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moondirti · 1 year

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pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.6k summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)

“Sit still.”

A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.

Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you.

He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush.

Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.

Huh– W-What’re you doing?

Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it.

Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.

You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you.

He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers.

It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene.

Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips.

“Nng-! Christ,”

“What'd I tell ya?”

“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.”

“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.”

“That’s gross.”

“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.”

But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck.

You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have.

You just found he doesn’t prefer it.

A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car.

It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.

Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper.

Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.

He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes.

God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries.

Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.

But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree.

You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth.

The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs.

It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain.

Him. Him.

He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid.

But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–

Oh.

Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat.

Fuck.

A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful.

Enticing.

You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs.

You speak before you begin to process it all.

“We’ll be here for a while.”

Stupid, silly girl.

He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess.

In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week.

“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.

Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning.

“Gotta save some for next time.”

“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”

“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift.

“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–” A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?”

You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants.

Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word.

Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip.

And it all goes to hell from there.

Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him.

It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants.

“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…”

“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.”

“Please.”

And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips.

You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon.

Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say–

Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him.

Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.

“Fuck.”

“Feart, now?”

His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up.

He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.”

Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose.

His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again:

“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”

A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary.

“Done?”

You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch.

“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.”

“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away.

“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.”

“The glow?”

“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”

“You’re mad.”

The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.

“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”

Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt.

This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons.

He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again.

The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever.

“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”

He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations.

“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.”

The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close.

You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean.

You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night.

You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone.

Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I?

You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.

Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny.

“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.”

A growl. “Shut it. That’s all you.”

taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis

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emilystheories · 5 months

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Breaking SJM news: a completely new series is (likely) on the way !!

Last night, I came across a veryyyy interesting YouTube video posted by Bloomsbury 4 weeks ago. Although the video was mostly super boring (talking numbers and finances), towards the end, we get this little nugget of information...

[Bloomsbury staff member]: "Regarding the timeline and future Sarah J Maas book releases, which are obviously very important to us... so her next title, which is the third in her Crescent City series, comes out on the 30th of January, 2024. So, that will fall into this financial year."

[Bloomsbury staff member]: "And thereafter, we have SIX further contracted titles -- so continuing this series, and STARTING A NEW SERIES AS WELL."

A new series! This likely goes hand-in-hand with the announcement made by Bloomsbury a couple of months prior, in which they stated that 4 additional SJM books were on the way (but curiously, no further details about these books were given...)

Although we don't know for sure, this is my guess as to what these 6 future SJM books are:

2 x ACOTAR books.

Then the 4 remaining, newly contracted books; the first being the final Crescent City book, House of Many Waters.

Leaving 3 x books for the new series (which makes perfect sense, as when starting a new series, SJM is always contracted for 3 books initially).

The question remains as to what exactly this new series may be. Which leads me to... Twilight of the Gods.

[SJM universe spoilers ahead!]

Back in 2015, SJM started a Pinterest board for 2 new book series that were connected in some way; one was Crescent City, and the other was called Twilight of the Gods.

On her Twitter, SJM also mentioned that she had been working on both for quite a while, and that it was soon time to release them into the world.

Around the same time, a series called 'Twilight of the Gods' was mysteriously added to SJM's official Goodreads catalogue.

'Twilight of the Gods' is another term for Ragnarok; a famed tale of Norse mythology where the Gods and giants/demons across all worlds joined together to fight a giant battle that signified the end of the world.

Thus, I believe that 'Twilight of the Gods' is SJM's next series; it will be a Ragnarok retelling, and all of the characters from TOG, ACOTAR and CC will join together for a cataclysmic battle against the Asteri, the Daglan, and the Valg (because lets not forget that Orcus and Mantyx are still unaccounted for...).

With this in mind, consider the numerous references to Norse mythology that SJM has already scattered throughout her books:

Feyre as Freya: Freya was perhaps one of the most renowned Norse goddesses, and was Queen.

Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn as the Valkyries: An obvious one, but the Valkyries originated from, and had a huge part to play in Norse Mythology (Ragnarok especially).

Lucien as Loki: According to Norse mythology, Loki is often depicted with long, red hair. He is also seen as a God of fire, and is commonly associated with foxes.

Danika (Fendyr) and Fenrys as Fenrir: Fenrir was a renowned monstrous wolf of Norse mythology. Fenrir being 'unleashed' is one of the key events of Ragnarok.

Hunt as Thor ('Thurr'): During Ragnarok, Thor has a famous battle against the 'Midgard Serpent.' Consider the snake that Hunt is holding on the cover of HOSAB.

Midgard: is the 'Earth' world in Norse mythology.

Hel (spelt the same way): Is the 'underworld' of Norse mythology.

Further, if you looked at SJM's "Twilight of the Gods" Pinterest board - before it was deleted - you'd see countless images of (Lady?) Thor, the Valkyries, Sailor Moon, and even the coffin that Maeve locked Aelin in... (that can't be a coincidence, right..?!) Some examples below:

'Twilight' is also another word for 'Dusk'; considering the lost Dusk Court, and 'Dusk's Truth' (both of which are the centre of the upcoming crossover and broader multiversal narrative...) it matches up perfectly.

Thus, I believe that the remaining ACOTAR and CC books will continue to add to the multiverse, bit by bit. And whilst they can still be read in a standalone fashion, my guess is that they will build up to a grand finale (perhaps the very last ACOTAR book will end with Aelin walking through a portal...?) and then Twilight of the Gods will begin.

If you thought Kingdom of Ash was epic... then Twilight of the Gods -- if correct -- is bound to blow us away (and, it might even put SJM's name in the history books).

#sjm multiverse #acotar #crescent city #sjm theory #sjm crossover #bryce quinlan #aelin galythinius #rhysand #feyre #gwyneth berdara #nesta archeron #elain archeron #azriel acotar #cassian acotar

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thepastisalreadywritten · 2 months

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Aztec Sun Stone (Calendar Stone) depicts five consecutive worlds of the sun from Aztec mythology.

Stone is not, therefore, in any sense a functioning calendar, but rather it is an elaborately carved solar disk, which for Aztecs and other Mesoamerican cultures represented rulership.

At the top of the stone is a date glyph (13 reed), which represents both beginning of the present sun, fifth and final one according to mythology, and the actual date 1427 CE, thereby legitimizing the rule of Itzcoatl (who took power in that year) and creating a bond between divine and mankind.

Stone was discovered in December 1790 CE in central plaza of Mexico City. It now resides in National Museum of Anthropology in that city.

The richly carved basalt stone was once a part of the architectural complex of Temple Mayor and measures 3.58m in diameter, is 98cm thick, and weighs 25 tons.

Stone would originally have been laid flat on the ground and possibly anointed with blood sacrifices.

When it was discovered, the stone was lying flat and upside down, perhaps in an attempt to prevent the final cataclysm — fall of fifth and final sun as Aztec world fell apart following the attack from Old World.

At the centre of the stone is a representation of either the sun god Tonatiuh (the Day Sun) or Yohualtonatiuh (the Night Sun) or the primordial earth monster Tlaltecuhtli, in the latter case representing the final destruction of the world when the fifth sun fell to earth.

The tongue is perhaps also a sacrificial knife and, sticking out, it suggests a thirst for blood and sacrifice.

Around the central face at four points are other four suns, which successively replaced each other after gods Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca struggled for control of the cosmos until the era of the fifth sun was reached.

The suns are known by the day name on which their final destruction occurred.

Beginning from the top right, there is the first sun Nahui Ocelotl (4 - Jaguar), top left is the second sun Nahui Ehécatl (4 - Wind), bottom left the third sun Nahui Quiáhuitl (4 - Rain), and bottom right is the fourth sun Nahui Atl (4 - Water).

On either side of the central face are two jaguar heads or paws, each clutching a heart, representing the terrestrial realm.

The band running immediately around the suns is segmented into the 20 Aztec day-names (hence Calendar Stone name).

Then there is a decorative ring surrounded by another ring depicting symbols, which represent turquoise and jade, symbols of the equinoxes and solstices, and the colours of the heavens.

Two heads at bottom centre represent fire serpents, and their bodies run around perimeter of the stone with each ending in a tail.

Four cardinal and the inter-cardinal directions are also indicated with larger and lesser points respectively.

#Aztec Sun Stone #Calendar Stone #Aztec mythology #carved solar disk #date glyph #National Museum of Anthropology

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artzychic27 · 7 months

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In one of your Marinette salt posts, you mentioned that Ladybug criticised Nath and Marc’s comic for not making her perfect and her sycophants attacked their houses? And in the favouritism AU, the comic is strongly pro-Chat? I was wondering -

1) what is the comic actually like in that AU? The storyline, characters etc.

2) How much worse would favouritism!Ladybug’s reaction be to Chat being the centre of their admiration instead of her?

1. Rather than paint Chat Noir in a bad light like Ladybug is doing, it highlights all of the best moments people don’t see- Like comforting children after Akumas, patrolling the neighborhoods that get robbed during Akuma attacks, and at one point, almost cataclysming an abusive dad. (Anyone remember that Superman comic?) It gives some insight into Chat Noir’s thoughts- nothing personal- just how he feels like he’s second rate to Ladybug and is always in her shadow when they’re meant to be equals. There are mostly original characters, original Akumas, and Chat Noir finds a small group of his supporters who actually see the good he’s doing. He visits them during nightly patrols, and they point out Ladybug’s toxic behavior while assuring him that he is a good hero. They eventually become his found family, because in the comic, Chat Noir’s dad is a dick… So, not too far off from canon

2. Oh, she’d be a nightmare. She thrives off of admiration, and without it, she’s just gonna be a pain in the butt. Letting Chat Noir handle akumas out of spite and then showing up at the last second to do her Miracle Cure and act like the hero. She’s not even doing herself any favors by berating dealumatized people for “losing control of their emotions.” She intentionally puts Chat Noir in harms way and then blames him for being so reckless

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #favoritism au #favoritism #mlb au #Marinette salt #Adrien sugar #answered ask #ask me stuff

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theresattrpgforthat · 10 months

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Help! My fiance won't stop not killing people! Do you know of an rpg that plays well with one DM and one PC that still has the aesthetics of DnD or classic fantasy, but where violence is more of a last resort than the primary way to resolve conflicts? One where you can actually feel like a good guy.

THEME: Non-Combat, Heroic Fantasy

Hello there, so I’m going to include games in this recommendation that may not be explicitly for two players, but can be conceivably be run with one player and one GM. This is because a number of duet games are built to provide roles for the players that don’t slot easily into the “GM” and “Player” role. I hope you find something that fits both of your goals!

GROK?!, by Lester Burton.

GROK?! is an adventure role-playing game where you assume the role of an adventurer in a gonzo world of boundless plausibility and use your ingenuity and resourcefulness to overcome strange and perilous threats.

Planet Grok was once a haven for trans-dimensional migrants and a bastion of advanced technomancy, until a cataclysm rendered it a desolate hollow planet. Now, feral monstrosities haunt its chasms, cities float among the clouds, and a derelict space station encapsulates the planet and bathes the world in perpetual phosphorescent radiation. Yet, a new era of enlightenment is dawning. Civilizations grow from the ashes, relics of immense power await those who would learn their lost secrets, and threats of caste warfare loom as leaders vie for power. All the while, a creeping black nothingness peers up through the hollow of the world.

This is a game heavily inspired by a lot of heavyweight games that exist in the ttrpg scene, such as Cortex Prime, Savage Worlds, Numenera… the list goes on. The creator describes a “universal resolution” system that is also “fail forward.” This means that you use the same resolution mechanic for every action your character takes, and instances where you fail still move the story forward. I won’t say that it prioritizes other methods before combat, but it certainly looks like you can play it that way. Aesthetically it’s a bit more science-fantasy, but the digital copy is only a dollar, and the Quickstart is free to download on the Itch.io page, so it might be worth checking out.

A One In A Million Chance At Adventure, by Jocher Symbolic Systems.

This is a game where you play the roles of, often unwilling, sometimes zealous, pawns in the cosmic octarine coloured narrative. Your character is not necessarily a "hero" per se, instead one could possibly see it as being important to the story. Characters like yourself do have a knack for not dying as often as a common mortal (or undead if that has been your unfortune). With this follows that you'll naturally have a higher chance of actually, possibly, doing some heroic deeds, just by sheer mathematical logic. Unless, of course, you are the type of adventurer who'd prefer a cup of hot tea and soft slippers and a reliable day job. That does severely reduce the odds of let's say beheading a mythical beast of ill repute or befriending the immodest wood nymphs of Howondaland.

This is a game designed for two or more players, one picking up a GM role and the rest acting as players. It’s a loving tribute to the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett, and is therefore free! It is a setting that provides a tongue-in-cheeck reference to classic fantasy, and uses a 2d10 system to follow your character’s humorous attempts at becoming an adventure, and all of the one-in-a-million outcomes that make their stories interesting.

I like that this game uses narrative points to give your character a chance to do something really cool in situations where they don’t have a realistic chance of success. I also appreciate the de-centring of violence in that there are no health points or systems in place to keep track of physical harm. This doesn’t mean that conflict is impossible - it just means that it has to be figured out collaboratively between the players and the GM. What there is a great deal of focus on, is magic, with some really interesting effects that could pop up whenever you cast a spell.

This game is cheeky and knows exactly what it’s trying to emulate, and if you’re familiar in any way with Discworld, I think you should check it out.

Mausritter, by Losing Games.

Take up the sword and don the whiskers of a brave mouse adventurer in Mausritter, the rules-light fantasy adventure roleplaying game.

It’s a huge and dangerous world out there, and it does not look kindly on a small mouse. But if you are very brave and very clever and just a bit lucky, you might be able to survive. And if you survive long enough, you might even become a hero amongst mice.

Mausritter is, at its heart, an OSR game, and while many OSR games are pretty dark in tone, one thing that they excel at is providing characters with situations in which violence can’t be the answer. The costs of trying to fight something as a mouse are just too high - cats and owls and other large creatures are dangerous endeavours that only large large groups of mice have a chance at defeating. So for a two-player game, you’re going to understand narratively the necessity of using your wits. This game gives you a setting that makes it possible to have a game that mirrors more closely some themes in epic fantasy as well, including a magic system with spells that can give characters an even bigger toolbox when it comes to solving problems.

The Weaver’s Observatory, by Gem Room Games.

The Weaver’s Observatory is a two player dramatic fantasy adventure about an explorer seeking to change their destiny by asking a boon of Fate herself. Set in an ancient tower outside time, the Climber shares memories of their life as they cross a moat of living dye, ascend through the threads of discarded fates, and navigate the mechanisms that construct the fate of all living things without knowing if their request is even possible.

While this game doesn’t explicitly call the two roles within it GM and PC, it was designed for Tunnel Goons, which does use those sorts of roles. In The Weaver’s Observatory, one person is a solitary explorer, climbing a tower to request a boon from Fate. The other is Fate itself, representing the tower and the few inhabitants that reside within. The solitary Climber will encounter puzzles, hazards and guards that they will have to solve, avoid, and reason with - so I don’t see much of combat set within either the style of gameplay or the structure of the adventure.

This is a game that can be played as a one-shot, or can be set within a larger campaign. The entire game uses weaving metaphors and iconography, to set a tone for the overall narrative. If you like a tone that is intentional and purposeful, and want to tell a story that has great consequences for the person involved (and possible for a larger world), then this game is definitely worth checking out.

#dnd #game recommendations #indie ttrpgs #tabletop games #asks #fantasy #non-violent

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sawrinwrites · 2 months

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The Fan Fiction Collection

Seeing as the collection ballooned from 1 work to 4 in less than 2 months, I figured it was a good idea to put a breakdown of everything in one place:

Shattered Divinity (Ongoing Multi-Chapter)

A Gods & Goddesses / Soulmates AU centred around a cataclysmic event known as The Fracture and the part that Yang (the Goddess of the Sun) played in the near-annihilation of mankind.

The story follows 2 timelines (one Pre-Fracture, one Post-Fracture), each one with a slow-burn bumbleby romance at its core.

This fic is intended to be an emotional read that explores several themes around the concepts of death, grief, and depression.

The Monsters At My Side And In My Shadow (Ongoing Multi-Chapter)

A weregrimm AU in which Blake decides to get revenge on Adam by becoming Sienna's successor. Her plan: capture a grimm and train it to serve the White Fang's cause. The problem: the grimm turns into a human. And Blake finds her very attractive.

Despite the lighter tone, this fic explores the affects of abuse and the way victims adopt and reflect the actions of their abusers.

The Hunt (Completed One-Shot)

Monster smut fic featuring werewolf Yang and human Blake.

Best Laid Plans (Completed One-Shot)

The first entry in the "As Told By Ember" collection, this is a fluffy bees fic set in a modern AU that covers the events of the day where Blake and Yang finally confess their love to one another. Written from the POV of Yang's golden retriever, Ember.

#rwby #bumbleby #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #bmblb #yang x blake #rwby bmblb #fan fiction #is this the post where I announce more Ember content? I think it is

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talonabraxas · 9 months

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Aztec Sun Stone ☀️ Talon Abraxas The Aztec Sun Stone speaks of four prior "Suns", or world ages, each terminated by a cataclysm that transformed humanity. At the centre, gripping human hearts in his talons, his tongue the jutting blade of a sacrificial knife, is the "Fifth Sun", the archetype of our own age.

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derangedrhythms · 2 years

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Elena Shvarts, Centres of Cataclysm: Celebrating Fifty Years of Modern Poetry in Translation; from ‘Birdsong on the Seabed’, tr. Sasha Dugdale

TEXT ID: Oh, give in to the sea To the moon, the water, the grief

#elena shvarts #centres of cataclysm #birdsong on the seabed #poetry #excerpts #moon #~

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raspberrycatapult · 4 months

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I'm super excited to say that I've taken part in the @mlbigbang for the first time this (well, technically last) year!

The first chapter of Outback Camp will be posted on the 13th of Jan and updated every week!

Massive thanks to my amazing beta @uptoolateart, and to the awesome @cardiac-agreste and @wehadabondingmoment for their support! And to my artists, @bootsssss and @supergirl9130, for their lovely art!!

Synopsis

It was official. Marinette was going to die. There was no way she was going to survive this camp – let alone manage to confess. Forget crazy Australian wildlife – how could she make it through alive with Adrien?

Marinette, Adrien and their classmates go on a 10-day school camp to the Central Australian desert. Uluru (Ayers Rock), Alice Springs, Kings Canyon, Coober Pedy and more!

For Marinette, it’s the perfect chance to confess to Adrien…if only she can muster up the courage. Adrien, meanwhile, is beginning to realise just how special Marinette is to him.

Featuring lots of Adrinette, fun experiences, class shenanigans, and an identity reveal!

Snippet

The sound of the tent flap zipping open sent Marinette's heart into overdrive. Please be Alya, please be Alya, please be –

‘Hey, Marinette,’ a soft voice whispered.

Adrien poked his head through the flap, and then the rest of his body, awkwardly stepping into the tent, phone torch pointed to the ground. The tents were large, tall enough for her to be able to comfortably stand up straight. But it wasn’t quite the same story for Adrien. In his attempt to avoid the ceiling, he ended up banging his head against the metal pole in the centre.

‘Argh!’ he yelped, dropping his phone.

‘Are you okay!?’ Marinette blurted out, eyes wide as she watched Adrien’s dark figure crouch down and begin fumbling around for his phone. His hand landed on her leg, and she let out a squeak.

‘S-sorry!’ Adrien stammered, his hand jerking back. ‘I thought it was my – sorry!’

He seemed to find his phone, then, because a beam of light shone on his side of the tent. Marinette lay there, her heart hammering, the place where Adrien had touched her burning as though his hand was still there, even though she had pyjamas and a layer of sleeping bag protecting her.

Adrien had gone silent. She didn’t know what to do. Did she say something? Did she say goodnight? Where they just going to lie there, in silence, until they fell asleep?

‘Oh no,’ Adrien whispered.

Marinette’s heart leaped into her throat at those words. ‘What – what is it?’ she croaked out.

‘I…I sort of…um….’ He swallowed. ‘…forgot my sleeping bag?’

She stared. ‘You…forgot your sleeping bag…?’

Okay. That was fine. It was fine. He could just go get it from the boys’ tent.

‘Yep.’ He shifted. ‘Um…in Adelaide?’

WHAT.

She sat up. ‘What do you mean in Adelaide.’

‘I – I’m not used to having one! I’ve never used one before! I didn’t need one in Coober Pedy and I guess I just – I must have left it there in the morning – but it’s fine! I’ll just have to buy one…tomorrow.’

Marinette sat there, unable to make out more than Adrien’s vague outline in the dark, partially illuminated by the glow of his phone in his hand. ‘What about now?’ she said. ‘It’s – it’s cold!’

‘That’s – it’s fine,’ Adrien said. ‘Really, Marinette, I just –’

‘You can sleep with me!’ she blurted out before she could think about what she was suggesting.

Adrien stared at her.

Heat exploded across her face as she realised what she’d just said. ‘I mean – not WITH ME! I mean YES with me! WITH MY SLEEPING BAG! I MEAN – IN MY SLEEPING BAG! You can share! My sleeping bag! With me! Do you want to share my sleeping bag with me!’

‘Um….’

Oh god, kill her now. Where was Chat when she needed him? She had half a mind to call him up and get him to Cataclysm her in the chest, even if it meant making him fly halfway across the world. She buried her face in her hands.

#mlbigbang #ml fic #mlb fandom #mlb fanfic #miraculous fanworks #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #ml fan fic #ml fanfic #ml big bang 2023

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sushis-brainrot · 4 months

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Can we talk about the title screen of AC Valhalla? 🫣

This is gonna be a looooong post.....

vimeo

I'm sure someone else has talked about this - but it's been driving me nuts the past few days.

It's just so RIPE with symbolism, and it's such a clever design (and I might be reading more into it than what's intended).

I mean, these symbols depicted here, pretty much tell us how this is a story of Odin and Loki with emphasis on the tension and conflict in their relationship. And that's just by looking at these symbols and what they represent:

The Raven in flight, claws out: Huginn/Muninn

The wolf on his hind legs teeth and claws sharpened: Fenrir

The wyrm flashing his venomous bite: Jörmungandr

The horse rearing in fright, showing aggression: Sleipnir

Huginn/Muninn and Sleipnir on the right are symbols of Odin. Fenrir and Jörmungandr on the left are symbols of Loki. But keep in mind: according to the Myths, Sleipnir is another of Loki's children.

We have Huginn/Muninn soaring in the top right corner, level only with Fenrir on the left, who is prophecised to be Odin's demise. Jörmungandr barely making his presence known, as he was cast into the ocean; imprisoned. And Sleipnir, Odin's horse, the fastest in all the realms, forced beneath Odin in service.

We know how Odin has threatened, imprisoned and used Loki's children. What we see in the title screen emphasises the struggle between Odin and Loki: And how Loki's children outnumber Odin himself, creating an imbalance and making Odin paranoid. This struggle sets off the chain of events the Nornir predicted: that which will end in Ragnarök and the demise of the Æsir.

At the centre, between the two sides - is a circle. That the two sides could be interpreted as fighting over (or on).

A simple circle can hold so much meaning, and in Norse Mythology, the circle - as the centre of things - is often associated with Midgard, since it is commonly the centre of the universe.

(Here are some examples)

You see where I'm going with this?

Midgard is the realm of humankind. And humankind is at the heart of this story. Humans were those who would survive the Great Catastrophe; Ragnarök. So to survive the Æsir (and Loki) would have to be reborn in the future as one of the beings that would thrive after the cataclysm: humans.

BUT Remember: Ragnarök is not the end; Ragnarök is a new beginning. Ragnarök in and of itself is a cycle. And the circle carries that symbolism with it as well.

Now... The Animus Grid.... 👀

The Animus Grid feels like a nod to the Triple Horn of Odin - a symbol associated with the story of the Mead of Poetry. A story Valhalla interpreted as Havi searching for, and stealing, the Mead that is the Seventh Method of salvation. Aka, what lets Odin be reborn as Eivor, Loki as Basim, Týr as Sigurd, etc. etc. 👀

And where is the Animus Grid centred? In the circle etched in stone behind the logo.

It all boils down to the humans. To humanity. To the Isu Sages. To Eivor, the human reincarnation of Havi.

In the end, it's Eivor's saga we're following: a testament to the enduring spirit of humanity. Eivor who is not just Havi's vessel, but her own person first. Eivor who is so painfully and beautifully human, as she guides us through a narrative where myth and mortality converge.

Sources for the AC Valhalla graphic elements are linked in the pictures and here: 1 || 2 || 3

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed valhalla #ac #ac valhalla #thought #my thoughts #odin #havi #loki #not me writing this instead of going to bed when I have an exam in 9 hours..........

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canonical-transformation · 7 months

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things I do not under any circumstances need: more AU ideas

things that my brain held me hostage until I typed up:

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Nursery of Worldseed

"When there is nothing left to burn, the embers will turn cold. Only the inescapable long night will remain. The morning that follows, the springtime thaw: this is yours to steward. Love the world where I no longer can, ████; see it to fruition."

— Baba-Dekabrya, Tsaritsa of Everloving Peace, whispered to ██████ ████ ████████ days before the latter ███████ select █████ ██ ███████ ████ ████████

◆ Name: Innamorata

◆ Title: The Flower

◆ Nursery of Worldseed

◆ ???: Dendro

◆ Constellation: Ashvatta Diapausis

A rainstorm recently flooded a basement beneath Zapolyarny Palace. Among the many records lost was the contract drawn up between Her Majesty and her Sixth Harbinger. So badly was the contract damaged, it's impossible to tell whether it is centuries old or merely months. All that is left is an addendum, signed in blood, attesting that both parties were very satisfied by the deal.

Innamorata operates behind the scenes in Teyvat, pruning and shearing, nudging mortal innovation and inquiry away from topics that might draw unwanted attention from certain "people in high places".

Put no stock in the rumours that the Tsaritsa and the Flower are as close mother and daughter. To those who know Her Majesty — an unsmiling clown, a bard with aeons-ringed eyes — such an idea is risible. Her Majesty has long since had no love left to give. Any affection she shows the Sixth is a self-soothing denial of this truth.

Innamorata, too, is playing along with this harmless dream. Whatever she is missing, she knows it's gone for good.

Character Story 1

Those who compile dossiers on Fatui Harbingers may devote reams of paper to speculation on Damselette's heritage or Tartaglia's powers. Yet on the subject of Innamorata, there is little to say. Her name is added to intelligence briefings as an afterthought, a perfunctory inclusion.

This is not a sign of disrespect, nor to suggest that the Sixth is insignificant. There's simply not that much to say.

A joint report from Liyuean and Fontainian security services might read like this:

Title: Innamorata, 6th Fatui Harbinger

Aliases: The Flower, Il Fiora, ████, the Gardener of Sumeru, Bough Trimmer

Vision, Delusion, etc.: Nothing of note.

Age: Unknown, but appears of ordinary age.

Height: 0.1–100'

Weight: unknown

Physical description: Female human with unremarkable pinnae.

Skin tone: See previous.

Hair: Light coloured. Hue and colour distribution are unremarkable. Often worn up in a typical manner.

Eyes: Unremarkable.

Other notes (appearance): Eloquence and bearing unexceptional for someone of her age.

Known activities:

- Fatui counterintelligence, responsible for many of the Harbingers' security measures.

- Monitors various technological and research centres, including the Fontaine Research Institute, the Eight Trades, [...].

- Suspected of manipulation and sabotage of the above.

- Influencing foreign and domestic policy within Sumeru.

History: Recruited by the Fatui some time after the Cataclysm and some time before the first draft of this report was completed.

Allegiance: Like most Harbingers, her personal loyalty to the Fatui and Snezhnaya is ambiguous. Neutral attitude towards Fontaine, Inazuma, Liyue, Mondstadt, and Natlan. Not much else to say.

Motivation: Unremarkable.

Known capabilities: Unremarkable; however, unremarkable. Command of various elements unremarkable, and combined with her unremarkable intelligence, her theoretical power is potentially unremarkable. Rumours of omniscience are unsubstantiated and may be her own propoganda.

Known casualties: Nobody of note.

Known weaknesses: None.

Overall threat assessment: Inconclusive.

(with kudos to @dandelion-wings for the "meme" format)

(EDIT: The rest of this was published!)

#au: innamorata‚ nursery of worldseed #if not us‚ then who?#silly headcanons #“silly”#genshin impact #my writing #fic bits #i.e. if i write the rest I'll just post it as a fic :P #genshin ocs #.......kinda #the tsaritsa #undertagged #other characters to be tagged

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moondirti · 1 year

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a pearl

Still scarred; you don’t think he’s ever not been. Still scarred, yet vivid enough to accept a gentle caress he said helped muffle the phantom pain. He’d tell you the stories as you did (hardly ever pleasant), and you’d cherished them enough to remember.

But the John that pistons into you now does so with muted malaise, a concoction that clusters too heavy on his tongue to fully form words around.

pairing: Captain John Price x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.5k summary: what follows bloodshed warnings: angst, seriously - angst, canon typical violence, gore, allusions to childhood abuse, lots of unresolved feelings, hurt/comfort, a happy ending (the bare minimum), rough sex, marking, p-in-v notes: i have nothing to say for myself. there's no plot, just vibes. sorry (not). very much based off the mitski song of the same name.

It starts a little something like this–

Moments caught in the rhythmic flicker of a bedside lamp; golden, dim, dark. Golden, dim, dark. Pink flesh, blushed in foreign warmth, mottled in crops of chestnut hair you can’t help but run your fingers through. It’s sticky when it presses to you, slicked in half-dried sweat and the brine of a sour mission. You lick the salt from his collarbone, trying your best to place a firm kiss to it against the bludgeoning thrust of his body.

He fucks you like he hates you.

Not always. No.

But tonight, and in that perennial week that trails behind him when he comes home, he does. He finds you, supple enough for the two of them, with a restrained agony swimming in florentine eyes. It bleeds into blunt fingertips (calloused, too. Barnacles that rub rough on your breasts), staining you across the chest. You feel it in your lungs, scraping bone to marrow, your ribs a collapsible cage of sponge. And with the way he bears his weight on top of you, you think you just might.

It’s entirely too much, violent in a way you don’t find behind a plate carrier, the heavy security of a gun in your arms. Vulnerable – some crushed flower, one might say. Ripe with gallons of water at its centre and nothing to use it on. You’re plucked, right off your stem, your petals caught between teeth.

His hands stay planted on your hips, pinning them down to a sleep-soaked mattress while he plunges into you. One, ten, fifty times – years together and you’ll still never grow used to how thick he is. His cock is splitting, cleaving your cunt into two halves, filling you until a mushroomed head meets the gummy wall of your cervix. It falters then, nestled in that sweltering heat, before pulling back out to bruise you again.

And you take it. Your own limbs remain wrapped around his back, curved to fit rippling muscle, your nails digging into the sinew. You could push him away, should you please, you’re far too familiar with this routine to kid yourself into believing he wouldn’t listen to consent. Fight and watch as he reluctantly breaks away, turning to less delicate vices; a Maduro cigar, toasted. Scotch with a water back, neat.

But you cling to a sweet nothing he’d whispered to you once, crowded in the back of his old Audi Q5, his beard abrasive on the soft stretch of your neck, trailing desperate kisses.

Bloody christ. Can live off you alone, sweetheart.

It had held some semblance of truth then, caught under bad weather with the sky open to the heavens, a great cataclysm of rain pelting down on the car. A revenant vow, no witnesses; something for just the two of you until the day’s promised wedding – a novel, diamond-encrusted band, thin on your ring finger.

(You now wear both his and yours on a chain around your neck. His embellishments narrow down to those dog tags, the ones that hang over you when you fuck – silver slips the only indication of the man beneath the uniform, a body to be brought back home once it’s been bled through.)

Younger. You remember it distinctly; right out of SAS training, his skin a canvas for memorised marks. You’d been able to map each one to its source; rings of red concentrated at the wrist, cigar shaped but not self inflicted. Silver lines on his knees, founded atop the Brecon Beacons from his long drag assessment. Scabbed knuckles that never seemed to heal, not since he’d punched through a concrete wall the night he decided to leave home.

But the John that pistons into you now does so with muted malaise, a concoction that clusters too heavy on his tongue to fully form words around. You imagine it tastes bitter, bitter and much like the ichor that blooms to your cuticles. You don’t expect him to reel those horrors back with him – the sight of a dead mother after his executive order to shoot all potential hostiles. You know he’d much rather find sanctity here, with you. But he bends under the perceived punishment you inflict, groaning when you carve crescent shaped divots into him; and it comes clearer to you than anything else.

His burden as Captain finds him far beyond the field. You’re just not made privy to it.

You let him express it in the only way he can.

It goes a little something like this–

You don’t ask, despite the named tension that floods the chilled bathroom.

He lets you shower first. Actually, almost commands you to, murmuring the words into sex clogged air while he cradles your quivering thigh. He waits until you find your strength again, nudging a tear away from your cheek with restrained tenderness. He guides you while you make your way, his touch smoothing from the small of your back to your shoulder, where it clamps down to steady you.

You can’t pinpoint the expression that twitches beneath his moustache as he does. It’s much too complex under the varicoloured delirium that clouds you. You see, you hear, you feel and smell and taste the oceanic headiness at the back of your mouth, yet none of it crackles back to your synapses where you can properly process his disquietude.

So, you whimper a little asseveration in place, the sound of it lost amidst hissing pipes when he sets the shower for you.

I missed you.

Maybe he doesn’t hear it. Maybe it’s drowned in the same chasm that eats him alive. But his eyes catch yours before he turns to leave, and they flicker with the light reflected off the faucet. Or, you’re tricking yourself, and it’s recognition of something he can’t reciprocate.

By the time it takes you to clear your throat, he’s gone – off to his spot on the balcony, no doubt, stretched on an armchair you’d bought especially for him. You’d set a Maduro box on the coffee table between his seat and yours.

And you can smell it on him when he returns.

He must time it so you’re already out when he comes to wash up. You check it on the watch he’d discarded by the sink – forty five minutes to the second, a gratuitously long stretch to press on sore legs, but the water had been nice. He’d known the exact temperature to turn it to.

(He used to avoid the spray during your times together, too.

Any hotter, eh? It’s barely blistering.

You were the one who insisted on joining.

And kneaded your reddened flesh when you asked him to moisturise your back.)

His baths are militaristic in comparison to yours – he’s always in, soaped, and out before you get to your hair. You’d teased that he does it to avoid those grim thoughts that taint deluge silences – the ones no one is immune to. Perhaps you’d been on the mark.

So, you don’t ask. But you try and bear through ten more minutes upright, standing in front of the mirror, a towel around your bust, untangling the jewellery that’d been neglected in his absence.

You hardly get through your wedding chain when he finishes, picking at the same stubborn knot.

“You’ll get sick,” John gruffs, padding up behind you. You move over for him to reach the towel rack and pointedly avoid the large mass in your peripheral, hanging between thick thighs, nested in chestnut curls.

“If rearranging my guts wasn’t enough to ail me, then what harm can a bit of cold do.” You jibe. He gives you a grunt in response, tucks a corner into the wrap around his waist and sticks his hand out.

“Let me see that.”

You blink, looking up at him for a split second, before handing over the chain. The bathroom provides a brighter luminescence than the glow of the hazy bedroom.

It’s then you notice a hardly healed cut on his shoulder, sutured with black stitching.

And one on his chest.

And leg.

A purpling bruise, stippling the expanse of his abdomen, furling over the side of it to darken into black.

You’re caught like that – staring, hands at your chest – for far too long. If he realises, he doesn’t say, pulling at gold strands until something gives.

But his elbow tucks closer to hide the discoloration, the gesture veering on childish insecurity. Though that conclusion rolls between your teeth; a pearl that won’t dissolve and is much too large to swallow. Things can never be so simple with John. He fits the world in ways you’ve spent your entire marriage attempting to figure out – like a sole jigsaw piece, made with no greater picture in mind.

(You cut yourself to suit it, sometimes. He changes shape before you can catch up.)

The action is an inclination you can never fully acknowledge, then; not until it’s you racing to see what can heal first – your body, or your mind. So you single in on the bulk of his arm instead, expanding thew with the movement, choking back the stone lodged in your chest. It becomes easy to lose track of time like this, returning to your perpetual dysthymia.

You’re only snapped out of it by the smokey gravel of his voice, somehow simultaneously full-bodied and edging on a whisper. It pops like wet wood on a campfire, seething with an undercurrent of resignation, like it’s aware of its failure to fully fuel the kindling heat.

(You still feel it though; like a deafening salvo in the chamber of your hollowed gut. Butterflies turned gunpowder. It holds the same effect.)

“Here.”

And he hands you your necklace back, unravelled.

Brushing your teeth, you point to the hickeys decorating the column of your neck, then at his own wounds.

“Look, we match.”

His reflection tenses, the razor pulling away from his jaw. John opens his mouth – knuckles blooming white, clutching the edge of the sink – then snaps it shut upon scanning your foamy grin.

He goes back to lining his mutton chops, his lips pursed in a grim line.

Maybe you should’ve stayed quiet.

It ends a little something like this–

Moonlight filters through sheer curtains, ballooning with the tranquil breeze. You left the window open to allow some air while he finds his rare sleep.

You’re usually the first to knock out, but you stay awake on certain nights, these nights, stuck on vigilant duty against forces you can’t quite keep at bay. You know where he keeps his guns – taped to the sides of dressers or under a chair. They aren't anything you need. No. Now, you weaponize your hand, spread flat and smoothing over a coarse head of hair. You brush the strands that stick to his sweaty forehead and pull down the duvet when you notice his continuous battle with the heat.

Then, the nightmares start.

It’s subtle at first. No stranger would notice.

You cradle his forearm and his pulse quickens under your thumb. Doldrums, a war cry. His body thrums with awakened adrenaline as his pupils thrash behind fluttering eyelids. It’s an unsettling tremor that vibrates through you, the mattress, the still midnight where things tend to find their peace. You bite your lips through it and hope the worn-film memories go easy on him.

His breathing breaks into a stuttered pace. He’d forgone a shirt, clad in just plaid bottoms, and his chest gleams with a thin layer of cold perspiration. It shakes with him, rapid inhalations, his lip twitching while his body tries to regulate the instinctual fear. Your touch never leaves his head, your other, freer hand wrapping around twitching fingers.

And so begins the paralysis. The purgatorial state where nothing exists outside of stifling sheets and the distancing sounds of fusillade. You can tell when he comes to uneasy wakefulness – wavering in and out of a fight long since filed away in manilla cabinets – when his digits go rigid underneath yours. He gasps in one final, drawn-out convulsion, assured in his survival, before his eyes snap open to the present.

He grabs your wrist and flips you over in the split second afterwards.

You can’t help the scream that pitches at the assault. It’s not the first time this happens, but never has he been so quick to act.

“John–”

“Fuckin’- Fucking hell.”

His inflection warbles, still a victim to whatever profound helplessness overtook his dream.

“Are you okay?” You lament into the scant space between you. His nose brushes yours. You can feel the red-hot distress radiate off him in waves.

“Y-You… Affirm– Yes. Yes, I’m solid.” Though his eyes don’t meet yours.

You nod. He doesn’t let go of you.

“Water?”

“Scotch.”

“You’re not going back to sleep?”

“No.”

He flinches when you caress his cheek, brushing over wrinkled crows feet.

“You need your rest, John.”

“You haven’t slept, either.” The reaction holds more venom than he likely intends. You use the lowlight to memorise the way he appreciates his anger, the hissed admonishment echoing back with full force. Before his brow can crease again, you place a tentative peck to his chin. His jaw ticks at the movement.

“I will if you do, yeah?” He doesn’t agree, but his shoulders drop with an exhale. “Let me go, I’ll fetch a bottle for you.”

His face bows, a retired concession. It’s a side of him you hadn’t had the privilege of seeing, not until your first morning together, post-honeymoon.

(I have to go, love. My flight’s in an hour.

Stay. Just ‘till I fall back asleep.

He had.)

You’d miss it if you had stayed basking in the thought. His lips, chapped and bitten and cracked, brush over your knuckles when he pulls away.

You smile like a fool on your mission for refreshments. And, on your way back from the kitchen, you clasp over the rings on your necklace. An old habit, a happy tick.

(You almost drop the water when you feel only one; your classic, round diamond ring.

But you find his adorning his finger when his left hand reaches for the bottle.

You hadn’t noticed he’d taken it off the chain.)

The next morning, he tells you about Serbia and the calamity that brought upon new disfigurements. He grieves it in between thrusts, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck, his grip unabashedly bruising on your breasts. So we match, he echoes.

Still scarred. Always will be. But he dives deep into the personal upon remembering the comfort in your low hums.

(Your nails circling the marks on his palms - he’d told you about his dad two years in.

It helps.

What does?

When you trace over them like that.)

A week after every return to his house, John finally settles and rediscovers home.

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