#and jonathan's hanging on by the skin of his teeth lol | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

l0velylecter · 1 year

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i vowed I would always be yours ( cause we survived the great war ) — captain john price / f!reader

— "my hand was the one you reached for, all throughout the great war"

BOUND BY HISTORY, from the redwood forests during the age of kings to the trenches of world war ii, your family has served his family for generations. And so the story repeats itself. Yet the small part of you that dared to hope had wondered if it would always stay this way. Deep in your bones, you know this longing: forbidden yet tethering on the edge of your control, waiting to reach out, to explode, ran deeper than ancient oaths. You were a product of a hundred years worth of longing, and if Price keeps standing this close to you — drowning you with the stench of bergamot and tobacco, you will snap.

summary : where the reader and price's families have fought alongside one another as kings and knights, and now as his sniper, you can't help but ache to be more. pairing : captain jonathan price / f!reader | codename : angel fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii rating : m for mature and suggestive themes, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : descriptions of violence, cursing, brief descriptions of sex tags : military!reader, afab!reader, female parts, references to knights and kings, price's family being kings, and yours being knights,”where you go, i follow” +“ she fell first but he fell harder” trope, brief themes of magical realism, scent kink lol, mentions of unrequited love, angst, hurt and comfort, first times, loss of virginity, mirror sex(ish), female masturbation word count : 4.5k note : font is normal sized under the cut ! song used for inspiration : the great war, taylor swift

" Bravo six, state your position. Over."

The creek beside you trickled down the stones, whistling past the grass. Static crept up your ear, competing with the heavy, ringing sound of silence.

" Angel to Bravo six, state your position. Do you copy? Over."

Your breath hitched at the absence of a reply. Switching off your night vision and flipping the goggles up, you let the night breeze kiss your eyelids: your vision straining as it tried to adjust to the darkness. Across you, the shadows stretched past the pine trees and eventually into nothing, the wind stilling with the bristle of leaves to hold its breath with you.

" Price ?”

You tried again, voice slightly wavering, " John ?"

" I'm here."

You quickly spun, arms raised as if to defend yourself. Yet his hands flew to steady your shoulders: clothed thumbs digging into your shoulder bone — " Easy there, Angel."

Sighing, you took a step back, briefly noting that you had been chest to chest. You looked to the right, focusing on the pine cones littered across the moss-covered ground to ignore the heady stench of cedar and amber; noticing how you scrunched your face, Price let out a chuckle, " Don't tell me you also hate this aftershave too."

" I never hated any of it," You quickly replied. Clearing your throat before fixing the sentence, " I don't hate it, sir."

" It's just the two of us now, (name). Comms are down. The forest's too dense to pick up anything, and a storm is brewing." He gestured to the sky, and although the clouds blurred together with the night, the wind pick up its pace: the chill sinking past your mask and jacket. " We should head back."

You nodded, adjusting the rifle against your back — the sound of your name instead of your call sign falling from his lips caused you to ease your shoulders, jaws unclenching as the tension slipped off your body like a coat. He let out a small smile, "Walk with me."

The silence was immediately interrupted by the flicker of the lighter against the cigar (already hanging between Price's teeth.) And as if you've done the motion a hundred — a thousand times, you reached out to cup your hands around his to block the wind. As always, he'd pull away with a thank you, leaving you to flex your fingers quietly as if to preserve the skin-to-skin contact, trapping the warmth to savor the brief moment.

Occasionally Price would comment on the weather or make small talk, but aside from that, it was just the sound of your boots crunching the thin sheen of snow — the branches above a shelter of extended limbs, your steps guided by the pale, gentle light. Your shoulders, brushing.

" We need to address the elephant in the room."

You bristled, steps faltering.

" What do you mean?"

Your breathing quickened. Despite years and years of training, when you're around Price, you can never help yourself. Bound by history, from the redwood forests during the age of kings to the trenches of world war ii, your family has served his family for generations. And so the story repeats itself. Yet the small part of you that dared to hope had wondered if it would always stay this way. Deep in your bones, you know this longing: forbidden yet tethering on the edge of your control, waiting to reach out, to explode, ran deeper than ancient oaths. You were a product of a hundred years worth of longing, and if Price keeps standing this close to you — drowning you with the stench of bergamot and tobacco, you will snap.

He leaned forward to your ear, chest grazing your back, " You're hiding something from me."

This close, you can practically taste him; whiskey, cedar — the scent crowded you from all sides. If he didn't choose that moment to slip his hand into your pocket to fish out the paper-wrapped object, you would have grabbed him by the face and —

" Care to explain ?"

You exhaled shakily, gesturing to the gift with your chin and mumbling lamely, " Happy birthday."

He searched your expression, leaning against a bark to unwrap it, ignoring the oncoming rumbling of thunder ahead; cigar nearly falling from how wide he smiled.

" A hat ?"

" You'll be heading to the midlands next week."

A bird perched on one of the branches above. Snow lightly dusted his hair.

" You shouldn't have, kid."

" That's what you say every year."

You suddenly feel an ache within your chest, a slow, dull pull that reminds you of what's to come: while it wouldn't be the first time you'd separate from each other, it will be the first time since you enlisted in the army that you'd be apart. And he was the reason you joined in the first place: to make up for the times you weren't there with him, starting from when you were too young to play football with the high schooler next door. You were both ships passing in the night, and now that you were both anchored to each other, the tides have come to drift you apart. It hardly seems fair.

It won't take longer than a year. He promised. If I'm lucky, I'll visit.

You tried to take his word for it, but it didn't remove the dread pouring off you — always observant, Price walked closer.

" Chin up. I'll come back."

The moon was beautiful that night, and so was the rain: it started with a drop on your forehead, followed by another, another, and soon you were caught under a deluge, pouring over the two of you. Yet you both stood your ground as if trying to savor this moment. Price only moved to unclip his cape to drape it over you, pulling the hood over your head before walking away to get a head start, ignoring your protests.

Looking back, you would have given anything to know what he was thinking that night, his eyes young, hopeful, and electric blue past the mist.

When you saw him again, his eyes were grey — sure, they were still blue, but under the streetlamp and peeking through the hat, they burned silver like steel: steady and sharp, burdened by hardship. So when his voice drops almost fondly, softly, to greet you, a familiar ache bloomed in your chest.

“ It’s good to see you again, kid.”

The words caught in your throat, the sentence you practiced in your head for years, dissolving into one stiff nod. And when he crossed the distance, the men behind him stood their ground to watch.

A heartbeat passed before he gestured to your — well, his cloak, " That old shabby thing can't possibly do you any good, sergeant."

He was right, you thought. Despite your best attempts at preserving it, the fabric was worn and old and falling apart by the seams, barely protecting you from snow, wind, or rain. Yet how do you tell him that it still faintly smells of the earth, of gunpowder, of him? And it didn't matter how many times you washed it: the faint, sweet fragrance still lingers; a phantom trick that keeps the yearning at bay. So you settled with a curt: " It gets the job done, sir."

You gripped the strap of your rifle, subtly resting the fist above your heart in a poor attempt to soothe it, and his gaze followed your subtle movements: eying the family crest. Realizing that he would probably want the heirloom back, you started to unclip it from your neck.

“ Don’t,” He ordered, and you obeyed. Fingers pausing.

“ Keep it. It looks better on you.”

You wanted to say so many things: to tell him that the beard suits him, that you still couldn’t believe this was real, that you’ve missed him to the point where your bones ached. With him towering over you with only a footstep away from being chest to chest, the saccharine smell hit you square in the stomach. This time you didn’t need to imagine him.

Rumors were questions going about you and Price. And only during rare moments like these did the questions begin to materialize in the air like clouds, heavy and unsaid, suspicion gathered like precipitation: waiting to pour out of everyone's mouths like rain. Throughout the entire interrogation, you stood by the entrance, quietly observing the scene unfold, not wanting to interfere. You only moved once the captor opened his mouth to spit on Price's face. Immediately, you pressed yourself to the front, ignoring your teammate's protests to hold the edge of your blade against his adam's apple, only lowering the weapon when Price placed a hand on your shoulder. An amused smile crept up the informant's face: thinking, suspecting, plotting.

" I'm impressed that you keep your dogs on a tight leash, Captain. Can't you do the same for your bitch ?"

You didn't know who shouted for Price to stop: it must've been either Gaz or Ghost, both men hauling him off the prisoner: the cracking of bone echoing down the walls. Kate had every right to be angry — He has diplomatic immunity, John! What the fuck were you thinking?

Next to you, Ghost crossed his arms together, taking shelter under the rooftop from the pouring rain, " Bastard would have died if we didn't cut a hole in his neck. A bloody nose makes it hard to bloody breathe, don't you agree, sergeant?"

His eyes narrowed as if to ask. No, as if he already knows and maybe even understands. Not knowing what to say, you chose instead to watch as blood: fresh and wet, trickled down Price's knuckles, slowly washed away by the downpour. ( You weren't worried, it wasn’t his blood.)

“ What’s his name?”

Almost immediately, Fahrah tucked the picture back into her pocket. Alert, her hand reached for her gun, only to relax once she saw you. Outside, the desert was tame under the full moon, breathing with each howl of wind rolling down the hills. That was her habit: when it seemed as if no one was looking, Fahrah would sit by the corner to rest her head against the wall, gaze zoning into the man by the very end of the group polaroid almost longingly.

“ Alex.”

“ My condolences.”

You shifted in place.

“ Do you miss him?”

She pursed her lips as if to think, but you knew it was because she didn't want to hear how easily the admission would slip past her lips as if his name was something she feared.

“ I do.”

On serene nights like this, when there wasn’t a single cloud to block out the moonshine, you were compelled to seek comfort in the presence of one of the only women on the team. And on the rare occasions where the noise fades with the rest of the battlefield, Fahrah lets you.

Resting her chin atop her knees, she put her novel aside: A Collection of Urzikstan Fables.

“ Do you believe in fairytales ?”

You let the words mull, sparing a few seconds to think, “ Sometimes I do.”

The comms were stagnant, quiet: a few stories wouldn't hurt, Fahrah suggested. And so you told her a story — the only story you had chosen to believe in: weaving a tale of kings and knights, where oaths are sacred, and crowns are heavy.

“ And did the knight love his king?”

You pictured a knight cradling her majesty's body on the forest floor, unmoving and ruined by grief. You imagined a trooper limping past the minefields with his captain on his back, body: broken yet persevering through the pain. You thought of Price bleeding out in your arms, eyes blue and blood red.

“ Very much.”

“ But did the king love her back?”

You laughed as if the answer was obvious, “ No.”

“ Why not?”

“ They say kings were often needed elsewhere, and sometimes, they were needed in places where knights can’t follow.”

" Well that's hardly fair, isn't it?"

Her voice was sad, sorry even. You tugged the cloak closer to around your body.

" No, it’s not."

Once Gaz had asked you how to tell if Price was angry. You told him it was easy: if he starts cursing and throwing chairs, he's angry. But if he stays quiet, then he’s furious. You’ve seen Price make threats and shove tables in retaliation, but you’ve never quite seen him like this — jaws clenched and eyes burning. Silent throughout the car ride back to base. He couldn't even bring himself to look at you.

" I told you to take the shot."

He spat through gritted teeth.

" I could have hit you.” You reasoned, “It was too risky, sir."

" Don't fucking sir me, (name)! Not now! " His fist collided with the metal table as he pushed himself off the chair, the table dragging against the stone floor. " I trusted you to take out the enemy, no matter the cost."

Your frown grew deeper as you looked back on the last few hours. You could still feel the wind against your ears, rushing past you as you supported your elbows against the ledge. With a finger against the trigger, you shouted against the comms for someone — anyone, to come and pry the captain away from the enemy. Yet no one came, and Price was directly in front of the target's body, looking straight into the crosshairs and ordering you to shoot.

" I can't."

" Can't or won't?" He challenged, stalking forward to crowd you against the wall, "Answer me !"

" I won’t hurt you! "

His eyes flickered to the fresh cut across your cheek, dripping blood down your chin. The consequence of your reluctance: an opposing sniper had aimed his rifle right at you. His copper bullet zoomed past your temple and knocked you backward. And Price was shouting from afar when Soap had come to collect you back inside the chopper; From below, it looked like a headshot.

" And because of that, you could have...people could have been hurt tonight. You let him go, and he will kill civilians — children! "

" I..." You struggled to find the right words. While there hadn't been any reports of casualties, civilians within a fifty-mile radius were currently under evacuation, the sound of helicopters in the distance creeping past the windows.

The corners of your eyes burned.

" I'm sorry."

He tore himself away from you, a hand wiping down his tired face: crestfallen, his voice was low and angry.

" Don't make yourself a liability on my fucking behalf because if it was up to me and you were down there, you bet your arse, I would have pulled. that bloody. trigger. Do I make myself clear?"

When you gave no reply, Price stormed out of the room, and only an hour later did you finally find the strength to follow suit.

The helicopter rocked sideways, dipping past the clouds before catching itself. You already have your arm extended, reaching for Price. Yet his expression told you to stay put because the fire was growing by the minute. But you were crying: nearly hysterical the moment Gaz placed an arm over your waist to hold you in place. You thrashed and kicked and begged him to let you go after the captain on the other side, feet tangled in one of the seatbelts.

The chopper won't hold. There wasn't enough time.

When he finally cut himself free, the helicopter was already plummeting, and in the small timeframe where he could've leaped to grab your arm, his hands slipped past the tips of your fingers. Within seconds, he had plunged past the smoke and into the waters — your screams swallowed by the blaring alarms.

By the time you pry your eyes open, you were already gripping someone’s forearm, bracing yourself to hurl and cough the water out of your lungs. A set of familiar hands pulled your hair back, running down your nape in a shaky, soothing motion, “ You broken?”

You didn’t need to lift your head to know it was him, “ N-no sir.”

With your vision still blurred, you can’t see past the haze, and sensing this, Price moved his hand against your face to swipe his thumb over your eyelashes. In the background, the engine from the helicopter exploded, sending debris into the ocean. The tides might have been causing havoc underneath you, rattling the metal beams, but for now, above the oil rig: you were both safe. By the time you were fully conscious, the enemy plane was already sinking halfway down the Atlantic, allowing Price to lift your body against his chest to carry you inside.

Seizing the moment, you began to sob, tears pouring down your cheek because you knew the seawater would wash it away: salt and smoke, burning the small incision.

Similar to the hull of a ship, the room creaked and faintly rocked sideways with the tides, the storm above barely letting in any light. None of you spoke, yet you could sense it: you just wished you knew what he was thinking.

After three hours and a half, with rolls of gauze scattered everywhere, you snipped the fourth and last wound. Price let out a curse, the sharp hiss ringing down the hallway and nearly causing him to drop his cigar. You spared one last look at the old scars littered across his torso, a pang of guilt ringing in between your chest. He pushed himself to sit up.

" You couldn't have done -"

" I could have saved you," You interrupted.

" If I had known sooner, I would have come for you."

You pictured Price, beaten and bleeding all over the dank and dirty prison cell, enduring weeks and months of torture. The regret was wrung out of your heart and into your words, " They shouldn't have separated us."

Thunder rumbled overhead, the wind howling and spraying against the glass. When his gaze softened, the silver in his eyes melted into cobalt. No longer angry, his eyes burned softly instead: warm and apologetic.

" Why are you here, kid?"

" I...I want to be with you."

There was no use in lying. Yet Price remained unconvinced, slipping a hand against your jaw to lift your chin. Still kneeling beneath him, you inhaled sharply at the sight of Price looking down.

" Because of some bedtime story your parents used to tell you before bed? Fuck tradition, love. I doubt this is what it's all about."

" Why are you here?" He repeated.

Again, you not knowing what to say, you stayed quiet with his face dangerously close to yours. Even with the soot and salt on his skin, you can still smell him : tobacco earth oppressing you, speeding up your heartbeat.

" Because you're my friend, John."

" Aye. That I am," He whispered, voice dropping and breath warm against your cheek. You shivered, hands clutching his shoulders to keep yourself upright when he pulled you against his chest: bodies flushed. “ But when I ask you a question, sergeant.”

There was a weight in the pit of your stomach, a growing heat that fluttered — pulsed.

“ I expect a proper answer.”

Everything moved so quickly, his hands, his mouth — and you should really tell him to slow down, but not when he has you against the wall, an arm next to your head while a hand angled your face to him: lips warm and feverish against yours. Only when he pushed his tongue past your teeth did you still, making him pull away. The aroma of bergamot grew stronger around you. Price's brows knitted before it dawned on him.

" Is this your first time?"

With his knee pressed against your crotch, your nipples hardened against his chest, and the thin cotton fabric of your t-shirt did nothing to hide the heat, the want. For a minute, Price did nothing, and from your peripheral, you can sense him staring. You braced for him to leave, but instead, he trailed his lips up your neck, a hand against your throat — thumb skimming your pulse.

" Bloody. Tell me to stop, and I will."

With that, he went back to kissing you, slower this time. Each move was calculated and deliberate. All those nights you spent wondering, yearning, craving leading up to this very moment. His fingers tugged your hair, and you sighed, overwhelmed by emotions and pure fucking pleasure. You pulled away to breathe, letting him pepper kisses against your collarbone while you moaned.

" Have you been imagining this ?" He whispered: voice dangerously low.

You imagined all those times you stood on the sidelines to observe — standing beside him, yet always at arm's length. " Did you ever touch yourself thinking about me, love?"

Your cunt clenched at that, not knowing how to tell him that the night after he gave you his cloak, you had laid in bed with your legs spread open: fingers experimentally probing, pushing past the wetness. You had wrapped yourself in nothing but the fabric and fucked yourself til morning, hands sore and body vaguely reeking of palm leaf the next day.

As if hearing your thoughts, he pulled you down by the waist to the flat surface of his knee, the friction from your jeans causing you to whine.

" Answer me."

" I- I did."

He maneuvered you onto the steel bench, and across you was the locker room's long, full-body-length mirror. With your back against his chest, he spread your legs apart, helping you peel back your clothes. He lazily ran his hand down your side, prying your arms away when you subconsciously covered your chest, the other finding its way across your neck to tilt your head up.

" Then show me."

Without thinking, you brought one hand to the cleft between your thighs, using an index finger to part the folds. You slid a finger in slowly, and Price watched, digits finding your clit before rubbing it in circles. You closed your eyes, cheeks wet with tears: body tense and mouth open to let out a high-pitched whine.

" Always so obedient. Always so good. You've been saving yourself for me, haven't you, sweetheart?"

All you did was give him a nod, making some kind of needy sound at the back of your throat. “Please, John.”

Price cursed under his breath when he watched your second finger slowly disappear inside your hole. Not able to resist, he pushed his finger inside, causing you to unconsciously grind your hips: feeling a little ashamed when you sensed his digit curl inside to slowly massage the roof of your — " Jonathan, please."

Hearing him groan against your ear made you shiver, the warmth further spreading throughout your stomach.

“ Patience, love. Patience.”

You found it ironic that he was telling you to wait. After more than a decade’s worth of silent pining, you were more than entitled to have him bend you over the chair, but you know he wouldn’t do that. He’d take his time to stretch you open, exploring, savoring, and by the time you opened your eyes to look in the mirror: blue, clouded eyes that were akin to diving into a storm stared back.

“ Look at you, always taking care of me. And who takes care of you, eh?”

He was touching you everywhere, the stimulus too much for you to handle: you understand it now. This was raw and unbridled desire pouring out of a man tired of holding himself back. And when you trapped his wrist between your thighs, body seizing and clamping down, Price grabbed one of your nipples and pinched it with his free hand, making you arch back. With a grunt, he tried to ease you off the orgasm, whispering words of encouragement against your nape.

“ Don’t worry. I got you. I got you.”

The rain was starting to lull, the clouds dispersing to make way for the moon. And in the darkness, you adjusted your eyes to make out his silhouette. With your body propped up against your elbows, you were entranced, unable to look away as he undid his belt in one fluid motion. To have him kiss up your thigh had you moaning into your arm. Even from this position, he still oozed control, his eyes alight and electric. Nails clipped short and digging against your hips.

And when he had eased himself inside of you, slowly, gently, with so much restraint as not to hurt you, tears were still coming out of your eyes. Your fingers dragged down his back as you fluttered around his cock.

" Shhh, easy now," He groaned. And as you inhaled the smell of sex and musk and him, your body ached for more — even when he buried himself at the hilt.

And somewhere in the midst of him pistoning in and out of you, you had confessed: urgently, desperately, the words crashing down along with your high; bodies, sliding against each other.

" I..." He trailed off, still panting as he pulled you close, heartbeat pounding against your back, " I’ve always known.”

He held you close, nose buried into your shoulder, " That night... I didn’t mean what I said. Fuck, love, I thought I nearly lost you."

" Me too," You sobbed, threading your fingers down his hair, " Earlier today...John, don't go where I can't follow. Please."

His grip around you tightened. Under the shadows, your breathing was loud, fighting with the blood rushing past your ears. Yet the moment he nodded, you immediately relaxed against the sheets, relief interweaving itself between the serene silence of the room.

By morning, his touch still lingered down your spine: one of the many reminders of last night. And when you found the space next to you empty, a shot of panic had woken you, followed by a wave of sadness. Just as it was about to melt into pain, the door swung open to reveal him: already dressed with two cups of coffee in his hand.

Past the window, the sunrays drenched the room gold. The ocean was clear and bright in the distance.

“ Bravo six, to Angel, are you in position? Over.”

You adjusted the earpiece before repositioning yourself over the brick ledge, pulling back the hood of your cape to allow for better aim.

“ In position, sir. Over.”

“ You have my back, sergeant?”

You let a faint smile creep up your lips.

“ Always, sir.”

a/n : to be fair, i believe i can do better with this : it was rushed and it has been sitting in my drafts for ages so i apologise if the plot is too quick and somewhat disorganised, i suck at making long fics 🤣 but i just have to go through with this idea because it has been scratching my brain for ages ! i hope you all still enjoyed it, and i hope he wasn’t ooc or misread as a character in this piece <3 notes : → the great war by taylor swift has so many other lines / verses that fits specifically to this fic i highly recommend everyone to listen to it while reading this ! → in medieval times, knights will receive a form of token from their kings or queens to carry as a blessing. It could be a piece of clothing, which in this case, is the cape gifted from price to you. → yes, alex was fahrah’s knight 🥺 → the folklore i read usually also describe knights as hunters/trackers, hence the strong sense of smell. Price assumed you hated how he smells like based on your strong reactions. False, you were incredibly confused and turned on every time. this is also for the bestie @nfr89s because you’re daddy price’s & taylor’s number one fan 😻☝🏻

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lifeofgroffsauce · 6 years

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Subject: Life Update (AKA Jon Spills His Soul)

June 25th, 2018. *Email contains TWs*

Today was the Mondayest of all Mondays. I got sunburned yesterday at Pride (super fun by the way, always recommend. Pride, not the scorched skin.) Really wasn't planning on going anywhere today. Our flight got in at 2 this morning, which was pretty rough. Probably should’ve planned that spontaneous trip to Cali better, but then it wouldn’t have been spontaneous now would it. Uh, I slept in until 8, if you could, on any level, call that sleeping in. Something I overheard yesterday kind of stuck with me in a negative way. I ran into (okay, more like eavesdropped onto) a group of gay men conversing about bisexual men. They were super insistent that there’s no satisfying a bisexual man because they always crave women. I know you know where this is going so yeah, bare with me. It’s so stupid; it even sounds just idiotic, because how can you shame an entire sexuality for the wrongs of a few people. I know it’s not logical. I know, I know, I know. It triggered this... I’m not even sure what to call it. Insecurity maybe? Naturally, the smallest of shit just exacerbated it. I got into a disagreement with my boyfriend over lube. Aloe as lube (which has a consistency akin to vaginal fluids (I’m sorry, even more sorry for brackets in brackets) so that just, BAD ). Specifically, him using it when he topped (dominated, if you’re not familiar) me. He didn’t want to and it fucking spiraled into this even bigger thing where my brain did that awesome cute thing of not shutting the fuck up. I didn’t even want him to touch me. How is that possible? How does it make sense? It’s so frustrating because I know it doesn’t. He started getting moody (I think) and for some reason that made me want to fuck him but- let’s put it this way: I’m finally seeing those side effects of Lexapro. As if I don’t already feel comfortable with my body, the one aspect I’ve never complained about doesn’t work. To top all of it off, I received an email from my agent that says filming for one of my projects has been moved up to August. The producers were talking about pushing this out until November, now it’s August? That’s less than six weeks away. I’m so fucking worried. I’m unfathomably worried that this is too soon to leave my boyfriend. I already know I’m going to miss so much: he’s having another baby in a few months (I can already imagine the new-baby-bonding with his not-even-ex wife he’s going to do), his third to accompany his two other small sons, one of which is still basically a newborn too. I’m going to miss out on these big stepping stones (there’s a better phrase out there, I’m adamant about it but don’t care enough to seek it; jk we both know I’ll get to the end of this and be anxious and not send this email if I don’t find it). WAIT, milestones! That’s the word. Including my commentary because I know how much you enjoy my psyche’s crisis. Um, yeah. I’m going to miss everything; I’ll be continents away in an entirely different time zone, filming a depressing fucking tv show, all alone; with the exception of my ex-boyfriend (who has been weirdly appropriate with me. Are you tired of all my notes in brackets yet?) Everything in my head is screaming it’s a bad idea: leaving. I can’t stay though; like, I can’t back out of this project. Papers have already been signed, the cast is locked in, and I’ve already removed myself from two other projects. It won’t look good on my theatre sheet/‘filmography’ to have that little *incomplete* red mark. To add (lol didn’t I already say thing or something? Fuck it, let’s keep rolling): Jesus Christ, my niece Camden has been so salty lately. She’s feeling so left out since I moved, but it’s not like I’m ten minutes away anymore and I can just easily pick her up. That little girl is my heart and soul; I’d never intentionally hurt her yet, here she is. Declining to spend the night or even hang out because she doesn’t get “all of me”. You have a daughter; what would you do with that one? Right, can’t make it personal. Sorry. Which, I think it super ironic when you think about how your patients (clients?) spill their motherfucking guts out on the ugly commercial carpet of your office (sorry if you chose it, so sorry!) and you’re not supposed to share much in return. My pop texted me to see if I was still coming to my parents’ wedding anniversary party, with my boyfriend. This will be the first time he’s meeting my dad, and the first time any significant other of mine will be meeting the rest of my PA family/friends. I don’t worry about Lin at all- he’s fucking amazing with people, and so, so charming. Jesus, does he have a way with words. Before this turns into a weird, unfulfilling love letter to him, let’s refocus. I don’t want to think about the way my father is going to look at me, at us, as a couple, together. Me, with another man. I’m still reeling over the last glance that seemed to scream, “ew, my son’s gay.” You know how people say things like, “Your parents love you unconditionally; they would never change a thing about you”? That’s definitely not true in my case, and I can feel it every time we’re alone. When we’re joking or talking, it’s cool, but then... then, there’s a silence that sets my teeth on edge and he acknowledges we’re not the same. Not that we were ever supposed to be but, I don’t even think I’m explaining this right, now. When I was a teenager (I know I’ve told you about this), a story came out on the local news about two homosexual men being wrongly jailed for a crime they didn’t commit. While awaiting trial, they were raped and beaten by a gaggle of bigger prison guys. Apparently it was so brutal they required stitching, to which the inmates tore out and repeated the first occurrence. Awesome, right. It’s forever burned in my mind what he said, because I know he wasn’t meaning to be cruel or callous but the words just came out. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone but if anyone would like it, God knows it would be those sissies. That’s what they all want anyway.” Followed by, “Sodomy is sodomy; they shouldn’t complain.” Every time I’m at my parents house, my brother Dave is amazing at swooping in to provide this phenomenal (majorly liberal) support system. He really pushes to educate my parents and not leave an older generation in the dark. I have to admit, he’s worked wonders with them, on so many different topics. That one though. I just think he looks at me and wishes so badly I was hetero. He’d sell his soul just to watch me marry Lea, I’m sure. Wow, my “just” count is insane but, no editing. Rolling with it; thoughts as they come. TLDR; I just feel like I’m disappointing everyone, or if I haven’t already, I’m going to. I fucking shouldn’t, I know that I’m thirty-three and still waiting for my parents approval is so goddamn old. It doesn’t mean anything though. Regardless, I’m waiting for the ball to drop, and I’m not sure the meds are helping. I haven’t been hyperventilating or had an actual attack but I still feel the anxiety. It feels like a harsh hand around my throat that makes it hard to breathe but I always somehow manage to catch my breath; that must be the drugs. I’m shocked I haven’t once mentioned how huge and disproportionate my thighs looked in every pair of baggy sweatpants and basketball shorts I tried on today. There’s one. It’s so exhausting to even try to talk about, or convey through here. You know the drill: thought about it for hours, picked at my food, maaaay have googled ‘things to eat for slim thighs’. Definitely did. At this point in life... I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Between typing out sentences of this email, I stopped to try to get hard (you’re getting the explicit, uncut version, sorry; also hi, wishful thinking) but all porn does is annoy me. I feel so wound up, anxious, and almost angry. Low-key (this is new generation talk for like, “kinda”, I think) want to just... cry. In conclusion: Jonathan feels all the things and I haven’t even told you half of it... believe it or not. I have a headache and this couch is hurting my neck. This is all you’re getting. Relief, right? You’re like, “Thank fucking god, Jon, you already sent me a Harry Potter novel. Let me respond then you may continue rattling on about your not-even-bad life you’re complaining about.” It really ISN’T bad, for the record. It’s not, at all. I’m just in my feelings and at the peak of frustration. Okay, done ranting. I think I feel better? I might not even send this. Let’s play russian roulette with the enter key. If you get this, thumbs up. If you don’t... I guess I won’t expect a reply. Thank you, always, for dealing with me. I’m sorry these thoughts couldn’t wait... three days. Face palm.

[Sent]

#project: emails to jon's therapist #001 #Jon's lack of formatting directly corresponds with his anxiety so that's fun #tws apply

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