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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 6; ghoap x reader) masterlist

Johnny cleans up the lamp in the morning.

He might as well, being on second watch and all. Ghost wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn with a gentle kick to the ribs (gentle for him) before rolling over on the couch and going right to sleep. It’s routine for them to fall into sleep like rocks sinking in water, but the waking up is never quite as graceful. Johnny snorts awake and whips his head around sharply from side to side before confirming that he’s just in his girlfriend’s apartment and the asshole that woke him up is just his ornery lieutenant.

“I better not hear any fuckin’ jabber,” is all Ghost says before closing his eyes. Johnny chews his lip to keep the grin off of his face.

He tries to keep it down after that. For the first couple of hours, he sits up against the wall and scrolls on his phone. That keeps him occupied until any lingering exhaustion is flushed from his veins.

There’s a broom and dustpan in a small closet in the kitchen where his girl also keeps the garbage bags and compost bin that he uses to sweep up the mess, and he tries to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up. The glass makes a tinkling sound as it’s swept up though, just loud enough that it inevitably wakes his girl up.

She comes creeping out of her room late into the morning, the shop not due to open for another hour or two. The late weekend opening hours mean she usually gets to sleep in.

Weeks back, it used to be something that Johnny got to do with her as well, cuddled until she’d suddenly pull away, then waking up to her swallowing his cock, peeking under the bedsheets to find her pretty head bobbing up and down his length. Groaning and palming her head to press her lips down to the base, eyes rolling back at the sound of her gagging around his length, the base of his dick a mess of come and drool.

In the present day though, she clears her throat. Johnny blinks and refocuses on her.

Her eyes flit to Ghost’s still form on the couch and when they dart back to Johnny, he raises a finger to his lips. Let the man rest. It’s the least Johnny can do for him after he dragged him back to his girl’s place to make amends. She hazards another cautious glance at Ghost—his lieutenant lies still as a statue on the couch, motionless like he isn’t even breathing—before pursing her lips, displeased.

In the light of day, his previous anger feels cleansed. He understands now. They’ve gone about this all wrong, topsy-turvy. He’s been chasing his own tail and making a mess of things for far too long now, but Ghost’s voice is clear in his head now. It settles him.

So when his girl goes to open her mouth, maybe thinking that she can whisper softly enough so as not to wake Ghost up, he steps forward quickly and covers her mouth.

She squawks behind his hand. Again, he shakes his head. Any sound would be too loud for the man slumbering on her couch.

Johnny can feel her swallow behind his palm and it almost makes him salivate. His fingers twitch on her cheeks like he might press them into the soft skin and make her lips pout.

“Not here,” he murmurs, almost mouthing the words.

He waits until she nods before removing his hand. Then he leaves to go dump the dustpan filled with glass into the trash.

She corners him in the bathroom after that and it’s all he can do not to come in his pants. It’s not his fault he’s been trigger happy since Ghost tugged them off on the sparring mats and came on his stomach; he’s been pent up since the last time he saw her. There’s still flakes of dried come on his belly. He only half resists lifting his shirt to look. If his girl knew, she’d be mortified.

He wonders if she’d be more upset that he let Ghost beat off on him or that he didn’t clean up his mess.

Johnny lets the bird guide him to the toilet, letting her shove him down onto the lid.

“Ah, hen, ye really wanna do this now?” he teases, spreading his legs and wrapping his hands around her waist to reel her in, slipping up her shirt at the same time.

He almost moans when she slaps him across the face, biting his lip when she gasps right after, surprised at her own actions. “Oh—fuck—I’m so sorry—”

He clicks his tongue, lips curling up into an impish grin. “Dinnae worry, baby. ‘M tougher than I look.”

It’s a small mercy that she’s too agitated to really look him over because if she were to direct her gaze even slightly south, she’d find Johnny’s shaft straining against his fly, hard enough to pound nails the second her hand touched his face. He swallows a groan and his fingers tighten, sinking deeper into her flesh.

“I didn’t mean to—Jesus, it doesn’t matter.” He loves that when she gets frustrated, her bottom lip juts out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into it. “When your…boss or whatever…wakes up, can you please take him and leave?”

“Leave?” Johnny repeats, blinking up at her innocently.

“Yes. Leave,” she says, stressing the word. He hums and strokes his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach, pleased that she hasn’t yet told him to take his hands off her. Sweet little bird. “We kissed and made up. That’s what you came for, right? So the two of you can get going once he wakes up.”

“No breakfast?”

She looks distinctly unimpressed. “There’s a coffee shop down the block.”

“Aye, I ken, baby,” Johnny croons, pulling her in closer, smiling when she squeaks and braces her hands on his shoulders, his face almost cradled between her breasts. He turns his head to kiss one, mouth lingering over the cotton of her shirt, tempted almost to bite and rip it. “It’s jus’ that…seems an awful like the second Simon and I take off, you’re jus’ gonna go right back to cold shouldering me. Sure you’re nae jus’ putting on a little show for me now?”

Her fingers grip him by the fabric of his shirt. “Johnny—” She yelps when he bites the inside of her breast, snarling when she tries to pull away. “Okay, okay, okay, I got it—”

“That’s right,” he says with a content sigh, pulling back just the slightest bit. “You’re nae going anywhere. Not until we’ve talked this out, nice and civil.”

When she stares down at him, wide-eyed, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, it’s a rush like he’s never experienced. He feels right in the flow of things now, his head on straight for once.

“What’s there to talk about?” she mumbles, and he almost melts. “I’m not mad anymore.”

“Nae mad? Then why’re ye trying to kick us out?”

“Because I’m busy, Johnny,” she snaps. “The shop’s opening in an hour and I don’t have time to babysit the two of you.”

“Ye willnae even notice we’re here, hen, I promise. Fuck, I’ll even help ye out—make some deliveries, go shake anyone down that still owes ye—”

“I don’t shake down my customers, Johnny—”

“Whatever ye need, baby.” He drags his palms up her sides, pulling up her shirt with his hands. Her tits pop out like ripe fruit dangling in front of his mouth, puffy nipples begging to be sucked on. “Simon and I will be right here. Ye can use us however ye want.”

He stares at her nipple while saying that, unconsciously leaning forward until his lips graze her skin and his tongue pokes out. She doesn’t budge, just curses under her breath and lets him rub his tongue over her beaded nipple, shaking in his hold. Johnny bets if he pulled down those little sleep shorts of hers, he’d find a wet little cunt begging for a fat cock to fill her up.

It’d take nothing for him to pull them down and give her what she’s asking for. The love of his life is tucked away beneath a layer of flimsy cotton and begging for him to give her some love and affection. Johnny hasn’t kissed her in God knows how long—a week? Two? He’d probably find her swollen and aching beneath her shorts; could get her to come just by dragging two fingers up the seam of her.

He knows what Ghost would say though, so he drags his teeth over her nipple just for the pleasure of feeling her flinch and then pulls back. The bird blinks down at him with hazy eyes when he helps readjust her shirt, pulling it back down to cover her gorgeous tits, a damp spot on her shirt over the nipple he just had in his mouth.

“We’re not going to…?” she asks, letting the question dangle in midair. She says it without thinking—clearly, because the second it dawns on her that she just asked if they were going to fuck in the bathroom with Johnny sitting on the toilet, she looks horrified with herself. It’s beyond endearing.

“No’ with Simon in the other room, baby. Wouldnae be fair for him to have to listen in.”

He doesn’t tell her that fairness in this case doesn’t mean cruel. It means that it wouldn’t be possible.

Still, he needs to shoo her out of the bathroom to tug one out into the toilet bowl. Johnny would be half tempted to jerk off onto her mirror just to leave his mark where she could see, but he has some manners.

He gives himself a nice, leisurely tug with the help of his girl’s expensive hand lotion. It’s not as viscous as the lube in the gallon tub on his nightstand back at the barracks, but it’s a good substitute; makes his hand glide nicely over his shaft. If he closes his eyes, it even smells like her, like it’s his girl giving him a morning reach around, and part of Johnny wonders whether he was too quick to kick her out of the bathroom. Ghost wouldn’t begrudge him a quick and dirty jerk.

The thought dissolves the longer his hand flies over his dick though. Hard to think about anything outside the present moment when his hand is braced against the wall and his orgasm barrelling towards him. When he comes, it’s with a deep, shuddering grunt, not even bothering to muffle the sound. He hopes his girl hears him from the other room. He hopes it makes her squirm and ache.

When he comes out of the bathroom, another voice takes him by surprise.

“Johnny. You’re on breakfast.”

Ghost’s voice is gruff in the early morning hours, abrupt. Rarely could it be classified as gentle, but it’s like chert rattling in a leather bag after hours of disuse. Especially since it comes out of nowhere, the man asleep one moment and awake the next. Johnny’s worked with him long enough to not flinch at the sudden sound of his voice, but his girl hasn’t; she yelps when his voice comes unbidden from the couch, big body suddenly upright like he’s been awake the whole time.

He’s no cook, but Johnny can rustle up eggs and bacon like any other self-respecting serviceman. On deployment, they used to rotate cooking duty every night, no one skilled enough to take over the post permanently. Still, Johnny eyes Ghost worriedly when he takes a seat across from the bird at her little kitchen table. It’s not a table meant for two grown men, just a small wooden thing with four chairs, only enough for one on each side. It means that Ghost’s knees knock against hers when he takes the chair across from her, forcing her to curl up into herself, tucking her legs under the chair.

He stares her down. Menacing eyes. Not the kind of man you want sitting across from you, no matter the circumstances. It makes Johnny anxious to turn his back on them when he has to crack the eggs into the pan, checking over his shoulder religiously. The whites go crispy at the edges before he remembers to flip them over.

“You work downstairs in the flower shop,” Ghost says bluntly, breaking the silence. His first words to Bird all morning. Not a question.

“…Yes,” Bird answers gingerly. Her palms are clamped over her knees, sweating likely. “I own it.”

“Since when?” He doesn’t blink before firing off another question.

“Um…two years.”

“Where’d you work before?”

“In…in London. I was a shopgirl there though—”

“Where’s your family from then?”

It goes on that way for a time, an interrogation with no rhyme or reason. Even Johnny has to wonder at Ghost’s intentions—knows that there’s no shot that Ghost hasn’t already done a background check on her. Why interrogate the bird then? Why rattle off question after question in such quick succession? Why make her tremble and look down at the tabletop and stutter out her answers and fidget under his stare—

He notices Ghost’s hand slip beneath the table to grip his length, spreading his legs to help readjust.

Ah. Mean bastard. Of course he’d get off on making her squirm.

The bacon burns. Johnny can’t help it. He listens attentively to her clear voice—softer in the morning hours, still sleep-laden and flowery—whispering out her life’s story, dick getting hard behind the kitchen island. He bites his lip to hold back a moan when she trips over her words. Thrusts forward to rub his bulge against the underside of the island when she chews on her lip, relieving some of the pressure. It drives him mad that there’s a wet cunt going unsatisfied just a few feet away.

Ghost shoots him a sharp look as if he can hear his thoughts. “Johnny.”

He turns around to flip the burner off.

#there are like 2 more parts to come btw - it's not done yet. im just doing 2k chunks #ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/soap/reader #soap x reader #soap x you #soap/reader

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niccolites · 6 months ago

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one of the requests i received from the lovely @crazyweirdnoodles about meeting one or some of the 141 on holiday. bc u said ur going to scotland (period) i am thinking soap for this one

johnny who clocks you as a tourist immediately, catches you staring at your phone to figure out what way you're meant to be going. staring at all the plaques next to statues that the locals don't bother to look at

you look like a sweet thing, so when you duck into a nearby pub, he follows his gut as he does with most things, and follows you inside. slides up next to you at the bar and offers to buy you your first proper drink in scotland, on him. (you've been in scotland for a few days now, but it feels rude to point out now)

he's charming, in the way that, excited dogs are charming. it's endearing, watching someone be so enraptured by you even as he barely lets you get a word in, jabbers on about how he'll be taking over your tour of the town, show you all the real highlights, a real local insight

oh, is he from around this area? no, he beams back, and you forgot to follow up with your confusion when he places a warm palm on your thigh

he was right, you are such a sweet thing, only a couple of drinks in and your letting him tug you into the bathroom and bolt the door shut. letting him slip his hand down the front of your panties and pant into the flesh of your neck

he's army he had told you, chest puffed up as he tried to impress you (and succeeded). you feel it as you cling to his arms and there is no give in the muscle there. dig your nails in and feel the teeth of his grin on the soft skin beneath your jaw.

there's a beat after he makes you come after he had three fingers curled into you and a thumb mean on your clit, and he's tugging down the zip of his trousers. you tell him you don't normally do this, and his ego swells until it suffocates the room

just for him, eh, lovey? he locks his arms around the backs of your knees and lifts until he slides inside you with a groan that's so loud you have to slap a hand around his mouth. he slobbers on your palm and god if that does make you shudder anyway

he's so filthy, running his mouth about your sweet tits, how tight your cunt is, begging you to let him come in you. it's a flush all the way down to the centre of you, white hot, shameful but still causing a pulse to run through you

fucks you against the door of the bathroom, ignoring the pounding on the other side from an angry staff member. too caught up in the flush your cheeks, the sweet part of your mouth as he fills it with his moans, drool slipping down your chins

his brain feels like static when you let him come in you, every muscle tensing and then unfolding until he is around the shape of you. his mouth pressed against the hairline of your temple. the first time he has touched someone there

pulls away from you with a mournful noise, already trying to plan how to get back inside you. rights himself and watches as you try to sort your appearance out to not look like you've just been fucked in a bathroom

takes your hand and guides you out. what a gentleman, glares at anyone who is looking at you (which is the entire pub). you think it's to defend your honour in some strange way, actually soap is almost rabid at the thought of anyone else hearing how sweetly you moan when you took his cock

he still offers you that tour, and you take it (he doesn't tell you that this is the thinnest excuse he has to get you to fuck him in his car, off the nature trail or in another pub again. if you both aren't banned from the entire town by the end of your visit, he's decided he is the worst guide)

#johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #cod x reader #call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod #crazyweirdnoodles #nic's requests #nic talks #i so respect u for coming over to scotland and do apologise in advance if u are anywhere in my area #our accent is so grim 😭#shan't say where tho. but it's grim HAH #anyway hope you enjoy this one !

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jazzums · 8 months ago

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update: i was a fool this game rules

this isn’t a h*t t*ke or anything but it feels like i’m alone in the shame corner for having played bg3 and not… really liking it… to be fair i did not come close to finishing it so there’s still hope if i can pick it up again but it is so vast that i got overwhelmed. also i don’t care about romance and that’s like. one of the biggest appeals of the game

#i’m giving it another shot except this time using guides when i need them #also mods are available on console now and that’s 👍👍👍#jazzums jabbers

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inbabylontheywept · 6 months ago

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i had my wisdom teeth out yesterday, and afterwards my friend came over to torment me (mutually agreed upon torment, we planned this beforehand because we thought it would be funny, and it was).

and he starts asking me calculus questions.

tell me why in my propofol-dazed state, when i couldn't understand how time kept passing, i was shocked by the existence of a Dunkin Donuts that's been by my house for the past two years, and i was amazed by how soft my face felt (i couldn't feel myself touching it, it was trippy), i was still able to get the integral of x^2

granted, i first gave him the derivative, and then i gave him the integral without adding the constant of integration C, and this is basic calculus

but HOW do brains work like this.

you get wheeled out of the dentist's office after saying "i love you" to the nurse, making whale sounds, jabbering about your mother having four eyes and there being wayyyy too many lightswitches on that wall, but you retain enough brain to do math???

I think it's kind of beautiful that, in our first stumbling efforts to make a model of a brain, the hard part has been getting it to stop hallucinating. That maybe the natural state of consciousness is this sort of dreamwalking.

I wasn't put under when I got my wisdom teeth removed, but my dad sedated the crap out of me. I can't even remember the cocktail I was on, but it was stupendous. Xanax and some other things. The dentist had to ask me to stop humming several times. After the third ask, I pointed to the drill he was using and said "OHHHH so it's okay when HE does it."

Afterwards, my parents said I seemed lucid, and I talked and I wasn't sluggish or uncoordinated. They knew I was high, but the first "oh, yeah, he's actually quite high" thing I did was I put an otter pop in the microwave to get it mushy, and then I put the time in, and then I reset the microwave, put the time in, reset, time in, over and over and over for about ten minutes. Eventually my little sister stepped in and asked what I was doing, and I explained that I was having a little bit of trouble converting from "normal time" to "microwave time". I'm still not sure what I meant by that, but I think it might have been a binary conversion because the time I'd set it for was 10:10:10

(I have killed more good microwaves that way.)

Brains are cool. You know? I like how much they do without being guided to. I describe the sensation of being me, sometimes, as riding an elephant. And the conscious brain is me, and it gets to watch and want things and make its case to the elephant. And sometimes, the elephant plays along and does some incredibly powerful elephant thing and that great, but other days, it decides to eat eggs. And to some extent, I really am just along for the ride.

i'm not sure where I'm going with this. Perhaps your elephant is quite good at math.

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

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hiii!! i love your writing so much i think i’ve read every single thing you’ve ever posted. i’m genuinely obsessed 🫶🫶 i was wondering if you could write something where the reader and remus have been dating/talking for a little while and she hasn’t had her first kiss yet and she starts to get nervous everytime she thinks he’s abt to kiss her and she runs away?? i’m ngl this is based off of very real events in my life 😭😭

i love you so much!! hope your doing amazing

Hi gorgeous, thanks so much! This is soooo relatable of you haha, I have a library of hilarious stories about my very hyper friend who kept literally springing away from guys she liked who were trying to kiss her, but it does make for some very interesting (and often very sweet) conversations!

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

On your first official date with Remus, the two of you went to a drive-in movie. You kept your seatbelt on the entire time.

You only realized halfway through, mentally kicking yourself for being so jittery you’d lost all sense of normalcy, but by then it felt too late. It’d be awkward to take it off halfway through the movie, try to play that off as casual. You’d made your bed. You didn’t unbuckle until Remus dropped you off at your house at the end of the night.

On your second date, you’re determined to be less uptight. You want him to know that you really do like him, even if your nerves make you jump and flinch whenever he gets close. At the Italian restaurant, it’s difficult to find a pasta dish without garlic, but you manage it. You’re a girl with an agenda. The two of you split a chocolate cake for dessert. It’s delicious, probably, though you can’t focus on much besides Remus’ story and the way his mouth moves as he tells it. How he tucks one corner of his bottom lip between his teeth when he’s trying to hide a smile.

You have to hope belatedly that you haven’t somehow smeared chocolate all over your face while eating. You’re not at all confident you would’ve noticed.

It’s a short walk back to your place, and you manage to jabber the whole way, a masterclass in self-sabotage. Remus doesn’t seem to mind, his hand light and cordial on your back as he guides you up the steps to your door. You savor the touch. It takes every ounce of willpower you have not to spring away.

“It sounds really interesting,” he says graciously as you finish your tangent about the book you’ve just read. “I’ll have to pick up a copy.”

“I can lend you mine,” you offer. “Maybe I can bring it the next time we hang out?” Your voice tips up hopefully at the end of the question, and warmth touches your cheeks.

A similar pinkening spreads across Remus’ freckles. He smiles at you, the scar across his lip stretching. You’re spellbound.

“Yeah, that sounds great.” You might be imagining it, but you could swear his eyes flit to your lips. “I had a great time tonight,” he says. “I really like talking to you.”

Your voice is soft. “I like talking to you, too.”

He takes a step towards you, and it’s like your muscles stage a coup. You take an involuntary step backward, a smile plastering itself uncomfortably on your face.

“Thanks for everything,” you say brightly. “Goodnight!”

You spin and go for the door handle, and you’re nearly inside before you hear Remus’ quiet “Wait.”

You turn. Lead in your bones.

Remus is holding his palms up as if to show you he’s got no weapon.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just wanted to…you know I’d never do anything you didn’t want me to, right?”

You’re frozen stiff.

“Like, even if I thought there was a chance you didn’t want to, I would never…” He shakes his head, looking lost. Guilt settles like a stone in your gut. “I guess I’m a bit confused. If you don’t want to do anything, that’s completely fine, but sometimes it seems like you want me to kiss you, and then you don’t…”

“Rem,” you say. You feel like you’re breathing through a straw. “Remus, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, sweetheart, it’s not your fault—”

“No, it is. It’s not—I don’t want you to think I’m scared of you or anything. I’m not, it’s just, I get skittish.” You can’t make yourself look at his eyes, your gaze stuck just shy of his chin. Your face feels aflame. “It’s not you. I’m just nervous.”

“Oh.” It’s a soft thing, more exhale than anything. Then his fingers curl under your chin, tipping your face up. “Well, you can relax, love. I was never going to make a move unless I got a clear signal from you first. But we can just take that off the table completely, if you’d like.” He gives you a small, gentle smile. “I only want you to feel comfortable.”

Your heart zings right up into your throat. “I do feel comfortable,” you blurt. “I don’t want it off the table.”

Remus’ eyebrows flick upwards. “You don’t?”

“No,” you murmur, bashful.

His eyebrows come slowly back down, puckering slightly as he tries to figure you out. His eyes narrow until his lashes kiss. His tongue pokes into his cheek, just a little. You miss nothing. You find yourself taking in a quiet breath, steeling yourself.

You move across that tiny bit of air between you and find him there waiting.

It’s everything you could’ve hoped for and yet startlingly simple. Remus’ lips are warm and soft, pressing into yours with an intensity that you suspect is nonetheless restrained for your benefit. He tastes like chocolate cake.

His mouth meanders over to the corner of your lips, granting one quick peck to your cheek before making its way back to the center of your mouth, reverent. He backs away slowly, easing you out of it.

“Wasn’t really expecting that,” he admits.

“Me neither. Was it alright?” Your voice is a bit breathy. “I’ve never done that before.”

For a moment, he’s quiet.

“That was your first kiss?”

You swallow, rubbing your lips together as you nod.

“Sweetheart,” he grins, “you’re a natural.”

A giggle spurts out of you, dizzy with the taste of him and the novelty of it all. “You mean it?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He mimes drawing a cross over his heart. It occurs to you that you both seem infinitely more at ease than you have since dinner. The corner of Remus’ bottom lip goes between his teeth, his cheek dimpling. “I mean, there is something to be said for practice, though.”

You don’t fight your own grin; it comes out in full force. “Mm, I think I’ve heard something about that. Practice makes…defective, right? Something like that.”

“C’mere.” Remus rolls his eyes at you, but as his arms wrap around you his smile mirrors yours.

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its-short-for-jackalope · 1 year ago

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Paul Schue-Horyn for @guinevere01! getting this request was the perfect excuse to start rewatching Wayward Guide, lol. <3

Want to make a drawing request? check my pinned post!

#jack jabbers #paul schue-horyn #wayward guide #wayward guide for the untrained eye #tcb #tin can bros #tin can brothers #wayward guide fanart #tcb fanart #drawing request #artists on tumblr #digital art #csp #clip studio paint #wgftue

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writingescapades · 8 months ago

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Book Worm, Avid Learner Reader

A\N: You're a bookworm and avid learner. How does your fishy deal with that?

Sorry for any typos, grammar or syntax mistakes. I had a long day and am super tired.

Rafayel enjoys reading, but he does not have a regular habit. Imagine his surprise when he found out just how much you enjoy reading.

His exasperated look when, upon opening your kitchen cabinets, he’s faced with stacks of books, one on top of another, ready to come falling down with one wrong move. Of course, you know how to get books in and out without an avalanche occurring. He laughs when he sees the one cabinet you did dedicate to actual food.

Likes to accompany you when you acquire new books. Whether it’s from the library or a store, Rafayel likes to see what new interests have captured your attention. Sometimes he’ll comment or provide a recommendation, but really, he’s excited to see what new thoughts emerge from your reads

Does not buy you books just because you enjoy them. Reading is another form of art. There are books you enjoy and books you won’t, and he doesn’t want to provide you with books you’d dislike. He also doesn’t want to burn you with the chore of reading something just because someone gave it to you. So he tends to leave you to your literary world. But he’s watching. If he notices your preference for a specific author or topic, you might just find a little surprise awaiting you on after a long day.

LOVES having you read to him while he paints. He enjoys hearing your voice as white noise, and pays attention to what you’re reading. If you stop reading to reflect on a passage or ask him his thoughts, he’s quick to respond. A lot of laughter occurs in these moments, but so do a lot of deep conversations that leave both your souls satisfied. Sometimes what you’re reading to him or your conversations end up appearing somewhere in his paintings.

Sometimes, when he’s experiencing an artistic block. He closes his eyes and asks you to read to him. Using your voice and his mind as a guide, he lets his inhibitions go and just paints.

Has done a photography series called “Dating a Reader” where it’s just candid shots of you reading a book on different days. The passage of time as the books gets read. The notes and tabs you keep. The light in your eyes as you jabber on about something in the book, and the final picture, his most favourite. When you finish your book, your head turned towards him, finally giving him attention, all the while, an arm outstretched towards the next book.

Rafayel is impressed by intelligence. So when he sees that you are a walking encyclopedia, he’s hooked. He loved pointing to any random object and just asking you what you know about it. He especially loves it when your reading provides you information on art. It makes it easier for him to communicate what he verbally cannot express. You’re not shallow with your observations and questions like the people who attend his art shows. There is a genuine curiosity that he cannot help but feed. It makes him feel truly seen by you, truly remembered. Also just loves it when you go off on tangents or provide well thought out answers to questions from people who are clearly trying to put you down. Has a very “that’s my spouse” moment, even though you’re not married. Not yet.

Reading makes one develop a love for learning, and you’re no exception. Rafayel doesn’t attempt to match your learning drive, but he does challenge you. Always prompting you to think of things in a different light or plays the devil’s advocate to present an alternative view. You know it’s his way of showing he cares about your passions. His way of showing that they are not just things about you or something he has to put up with, but rather something he wants you to continually develop alongside your relationship.

Despite this, he still becomes reserved and hesitant when it comes to Lemurians. He knows your curious. Dying, even to see his Lemurian form and experience the ocean from his eyes. But he can’t open that world to you just yet. In thanks for your patience, he indirectly feeds your knowledge by showing you what humans have misunderstood about Lemurians. Hoping, that your intelligence and curiosity will drive you to figuring things out on your own; and half scared of what you might do once you place the final piece.

While he might grumble and whine about you giving your books more attention then him, Rafayel would NEVER make you choose between him and your books. He knows it’s a package deal, much like how his erratic lifestyle and shadowy sides where sides of him you openly accepted. Though you live apart, he still has a library ready to be filled by you. He kind of hopes it might tempt you to move in because how can you say no to your own library?

#writing #love and deep space #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deep space x reader #rafayel x reader #love and deep space rafayel #lads rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #lads rafayel x reader #lads x reader #lads #x reader

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darling-gemini · 1 month ago

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Henry "Monty" Montague is such a scoundrel he really is. He's hopeless and pathetic and not very bright, he drinks too much and fucks too often. I can't stand this motherfucker. And yet I also adore him. I'm deeply charmed by him. He's the worst character in this book by far but he's also my (second?) favorite. (Percy's probably my favorite even though a lot of what we know about Percy is delegated to Monty's impression and perhaps that's why I'm fond of him -- the readers see him in the way that Monty does, and Monty's in love with the guy (alleged)) (still don't know I'm convinced of that, like he can say he loves him and then turn around and say some of the shit he does, but all roses have their thorns I suppose), but I think that makes a successful love interest.

It's very similar to the way that I've written Pierce in the past, through the lens of a love interest. He's always been such a lover boy and while he's sometimes charming he's also sometimes disastrous. Which is not all that unlike Monty, but I think that's where their similarities end -- except maybe the tousled hair bit, too, but that's all.

I've been thinking about these boys concurrently for the past few days trying to see where they intersect and how I can maybe include some of his mannerisms into my boy...

#gem jabbers #the gentleman's guide to vice and virtue #my ocs #pierce

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senka-mesecine · 2 months ago

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Please please please write something about Barnes, anything, I've missed you so much these days, but you haven't written, it's been very difficult for my survival)

You Haven't Written (It's Been Very Difficult for My Survival.)

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

Thing was, he wasn't big on talkin'.

When you continuously survive, you tend to go into a state of semi-wordlessness.

Like a grizzled old man hermit who's outgrown the need to speak.

Wasn't one of those talents he possessed; certainly not a talent he pursued to cultivate, not now, not before the war, being a firm believer of saying only the crucial. Things that needed to be said and no more than that. Considering everything else a sort of useless, unbecoming filler meant to air one's breath once too much quantity's applied to it, distilling the purpose of speech --- not the way one ought to have communicated when words were so cheap in comparison to the weight of actions as a man's prime form of expression. Something to plump up the vacuous emptiness of space --- a tool the insecure lean on to justify their own meddlesome existence; if they speak, perhaps they won't be thought of as a nuisance or a boring waste of air, needing to overexplain and jabber their own life into a sense of value and worth; it was only the truly powerful, he believed, that could get away with the luxury of an occasional silence, as heady and as ripe as a bottle of whiskey and have their every gesture paid attention to, every word however scarce, every expression, every grunt, every sigh, every quietude --- maybe it was why your pleading letter came with such a difficulty; you almost begging --- the fine penned lines standing out as a singularity of longing in ink --- You haven't written, you said, it's been very difficult for my survival. Barnes re-read that particular sentence ten times by now the way he did with everything you've ever written him, committing every word of yours to memory like god's own decree or a direct order, the threshold of the barracks illuminated and silent in the cloudy moonlight as he smokes, dragging entire plumes of the burning exhaust into his own lungs, his mind empty at times like these, only a distant hum working overtime in the back of his brain --- what's ought to be said? This week's report and the count of the dead, the casualties of a burnt village or inane descriptions of the weather? Would anything he could conceive of writing ever really suffice? Ah. Shit. There was nothing pretty to be said from 'round these parts. Only the ugly. And the intermission of anticipating action in between. You were deservin' of more.

You knew.

You knew he wasn't the word prone type.

But, he figured a man who had a dame pleadin' on him had a certain duty.

A duty not to make her go 'round beggin'.

Anything.

Send me anything, your letter asks.

Purely so I'd know you're fine. That you're well.

And he did very often do just that --- send anything. Mostly useful things; things he envisioned and knew would help your life without him along; monetary in nature. Perhaps a detailed guide on how to fix something a woman could fix on her own. Whatever could function like an invisible hand intended to guide and aid instead of being empty platitudes purely for the sake of empty platitudes. You never begrudged. Your communication together a learned, ingrained thing, practiced mutually, honed like a muscle. On one occasion merely managing the word 'darlin' as an icebreaker on a big, white piece of paper and then sitting in front of the damn thing for a good half an hour, cradling his own face, drifting off with a cigarette not unlike now, feelin' everything in the world for him was contained in that single word anyhow but that would suffice nowhere but in his own mind. That was just reality, even though, admittedly, when he saw the likes of Taylor hunched over somewhere, writin' entire pages back home, he wanted to grab that boy and give him a shake so big all his creative witness goes pourin' outta him like liquid shit when here Barnes was, mulin' over an empty paper.

Darlin', the lonely endearment was.

Don't go embarassin' yourself, you piece of shit, he recalls reprimanding himself.

Can't go 'round sendin' no one just one word.

Then again, just one word of yours would've been enough for him.

If you went and sent him an empty piece of paper with nothing on it at all he figured he'd wear it tucked in beside his heart like scripture, feelin' that suffices inherently.

Not everyone's you, though, asshole --- a reminder.

Can't go expectin' no grown man to be spewin' nonsense neither.

He ought to show his devotion, another voice interjects, not write it.

By the time he's settled back into his cot, an island in the pitch blackness of the base camp sometime after midnight, what few personalized things he had fall under hand, stacked in a humble spot under his sleeping roll, not hidden, but not quite on display either, feeling anything too personalized within one's living quarters was a sort of baring of one's private weaknesses he'd rather not indulge in but with the most basic of small pleasures --- an issue of Reader's Digest and Humor in Uniform, he takes a pair of metal scissors to them, an ache wrapping around his heart like a snake, squeezing around the blood pumping tendons and veins, cutting squares in bits and pieces of caricatural illustrations, skipping a few, and then a few more, flipping the colored pages, choosing what he figured was the sweetest, the dearest things he could find --- the things that make me laugh, he ponders gruffly, the things that give me a sensible chuckle when the whole world has gone to hell and when nothing's funny, not even remotely so. One time, he sent you the blossom of Chi Râm Bụt pressed between two pieces of thin cardboard and whatever money he had on him that month, feeling a letter had to be useful as well as wooing, for all his practicality unable to deny that something about the shelled out coastline of the Mekong delta maintaining the lonesomeness of a singular Orchid growing in the soot, rubble and the ashen wasteland had him thinkin', turning the flower in blood soaked fingers right before tucking it inside of an interior pocket of his fatigues; the recollection fading once he has a sufficient stack of cutouts; Oh, how I miss you tonight --- one of the cartoon clippings displayed. A drawn guard on sentry duty in the rain, lookin' mighty miserable. He imagined that was about an accurate descriptor of how he felt most days. Ten thousand miles, he thinks. By plane, by boat, by postman --- These'll travel ten thousand miles to her so she can go laughin' at the things I'd laugh at myself when no one's likely to see. Maybe over mornin' coffee at the kitchenette's small dinner table, four chairs empty and a third occupied as she sits at it and snorts a little --- I'll be across from her in a chair all my own. I'll be here. I'll be there far more, though.

Barnes nestles the newspaper clippings into an old white envelope.

Addressing it and setting it down on the wooden bedside stool, not even needing a light to write down where you lived; knowing and remembering as a sort of muscle memory, having scribbled it down in semi-darkness before in a perfectly straight manner, giving the envelope one final pat like it was a living, breathing thing, laying down on his bunk, sleeplessly, staring into the pitch ceiling overhead much like staring into the blackened mouth of hell.

Sug, I love you, you make your man burn --- he thinks.

So much so bullshit like words do it no justice.

If I started writin' 'bout it it'd be scarcely doin' right by myself.

I'd kill for you. I'd die for you.

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