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flowerandblood · 4 months

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The Gate of Salvation [2/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: fingering, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After her meeting with the Pope, she had been writhing around all night, terrified and humiliated, unable to sleep. She couldn't forgive herself for her stupidity, for not seeing in time that it was obvious her uncle was trying to slip her over to the head of the Catholic Church like a snack he might be tempted to focus on.

The worst part was that he had hired her and she didn't know how she could take it back, defy the Pope himself, communicate that she was rejecting his proposal.

She got up before dawn, recognising that she would not get any rest anyway, and decided to take a warm shower. She thought while standing under the stream of hot water that she would try to distance herself, be professional and not give satisfaction to either her uncle or the Pope himself.

She hoped that when he finally decided to give any sort of interview the commotion around him would quiet down and she could quickly offer her resignation.

She sighed heavily, running her hand over her wet face, wondering how she was supposed to reconcile this madness with her classes at the University.

A car with the same driver as the day before arrived outside her townhouse again and took her straight to the Vatican; driving through its streets, she noticed that many people had pitched tents in and around St Peter's Square, waiting for any new information about their Pope.

She sighed quietly, resignedly thinking about how unnecessary his stubbornness actually was.

This time it was not her uncle waiting for her in the square, but a middle-aged priest who could have been her father, dressed in a plain black cassock. He smiled at her in a way that seemed genuine to her and she reciprocated the gesture when he indicated with a movement of his hand that she should move to follow him.

"The Pope is just having breakfast in the garden and he will receive you there." He said as they walked along the marble corridors filled with works of art; she looked at him surprised and sighed quietly, glancing out of the window, finding that it was indeed pleasant warm weather, the sky was cloudless.

They walked out one of the back exits to the cloisters into a small garden consisting of a maze formed of walls of shrubbery, which, however, easily led them to its centre, on which stood a large arbour styled in antique manner, with a dome and Corinthian-style columns.

She grinned with some kind of disbelief when she spotted his figure seated at an ornate small white table, his cassock also white, he held in his hands a newspaper he had just been looking through.

She thought with amusement that he was reading about himself.

Only when they got closer did she notice that other gazettes from different countries lay folded on the table top; the front pages of each asking who the new pope was, why he wasn't showing himself, why he was silent.

"Your Holiness." Said the priest standing next to her and nodded; the young pope, however, did not even bestow a single glance on them.

She pressed her lips together as she saw his thumb go to his mouth, he licked it and then used it to flip the page of the newspaper.

The priest who had brought her left them alone, as if he had already become accustomed to the lack of reaction and any culture on his part. She stared at him in silence for a moment, standing in front of him in the same dress as the day before, not having time to buy anything else.

"Holy Father." She said softly, wanting to get it over with, standing a few steps beside him.

He did not look at her, instead lifting his hand and extending it towards her, a signet ring of pure gold on his heart finger.

She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, then swallowed hard and walked towards him, grasping his warm hand in hers.

She leaned in, placing a quick, brief kiss on his ring and let him go immediately; he took his hand without even giving her a glance and went back to reading the newspaper.

She pressed her lips together feeling his intense, pleasant-smelling male perfume again.

"What do you think of what they write about me?" He asked, carelessly tossing the newspaper he had just read onto a pile of others, the discouragement on his face bordering on disgust, as if what he had read made him sick. "They are already reaching my family. Day and night they chat outside my mother's house."

She felt a tightness in her throat at his words and some kind of sympathy, because although he must have known what his decision entailed and what the consequences would be, some journalists crossed all possible boundaries, recognising no sanctity.

She shifted from foot to foot, looking at the French croissants that lay on one of the porcelain plates and a jar of strawberry jam, and reminded herself that she hadn't eaten breakfast. She grunted quietly, looking away, staring at the field flowers that grew around them – she spotted a gardener in the distance who was cutting the shrubs with his big steel shears.

"They won't stop until you give them something, Holy Father." She replied truthfully, hearing him snort under his breath.

"They will always want more." He replied dryly and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye – he was staring at her sitting with his legs crossed.

She shuddered and looked at him in disbelief as he pushed the other chair in front of her with his foot clad in white elegant shoes, moving it away.

"Sit down, child. You are pale. Did you eat breakfast today?" He asked disapprovingly, like a parent expressing their discontent. She shook her head and he sighed heavily, indicating with his hand gesture to the seat next to him.

She thought that this certainly had nothing to do with behaving according to protocol, but decided that it probably didn't matter much to him. She sat down next to him, smelling the intense scent of his perfume again, adjusting her dress, remembering not to sit with her legs crossed.

"Eat." He said dispassionately; she wasn't going to argue, figuring that since she was being forced to be at his every beck and call now, she could get something in return.

Therefore, she reached for the croissant and jam, which immediately drew the attention of her stomach – she casted him a wordless surprised glance as she heard the sound of the lighter being lit and the hiss of the cigarette he held in his mouth.

He took a deep drag and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully, letting the smoke out through his nose. He smirked, as if something in her gaze amused him.

"My chancellery contacted your University. They were happy to hear that you will be doing a sort of…internship here. You don't have to worry about your exams or classes." He hummed as if he was talking about something trivial and uninteresting, an irrelevant piece of information he had to convey to her, and took another drag, the tip of his cigarette igniting red.

"− what − but −" She started, but decided it made no sense; whoever he was, this man had clearly already planned everything for himself and had no intention of changing anything, much less asking her opinion.

"I thought you'd be pleased. Your uncle arranges for you accommodation and studies, the Pope makes sure you pass your exams without your personal involvement. Isn't that beautiful?" He asked with a sneer, and she felt a tightening in her throat, a cold sweat on her back; she stared wide-eyed at the half-cut croissant on which she had just spread jam, but lost the urge to eat.

He knew everything about her and thought she and her uncle were the same.

She pressed her lips together and leaned back against the backrest, placing her hands on the armrests even though she shouldn't be doing so and crossed her legs. She saw his gaze drop involuntarily to her bare knees, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

"My uncle wants you to take me to your bed, Holy Father." She said quietly, recognising that she didn't have the strength for this, for their games, their hookups, the secrets they obviously adored, of which the entire Vatican was made.

She blinked when he chuckled, his pointing finger hitting his cigarette so that the ash from it fell to the stone floor beneath him.

"Tell me something I don't know. Eat. We have a lot of work ahead of us." He muttered, taking one last drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose, extinguishing the remnants of it on his plate.

She stared at him with her heart pounding fast, thinking in disbelief that he really was a few steps ahead of everyone else.

He was perfectly informed, and although his words and actions seemed chaotic, there was purpose in them.

"What do you want, Holy Father?" She asked lightly, taking a piece of croissant into her mouth. He threw her an amused look and raised an eyebrow.

She had the impression that he took satisfaction in teasing her, his gaze fixed on her lips, which she involuntarily licked.

"Many things. Above all, holy peace and quiet, but I am not afforded it. Get up, let's take a walk." He said matter-of-factly and rose abruptly, putting his hands behind him, moving ahead without looking at her towards the corridors made of tall, evenly trimmed bushes.

She quickly swallowed the piece she just had in her mouth and stood up, following him, levelling her step with his, sunshine and birdsong all around them.

"We're being watched. It's harder for them to eavesdrop on me as I walk." He said coolly; she turned behind her and saw the gardener she noticed before, who was apparently just pretending to water the flowers around the arbour.

She looked at him in horror, realising that he must have been spied on all the time.

That they all wanted to know what he was going to do, surely he must have kept them in an iron grip since no picture of him had leaked to the press yet.

"What's going to make the atmosphere calm down and the journalists back off?" He asked discouraged, and she sighed quietly, looking up at the cloudless sky.

"Your private invitation."

She was surprised that her idea that he would hold a press conference where he would be invisible and only his voice could be heard appealed to him. He felt that, in fact, his faithful should hear his words and what he has to share with them, and this did not require his image to be revealed at all.

He decided to receive the TV and newspaper envoys in the Sistine Chapel, recognising that this was some kind of milestone moment that required a special place, a black veil was placed in front of his papal throne.

Although on the one hand it looked comical, on the other it added a sort of solemnity and impression of holiness, something tangible and yet inaccessible.

The cardinals and his office workers had prepared a script for him, which he tore in front of her eyes before the speech itself, handing her the shreds that remained of the pages, staring blankly at the black fabric in front of him. She took it from him, not knowing what else she could do; he demanded she be by his side in case someone asked an uncomfortable question.

Her heart was pounding like mad, she could feel the cold sweat on her back and wondered if he felt a similar anxiety.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and although his face was stony, he seemed even paler to her than usual, his large hands on which she could clearly see the outline of his veins clenched on his armrests – he sat comfortably on his throne with his legs crossed.

"Holy Father, why don't you want to show your face to your faithful? Is this some new kind of Vatican policy, a way of getting the whole world's attention?" They heard the question echoed by the first journalist on the other side of the curtain; she saw him press his lips together and swallow loudly before his cold, matter-of-fact, dispassionate voice began to spread around them.

"My face is not useful to my faithful for anything. They need my action. My causality. They need my intervention in matters of urgency, in the problems of paedophilia in the church, in the embezzlement and misuse of church assets, in the restoration of law and order, in the opening up of the church to young people who feel forgotten and unwanted. My face, my history, my personal views will distract them from all these things."

He said without stammering. She looked at him in disbelief, realising that he couldn't have prepared this answer beforehand.

He was saying straight from his heart what he was thinking and there was something touching about it.

Somehow she understood what he meant.

"What about the pilgrimages, what about the Sunday masses celebrated by the Pope?" Asked another journalist. She heard him sigh heavily, noticed that his hand trembled as he raised it to his face, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose.

"The Pope is not alone, he has his cardinals who can assist him in his missions around the world. As for the masses, I will attend them as a guest, but I will not be visible. The Pope is not unique. The Pope is chosen as first among equals. As Pope, I still remain a cardinal, one of the apostles. I am not Christ. I am not God."

She looked at him in pain, breathing unevenly through slightly parted lips, remembering what she had told him a few days earlier.

They need a guide, not another invisible God.

She couldn't believe that after what she had heard she had begun to feel sympathy for him – his answers seemed thoughtful and sensible, and she wondered if she had just seen his true nature, or if he was as perfect a manipulator as any of the cardinals.

She wondered how he had convinced them.

How he became Pope.

When it was all over he left without a word; the journalists were led away, and she prayed that it would help, that public opinion would calm down a little.

She watched all the news editions that evening with bated breath – the whole world quoted his statements and his decision, to her relief, most of the experts spoke warmly of him. The newspaper headlines also left her under no illusions.

The Pope has spoken. He doesn't want to show his face, only his actions.

The Pope who chooses the fight against paedophilia over the glamour of glory.

The Pope without a face − a new beginning.

The end of splendour − the Pope retreats to work like any of us.

The end of the church as we know it. The Pope at last again the voice of the weakest.

The next day she arrived in the Vatican with a stack of newspapers, eager to show him the result of their work, hoping it would satisfy him and allow her to return to normality.

"The Pope is exercising, but he said he would receive you." Said the priest, who was called Father Lenz, and who was apparently his private secretary, always waiting for her to lead her wherever he just happened to be.

"He's exercising?" She asked with amusement, and he just raised his eyebrows, himself clearly not knowing what he thought about it.

He opened the door for her and she stepped into a large room, with a beautiful baroque vaulted ceiling and hundreds of paintings on one side, rows of tall windows on the other, illuminating an exercise machine consisting of a small bench with a mattress on which he placed his back as he pulled on the railing at the end of which the weights hung, his legs braced on either side of the machine for balance.

He was dressed in white tracksuits.

She stared at the sight in disbelief, waiting for him to notice her; it only happened after a while when he took a break and sat down, reaching for a bottle of water standing on the old wooden floor. She lifted up a bundle of newspapers and he nodded, running his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his breathing after his exertion.

She walked over to him and handed him the magazines she held in her hand; she felt a pleasant throbbing between her thighs feeling the smell of his sweat mixed with the scent of his perfume, his lips slightly swollen and pink from the blood that pulsed faster through his body.

He flipped through the front pages of the papers one by one and sighed quietly; she thought with surprise that there was a sort of expression of relief painted on his face, as if what was happening frightened him somewhere deep inside and filled him with anxiety.

He put them down at last, looking ahead, grabbing the white towel that hung over the railing at the other end of the machine.

"I prayed to God after I was elected. I prayed that he would show me the way, and although he usually answered me in some way, that evening he was silent. It was a silence full of rejection, as if the heavens did not agree with the decision of the conclave. How was I to go out to the crowds in such a situation, to convince them that Our Father in the heavens was sending me to them?"

He asked, rising with a quiet creak from the metal bench, surprising her completely with his words; because of his clothes and the way he spoke she had cognitive dissonance and had to remind herself that he was the Pope and not just a young man close to her age.

His confession touched her in some way – she was able to imagine his despair on the evening he was elected as people chanted his name, but it was the voice of God that he wanted to hear.

He stood a few steps away from her, drinking the contents of his small water bottle to the end, and stared ahead, as if he had returned with his mind to that time, as if he needed to get it out of himself.

"That's why I asked my faithful to pray from me. And what did they do? They despaired. They despaired that they could not see my face, that they could not touch me, tear me apart, dissect my private life and my past. I have never felt so lonely." He said with a regret from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say, reminding herself with shame that she had thought the same thing about him as all those people.

"Perhaps it was also the will of the heavens. In the end, when the time comes everyone will face God alone. Maybe it was his words: don't follow the crowd, don't conform, that's not why I sent you." She said softly, but immediately regretted her words, recognising that she had no right to interpret anyone's spiritual experiences, much less those of the Head of the Church.

She heard him snort with amusement; he pulled a lighter and cigarettes from his pocket and for a moment she thought he would want to smoke in this beautiful baroque chamber, however, he moved ahead towards a small door other than the one she had entered through.

"Come." He hummed, so she moved after him, knowing that it was pointless to resist.

For the rest, the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.

They passed through a narrow corridor and began to climb up a stone staircase that spiraled around a large pillar – it seemed to her that they were in some older part of this great complex. They reached a small wooden door, and when he opened it they emerged onto the roof of one of the buildings located to the right of St Peter's Square.

The view in front of her struck her –the sun was rising over the Vatican, lazily leaning out from above the church standing in the centre of the square like a nimbus, the air around them pleasantly cool and crisp.

She watched as he moved ahead and walked closer to the stone wall, firing up his lighter and leaning forward with a cigarette in his mouth – there was something so obscene about the sight that she smiled involuntarily.

He looked at her over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, taking a drag, then slid his cigarette out of his mouth with a motion of his hand and let the smoke out silently through his nose, shaking the ash to the ground with a flick of his finger.

"It has been reported to me that journalists are slowly making their way into my past. Don't worry, I don't think it's your fault. I knew it would happen, but I thought I had more time." He murmured lowly seeing her surprised, horrified face, suddenly as if tired and discouraged, taking another drag with a quiet hiss of fire.

She thought looking at his silhouette illuminated by the first rays of the sun, that he looked like a saint.

"I want you to hear it from me. Will you listen to what I have to say?" He asked calmly and she nodded, feeling her heart pounding fast, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, terrified of what he wanted to tell her.

"My mother I told you about is a nun. She adopted me a few years after I was placed in a convent orphanage." He said calmly, looking away, staring at the crowds of people walking around St Peter's Square.

"They took me from the woman who gave birth to me because she liked to inject various stimulants into her veins. She was asleep when one of her men decided he didn't like the way I looked at him, that I was complaining about being hungry. He decided that he would gouge my eyes out, but he only succeeded with one, my screaming would wake even the dead."

He muttered, not looking at her but somewhere in the distance, letting out a puff of smoke with a deep breath; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain feeling the squeeze in her throat, her cheeks red with emotion.

She wanted to say something but was afraid to interrupt him, she knew that what he was telling her was of the utmost importance and she wondered if anyone else knew about all this, if he had confided in anyone.

"Sister Alicent after I was brought in wouldn't let me call her my mother. So I called every woman I saw that, cooks, cleaners, teachers. She adopted me in the end, unable to look at it anymore. She got a dispensation from the Pope." He said lowly, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his completely white Adidas.

"Some trashy, cheap magazines are already writing about the fact that I am the son of a nun and the Pope, others with mockery recognise that I am certainly her immaculate conception. That they mock me doesn't bother me, but it fills me with sadness that journalists stand outside her house all day. She can't even go out shopping or gardening. I guess you think the only way out of this situation would be an interview where I would tell my story?"

He asked disapprovingly, looking at her finally; she was shocked and horrified that he was asking her opinion on such an important matter. She shook her head helplessly, shrugging her shoulders.

"You cannot allow them to make your mother a hostage, Holy Father. You must show strength. Call press conferences where you talk about what decisions you make, but don't answer questions about your family. In the Vatican, you are Pius XIII, not Aemond Targaryen. When they see that they cannot blackmail you, they will let go. In my opinion, you both have to bear it." She said what she thought, thinking in the back of her mind that journalists would always want more and the matter would only get worse.

He looked at her silently as if analysing her words and sighed finally, kicking a stone that lay under his feet with his shoe.

"Have you ever kissed?" He asked lightly and she looked at him with shock written all over her face, feeling her heart pounding like crazy, her cheeks burning with heat.

She couldn't believe such a question had come out of his mouth.

"You don't have to answer. I'm just curious. I've never kissed anyone." He replied after a moment, seeing her embarrassed reaction, as if he wanted to clarify and elaborate that his interest was purely scientific and theoretical.

She swallowed loudly, pressing her lips together, thinking that he had told her about himself, about the most private aspects of his life, and decided that nothing bad would happen if she answered him.

"Once, in high school." She muttered, stroking her arm in a gesture of uncertainty and embarrassment, looking away. She heard him hum under his breath, intrigued.

"Did it feel good?" He asked softly, standing a few steps away from her with his hands tucked into his snow-white tracksuit bottoms, cocking his head.

She looked up at him in disbelief, breathing erratically, clasping her hands tighter, involuntarily her gaze escaped to his full, glistening lips.

"It was a very moist, soft and warm sensation." She muttered feeling a tightness in her throat, her gaze fleeing from his eyes to his lips, unable to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to feel how they tasted.

"Hm." He murmured, looking away thoughtfully.

They stood like that for a moment in silence – she could feel the wordless tension around them, as if electricity flowed through the air with their every word and movement.

"Did you confess this deed?"

She blinked and felt her heart stop. She shook her head, looking at him with slightly parted lips.

"Pardon?" She asked in disbelief, feeling discomfort in her lower abdomen and a cold sweat on her back, not believing that he was suggesting such a thing.

"Failure to maintain chastity before marriage is a sin." He replied indifferently; she pressed her lips together, feeling tears of shame and humiliation under her eyelids, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"So I am a sinner, Holy Father." She said coldly, and turned away, leaving without any pleasantries or even a simple goodbye.

She burst out sobbing as she ran down the narrow stairs.

It was only a kiss.

She just wanted to see what it was like.

In fact, she felt bad afterwards, but not because she thought it was a sin, but because she was not in love with this boy.

She asked Father Lenz for any of the drivers to take her home; seeing her face red from tears he asked what had happened, but she did not answer him.

She opened up to him, spoke about an intimate part of her life, and he could only judge her, make her another Eve, a fallen woman.

It was only a kiss.

She returned to her flat filled with regret and disappointment – she angrily pulled off her long dress she had bought and chosen specially to be able to present herself as expected, to keep herself humble, but for what?

She decided that she would never appear there again.

There was no kind of real contract between the two of them, she had only signed documents regarding her collaboration with the Pope's secretaries and a confidentiality clause.

She changed into her pyjamas, undid her hair, took the box of leftover cakes from the cupboard and lay in bed, browsing social media platforms on her phone, trying not to think about what had happened.

She tilted her head back and groaned in frustration when she saw that her uncle had started to call her. She muted her phone and flipped the screen down, sighing.

She lay back on her bedding, staring blankly at the window, and thought with pain that the man who should be giving her the strength to be a better person had made her doubt herself, made her feel sinful and dirty.

She started to think that maybe she should go to confession after all, that maybe he was right, that she was only making excuses for herself without wanting to admit that she was wrong, but she felt even worse at that thought and just burst out crying.

Exhausted by sobbing and remorse, she finally fell asleep, seeing only through her closed eyelids that the phone display lying next to her glowed again and again.

She shuddered, rising quickly to sit up in complete darkness when she heard someone's loud knock on her door; she looked around with a pounding heart, not knowing where she was, whether it was evening or morning.

She glanced at her phone and saw that she had slept for several long hours and the sun had set, on her screen 20 missed calls from her uncle and a plethora of text messages that she didn't have the energy to read.

She sighed heavily and got up, walking reluctantly to the door, knowing her uncle would now make a litany for her; she turned on the night light on the way so she wouldn't trip over anything and she turned the lock, opening it.

"Oh God."

She muttered, seeing the figure of the young Pope in front of her, still in the same white tracksuit and sneakers.

He had his hood up over his head.

He pulled the white earphones out of his ears with a soft flick of his hand – she could hear the heavy metal music playing from them.

"Will you let me in?" He asked indifferently; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking he was risking a lot by going outside just to see her.

She sighed quietly and stepped back, allowing him to go inside. She leaned out wanting to check if anyone had seen him and closed the door quickly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw that he had turned off the music on his player and put it back in his pocket.

They stood for a moment in silence, his gaze focused on her naked thighs; she swallowed loudly with shame at the thought that she was standing before the Head of the Catholic Church in nothing but pyjamas consisting of cream shorts and a shirt buttoned up the front, under which she didn't even have a bra.

She turned her head, running her trembling hand over her face, her heart pounding like mad.

"I made a mistake." She heard his voice full of regret. "I wanted your uncle to pass it on to you, but you didn't answer."

"I didn't and don't feel like talking to anyone, Holy Father." She muttered, feeling a tightening in her chest, fiddling restlessly with the cross hanging on her neck.

She heard him swallow loudly and look to the side, pulling the hood off his head.

"I made you doubt in yourself. In your purity and your value in the eyes of God." He said lowly, and she felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. She closed her eyelids and tilted her head back, trying to control herself, not letting them flow out.

She did not reply.

"My words arise from my depravity, which I fight unsuccessfully. From my vanity and jealousy. I would rather have you locked up in a convent. You could then be by my side and no one would ever touch you again. You could be mine." He said softly, thoughtfully, looking at some point on the floor, as if he had drifted off completely in his musings – she felt her lips part in disbelief, her brow arching in pain.

I would rather have you locked up in a convent.

You could be mine.

What was she to reply to such a shocking confession?

She shuddered when he finally turned his attention to her, the gaze of his healthy eye sharp and piercing, while his artificial one was empty, white, lifeless.

"Though never before have my members reacted to the sight and thought of a woman, when I see you, I long to touch you, to taste you, to smell you. I have become addicted to your scent and try to recall it after evening prayer before I fall asleep." He spoke calmly, as if it was not an emotionally driven statement but something thought out, something that had been going on in his head for a very long time.

She felt with fear how her body reacted to his words with a greedy throbbing between her thighs and a moisture from which the material of her underwear was getting wet, her nipples hardened, more clearly visible from under her shirt.

She froze when she saw his gaze flee to her breasts, seeing exactly what she feared, his full lips parted slightly; she could hear his breathing clearly, fingers of his hands rubbing against each other in an anxious, nervous gesture.

"What do you feel now?" He whispered and she drew in the air loudly, feeling a tightness in her throat. She licked her lips dry from stress, taking a step backwards, hitting her back against the wall, feeling that she had nowhere to run. She helplessly clenched her thighs together, wanting to stop what was happening, seeing that his pupil widened at the sight.

"I'm wet." She confessed in shame, recognising that there was no point in pretending that there was something innocent in what was happening – her body was twitching with desire, begging for his touch and relief, her heart pounding like mad.

She heard him draw in a loud breath at her words while looking straight into her eyes, she saw fire in them, heavenly or hellish.

"Does it feel good?" He asked softly, gazing shamelessly at the spot between her thighs – she felt a wonderful heat in her lower abdomen and a tickling inside her, her walls were clenching around nothing at his question.

She thought helplessly that she had never felt anything like this before in her life.

"Yes." She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her whole body quiver and pulsate, feeling desire in her fingertips, in her lips and down there, deep, deep inside her.

She shuddered as he approached her with a slow step and lifted her terrified gaze to him. His lips were parted in an anxious, hitched breath, in his eyes heat and darkness from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and between her thighs.

He stood over her, for a moment just looking at her – his trembling hands finally raised, reaching for the buttons of her shirt. They looked at each other with some kind of pain and suffering from which she felt a sting in her heart as a coldness enveloped her naked skin.

It seemed to her that it lasted an eternity – he took his time, his gaze fixed on the line of her bare body as he unbuttoned her shirt fully; he didn't expose her breasts, he just looked at her.

She gasped when he lifted his hand and ran his fingertips slowly over her sternum down to her stomach – she closed her eyes and sighed quietly, feeling her lips pulsate with desire, swollen and thirsty.

"− so soft − so warm −" He whispered; her quivering palm rose and touched his fingers, his hand larger and more massive than hers, she could feel the outline of his veins clearly under her skin.

She pressed his hand to her heart, heard him draw in the air hard as he felt it beat beneath his fingertips.

He looked at her, remaining still, as if frozen, knowing that one word from him, one expression of hesitation and they would be left with only shame, only regret, only disappointment.

She felt the tears under her eyelids, which involuntarily one by one ran down her face; he noticed it and shook his head, his breathing shaky, uneven, despairing.

"− you're so pure −" He whispered, nuzzling the tip of his nose into her cheek as if seeking refuge. She clenched her eyelids in shock at how intimate and desired this closeness was, his scent filled her entire lungs, his warm breath enveloped her cheek.

"− looking at you I feel terror because I regret − I regret that I will never feel you − that I will never give you what I want −" He muttered in a trembling voice; she felt his warm tears running down her skin.

They both gasped when his shaking hand tentatively began to slide lower and sobbed in pleasure as his fingers slipped hesitantly under the material of her shorts, deep between her thighs.

They were panting and quivering with desire, her trembling hands clenched on his arms as his fingertips pushed the material of her underwear aside with a shy gesture full of shame, she heard his low, helpless groan as he felt how wet she was.

"− God, help me −" He mumbled in a broken voice full of guilt – she tried but was unable to stop the moans of pleasure that left her mouth with each tentative movement of his fingers that brushed her swollen, throbbing womanhood, her body was so tense she felt she was on the edge.

"− please −" She whimpered pleadingly, placing her hand on his with a gesture full of desperation, wanting to feel him harder, deeper.

She tilted her head back as she finally felt him the way she wanted to, his fingertips digging into her fleshy, hot, moist folds with intense, circular strokes – she could feel his hot, ragged breath on her skin, his face pressed against her cheek, her hands clenched in a helpless gesture on the material of his sweatshirt.

Tears of despair and delight streamed down their faces, tired of pretending and fleeing, shivers ran down her spine every time the tips of his fingers teased again that tender bud from which her sobriety of mind was taken away; it seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, something hard and throbbing under his trousers rubbing against her thigh with desperate strokes.

"− forgive me − say you forgive me −" He mumbled pleadingly in a breaking voice.

She felt him trembling all over just like her, unable to stop now, knowing there was no way back, her face wet with her and his tears.

She reached her palm into his hair and combed through it with her fingers, letting out her breath with a loud sob, moving involuntarily to the rhythm of his hand as it pressed harder and harder against her fleshy skin with the lewd click of her moisture.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for forgiveness −" She gasped as she felt something approaching, moaning louder and louder.

She thought that despite the fact that he was touching her in this forbidden, sinful place, some incomprehensible kind of intimacy and innocence was added to what was happening by the fact that he hadn't exposed her naked body, that he hadn't wanted to possess her, only to experience something with her and in her presence.

"− good God, you're leaking − so sticky − I'll lick it off my fingers −" He whispered with a kind of awe, as if he were talking about something sacred and mysterious.

She felt that his words had done something to her – she cried out loudly, parting her lips in disbelief when suddenly a wave of warm pleasure surged through her body like a lightning bolt.

She felt wonderful tickling in her lips, in the tips of her fingers, in her breasts, in her chest, her inside's clenching greedily around nothing, her moisture trickled down onto his hand, she heard his low, surprised groan.

Her body suddenly became numb; she would have fallen if he hadn't put his arm around her in time, his hand ran over her cheek heated from the exertion.

"− you look like Bernini's Saint Teresa − so beautiful −" He mumbled in a trembling voice, panting hard along with her, looking at her dreamily. She sighed sweetly, laying her head on his chest, letting him embrace her tightly.

She could feel his manhood throbbing under the damp material of his sweatpants.

He came.

She stayed in his embrace not daring to look at him, not daring to think about what they had done, wanting to push back the moment when they would feel remorse, pain and regret, sinking only into this wonderful relief.

You look like Bernini's Saint Teresa.

A sculpture in which a holy woman curves in ecstasy after an angel pierces her with an arrow of Divine Love.

God's Delight.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses

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ollieneedstherapy · 27 days

Text

D.A.M.N crew head cannons

-As a kid Damien would stay up late and read under the covers

-Huxley’s moms names are Jade and Ruby, both are earth elementals

-Gavin’s go to slushee is Pinà Colada and blue raspberry

-Freelancer’s loves reading, they’re the kind of person who has a new book every few days

-Gavin loves to have freelancer sleep on his left side and have Caelum on his chest, he sleeps on the right side of the bed which is the closest to the door

-every night for years Lasko would text all his friends good morning and good night texts, he only stopped after the intervention

-Huxley is one of the people who can do the Alphabet backwards, he did it so much as a kid, he struggles to sing it forward

-Damien had seen basically every studio Ghibli film, after a hard day he’d make sure no one else was home and cry while watching Howls moving Castle

-Huxley can carry everyone in the easily (is this one cannon??)

-Freelancer owns a plush for everyone in the group, Damien’s is Calcifer, Lakso’s is a d20, Huxley is a cactus, Gavin’s is a dick, Gavin’s is a slushee cup

-Caelum, when he can’t sleep will check on all of his charges four or five times to make sure they’re safe

-Freelancer loves to sing ‘Freeze your Brain’ to Gavin, he has no clue what it’s from or the meaning but he’s happy his Deviant is happy

-Gavins super allergic to pollen, during the spring this guys dying

-Lakso can and will rap old English for his students, he can not rap in normal English

-Huxley got everyone in the group Stanley’s for Christmas because he knows none of them drink enough water, and they’d feel bad if they didn’t use the gift

-Gavin, in his true form, has strips on his back and thighs, when Freelancer and him have…fun, they like to trace them

-Lakso drinks enough caffeine to kill a horse, some of his students keep track of how many energy drinks he drinks in their class alone (The most is 4 and a half)

-Damien has owned 4 cats, 3 dogs, 17 gold fish, and 6 Guinea pigs before he started high school

-He was also homes schooled till he started year 8

-Freelancer and Lakso meet up twice a month, just them, to watch shitty K-dramas

-Caelum doesn’t understand popcorn, when Gavin and freelancer have a movie night with him, he spends like ten minutes just asking about how popcorn works

#redacted asmr #redacted headcanons #redacted damn crew #redacted huxley #redacted lasko #redacted gavin #redacted caelum #redacted freelancer #i love these idiots #redacted damn polycule

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tac-the-unseen · 17 days

Note

I love all ur blog sm!! Can I ask abt something with the slashers (specially Thomas <3) with an foreigner!reader that don't quit speak english very well and normally forget words?

(Sorry if something is spelled wrong, English is not my native language lmao)

Absolutely, I can!

And because the request didn't specify, this fic will strictly be about speaking a foreign language.

Sorry if this is inaccurate! I'm a native English speaker and don't know many who aren't. Sorry in advance!!

Slashers x Foreigner!Reader

Micheal Myers:

•This man will act like he doesn't care but in reality he's so intrigued. (It might be why you're still alive)

•He’ll spend his time watching you practice your pronunciation and recognition patterns, like it's a movie.

•Is he a bit mean about it? Yes. Will he laugh? Probably.

•If you find yourself not knowing what certain words are and stumble around until you find the right word, You'd be surprised at how patient he is.

•If you are very new to the English language he'll secretly get you flash cards and stash them into a place he knows you'll find them

•Despite everything, if you ask him for help, he will help. He might be mute but he can write and use TV to aid you.

Billy loomis & Stu macher:

•Stu is already romanticizing your language, but instead of using the actual name of your language, he calls it “Talking pretty to me”

•Billy asks if you want any text books or study equipment to help you on your English speaking journey

•Both boys are a surprising help! Stuttering trying to articulate what you mean? They've already jumped in to, A) help save you some of the embarrassment, and B) give you time to think about what you're trying to say.

•Someone making fun of you? They're either dead or a social outcast by the end of the week.

•Are you struggling to remember a certain word? These boys are willing play charades until you figure it out. And they won't drop it either, Stu says ‘It’s bad to give up when you've already come so far.’

•Over all it's not so bad (Stu 100,000,000% uses Google translate to figure out how to say ‘i love you’ in your native language)

Thomas Hewitt:

•When both of you met, he had never met an actual foreigner before.

•He knew people travel around and occasionally some valley girl would end up in their small town, But someone from a whole different part of the world?

•His interest in you spiked the moment he heard your accent

•Thomas has so many questions but doesn't know how to ask you

•With him being mute and your struggles with English, It's not the easiest relationship. In the end both of you just end up pointing at things and making noises to get your point across.

•Absolutely loves to listen to you speak in your native language, Even if he'll never understand it.

•When he's first trying to court you, he leaves you slightly damaged flowers (he struggled to pick them) to communicate his affection.

•even with a language barrier, he's gonna love you like no one ever could

Bubba Sawyer:

•He had no idea people outside of America existed

•When You fell into the palm of Texas and his brothers found you failing to remember the word for your favorite snack, They knew you would be an easy target.

•When they kidnapped you and brought you to the basement so Bubba could chop you up, he was fascinated by the way you desperately tried to beg him not to kill you.

•It ended in a huge fight in the family, But he got everyone to let you live a bit longer.

•Sits Criss Cross applesauce while you speak for your life. You could babble about anything and he would listen intently.

•He pulls out his alphabet soup machine and spends hours typing with you. (You help him finally get past the clown level)

Bo Sinclair:

•absolute meanie, stinky poopy head about it >:(

•will mock your stutters and say stuff like “Oh come ON! The word is Cat! C. A. T. CAT! What's so hard about that?”

•If you speak your native language around him, He thinks you're insulting him or intentionally hiding something.

•”If you could say it to my face in your language you can say it to my face again in mine!”

•The same sentiment is not shared when it involves bedroom fun

•Will eventually apologize, But that's going to take a while

Vincent Sinclair:

•As another non-speaking fellow he takes his time to make sure you two can understand each other

•He’ll mostly use body language and and little doodles to get his point across

•Stuttering over a word? He doesn't care, he'll let you work it out without any judgment!

•Want his help? He has several books, Vincent will just pull out a book he knows as the word in it, flipped to the page, and point at the word.

•Love listening to you talk, In English or not. He'll happily let you yap his ear off.

Lester Sinclair:

•Poor boy was lovestruck when he first heard you talk!

•Full on heart eyes while you explain where you're from and how you ended up here

•If you end up fumbling on a word he'll start shouting out potential words for what you're trying to say.

•Example: “and then I had too…uh…um..” “Run? Pee? Eat? Were you hungry? Are you hungry right now?”

•So helpful, I know

•But the guy is already googling restaurants based off your native cuisine. He's got the date set up.

•”It's no biggie, I'm a native English speaker and I still can't get it right!”

Billy Lenz:

•Billy 100% understands the struggle of finding the right word to say

•He can't stop stuttering himself, so when you start stuttering you kind of reinforce us in his brain that you were meant to be together

•He feels like he can bond with you over it, and even feel safer around you knowing that you also mess up

•the thing is if you start stuttering, he'll start stuttering. If you can't get it by God he will.

•”W-we can't bo-oth be wrong.”

Brahms Heelshire:

•this man will 100% try to learn your language as soon as he finds out you're a foreigner

•That man has a huge library, there's bound to be at least one book written in your mother tongue

•He spends a lot of time practicing your native language so he can speak to you more comfortably

•You already know he has children's learning books he'll pull out if you ask.

•Can't find the word you're looking for? He's already 10 books deep, he'll find it for you.

•Brahms is a well-educated man and he intends to use His years of learning to help

•If you want to take classes to better your English skills he will 100,000% throw money your way to do so.

Hannibal Lecter:

•Now Hannibal really understands

•He's a Lithuanian who learned English as a 10 year old

•He didn't struggle as much, But for the first couple of months you bet he was stumbling.

•If you're struggling with a word, He has a process of teaching you so you don't forget it again.

1) Identify what you're trying to say

2)Slowly begin to sound out the word

3)Have you recite the word a few times

4)He'll either teaches you a little tune to remember or he'll do something so you remember the moment

•Does it feel a little condescending? Yes. But it works

•He's also willing to pour an ungodly amount of money into your English education if you ask

•He'll even teach you himself in his spare time

Will Graham:

•Doesn't really know what to do, He's a bit awkward about it

•He'll also identify the word and repeat it a few times so you can get a better handle on it.

•He thinks it's a bit funny and a bit cute when you stutter or mispronounce something

•He will gently correct you and move on like nothing happened

The Lost Boys:

•holy fucking shit this is a cluster fuck, let's do this one by one

•David

-David, having been around a while, has picked up a couple languages.

-If he does know the language you're speaking he'll speak it back to you and guide you into English better than the other boys could

-If not, he'll just read your mind and tell you what you're trying to say. It's by far the easiest way to articulate what you mean.

•Dwayne

-Dwayne being just slightly younger than David has also picked up a couple languages

-It's really the same if he does know your language But with a little more verbal teaching

-If he doesn't he'll patiently wait until you figure out what you're trying to say.

•Paul

-as soon as you start to stutter over yourself Paul starts shotgunning words off

-some slightly related to the situation and others wildly out there

-”Drink? Food? Ocean? Horse? The unforgiving eyes of God and His kingdom???”

-he'll do this to confuse you and have a nice laugh

•Marko

-Marko speaks English and Italian, so if your language isn't one of those two you're kind of shit out of luck

-”Come on babe, you'll get it”

-He finds it a bit funny but still tries to help in little ways

Thanks for reading <3

Sorry if this seems hastily written together, I haven't had the request in a while so I kind of jumped at the opportunity.

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odinsblog · 7 days

Text

Funny how SCOTUS “originalists” ignore this history

Benjamin Franklin is revered in history for his fixation on inventing practical ways to make everyday life easier. He was a prolific inventor and author, and spent his life tinkering and writing to share his knowledge with the masses.

One of the more surprising areas Franklin wanted to demystify for the average American? At-home abortions.

Molly Farrell is an associate professor of English at the Ohio State University and studies early American literature. She authored a recent Slate article that suggests Franklin’s role in facilitating at-home abortions all started with a popular British math textbook.

Titled The Instructor and written by George Fisher, which Farrell said was a pseudonym, the textbook was a catch-all manual that included plenty of useful information for the average person. It had the alphabet, basic arithmetic, recipes, and farriery (which is hoof care for horses). At the time, books were very expensive, and a general manual like this one was a practical choice for many families.

Franklin saw the value of this book, and decided to create an updated version for residents of the U.S, telling readers his goal was to make the text “more immediately useful to Americans.” This included updating city names, adding Colonial history, and other minor tweaks.

But as Farrell describes, the most significant change in the book was swapping out a section that included a medical textbook from London, with a Virginia medical handbook from 1734 called Every Man His Own Doctor: The Poor Planter’s Physician.

This medical handbook provided home remedies for a variety of ailments, allowing people to handle their more minor illnesses at home, like a fever or gout. One entry, however, was “for the suppression of the courses”, which Farrell discovered meant a missed menstrual period.

“The book starts to prescribe basically all of the best-known herbal abortifacients and contraceptives that were circulating at the time,” Farrell said. “It's just sort of a greatest hits of what 18th-century herbalists would have given a woman who wanted to end a pregnancy early.”

“It's very explicit, very detailed, also very accurate for the time in terms of what was known ... for how to end a pregnancy pretty early on.”

Including this information in a widely circulated guide for everyday life bears a significance to today’s heated debate over access to abortion and contraception in the United States. In particular, the leaked Supreme Court opinion that would overturn Roe v. Wade and states that “a right to abortion is not deeply rooted in the nation's histories and traditions.”

Farrell said the book was immensely popular, and she did not find any evidence of objections to the inclusion of the section.

“It didn't really bother anybody that a typical instructional manual could include material like this,”she said. “It just wasn't something to be remarked upon. It was just a part of everyday life.”

(continue reading) more ←

#politics #abortion #ben franklin #american history #scotus #textualists #originalists #roe v wade #mifepristone #abortifacients #reproductive rights #bodily autonomy #reproductive justice #healthcare #home abortions #for the suppression of the courses #every man his own doctor the poor planters physician #every man his own doctor

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genshinarchives · 2 years

Note

Aliceeeeee this art is so adorable!!! It fits perfectly to ur seelie headcanons and al haitham is so....😳😳😳🤤

Al-Haitham / gender-neutral reader.

Synopsis: Al-Haitham is stressed about writing his new research paper but finds some solace in your quiet presence.

— ( An extension of my seelie!reader headcanons with the Sumeru cast. )

An exhausted sigh slipped past Al-Haitham's lips as he tapped the blunt end of his pen incessantly on his desk. Numerous papers with messy scribbles were scattered haphazardly around him, signifying the unusually frazzled state his mind was in. Pausing, he then glanced over his shoulder to find your mini seelie self snoozing away on his pillow. For a moment, he considered asking Kaveh to look after you but quickly decided against it when he remembered his roommate throwing you out of the window to see how fast you can travel through the air the other day.

"... I'm not getting any work done today," he muttered, dropping his pen on his desk with a sharp clatter. That woke you up from your slumber, and you let out a squeaky noise of protest as you floated up from the pillow.

'Geez, I was having such a nice dream too!' you thought, folding your tiny seelie arms.

Rising from his chair, Al-Haitham walked towards his bed and plopped himself down on the mattress with his back facing the ceiling. He didn't bother changing into proper night clothes, which made you tug his hair to express your disapproval.

He lazily swatted you away, mumbling, "Let it slide for today. I'm tired."

A humming squeak left you as you carefully landed beside him on the pillow, and he turned his head to look at you, blinking wearily. When you tapped one of his eyelids, he chuckled breathily with the tiniest hint of a smile.

"I'm fine, Seel," he murmured, calling you by your nickname which he had come up with, "Sorry for waking you up." Since he doesn't know your real name and you don't know how to write the universal letters of Teyvat, he shortened Seelie to Seel and has been calling you that since then. Lifting a hand over your small form, he lightly patted you. "Go back to sleep. I also have to wake up early tomorrow..." Trailing off, he soon fell asleep, the weight of his hand squashing you flat.

The following morning, you woke Al-Haitham up by smacking his forehead multiple times - that with your loud squeaking effectively roused him from his deep slumber. Groaning, he rubbed the sleep off his eyes before leaving his room to wash himself up. You respectfully turned away when he returned with just a towel around his waist, which puzzled him slightly. Once he was dressed, he beckoned to you and promptly left his house to head to the library in the Akademiya.

On the way there, you noticed the papers in his grasp and flew lower before nudging his hand with an inquisitive squeak. Al-Haitham glanced down at you.

"That's the draft of my new research paper. It was what kept me up last night," he said, "We're going to the library because I need more references. Make sure to behave."

You could sense the stress in his voice, and his tense expression reminded you of the many nights where you'd lose your mind over writing your reports and theses.

'Fighting, Haitham. I feel you,' you thought.

The moment you both arrived at the library, Al-Haitham disappeared between the bookshelves to hunt for the references that he needed. You naturally followed him, curious about the Akademiya's literature collection. He emerged from the forest of books a few minutes later with a small pile tucked in the inside bend of his elbow and your bored self deflated on top of his head. The scholars in the library couldn't help but notice Al-Haitham's mini seelie companion, and one look from him was all it took to make them avert their gazes.

When he sat down at a table to start reading, you tried reading with him. Some of Teyvat's letters are similar to the English alphabet but you still couldn't make heads or tails of the text. As you moved to settle next to the book in his hands, Al-Haitham noticed you attempting to understand his reading material, and he arched an eyebrow at this.

"You seem to understand human speech, so you must possess a certain degree of intelligence. Are you able to read as well?" he inquired, and you moved your round body from side to side to wordlessly say no. "Hmm. I see." Al-Haitham stared at you for a few seconds before asking, "Do you want to learn how to read? I can take a break right now and teach you."

'Finally! I'll no longer be illiterate in this world!'

You perked up at his offer, and he took the way you burst out with joyful squeaky noises as a yes. Before he could do anything, you tugged his index finger and moved it to point at the window. Al-Haitham's eyes widened by a fraction. "You want to go outside?"

'You need a change of scenery, mister! Get some fresh air to destress,' you thought.

As if he could read your thoughts, he quietly stood up from his seat and said, "I suppose a change of scenery is needed."

After checking out the books he had taken off the shelves, he exited from the library with you perched on his right shoulder. You squeaked excitedly as you slightly bounced on the spot, eliciting a minuscule smile from him. Raising a hand from his side, he gently stroked you with the back of his index finger.

Even though Al-Haitham doesn't express himself often, he's glad that you're here to put his mind at ease.

Taglist: @coco-goat-milk @m3gitsune @melkxsh @irethepotato @frostines-blog @xxhome-is-where-ria-isxx @crunchy-princeles @nanamisflowerfield @dulcetamore @myevergarden @shizunxie @el1atae @spo0k-mxchii @yuuki4646 @sunlightocean @bloopthebat @fxaavt @localpansexualsniper @kiraisastay @huboi

#✍️ : alice writes #genshin #genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin scenarios #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #al haitham #alhaitham #al haitham x reader #alhaitham x reader #gender neutral reader #seelie reader

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wavehala · 9 months

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JJK CHARACTERS WHEN YOU'RE ON YOUR PERIOD

pairing : jjk characters x female reader

characters : gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, kamo choso

warnings : mentions of explicit content

as you can tell i'm on my period (yes of course i am craving physical touch as well but that is not your business). also english isn't my first language so please keep that in mind while reading this piece of garbage

GOJO : HE WOULD BE SO DRAMATIC FOR NO REASON JUST TO IRRITATE YOU. but for real he would take your period as an excuse to be clingier than ever. he would be spooning you the exact moment he arrives back home despite your protests. ao basically, he's not leaving your side with the excuse that "you need to rest" but we all know that satoru just wants to cuddle you for the rest of the evening and take care of you of course. according to him, your skin feels softer whenever you get your period and he wants to cuddle you the entire day. however, don't get it twisted. even though he's a menace to society, he will buy you anything you want to eat and spoil the hell out of you because, in the end, he's totally aware of how painful your period can be most of the time. you mentioned pancakes a few days ago? he's making them in this precise moment. deep inside he cares, a lot, and he will make sure to show that he does. and trust, he is not ashamed AT ALL of going shopping for pads. no he's not going to ask the size of your pussy. but do not worry, gojo satoru will make sure you lay down on your stomach and will massage your back if it is necessary. the bitch will also raise your t-shirt and leave a trail of kisses on your back to raise tension between you. everything while his hand is caressing your waist carefully, as if you were about to break. "i will make sure you massage my back as well don't worry". "not now satoru". oh, also there will be times when this man won't care about your period when he wants to have sex with you so be prepared for that 🤠

GETO : i am about to combust thanks to this man. geto would be overprotective BUT in his own personal way which makes it ten times better. first of all, he could instantly tell in a second when you’re feeling down or unwell. with that being said, he would assume every single task that you were supposed to do that day. he is cleaning the house, doing the dishes, organizing your bookshelf by alphabetical order, and many more. you then refused, obviously, because even you thought you could manage all your responsibilities despite the bothering headache that you had and the point that you felt like you were bleeding yourself to death with every step that you took. you could be in the kitchen doing the dishes out of guilt and geto would go like "BABE NO LET ME TAKE CARE OF IT". he would also carry you in a bridal style to your room when you don't listen to him. this time, he didn't drop you on the mattress, compared to the other times when you guys would have a makeout session. instead, he treated you delicately and then proceeded to kiss your forehead before saying "i got you babe, i'll clean things up and then come back to you. ok?". and all you could do is smile and thank him. and oh my god he is such a gentleman. while watching movies, he would make sure that you were resting your head on his chest while his hand was grazing your lower back. every now and then he would kiss your forehead and tell you how much he loved you. "are you feeling better?" he spoke in a deep, yet soft voice. "yeah, i cannot thank you enough". "don't, it's my duty as your boyfriend". he said while kissing your lips, and then proceeding to kiss your neck.

NANAMI : this man oh my fucking god. your period cycle was irregular as fuck., which was a bummer already. but nanami, despite the circumstances, always paid absolute attention to you in case you needed extra support from him. he even noticed your PMS symptoms before you did. this time, you had gotten your period last night, knowing perfectly that the next day would be the harshest for you according to your cycle. day twos were very chaotic and your personality was always messy. you know: cramps, headaches, mood swings, cravings, all of them at once. what was even worse is that you didn't want to make your boyfriend concerned about you. but your plan was ruined the moment he asked if everything was okay when he called you from work. you responded with a faint "good, why do you ask?", and that was enough for him to hang up after saying "don't worry sweetie, i'll be home in ten minutes". and now here you are, curled up in bed with a hot pack in your abdomen and scrolling through your phone in order to ease the aggravating cramps that just kept getting worse and worse. suddenly you heard the distant sound of the keys in your front door and the rustling of plastic bags at your doorstep. what's funny is that you didn't even move at all to check if it was him, because you already could tell it was. quick footsteps approached the doorframe of your shared room and he would pop up. "yuji is training with gojo, so i had the day off don't worry", he said while removing his tie and laying next to you in bed. "there was no need to do that, kento" you scolded, trying to hide your blushed cheeks. "it is a big deal, you sounded half dead on the phone". he scolded you back while hugging your waist.

CHOSO : MANS WOULD BE SO WORRIED. the first time you told him he would raid a supermarket because he has zero clue of what you need but that doesn't mean that he's gonna leave you unattended because #loyalty. trust the fact that he is going to order everything that you're craving, money is not a concern! choso would be asking you every twenty minutes if you need anything because he's very protective. and you feel bad for him as well. but boy oh boy, when you get those sharp cramps (the ones that feel like they're stinging your ass all of a sudden) and you try to hide your aching expression; he would definitely notice. he will straight up sit close to you and rub your back because he doesn't want to be too invasive. "are you ok?" is the only set of words you hear immediately after. "i just had cramps, nothing to worry about" you said while holding a smile, which you weren't faking because you were genuinely happy that choso was so cautious. "nonsense, come here" he immediately said while embracing you in his arms and cuddling you (carefully) in the couch. his hands were stroking your back while you were on top of his chest, when you finally felt like you could relax and take a breath of fresh air. "thank you choso". "it's okay, i enjoy doing this".

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #choso #choso headcanons #gojo satoru #gojo headcanons #choso fluff #gojo fluff #geto suguru #kamo choso #geto headcanons #geto fluff #nanami kento #nanami headcanons #nanami fluff #i fucking can't i need to marry at least one of them #wavehala

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worldsunlikemyown · 3 months

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THE 'ENLIGHTENED SCRIPT'

Warning: This will end up becoming a VERY LONG post. Also it turned out to be vaguely academically phrased — so warning for language too formal for how not-normal I am about this

Disclaimer:

This isn't for the 'actual' Enlightened Language — only to write stuff out in English with a different set of symbols in art (or, let's be honest, just for fun).

I have no proper knowledge of how to make scripts (such as if there are any common conventions to follow). If anything here offends you in terms of its accuracy or correctness, please don't come at me with pitchforks :)

I've done my best to make this explanation simple and thorough, but obviously there may be things that I have forgotten to mention (or things that I've perhaps not even considered). If you want clarification on anything or just have questions about the script, asks are welcome! (any discussion of the script will be tagged '#the enlightened script')

If you wish to use this script, feel free to do so! (I only request that you credit me (@/worldsunlikemyown) if you do). I would prefer it that you do not repost this to other social media sites, but if you do, please credit me clearly.

Introduction

The term 'Enlightened Script' (ES from now on) is technically a misnomer, because we know nothing about the Enlightened Language (EL from now on) and thus cannot make a script 'for' it. This script is, however, built upon the little we know about the aesthetic appearance of the actual script of EL, and contains the same twenty-six letters as the Latin Alphabet. It is made primarily for use in writing Modern English (it contains no diacritics, and will thus have little utility for writing in many other languages that use the Latin Alphabet). ES can be used to simulate the actual writing of EL, and represent this simulation in art and inscriptions where desired.

The Enlightened Script

This script has been designed with a view to the aesthetic of the actual script for EL, modelled somewhat from the unreliable example of Vespera's signature. It features heavy use of curls for this reason in the alphabet, with numerals and punctuation marked out by their relative lack of curls and embellishments. Note that symbols may vary from example to example in some small ways, as they are hand-written. If you wish to write ES in any of its forms, follow the general form of symbols from the three examples below).

**Click for a better resolution**

LETTERS

PUNCTUATION

(yes, I'll explain the square-bracketed symbols later)

NUMERALS

Modern ES

'Modern' ES refers to the version of ES that would be used in the modern day by elves and the other Intelligent Species in their daily writing — what we might call the 'normal' version. It is written with the same writing conventions as English, keeping the same spelling and orientation (left to right, then top to bottom). For example:

Here in the top-right of the image, the word 'suldreen' (chosen because it is the only real EL word we know) has been transcribed into Modern ES. It can be seen that the letters have been written out without joining or cursive elements in the manner of an English word. In the bottom half of the page is a quote: 'No reason to worry' (yes I used an Alden quote — it'll be easier to remember and was the first typical Keeper thing I thought of). This has also been written out in keeping with the conventions of writing in English.

NOTE ON PUNCTUATION: You will notice that in the PUNCTUATION section, some forms have been given in red square brackets. These are to be used for Modern ES (such as the colon represented in the image above, as well as the dash in the example). The version of the form outside of the red square brackets is to be used for Traditional ES. Symbols with no variant form remain the same in both versions of ES.

Traditional ES

Traditional ES is the oldest version of ES currently in use. It is the 'old' writing of the elves, which is used in the modern day mostly for adding a sense of grandeur to the atmosphere through its use on signboards, meaning that only its display version, which will be in the next section, is still well-known. I shall explain the proper form of Traditional ES first, however, because it is commonly used by the Ancients and as a basis for many of the codes and ciphers of the Elven world.

You may have noticed in the LETTERS section that the vowels (a, e, i, o, u) of ES are represented by symbols that open to the left, while the consonants are represented by symbols that open to the right. This is a 'remnant' (hush I don't know how to model change in writing systems and besides this is a simulation) of the system of Traditional ES, shown below.

Here is the word 'suldreen' again, transcribed in Traditional ES. The change in orientation is at once apparent, for Traditional ES, unlike Modern ES, is written from top to bottom, then from right to left. As seen in this example, letters branch out from a trunk that forms the word, with each letter's connection to the trunk referred to as a branch. Consonants are written on the right of the trunk, and vowels are written on the left, resulting in all symbols opening outwards. The topmost branch on a trunk is to be read first.

An example of longer text in Traditional ES:

Note that the punctuation orientation for the quotation marks has changed, and now uses the symbols given outside the red brackets. The question-mark remains unchanged, and is written in the same way in both Modern ES and Traditional ES (along with the comma, full-stop/period and exclamation-mark symbols). The sentence starts on the right, and the second line is the next one to the left, which is to be read from the top again.

Signboards in ES

The use of Traditional ES in the modern day remains mostly limited to signboards. To write on a signboard, a line of Traditional ES is, so to speak, rotated 90 degrees anti-clockwise, with the vowels now written on the bottom of a horizontal trunk, and the consonants written on top. It is read from left to right, then top to bottom if applicable (perhaps this may have influenced the left to right orientation of Modern ES). An example below:

The word written in the examples above is 'Everglen', first given in standard Traditional ES, then in the signboard version. In terms of the appearance of this 'signboard version' to elves, it would be read by Ancients as a vertical sign in English is read by us (see the right of the image). To most modern elves, it would simply register as an archaic version of their script, with no particular orientation difference observed.

Numerals and Mathematical Operations in ES

In-universe, the base-ten place-value system was (in my HEADCANON, and I cannot stress this enough) brought to the humans by elves. The writing of their numerals, as may be noted, has some similarities with Roman numerals (which in-universe, the Romans would have learned — again, only as a plausible headcanon — from elves). I have created the numerals to be written somewhat like Roman numerals (with the combination of symbols — I'm not sure of the right term for it). Operations are conducted in the same was as in the base-ten place-value system we use. For example:

In the example on the left (which reads 'Book 9.5'), it can be seen that numerals in Modern ES are written with the same orientation as the letters, with an un-filled dot representing the decimal point. The same applies to Traditional ES, but there is no trunk for numerals (just as there is no trunk for punctuation).

Operations have always been done with a horizontal orientation. Addition, subtraction and multiplication operations are done as shown in the middle-right of the image. The only thing drastically different from our own method of carrying out these operations is that the operation symbol is always to be put in a circle. The same applies to division, which is shown on the far-right. Fractions are written as shown bottom-right. (I don't know about special numbers and stuff okay let's pretend elves can't do math or just use the human symbols and say we got them from elves)

Handwritten examples (for a better understanding of sizing and possibly nicer-looking symbols) have been given under the cut, along with explanations and some interesting notes.

MODERN

TRADITIONAL

Note that the trunks for Traditional ES have been marked on each line. For numerals and punctuation, the portion of a line on which they are written will not be 'dashed through'.

Notes:

It is possible to 'reverse' Traditional ES to read from left to right by using mirror-forms of the letters, resulting in the vowels written on and opening to the right, and the consonants written on and opening to the left. Punctuation may or may not be used.

Modern ES could be 'reversed' in any of the many ways things written in the Latin Alphabet can be 'reversed' (one of these was likely used by Jolie for her mirror-written diary. Do with that as you will).

Taglist (tagging anyone who has interacted with the original post): @mee-op, @im56bithc, @lgbtqforeverything, @bookwyrminspiration, @camelspit, @strs-rndrps, @thefoxysnake, @kingkrakie, @keeperofthelostswiftie, @fintan-pyren, @brontekotlcyan, @vesperas-mirrors, and also @acanieve and @theefrenchcroissant, whom I can't seem to be able to tag properly)

#kotlc #kotlc elves #keeper of the lost cities #the enlightened script #the enlightened language #sorry this turned out so long ahskshdjidk I just couldn't think of a way to split it into multiple parts (or even reblogs)#I might post just the examples later to simplify it #well here you go #hope you like it <3

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