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miirohs · 3 months

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kiss me more [c.s]

pairing: Choi San x GN!Reader wc: 0.7k cw: n/a an: i blame nyx (@yangkitties) and choi san for these fuckass ideas haunting my brain… live laugh love ateez yall

“Baby.”

You hummed in response, despite your eyes never straying from your mirror.

Once again you applied the red lipstick, frowning at how it looked on you. It didn’t look quite right.

“Baby?”

“Did you call me-“ You started, pausing for a moment as Sans’ arms curled around your waist, his face settling in the crook of your neck. “San?”

“What’s taking so long? Are you okay?” He questioned, leaning on your back as he gave your bag a curious look, looking at the products littered across your bed.

“I’m fine, Sannie.” You sighed, slightly agitated as you slammed the lid of the lipstick on the bottle.

“No, you’re not,” He murmured, grabbing it from you and turning you around to him. His dark eyes peered into yours, holding all sorts of affection towards you even as you actively shoved him away. You could’ve sworn staring at him forever would’ve solved all your problems.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, please?” He looked at you, a slight pout forming as his lips. “Nothing is going right for me today,” You sighed, picking up the tube and holding it up to his face, “this little shit isn’t working like it should and i really liked it.”

“Is that so?” He chuckled, taking it from your hand and gently shaking it. “Bad lipstick!”

You gave him a small smile as he handed it back to you, a grin on his face as if he was wholly satisfied with having abused the small object in his hand. “Are you feeling better now?” He asked, leaning into your space once again.

“A little,” You admitted, rolling the tube in your hand, “I can’t quite tell what's going wrong though.”

“Look at me real quick baby?” His hands grabbed your face, bringing you closer to him. You could almost feel his lips on yours, closing your eyes as he ran a thumb over your cheekbone comfortingly.

“I have an idea that could help you fix it.” You gave him a curious look. “Kiss me as many times as it takes and I'll help you reapply if it doesn’t look good in the end?” He offered, head tilted as you opened your eyes in shock, gaping at him.

“San? I’d basically be-” He hushed you, bringing your hand up to his own face, warmth spreading through your fingers. “I said it’s okay, why are you hesitating?”

You nodded weakly, getting up.

Standing between his legs, you leaned into him as he pushed up on his hands, unflinching as you got closer. He tilted his head as you got close, heart squeezing as he looked you square in the eyes.

“I think you look even more beautiful up close,” He cooed, scrunching his nose up as you pressed down on the bridge, leaving a bold red imprint behind. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?” You blushed, looking away as he gave you a mischievous smile. “No, I still think there’s some left… why don't you kiss me a little more baby?”

Cringing, you peppered his face in kisses as he sat there patiently, leaning into your touch with a proud look on his face.

“You… you look ridiculous,” You said, stifling laughter at his puzzled expression once you finally got a good look.

“You were supposed to tell me I look amazing,” A pout settled onto his lips again as he tilted his head at you, lipstick marking up almost every corner of his face. You could see how it lit up his face, happiness in his eyes as he watched you move around him.

“You know, it doesn’t look half bad,” You said, rubbing some of the smudged product away.

He didn’t respond, too busy memorizing the look on your face, taking in everything.

“Hold on,” He said, forcing you to pause as he pulled you into his lap, “You have a little something… right here.”

He ran his thumb over the corner of your lips, leaving a soft kiss where his fingertips had traced, following a path down to the column of your throat.

“Hey Sannie,” You hummed, looking up at him, “Can I have another one?”

“Another what?” He answered in response, acting oblivious.

“You know what it is!” You groaned as he wiggled his eyebrows at you, completely unserious. You’d have to drag it out of him.

“Fine, but it might ruin your-“

“Oh just shut up and kiss me already.”

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diejager · 2 months

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I saw something about Victorian COD so hear me out-

Victorian Price in the fanciest suit

I'm sorry but that man would be so hooooooooooot as a Victorian gentleman, it fits his vibe

p.s. Happy 2024!!!!!!!

I got to this 3 months later… Happy belated new year 😅

Cw: flirting? Price being a gentleman, older man/younger woman, established relationship, tell me if I missed any.

Your father’s business parties had always been boring, they were a chore for you to keep a perfect facade to the public, the frail yet strong lady of the house, donned in ridiculously frilly dresses and thighs corsets. Your mother had fussed over it your entire life, her rough fingers, brought from her commoner background, had made her harsher in every manner to keep her title, for you to keep yours as a noble born into a world of riches. But the upkeep of it was useless when you had no part in it, forced to play a part in something you had no right to be a part of.

Granted, you had your reservation, understanding that being on the same side as your father had it’s perks, the power his title - soon to be passed down to your older brother once your father passed - and his money. You didn’t necessarily depend on it wholly, you might live in his home, eat from his cooks and call for the maids and butlers he employed, but you had your studio away from home, somewhere in the city where you painted under natural light and sold portraits to people who paid you for a commission.

It wasn’t as grand as being a merchant, to sell the luxuries most nobles sought - gems, fabrics, gold and silver - but it built you connections, your work passed from mouth to ear, one noble at a time, and one town at a time. You had your clientele and your father had his, you had an image to keep for something you worked so hard for, but to invest an equal amount of face and finesse in a snobbish party was draining. Fortunately, a few of your father’s work affiliates were regular clients at your little studio, sending letters to you months in advance to organise dates for you to paint them, it varied between one and a few months.

Your favourite was a British merchant company, lead by one bear of a man that you knew well, managed by three - a kind-hearted brit with beautiful skin, a boisterous Scot with his unusual haircut, and a broad and rugged man who hid his identity under a fearsome mask - other you were well-acquainted with and advised by a strong headed woman too advanced for your era. John Price was his name, a man a decade older than you, but treated you kinder than any man had before him, a gentleman in a beautiful suit and slacks, a red shirt and waxed shoes. He - coincidentally - matched your attire, your frilly, red chemise with a high and bowed collar, the sleeves long and rumpled in waves of red silk, waist high pants that hugged your body the same way your mother’s corset hugged her form and slick shoes that shone under the high chandeliers.

“You seem bored, love,” his soft and baritone voice never failed to make you shudder, his hand on your back a reminder than he was with you.

He was always the gentleman, a man who worked his way to nobility, gaining a title and land through blood, sweat and tears. He was known for his trades, selling and shipping a large variety of items that some considered exotic simply because nobles hated interacting with foreigners, a kind of bred racism and xenophobia through generations to fear any uprising from their colonies and other countries. He was as broad as his company was known, every core member of it respected for climbing the echelon of society through hard work. Some purebred nobles might hate him for taking a title without being born into it, but none could object his craft, like an artist couldn’t do hate their canvas.

“There isn’t much to do, is there, John?” You nodded towards your father, knowing that he was observant enough to see the slightest of movement, “My father is… he loves bathing in luxury, in the popularity his name brings.”

He hummed, a low rumble from his throat, his eyes narrowed almost threateningly, but you knew the amused gleam in his eyes. You had years to get to know him, once an occasional client - a man who stumbled into your studio wanting to let a newly risen artist a chance to paint him, admiring your work for the smooth and confident strokes - who brought his art trade to you, now a trusted friend, someone you were blasphemously closed too for someone your age.

Your friendship hadn’t lasted long, the constant coaching from Kyle and Johnny, the silent push from Simon and the proud smile from Kate had both of you meeting halfway, throwing you into his open arms and fooling around at the back of your studio until John could take you away to marry.Eloping and always sounded interesting, you weren’t needed at home, your father had an heir and your mother had your younger sister to worry about.

“He flaunts it foolishly, yes,” he agreed, raising the cup to his lips, tipping it until the champagne flowed down the glass rim, “But we have a contract, one I intend to uphold until he complete his end of it. And I met you.”

He turned to you, a tender smile hidden under his beard, his stormy blues softening as he peered down at you, adoration gleaming in his eyes. You wished you could kiss him, to grip him by the collar and pull him down to press your lips against his course ones, to kiss him deeply and show him the love you felt for him.

“I would, love, but we’re in public,” had you spoken out loud? It seemed you did if John answered you, his chuckles shaking his shoulders, “Would you come home with me once I’ve finished my business?”

“Of course, John.”

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#cod mw2 #x reader #cod mw2 x reader #captain john price #john price #price mw2 #price x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #victorain au #female!reader #fem!reader #price modern warfare #established relationship #older man younger woman

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ikeromantic · 4 months

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Hello. For the New Year's asks may I request Sariel and horseback and gingerbread? Thx

Oooh this one was a little hard! I hadn't considered pairing Sariel with those options, but I had a good time coming up with a scene ^_^ I hope you enjoy! Approx. 1300 words of our favorite devilish councillor! IkePri New Years Event story!

Sariel grinned at the awkward way Emma sat in front of him on the horse. “No one is going to believe you were gentle-born with that kind of seat,” he admonished.

“There’s literally no one out here.” She gripped the saddle horn tightly as if it was the only thing keeping her on the mount, and not Sariel’s arm around her waist.

“You can never be sure who might be watching.” He snugged her back against him, hoping to reassure her that she was in no danger of falling off.

Emma glanced at him over her shoulder. “You’re right. As usual.” She sighed. “So how would I make this look more . . . normal?”

“First, sit up and let go of the saddle horn.” Sariel nudged her arms. “No high born lady would lean forward like that unless she was racing. And that is a wholly different sort of saddle.”

“But . . .” Her expression was conflicted. She wanted to trust him, but riding along at a fast clip made her nervous.

He eased their speed a little to make her less anxious. The last thing he wanted was to upset his lovely fiancée.

She gave him a grateful smile and then carefully let go of the saddle horn. “Oh, oh my - Sariel! I feel like I’m going to slide off!”

“You aren’t going anywhere. I promise.” He stroked her side with his thumb, to remind her he had a hold of her and wasn’t letting go. “Now sit straight. Not too stiffly. But, yes, like that.”

Emma sat up, tense at first but she found a more relaxed pose as he spoke. “A-alright. Now what?”

“Lean back.”

“Lean - Sariel, that doesn’t sound right either.” She eyed him suspiciously.

“It’s perfectly proper when riding with your betrothed. Besides, no one is watching.” He smiled the secret, sweet smile he kept just for her. It was still a devil’s grin, but full of love and unexpected joy.

“But you said - you said -” She huffed, her expression going from surprise to outrage. Then she began to giggle. “You are really ridiculous. You could have just told me you wanted to snuggle.”

Sariel felt warmth blossom in his chest as she relaxed fully against him. The press of her body, even through their clothes, sent a thrill through him. He still didn’t understand how a devil like himself became the object of affection and love from such a woman. There was truly no justice in the world. But so long as he benefited from this particular injustice, he planned to enjoy it.

Emma turned her head and kissed him on his jaw. “So, my love, where are we headed? You were very mysterious about it when we left the palace.”

“I needed to make sure we weren’t overheard. Or followed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this a special mission? Are we going to be gathering secret information? Meeting with spies? Fighting rebels?”

Sariel chuckled. “Your imagination is running away with you.” He leaned his head closer and nipped her ear, then kissed the same spot.

She gave a surprised gasp, and then a pleased murmur. “Well . . . if you don’t want me to escape with my imagination, you better tell me where we’re going.”

Her breath tickled across his throat and brought a heat to his cheeks that he hoped she wouldn’t see. “Trying to blackmail the devil? That’s a dangerous game.”

“Well, if you prefer I can resort to torture instead?” She nipped at his throat and he could feel the scrape of her sharp teeth beneath those sinfully soft lips.

“It seems I’ve trained you too well.” Sariel gave her a wide smile, his eyes alight with desire. “If you keep that up, we’ll be late.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “How does me biting you make the horse slower?”

“Because I happen to be the one with the reins. And when you do that, I am sorely tempted to stop, lift you off this horse, and make love to you wherever we happen to be. But you deserve so much better than mud beneath your perfect bottom.”

“Pffft,” she grinned. “Who says I’d be the one on the bottom?”

Sariel felt a flash of heat at the wickedness in her eyes. “I suppose you could opt for grass stains on your stockings . . .”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “You wouldn’t be a gentleman and set your coat down for me?”

“I’d be a gentleman and buy you new stockings.” He laughed and kissed her forehead. His hand slipped up her side to caress the swell of her breast. Sariel felt her reaction more than heard it. The sharp intake of breath, the slight arch in her back to push herself more fully into his hand.

He rested the reins on the saddlehorn, certain his well trained mare would continue on even without his direction. The horse knew where they were going even if Emma did not. Then he slid his free hand up her leg, pushing her skirt out of his way.

“S-sariel! What are you doing? The - the horse -”

“Is going the right way.” He made it past her stocking and found the silky skin of her thighs. “I’ve always wondered about those books where the hero makes love to his maiden on horseback. Perhaps we can see how life resembles art?”

She gasped as his hand went higher still, teasing along the edge of her panties. “I - I don’t think - that is, it doesn’t seem very practic-ahhh!” Emma shivered with delight as his fingers danced over the taut fabric beneath her skirt.

“Hm. You’re likely right. Not practical. But entertaining.” He lifted her just a little so that she no longer sat on the saddle, but atop his thighs. “I think this would work better. And there’s a natural rhythm to riding. Only, you’d be riding me . . .”

This had the desired effect of both sending a tremor of excitement through her that he could feel, and bringing heat to her face. She looked as if she wasn’t sure whether or not he was serious.

Sariel grinned. “Alas, we’ll have to save our experiment for a longer ride. We’re here, my dear.”

Emma gave him a wanton look, somewhere between relief and frustration. “You are such a tease!”

“Don’t think of it as teasing. Think of it as an . . . apertif. Something to whet your appetite for what’s to come.” He eased her back onto the saddle and dismounted. Then he held his hand out to help her down.

“Where are we even? And what’s to come?” She looked around, curious. The cottage was nothing impressive on its own. Small and well kept. An old hideout, now turned to more . . . romantic purposes. The advantage of this place was the view. From here, it was possible to see the whole of Rhodolite’s capital spread out below.

Emma’s eyes widened as she noticed the incredible vista, and she practically dragged him to the edge of the clearing. “Look! Sariel!” Then she whirled to hug him. “Is this why you brought me?”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, savoring the intimacy of this rare private moment. “That’s part of it. Mostly, I just wanted you to myself for a little while.” Sariel turned her about in his arms so that she could see the view while leaned against him.

Before she could say more, fireworks began to shoot up into the sky above the city. From this distance, they looked like little colorful bursts of sparkling light, only a little closer than the stars. He’d wanted to share this with her. A sight he’d only ever seen alone, and he’d been too busy scheming to enjoy it. But tonight, with her in his arms, it felt strange and lovely. Something new in the wrappings of something old.

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri sariel #sariel noir #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys #slightly spicy

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sincerelyhecate · 8 months

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have you seen my glasses? (they're on your head, dummy)

Title: have you seen my glasses? (they're on your head, dummy)

Pairing: Jason Grace/Percy Jackson

Length: 3.1k words

You can also read this on AO3.

∘◦ ☆ ◦∘

"Bro, have you seen my glasses?"

A shadow casts itself over the red glow that Percy sees underneath his closed eyelids, and he flutters his eyes open in a squint to find Jason looming over him, his broad frame blocking the sunlight he's been bathing in. Jason’s eyebrows are knitted together in a frown as he stares Percy down; a telltale sign of his annoyance with the fact that he ‘lost’ his glasses again.

The object in question, unsurprisingly, is nestled on his blond hair, the afternoon light glinting off the frames' metallic sheen as if screaming at everyone who cares that they're right there—just like they normally would, whenever he throws the question at Percy.

Percy sighs, all too used to this modus operandi. It’s happened so many times—often enough that he's already memorized the script of Jason's ploy by heart—that he can only arrive at this conclusion: Jason Grace is a terrible flirt.

Nothing's wrong with that, of course. Jason can remain as bad in the flirting department as he wants, since he'd unfailingly and unwittingly charm his victims all the same. Percy is just unfortunate enough to be one of them.

"Dude, this is the third time this week, and it's only Wednesday!" he replies, as per their usual script.

Jason rolls his eyes in faux exasperation. "Sorry, mom. I swear I never do it on purpose. I think someone's trying to bully me."

“Pfft.” He can't help laughing a little at the ridiculous notion. "Nobody in their right mind would ever dare to bully a fully grown son of Zeus, my good man."

"Well, I can think of a few names off the top of my head," Jason solemnly replies, giving him a meaningful side-eye.

He brushes off the implied accusation by giving Jason an eye-roll of his own. While he may have been a repeat offender in concocting harmless shenanigans with the others to tease Jason, those can hardly be called 'bullying'. He prefers the term 'tough love' instead, since he's always done it with the purest intention of making Jason laugh, and it worked—every single time!

Not to mention he'd never steal Jason's glasses while his bro isn’t looking; he'd just grab it off his face like a real man.

He props himself up to sit upright just as Jason makes himself comfortable by sitting down cross-legged next to him, their movements choreographed to perfection by this same old dance. Like the mom friend he is, Jason wastes no time patting off the stray blades of grass clinging onto Percy's head and back, and Percy’s heart squeezes at the palpable gentleness behind his casual fussiness. It prompts the muscles on his face to form a helpless grin, even though he’s trying hard to keep his face straight to match the dire, serious look on Jason’s own.

"Bedside table?"

"First place I checked."

"On top of the head of your dad's statue?"

Jason doesn't even pause at the incredulous suggestion, because it's actually happened once—courtesy of Leo. "Nope. I still can't believe Leo wasn't zapped from that."

"Did you ask anyone else before coming to me? Because I'd be truly offended if I'm being singled out as the prime suspect again."

Jason narrows his eyes at him. "That's already suspicious of you, but okay,” he comments with pursed lips, before throwing his head back and sighing in exhaustion, like he’s already gone round the entire camp to ask everyone else before seeing Percy.

“You won't believe this, but I think the others are already sick of me asking for their help—”

“Truly believable, and wholly understandable.”

“—as if I’m doing it on purpose! I’ve asked a grand total of three people before coming here—”

“Wow, I guess that really makes up the whole camp.”

“—first was Nico, who told me to stop being stupid." Jason starts counting the people in question with his fingers like they’re worth counting at all; always so animated with his hand gestures when talking to Percy.

“I guess he has a point,” Percy sing-songs. Jason ignores him.

"Next was Leo, who suggested I do a cartwheel in case they'd appear out of thin air," he continues, shaking his head as if their impish friend was out of his mind for suggesting that, as he extends two fingers out from his balled fist.

“Ooh, he’s onto something, I think.” Jason ignores him still, and Percy can no longer try to hide his grin.

"And lastly Piper, who told me I should go look for you instead,” Jason finishes, showing Percy his three fingers pointedly.

Percy gestures to himself in faux confusion as if to say me?, mustering up a surprised face he can only hope to be convincing. The quirk in his lips is definitely not helping.

Unimpressed, Jason clears his throat and inquires, like he’s conducting an interrogation, “So, basing off all the clues I’ve gathered and one strong insinuation from Miss McLean, I will ask you once again: have you seen my glasses, Percy?"

Oh, Percy is so intimately familiar with the finer details of Jason's flirting scheme at this point. The guy would conveniently ask other people first, sure, but one way or another, he'd always end up finding Percy as the last resort, which is enough indication on its own. Piper was insinuating nothing; knowing her, she’s probably just playing along.

Jason has all but invaded Percy's personal space then, the tips of their noses almost touching each other as he leans in a little too close due to his poor eyesight. The way his face pleads with Percy is not unlike that of a golden retriever, and Percy feels a strong urge to pat his head to appease him. Undeterred by those puppy eyes that would've worked on anyone else, he remains steadfast in their close proximity—only staring back in amusement in an impromptu staring contest.

And boy, is Jason one heck of a looker.

Recent years have certainly been kinder to his friend, Percy quietly notes, from the way he glows with contentment. His (stupid, kind, pretty) big blue eyes—widened imploringly at Percy—betray no lingering air of sadness like they did in the past. There’s an almost permanent quirk at one corner of his lips, like everything he sees these days is worth smiling about, and more often than not, Percy finds himself wanting to kiss it.

"I…" he deliberately stretches the vowel for needless suspense, "…really don't have them, sir! I think she’s just trying to get you out of her hair. As with the rest of them.”

"Goshdarnit,” Jason whines, flopping down onto the grass like the drama queen he is. He grumbles, “I hate wearing glasses."

Percy chuckled at the sulk in Jason’s voice. He lies down on his side to face Jason, admiring the gentle curves of his side-profile. How is a man this gorgeous has the disposition of a silly old man sometimes? It’s unbelievably charming. "Never mind that. Has anyone ever told you how cute you are?"

Jason turns to face him and raises an eyebrow at the sudden question, glasses still miraculously fixed in place. His scar is a pale line adorning his unfairly pink mouth as he chews on it in thought; probably deliberating what to make of Percy’s attempt at a compliment. It almost disappears when a benign smile then slowly graces his lips, and Percy resists the urge to trace his finger on it. It probably feels soft to the touch.

A familiar feeling of protectiveness surges through his body whenever Jason smiles at him like this. He would do anything; give anything; fight anything to prevent that smile from ever waning. Sure, they each have Titans included in their body counts, and had even toppled giants together, but there's just something inherently precious to Jason that Percy believes is worth protecting. Partly because of the not-so-platonic feeling he harbors for the guy, mostly because Jason is one of his dearest friends.

But of course, his friend doesn't need to know that just yet.

"I will mind that, thank you very much. I need my glasses to see, you see?" Jason deadpans, breaking his train of thought.

"...I guess I kinda do?"

“Exactly. And to answer your question," Jason informs him with a smug grin, "I hear that at least ten times a week. Twenty if Sis is coming over. Coming from you though, I feel like you're only saying it to make fun of me."

"Hey, I'm just being honest! You're adorable as heck," he coos, pinching one soft cheek and enjoying Jason’s surprised wince.

"'Heck'," Jason teases, like Percy didn't get that from the guy who prefers to say 'dummy' instead of 'dumbass' or 'frick' instead of 'fuck'. "I'd prefer you call me handsome instead. Or gorgeous. Dashing works too. At least it won't sound like you're looking down on me."

"Gods, I'd never look down on you. You know that," Percy protests, only half-heartedly because he knows Jason is just pulling his leg. "But fine, you gorgeous stud."

"Thanks. I guess you're not so shabby yourself."

Percy scoffs and nudges Jason’s shoulder playfully with his hand, relishing the way his friend laughs sweetly in return. Jason's laughter is a lovely breathy sound, like the hilarity has punched the wind out of him. It's one of Percy's most favorite sounds ever; something he’s discovered as they got closer and closer over the years. He wants to hear it all the time if he can.

They've already gone off the tangent of the initial topic—a usual occurrence when they start complimenting each other like it's a competitive sport. Percy thinks it’s fine, since it’s pretty much coming from his own heart, and he’s not above using flattery to make his friend feel good about himself. After all, while Jason might be the terrible flirt, Percy can’t deny that he’s already down bad for the guy.

Perhaps today will be the day he gives in. They've been playing this push-and-pull game long enough, he thinks. Danced around this ambiguous thing between them—only for it to amount to nothing—a little too many times for his liking. In all honesty, it's reaching a point where he's starting to feel bad for ignoring Jason’s advances, so he might as well give in this time. Especially when he knows he wants it as much as Jason does.

Realizing that it's his cue to resume their script, he offers, "I can tell you where they are, though."

"Ha! Solid attempt to divert my attention there, you flatterer. Piper was right: you do have them!"

He ignores Jason's accusation—that was way too ecstatic to be convincing—and instructs, "Pat your head and say, 'Thank you, Percy.'"

"Ha-ha. I already patted my head at least three times and found noth—Oh!" Even as Jason grumbles at his suggestion, he still does as Percy has asked. Ever the indulgent friend, so willing to humor Percy even if he thinks it’s all for naught. Though in this case, it is his intention to get Percy to point that out in the first place, so Percy's the one indulging here, really.

Percy watches on as a familiar scene unfolds before him like the hundred times it did before: Jason's face gradually turning sheepish as he feels the offending object lying innocently on his head, puppy eyes intensifying and red coloring his cheeks.

He arches an eyebrow in an unamused look. “Tsk, tsk. Classic Jason.”

"...I swear on Juno's name, Percy, I patted my head several times before looking for them elsewhere!"

He pulls a tuft of grass off the ground, making sure the disdain in his voice is audible. "And you were so quick to accuse me too."

"I told you I asked three other people before you! Sorry if I sound accusatory, but I'd almost always find them when I'm with you."

He throws the tuft on Jason’s face. "Yeah, like it's my fault you'd find them on your head every time."

Jason pouts as he stubbornly counters, "I mean, you could be secretly putting them on me when I wasn't looking."

"Dude, you had your eyes on me the entire time." In such a lovesick gaze too, you unsubtle dork.

"…Right." Jason looks appropriately sorry after he takes the time to ponder on that. His petulant pout turns remorseful before he mumbles, "Sorry, man."

Like clockwork. He’s lucky Percy likes him.

"I'll forgive you…" Percy says, pushing himself up to sit. He smirks as he drops the bomb Jason has been waiting for after all this time; the new plot twist to their old script, "…if you pick a good place to eat for our date."

He throws a side glance Jason's way to find him gaping like a fish, as if he's genuinely surprised. Jason scrambles to sit up as well, shaking his head in confusion. He's pretty good at acting, Percy will give him that. "Sorry, did you just say…for our date?"

"Yep! And I'm expecting you to pay for our meal."

His friend is now blinking rapidly at him, like he’s not at all prepared for this sudden development. “Our meal…for our date?”

“Yes, Jason Grace. For our date,” Percy confirms, wondering if the guy’s poor brain has short-circuited from knowing his efforts have finally paid off. That’s actually pretty cute if true. “Dress code is anything blue, white or black. No formal wear or I’ll dump water on you so you’d go change.”

“Oh. I—Um.” Wow, that’s a really impressive act of flabbergasting if Percy ever sees one. He looks on expectantly as Jason makes a show of putting himself together, recovering quickly enough to say with a little shrug, “I…am a little confused, but alright. I’m down!”

Even underneath all his pretense of having no idea what’s going on, his elation at Percy’s invitation (that should’ve been his in the first place) is very much genuine. Percy’s heart curiously flipped at the sight of Jason beaming at him in earnest now; as if he’s only been expecting to find his glasses out of this, and is pleasantly surprised he's ended up with something better.

“Sure, man,” he humors him with a shit-eating grin of his own. It’s fine if Jason refuses to let up; Percy has already decided to play along for as long as he wants anyway. He’ll even pretend he hasn’t seen right through him after everything, if his buddy needs his dignity intact later on. He’s a gentleman like that.

"Uh, just to confirm, is this a friendship kinda date where we just grab a meal together or a—"

Gods help me. Percy shuts him up with a kiss on his cheek, feeling giddy at the way Jason's smile grows dopier and his cheeks flush redder.

"Nah, it's the boyfriends kinda date," he assures Jason, hooking an index finger into the thin wire between the lenses of his glasses and deftly slides them down to properly settle on the bridge of his nose. The contrast from when Jason transforms from hot supermodel to precious super-nerd is oddly endearing. “I’ll pick you up at 6. Stay in your cabin until I come; we don’t want you to go losing your glasses again.”

The chuckle rumbling deep in Jason’s chest is like music to Percy’s ears as he regards him with a quizzical smile, head tilting like Percy's the most extraordinary thing he's ever seen. “Yessir.”

It turns out Jason has actually been bullied. Or pranked, whichever term fits the situation better.

Some children of Hermes, in an unlikely collaboration with some children of Hecate and a certain son of Hephaestus, had thought it was funny to see Jason, head counselor of Cabin One and a 6’2” adult man, bumbling his way around camp without his glasses—by making the thing visible to anyone but him. Heeding the advice of a certain daughter of Aphrodite, they made sure to materialize the glasses on his head again once he reached Percy for help. Whether Jason is mad at being made into a joke—or whether Percy is, at being tricked into thinking it’s his poor bro’s attempt at wooing him—is a story for another day.

Right now, and more importantly, they have a date to enjoy. One they're both looking forward to, after everything that went down between them.

Percy is still trying to fix his hair to go for an artfully messy do when someone knocks on the door to Cabin Three, approximately ten minutes before their agreed time.

Someone’s awfully excited, he muses as he opens the door to find Jason looking his most charming yet—his blond hair slicked back like a movie star's, his attire consisting of a baby blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up around his veiny forearms; white slim-fit chinos that showcase his sexy thighs; and a pair of loafers—teetering on the fine line between formal and smart casual. His glasses, thankfully, are perched safely on his face. He wears a shy smile as Percy appraises his look, blissfully unaware of how hot Percy has gotten all over his own skin.

“I’m not losing to you,” Percy says before slamming the door back in his date’s face.

“Hey!”

“Come in, you infuriatingly hot and annoyingly hunky absolute dork.”

“Bro, I don’t really get the things you say sometimes,” Jason quips as he steps inside the cabin, voice shaky with mirth, “but right now, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever, man,” Percy says as he finishes throwing on his outfit of the evening: a tight-fitting shirt that shows off his lean figure nicely; a leather jacket to put on Jason when the night gets colder later on; jeans that snugly wraps around his butt for his date’s viewing pleasure; and his best pair of boots. He wagers they'd make quite the sight standing next to each other—not as friends but as each other’s dates for a change—and the thought warms him all over.

Jason whistles appreciatively as Percy twirls around for him. "Shall we?" he asks as they step outside, extending his arm out—the one with the SPQR tattoo seared onto his skin as a child, matching Percy's own—for Percy to cling onto, ever the gentleman. Percy pushes him playfully at the (admittedly sweet) gesture before taking his clammy hand instead, leading the way and unable to stop the slight skip in his own steps as they head towards the borders of the camp where Blackjack is waiting.

Whether they kiss sweetly underneath the faint moonlight just outside the fancy-schmancy gelato shop, tummies satiated with dessert and hearts full of mutual affection, followed by Percy stealing Jason’s glasses before taking off in a run, is also a story for another day.

#jercy #jasercy #jason grace #percy jackson #heroes of olympus #pjo #hoo #key writes #3.1k

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zablife · 7 months

Text

A Wrench in Our Plans

Requested by @chaosinkest1996 for my 2K celebration An Evening at Arrow House. Warning: This is a dark fic 💀

Author's Note: Scarlett Shelby Nelson is my OC and she is married to Jack Nelson. This fic is a bit lighter, a mix of horror and crack fic!

“Mr. Nelson,” Mrs. Shelby exclaimed in shock as she heard the door of the study close with a firm thud.

“Call me Jack. We’re family now,” Jack said a bit too congenially.

Striding toward the door, she attempted to excuse herself with a few polite words, hoping the imposing man would follow. “We should be getting back to the other guests. I’m sure Scarlett will be wondering…” But before she could finish, Jack stepped in front of her, his broad frame blocking her path.

“My wife doesn’t concern herself with every breath I take,” he assured her. Mrs. Shelby regarded her brother-in-law with a watchful gaze as he crossed to the bar and made himself a drink. Wholly unperturbed by her nervous glances, he took a swig of his whisky.

“Well my husband does,” she declared, a note of warning in her voice.

“Is my reputation really that bad around here?” he teased, lips curling into a smirk around the glass. He offered her one of her own, but she shook her head, casting her eyes to the floor. Jack chuckled at her sudden look of modesty, knowing full well she wasn’t the blushing flower she pretended to be.

“You won’t join me in a toast?” he asked, feigning a look of hurt.

“I don’t drink,” she said tersely, pulling at her long satin gloves until she could feel them cutting off the circulation in her fingers.

“I must have you confused with some other gin soaked broad from Fleet Street,” he mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass thoughtfully. “Then again, your ex-husband owned San Marcos didn’t he? Helluva coincidence, dontcha think?” he smirked, pleased he’d uncovered a mafia darling in their ranks.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, finding a triumphant look of smug satisfaction upon his brow. It ignited a rage inside her she didn’t know she possessed. “You fucking bastard! You sat across from me all night pretending you’d no idea who I was and now this?”

“Easy, doll,” Jack hummed. “I won’t say a word. It’s only Tommy who doesn’t know what you are.”

“What do you want?” she spat, crossing her arms over her chest indignantly, the shy, quiet act disappearing with each huff of breath.

“Nothin. I wanna help you,” he said, voice soft and patronizing as he offered a cigarette to calm her nerves.

“Like hell you do. When did the Irish mob ever do anything out of the goodness of their heart?” she asked suspiciously, as she accepted the offering between outstretched fingers. She studied her adversary and seemed to make a decision, what that was, Jack could only guess as he leaned forward to light her cigarette.

Patiently waiting for the flame to catch, he watched her perfect bow shaped mouth purse together. His eyes were transfixed on her low cut gown, the swell of her ample chest rising up toward him with the intake of breath. Suddenly he understood why Tommy had chosen to believe her ridiculous lies.

In such close proximity Jack was quickly forgetting his objective of blackmail. When Mrs. Shelby placed a manicured hand to his shoulder, he didn’t resist. Before he could register what was happening, her hand was cupping his face, urging him toward her waiting lips. He didn’t hesitate to close the distance between them, giving into her practiced moan which only enticed him further. Jack massaged her tongue with his, thoroughly besotted.

Taking that as a cue to go further, she slowly ran a hand down the front of his trousers listening as Jack’s breath hitched. He found himself momentarily off balance under her skillful touch, silently cursing his weakness.

A sudden knock came at the door and they broke apart. Scarlett entered without waiting for a reply, eyebrow raised in an impossibly high arch.

“Everything alright in here?” she asked.

Mrs. Shelby exhaled a plume of smoke as she plastered on a smile. “Just fine. In fact, we were coming to find you,” she lied smoothly.

“Were you? Well that is a happy accident," Scarlett smiled at her sister-in-law insincerely. "I came to say goodbye. You see, I can’t stay this evening. I need to get back to Boston,” she said with a quick nod, finishing her announcement. With a flourish of her skirt, she turned to leave, but not before shooting a dangerous look back at her husband.

Without asking for details, Mrs. Shelby accepted her excuse. It was a relief to be rid of one Shelby. The family had been so inhospitable and now, thanks to Jack, perhaps she knew why. Did they all know she was related to the Sabinis? The thought made her paranoid and she couldn’t wait to escort her sister-in-law from the house. She only hoped her brother-in-law would join his wife so she didn’t have to put on an act any longer to distract him.

Just as Mrs. Shelby called for Frances, Scarlett intervened. “That won’t be necessary,” Scarlett said, motioning toward her single piece of luggage. “Jack and I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can, but let me see you to your car,” Mrs. Shelby replied, feeling the eyes of her staff upon her. She waved them away and followed the Nelsons to the front drive, the sound of her heels crunching on gravel reminding her that it would soon be their tires.

When they’d arrived at the car, Mrs. Shelby discarded her cigarette and crushed it beneath her heel with finality. Surveying the empty courtyard, she asked the only question left burning on the tip of her tongue. “I assume this means no more questions,” she said pointedly to Jack.

“I think you’re safe for now,” he assured her, looking at something just beyond her shoulder. She had little time to react as she soon felt a crushing blow to the head. She fell forward into Jack’s arms, feeling lightheaded as she heard Scarlett’s voice echo, “Was it enough?”

“Enough?” Mrs. Shelby mumbled, attempting to raise her throbbing head from Jack’s shoulder. When she did, she noticed the deep crimson stain she’d left on his suit jacket. However, the scream caught in her throat as another blow sent her to the ground, vision fading to black.

“Put her in the boot,” Scarlett demanded, tossing the bloodied wrench beside her luggage. “Quickly, Jack, before someone sees you!”

“Jesus Christ, honey, you couldn’t have waited a month like we fucking planned? Now there’s no chance of making a deal,” Jack hissed into the darkness as he leaned down to check for a pulse.

“And no chance for you to fuck her,” Scarlett bit back as she leaned out to glare at her husband.

Jack exhaled loudly as he grasped Mrs. Shelby’s upper body, dragging her to the back of the car. Grunting as he dumped her body, he huffed, “You know, it’s possible your jealousy is clouding your judgement.”

“I could say the same about your dick,” Scarlett retorted. "Get in the car!"

------------------

Tag List:

@evita-shelby

@shelbydelrey

@alanadetigy

@severewobblerlightdragon

@lovemissyhoneybee

@theshelbyslimited

@kittycatcait219

@notyour-valentine

@areyenotfondofmelobster

@polishcrazyone

@elenavampire21

@little-diable

@lyarr24

@jomarch-wannabe

@helen06dreamer

@raincoffeeandfandoms

@dearshelby

@cillmequick

@call-sign-shark

@peakyltd

@brummiereader

@runnning-outof-time

@emotionalcadaver

@thegreatdragonfruta

@noforkingclue

@thomashelbyswife

@babayaga67

@kmhappybunny240

@l1-l4

@justlulu

@kmc1989

@allie131313

@watercolorskyy

#zablife 2k celebration #Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Jack Nelson fanfic #Jack Nelson imagine #Jack Nelson x OC #Jack Nelson

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honorarybuckley · 1 year

Text

6x11 coda

buck’s new couch is wrong. eddie’s not sure he’s ever described an inanimate object as right or wrong before but there is no other word to convey his feelings for the new piece of furniture.

it’s too big for the space, overpowering the room and forcing buck to remove his beloved chair entirely. it doesn’t match any of the other decor in the loft, and the fabric is soft and plush but the couch itself is stiff, wholly uncomfortable, and uninviting. so yeah, it’s all wrong.

at the tail end of his recovery period, buck had finally convinced his parents to return home and back to their regular lives, their continued presence having become stifling after the first week or so. while they were here eddie thought it best to keep his distance. he has done his best to be supportive, knowing how much buck craves a good relationship with them, but there’s still something about the buckley parents that rubs eddie the wrong way no matter how much they appear to have changed. the image of buck’s face the last time they were here is etched in his memory and makes him more than a little protective over his friend’s happiness.

it’s not the only reason he’s been distant though if he’s being honest. sometimes when he closes his eyes he still sees buck hanging lifeless fifty feet in the air. still sees him hooked up to machines, always so still and quiet. sometimes he sees him laughing and joking in his hospital bed like his heart hadn’t been dead beneath eddie’s hands only days earlier and he feels so angry he has to bite his tongue or he’ll scream. it’s irrational, he knows. frank says he and buck need to talk about it but instead, eddie’s kept his feelings locked up tight. old habits die hard and all that shit.

he found himself driving across town after dropping christopher off at a friend’s house this evening and didn’t hesitate until he was turning onto buck’s street. the smile on buck’s face when he answered the door was enough to settle his racing heart though. buck was still under strict instructions from the doctor including a ban on alcohol so in lieu of that eddie gets to work making them each a cup of tea, buck’s voice washing over him in soothing waves from the living room.

“so what did i do in this dream of yours?” he asks as he carries the mugs back to the couch. buck’s nose scrunches as he accepts one and eddie fights back the familiar urge to kiss him on the forehead.

“um, you," buck pauses, placing the steaming mug on the coffee table, grabbing a coaster as an afterthought. he scratches the skin next to his eye with his thumb and avoids looking at eddie entirely. "you weren’t there.”

“i wasn’t?” he’s not entirely surprised. he’s heard bits and pieces of the dream from buck and the others since he woke up and no mention of him or christopher. he tries not to read anything into that.

buck makes a noncommital sound and plays with the drawstrings of his hoodie. eddie waits. “no," buck glances up before looking away quickly. his words trip over themselves he spits them out. "apparently because i wasn’t there you never met carla, and you lost custody of christopher and you got the nickname angry guy.”

eddie takes a sip of his tea, letting his mind make sense of what he’s just heard. he opens his mouth not sure what he’s about to say but before he can buck sits up, hands waving around wildly, and continues. “look i know that’s ridiculous and the world doesn’t revolve around me. i know that i don’t have that much of an effect on–”

eddie stops him. “yes, you do.” buck looks at him so sad and hopeful that it hurts to look at directly. eddie sets his mug beside buck’s and rubs his hands on his knees trying to gather all of what he wants to say and pushing aside the things he knows he can’t.

“look, i’m a good dad,” he says with a still tentative confidence, “but i know that i probably couldn’t do this without carla. without the 118.” without you, he doesn’t say. “i’m not ashamed to admit that anymore, and i wouldn’t have any of it if you hadn’t introduced us or talked to bobby about chris coming around the station.”

buck opens his mouth, about to interrupt until eddie holds up a hand to stop him, finally looking him in the eye. “it’s a fact, buck. i don’t know where chris and i would be without you.”

buck’s face crumples, his eyes filling with tears. a million things are conveyed without any words as they watch each other. buck is the first to look away. he leans forward and grabs his abandoned mug, warming his still-healing hands before finally taking a sip. silence falls over them, only slightly awkward.

“i hate this couch.”

“i had a panic attack.”

“what?” they both say. buck’s fingers run across the couch next to him, and eddie motions for him to continue before he can ask eddie to repeat himself.

“yeah, mom wanted to take a photo of the three of us. i don’t think i have a photo of just the three of us, you know? anyway, the flash went off and i just,” he pauses, looking to eddie for the words, “froze,” he settles on.

eddie’s mind goes back to the department store, to the feeling of something crushing his lungs as his heart tried to break his ribs. he pictures buck collapsing, sees him hanging dead fifty feet in the air. he shakes his head.

“i had to lock myself in the bathroom so they wouldn’t know what was happening.” and that just about breaks his heart.

eddie remembers being surrounded, overwhelmingly so. ana’s hand on his chest, christopher crying his name, the store clerk calling 911. a sea of worry that confirmed the repetitive thought that something was wrong. buck didn’t have any of that, didn’t trust his parents in that moment and eddie can’t really blame him.

eddie settles his hand on buck’s shoulder, squeezing gently and waiting for him to relax. “have you called dr. copeland?”

buck’s face screws up in discomfort even as he leans into eddie’s touch. it’s enough of an answer.

“you know you have to, right?” all he receives is a resigned nod. eddie will make sure to bug him about it more later but for now he won’t push. silence befalls them again but this time it feels like a door has been opened. maybe they can finally talk about the things they’ve been avoiding for years now. maybe eddie can be brave enough for the both of them, to fall through the door and know buck is on the other side ready to catch him. maybe--

“so you hate the couch, huh?”

eddie’s eyes dart to buck’s whose face betrays nothing. eddie squirms, unsure what to say now. the hand still holding buck’s shoulder falls to the cushion between them. he knows buck’s mom picked out the sofa, and eddie is thrown back to his earlier thoughts on buck’s parents and how he’d rather avoid the topic altogether. let it become one more thing they don’t talk about.

a smirk grows slowly across buck’s face and eddie lets out a sigh of relief, gently shoving him and basking in the warmth of buck’s laugh. he listens as buck begins a rant about how he wishes he could burn the whole thing down. the open door gently closes again but eddie knows they’ll get there someday.

#i finally wrote this in the middle of the night so #hot unedited garbage #as always #i hate this #evan buckley #eddie diaz #two guys one soul #buddie #911 #911 fox #fanfic #mine

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alstroemeriadissonance · 2 years

Text

Fantasies ~ Over the Phone (NSFW)

Part of the Fantasies series. Other works:

Fantasies (Pt 1) | Fantasies ~ ver. Vyn | In the office | In the headquarters

Written because the 2nd Anniversary Chibi Vyn is ridiculously suggestive, enough to give me brainrot

NSFW, implied somno (recollection of somno), consensual non-con

I realized after the fact that Rosa's name isn't mentioned anywhere here so...have a female reader fic, I guess?

You stir in the darkness of your bedroom. The space beside you is empty, cold. Your lover, Vyn Richter, is still somewhere out in the city—currently among the denizens of the mysterious, shady Stellis nightscape that you are not too familiar with.

A lonely sigh, and you shift on your bed. Fingers clutch at the emptiness next to you, but there is nothing to grab onto but cold sheets.

You are about to lose yourself into another fitful bout of slumber, when your phone rings. The brightness of the screen pierces the gloom, and your lips curve into a smile when you see who the caller is.

“Vyn,” you breathe out loud. “I miss you. How’s band practice?”

“Doing well,” comes his offhanded answer. “But you, my dear, seem happy.” A deep, dark chuckle flows from the earpiece of your phone, sending that familiar all-too pleasant shiver down your nape, running down your spine. “Are you happy to hear from me?”

His voice sounds breathy and low, and it makes you wish he were there right next to you, so you could demonstrate to him just exactly how happy you are.

“Mm. Yeah,” you say, and even you are surprised at how husky your own voice is. Maybe you are subconsciously trying to match his tone.

Or maybe you just miss him all too much.

“Wish you’re here with me, but I don’t want to disturb you or get in the way of your work.” You flash a wistful smile in the dark. “I’ve seen you agonize over those sheets…have you come up with something that works with Louis’s new song?”

Vyn does not immediately answer you, but you know the call is still connected; occasional guitar riffs, bursts of banter, and the scraping of objects across the floor can be heard at odd intervals in the background.

“Yes, darling,” Vyn finally answers. “We just finished the piece an hour ago, and have practiced playing the entire song for quite a few times. It is very…hmm.” He falls into silence once again, as if mulling over which words to describe the song. “It inspires…a certain mood.”

“Oh? That just makes me curious.”

“Yes. I imagine it would.”

Another long pause.

You hear echoes of footsteps. Are they his? Is he walking while talking with you over the phone? He probably excused himself from the rest of the band to make this call, which makes sense.

You catch a click sound—much like a door being locked—and most of the background noise and chatter suddenly disappears.

“There,” you hear him murmur. “In any case, yes. The song we came up with inspires a certain mood, a certain feeling. It makes me wish you were here,” he says, a bit wistful, and his voice cracks a little.

You have always known that Vyn is a bit on the needy side, and it makes your heart swell with pride knowing that it is you who stirs such strong feelings inside him. “You can always come here if you want,” you remind him.

“And I will, pet. I will,” he says. Of course. That's what he will do, undoubtedly, especially since it's already the weekend. “Were you sleeping? Are you in bed?”

“It’s three o’clock, Vyn, of course I am in bed.” you let out a small laugh. “I’d mistake you for an incubus who haunts innocent women’s phones if I didn’t know you better.”

“An incubus?” You can practically hear his smile carry through the phone line. “How fitting.”

Another pause. A faint sound of clinking metal, followed by a brief rustling of fabric could be heard in the background.

Before you could think about it Vyn’s melodious voice once again flows into your ear: “What are you wearing right now?”

Your reply comes automatically: “The usual oversized shirt.” The wholly interesting implications of why your lover even asks about your bed attire does not even occur to you. “You know. That pink one.”

Another breathy chuckle. “I like it, actually. It looks nice on you.”

Once again, he falls into silence.

“I have a confession to make. Would you care to listen?”

“Hm?” This makes you pause, and you sit up straight on the bed. “What about?”

“It has something to do with that pink sleep shirt of yours,” he says, his voice dropping a couple of octaves, whispery now. “Whenever I sleep over, and you’re wearing it, I…”

Sounds of heavy breathing. “I could not... Ahh... I cannot control myself around you."

Now you realize what he’s up to. You can’t help but grin in anticipation. “Vyn? Is this…are you…?”

You cannot even find it in yourself to put your suspicions in words, for fear of breaking the sweet spell of the moment.

“It all started a month ago. My hand accidentally brushed your thigh when you were sleeping, and I…” a long, slow exhale. “...could not help but feel you up underneath your shirt while you were sleeping.” His breathing shudders, and this time even you are now feeling the heat wash over your body. “Mm.”

Unconsciously your hand strays to your thigh, fingers slipping underneath the hem of your shirt. Your mind cannot help but wonder how nice it must felt when his artful fingers strayed into your night clothes.

“Are you offended, my darling?” he asks; yet his soft, smoky voice gives away that he is not asking for forgiveness.

“...No. Of course not,” you reply, running your tongue over your suddenly dry lips. “...what else did you do?”

“I want to tell you, but I am talking with a lawyer.” Vyn still finds it in himself to crack a coy joke.

“Stop teasing me,” comes your mock threat. “Else I get you charged for being such a tease.”

“Heh.”

The both of you share an easy laughter that quickly dissipates into the heavy atmosphere of the moment.

“I love how easy it is to slip my hands underneath that shirt,” he whispers, and his low, quiet voice transforms into something erotic. “How it gives me easy access to your breasts.” You imagine him smacking his lips softly at the memory. “Do you know how good you felt as I played with you, how sweet your little moans sounded as I fondled you in your sleep?”

“...no…” you gulp nervously now, and your cunt throbs at the thought of Vyn groping you while you are unconscious.

“Do you want to know what it felt like?” comes his suggestive question.

It’s undeniable now—Vyn is feeling frisky tonight, and this is probably what he meant when he said that their new song inspired a certain mood.

You decide to indulge him.

No, you want to indulge in him. You want to hear his dulcet, gentle voice whisper dirty, filthy secrets into your ear and fuel your equally dirty and filthy fantasies.

“Yes,” you breathe out loud. “Tell me what to do.”

“Are you lying down?” he asks, and once again you hear the rustling of fabric, and a soft thud of something hitting the floor. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You slide down once again into a lying position on your bed, your back comfortably propped up against your pile of pillows. “I’m lying down now, Vyn…”

“Good,” he purrs. “Lift your shirt up all the way above your breasts,” comes his command. It does not sound imperious, but more akin to an undertow pulling you into an irresistible abyss—something that does not leave any space for doubt nor second guesses.

Vyn of the soothing, honeyed voice tells you to do something, and the only option is to do his bidding.

You briefly let go of your phone to pull at the hem of your nightshirt, gathering the thin fabric above your breasts, exactly as he ordered. Your bare breasts are now exposed to the cool nighttime temperature of your room; your cotton panties—crotch damp with anticipation—the only thing that remains of your rapidly waning modesty.

“Did you really do this when I was asleep?” you ask as soon as you once again grip your phone. “How come I didn’t wake up?”

“I have my ways, little pet,” is his cryptic answer. “I want you to play with your nipples for me. Put your phone on speaker if you need to.”

“Oh god,” you mutter as you hit the Speaker button on the bottom left of the screen of your phone, before unceremoniously tossing the phone beside you. Your breath hitches as your own hands slide up and find their way to your nipples, now stiff in the slight chill of your room.

Fingers strum and tweak the peaks of your breasts, sending jolts of pleasure directly to your loins; you can’t help but arch your back a little in sheer delight.

I can’t believe I missed out on something this good, comes your thought as you play with yourself; you are so into it that you do not notice your voice carrying on loudly enough for Vyn to hear you through the phone.

A dark chuckle emanates from the speaker of your phone. “You moaned like that back then, even while asleep,” he says, and you know he is leering at you—or at the image of you—with the way he talks. “I want you to lick the fingertips of one of your hands,” comes his next command. “And use your wet fingers to continue playing with your breast.”

You instantly find out why: he is having you simulate his tonguing of your sensitive bud. “Damn it, Vyn,” you moan out loud as you imagine his sinfully pretty lips wrapped around your hardened nipple, sucking on your tit while his slender, sexy fingers toy with the other. “I wish you were here.”

“I will eat you all up,” comes his lustful promise. “I want to suck on your breasts, as I finger you,” he hisses. You can easily see him lick his lips as he says those words. “Are you wet for me?”

“Oh Vyn,” you laugh helplessly as your hand—the one with the still dry fingers—automatically slides downwards, slipping underneath the garter of your panties. “I've been wet ever since we started.”

“Good girl,” he purrs once more. “Touch yourself. Think of me when you do...”

His voice just makes you want to jump him, but in his absence all you can do is to rub your clit. Fingers find your clitoris, stiff and starved for touch. The pads of your fingertips give yourself relief, rubbing and massaging that little pleasure switch, and you can’t help but sigh out loud.

“Imagine my fingers…molesting you.”

“Why do you have to do this now,” you moan, his palpable physical absence now getting to you. “I want you here—”

“Patience, my little darling,” he says, and you know that he is taking immense pleasure in your sweet torture. “Do you want to hear about a little impossible fantasy of mine?”

“Let’s hear it,” you huff as you continue rubbing on your clit; your cunt now positively swollen with desire as you stoke the fires of lust that could only be put out by your lover’s cock, pounding relentlessly inside you…

“In the headquarters,” Vyn’s voice quivers; you know that he is now jerking off along with you. “I imagine us seated close together by the conference table…” As he pauses, the sound of certain rhythmic movement fills the gap until he speaks again. “My hand is creeping up your thigh, until my fingers touch your wet flesh between your legs.” He sighs. “I imagine you indulging my request to go to that meeting without wearing any underwear—”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” you mutter. The embers between your legs have caught fire and are now starting to burn close into an exploding flame…

“Will you be offended if I admit to imagining fucking you with my fingers, as your senior partner presents his case updates?”

Holy shit. “Not at all,” you admit, and the thought turns you on so much that you pull down your panties, kicking them off to the side. “God, think we can pull it off?”

Spreading your thighs wide, you slip in two of your fingers inside your pussy, pretending they’re his. They aren’t as good, nor as artful as his long, slender digits, but they will have to do for now.

A breathy laugh emanates from your phone’s speakers, his voice petering out into quiet groans. “I do not know.” He starts panting heavily. “Do you want to risk it, pet?” A small thud, and he mutters under his breath, “Fuck. I want you now…”

“Yeah,” you tell him, too horny at the moment for the more sensible parts of your brain to kick in. “Think you can—hahh, shit—fingerfuck me during a meeting, Vyn?” Unmistakable schlicking sounds start to fill the sacred quiet of your dark bedroom. “Without them knowing?”

Your shameless dare gets you a strangled-sounding chuckle from him. “Either we get out of it unscathed and gain a very rewarding experience, or,” a staccato gasp interrupts his words. “Your Luke decks me in the face and makes sure I can never make use of my hands again.”

“Fuck him,” you mutter darkly.

“I would rather fuck you. Until you scream my name,” comes his repartee. “Like you usually do.”

Shuffling sounds can be heard in the background, as if he is moving things around, or making room for himself. This piques your curiosity, despite being desperate to reach your climax. “Where are you?” you finally blurt out, your fingers not letting up in fucking yourself nor rubbing your clit.

“Heh. I was hoping you would not ask. I am hiding somewhere rather…undignified.” He pauses again, as if debating with himself whether or not to let you know where he is. But he satisfies your curiosity anyway: “I am in the bar’s janitorial closet.”

“What the hell, Vyn?” You let out a throaty laugh. You are all too familiar with your elegant, cool, reserved lover’s well-hidden perversions; but knowing that he has hit record high levels of utter randiness to the point of stuffing himself in the janitorial closet to jack off while engaging in phone sex—

“Get off my case. I am horny, and I want you now,” he growls, his voice finally losing its playful texture. “Grab the toy I bought you.”

Under normal circumstances you would retort, but his rough demand bears the promise of something immensely delicious. “One sec,” you grunt as you reach down under your bed, your hand feeling for that small box that contained the various sex toys he procured for you. Your fingers brush against the box, pulling it out from underneath your creaking mattress.

Vyn has not specified exactly which toy he wants you to take. Yet you have a very good idea which one he means: your fingers search for and grab the thick dildo. “I have it,” you tell him, with your voice breathy and low with anticipation for the imminent rapture you will be experiencing any time now. “You meant the dildo, right?”

“Good girl. Yesss. That one.” You can envision him nearing, only stopping himself from coming and spraying a hapless bunch of cleaning supplies with his semen until he has you do his bidding. “I am glad you know what I want.”

“But of course,” you murmur as you lick your lips. “We’ve been fucking so much that I know you can’t want to stick your cock in me right now.”

A throaty laugh. “Such a potty mouth,” Vyn drawls from the other end of the line. “I have a good idea on how to use that.”

His bold words spur you into challenging him. “Yeah? Tell me how you want me.”

“Mmm. Lie down on your back. Spread your legs for me, pet,” he husks. “Spread them wide.”

“Done and done.” Your thighs glide open over the cool sheets. “Should I fuck myself with the dildo now…?”

In your hands is the sizeable clear rubber dildo he himself chose for you, its girth and length a close approximate to his own dick. You can’t wait to stick it inside your twitching cunt; the teasing has gone on too long now, and your fingers do not quite make the cut. “Please, Vyn,” you mewl as you rub the dildo’s cockhead along your wet slit. “I need you to fuck me.”

Instead of the affirmative you expect, Vyn instead lets out a quiet, menacing laugh. “No,” he simply says. “I want you to suck it. Imagine it is my cock you are sucking off. Can you do this for me, little pet?”

You let out a whimper. “But—”

“I did say I will use that potty mouth of yours,” he hisses. “Do it. Continue fucking yourself with your fingers as you suck on the toy.”

There is nothing else to do but do his bidding, and soon enough your lips wrap around the rubber dildo—it tastes clean, at least, you are nothing but fastidious when it comes to sexual hygiene, after all—and even if you know Vyn wouldn’t be able to see how you’re performing fellatio on the toy you do your best anyway.

Soon enough your lonely room is treated with faint sounds of sucking, sounds that must have made it all the way to Vyn’s phone, as you soon hear his breathing become heavier, more lusty, interspersed with him muttering your name alongside a few crude swear words.

Saliva dribbles down the corners of your mouth, but somehow you can’t stop yourself from fellating the dildo; your tongue swirls around its rigid shaft inside your mouth, as your hand holds the fake cock to your face.

In your mind’s eye Vyn is kneeling on the bed next to you, his dick stiff and proud, twitching against your lips, and Vyn…Vyn only smiles at you, taking pleasure from seeing you writhe over the sheets in front of him, begging for him to finally fuck your drenched pussy…

“Hahh—I am near,” you eventually hear him say. “Go on all fours, pet,” he whispers urgently. “Can you do this for me?”

Groaning with impatience, you scramble over the bed to assume his desired position for you: knees on the bed; one hand clinging to your headboard and the other holding the dildo. “Vyn, please, I want this—you—inside,” you beg, ever so sweetly. “Please, fuck—”

“Do it,” he whispers, almost inaudible. “Imagine me grabbing you by your waist, burying my cock deep into you…”

“Shit.” Your knees slide further apart; your hand with the dildo slides underneath your body to finally stick it inside your wet cunt. Finally.

It’s not his, but the way it fills you up is gratifying all the same, even if your wrist is not strong enough to simulate how roughly he enters you when he deems you’re wet enough to withstand rough sex.

“I am fucking you hard, little pet,” he whispers, the rhythmic sound of his jacking off a bit more louder now, and picking up speed. “So hard that I am slamming you against your headboard, again and again—” A groan. You know that he is nearing. “You like that, yes?”

“Yes!” you cry out, trying your hardest to match the pace of his hand beating his cock. “Gods, Vyn, I want you,” you moan. You feel your loins growing hotter and hotter, your own climax also imminent. “I wish you’re here…”

“I will be—hah, fuck—there, after practice—”

“Fuck me again?”

A little bit more, just a little bit more…

“Yes. Again, and again—ahh—!” Vyn lets out a stifled, guttural groan—he has finally reached his climax—followed by radio silence.

Your orgasm follows suit. “Oh god, oh—VYN!” you cry out into the shadowy dark, with no one but the man at the other end of the line witnessing your debauched pleasures.

The adrenaline slowly ebbs away from your system, and you slump onto your pillows; the dildo slipping out of your cunt, slathered with your pussy juice.

What feels like an eternity passes, until you hear Vyn speak again. “That is a worthwhile, new experience,” he says, then lets out a soft chuckle. “Did you like it?”

“Mhm, yeah…” you hum, weakly. “Vyn…” A soft sigh escapes your lips. “Whatever song you came up with Louis…” you roll on the bed, towards where your phone lay. “It must be a helluva song, if it made you this horny.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. Then he adds, “I plan to make love to you with the song playing in the background.”

The idea sends a shot of titillating thrill running down your spine. “I’d love that, really.”

“It has me on back vocals.”

“Oh fuck.” The idea almost turns you on. “Dr. ASMR doing voice work? No wonder you’re turned on.”

“You flatter me.”

#tears of themis fanfic #vyn richter #mo yi #vyn richter smut #tears of themis smut #tot smut

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redheadbigshoes · 7 months

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🌻 here ya'll 👋 Okay so about the 'femboy' thing... strap yourself in I'll explain as best as I can.

So trans women have a rocky history of the terms used to describe us given by others and ourselves.

Some of them were made by trans women to describe ourselves (trans woman as a term obviously desires the msot respect, we want to be seen as we truly are by other people as women)

Some terms were used by others to describe trans women, but are not explicitly slur-esque or detogatory in nature (transsexual is a good example here, some older trans women use this term, but it originated from medical officials describing trans women who undergo hormones or surgeries to affirm our gender and relieve dysphoria)

And some terms were explictly created by others as slurs, like Tranny, Trap, and yes, Femboy. Some trans women reclaim Tranny, similar to how some lesbians and gays reclaim Fag and Dyke, infact that word was contemporary with both of those others, and is a similar case, but Femboy is inextricably tied with Trap in the realm of 'slur that innately denies a trans woman's nature as a woman'.

Trap obviously comes from negative stereotypes that trans women transition to pass perfectly and then 'surprise' sexual partners with our genetalia, a predatory, disgusting, and completely fallacious stereotype, which reduces trans women to gender non-conforming feminine cis men and innately denies us being respected and seen as women just like cis women. It also has innate objectification and sexualization behind its meaning, reducing us to just sexual objects that its okay to use and abuse and ridicule because we're not cis women.

Femboy is basically the term that 4chan internet reactionaries started using once Trap became social taboo to say on social media, thanks to the efforts of trans women and allies to dispel the slur and its transphobia. Femboy was and is still used by hateful transphobes to describe openly stated trans women characters like Bridget from Guilty Gear, and is commonly used to blur lines between characters stated to be feminine gender non conforming men and out and plain trans women. Essentially using the existence of gender non conforming men characters to erase the existence of trans women characters.

Some legitimate gender nonconforming men decide to use the term to describe themselves, either wholly unaware of how it has and is still used to erase the existence of trans women, or just uncaringly despite knowing its origin and history.

So in short, yes, it is a slur, but some gender nonconforming men decide to pick it up as an identity while its still used to invalidate and erase the existence of trans women, so to people like me, it is a slur. Frankly I dont respect gender nonconforming men who use it as an 'identity' because it still just means theyre gender nonconforming men, and its not like Butch as an identity where it has respect, identity, culture behind it. 'Femboy' just has transmisogyny and sexualization behind it as a term.

Phew, that was my best try at keeping it succinct, if anyone has any other questions I can send another ask to try and explain further, thanks for listening!

Thank you so much for explaining all of this! Yeah I asked this because of how I’ve seen being used to describe feminine men (more specifically gay men), so I wasn’t sure if it depended on the context or if regardless of the context it was a slur and derogatory.

I used it a couple of times (without knowing its history) whenever I talked about people (especially “mspec lesbians” supporters) wanting to include men (cis/trans) in lesbianism by using that argument of “there’s no difference between a butch and a trans man” and “there’s no difference between a trans woman and a ‘femboy’” , and in this case (at least from what I understand of the phrase) it seems they’re trying to compare feminine gay men (by using the slur) with trans women.

Other people already explained to me as well but again, thank you. I won’t be using that term anymore, even if the case is the one I brought up (bringing up as an example of what people have said).

#stephanie answers #🌻 anon #long post

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sapphicbookclub · 1 year

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Author Spotlight: Hannah Miyamoto

Hannah Miyamoto is on a mission to stop the spread of fascism in the United States by reminding people of the humanistic values that William Shakespeare spread through his plays. We are thrilled to present this essay about her series of novellas about “The New Countess” (written under the pseudonym “Lady Vanessa S.-G.”), based on the characters in Shakespeare’s gender- crossing romp of Twelfth Night; the first book, Twelve Nights with Viola & Olivia is out now, and second book, If I Should Tell My History, will be released in May. Note: article contains a brief, explicit quote from the book

We do not need to laminate a lesbian presence onto Shakespeare’s texts; once we begin to think historically about desires and practices, we can draw homoerotic meanings out of them… it is less a question of queering the past than of discovering the terms by which the past articulated its own queerness.

Valerie Traub, The Renaissance of Lesbianism in Early Modern England (2003) [https://a.co/d/f8hDruz]

With its pretensions of erudition, the “Western Civilization Movement” is the most dangerous and least-dismissible part of the extremist MAGA white supremacist movement. The goal of “Western Civilization” radicals is clear: Establish that all important cultural contributions are the work of Christian men from Western Europe. For example, Bill Lee, Governor of Tennessee has called for altering public education to encourage “informed patriotism” and combat “anti-American thought,” as if open-minded inquiry were itself an enemy of American democratic values. Former President Trump, Governor Ron DeSantis, and Tucker Carlson are just some of the other prominent neo-fascists attempting to pervert history education.

Properly written, fiction can achieve what history can never do: Explain the thoughts and describe the actions of people that did not dominate past discourses.

By corollary, critical analysis of so-called “Western Civilization” sources is one of the most effective ways to fight the spread of fascism in America. Right-Wing Extremists can ban every book written by a woman, a racial, ethnic, or religious minority person, an LGBTQ person, a foreigner, a socialist, a liberal, a labor leader, an environmentalist, or any other writer to whom they object, but they cannot attack Shakespeare, because even the least cultured American knows that Shakespeare is the epitome of “Western Culture.”

The great beauty of Shakespeare is the depth of the lessons within them. For example, Merchant of Venice reminds us that “the quality of mercy is not strained” while Othello illustrates the evil of racial prejudice. Henry VI, Part 2 relates the importance of lawyers in preserving human rights. Two Gentlemen of Verona and Othello ridicule male chauvinism, while As You Like It suggests that women know more about love than men. At the end of his career, Shakespeare even left us with the starkly existential The Two Noble Kinsmen, in which a wholly sexless heroine accepts marriage rather than seek it.

Seven Shakespeare plays feature cross-dressing, and some of the sweetest depictions of a woman in love with another woman are by Celia in As You Like It and Olivia in Twelfth Night. One British intellectual has gone so far as to dub The Bard “[t]he biggest Liberal campaigner there ever was!”

Knowing that Shakespeare is inviolable in the United States, I have used his work to advance and defend progressive ideals for nearly 20 years. I began in 2004, by writing a play highlighting the love of a woman for a woman to answer calls for banning same-sex marriage. That play, Twelve Nights with Viola & Olivia, merging ideas from minds as diverse as Virginia Woolf and absurdist playwright Luigi Pirandello, became the basis of my Master’s thesis in Women’s Studies.

Two years ago, I created a three-season story arc (24 episodes) for a limited television series based on the characters of Twelfth Night. Starting this year, I started turning what would have been episodes of this television series into a series of novellas.

The first book in this series, adapted from the pilot screenplay, was published last month as Twelve Nights with Viola & Olivia. The second book, If I Should Tell My History, is in production. Overall, the series is entitled “The New Countess.” All these books are written under the pseudonymous “Lady Vanessa S.-G.” to emphasize how recently books like these would have been illegal in Great Britain and the United States, while providing a narrator that can subtly describe events that occurred between the 20th and 16th century, including the writing of William Shakespeare.

Properly written, fiction can achieve what history can never do: Explain the thoughts and describe the actions of people that did not dominate past discourses. For example, “The New Countess” series features an intersexed character named Adriano, one of the first-ever accurate portrayals of an intersexed person in literature. Although intersexed people have always been part of humanity, the earliest account written from the perspective of an intersexed person is the extended suicide note of Herculine Barbin, an intersexed French woman who died in 1868 at age 30. Only fiction can fill this gaping hole in history.

Even the voices of European noblewomen, however richly draped and pampered, have been effectively silenced by being denied access to printing presses. The closet drama writing of Lady Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle (1623-1673), is one of the few documents that reveal how many noblewomen may have felt about how men treated them due to their sex.

Olivia reached down with her right hand to stroke the hairs near Maria’s thighs. Maria shivered and closed her eyes, enjoying the sensations that Olivia gave her. Maria pulled away and applied her lips and tongue to Olivia’s pre-maternal breasts as the countess pushed back her head to enjoy the sensations her gentlewoman gave her. Twelve Nights with Viola & Olivia

With her parents and only brother dead, Shakespeare’s Olivia enjoys much more freedom than a typical young woman in 16th century Europe. Curiously, the parents of all the other characters in Twelfth Night are also absent. Although Olivia’s uncle “Sir Toby” is a potential parent in Twelfth Night, Shakespeare emphasizes that Toby is drunk too often for Olivia to rely upon him. Indeed, Countess Olivia acts more like Toby’s mother than he her surrogate father.

“The New Countess” series expands on Olivia’s character, focusing on how she negotiates her way around powerful men to achieve her goals, while keeping secret her love for her bed-chambermaid Maria. Later books will show Olivia working with the men around her to improve the military defenses of her region, to guard against invasion from both land and sea. In these ways, Olivia will fulfill her duties as a countess within her obscure little duchy.

As well as Olivia, Maria, and Adriano, the queer characters in “The New Countess” series include two of Olivia’s female servants, Olivia’s husband Sebastiano, and his best friend Antonio. The two male characters are taken from Shakespeare’s play.

By combining fictional narratives with historical research, “The New Countess” helps to literally write queer and disadvantaged people into history. Keeping with Dr. Valerie Traub, “The New Countess” series does not make Shakespeare’s characters gay, but shows how certain aspects of his stories are more logical if we accept that some of his characters have intense desires for others of their sex.

One charming feature of “The New Countess” series is that its characters live in a world where queerness is described in terms that we can still understand, despite their unfamiliarity: “Tribade,” “Fricatrix,” and “Unnatural Girl,” are some of the terms used for 16th century Sapphists. Poor intersexed Adriano, a feminine man, is publicly denounced as a “Catamite!” or a male prostitute. Meanwhile, gays are “men that would fain have the love of others than women.”

More than history ever can, fiction has the potential power to show how “the past articulated its own queerness,” as well as how people in the past confronted issues of race, religion, and politics much like their counterparts today. Through well-crafted historical fiction like Twelve Nights with Viola & Olivia, we can refute the “Western Civilization” pseudo- intellectuals that would pervert history and literature to accomplish their goals of social repression and cultural destruction. -----

Hannah Miyamoto is a retired attorney managing Pacifico Press, a nonprofit publisher in San Luis Rey, California that produces LGBTQA-focused books and media. Hannah holds a law degree, master’s degrees in Women’s Studies and Sociology, and has been a leading advocate for intersexed people for 25 years. [email protected]

#guest post #wlw books #booklr #lgbt books #sapphic books #diverse books #twelfth night #shakespeare #viola #olivia #intersex #lesbian

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psalm22-6 · 2 years

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This story comes to you from my dive into the archives of California newspapers, a story which must have reached the west coast the week of October 12 1897 because it was then printed in the San Jose Herald, San Francisco Call, Los Angeles Herald and other newspapers that a girls’ school in Philadelphia had banned Les Misérables, on the grounds that it was not appropriate for young women. Here is the headline from the Call:

The book was proposed as part of the French curriculum, which apparently needed to be approved by the board of education, of which Dr. Thomas G. Morton was a member (side note: he was the first president of the American Anti-Vivisection society and he apparently performed the first successful open appendicectomy. There is an elementary school named after him in Philadelphia today). He had read the book himself and wanted it removed on these grounds:

My objection is to the tone of the book. It deals, as any one who has read it knows, with the grisettes of France. That in itself is condemnatory. I think that we who have charge of the public schools have a sacred trust, and we cannot be too cautious in setting before the young girls and boys that which detracts from their ideals of virtue and purity. Their parents hold us responsible, and we owe a duty to them and to the girls. If the book is in a library, that is a different thing, for the child's parents are supposed to keep an eye over what she reads, but to require pupils to read a tainted book is wrong. I would object to any classic, even some of Shakespeare's works, if they are immoral.

The only member of the board who opposed him (and also the only woman on the board) was Mary E. Mumford. The story was even printed in the newspaper Vestkusten (the West Coast), a newspaper for Swedish immigrants in northern California.

People seem to have generally thought banning the book was a silly idea.

By October 23rd came the happy news that the book would be allowed. Miss Dalcourt, the French teacher, had (from the beginning) selected an edition abridged by Frederick C. de Sumichrast, an associate-professor at Harvard, which was made for teaching purposes, in which whole books are replaced with summaries. For example, the entirety of book 3 of volume 1, The Year 1817, is only presented in summary as is Christus Nos Liberavit and a Rose in Misery. Volume 1 ends “She was thrown into the public grave” and leaves out “Her grave resembled her bed.” So I guess that took care of Morton’s anxiety over the grisettes. But people still were not finished making fun of Philadelphia, as in this article from the Chicago News, reprinted in the San Jose Daily Mercury on the 31st of October 1897:

The ground of Philadelphia’s objection to “Les Miserables” has, we are sure, been misunderstood and the city of Brotherly Love has, in consequence, been subjected unjustly to ridicule for excluding the volume from the public schools. Philadelphia’s objection, as a matter of fact, is wholly esthetic, and not ethical, as hast been represented. The Philadelphia ban has been put on the work, not because of its alleged morality but because of its lack of verity, as seen from a Philadelphia standpoint. The criticism is not that M. Hugo put into his book some young ladies whose conduct was not up to the Pennsylvania standard, and whose examples are thereby likely to debauch the minds of Philadelphia's young people, but that the Frenchman filled his books from beginning to end with a lot of absurd and absolutely impossible episodes and incidents, the description of which would inevitably confuse and benumb the Philadelphia intellectuals. Thus, M. Hugo represents a man as sawing his way out of prison in a year, and he tells us that the same man stole some silverware, repented and got elected Mayor all in the space of twenty years. Many other incidents might be recited wherein this reckless and rack-brained Frenchman describes events as happening with a celerity which is not only ludicrous but wildly impossible. Perhaps the most startling instance is where the author makes a female character grow from infancy to maturity in eighteen years. The Philadelphians wisely decided not to place such distorted and misleading views of life in the hands of school children. They argued justly that the inevitable effect would be to make Philadelphia youths dissatisfied with spending eighteen years in getting to the knickerbocker and marbles period of life. Reading that men in France performed long journeys in a few months time, the Philadelphia children might secretly criticize their parents for taking a week to cross the street. Philadelphia for the present will stick to the Chinese drama, where nothing ever happens short of a week, and to the Meredith novels, where nothing ever happens at all.

Of course, there were people who actually thought that banning the book might be sensible, as in this article from the Los Angeles Times, reprinted in the Sacramento Daily Union on the 4th of November:

A good deal of fun has been poked at the Philadelphia Board of Education, because of the recent ruling of that board, to the effect that Victor Hugo's great novel, “Les Miserables,” should not be used as a text book for the study of French in the Girls' High School class. It is true that most of the criticisms passed by the press upon this ruling have been in the nature of "squibs," or mere flippant comment, but in some instances attempts at serious criticism have been made. As regards the latter, they appear to have been based upon misapprehension.

There is no denying that Victor Hugo's greatest work of action is a masterpiece of literary excellence; nor can the high moral purpose of the work, considered as a whole, be successfully assailed. But it must be said, in candor and in truth, that it is a work which can be understood and appreciated only by men and women of mature minds. To such it appeals with potency and purpose. But from the very nature of the book, it might prove a stumbling-block rather than a benefit to young persons of either sex, whose minds are immature and whose characters are unformed.

It appears, as a matter of fact, that the action of the Philadelphia Board of Education does not in any wise [ways] contemplate the exclusion of the book from the general reading public, nor does it attempt to say, even, that young girls may not read it at their homes, provided their parents have no objections. It simply declares that in the education of girls ranging in age from 12 to 17 years, in the Philadelphia High School, “Les Miserables” is not to be included in the works which the students of French are required to study.

But in the end, like I said, it appears that the book was allowed and I think the overall effect of the story was probably basically similar to what is implied by this joke printed in the Chico Record on February 28th 1898:

#les miserables #my research #lm in america #censorship #lm in education

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bizarrequazar · 10 months

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GJ and ZZH Updates — July 23-29

< previous week || all posts || following week >

This is part of a weekly series collecting updates from and relating to Gong Jun and Zhang Zhehan.

This post is not wholly comprehensive and is intended as an overview, links provided lead to further details. Dates are in accordance with China Standard Time, the organization is chronological. My own biases on some things are reflected here. Anything I include that is not concretely known is indicated as such, and you’re welcome to do your own research and draw your own conclusions as you see fit. Please let me know if you have any questions, comments, concerns, or additions. :)

[Glossary of names and terms] [Masterlist of my posts about the situation with Zhang Zhehan]

07-23 → L'Oreal posted a behind the scenes video from their commercial featuring Gong Jun.

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted a video of him writing "ridiculous" on a paper fan. Caption: "Wuhu! Picked up a small study video!" BGM is a qin cover of Blood Actor by HITA.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video. Caption: "Welcome to 'Into Science', see how the three-person team on set, Ren Anle @ Dear-Dilraba Dilmurat, Han Ye @ Gong Jun Simon, Luo Mingxi @ Modern Xiongdi Liu Yuning, distinguish the wind direction based on reference objects, deduce clues, and catch the 'murderer'! There are more joyful and funny daily routines, waiting for you to watch~"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a video of behind the scenes footage from his photoshoot on 07-13. Caption: "Courtyard Pavilion, His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon broke through the barrier of dimensions, and lit a cluster of candles in a square inch." BGM is Fever by Brasstracks.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted six photos of Han Ye. Caption: "A gentleman is as good as a grinder. His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon stills without watermark come 'Ye'!"

07-24 → The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a promotional poster of Han Ye and Ren Anle.

→ The Instagram posted a video of "Zhang Zhehan" playing guitar.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted two promotional stills of Han Ye.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a douyin of behind the scenes footage from his photoshoot on 07-13. Caption: "Shadowy, mottled light and dark, hazy mirror glimpses a moment of burning dreams" BGM is

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video. Caption: "Ren Anle @ Dear-Dilraba Dilmurat almost slipped and yelled 'ah', Han Ye @ Gong Jun Simon focused on taking photos in his own world, such a happy and peaceful person!"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a douyin of Han Ye. Caption: "You don’t hesitate to ask questions, His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon, who is full of knowledge and understanding, there is nothing that can’t be answered"

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video. Caption: "Ren Anle @ Dear-Dilraba Dilmurat 'saved' the weak prince Han Ye @ Gong Jun Simon and made everyone laugh, and even stared straight at Han Ye's abs. Han Ye's belated sense of shame is like no one else~"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a video of clips of Han Ye. Caption: "It is a great fortune to have such a reserve. Let’s see the courageous and resourceful Prince Han Ye @ Gong Jun Simon manage both upwards and downwards!"

→ Gong Jun posted a gif of Han Ye. Caption: "Report a little bit, the bottleneck period has been ten years, and today is finally no longer stuck✌️" This was reposted by his studio, added caption: "Rest assured, His Royal Highness does not need to paint every painting for ten years!"

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted two gifs of Han Ye. Caption: "What is Gong Jun's bottleneck period? Nonexistent! Repost this His Royal Highness, the inspiration comes quickly 'Ye'~"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a video of Han Ye. Caption: "With Dajing’s special supply of brainwave translators, are you afraid that you won’t be able to share your worries for His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon?"

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted three photos of him filming an interview. Caption: "Today is also a day of hard work!"

07-25 → L'Oreal posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

→ The Instagram posted ten miscellaneous photos of "Zhang Zhehan" and full offense if you think those are all the same person you should book yourself an eye appointment.

→ Two videos were released of Gong Jun promoting Chengdu. [1] [2] [subbed 2nd video]

→ Gong Jun's studio posted thirteen photos of Gong Jun. Caption: "In the green and verdant summer, the shadows of the trees are dancing like a dream. @ Gong Jun Simon is here with the summer photos~"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a douyin of behind the scenes footage from the photoshoot. Caption: "The warm sun is pouring down, the shadows of the trees are whirling, let’s indulge in this warm summer day with @ Gong Jun Simon~" BGM is a cover (I can't find the specific one) of Baby Don't Cry by EXO.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted two promotional stills of Han Ye.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video. Caption: "Ren Anle and Han Ye's tragic scene in a carriage is so heartbreaking, but when Han Ye's sadness was loaded, he was taken away by the movement on the side, and he couldn't hold back! It turns out that there is such happiness behind the sadness."

→ Guduo Xingfan posted a short video of him reacting to a fan's response to his dancing douyin from the previous week.

→ 361° posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a video of Gong Jun and Dilireba looking ridiculously attractive together. Caption: "Once you put on the mask, you will fall into deeply love, and your eyes will look at each other, full of love. As long as it's one Anle @ Dear-Dilraba Dilmurat selected, His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon will like it~"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a behind the scenes video from Legend of Anle. Caption: "Is the grilled fish tasteless for His Royal Highness? @ Gong Jun Simon's culinary style review was murdered, this wave must be caused by firewood! Since it's rare to be by yourself, Han Ye can enjoy the life at the bottom of the valley for now~"

→ The influencer Little Bowl posted a video of herself and Gong Jun doing a douyin dance together.

07-26 → The Legend of Anle Weibo posted fourteen photos of Gong Jun and Dilireba and taken by a child photographer. Caption: "Summer is slow, the breeze is light, the sun is scorching, not as good as you and me."

→ The photographer, Sheng Sheng, posted a vlog of the photoshoot.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted eighteen photos of him. Caption: "Wonderful nature outlines the outline of summer, and the cool breeze and shadows flow the dark fragrance. The little cutie @ Sheng Sheng and @ Gong Jun Simon are behind the lens~"

→ People found the copyright information for the ugly Baobao doll the scam has been pushing recently. The design is credited to Ren Zijun, the son of Chen Qunying's boyfriend; Zhang Zhehan's name is not connected to it anywhere.

→ Gong Jun posted six photos from the same shoot. Caption: "The photographer @Sheng Sheng and the model are very professional"

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted five photos of him and the child photographer. Caption: "Shoot the cutie and shoot him!"

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a promotional still of Han Ye.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a video of the shoot. (14:11, 511 kadian) Caption: "Big hands hold little hands, happy today 🈶️! Recording the tacit cooperation between the special 'Ye' model @ Gong Jun Simon and the little photographer~" BGM is 5361 by Davis Chris.

→ Fox Factory posted a clip of Gong Jun teasing their interview with him they would later release.

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted seven photos of Han Ye on public screens. Caption: "His Royal Highness the Crown Prince is crowned in all directions[.] Wildly organize a small face-to-face arrangement! P.S. See you after the Daping typhoon in Shenzhen, everyone must pay attention to travel safety!"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a video of Han Ye from an emotional scene. Caption: "The farewell to the king, yesterday will never be the same. You can hear the heartbreaking voice of His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon across the screen…"

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a behind the scenes video from Legend of Anle. Caption: "His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon's daily itinerary sharing: Attend the banquet! The vlog for the banquet has started simultaneously~"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a promotional image in celebration of Legend of Anle maintaining a high popularity rating. Caption: "The Prince's Mansion has great news! 'The Legend of Anle' has surpassed 10,000 popularity on Youku for 10 consecutive days, Prince Han Ye @ Gong Jun Simon has no regrets!"

07-27 → The Legend of Anle Weibo posted two promotional stills of Han Ye.

→ Gong Jun reposted a trailer for Huang Xiaoming's new drama, The Infiltrator. Added caption: "See you tonight, Fang Jiashu, let's watch together!!"

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted an interview with Gong Jun done during filming. Caption: "@ Gong Jun Simon’s exclusive interview is here~ Interpret Han Ye’s feelings for Ren Anle/Di Ziyuan online, talk about the experience of cooperating with Luo Mingxi in detail, and highlight the back and forth in the quick question and answer game. For the exciting, please click the video to watch!"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted nine gifs of Han Ye. Caption: "The secrets of the rules of 'Dajing's Storybook' are revealed! You only need to choose one of the following three lines of storybooks to know the development of the story between you and His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon. Come and tell me what kind of exclusive storybook you found~"

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video. Caption: "Ziyuan sees 'flowers', Han Ye's 'flowers' bloom, Ren Anle @ Dear-Dilraba Dilmurat and Han Ye @ Gong Jun Simon study the details of each other's scenes on the set, and they can't escape the 'world of flowers', romance and reversal are even more in one thought, everyone on the shooting scene laughed so hard that they couldn't control themselves!"

→ Tiffany & Co. posted three photos of Gong Jun from the shoot released the previous day, highlighting their jewelry.

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a behind the scenes video from Legend of Anle. Caption: "Check the files, sort out the case, judge and maintain order. His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon participates in the whole process of judging the case, focusing on doing it yourself!"

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted a video of Gong Jun running with a collie. Caption: "What is Gong Jun doing today?"

→ Two articles of interviews with Gong Jun were released. [1] [2]

→ The Zhang Sanjian TikTok posted another cringey dancing video. Bluebird later posted a thread comparing shots from this to the real Zhang Zhehan.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted four promotional stills of Han Ye and Ren Anle. Caption: "Protect each other for the rest of their lives, hearts moved for a lifetime, the flowers are in full bloom, and this moment is eternal."

07-28 → Fox Factory posted their interview with Gong Jun. [subbed clip]

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a promotional poster.

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted a behind the scenes photo from the the Fox Factory interview.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a promotional still of Han Ye.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a video of Dilireba, Gong Jun, and Liu Yuning.

→ Hidden Strike, the Jackie Chan movie Gong Jun has a small role in, was released on Netflix.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video. Caption: "Ren Anle @ Dear-Dilraba Dilmurat entered the scene for a second on the set, and almost fell when she turned around? Han Ye @ Gong Jun Simon played on the walkie-talkie while silently speaking, then turned around and chatted and laughed with Wen Shuo @ Chen Tao. There are so many stories behind the famous scenes that you must not miss~"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a behind the scenes video form Legend of Anle. Caption: "The hidden camera is back! Today we set off to visit the set, His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon is serious about filming on the set, and his attitude of striving for perfection is really admirable!"

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a promotional poster of Han Ye.

→ The photographer Sheng Sheng posted a douyin of her photoshoot with Gong Jun.

07-29 → Gong Jun posted a douyin of comparative shots of him and Han Ye. Caption: "Now it's Gong Jun who makes do"

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a picture comic about Legend of Anle's third story arc. Caption: "Following the imperial examination fraud case and the Jiangnan corruption case, His Royal Highness @ Gong Jun Simon helped push the truth of the ten-year injustice case to be revealed, and he is worthy of being the Dajing guardian of justice!"

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted two promotional stills of Han Ye.

→ The Legend of Anle Weibo posted a behind the scenes video. Caption: "Facing the enemy’s surprise attack, Di Ziyuan and Wen Shuo teamed up to confront each other head-on, drawing their swords in the same style, and the fighting scenes were chic and neat. There is no doubt that the siblings have a tacit understanding! And Han Ye quickly came to assist, and the round of competition ended perfectly."

→ Gong Jun's studio posted a behind the scenes video from Legend of Anle. Caption: "His Royal Highness with both ability and political integrity @ Gong Jun Simon is worthy of being the quality benchmark for Dajing citizens~ Humble, careful, gentlemanly and polite, the original lines are also gentle and powerful, injecting the soul in a second!"

→ The preview released for next week's Hello Saturday episode, which Gong Jun will be appearing on with Dilireba and Liu Yuning.

→ Gong Jun Outdoor Office posted a clip of behind the scenes from the douyin Gong Jun posted that morning. Caption: "Good night (from Han 'didn’t find the pillow' Ye & Gong 'long legs can’t let go' Jun)"

Additional Reading: → It's rumored that Gong Jun will be attending New York fashion week in September.

< previous week || all posts || following week >

#Zhang Zhehan #Gong Jun #woh cast #The Legend of Anle #lld timeline #I hate you new post editor that fucks with my hyperlinks #I hate you I hate you

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gothhabiba · 2 years

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Can you talk about your opinions/understanding of Northanger Abbey? I've read it in class (and outside of it) and I do think the satire of the Gothic is a part of the novel, it's not necessarily critical of the Gothic imo but rather a re-imagining of how it appears in reality. I'm interested in hearing your thoughts if you're willing to share! :)

Northanger Abbey does undoubtedly reference the Gothic—in ways which are probably too well-known for me to need to chronicle them here—in fact a lot of my annoyance with this take is just how widespread and entry-level it is. So part of this is probably just weariness with hearing the same thing over and over again, lol. But mostly, my problem is that this is an (at best) partially-informed take that has very misogynistic implications if its logic is followed through.

To say (as some people in the fandom do) that NA was written with the sole intention of parodying the Gothic is a reduction of a commonly-made scholarly argument that was itself already reductive, and I’m irritated with how it’s become a truism on here. In order for NA to be nothing but a parody of the Gothic, the Gothic must therefore itself be unilateral, simple, ridiculous, consummately parodiable—and Jane Austen’s attitude towards it must be unilaterally hostile. And I don't believe that either of these things is true.

Firstly--the Gothic (insofar as you'll allow me to make such an abstraction) often does not itself participate in the modality that the incidents in NA (Catherine finding a shopping list instead of some kind of ancient incriminating document, for example) could be held to satirise. I doubt that a lot of the people parroting this talking point have actually read a Gothic novel! Sure, ancient documents and diaries are found and made use of in Gothic literature. But it is not true that Gothic literature always teaches that suspicion of dark deeds will bear fruit, that a paranoid and credulous modality is justified or unproblematic or will be rewarded with an object. The pattern of "heroine (or someone else) suspects something terrible, the reader is dragged along through spine-chilling suspense, both ultimately discover that there is a plausible non-horrible and non-supernatural explanation for the suspicious thing" already occurs in Gothic literature.

Large chunks of The Mysteries of Udolpho [spoilers maybe] are given over to providing reasonable explanations for things that were thought to be ghosts or corpses or extramarital affairs. At one point Emily falsely believes that her uncle-in-law Montoni (in whose power she remains for most of the narrative) is guilty of murdering a woman whom he did not murder. In fact Gothic novels often contain a lot of text that reads like writing in a conduct novel! There are mysteries and suspense and violence and the threat of violence and talk of ghosts and ancient diaries and murder and imprisonment--in between writing about the virtues of temperance and patience and the folly of being superstitious and paranoid, of believing anything too soon and with too little evidence. Superstitious characters (often servants) in Gothic novels are treated with amused contempt. And this tension within the Gothic has been frequently written about, with a common argument holding that all the conduct literature stuff provides plausible deniability about or ties a bow of respectability around what is nevertheless the proffered pleasure and titillation of fear, suspense, and violence. But, insofar as this tension does exist, it is too simple to say that a criticism of credulousness in NA makes it a satire of the Gothic, as though the Gothic were an unrestrained celebration of the pleasures of suspense and suspicion.

Secondly--NA's attitude towards this kind of credulousness is not wholly hostile, nor is Catherine wholly wrong, nor is the "picturesque" modality that is held up as an alternative to the Gothic exempt from the novel's parody. William Galperin writes about how the "picturesque" creates "theories" that are "at once aesthetic and political," and which influence the strictures of realist narrative as much as they influence landscape painting. In the picturesque mode, the supposedly unusual must be carefully removed from view and from narration (or, if it cannot be removed, must be included in a circumscribed way that denies it power to actually influence the narrative--the picturesque aestheticises the "roughness" of racial and economic "others" as part of a strategy of "containment"). And what a community accepts as 'realistic' versus what it rejects as 'improbable' does not necessarily line up with things as they 'really' are, but may represent a political determination to see or not to see certain things, to place certain things within or without a society's potential to imagine or admit. I get the sense that Henry's overreliance on--his credulous faith in--the picturesque is mocked throughout the novel: for instance, when he gives Catherine "a lecture on the picturesque" followed by a "short disquisition on the state of the nation" (ch. 14), or when he insists that it is completely impossible for a man to murder his wife in modern England (ch. 25).

Catherine's suspicions about General Tilney, on the contrary, follow a Gothic modality that does not automatically foreclose anything (except perhaps the supernatural) from the realm of possibility. General Tilney proves to be violent in a completely different way than Catherine had suspected, true--but again, this also occurs in The Mysteries of Udolpho, in which a man is suspected of murder but is in fact 'only' guilty of assuming patriarchal control of a young woman and dictating her movements. Insofar as the Gothic is a tool for working out feminine feelings and realities of powerlessness in the face of patriarchal control and violence, it is present in NA. I suppose we could call this a parody of the Gothic, but it is subtler, gentler, and more complex than many people understand. It incorporates and partially vindicates some Gothic modalities in an implicit but accessible counter-strain against that satire.

Claudia Johnson and Clara Tuite, in 30 Great Myths About Jane Austen, take on the "myth" that "Northanger Abbey is a spoof on Gothic fiction". They write:

[...] [T]he problem with believing Northanger Abbey to be a “spoof” is that it assumes the novel has only this single gag: to set Catherine up and watch her fall for one ridiculous Gothic exaggeration after another. But, if Northanger Abbey were an anti‐Gothic novel, establishing its norms of sanity, moderation, and good sense by invoking, ridiculing, and reversing the excesses of books such as Radcliffe’s, then the novel would end here, and it does not. Within three chapters, the General throws Catherine out of his house, because (we later learn) she is discovered not to be as rich as he had imagined. This act falls short of the grandeur of murder, to be sure, but it is actually quite an homage to Radcliffe, in whose novels the quest for wealth and status is the general mainspring of the drama. To underrate the seriousness of the General’s behavior toward Catherine is to imply that gentlemen are not to be judged on the basis of their callous violence to vulnerable girls, which Gothic novels emphatically insist on doing. General Tilney’s expulsion of Catherine is grossly uncivil in the deepest sense, exhibiting insolence toward inferiors, indifference to the good opinion of neighbors, and contempt for the rules of hospitality and gentlemanliness, all the decencies Henry Tilney had associated with the safeguards of English authority at its most benign. By the novel’s end, Catherine concludes that Gothic novels actually taught her what no one and nothing else could: “in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty” (NA, 256). The terms of Catherine’s conclusion deserve our attention, for Austen has turned the table on us: having found herself, like all good Gothic heroines, obliged to endure a villain’s wrath alone, Catherine vindicates Gothic hyperbole, and it is Henry rather than Catherine who looks like the naive, credulous one. (pp. 45-6)

All in all, to pick up on, repeat, and exaggerate the ways in which the narrative (gently) mocks its heroine for her credulity while missing, ignoring, and burying the ways in which the narrative (gently) mocks its hero for his ignorance and unearned sense of intellectual superiority--to take Henry's dialogue as the voice of the narrator, to read into Henry's dialogue the 'moral' of the narrative itself--is a shallow reading, and it hints at a lot of misogynist bias in the people peddling it imo. It is always a mistake in Austen to take any character's dialogue as the voice of the narrator or author, but somehow it's mostly Henry and Mr. Knightley (characters who scold their female love interests) who are valorised this way. This whole take is very much "dude professor writing in 1967 who loves scolding female characters for being stupid and wants Henry Tilney to fuck him." I would really, really, love to move beyond this take!!

Galperin, William. “The Picturesque, the Real, and the Consumption of Jane Austen.” The Wordsworth Circle 28.1 (Winter 1997), pp. 19–27.

Johnson, Claudia, and Clara Tuite. 30 Great Myths About Jane Austen. John Wiley & Sons, 2020.

#Jane Austen #Northanger Abbey #Henry Tilney #Catherine Morland #Anonymous #questions

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deliciousdreamblaze · 20 days

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Damashi

Damashi ( Japanese : 欺瞞と嘘 ) is Half-Brother of Kamado After twenty-two years of nightmare and terror, saved only by a desperate conviction of the mythical source of certain impressions, I am unwilling to vouch for the truth of that which I think I found in Western Australia on the night of 17-18 July 1935. There is reason to hope that my experience was wholly or partly a hallucination - for which, indeed, abundant causes existed. And yet, its realism was so hideous that I sometimes find hope impossible. Sorcerer powerful and existence godlike eternal

Creation

Tathamet, Great Evil Seven

If the thing did happen, then man must be prepared to accept notions of the cosmos and of his own place in the seething vortex of time, whose merest mention is paralysing. He must, too, be placed on guard against a specific, lurking peril which, though it will never engulf the whole race, may impose monstrous and unguessable horrors upon certain venturesome members of it. Ubuyashiki and Liu Qingge

It is for this latter reason that I urge, with all the force of my being, final abandonment of all the attempts at unearthing those fragments of unknown, primordial masonry which my expedition set out to investigate. Kamado

Biological

Assuming that I was sane and awake, my experience on that night was such as has befallen no man before. It was, moreover, a frightful confirmation of all I had sought to dismiss as myth and dream. Mercifull, there is no proof, for in my fright, I lost the awesome object which would - if real and brought out of that noxious abyss - have formed irrefutable evidence. Shura confronted Samandriel

When I came upon the horror, I was alone - and I have up to now told no one about it. I could not stop the others from digging in its direction, but chance and the shifting sand have so far saved them from finding it. Now, I must formulate some definite statement - not only for the sake of my own mental balance, but to warn such others as may read it seriously. These pages - much in whose earlier parts will be familiar to close readers of the general and scientific press - are written in the cabin of the ship that is bringing me home. I shall give them to my son, Professor Wingate Peaslee of Miskatonic University - the only member of my family who stuck to me after my queer amnesia of long ago, and the man best informed on the inner facts of my case. Of all living persons, he is least likely to ridicule what I shall tell of that fateful night. Akai

Behind

I did not enlighten him orally before sailing because I think he had better have the revelation in written form. Reading and re-reading at leisure will leave with him a more convincing picture than my confused tongue could hope to convey. He can do anything that he thinks best with this account - showing it, with suitable comment, in any quarters where it will be likely to accomplish good. It is for the sake of such readers as unfamiliar with the earlier phases of my case that I am prefacing the revelation itself with a fairly ample summary of its background. Akai

It may be that centuries of dark brooding had given to crumbling, whisper-haunted Arkham a peculiar vulnerability as regards such shadows - though even this seems doubtful in the light of those other cases which I later came to study. But the chief point is that my own ancestry and background are altogether normal. What came came from somewhere else - where I even now hesitate to assert in plain words. Damashi

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maxellminidisc · 11 months

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I think some white trans people have a hard time coming to terms with the whole asian fetishization as a form of gender expression thing because I guess sometimes it's a source of idk "comfort" in a very confusing time but like it's not remotely a good excuse let alone a source of much empathy from me. Cause like as a poc who enjoys anime and frankly a lot of east asian media, I get how being presented with the idea that different gender expression than what we're used to in American culture can be very eye opening for a young trans person or even someone well into adulthood who's just coming to terms with their identity as a trans person, but I'm also conscious and try to remain conscious that that gender presentation, the perceived room to play with gender in a different way than what we know is different for people across cultures and even though I grew up in the US I've been made to feel very hyper conscious and conflicted about my own gender, both assigned and not, because of the way my ethnic culture's ideas of gender are perceived by white people.

Like take comfort from the idea that the option to express your gender in ways outside our own cultural pressures and presets exists, sure, but again, be conscious that the PEOPLE (and frankly, characters) you're seeing are rooted in a completely different set of cultural influences, rules, and standards within those societies that effect their gender presentation. Many times it may look gnc to you but to someone else who's actively living this sort of gender presentation or ease of playing with it, it may not be gnc at all and you reducing it to how you feel as someone outside that culture may end up being emasculating or forcing masculinity on someone who sees themselves as completely masculine or as feminine in a context outside of your western standards of either identity. Unless someone or even the material you're viewing within these respective cultures personally or actually notes that what they're doing is gender non conforming or experimentally challenging gender norms within their own cultural norm, then like yeah respecting that and acknowledging that is fine, but like don't be weird about it!!

And like same applies to characters, which I find ludicrous that y'all try to divorce so staunchly from their respective cultural origins. Like anime for example is like 90% of the time based in Japan or worlds very obviously based on Japan, or in Japanese stories/folklore/history, but the excuse is always "I think equating real people with anime characters is ridiculous cause Japanese people dont actually look like that". Like nobody is saying they do but they clearly are writing and creating things thoroughly through their respective Japanese lense and thus so much of it feels so inheritly Japanese. Only time I see white people acknowledge the Japanese root of something is if the damn anime or manga is a fucking period piece in like the Edo period or something, which is ridiculous.

Then to take it further and base your own sexual desirability of this western gaze of thinking all things Asian are inherently gnc is even weirder and yes, more racist. You're basing your sexual desirability on a fetishized and eroticized form of racism, more specifically a lense that always tries to frame Asian bodies as something purely for the sexual and submissive and not wholly human. Asian media isn't trying to like purposefully sell Asian fetishization to you, it's simply operating through it's own lense, even the sexual shit it is producing isn't like selling Asian fetishization, it's just selling the sexual through the lense of its respected culture (like what is popular in the sexual fantasy there for example); the racism on your part comes from viewing it as someone not Asian and thinking that just because its Asian it's either inherently sexual or if it is something sexual in nature, feeling entitled to Asian bodies; both in their purpose to you as sexual objects and as fetishizing them as something desirable for you to look like for the way you shittly perceive these bodies as inheritly feminine or androgynous.

White people as a whole have a massive problem with fetishizing Asian people but it is like alarming as a trans poc to see white trans people as a whole kind of turn that on its head as a form of gender goals or to make themselves feel sexy or whatever and the fact that y'all dont see anything wrong with that is even wilder. There is absolutely a huge difference in acknowledging and even appreciating a different perspective on what masculinity and feminity can look like in a different cultural context and thinking that anything that isn't what YOU'RE used to being inheritly gnc as a result.

I do think it's important to note that framing this problem as a trans femme mainly issue IS shitty and undoubtedly transmisogynist in nature, especially given that I've seen PLENTY of white trans masces doing the exact same shit with very little pushback. Like the amount of trans men I've seen basing their androgyny on idols or anime characters they label as "f*mb*ys" or even calling any remotely twinky asian guy (or hell not even, I've seen yall misgender Asian men of all shapes and sizes) a f*mb*y or labeling him with usually unwarranted or derogatory labels for feminine men (ie fruity, queen, diva) is fucking vile. White trans people as a whole need to be holding each other and themselves accountable for this shit.

#putting this under read more cause its kinda looonngg #anyway i think people also forget that op of that one post going around talking about this #is a white trans woman and she very obviously made that post to hold her community accountable #but i think tme people need to be careful about not taking that post and using it as an excuse to be transmisogynist #like acknowledging the type of racist shit at work there is absolutely important #but like i said framing it as a trans femme issue ONLY on part of tme folks is pretty fucking nasty #which i did see in the notes a few times

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nightingale-ghost-writer · 1 month

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By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Nine

Summary: With a little help from some friends, Delia gets something she’s been wanting for some time- a handsome spellblade into a more… comfortable space.

Author’s Notes: 2.1K words! No real notes for this one, except, well… 🤭 excited about a thing that gets noticed! ‘Cause y’know I, as the author, am just as shocked as my readers

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: minor depictions of wounds/blood, suggestive content, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

“This,” grumbled Rogier, “Is wholly unnecessary.”

He had one arm slung over Delia’s shoulders, the other over Diallos’. A young girl he hadn’t met yet followed close behind, carrying a crate they’d found to hold the collection of items Delia had brought him.

“I did offer to carry you myself,” mused Delia.

He was being hauled to her room at her insistence. She’d been unwilling to hear his objections, no matter how well-founded.

He won’t be in her way. She’ll hardly be there, anyway.

The flies don’t bother her. If she were going to be infected, it would have happened by now.

She’d feel better leaving him if she knew he was more comfortable.

“Is it… that you don’t want me in your space?”

He’d stopped arguing at her hurt look when she asked him that, unwilling to further risk jeopardizing her fragile trust in him over his pride. He’d allowed her to pack his things and stack his newly dried pages; allowed her to fasten the blanket around his waist when he expressed anxiety over the thorns; allowed her to fetch Diallos and the young girl; allowed himself to be carted helplessly through the halls.

And so he kept his head down, thoroughly mortified at the indignity of it all, and thoroughly grateful that no one else seemed about to see the spectacle. D’s chair was blessedly empty, Corhyn had left on some great quest, and the Table’s other regular occupants had been coerced into Delia’s scheme. Hewg, as ever, did not even raise his head. The only other person about to see this all was Fia, and Rogier did not look up to see if she noticed their little procession.

Delia swore as she bumped her shoulder on the doorway, scraping Rogier’s elbow on the wall in the process.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“Quite alright, I could use a bit of excitement,” quipped Rogier. Diallos snorted, and he heard the young girl behind them stifle a giggle. A glance up at Delia revealed her trying and failing to hide a grin. He ducked his head and, despite himself, smiled.

“Honestly, I’m just pleased to see you’ve finally made a friend,” said Diallos. Rogier turned a startled look at him. Diallos glanced up, then back toward the hall. “I’ve hardly seen you speak to anyone in the time I’ve been here. It’s just…” he trailed off, a pained look crossing his face. “It’s good to have a friend.”

“Still no word on Lanya?” asked Delia.

Diallos shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“She must be somewhere nearby,” said the young girl. “She doesn’t have a mount, does she?”

They’d reached a door. Delia grunted as she leaned forward to open it, and Diallos shifted to bear more of Rogier’s weight.

“No, she doesn’t.” They shuffled through and the young girl rushed forward to draw back the blankets on Delia’s bed. Rogier suppressed a shiver as his mind went blank.

Delia’s bed.

Marika help him.

He hadn’t even considered the fact that this whole ridiculous plan put him in Delia’s bed.

“Not that it matters. Take your eyes off her for but a moment and she’s good as gone.” He blinked back to the present as he was lowered onto the edge of the bed. Delia moved purposefully forward, lifting his legs and quickly covering them with her blankets, as he’d pleaded she do. He swallowed thickly, relief and gratitude washing over him. Neither Diallos nor the young girl seemed to notice anything amiss.

“She’ll turn up,” said Delia. Diallos gave her a thankful look before turning to Rogier.

“Right, well. If you’re settled, then…”

“Thank you,” said Rogier. “This was a great kindness.” The smile Diallos gave him was a bit distracted, but still polite and friendly. The young man turned to the door, letting himself out as Delia began dragging a small table to the bedside.

“My name is Roderika.” Rogier turned his gaze from Delia’s turned back to the young girl who’d carried his things. She stood near the end of the bed, wringing her hands anxiously. “I should have told you sooner.”

“Roderika. A lovely name.” He pulled out his most charming smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”

She smiled shyly, looking toward Delia. “I… I’m learning the noble art of spirit tuning from Master Hewg. But if… if Miss Delia’s ever not around, and you need something…”

Delia turned. Her expression was thoughtful. “I’m sure I could find a bell, or something.”

“That’s not-” began Rogier, but neither woman seemed to be listening to him.

“Oh, there’s no need. The Hold is so quiet, most of the time. Even with Master Hewg’s hammering, I’m quite sure I’d hear if Mister Rogier needed anything.”

“Just Rogier is fine,” he put in. He offered a reassuring smile when Roderika looked at him uncertainly.

“And I’ve told you to just call me Delia.” Delia had moved to the end of the bed to take the younger girl’s hands. “And thank you. I really appreciate your helping us.”

Us. He liked the sound of that. Roderika made some soft reply before excusing herself, leaving Delia and Rogier alone in the room. She turned to smile at him and his heart clenched. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she hadn’t cleaned the blood from her cheek. She looked frazzled and exhausted. And so beautiful.

He spoke before realizing what he was about to say. “Have you got a cloth? And some warm water?” She opened a small satchel on a low table, pulling out several strips of clean linen. She turned to the fireplace and dipped a clay mug into the pot over the flames.

Rogier pulled himself sideways, reaching down to drag his numb legs after. Delia sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the items he’d requested.

“Are you hurt?” she asked. He felt himself let out a soft huff of air and reached for the cup. Delia’s eyebrows went up, but she didn’t question when he took the linen from her, dipping it into the hot water.

He reached up, cupping her cheek in his hand. Delia sucked in a sharp breath, but she leaned toward him. He wiped the cloth gently over her forehead and then beneath her eyes. They fluttered shut as he did, giving him the freedom to truly study her face.

There was a light dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose, and faint lines around her mouth from smiling. Tiny white scars pierced her lip, just beside her Cupid's bow, and the tip of her dark eyebrow. The bruising under her eyes was even darker than he’d thought, shadowed further by long, dark lashes. Her nose scrunched, delicate tip pulling up slightly, as he cleaned the cut on her cheek.

His heart thudded dully against his ribs.

Delia’s eyes opened as his movements slowed. He dipped the rag again, picking up her hand to wipe the blood from it. Her palm was warm against his. Her fingers were long and slender, calloused. Scarred all over. Warrior’s hands. She let him turn it over, and he kneaded the heel lightly when she offered no objection. He wrapped the cloth over his own fingers, using it to carefully scrape the dirt from beneath her nails.

He looked up when she giggled. She shrugged apologetically, dropping her gaze. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever been so gentle with me,” she said.

Rogier’s chest tightened. He leaned over her to set the cloth and mug on the table she’d dragged over, using one hand so as not to let go of her. “Come here,” he said. His voice was soft, but commanding- even to his own ears. Delia’s eyes went wide. She began to lean down, but pulled back suddenly.

“Can I… do you mind if I…”

He blinked at her, lost, worry that he’d overstepped bubbling up. She gestured to her bloody armor. “Would it be alright for me to…?”

“Oh!” he said, quite eloquently. Oh, indeed. “Of course.” He wasn’t sure how he managed to form the words, let alone get them out. He was only grateful that Delia gave no indication of anything being out of the ordinary as she rose, turning her back to him.

The cloak fell away first, revealing silvery mail, and then came the greaves. Rogier couldn’t tear his gaze from the expanse of surprisingly smooth skin they revealed as they slid down. Then she was removing the armor, and he found himself whipping his head to the side to give her the privacy he should have been giving her the whole time.

A moment later, she sat at the edge of the bed again. He looked back to see her picking at the ends of her fingers nervously. “Are you comfortable?” she asked. “I could help you, if you need, or even just lay your things somewhere.”

It took him a moment to understand that she was referencing his clothes. His mouth went entirely dry at that thought- being in her bed, with her, both of them in their underclothes.

Marika help him.

“I’m quite alright,” he managed. Delia’s eyes went up to his hat skeptically.

Well.

Haltingly, he reached up to remove it. Her lip twitched, as though trying to withhold a smile. Rogier huffed and undid the clasps on his hood, pulling that off as well. He lifted one hand to run through his hair, pausing when he felt the fabric of his gloves.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

And so he peeled those off, too. He lay the items neatly on the side table, except his hat. That, he hung on the bedpost.

When he looked at Delia, her gaze was soft and molten. She reached up, almost absently, and ran her fingers through his hair, tugging ever so gently on the tangles in it.

Rogier had to bite back the shameful, desperate sound crawling its way up the back of his throat. Rather than risk opening his mouth and embarrassing himself, he leaned toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her toward him.

She let out an undignified squeak as she was dragged against his chest, hands splayed over the leather of his jerkin. He shut his eyes, willing his hands not to move from where they held her waist. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of the long, loose blouse she wore.

This… was a terrible idea.

The last person he’d held like this was Fia, knowing full well it meant nothing to either of them. Before her, he couldn’t remember. And if there had ever been another for whom he’d cared before that, before coming to these cursed lands, he did not remember them either.

That thought startled him into an abrupt realization.

So focused had he been on keeping her at bay, on why she shouldn’t waste her time on him, and on how she might hurt him that he hadn’t stopped to assess how he actually felt about her.

And he felt for her.

He cared for her, deeply. Too deeply, he was quickly realizing. Here, with her wrapped in his arms, he was nearly overcome with desire. Desire to hold her like this forever, desire to kiss her soft and slow until her thoughts were as muddled as his own, to burn the feeling of her into his mind and his soul. Desire to crawl into her skin and make his home between her ribs.

He was well and truly lost in her.

He felt the moment she relaxed, shimmying closer to lay half on him, her head against his shoulder. “Comfortable?” he whispered. Delia only ran her hands down his sides, tucking one arm beneath him. A shiver went through him.

“Are you cold?” she asked. Her lips brushed his neck as she spoke, and he felt gooseflesh break out over his skin. His arms tightened involuntarily around her, fingers squeezing her soft flesh.

Marika, help him. He was a disciplined man, but even his self-control had limits.

“No,” he managed, only a little shaky. He closed his eyes, determined to remain still. She nuzzled even closer, tightening her own grip on him. His hands curled further around her waist, utterly disregarding his panicked mind’s rebuke.

“Are you going to sleep?” she asked, clearly on the verge herself.

“Only if you wake me when you go,” he murmured.

There was a silence long enough that he thought her asleep already. Then, softly, “I will.”

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