armstrong and imposter syndrome #The Doctor's Wife #So grateful for tumblr
#crowley x aziraphale#good omens#neil gaiman#david tennant#michael sheen#ineffable husbands#jewish good omens#aziracrow#jumblr#my art#ocean at the end of the lane#the graveyard book#the doctor's wife
670 notes
·
View notes
Note
What did Andrew Lloyd Webber do to make Patti Lupone upset? Sorry, saw your tags and i was curious
Oh.
Oh honey.
You sweet child.
Anyway, get ready for one of the most infamous showdowns in all musical theatre history, with the guy who writes the straightest musicals on Broadway (derogatory) and the one and only, the matriarch, the queen, two three-time Tony award winner Patti LuPone.
So, Andrew Lloyd Webber was basically kind of a boy genius in his prime - he met his future collaborator Tim Rice when they were 17 and 20 respectively, he wrote his first big hit, Jesus Christ Superstar, at 22, with Tim Rice writing the lyrics. And it was kind of a big deal at the time because the topic was controversial (you know, the Passion with rock music), but also because Broadway wasn't that far off from its golden age and let's just say the music and style were very different from, say, My Fair Lady. Or The Sound of Music. Or Funny Girl. It was basically the Rent/Hamilton of its time. (Yeah, Stephen Sondheim was around at that time, he worked on West Side Story which was revolutionary in of itself, but he's kind of an oddball in this case. You'll understand why later.)
Their real follow up (I'm not counting Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat for a variety of reasons) was a little musical called Evita, which you might know mainly because of a song called Don't Cry For Me Argentina. Or at least, your mom has probably heard it once at the very least. It's that song that's oversung from a musical while being out of context along with I Dreamed a Dream for Les Misérables. Or Memory from Cats.
youtube
Evita tells the story of Eva Peron, the wife of an Argentinian dictator, who basically screws her way to the top and ends up becoming the mistress of Juan Peron and the most beloved woman in her country through guile and deceit. Yes, I know the historical accuracy is very much debated but I know jackshit about Argentina's history except the bare basics so don't come at me. It was first produced in the West End in London, with Elaine Paige in the role, but because of Equity issues, she couldn't reprise her role for the Broadway production. So a Julliard graduate who was mostly starring in David Mamet plays got the part instead, and that was Patti LuPone.
Patti... did not have a good time during Evita, because the part is basically the kind of score where you can tell the composer is used to writing male parts, but most female singers have a two-octave range (yes, you got Julie Andrews who used to have a three-octave range, and many others, but they're exceptions), so she struggled a lot. That being said, if you listen to live recordings of her, you wouldn't be able to tell, and it got a lot easier later on. But she had this to say:
"Evita was the worst experience of my life. I was screaming my way through a part that could only have been written by a man who hates women. And I had no support from the producers, who wanted a star performance onstage but treated me as an unknown backstage. It was like Beirut, and I fought like a banshee."
This is from Patti's autobiography, which she wrote in 2007 - 8 years after shit with ALW went down. With all that said, she won a Tony Award for Evita, and she pretty much became a musical theatre household name from then on. She played Fantine in Les Misérables, Nancy in Oliver!, Reno Sweeney in Anything Goes. Meanwhile, ALW's next big hits were Cats (I'm not even kidding, Cats was a hit), and, you guessed it, The Phantom of the Opera, which he wrote in part to showcase his then wife Sarah Brightman's triple threat talents.
So, you need to understand before I continue that ALW, from my perspective, has always had a bit of an inferiority complex. He's basically associated to writing these commercially successful musicals that show a big spectacle but aren't ultimately substantial. I'm not sure I entirely agree with that, but I do think that if he didn't have Hal Prince, Maria Bjornson, Charles Hart and Gillian Lynne backing him up for Phantom, it would have probably been a Rocky Horror Picture Show knockoff people would have forgotten about pretty quickly. This is what I mean:
youtube
Yep, that was Phantom before any of the people I mentioned above (and Michael Crawford) were really involved.
Remember how I said Stephen Sondheim was an oddball? The thing with him is that his musicals weren't always commercially successful, but in general, in part thanks to being Leonard Bernstein's protégé, he was generally pretty well-respected and it was considered that his work was bringing musicals to a whole other level. Without Sondheim, you wouldn't have Jonathan Larson, and you wouldn't have Lin-Manuel Miranda. I am convinced ALW is resentful of that, and when you stop and think about it for more than 10 seconds, it's so obvious he REALLY wants to be Sondheim or at least command the same level of respect, but that's a story for another day.
So, after Phantom, ALW had other musicals that followed that either got a meh reception or outright flopped. Then there was Sunset Boulevard, which is based on the movie of the same name with Gloria Swanson. Despite all of her griefs for Evita, Patti LuPone agreed to partake in the musical as Norma Desmond, for its production in London, with the promise that she would transfer to Broadway once that production would open. And overall, after a string of flops, Sunset was actually doing pretty well.
HOWEVER. One day, while reading the gossip column of a newspaper, Patti found out that contrary to what she was promised, Glenn Close, who was meanwhile starring as Norma in the Los Angeles production, was to play Norma on Broadway. That was a complete surprise for her since no one on the production team had bothered to tell her it was happening - and keep in mind that for the news to come up the way it did in a gossip column, it probably would have necessitated a delay of a few weeks between the producers and the newspaper, which would have given them plenty of time to break the news to Patti. And Patti kind of needed the leg up because she was pretty bitter that a) Madonna was cast in the Evita adaptation instead of her; b) they actually lowered the key to fit Madonna's voice range, and she still had to expand her own to be able to sing the (lowered) score. And trust me, Patti is mad about it to this day.
So of course, she trashed her dressing room, the cast and crew weren't even mad about it because they were as shocked and angered as she was by the news. Patti sued Andrew Lloyd Webber for breach of contract, namely for 1 MILLION DOLLARS (yup, those are the real numbers), won, used the money she got from the lawsuit to get a swimming pool, which she called (and I SHIT YOU NOT) the Andrew Lloyd Webber Memorial Pool. Since then, Webber is dead to her, to the point rumor has it she had part of a building blocked during an event so she could get out of it without coming across Webber, because she hates him so flipping much she doesn't even want to be in the same building as the guy.
(There's also drama that happened with Faye Dunaway who was supposed to replace Glenn Close after she went from Los Angeles to Broadway, except they abruptly closed the show down after Close left, but that's a story for another day)
So with all the bad press, and with ALW forced to pay 1 million dollars for Patti's lawsuit, that led Sunset's productions to close earlier than expected. ALW has stayed around since, with... mitigated output, so to say. The lowest point for a lot of people is Love Never Dies, the sequel to Phantom, which some people love, and that's fine, but it didn't do well with either critics nor fans of the original show, which ALW is EXTREMELY BUTTHURT ABOUT. And like, there are so many stories I could tell about LND alone, but I will share my own crack theory about it, since it does relate to the ask.
Anyway, buckle up.
So. There have been jokes going around for years that the Phantom in LND is basically ALW's self-insert, where he displays to the world that he's totally not over Sarah Brightman leaving him (in part because making Phantom kinda ruined their marriage lmao), despite, you know, having married since. (Aaaaaakward.) So LND basically becomes this really uncomfortable therapy session where a man writes a self-insert musical about how his ex-wife made a big mistake of leaving a sensitive artistic soul such as himself. The characters from Phantom who appear in LND are all more or less unrecognizable as a result, and one who gets it worse (in my humble opinion) is Meg Giry, who was basically Christine's sweet and loyal ballerina friend who basically went into the Phantom's lair on her own to save her friend despite the danger. In LND, she's basically a bitter hag (because ALW hates women, guess Patti was right about that), who really likes the swim and even has a stripping vaudeville number about it, written in universe by the Phantom, no less.
For comparison, here's Don Juan Triumphant (the Phantom's opera in the original):
youtube
And here's Bathing Beauty (the vaudeville number):
youtube
Yeah, so... do you see why people hate LND already?
And that's not the only thing with Meg! She's also pining for the Phantom to pay attention to her and threatens to drown the Phantom and Christine's secret love child when he makes it clear that he's gonna love Christine for EVA AND EVA.
So, with everything we learned today about ALW, would someone like him view someone like Patti LuPone as some sort of crazy, bitter diva who's obsessed with him for whatever reason? Absolutely. Would he be petty enough to insert Patti LuPone into his self-insert musical, which gave us the version of Meg Giry we got in LND? Of course. Why does Meg love to swim so much and why does she drag Gustave out ostensibly for a swim? Is it a dig at Patti's Andrew Lloyd Webber Memorial Pool? Maybe.
I kind of hope we find out one day if that theory is true. And maybe start a kickstarter so Patti can add this painting from the 2004 movie in her collection.
Fun fact: during the process of casting for the 2004 movie adaptation of POTO, ALW allegedly suggested Patti LuPone to play Carlotta... only for Joel Schumacher to have to awkwardly remind him that they were not on speaking terms. The idea was therefore promptly dropped.
#YOU'RE WELCOME ANON#anon asks#Andrew Lloyd Webber#Patti LuPone#evita#sunset boulevard#phantom of the opera#love never dies
3K notes
·
View notes
Note
As if you couldn't turn Max watching her breathe into a masterpiece, don't lie🙄 idk maybe they're driving around in her new car and they coincidentally see Elliot😂 would be a nice reprieve from *clenched teeth* freddie
Sooo.
I tried to incorporate a bit of Max watching her just breathe because it’s funny. But also Elliot. But also the car.
But also mostly I was just freaking out because the male perspective is so alien to me. This might suck. We’re going to be KIND if it sucks because I’m just a girl okay men don’t make sense to me.
Anyway, I’m deciding to name this one because this is what I was listening to when I wrote it.
✨set during winter break✨
Call It What You Want To
“How do you take this long to get ready?” Max groans in frustration, dragging his hand over his face.
He’s been waiting 45 minutes. Not the longest he’s ever waited for you, but he’s been looking forward to this night out for two whole days. After everything that’s gone on in the last couple of weeks, and how none of that is likely to be resolved before Testing next week, he could really use a drink or twelve.
“I’m almost done,” he hears you call back, your tone telling him you’re unbothered by leaving him waiting. “Do you want everyone to think you have an ugly girlfriend?”
Max opens his mouth to reply but closes it just as quickly. What is he supposed to say to that? That no one on earth has ever thought his girlfriend is anything less than breathtakingly beautiful, so much so that it stopped him for thinking you could ever be his girlfriend more than once? That sometimes during a race he looks at the tv screens on the track in case you’re on camera? That whenever he passes the picture of you in his hallway he thinks he’d have hung it up even if he didn’t know you, because you’d still be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen? No. He’s not saying any of that. Three months is way too soon to let you know that you could use his balls as earrings. It’s not like you need a bigger head.
“I want my girlfriend to get to the club before it closes,” he shouts, stifling a smile. It’s been three months, but he still likes saying girlfriend.
“You’re such a drama queen,” he hears you say, your voice getting closer as you make your way to the living room. “We can’t all just put on a t-shirt with a funny saying on it and-“
You stop when you round the couch and finally notice him staring at your slinky black satin dress. Actually, he’s staring at the parts of you not covered by the dress, which gives him a lot to stare at. He might just give everyone what they want and quit driving if they could promise him he’d only have to lol at you in this dress for the rest of his life.
“What?” You ask him, which has him blinking furiously, trying to focus. You’re holding out a pair of heels to him, the ones you bought with the gift card his dad’s wife had given you for your birthday.
“Nothing,” he says, taking the shoes from you. He shifts off the couch to kneel in front you, lifting your leg to put the shoes on your foot and do up the buckle. “You look good,”
Above him, he hears you chuckle, and then your fingers run through his hair. You’re petting him like a cat, and he’ll be damned if he ever admits how close he feels to purring.
“Why does that still sound like it’s painful for you to admit?” You tease, using a bit more of your nails on the final run through of his hair.
“It’s not painful,” he tells you winding the glittering strap around your ankle.
It’s not painful. Sometimes it’s a lump in his throat, or a tightening in his chest. Sometimes, when he’s on one knee in front of you like he is now, it’s an urge to say something he can’t yet find the words for. But no, it’s not painful.
He finishes with your other shoe, squeezing your calf gently before placing a kiss on the inside of your knee.
“You’re just painfully gorgeous,” he says as he gets to his feet. “Can we go?”
You roll your eyes at him with with a smile. “Your car or mine?”
********************
He chooses to take your car. Every time he gets in your Ferrari, he thinks about Vegas. He drives it often.
He weaves through the streets of Monaco with one hand on your thigh, and he can’t remember where the fuck he was putting that hand before you.
“The thing is, unless the contract gets sorted next week, he’s totally fucked,” you’re saying as Max turns onto Avenue Princesse Grace. There’s a gaggle of people outside with their phones out. Simply fucking lovely. “You’re not listening to me are you?”
Max turns to you, squeezing your thigh as the car slows. “Of course I am, Engel. Do me a favour? Just say fuck again, a bit slower,”
“You’re twelve,”
“You would not have gone out with me at twelve,” Max jokes, slowing to a stop in front of Twiga as a valet comes towards the car.
“You were cute at twelve,” you say, “fourteen is where it started to go haywire,”
Before he can respond, you’re getting out of the car, and immediately the camera phones are focused on you. Max follows you out, handing the keys to the valet as he tries to ignore the feeling of being hunted. He wonders if they know he can hear every word they’re saying. He wonders if they’d like him to take their picture and post it all over the internet. He watches you slink through the crowd towards him, not even bothering to pretend you’re not being watched.
It’s ironic, he thinks, he brings the spotlight, but you’re the one who shines in it.
Inside the lobby, you head straight for the elevator while he talks to the woman at the front desk- it’s a well rehearsed routine. Lando isn’t here yet, typical. He asks if they can send over some St. Tropez cocktails and some gin tonics, and texts Lando to hurry up, before turning to join you at the lifts.
Except, he notices, you’re not alone. You’re standing by the lifts, with a big smile on your face, explaining something to a guy with a familiarly large head.
Max has seen Elliot around a couple of times. Monaco is stupidly small, especially in the winter when it’s nearly empty. The two men always studiously ignore each other, because what is there to say? Max doesn’t know if Elliot knows that you’re together now, and he knows it shouldn’t matter, but it does.
He didn’t hate Elliot in Austin, even though he’d planned to. But then they’d met and Max found he really couldn’t hate someone who was as smitten with you as he was, as he’d always been.
He finds that he kind of hates Elliot now, though, as he gets close enough to hear you giggle at something.
“No. It was actually okay, just cold, you know?“ you stop when Max places a hand on the small of your back, where you dress is low enough that he’s touching your skin. You turn to him. “Oh, hey. Is Lando here?”
Max shakes his head.
“Typical.” You sigh. “Max, you remember Elliot, right?”
“Yeah.” He says, and they shake hands. How are you?”
“Can’t complain,” Elliot says with a shrug. His shirt matches your dress. Fuck him.
“Well, you can if you want,” Max jokes, except it’s not a joke because he hates those Britishisms. If you want to say something just say it. And if things are fine and you have nothing to complain about why make it sound- he just doesn’t like the guy. And he doesn’t like that you liked the guy.
Mercifully, the lift arrives, and when it does, Max steps aside.
“You take this one,” he says, gesturing to the open lift. Elliot looks like he wants to refuse out of politeness in the way only English people do, so Max forces himself to put everyone out of their misery. “It’s the least I can do,”
It’s such a dickhead thing to say, but he can’t help but smirk, and it does the trick. Elliot gives both of you a tight lipped smile and steps into the lift, pulling out his phone as the door closes.
You turn to face him, his hand falling away from your back as you fix him with a quizzical look. He waits for you to chastise him for his comment, then wonders fleetingly if you’re comparing him, in his silly t-shirt and tight jeans, to Elliot in his perfectly crisp chinos. Then he finds himself staring at your lips.
“Oh, right,” you say suddenly, tapping his shoulder. “That’s what I was saying. So this builder says he’s ordered all the materials, but he has to no contract. And my dad…”
Max listens to you talk, winding his arms around your waist in a way he’s still getting used to, and you smile at him in a way he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. He promises himself then never to get angry with you when you’re getting ready. You’re worth the wait.
199 notes
·
View notes
Text
Salvation
Series Masterlist
Kind of a sequel to Say No to Me, but can be read as a standalone fic
Fandom: Narcos
Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader
Rating: 18+ (warnings: mild choking, name calling, Papi kink, Mami kink, handcuffs, crying, spanking, fingering, mild cuckolding kink. Justification of violence and American imperialism?? Idek you guys)
Word count: 5.8k words
Summary: Shaken to his core by witnessing Colonel Carillo shoot a kid, Javier comes home guilty and questioning the role he plays in the war against drugs.
A/N: Say No to Me did soooo well, so I wrote a little more about about Javi and his wife. Hope people like this too 🥺🥺🥺. Warning: The characters’ views on violence and geopolitics are not my own.
“I don’t see the difference.”
“What do you mean you don’t see the difference? Those assholes poison this country, poison the US. We’re trying to stop them.”
It was their first argument. Leave it to him to bring work home and argue about it with the pretty professor he’d been dating. His job was always a point of contention for them. She didn’t care that he flaked out on dates, forgot to turn up for dinner with friends and slinked into bed late at night with no explanation as to where he’d been. No. What she worried about was the fact that he was a man with a gun.
The first time he met her outside the restaurant the both of them frequented, he was on a raid where her friend happened to live. He’d opened a door, gun in hand, just like he opened many other doors in Columbia in his quest for men associated with the Medellin cartel. He’d surveyed the rest of the place like he always did. Behind the woman was her. The beautiful woman he’d been buying buñuelos for at the restaurant like he’d buy a drink for a woman at a bar. The woman who’d smiled at him in a silent thanks each time the waitress brought her the buñuelos he ordered for her. The one who reciprocated by sending him coffee.
She never saw him the same again. She stopped meeting his eyes when before, she’d always looked around for him shyly. She stopped eating at the restaurant, opting instead for takeaways he found her eating in her car. He’d confronted her, sweet-talked her and gotten her to take his buñuelos again. Talked her into having coffee with him every morning and took her back to his place to fuck.
They always wondered out loud to each other what life would be like had he not done that.
“I wouldn’t be picking up dirty socks from all over the apartment.”
“And I wouldn’t find hair clogging the drain. But I would also be perpetually single.”
“And that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Bad thing. No wife to come home to. No one to wake me up with a warm wet mouth around my cock.”
“Jodón!”
“Te amo, Cariño. Eres mi corazón, mi conciencia.”
If he weren’t a married man, he would have driven to the brothel he used to frequent before he decided he would go on a date with her. He’d take the first willing woman he saw and fuck his pain, his frustrations, his failures into her. She’d be nothing but a warm wet thing in which to bury everything for a bit of cash.
Doing that with his wife didn’t take away the pain or the frustration. It produced guilt. Finding hand-shaped bruises and bite marks on her body made her hide her face in his chest to keep her sweet shy smile away from him. But it just made him feel undeserving of her, like he was tainting the one truly good thing in his life with his violence and brutality.
Her black and white perspective on his job changed eventually. Marriage wouldn’t have been possible without it. For the first time, he felt a pang of guilt for deceiving her into marrying him. When it was just coffee and sex, she insisted that he keep his gun and badge away from her sight. They scared her. He felt offended that she wouldn’t accept him whole.
Eventually he stopped hiding work from her. She grew comfortable with his gun on their bedside table along with her pretty night lamp, books, personal diary, jewelry, and framed picture of their wedding at the embassy. She no longer flinched when she wrapped her loving arms around him and found his gun tucked in the back of his jeans.
He changed her, turned her into someone who could casually listen to him vent about the day to day violences of his job. Turned her into a woman who shared a bed with the kind of man who stood by as his colleague put a gun to a kid’s head and pulled the trigger. He wanted to drive off to the closest bar and drink himself to death, but as though on autopilot, he’d already driven himself home. He parked the jeep in the garage, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
What should he have done to stop Carillo? Could he have stopped him at all? It wasn’t as though he knew what the man would do… Or maybe he did. He couldn’t plead innocence over Carillo’s actions when he was the one celebrating his return, knowing fully about his cruel tactics. He sensed something was off when Carillo made those kids kneel on the ground, hands on their heads. Some of them still had baby fat in their cheeks. The Colonel knew what he was going to do. It was why he left Steve behind.
Steve was given immunity from these cruelties. While he’d been a bachelor when he first met Carillo, Steve was always the family man with a pretty wife to go home to. And now a baby. Now, he was also a family man with someone awaiting his return. Did Carillo not know that? Did he not see the glimmering gold band around his finger? Or did Carillo see something in him that indicated he was prepared to witness such horror? Something that said he lacked a heart unlike Steve. How did Carillo manage to go home to his wife and kids? How did he hold them in his bloodied hands?
“Javi?”
She’d opened the jeep door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was truly out of it.
He whispered her name as she cupped his cheek, taking all the comforts that her touch afforded. He closed his eyes and swallowed as the guilt set in. The kid’s parents would need comfort tonight, not him. He didn’t deserve this. He should pry her hand off of him, reject her gentle touch. Stop her from tainting herself further.
She leaned close to him and he hummed gratefully for the proximity that allowed him to breathe in the fresh scent of her citrusy soap and her coconut shampoo.
He said her name again, like a prayer, like she was his god and he, a devotee who sought her for salvation. “It’s going to be okay, mi amor. Whatever it is…It’s going to be okay.”
“I need you,” he said as he nuzzled into her neck.
“You have me, Javi. I’m right here, whatever you need. Okay?” She swept her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp, already taking care of him.
He hopped out of the car with a renewed energy now that he had her permission. “Need you right here, baby,” he muttered hurriedly and curled an arm around her waist, picking her up and placing her on the hood of the jeep. He tugged at the satin tie holding the robe together, untying it to reveal her in her purest form. No underclothes, no jewelry except her rings, just her. He palmed her shoulders and pushed the garment off of her, holding himself back from ripping it off when she took a few seconds too long to free her arms from the sleeves.
He spread her legs apart, mumbling, “Need to see you, querida. Need to see your pretty pussy.”
He placed a hand on her belly and pushed, forcing her to lie back down on the hood. It had to be uncomfortable, but he couldn’t think beyond getting his dick wet. She said whatever he needed, so he was going to take whatever he needed. He was going to take everything he could out of her, leave her spent and unable to offer him anything more.
He pushed her legs wider, spreading her out obscenely for his eyes. Her body held marks of their passion. Her knees were bruised from kneeling at his feet and bringing him pleasure with her lips. Bruises of various colors were scattered all over her, tainting the pure smooth skin she brought into their relationship.
She left her marks too. If he looked in the mirror, he would see the crescent shaped scars she’d left behind, some still healing from spilling blood for her. He would find that her name was etched on every scratch and bite she left behind, claiming him as hers and contrasting between the scars he did not ask for, scars he earned chasing sicarios on rooftops.
Javier was marked by all the successes and failures of this perpetual chase of the bad guy. He’d tripped, fallen, jumped from balconies, been shoved into walls, pistol whipped and grazed by bullets.
She’d asked him for one thing only when he was on one knee in front of her— Give me all of you, Javi. So he did. He came home every evening, touched her with hands covered in the blood of the innocent collateral damage in this war.
He bent over her and pressed his chapped lips on her plush ones as his hand found her breasts. She tasted sweet as she always did. There was something beyond the sweet treats she was so fond of. It was just her, just the sweetness of her heart and the kindness of the words uttered by those lips. Once upon a time, she did not like his taste. Their first kiss had her pull away, face scrunched and the lips that’d rejected him complaining about the taste of cigarettes. He used to keep a pack of gum on him at all times- in his pocket, in the glove compartment, on his bedside table, in the living room just to rid himself of the vile taste of his terrible days so he could drink her sweet moans from her lips.
She no longer complained. She’d gotten used to it, had grown to like it even. They didn’t want to waste time washing away the day’s traces before getting lost in each other. They took each other as they were, accepted the ugly and the gruesome, the sweat and the weariness, the mistakes and the guilt.
He released her from the kiss and nudged her chin up by his nose. She whimpered quietly and returned her hand to his shoulders to push his leather jacket off. He helped her out, shrugging the garment off and letting her hands run over his chest with only the thin gray shirt separating them. He nibbled on her chin, reining himself back so as to not bite too hard. She had to be a few orgasms in to enjoy such roughness. He fondled a breast in his hand, pinching his index and middle fingers together to tug at her nipple.
The vibrations of her moan as he kissed down her throat went straight down to his cock. He marked her all the way in his journey from her neck to her cunt. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, bite, bite—
Mine, mine, mine.
Fingers found her cunt faster than his lips that were busy marking her as his. He rubbed her with his tainted hand and she raised herself off the hood of his jeep to meet his hand. He pushed her back down and placed a firm hand on her belly, pressing down to send a message.
Stay down. Obey.
She stayed put, taking only what he gave. Slick coated the tip of his finger as he pushed between her pussy lips. “Were you touching yourself before I came home, querida?”
“Yeah,” she managed to voice.
“Couldn’t wait for me?” He asked as he pushed a finger in, roughly and with no mercy. She gasped silently as she squirmed on the metal surface.
“Sorry,” she whined as he found the spot inside her that drove her wild, one that her dainty fingers couldn’t reach. “Papi, ‘m sorr—” she shrieked as he pinched her clit.
“What did I tell you about touching what’s mine?” He asked, getting irrationally angry about her pleasuring herself. Useless. Useless on the job, useless at home. An absent and neglectful husband whose wife had to resort to touching herself.
“That everything that’s yours is mine too.” He could hear the smile in her voice as she recalled the sweet beginnings of their marriage even when spread out in the most vulgar way for him.
“Everything. Except this,” he said, palming her cunt. “Let me just have this. All for myself.”
“So you’ll be a good boy and share everything else? Lend my ass to some other guy, it’ll be f—” she gasped mid-sentence as he grabbed her throat and pulled her up to meet him face-to-face.
“You letting other guys in when I’m not looking, baby?” He asked, applying the slightest pressure around her neck. He knew she would do nothing of that sort. He wouldn’t either. For all his faults as a husband, he was loyal. But they liked pretending sometimes. It played into his insecurities a little, into his fears of being so inadequate for her that she had to look elsewhere. It wasn’t a fear for him sexually. Yet. But it angered him when she asked a colleague to do so much as put up a shelf in their living room. That was his job as her husband.
“Hmm, sorry Papi… He was right there and I really missed you,” she played along as she thumbed his lips.
“Told you you were all mine, baby…” he said, pinching her clit just hard enough to bring her the pain she craved from her. She jumped and wrapped her legs around him, the heels of her feet digging into his back.
“You just told me that just now! How was I supposed to know before this?”
“Put a ring on it, didn’t I?” He said before he took her left hand and thumbed her rings. “I put three on it, in fact. What else is a man supposed to do, hmm? Put a collar on you?”
Her breath hitched, letting him know that she very much liked the image he put in her head. He took it as his cue to continue, “Would you like that? Hmm? I’ll finally make you look like the bitch in heat that you are.” She tightened around his finger and dug her feet into his back harder as though she wanted to pull him closer.
“Hnnngg please!” She whined as she began fucking herself on his middle finger. He added his ring finger, making her fuck herself on the finger that showed the world who he belonged to. Showed the world that he belonged. Showed him he wasn’t a lone man, that there was someone home who gave a fuck. He pressed the pad of his thumb on her clit, circling it gently, barely touching as she used his fingers for his pleasure.
“Javiii!” She cried his name, her voice grabbing at his heart. He belonged. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled her flush against his chest, needing to feel her skin against his.
“Yeah, baby. ‘M here, I’m yours,” he whispered into her neck and sucked on that spot that was bruised from all the times he’d wrapped his lips around it because he knew it made her melt in his arms.
She moaned his name over and over— Javi, Javi, Javiii— and he drank in all of it as he fucked her with his fingers. It grounded him, her moans. Told him she was real, this life they had was real and pushed away the horrors he’d participated in. He was just Javi, her husband Javi who just came home from work and made her scream his name. Not Agent Peña.
“Come for me, Cariño,” he encouraged when he felt her nearing her peak. He continued doing what he was doing, kept up the pace, kissed her neck and squeezed her tits, taking turns between each one when she finally collapsed in his arms, dropping her entire weight on him as she gasped for breaths.
“Want more,” she whined, her voice raspy from screaming his name. She palmed him through his jeans, making him hiss before she moved up to his belt buckle and tugged impatiently. “Want your cock, Papi.”
“Greedy little thing,” he scolded before kissing down her neck. “I just made you come, didn’t I? You’re still shaking but you already want more?”
“Pleeeeease!” She cried, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and letting her hands roam his chest. “I missed you.”
“Missed me? I fucked you silly in the morning before you went to work. Did you forget?”
“Missed you all day. I thought about it the whole time, thought about your cock.” She said, palming him through his jeans. He managed a smirk, trying his best to not let her know how much her touch affected him already.
“Thought you were more professional than that, bebita. Did you rub one out in the restroom thinking of me? Take a break from teaching to touch this wet little cunt for me, Mami?” He asked as he touched her gently, knowing she was still sensitive from how he played her with his fingers.
She shook her head and nuzzled into his neck, her bashful smile catching his attention before she could hide it away from him. “Can’t disappoint my darling wife, now can I?” He teased, quickly unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his jeans to free himself. She reached behind him and squeezed his ass before she grabbed his gun and set it aside on the hood.
The cavalierness of her action struck him. The woman who was frightened by the mere sight of his gun was now handling it casually. If he had noticed it any other day, he would’ve been proud. But not anymore… He had changed from the ambitious fool he used to be in Laredo. And he had changed her.
“Hmm yeah, don’t want your wife letting other men in her ass,” she teased as her hands roved over his torso, the pointed tips of her nails making the hairs on his arm stand up. She reached his dick and wrapped her hand around it when he decided enough was enough. He slapped her hand away, pulled her off the hood and turned her around before pushing her back down face-first. It happened so quickly that she didn’t seem to realize what had happened.
Usually, he felt guilty only after taking his frustrations out on her. Now, he felt the guilt had already begun to surround him, thickening the air he breathed until he felt it was choking him.
“Stay right there,” he ordered, holding her down as he reached into his pocket for his handcuffs. He snapped the cold metal around her wrists and leaned over to whisper into her ear, “I’m gonna take you rough, cariño. Can you handle it?” When she nodded, he asked her again, “Will you let me fuck you hard? That’s okay tonight? I need to hear a yes. A clear yes.” The nodding wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t feel right in the head and he needed her to be clear.
“Yes, Javi,” she said, turning a little, her cheek pressed on the hood as she met his eyes. “I want it. I’ll tell you to stop if it gets too much.”
“Okay,” he breathed out as he pulled his leather belt off through the loops of his jeans. As the leather cracked in the air, he noticed her ass clench. He grabbed a handful of her behind and let go before swatting the flesh. Mesmerized by the jiggling of her behind, he let her find reprieve for a few second before he repeated the motion for the other cheek. He reduced the gaps between each slap to her ass, enjoying her screams and cries, unbothered about whether they were waking the entire damn neighborhood.
When he felt she was adequately prepared, he folded his belt in two, holding the metal buckle tight in his hand and wrapping the excess leather around his fist to make sure he didn’t accidentally hit her with it. They liked leaving marks on each other, but none that would be as painful and permanent as the damage metal would cause. He reached between her legs and found her pussy, wet from her cum, making her let out the soft sounds he would lock up in the depths of his mind to look back on whenever he missed her.
“Love the pretty sounds you make for me, bebita,” he praised, pleased with himself as he caught her dazed smile. As much as he liked seeing her in the throes of pleasure, he liked it more when he could bring out her sweet smiles. It made him proud, knowing he could do that to her.
“Think you forgot the belt, Papi…” she said softly, her tone contradicting the depraved thing she was requesting.
“So eager,” he mumbled, his words buried by her scream when his belt made contact with her ass. “Quiet, querida. You don’t want to wake our neighbors. Don’t want them to run over here to check on you now, do we? They might accuse me of being an abusive husband and I will be forced to explain that my little pain-slut of a wife begs for this shit.”
She trembled underneath him, holding her hand up to seek comfort. He took her hand glady, entwining their fingers and giving it a kiss before he dropped it back down. She huffed in disappointment, making him feel just a little guilty for taking her comfort away from her. Promising himself that he would give her all the love and affection she needed after this, he slipped his ring finger inside her. He was met with no resistance and he enjoyed how she took him in, enjoyed how she dripped down his finger and coated the gold band with her deliciousness.
“You would like that, won’t you? My little exhibitionist. I knew you were one when you made me finger you in my jeep before I could take you home for a proper fuck,” he reminded her of their first time together, delighted in himself as she tightened around him. He gave her a few quick pumps before withdrawing abruptly to make her taste himself on his fingers. He tightened his grip around the belt and landed another one, the black leather kissing her skin. His hand effectively muffled her scream, but she bit down on him hard, making him hiss.
He fucked her mouth like he fucked her pussy, aloowing himself to be satisfied with how her tongue swirled around his fingers. Forgetting himself, he pressed himself against her ass, grinding to relieve himself just a little. She pushed back at him and he took a step back, realizing what he’d done.
“Mierda!” He cursed. This was not the right time to rub the rough denim of his jeans on her sensitive behind.
“Lo siento, mi amor…” he apologised, bending down to kiss her temple. “Just… can’t wait to have you.”
“Just a— just few more, Javi baby…then— and you can have me,” she breathed out between pants.
“How many more? How many can you take?”
“Four. Each. No breaks, just go. Alternate it.”
“Sí, Mami,” he nodded, taking her command. He crumbled up the soft tie of her robe and pushed it into her mouth before he stood back and took quick aims, raining her with one hit after another.
Her cries and screams were muffled by the cloth he’d shoved in her mouth, but he was certain she would be heard if someone happened to walk by the garage door. While this was a safe neighborhood thanks to it being embassy staff quarters, late night screams were unfortunately not a rare thing for the city. At other times, it chilled him to the bone and made him want to send an armed bodyguard with his precious girl wherever she went. Now, he contented himself with the fact that nobody would come knocking to check on the poor screaming woman.
He pushed his jeans down to his knees and lined himself up with her tight, wet heat before forcing himself in.
“Feel. So. Fucking. Good.” He grunted, alternating each word with a thrust into her pussy. She gripped him so tight, so good, so fucking good.
“Dios mío, Mami. Tan perfecto,” he spewed praises, grabbing her hair with his fingers and giving her a painful tug to force her to show him one half of her face. She was utterly debauched, freshly washed hair all tangled up in his hand, eyes glazed over with everything he gave her, lips bruised and swollen and cheeks covered in her tears. He was sick in the head, he knew that and God, she knew that too. He was a sick fuck, making her cry for him, getting himself harder in her cunt as he watched her spill more tears from his thrusts.
“Lo siento,” he mumbled, still giving her what brought on the tears in the first place. He knew she wanted it, she’d told him so several times, reassured him as she cradled him in her loving arms. She understood him, sometimes more than he did. She knew the depths of his wretched would and found herself a place in it rather than running away screaming.
But that didn’t make him stop apologizing, “Lo siento, Lo siento, por favor… Mi amor, perdóname, por favor—” his words caught in his throat and he let out a sob around her name. He let his tears fall, bent over her and slipped an arm around her shaking body to pull her close to himself. He buried his cries into her neck as his thrusts slipped out of rhythm.
She spat out the cloth that he’d stuffed her mouth. “Javi? Are you okay, baby?”
He shook his head, unable to hide himself from her any longer. “No te merezco,” he whispered.
“Uncuff me. Wanna— need to touch you,” she begged. He snapped her cuffs open, having left it unlocked for her safety. Her hand was on her immediately, comforting him with her touch.
“Javi…I got you, honey. I got you,” she reassured him, taking his hand in hers and giving him a squeeze. He peeked out a little like a frightened yet curious child and caught the gleaming silvery metal of his pistol on the hood. It simply sat there, too close to his wife, not inspiring the fear it should in her. He’d ruined her so much that she could simply have it in her line of vision when she took him.
“Lo sien—”
“Javi, Javi, it’s okay. Everything’s okay, mi amor… It’s alright.”
“Dime que me quieres,” he begged. He needed to know, needed to hear that she still loved him even though he doubted she would if she knew Agent Peña as much as she knew her husband Javi.
“Te quiero, te amo, Javi. Mi amor, mi corazón, mi—” she whined as he unknowingly hit a spot. All these years knowing her and he somehow didn’t know that this did it for her. He repeated the motion, thrusting in the exact same angle with the same vigor that made her cry so sweetly.
The world turned hazy around him and for just that moment, he was just Javi, just her Javi. He belonged to her and the pleasures she brought him, belonged right in her sweet pussy that made his lips moan her name over and over and— He let out sounds he didn’t recognize to be from his throat as she gripped him like a vice and he struggled with the in and out motions, needing to just bury himself in her for eternity and never leave. As though she’d heard his plea, she granted him the high he’d come home craving, pushing him over the edge yet holding onto him, keeping him safe, keeping him hers.
He stayed put even after he’d spilled inside her, needing the closeness, needing to surround himself in all her goodness whether he deserved it or not.
“Javi…What happened, baby?” She asked, caressing his hand with a tenderness that warmed his heart. “What were you apologizing for? What happened?”
He removed himself from her and turned her around to face him. He kept his eyes on the ground as he retrieved the robe that had fallen to the floor. He draped the fabric around her and she stumbled as she took a step ahead. He pulled his jeans up and zipped up before he surveyed her form. She couldn’t walk without limping. Fuck! He was the piece of fucking shit.
He picked her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him on his chin and then on his cheek, keeping her eyes on his as he carried her through the corridors. It was thankfully too late for anyone to be wandering outside.
He laid her out on the couch when they got home, opting to sit on the floor at her feet rather than next to her. She let him place his head on her lap and even massaged his scalp with her caring hand. He shut his eyes and let himself get lost in the feeling, needing the comfort despite being undeserving.
“You were right,” he spoke quietly into the night.
“About what, mi amor?” Another time, he was sure she would have laughed and said she always was.
“When you said you didn’t see a difference. Our first fight. You said you didn’t see the difference between them and us. ‘S bad no matter who does it, the violence. Guns.”
“That was a long— why are we talking about this now? Is that what’s got you so worried? Javi, I didn’t know what I know now. It was a very…reductive way of thinking about it. I told you that much later.”
He felt he’d manipulated her somehow, put the perspective of the bright-eyed young Javier who’d come to Columbia to be ‘the good guy’ who put bad guys in jail and saved the world or whatever the fuck he thought he was going to do. He had done good, sure, but the bad… Oh god the bad.
“Carillo is back.”
“Yeah, you told me…”
“Whenever we go on a fucking operation, the guys we’re trying to nab are always a step ahead of us. Escobar’s got informants everywhere. Kids. Some the size of your nieces. Couple teenagers. Bad situation at home, either they don’t have a choice, or they don’t yet understand what the hell they’re doing… I thought we were just going to scare them. We rounded them up, Carillo was doing the talking. This kid got too mouthy, you know that kind of teenager with the ‘fuck the police’ attitude and enough blind courage fuelled by his newfound independence… It just felt off, baby. I should’ve done something, but— This is how it’s going to go from now on and everyone will turn a blind eye because we’re just that desperate.”
“Javi… Tell me what happened.”
“He shot him,” he managed to say. “Carillo shot the kid. To make a fucking point.”
Her hand stilled in his hair and her eyes widened. “I want to think there’s a difference, but it’s getting harder and harder everyday to see it. Escobar’s using these kids to save his own ass and we’re killing them to send him a fuckin’ message.”
“You didn’t pull the trigger.”
It was a statement, but he replied as though it was a question. “I didn’t pull the trigger.” He was a piece of shit, but he needed her to know that he hadn’t gotten that bad.
“You can’t carry others’ sins on your back, Javi.”
“I was there when—”
“So were the others. And Carillo pulled the trigger. You think he’s at home apologizing to his wife?”
Yeah but you didn’t marry Carillo.
He shook his head and she took his face in her hand, cradling his cheek like he was something precious. “You do what you can, Javi. Your hands are as clean as can be for a DEA Agent. You can’t bear other men’s sins. And you can’t change how entire governments operate.”
“You wouldn’t have said that before.”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have. Back then, I didn’t have to stay up all night waiting to hear my husband’s car arrive so that I could run to him and see for myself if he’d come home to me in one piece. I was on the outside before but now I’m in the heart of it, with you. I know you try to shield me from the worst of it. I see how you and Steve whisper about work instead of talking out loud. But I’m not naïve. I know you’re in danger most days and there are some things that you just have to do.”
“I have blood on my hands. I’m not the same man you married. And you’re not the same, I changed you. I made you believe in something I don’t believe in anymore, pulled you into my mess and—”
“It’s okay,” she declared with a quiet smile. “As long as it’s not your heart. As long as you’re not bleeding out on the streets. If you need to get blood on your hands to keep yourself alive out there, I won’t stand in your way. I don’t want you thinking about whether I would approve of the morals of what you did. I don’t care if I change. Change me, get the blood on your hands on mine and I’ll clean you up before I have to send you back out there. I don’t care who has to bleed for you to see another day. I’ll always take the man you are when you come home, no matter how much you have changed. I know in my heart that you’ll never do what Carillo did. I know who I married and it’s not a Carillo.”
She pushed his errant curls out of his face, bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead. “You are the same man I married. You have heart. And you want to do the right thing. Unfortunately,” she said, taking a deep breath. “There are just some things you can’t control and you just have to let go of it to face the next day. You can’t do that with others’ sins on your shoulders. You know you have enough of your own to lug around.”
She allowed him her comforts, her words and her touch and the warmth of her lap as he put his head down. He wasn’t wholly convinced by her words, but closed his eyes knowing she would be there when he came home. She would have him, broken down and full of guilt. He would come home to her for the rest of time and find salvation in her arms and that would be enough.
.
.
.
Series Masterlist
Read my other fics here
#javier peña#javier pena fic#javier peña fluff#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena imagine#javier peña x reader#javier peña x ofc#javier peña smut#javier pena smut#javier peña fic#javier peña fanfiction#narcos fanfiction#narcos fic#javier peña hurt/comfort#married javier peña#husband!javier peña x reader#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fanfic#warning: bad spanish#all that i've inflicted on the world
831 notes
·
View notes
Note
What if, after a few days of 09wife moved all the way across the barracks and not seeing her, he realises that he does miss her? And then he tries to regain her affection, but she - logically- can't move on that fast. I suppose she would also need therapy or at least a support person/system - most likely the rest of the squad (who didn't know everything - especialy the motel thing - and might tear him a new one for it).
Pretty angsty all around, I guess.
holy shit.
i actually gasped because i completely forgot about him going away to scratch his itch in a hotel.
christ. i wrote that? i was clearly going for the jugular then.
he pisses me the fuck off.
honestly, i think that'd be a huge dealbreaker. idk, him genuinely doing what she said, knowing how much she loves her husband, which technically means she loves him too, is so callous.
it almost seems on purpose. simon's no idiot, and if he truly felt like he owed her nothing, which is why he did what he did, then i don't see him caring for her at all.
but idk. i'm probably just blind to a situation that could change his perspective of her without it having to be life or death, on his part.
ooooh, maybe her like doing stuff that normally a wife would for him, and ever since she just disappeared, he's come to miss it.
if he came back to base with a torn mask, it was always mended come morning. he always woke to a warm cup of tea, and it was always fully stocked.
he got used to the smell of her body wash permeating his quarters every time she showered.
he got used to seeing smaller shoes perfectly lined up next to his heavy work boots.
he got used to opening his door and seeing the lights on, a scented candle lit, and you, sticking your head out from the bathroom, welcoming him back home.
simon thinks that he simply got used to having you around, and he never really noticed how much you did for him, or meant to him, until you fizzled out of existence.
his masks after a particularly grueling mission stay broken and torn. he can't sow for shit, so he just tosses it and grabs another.
his room now smells like his cheap 7-in-1 body wash every time he showers.
there's a space next to his boots, and it seems so abnormally empty, even though nothing is out of place.
whenever he comes back, his quarters are dark and cold. it smells like it's been unlived in for a while, and when he looks at the bathroom, the lights are turned off and the door closed.
he takes off his mask and sits on the cot that he hasn't bothered to put away in case you come back— even though it's been almost a year since you left him.
anyway, yeah. he'd have to grovel to hell and back. there is no sliding up beside her like what you wanna eat tonight as an apology.
he'll have to be clear, concise, and both of them definitely need therapy.
and soap needs to fight simon for your honor, maybe even toss in a, "maybe she's better off with me than ye, aye?"
135 notes
·
View notes
Note
i don't wanna rush you or anything cuz u should take ur time. Just wanted to let you know that we NEED more Rudy and Alejandro content😭. Rudy is criminally underrated 🥲 like an obsessed Rudy crushing on mc? My heart-
Hey sorry that it took a bit to answer.💓 I love Rudy with all my heart💓 He is so underrated 💓and have many drafts of him, but I never had something where he was like obsessed , but I tried my best if you don't like it Im sorry :(, you didn't say if you wanted smut so I just wrote it without smut. I was half asleep writing this ngl😭
Anyways here 💓☀️🦋
Sweet as Cinnamon
Rodolfo was never one to fall for just a pretty face; he wasn’t shallow; he needed more. He always had that picture of the future Mrs. Parra in his mind. She needed to be soft, cute, romantic, and tolerant of everything. She needed to be a safe space from all the demons in Las Almas which haunted him.
When he turned 35, he almost gave up on his dream, too many failed attempts at dating. There were the ones who dated him to get closer to Alejandro, the ones who couldn’t handle him being a Sergeant Major, and then the ones who were too much involved with the cartel business.
And then one day he met you. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but it was almost as close. The way you carried yourself, your charisma, the way you laughed, and the way your eyes sparkled, you were perfect for him.
He didn’t want to do anything more than approach you and ask you out on a cute date, but this time he couldn’t fail, not with his lifelong dream. So he made the only rational choice and became your shadow, trying to find out everything about you while constantly nagging Alejandro about how perfect you were.
"You know you could always talk to her," Alejandro suggested, not seeing the bigger picture Rodolfo saw. It needed to be perfect; you needed to want him before he made attempts; it should be natural. So he found out everything about you: the way you liked your coffee, your favorite book (which he bought and read to have something to talk to you about), your favorite film, favorite food, and even your workplace. It wasn’t a surprise for him that a sweet thing like you owned a bakery; everything was freshly baked by you, and it tasted like absolute heaven to him.
When he watched you through the window, he imagined you staying in your kitchen, him wrapping his arms around you while you baked for him and your kids - it would be perfect. And you would never even come across the cartel; you were a delicate flower that needed to be protected and cherished, and who would do the job better than him?
The hard part was getting the men away from you who also wanted you. Of course, he knew you were a sight that would make every man weak in his knees, but you were already his, and the other men needed to understand that.
Some people underestimated him, thinking he was too short and not as muscular as Alejandro, but when the Sergeant Major stood at the poor men's door with a sinister grin and a firearm, telling them to never speak to his wife again, they listened. It made your love life absolutely miserable, but he was a good man; he only did this for you, and you would appreciate it at the end of the day when you finally could sleep in his arms, protected from the whole world.
After a year of preparation, he finally did it. He walked inside your bakery himself; the faint smell of cinnamon and fresh strawberries lingered everywhere; it was perfect. Of course, he knew your baked goods tasted good; Alejandro always brought him some, but he never went in himself. And the perfect girl you were, you were immune to Alejandro's flirting, one problem less.
"Hello, sir, how can I help you today?" you smiled at him, and his world stopped. You were even prettier from this perspective, flour on your face and that sweet little red apron. He wanted to marry you instantly, just carry you away and tie the knot, but he was a patient man, and right now, this was what he needed to be.
"Just some cinnamon rolls," and so it went on for weeks. Rudy became fast your favorite customer; he was always nice to you, funny, and left a good tip, like an extremely generous tip for just some cinnamon rolls. And if you were true to yourself, he was incredibly handsome, making you always blush like a girl with her first crush. Unfortunately, you thought he wasn’t interested in you. You always tried to flirt, but he never flirted back, or maybe he was just too obvious to realize it.
On Valentine's Day, you stayed the whole night away, baking red velvet heart cinnamon rolls just for him, a new creation, plus he would get a little heart on his cappuccino, which you tried to master for weeks.
He couldn’t contain himself when he saw this; he knew you were smitten, how you blushed and interacted around him. God, you were as obsessed as he was, but he needed to wait; he had his perfect plan.
He gave you his number just in case; Las Almas was never safe, and just so he could sleep calmly, knowing you’re safe, he said.
And surprisingly, a few weeks later, after you closed your little bakery, a man followed you on the way home. At first, you thought it was just imagination, but when you walked five times around the block and he was still there, you knew. So you did the only thing your mind comprehended: you called Rudy.
"Rudy, I'm being followed," you sobbed into the speaker while your feet practically ran.
Luckily, Rodolfo was there, shoving the guy away. If only you had known how he thanked his friend Fernando for scaring you a bit - he didn’t like this, but it was necessary. He wasn’t a bad guy; he saw himself as a determined man who would do anything for his future love.
If it were possible, your eyes would have turned into big cartoon hearts; god, he was perfect. Maybe you should try the first step, even if it's embarrassing, maybe he doesn’t like you.
"Thank you, Rudy."
"Don’t mention it, mi corazon." You blushed at this pet name, looking at him with your big doe eyes.
"Rudy, do you maybe want to stay the night to make sure he doesn’t come back?" And how could he say no to this opportunity? Well, he had your words already planned, but it still made something with him.
"Of course."
"Rudy?"
"Mhm?"
"You know, I thought about maybe we could-“ You stopped, feeling incredibly stupid. Rudy was perfect; how could he want someone like you, a normal person? But for him, you were everything but normal; you were perfect the way you were, the missing piece to his life.
"What can we do?"
"You know, get to know each other better," you mumbled beneath your breath, looking at the ground.
His calloused fingers pulled your chin up, forcing you to look into his beautiful eyes as his lips softly fell on yours. It felt like fireworks; if you thought you were kissed before - you weren’t, this was new, exciting, and perfect like in a Disney movie. "Like this, mi corazon?"
"Mhm, I like this way to get to know you."
"You don’t know how long I waited for this," he admitted, looking into your eyes as if you were the only thing keeping him alive; you were everything.
"I waited longer," you admitted, and he thought, if only you had known, how long he wanted you and chased after you, the things he did for you. And the only thing on your mind was if he only would have known how long you looked at him when he was still watching you from outside the bakery.
#cod#cod mw2#cod mwii#cod x reader#call of duty#tf 141#rodolfo x reader#rodolfo rudy parra x reader#rodolfo parra#rodolfo cod#los vaqueros#call of duty modern warfare 3#call of duty modern warfare#tf141
92 notes
·
View notes
Text
more rambling thoughts on pride and prejudice and my first foray into jane austen so far
1 austen really loved the word “felicity” - i love getting a feel for an author’s language - i’m also so glad that she’s so much funnier than i thought she would be! i didnt know she was funny at all. everyone always focuses on the romance and heightened emotions of her stories but why have i never heard about her social commentary, sense of humour, clever use of plot, etc.? this is what i love & this is what she excels in imo!
2 mr wickham is so byron-coded its unreal. the regency era rake vibes are unmatched. his “idleness and dissipation.” his hysterical levels of pettiness and melodrama. tbh love him. can’t wait to see what he does when he finds out darcy has told elizabeth his side of the story
3 coming from my studies on byronism i’ve seen lots of papers compare/contrast the work of austen & byron & now i finally know why — they’re both great at satire but approach it in such different ways that it makes a really interesting juxtaposition. they shared the same publisher, although there’s sadly no evidence they ever met or corresponded; austen once wrote that she read a work by byron, but she gave no review of it — & his wife was a fan of austen, but byron/austen never mention each other personally or their opinions on each other/their works. i feel like he would’ve really liked her though. after i get more into austen’s other works now i want to read byron’s don juan and one of her novels back to back to compare the use of satire & social commentary from their differing perspectives!
175 notes
·
View notes
Text
Somewhere Out There
Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x Wife!Reader
Synopsis: Deployments are hard, but when you have someone to come home to, someone to love, that makes things easier, painful as it may be.
Warnings: Maybe a little bit of angst, I guess, offscreen sort-of implied married-people-doing-married-people-stuff 😉😉, minuscule cursing, a PG-13 use of the F-word, and a crap-ton of fluffy, lovey-dovey goodness.
Author’s Note: I don’t write reader fic.
I really don’t.
I write ship fic and gen fic, and I’d say I’m pretty decent at it, judging from the comments on my stories.
But then, @valmare came along, and we just clicked.
Mostly through screaming about Top Gun, naval aviators (*cough*tomkazansky*cough*), and our mutual appreciation for Val Kilmer.
And I knew I wanted to write something for her, especially since she was celebrating 300 followers!
Unfortunately, deep down, I knew I couldn’t write a ship fic for her.
I would have to write a reader!fic.
So, because I love her, I delved into the uncharted (for me, at least) waters of reader!fic.
I’m honestly not sure if this is any good, I wrote it in a perspective I’m not used to, and I hope and pray it makes any kind of sense.
Title is from the song of the same name, “Somewhere Out There”, from An American Tail.
To my dear Mir, I swear I began writing this yesterday, but I touched on things that you did in your own most recent fic, however, I couldn’t for the life of me, find another way to put what I wrote.
I promise on Goose’s grave that I did not plagiarize you.
All I can say is… fangirls think alike?
Please don’t hate meeee!!!!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this attempt at wading in the waters you so expertly navigate, my dear!
Happy 300 Followers!!!
The mist was rolling in from the sea, she absently noted, while the rising sun caught the minuscule droplets of water in the air, making the very wind shimmer.
Even inside, she could smell the faint tang of salt in the air, one of her favorite scents, but it was missing the key part—so much was missing.
The warmth of her husband behind her, for one thing, as they watched the sunrise on this window seat, her legs bracketed by his, his arms around her, the scent of spice, bourbon, and jet fuel which was all him, surrounding her.
God, she missed Tom.
Right now, he was halfway around the world on a ship, and she was watching the weekend sunrise without him, for the first time since they got married.
She knew this was part of being married to an active duty naval aviator, but it didn’t make the ache any better.
She tugged the collar of the USNA t-shirt up to her nose, but the scent was so faint from when Tom had tossed it to the floor the night before his deployment.
She sighed; she could still remember how he’d made her feel that night—he’d made her body sing, playing her like an expert musician would his instrument.
She’d felt him for days after, and if she focused enough, even now, she could almost feel his hands on her, the paradox of how gentle they were, despite the callouses on his palm, his lips on hers.
For all that he was called “Iceman”, she never saw an iota of the reasoning; with her, he was never anything but unfailingly warm, gentle, kind, loving, and passionate.
It had been nearly a week since she dropped him off last Monday at Miramar, exhorting Mav and Slider to bring him home to her.
The grave promise in the two men’s eyes as they readily agreed, had to be comfort enough, and wordlessly, they hauled Tom’s seabag between them, a strap in each of their hands, cheerfully bickering as they went, to give her a chance to say a more private goodbye.
She didn’t know what to say to him—this had to be one of the most painful things she’d ever done—giving her husband up to the sea and sky for ninety days, not knowing if he’d return to her alive, safe, having to trust only in his skill on the stick and his wingmen to bring him back to her.
Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and Tom’s eyes softened, as he drew her into his embrace. “I’ll come back to you, lyubimaya moya,” he whispered in her ear, all too aware of how dangerous it was to speak Russian on base, outside of the safety of the walls of their house, but aware that she needed the comfort.
“Promise me—promise you’ll come back to me, Thomas Kazansky,” she fiercely murmured, drawing back to look at him, taking the opportunity that she would shortly not have.
“Always.
No matter what, no matter what oceans part us,” he replied, an intensity which would frighten others, but which soothed her, in his crystalline eyes.
She gasped and desperately tugged him to her, his kiss piecing her heart together and breaking it, all for knowing that it was the last time she’d feel it for three months.
He’d taken her soul with him the moment he let her go to do his duty.
Back in the pain of her present, a sob masquerading as a sigh tore from her lips—it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough until she had him back in her arms, back in her bed, back in this house, where she felt like a shade of herself, a modern-day Eurydice.
Her legs reluctantly carried her to the kitchen, where she prepared her weekend coffee, narrowly resisting the urge to pull out two mugs instead of one.
But when she picked up the can of Maxwell House, she fumbled it, because it was far lighter than it should’ve been—heavy, but not the still-full can it should have been.
Tentatively, she opened it, and gasped when she saw that the can was filled with folded-up pieces of paper, each marked with dates on them, in Tom’s careful, exacting writing.
She tipped the can over, and the papers came spilling out—there had to be at least three months worth of letters here, one for each day of his deployment.
She frantically searched through the pile, looking for today’s date.
Upon finding it, she dashed back to the window seat, deliberately peeling the tape holding it closed, unable to treat the letter with anything less than the utmost care.
She quickly noticed Tom’s writing here was cramped, as if he were trying to fit everything he wanted to say on this one small piece of paper.
“Hello, solnishko,
If you’re reading this, it means that you’ve found the letters I wrote for you; one for each day of my deployment.
As I write this, I am next to you in bed, looking at your beautiful face, so peaceful in sleep, but the mere thought of my impending departure already tears me apart more than I thought possible.
I won’t have thought of anything else but you since the moment I left your arms, I am absolutely certain.
You know all too well why I joined the Navy—my search for a home, a real home, one not plagued by unattainable standards and harsh words.
I eventually found one in the sky, and for the longest time, she was enough, with her freedom, her thrill, but there were still demands, still standards, though the words were kinder.
Then I met you.
And you changed everything.
You are my home, lyubimaya moya; with you, I don’t have to be Iceman, or Lieutenant Kazansky; with you, I can be Tom.
Just Tom.
Your Tom.
I can’t wait until I can be your Tom again.
Eighty-four days, zhizn moya; and I’m yours again.
Yours forever,
Tom”
She pressed her hand to her chest, careful to avoid crumpling the paper beneath her hand, a tear slipping from her eyes, the ache of his absence soothed with the absolute confirmation that he was thinking of her just as she was about him, and intensified, knowing that he was so far away.
Eventually, she sniffled, brushing away her tear tracks, wishing it was Tom’s hand, and gathered herself.
Eighty-four days.
Eighty-four days, and she’d have him back—a short eternity, to be sure, but a small price to pay for what she’d get back at the end.
Until then, she’d count the sunrises, holding him and the words he’d written for her, close to her heart.
Tom stared out at the horizon, watching the sun come up on the relatively quiet deck of the Enterprise.
It meant that he lost a good thirty minutes of sleep, but it was worth it, just to know that his wife was looking at the same sunrise, or she would be, at any rate, given the time difference.
The horizon spread out before him; endless, and the fleeting, errant thought that she was just there, beyond the beyond, entered his mind.
So far—a little over six thousand nautical miles, more or less, depending on the course and speed of the Enterprise, further than any F-14 could fly—and yet so near, because she was never far from his heart.
He’d never thought he could love anything or anyone more than her—among his other endearments for her was zhizn moya, because that was what she was to him: his life.
Tom idly twisted the band of gold around his left ring finger, more proud of that simple ring than the hard-won blue-jeweled Annapolis ring on his right.
God, he missed her.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Tom turned to see Mav, coming up to lean on the railing beside him, none of the usual cockiness on his face.
“You shouldn’t be up yet, Mav.”
A haunted expression lingered on the edges of his wingman’s face as he searched for anything but the truth to tell, and Tom knew. “The usual?”
“Yeah,” Mav rasped. “I—I checked on Merls and Sli, but I got—got worried when I—I didn’t find you, so…” the black-haired pilot trailed off, before continuing, “you okay?”
“I should be asking you that, but… yeah, I am, just…”
“Just missing her,” Mav nodded sagely, almost wistfully.
“Yeah.”
“How do you even handle that?” Mav asked, frowning.
The sunlight made him feel more honest than he would probably otherwise be, Aurora’s kiss a comforting benediction, reminding him of all he had to come home to, and he replied, “What makes you think that I am?” He shook his head, “Doesn’t really feel like I’m even here, honestly.”
Mav good-naturedly smirked, “You left your heart in San Diego?”
Tom side-eyed his wingman. “Yeah, actually.
You’ll understand it one day, when you meet the right one,” he sighed, thinking of his wife’s beautiful smile.
“I dunno, Ice, I’m not sure if I want to be you, or be thankful that I’m not.”
Tom scoffed, unable to help his grin. “It’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her—”
“Not exactly selling it, Kazansky,” Mav interrupted.
Tom rolled his eyes, “I wasn’t done, dickhead.”
At Mav’s grin, Tom continued, “As I was saying, it’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her, but knowing that I get to come home to her… that makes it all worth it.
I hope you get this someday, Mav.
You sure as hell deserve some fucking happiness in this life.”
Mav smiled weakly, but honestly. “Maybe one day, Ice.”
The two of them smiled at each other, before Tom clapped Mav on the shoulder. “We better get going—the guys should be awake now, and if we don’t get to mess, Slider and Merlin might just take all the good stuff.”
“Good is relative,” Mav scoffed, making him laugh.
“Okay—the better stuff.”
They laughed, beginning to make their way back in.
But just before he stepped through the door amidships, he couldn’t help but look back at the horizon, the sun shedding the last of its dawning gentility, to turn into the harsh, blazing light that it was in this part of the world.
Eighty-four days.
Eighty-four more sunrises holding her only in his heart until he could also hold her in his arms.
It was a high price, to be sure, but in the face of having eternity as hers, what was eighty-four days?
Until then, he’d count the sunrises, holding her close to his heart.
“Hey Ice, you coming?” Mav called.
“I’m coming,” he replied.
And with that, he stepped inside to do his duty, eagerly awaiting the next sunrise, each consecutive one bringing him closer to his home, to his beloved wife.
I headcanon Ice as having Russian descent, but quite frankly, you can tear Slavic!Ice from my cold, dead hands.
To me, he’s either Polish or Russian.
Russian Glossary
Disclaimer: endearments and translations taken from Google—please don’t hesitate to correct me if I’m wrong, which, odds are, I am.
Lyubimaya moya: my darling/my one and only sweetheart
Solnishko: little sun
Zhizn moya: my life
#officially in my val kilmer era#not me 👀 at men literally old enough to be my father#top gun#top gun fanfiction#top gun fanfic#tom iceman kazansky x reader#tom kazansky x reader#tom iceman kazansky#tom kazansky#val kilmer
219 notes
·
View notes
Text
Yall im bored and i have dol brainrot. Here u go random mostly sfw headcanons. Most of them are just jokes btw don't take this seriously. Beware i am not dol master so If something is inaccurate pls dont crucify me. Request open btw
Includes: what kind of music they lisen, random stuff they do, ect.
I used they/them for both PC and love intrests so some of those sentences were a hell to write
Tw: me going crazy over Avery (i have issues, pls if what I wrote was weird, just close your eyes and idk explode irl idc)
Random DOL headcanons
Kylar
IM FUCKING CONVINCED that this owl plushy that they give to PC has a camera inside. Im not sure if thats mensioned in game AND I didnt see anyone talk about this. But this dude litteraly says "make sure to put it somewhere high so it can protect you/watch you over" (im not 100% sure what they said but it was along those lines)
Wants to have matching black nails with PC
If their heart wouldnt beat so fast everytime PC gets close to them, Kylar acually would OFTEN fall asleep on PC's lap or shoulder (especially in school)
If s/o is afab, Kylar is defnitly into period sex
Had a huge zombie phase and has whole plan (in details) about how and what to do in case of zombie apocalypse acually happening (and they would acually lighten up if PC mensions anything about zombies, Kylar will talk about them whole night!)
Average phonk listener
Sidney
Sometimes wakes up in middle of night after nighmares and wishes PC would be there
High purity sindey will nervously figet with cross-neckace everytime they have lewd thoughts about PC
Overthinker
Sometimes when they pray together he pretends to have eyes closed but they acually look at PC cuz omg love, you look stunning
Watched Barbie with PC (liked it very much)
Lisens to Mitski
Pure Sydney cried after lisening to cupcake songs
Great Hawk
Dude is a simp
Loves when PC has flowers in their hair, and please give them some too!
If PC praises hawk when they give PC expensive objects (jewellery, wallets, purses ect) this harpy guy/gal will call them "little crow"😭 cuz from Hawks perspective thats how it looked like- they find wife, wife sad, they give shiny, wife happy.
(Alr guys this one is a 50/50 cuz im not sure if harpys have hands? Or just wings?) He discovered hand holding and now he wants to hold PC hand all the time!! But his claws sharp so be careful
Likes when PC has colorful hair
Sounds of Forest and other birds (and bird-people) are only sounds he music he needs 🦅
Got scared bcs there was a rock/metal music concert in city and it was loud and he was very upset
Eden
Dude wants to have kids so bad😭😭
Very tall!
If Pc is tiny/short, this guy/gal will pick them up with one hand and just carry PC back to their home
PLEASE kiss their old scars, and complement them! Eden doesnt really like how they look (they are not insecure but they just dont find time to pamper themselfs and look all fancy)
Sometimes wakes up in middle of night with cold sweat and checks if PC is still there
Conteplated if plant people are eatable
Hates deep water
Will say "I dont lisen to music" and then gets judged by PC and me. ( he enjoys some romantic old songs, i guess he likes Micheal Jackson? Maybe the ink spots??Idk)
Avery
Dude just wants to have good reputation😭😭 and nice looking PC
Tbh I would enjoy Avery-dad-figure content😭 like PC just doing all this stuff just to be accepted by some guy that could be their dad😭 their are fatherless afterall😭. Like hear me out PC just craving platonic love from this dude while he just wants to smash😓 (tbh he is not always doing sexuall stuff, sometimes he just vibes)
Pls dude is like 40 wtf is he doing with his life
*in car* "I swear PC if you say anything more about kpop im leaving you in forest"
Lisens to chrismas music😭
Ivory
Dude ate a squirrel once
I wanna cuddle them
Pls they look wet and cold, give them a nice towel and later blanket
Definitely got scared by their own reflection in mirror once
Can talk to animals
Lisens to gothic music
Likes bugs (months, Beatles, bees)
Alex
Dude lisens to Pitbull while working at farm
Picks PC up and throws them on hay piles for fun
Alex and Remy should settle this beef for good, they both should do kahoot about farm animal knowlage and no more "no its my farm not yours!" Bullshit
Watches soap opera when bored
Wears cowboys hats
Ginger
Leninghton
Rizzing up people twice younger than him (hes like 40 or something)
Enjoys board games and omg he loves card games
Hes probably married tbh
Has reddit account😔
The photos he takes in classes? He sells them
He and Bailey should kiss in meat grinder for beating PC ass for no reason🤩😍
#dol#dol great hawk#dol avery#dol kylar#dol sydney#sydney the faithful#kylar the loner#dol x reader#eden the hunter#dol eden#ivory wraith#alex the farmhand#dol ivory wraith#dol alex
161 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi
Flowers for you because you deserve 🤗
I wanna ask if you've already made a forced marriage with Deinslief?
I love reading your works ❤️
Forced / Arranged Marriage Trope
(pt. ??) Dainsleif x Reader
A/N: Hi, Anon!!!! You're too sweet </3333 Thank you for the flowers, they're so pretty TTTT I haven't written one of these for him yet but, I wrote it for you!!! I'm sorry that this took a while, I've been writing but never have the time to post!!! I love Dain so I hope you enjoy this!!!!
WC - 988
~~~
“Knight captain of the Royal Gaurd, Dainsleif.”
The announcement of your betrothal looks as if it means nothing to you. Dainsleif can read the judgment in your expression, he can see how displeased you are as you run your pretty eyes up and down his kneeled frame.
Oh, you have no idea what you do to him.
It seems that you have nothing else to say to him, to the one which you are going to be married to, or anyone else as you turn and head back for your room.
Before you leave out the door, you take a step back and gently spin on the tips of your toes to face the remaining audience in the room.
“He is who I am supposed to be married to? A knight?” You do not hide the judgment in your voice as you speak with a squeak.
“Part of the Royal Gaurd, your majesty,” One of your handmaidens answers and it does not satisfy you in the least. Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline as you manage to give her a tight-lipped smile.
You await their bows and curtsy before stepping out of the room, no doubt heading for your place of solitude. No matter how much you despise this alliance and wish to push the knight off, he knows you better than you think. Dainsleif knows why you push eligible bachelors away, one after another until the last they could pick from was him.
You value your independence more than anything else.
It’s also why he knows to find you at one of the more reserved fountains hidden away in the court’s garden. You’re all alone as you prefer to be, looking pitiful as ever while staring at your reflection in the rippling waves of the water.
The sounds of Dainsleif’s light steps gather your attention, a quick turn of your head but, you’re quickly back to running your gloved fingers against the surface of the water.
“I did not wish to insult you,” You quietly murmur and the knight takes it as the only apology he is going to receive from you tonight. He cherishes it.
“I understand,” Dainsleif stands beside you, his back toward you as he looks on at the hidden bushes of the garden. The shrubs are so tall that he can’t imagine anyone finding you here for hours, it’s clear why you prefer the spot so much.
“I do not have the desire to be a wife.” You confess and finally, allow your hand to scoop up some of the water. The substance completely drenches the material covering your palm but, it’s a sensation that does not bother you. You relish in the feeling of your hand in the water, it’s freeing and calm, you can choose to move however you wish. Dainsleif grants you silence as a sign to continue. “I am not devoted, not submissive in the least. I worry more about the country than I’ll ever worry for my future husband.”
Dainsleif’s jaw clicks with that as he quietly sighs, would you not care for your husband even if he were the one fighting for the country?
“That does not matter to me,” He replies and softly lets his eyes flutter shut. “I will let you keep the freedom that you desire.” At the lack of response, the knight opens his eyes and turns to face you. You’re staring at him, chin on your knees as you try to understand his perspective. He can tell you don’t understand an ounce of his harbored affections, one that has been buried for many years. The pout on your face signifies this, you look lost as you stare at the stars in his eyes.
Slowly, Dainsleif lowers himself onto one knee (fitting of a knight) and gently pulls your hand into his own. He takes his time with removing your glove and keeps his eyes trained on your face to see if your expression changes.
“I promise you will get everything you want, your highness,” He seals the promise with a kiss on the back of your hand, a gentle peck that makes you gasp. The sound is followed by a bodily reaction as you stiffen all over and immediately try to pull away.
“Why?” You ask and the quickened rise and fall of your chest does not go unnoticed by the knight. He keeps his trained eyes away from the sight. “Why do you wish to marry me?”
“Your happiness is always something I have cherished, if you trust no other man to make you happy then you must allow me.”
“Accept me.”
The expansion of your pupils tells the knight everything he needs to know, followed by the shallow intake of your breath. He forces himself to withstand his feelings of desire and tries to think of anything else than sealing the plead with a proper kiss.
You blink at his words, parting your lips to speak but no words come out. As you look down at him and run your eyes over him one more time, you begin to nod.
“Alright, only because you have properly protected me for so long.” You announce before bringing your hand to gently cup his cheek. Dainsleif has known you since he got the position assigned to you, over five years ago before either of you broke the yolk of adolescence. “And, because I know you will be a good husband.”
The softness swimming in your eyes nearly makes the knight’s heart stop. His breath hitches in his chest as he tries to mask the effect you have on him. The task is entirely hard to do now since you’re finally reciprocating his feelings.
Dainsleif will personally see to your utmost safety until the day he no longer roams this earth.
((Perhaps that vow is why his lasting immortality stings that much harder since he ends up living much, much longer than you do.))
387 notes
·
View notes
Note
This might sound silly and i know bruce is bisexual and all but from a queer standpoint, the scene where he proposes to selina feels a lot like compulsory heterosexuality. "I love you. I HAVE to love you."
And considering the timeline, joker was HIDDEN INSIDE BRUCE'S BASEMENT my god the implications, the metaphor....
Yeah, the whole thing is... [clears throat] very interesting. These two panels, which happen relatively close in time, put it into perspective:
Batman (2016) #32 // Dark Days: The Casting
However, to be entirely honest, I don't think Bruce proposing to Selina, and that whole arc... can be boiled down to just compulsory heterosexuality. It's more complicated than that. Bruce is doing this after interacting with the Batman of Flashpoint, his own father, who begs him to try and be happy. And Bruce's idea of happiness, very much inspired by Thomas', is settling down with a woman and having a family. Gaining peace.
Tom King is the one who wrote the wedding arc, and the whole thing is permeated by this... typically masculine, American idealization of women as this isle of peace that a tortured man yearns for, but can never fully choose. I'm sure there's names for this trope or stereotype, but I'm too lazy to look this up. Think Michael Mann movies, think James Bond movies, think stories about criminals and agents and soldiers leading a dark violent life aspiring to put down arms, and the whole dream being entangled with a woman. A female character who usually isn't fleshed out beyond the representation of leaving a life of violence behind, having a nice wife and nice children in a nice house with a nice white picket fence. Tbh it's not surprising to me that King ended up writing Bruce and Selina with these undertones, because of King's infamous background with the CIA before he became a comic book writer.
And thing is, I don't think it's inaccurate to portray Bruce this way. Bruce has lead a long life of violence, and he wants to want to stop. He wishes it didn't define him as much as it does, he wishes there was another path for him-- and this wish drives his attempt to settle down with Selina. "I have to love you" is less about "you're a woman and I should marry a woman", it's more about "if I love you I am more of a human being, and I need that." Yes, it's compulsory heterosexuality too, in the sense that Bruce is drawing from the heteronormative idea that happiness can only be achieved through normality, and normality = wife and retirement. But it's also a sad, desperate attempt at salvaging himself through Selina, whom he does love... but the things he loves about her are less about her, and more about himself. In the end, his own subconscious acknowledges all of it, during the Knightmares arc:
Batman (2016) #69
[sigh] It's all quite sad. And I've said it in a different post, but this is partly why -- in a seemingly paradoxical way -- a relationship with Joker has the potential to work. "You can't love anyone but the Vow, but the Bat," Selina (a figment of his own mind) tells Bruce. And Joker is part of the Vow. In many ways, over the decades, Joker has become the endgame of the Vow, the incarnation of all the things the Bat is supposed to defeat. It's fucked up and makes me want to chew on glass, but the Bat could allow loving Joker, because loving Joker would be a part of the Mission.
Anyway, I went on a bit of an unncessary tangent, but yeah! I do agree, Anon. So many implications.
243 notes
·
View notes
Text
Before You Go - P.6 | Future Donatello & April O’Neil Insight
(Reader Included)
A/N: Any constructive criticism is appreciated. Reader comments and feedback are also welcomed a lot.
I have been gone for a long time. Just occupied with my studies! No fan fiction author curse or anything (yet).
Summary: You’re both adopting-parents of Casey. The story follows the perspective of Donatello and April O’Neil during the Kraang apocalypse. You and Leonardo decided to ask them to watch over thirteen-year-old Casey.
In other words, familial interactions between April, Donnie, and Casey Jr.
Reader: Gender-neutral pronouns are used, except the terms “(Mom / Dad)” are also used. Second POV.
Pairing: Rise! Future! Leonardo X Reader
Warnings: Bittersweet.
Word Count: ~3490
Parts: One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / ...
~
Donnie knew how much of a genius he was.
It was no surprise after all. In his late teens, he improved NASA’s satellites to communicate with planets light centuries away. He cured breast cancer through the use of protons in radiation therapy to target specific cells, rather than affecting the harmless. Hell, he even managed to discover a new type of radioactive particles: mutons. By that point, he—.
“—should have been given a Nobel Prize in Medicine and in Chemistry.” Donnie cursed under his breath. He strolled over to his lab bench, equipping his goggles.
Squeeeak.
April– who was found seated on Donnie’s roughed-up, spinning gaming chair– raised an eyebrow. Her hair had grown out and was left unbounded. Faint wrinkles and eye bags on her features displayed maturity, in contrast to a couple of years ago. However, everyone was well aware that time was not the only factor.
“Whatcha going on about now, Donnie?”
The softshell huffed. “Recall when I wrote a report about my experimental findings with an invention meant to revive a deceased human being?”
“...You mean the one where you thought it was a good idea to open up Curie’s tomb? Even gone as far as to ask for my help?” April grimaced. “Who’d ever forget that.”
She proceeded to massage her temples.
“God. You were in all kinds of messed up for that, Don.”
Lightning-like yellow sparks flickered as Donnie had his robotic hands occupied with a butane torch. His goggles were sealed tight around his eyes as he built a oval-looking device on his lab bench. Titanium outer-layer over a seriously complex circuit-board; appearing as if Samsung marketed grenades.
He scoffed. “Oh please. It wasn’t as if I’d taken long to understand how Marie Curie deserves her rest for her great contributions to radiation. Thus is why–.”
“–You decided to take a poor random husband of an old wife,” April interjected.
“Ahem.” Donnie pronounced. “The poor woman was begging me for her husband to be alive again. I was simply gracious and generous enough to not charge her for the process.” He set aside the butane torch. “At least it progressed well; he stayed alive for an additional two years. It gave his wife psychological comfort, and I was able to submit my paper to the N.S.F..”
He picked up a screwdriver. “Except....”
April could tell her friend’s eye was twitching.
“They rejected my findings, nearly had me detained, and claimed it was far too ‘unethical.’” Donnie raised his volume. “Scoff! As if those researchers weren’t committing the crime themselves! Taking bodies away from families and claiming them as scientific property without permission.
If I could go back in time and shove my documents in their jaws, you bet I would.”
April smirked. “Well, I have my regrets too, Donnie.”
“You sound rather amused, April. Is that so surprising? And here I never thought you would regret your part-time job at Albearto’s. Or the fact you wasted money to switch to journalism in university.”
WHACK!
April threw her bat at Donnie’s head, flying back to her hand like a boomerang.
“Watch your mouth, mister. I may have regretted Albearto’s, but not a single moment in my life did I ever regret my journalism passion.” She stood up.
“Ouch.” The softshell vocalized, squinting his eyes toward her. His robotic clampers paused, setting aside the torch and taking off his goggles.
“Mind yourself, April. Horse-playing is forbidden in the laboratory. I am not consenting to having yet another silver-titanium apparatus get scratched because of you.” Donnie gritted his teeth. “Can you hear the negative connotation?”
“Seriously, Donnie? Where’d that come from? Not only was that years ago but it ain’t anything except a simple accident.”
“‘Simple accident?’” the softshell repeated with dramatic offense. “An accident, like many others in science labs, which could have caused severe damage! Remember the incident when your teacher dumped bleach and vinegar into the trash bin?
You know, if you had paid any attention in your chemistry class, those two would make mustard gas?” Donnie side-eyed his friend. “Simple accidents can have serious consequences, O’Neil.”
A hand crept up the lab bench.
“Uh-huh, and I’m supposed to believe an instance of me knocking over your phone and books would kill somebody?” April crossed her arms. “If anything, the blame’s yours for not organizing your desk when you got drunk on coffee.”
The hand took ahold of the butane torch.
“Donatello? Disorganized? Sounds cheap coming from you, a student majoring in Journalism.”
April pulled up her coat’s sleeves. “Oh boy, you’re about to get it—.”
Squeeeak!
Heads spun and found a 13-year old boy, replacing April’s spot on Donnie’s chair. Casey eyed the torch with a great yet concerning amount of curiosity.
“Yo, what’s this for, Uncle Don?”
At lightning speed, while April ran to move the gaming chair away further from the workbench, Donnie snatched the tool from his hands. “Child. Casey. Young man.” The softshell heaved loudly. “I must inform you this is NOT meant to be handled with such casual ease. How in Hawking did you even—.”
“Don’t your lab have a passcode or something?”
“–Is what I am wondering myself, O’Neil. I refuse to believe this child remembers the beginning thirty numbers of π–.”
“Nope, only us.” April and Donnie lifted their gazes to his lab entrance. You leaned on the frame while a dear red-eared slider stood just behind. A couple of steps inside, and the metallic lab door shut close.
Donnie– strangely– was quick to hide his device-in-progress off to the side.
“You’re back!” April grinned. “Hell, you would not believe the convo Donnie and I were having a minute ago.” She hurried to hug you.
“Figures,” Leo remarked. “We could practically hear you yards off.”
“Sounds like things never get old.” You smiled.
There was a side-eye between Donnie and April, before the Commander proceeded to inquire, coughing: “Anyhow.. care to explain the occasion? You two don’t seem to be in a hurry.”
“The only times you ever visit my laboratory are to prepare for immediate combat engagement, and you look awfully collected.” The softshell furrowed his brows.
“No, no.” You waved your hands, shaking your head. “Thank God no. We came here to ask if you two could take care of our Casey here while we head out.” The other turtle scrunched his in-quote eyebrows. “You— You came here to request us to... babysit him?”
April jabbed him in his plastron.
“You see? Just like I said.” Leo turned to you. “I know my brother, love. Don’s not the kind of guy to take responsibility for a kid. Or anyone, really.”
“Hold on.” Donnie narrowed his eyes. “I never said I refused, Leo.”
“Don’t know, it sounds like it to me.”
“Well, my misinformed brother, contrary to your belief, I am perfectly capable of handling a child.”
You huffed with amusement. Your husband only winked back.
“If you say so, Don.”
“Where are you two heading off for if you needed us to watch over him?” April inquired. “Wondering, ‘cause this never happened even when you two leave for patrol.”
“Just finding some time for ourselves.”
April exclaimed, “As in a honeymoon? Why not just say so? We’ll leave you two alone–.”
“–In this economy and climate?” Donnie interjected. “Has it also not been six years since your yet-to-be-legal marriage?”
“Alright, alright,” Leonardo chuckled. “Cut us some slack, bro. Finding time wasn’t easy when there’s Kraang above our necks.”
“Right, and you’re going on a honeymoon, how?” The softshell crossed his arms. “Simply because you’re the leader does not equate to you making wise decisions, Leo.”
“His ōdachi can teleport anyone to anyplace, we have some hope we can easily teleport to a remote area,” you answered. “One without Kraang infestation. It’ll be hard, but we may as well try.”
“Bonus points if we find clear skies and an ocean.” The red-eared turtle grinned, wrapping his arm over your shoulders.
“What’s a honeymoon, (Mom / Dad)?”
Your hand went to caress Casey’s cheek. “Parent quality time. It just means you get to handle yourself like the responsible grown-up you’ll become one day. Just promise me you’ll be on your best behavior around Uncle Don and Auntie April?”
“I promise, (Mom / Dad)!”
“Good boy,” Leo laughed, ruffling the kid’s hair.
“You didn’t ask Mikey and Raph to help out too, or?”
“Between you and me, I think you guys are better of making sure Casey doesn’t get into any chaos,” you whispered to April. “Don’t tell them that, though.”
She laughed. “Okay, I see how it is. You both have fun.”
Donnie bit his lip. Right as Leonardo and (Name) turn to exit the laboratory, he extended his arm out to them.
“Leo, (Name).”
You two faced back to him once more.
“Don’t kill yourselves out there.”
Everyone’s eyes widened– April, you, and Leonardo himself. But the brother in blue snickered, holding a smile that reached his eyes. “So you do also care for me, Don. And all this time I thought you were plotting to put me in my grave or something.”
“We won’t.” Leo placed a hand on your shoulder. “You got my word.”
“Bye (Mom / Dad)! Bye Papa!”
“We’ll be back soon, Casey!”
Donnie stood in silence as you finally left, leaving himself with none other than his best friend and his nephew. “I refuse to believe this is the future we have to deal with.”
“Times changed all of us, didn’t they?” April spoke. “One day we wish each other a good one, and the next, we hope we just don’t die. I could’ve been a famous news anchor by now, make my mother happy, fight crime without worrying about dying the next second.
..I wonder if there’s anyone else out there besides the small number of us down here.”
“..I doubt it.”
Donnie pulled himself together and walked back to his workbench, operating his clampers to work once again. He put on his goggles. Casey, being a young teenager of enthusiasm, peeked over.
“Watch yourself, boy,” April warned.
“Don’t worry about me, Auntie. I’m only standing over here.” Casey narrowed his eyes upon the glowing and metal-like ball his uncle had his tools on. “What are you working on, Uncle Don?”
“A sphere.”
“A sphere?”
“You heard correctly.”
“That sounds kind of boring.”
Donnie had to hold himself back from remarking with: ‘That is exactly what every child whose intellect is doomed would say.’
“I’m sure your mother would find it rather moving.”
“(Mom / Dad)? I don’t understand what’s emotional about a ball, though.”
“Hey Casey.” April coughed. “Why not tell us about your mask here? Haven’t taken a good look at it before. Maybe Uncle Don would like to hear it too.”
“You actually want me to talk about my mask?”
“Ain’t a problem, is it?”
“No.” He fidgeted with his fingers a bit. “You don’t have anything else to do?”
“We were just told to watch over you, kid.”
“Yeah, but everyone I know is always busy with the Kraang or supplying weapons. I never really get chances to hang out.”
There was a brief pause in the butane torch’s flame.
April’s expression softened. Her hand came up to brush his black hair. “Things have gotten calmer up there. So you’ve got plenty of time with us now.”
Casey smiled.
“So your mask?”
The boy alternated between covering his face and removing it. “(Mom / Dad) gave it to me. She told me it is based on the one worn by my biological mother. (Mom / Dad) also said that my birth mother was kind of crazy-funny and likes to be loud. She would have a stick to play– what was it– hockey?
I don’t know what kind of game hockey is supposed to be, but I guess it’s nice to know how life was like before all the Kraang.”
A sad smile crept on April’s lips.
“Anyways, I thought the mask looked kind of plain, so I decided to draw red marks on it. See?” Casey showed his mask off, fingers tapping the surface. “Guess who it looks like!”
There were two bold and thick streaks of red. Each one ran through one eye, truly a defining characteristic. The Commander chuckled, already imagining how much pride her friend in blue would feel from the fact a kid– let alone one he had been parenting– looked up to him so much.
“You know, I am seeing someone familiar here.” April hummed as she put on a thoughtful facade. Fingers holding her chin and everything. “Got to be Uncle Don.”
Named turtle paused for a moment and raised a brow.
“Seriously, Auntie April?” On the other hand, Casey gave her an incredulous look and shook his head. “You probably want to get your eyes checked out, ‘cause Uncle Don doesn’t have any red stripes.” Off to the side. “And even if he did, he won’t look as cool as Dad.”
April snickered behind her palm as Donnie eyed the boy from behind his goggles.
“You’re right, you’re right. Just messing with you, kid.” Her hand ruffled his hair once more. “Sounds like you really admire your Papa, don’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Dad has an awesome sword that opens up portals. He always moves so quickly whenever he’s fighting. Bam! And the Kraang’s gone!” The teenager stretched his arm for emphasis. “Even as the leader, Papa knows when to get serious and when to make people laugh. He also cares a lot about me, (Mom / Dad), you guys, and everyone!”
It made even Donnie himself smile.
However, the way Casey’s enthusiasm died down had not gone unnoticed. “I’ve always wanted to help out though.” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “I want to fight the Kraang right by his and (Mom / Dad)’s side. Except I barely get the chance to, because they keep telling me to stay close to base and hide behind a giant rock.”
April crossed her arms and went quiet. His feelings were nothing new. In fact, she experienced the same thing herself, seeing she had always been a human. It was like that until–.
“Have no hard feelings,” Donnie spoke up, his hands and eyes remained on his spheric gadget. The sparks were flying. “Your parents are merely worried about your well-being.”
“I know, I know. They won’t have to though, if I can have enough training or something.” Casey sighed. “Then again, I also know I’m only a normal sensitive human.
...Why can’t I be a mutant instead?”
“Ahem. You are classified as a human. That is a true statement and one you cannot change.” Donnie hummed. “However, that does not mean you cannot be strong and capable in other ways.”
“Why does it sound like you’ve been in my place before?”
“Perhaps I did. Did you truly think being a soft-shell turtle is easy? I happened to be born as one of the only Testudines species whose outer shell cannot protect.” Donnie remarked. “Casey, your mask.” His hand signaled.
“What about my mask?”
“I merely want to add something.”
Confused, he hopped off the chair and handed the mask over. “Hmm. As long as you don’t mess with the stripes, Uncle Don.”
“Who says I won’t?”
Casey kicked Donnie’s leg.
“‘Ow,’ I say sarcastically without feeling physical pain.”
“Hmph.” He crossed his arms. “Why do you keep saying things like that?”
“Such as?”
“You say those action verbs, even when you’re already doing them.”
April snorted. “Just his thing, kid. Uncle Don’s got his special quirks.”
“Do you have a quirk?”
“Picking unnecessary fights for one,” Donnie commented.
“You only call them ‘unnecessary,’ because you never want to fix the problem.”
He rolled his eyes. “My solution would’ve been ten times more efficient if you had allowed my technology and I to do the work.”
Casey wondered. “Does your tech ever go haywire, Uncle Don?”
“No.”
“Oh man,” April began, “you should’ve been there for this one time. Your Uncle Don was building some kind of overprotective bed to keep your late Gramps from waking up from his beauty sleep.”
“Gramps likes to sleep?”
“You’d be surprised to hear that he sure does.”
“Then what happened?”
“Uncle Don asked your Dad, Uncle Mikey, and Uncle Raph to try punching, slicing, throwing whatever they could on the bed. They were attacking it like crazy!”
“And then?”
“And the bed was even more insane, ‘cause there were actual missiles shooting out! They went straight for his brothers. At some point, it got overboard, so Uncle Don tried to command it to stop.”
“I’m hearing a ‘but’ coming.”
“But it malfunctioned and thought Uncle Don was the enemy!”
“However!” Donnie pointed his finger up, interrupting the story-telling. “It did not take long for my creation to recognize his master.”
“Still went haywire in my book,” April remarked.
“Ignoring that.” His robotic hand tapped the edge of his workbench, grabbing Casey’s attention. “Come here, young man.” He slid back the mask, except in his hands, it felt as if the frame had thicken.
“It looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same?”
“Try wearing it over your face.”
The boy did as told. All of a sudden, a bunch of green rectangles and words appeared in his vision. He gasped in awe. He spun around slowly, watching the rectangle focus on a figure through the wall.
“Yes yes, I know. I am well aware of how amazing I am.” Donnie huffed in pride. “I have opted to construct an interface with your mask. I cannot see why you shouldn’t have something to defend yourself with,” he reasoned. “I have other updates in mind later on. As of now, however, your mask will help you detect life forms across other rooms or through other objects.”
“That’s so cool!” The boy hesitated though. “But I don’t want to break it or anything.”
“Hey.” April rested her hand on Casey’s shoulder, giving a firm squeeze. “Our resources are already scarce. Using then losing them is better than nothing. You better make the most of our tech. Understood, soldier?”
Casey grinned underneath his mask. He fixed his posture up and saluted. “Gotcha–! Understood, Commander!”
He faced the inventor, whose hands were already back to being occupied with the “sphere.” “Thanks so much, Uncle Don!” Casey exclaimed, leaping towards the turtle to give a tight hug. “You’re the best!”
Upon contact, Donnie stiffened up, but his lack of experience with physical touch did not prevent a smile forming on his face. He extended a robotic arm, patting Casey’s back.
The boy then scanned around curiously with his mask. “Hey! Think I spot Uncle Mikey and Uncle Raph two floors down! They’re holding hands over a table or something. Why are so many people circling around them?”
April rolled her eyes. “Sounds like another arm-wrestling match between the our youngest and oldest brother.”
Just like that, Casey booked it out of the laboratory so quickly, it reminded her of a certain red-eared slider. “What the–! Casey!” April groaned. “And here I thought we don’t have to deal with runaway kids. I better catch up to him.”
“Would not worry about him too much,” Donnie commented.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Considering we will not always be alive to protect him... the sooner we leave him to himself, the easier it will be for him to survive alone.”
“Hey. Come on now.” April walked to her best friend’s side. “Don’t you say things like that. We’re all going to survive this together–.”
“April.” Slight pain wavered in his voice. “You know as well as I do how our current reality is. It is only a matter of time before the Kraang finds everyone.”
“Yet you’re still here trying.”
No response.
“It’s all because of the kid, isn’t it?” April affirmed. “He ain’t any genius prodigy you were expecting long ago. But he gave you a reason to try– he became someone worth fighting for.”
“I would not put it as simply as that.”
She shrugged. “That’s how I’d say it. You know you’re not the only one whose life changed because of Casey.”
Donnie paused his work, turning off the butane torch and finally pulling his goggles off his eyes again. “...Casey reminds me of when we were young, being rash and immature teenagers like any other. I hate admitting to such thing, but I was one too. And I hate admitting much more how much I missed those times.
The child has known nothing of the trouble we’ve experienced outside, April: when Cassandra was killed, when Draxum was torn apart, when Dad decided to sacrifice himself despite the slim odds.” His hands clenched into fists.
“Do not expect me to have any false hope for our future, but do not assume I would want Casey to feel the same way. For as long as he can, I want him to hold onto that false hope.”
“...” April had her arms crossed. Her eyes slowly came to linger on the workbench. “Is that ‘sphere’ his false hope?”
“..No. Not his.” Donnie traced his thumb over his contraption. “It’s for (Name).”
#rottmnt donnie#rise donnie#rottmnt leo#rottmnt april#rise april#rottmnt casey jones#rottmnt casey jr#rottmnt#rise of the tmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rottmnt movie#rottmnt leo x reader#reader insert#tmnt#rottmnt x reader
57 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
vasilissadragomir
the last dragomir
drwannabebigger
Dr. Wannabe Bigger
critical-laura
Is it Tuesday yet
hennighawkefashion
Hennig-Hawke Fashion
jeonfully
CLOSED