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princessbrunette · 11 months ago

Text

HOLD ME, KISS ME ♡

♪ the little dippers — forever ♪

WANTED: JOHN BOOKER ROUTLEDGE - SUSPECTED MURDER - $1000 REWARD - DANGEROUS! IF SPOTTED DO NOT APPROACH!

pairing: outlaw!johnb + sheltered!reader ⋆₊⊹♡

synopsis: your wishes come true when a beautiful boy is found sleeping peacefully in your barn. much to his surprise, you don’t care about who he is or what he has or hasn’t done — you just want to ensure he stays forever.

cw: mentions of prayer, religion and god (for plot purpose) reader has two parents, western!au, innocence kink, slight manipulation, mentions of crime, breeding kink, smut ♡

“Please deliver me a man, save me from this loneliness. Make him kind, and strong, and handsome. I vow to make him the happiest man alive.”

Your forehead rests against your clasped hands where you kneel beside your bed, speaking out loud as there was no one else to speak to. Your parents had gone on a trip for two weeks, leaving you in charge of the farmhouse all by your lonesome.

Isolated didn’t feel like the correct term. You were grateful, happy to live off the fat of your father’s land in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes you wished you had someone to share it with. Someone your own age who was there to see you. You had become the perfect host, thrilled when your parents would bring home guests once in a blue moon. You’d tie ribbons in your hair and pick the perfect dress and set the table like your mother taught you. You often imagined setting the table for a family of your own.

Your own farm house. The thought sent you off to sleep each night, walking through the home in your mind as if it were really real, feeling the creaking of the painted wooden porch beneath your feet as you enter, the distant cooing of your baby being comforted by your husband in the next room. White shabby-chic panels across the walls with oak furniture and knitted throw pillows and lots and lots of warm light. The kitchen table would have the perfect lace floral embroidered table cloth draped across it which you’d serve the heartiest dinners on each night. The babies room would be painted mint green, no— maybe pastel yellow, with handmade toys and a music box that played your song and oh, the master bedroom… where you and your husband rest your head would be flooded with natural light. A haven. All yours.

The details to the decoration often changed, new inspiration plucked from the papers that father would bring home and new favourite colours integrating themselves into your home plans but one thing remained the same each time. Your husband. He never had a face, but it wasn’t important. He was warm, strong without having to prove just how macho he was, kind— you could feel his love from the next room on. That was all you really wanted. You could forget the house, forget the land, live in a barn for all you care — you just wanted to experience a love like the ones in the fairytale books stacked high in your room.

It had been a week already of this routine you’d grown used to. You wake up, feed yourself and then the chickens, come inside, clean yourself and then the house, paint, crotchet or read — however the mood takes you, eat lunch, tend to the crops, brush the horses, maybe milk a cow, come inside and cook dinner, bathe, think about your dream husband and grind your wet messy cunt into a pillow, feel guilty, beg for forgiveness and then sleep. It was an easy life, and you couldn’t complain— but you couldn’t help feel the world had more to offer.

Your mother often told you that gifts from above come when you least expect it, you just had to keep your eyes open. You always wondered how one might find these gifts with no idea where to look.

Your gift arrived bright and early the next morning.

Well, not technically as early as it should have been, infact you probably nearly missed it. The roosters calls at 6AM each morning, but on that very day you had decided to sleep in. A few hours wouldn’t kill them, you think as you pull a plush white pillow to lay over your ear— it’s not like the chickens would starve.

At 11:45AM, you stumble bare foot onto the grass outside, setting out on your walk to the barn a little way up the land. Your pert nipples harden, awakened by the cool morning breeze as the thin white fabric of your nightdress blows in the wind. With the sunlight shining directly on it, it was sure to be totally and utterly see through— and you suppose that was one upside to living in the middle of nowhere, yards upon yards from civilisation. No one would see you. Sigh.

You feed the chickens, totally blind before it even occurs to you that anything might be astray. Infact, you don’t even seem to notice that the barn door was left ajar, as opposed to how you usually leave it bolted by a wooden slab to prevent the animals from wandering off or being massacred by foxes. You suppose that’s the price you pay for sleeping in, you live in dreamworld for the next few hours.

The Earth seems to stop turning for a moment when you see him.

You’re more curious than anything, wide eyed, holding your breath as to be totally silent despite having been humming and speaking to the chickens only a moment prior. You tiptoe through the hay, shards of straw sprouting between your painted toes and pin-needling your sole as you draw closer to the man. A fallen angel, your first thought.

He’s half curled up onto his side in the hay behind the stable for your white pony. He has thick-ish arms crossed over his chest, his hat laying over his face seeming to be serving as a purpose to block out the light. You figure as you hadn’t woken up him before, a closer inspection couldn’t hurt. Unhurriedly, you sink down into a squat beside him, knees pointed upwards and feet taking your balance. A real man, in your barn? It couldn’t be. You chew on your bottom lip, goggle-eyed and inquisitive as you cautiously lift the hat away from his face.

He doesn’t wake and you’re for some reason thankful. It gives you time to observe him, the breath all but knocked from your body as you take in just how beautiful he is. He was perfect, and just like what you were hoping for when you wished to be delivered a husband.

Dark eyelashes kissing at the rim of his closed eyes, pale lips and freckles, sunkissed across his nose. Your eyes trail over and across him, now with his face in mind taking in account what he looks like as a whole. You were still in disbelief, a real man sleeping in your barn. But then again, as your eyes skim lower and you notice the blood seeping through his shirt over his stomach — you wonder if he was sleeping. Surely he wasn’t dead? Only God could be so cruel to deliver you the perfect man without a pulse.

So, you press two cold fingers to his neck, searching for the rhythmic beats signifying life. As soon as you do so, the man jolts awake — wide brown eyes meeting yours.

“Jesus.”

This is where the stare off commences— you were sat in a squat giving him a straight shot up your night dress with dome like eyes and parted lips, observing him like he was some sort of alien life form that had happened upon your barn infront of your very eyes. Your chest rises and falls, and his gender fails to betray him as his eyes fall there for a moment, subconsciously noticing the way your bare tits strain against the thin fabric with each exhale. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can’t help but acknowledge that you’re a pretty thing, totally his type. In any other scenario, he might’ve seen you at a local tavern and introduced himself, getting you tipsy and loose, making you giggle beneath his soft gaze and coarse hands in some dimly lit booth before realising he’s far too respectful to take advantage of you like that.

With his eyes open, the picture is complete — and he truly is as beautiful as you thought. He had a puppy like quality to his eyes, they were big and brown but from the sunlight streaming in you could see specks of orange which intrigues you. You wish to look closer, but you feel it’s not the time. His adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow and he tears his eyes away from yours to look around, still disorientated from sleep. He touches his wound with gentle fingers and he winces, going to push himself up on his elbows.

You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it, warm deep voice raspy from rest as he dives into a sequence of begging.

“Does anyone know I’m in here?”

“No, I—”

“Okay, that’s— okay, please — hey, please don’t tell anyone. I won’t lie to you, I’m in a little bit of trouble with the law, nothing super bad I swear just — I needed somewhere safe to sleep so I ended up here. Didn’t take anything and uh— and I’ll be out of your hair now that I’m up.” He rambles, continually glancing at the barn doors, expecting Sheriff Shoupe to bust them down and take him in at any moments notice. You say nothing for a moment and he pushes himself to his feet, eyes squeezing shut at the soreness of his injury. “Think it’s easiest if I just—”

He cuts himself off this time, because you slip your hand into his— stopping him from going anywhere. His eyebrows jump up and he freezes on the spot, staring down at your doe eyes with a wide and confused gaze of his own.

“…Hi?”

“You just got here? Why’d you have to go?” You sound sad, and he actually can’t believe what he’s hearing. Not only did he break into your barn, on private land — but he’d totally overstayed his non-existent welcome, and now you didn’t want him to leave?

“P—pardon me? Ma’am?” He tries to be respectful, when what he really wants to ask is along the lines of ‘What the fuck?’.

You scramble to stand up and he helps you using the hand that you’re grasping. “Well, you won’t get far with a wound like that. It could get infected. Maybe you could come inside, let me dress it. You can refuel… maybe stay a few days?” The last part sounds wrong coming from your mouth. He’s a stranger for goodness sake— everything your parents had taught you about safety went against this and plus you were practically begging. You might have been embarrassed, if there wasn’t such a nagging feeling in your stomach telling you that this was meant to be.

He scoffs out a chuckle, because he thinks there’s no way you’re serious— but when he sees your wide eyes bouncing between his own, searching for something he couldn’t quite put a finger on— he realises you’re being completely genuine and his expression melts into a more worried gaze, shuffling a little closer on his feet.

“Look, I really appreciate your hospitality, but you have done more than enough, really. Just the fact you didn’t have the sheriff busting in to drag me away is something I will be very grateful for. Believe me. But I can’t drag you into this. Anyway, don’t you have family? That you live with?”

You sigh, looking down at your intertwined hands that you had yet to release, staring as if you were trying to memorise the feeling of a man’s touch incase you really couldn’t convince him to stay.

“Well yes, but they’re on a trip you see — and they’re going to be away for another week and I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m awfully lonely, and I know you’re a stranger and all but I could really use the extra set of hands… plus it’s the least you could do… for breaking in…” You feel you’re pushing it with that last part, but decide to proceed with it anyway, any means necessary to get him to stay. He bites his bottom lip in thought as you stare up through your lashes and he thinks screw it. He’s sure you’re not setting him up, a little thing like you would be far too weak to pull that off.

“Okay, I… don’t see why not then.” He doesn’t sound certain, but you make such a good offer he’d be a fool not to accept. He bends down and swoops his hat off the floor, holding it to his chest and you take his hand once more, guiding him out of the barn.

He presses his lips together in an awkward smile at the way you confidently lead him, almost having to break into a jog to match your eager pace. Once nearing the house, you tell him your name and he nods — taking in the scenery.

You’re sitting him down in the living room before he can blink, and he takes in the setting around him. A real cozy place, a family home for sure — with a pale blue couch, a scratchy patchwork blanket draped over the back and floral cushions. There’s photos of you in multiple spots around the room, an only child — he gathers. The main photo sits on the mantelpiece, framed, a set of parents curtaining your smiling face in the image. You seem to be a few years younger, fuller in the face, still cute as a button.

He doesn’t quite realise you’d gone anywhere until you’re returning — the contents of an old first aid box rumbling in your grip. You give him a reassuring smile and lower to kneel by his feet, opening up the container and fishing around for some cotton pads.

“Do you have a name, mister?”

He clears his throat, trying to gage your reaction once he speaks, attempting to work out if the name rings any bells. “Uh, yeah. John B. John B. Routledge. You might’ve… actually heard of me. If you have, uh— I’m sorry.”

You don’t seem to react in any kind of alarming way, a smile grazing your face as you pour rubbing alcohol onto a soft white pad.

“Heard of you how? Are you famous?”

“…You’ve never seen those big ‘Wanted’ posters up in town? Kinda got my picture up on one of them.”

You peel up his shirt revealing tanned, toned skin and a wound that had crusted over with blood. You press the pad to it and he winces, knuckles turning white in his lap and head lulling back against the seat for a moment.

“Sorry.” You furrow your brows apologetically before continuing to mop up all the dried blood. “Oh, and I’m not allowed up in town. Not by myself anyway. So, I don’t keep up to date with all that… stuff.” You pull away, rifling through the box for another clean pad. He nods, eyes jumping to look at his wound and then back to you, watching your face for any discomfort regarding his presence. Oddly, there was none. If it wasn’t clear before, it’s wildly apparent now that you’ve truly been sheltered your whole life. There was this innocence you carried that was hard to come by, a lack of judgement that was sweet but made him worry for you slightly. You were lucky he had a good heart.

“That’s… probably for the best, actually. You know, they like to tell lies. I’m being falsely accused.” He speaks a little slower, and enunciates the last part as if you might not understand, and as expected— you hang onto every word, lips a little parted and wide eyed. It’s pretty cute, albeit inappropriate considering he’s a stranger.

As he speaks, you wrap his wound, pressing the sticky part down onto his skin before gently pressing the cotton covering his injury. “Well I’m really sorry about that John B. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” You chirp, before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss over the dressing, pulling back to offer him a sweet smile. The lines on John B’s forehead smooth out, his concerned expression melting into his own gentle smile of disbelief.

He wonders what the odds are that he’d stumbled upon a real life angel. Well, it was that — or you wanted to chop his body into tiny pieces whilst he slept and add it to your cauldron. He couldn’t quite figure it out yet, but you were pretty — and he was a total loverboy, so stupidly he was willing to take that risk.

He pulls his shirt back down over his now dressed wound and you begin to clear your things back into the first aid box.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Like, anything you need help with around here?” He offers and you look up at him, brows furrowing with adoration.

“Goodness, no— I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Said you needed an extra pair of hands earlier.” He challenges with a smile.

“I only said that to get you to come inside. With your injury, I couldn’t possibly put you to work.”

He scrunches his face a little with a half scoff, half smile and shrugs one shoulder. “Please, this thing? It barely even stings. Come oooon.” He croons with a smirk, and you really feel the full effects of his charm now— the warm timbre of his voice headed straight to your clit giving it a heartbeat of its own.

“Fine.” It comes out airy with a giddy smile and you take his hand yet again, almost getting distracted by the coarseness against your palm, the sight of bulging veins along the backs of them.

Your bare feet are treading lightly over soft wood chip once more as you lead him toward the destroyed fence round the left side perimeter of the farm.

“So… I suppose you could carry all the planks back from the fence that fell down in that awful storm last week. I was gonna wait for my daddy to get home to get him to do it ‘cus I’m much too weak for something like that.” You point, and John B’s brown fluffy head follows your finger to the destination at hand. He nods, a doable task.

“Well a girl like you shouldn’t be lifting a finger anyway.” He turns his head back to face you with a smile, eyes squinted in the sun. He looks radiant, no sign of pain anymore and you look down at your night gown, scrunching it in your clammy hands with an uncontrollable grin at the floor, harbouring such an innocent crush on the boy already that you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

His gaze stays on you for a tick whilst you step quietly and he speaks up again, tilting his head a little inquisitively. “I really, really hope this doesn’t sound rude… ‘cus I don’t mean to be. But… are you not… married?” He trails off, thinking of all the times he’s been walloped round the head in taverns for asking questions of a similar nature. Your smile doesn’t go away, your gentle nature not retiring for a moment.

“Oh no, no. I don’t meet boys often. Thats why I’m happy you came!” You chirp, hand reaching out to softly squeeze his arm. “Can be like husband and wife whilst you stay round.”

He just laughs in response. Not necessarily in a mean way, but the same way you laugh when a child tells you they’re going to be an astronaut when they grow up.

The brutal beating of the sun does nothing to stop the honest work you’d put the self proclaimed outlaw up to, he seems to be deep in thought often — carrying the planks to and fro. You slip inside for a while to change into something more appropriate, a sweet and floral sundress that ties up at the straps and hugs you in a more womanly way. You’d rubbed your lips together as you fixed your hair in the mirror before bringing him a sandwich in the early afternoon. “You are adorable.” He grins when you do so, and it wasn’t quite the reaction you’d hoped for on your dress but it still made you warm in the face. He simply brought out a true primal bodily reaction from you— that’s why you’d skipped the panties under your dress. He was making you excited and slippery down there and you just didn’t see the point. You stay out for hours at a time to chat with him. Your affections grow.

John B. Routledge finally returns back to the house when he’s all finished and you let him lay down for a nap on your couch, finally getting some real rest in. Whilst he does so, you spend hours preparing a hearty meal — the type you reserve for when mama and papa have guests round. As the pie browns off just a moment longer in the oven, you come to the man’s side, kneeling beside him and stroking his fluffy hair back.

“I made dinner. Sure you’re really hungry.” You whisper and his eyes flutter once more, the arms that were crossed over his chest stretching out as he wakes. You sit back to give him space, and when he opens his eyes you’re there with a smile — the orange beam of sunset haloing your head. Something about an angel drafts through his mind once more and he stretches.

“Oh boy, I slept longer than I was meant to huh?” He sits up and you shrug, leading him through to the kitchen where you’d laid the round table. Steaming seasoned vegetables in a bowl, freshly picked by you. Warm bread, baked and scored by you with flowers the centrepiece of the table. A jug of gravy there too. There’s a tray of mashed potatoes waiting, creamy and delicious looking. Routledges stomach audibly growls and he chuckles at this as he sits down, taking in the scenery you’d laid out. “You… have spoiled me. All this for someone who breaks into your barn?” He chuckles as he lowers himself into the seat.

You follow him round the table with a giddy smile. “Told you I like havin’ guests.” You perch your bottom on his leg, an arm wrapped around his neck as your feet swing. It felt right. You’d always wanted to sit with a man this way, you’d seen it before in the picture shows. Man and wife, domestic bliss. His brows jump up and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Oh… sweetheart, you shouldn’t do that. I am a— a stranger, after all.” He tries to do the responsible thing, even though there was something about your innocent brashness that was turning him on beyond belief. Your eyebrows knit in the centre, a line between them and your bottom lip seems to have doubled in size from how it pushes out.

“But I like you?” You mewl, rejected. It all seems so simple to you, which is probably feels super unfair. No one had taught you how to address men because you were so sheltered, and now it was giving you all of these complicated feelings that John B would have to deal with.

“And I like you — a whole bunch. You know I’m super grateful for you taking me in and… all that good stuff. But sitting right here is gonna… make me excited. Because I’m a guy. Go ahead and hop off for me.” He taps your lower back gently and you huff, feeling upset and rejected about the whole thing. His eyes are all wide and hopeful as he stares at you, like he wanted to make sure you were okay. The way he handles you so sweetly made your stomach stir despite your current mope.

You drag your feet to the oven comically and he stifles a chuckle at how dramatic you were, despite his sympathy. You place your hands into oven gloves and take out the pie— perfect and golden. You walk it to the table and John B sits up a little straighter, eyes darting between you and the food.

“Did this all by yourself? You have got a real knack for cooking. Should put you on the TV.” He grins, switching on the charm to attempt to loosen up your silent sulk. You nod, eyes casted down childishly and he reaches out to touch your arm. “Thank you, pretty girl.”

A small smile slips out, and he flickers his eyes over to the heart shape you’d scored onto the pie, his own lips twitching up into a smirk. “That for me?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

You end up giggling, his smile too infectious and your bad moment is all forgotten as you serve him a slice, plating up for him and then yourself before you eat. John B digs in ravenously, it’s almost erotic — the way he’s groaning at how good it all tastes, gravy dripping from his lips as he licks more off his fingers. He was clearly less proper-mannered than you, but you liked that. Table manners were for boring old people anyway. Maybe everything about him got you going, but you had to really concentrate on getting some food inside you instead of just watching the show of eating he was putting on.

Once you’re finished, and he’s finishing up on his third helping — you let your giggles die down from the wild goose chase story he relayed for you, one where he of course wound up the hero which only made your heart beat harder for him. Your socked foot begins to prod at his ankle, sliding up his leg until it rests in his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind, the food having lowered his guard just that bit as he leans back in his chair, undoing his belt. He adjusts his hips on the seat as he does so and your thighs clench.

“So what did you think?” You ask, though you think it’s clear that he liked the meal from the empty plates and unbuckled belt. He lets out a long satisfied sigh, gazing at you for a moment with a kind smile.

“I think, whoever gets to marry you is a lucky son of a bitch.” He presses his lips together, almost like he was disappointed about the idea of you with another. You blink, the hands resting beneath your chin dreamily slowly falling to play with eachother on the table.

“Why not you, John B?” You question sadly, giving him those eyes again. The ones that tug on his heart and made him wanna give you everything and anything you ask for. He lifts a napkin, bringing it to his mouth as he shakes his head dismissively, closing his eyes with a frown.

“Mm—mm.” The tissue fabric muffles the sound. “You don’t wanna marry me, believe me — okay, I’m an outlaw. Your parents would never in a billion years accept me. Anyway you… you deserve someone less rough and tumble, you know? Like a prince from a storybook. A bubblewrap life. Not… whatever this is.” He gestures to himself, more so the browned blood stain on his shirt.

You sigh, determined. “My parents would understand. They’re — they’re generous people.”

“Really? ‘Cus they don’t even let you leave the house.” He quips quickly in response, smirking at your naivety and you fall silent for a moment. His face flattens just a tad from guilt. You were far too soft for that kind of tone.

When you look up at him again, your face is more solemn — wide eyes searching his for a shred of understanding. “You don’t understand, John B. There are actual scary, dangerous men out there that would take me and do terrible things to me.”

The outlaw leans his elbows on the table, his lips stretched into an amused smile at the irony. There wasn’t an inkling of threat about the gesture, pure amusement coursing through the energy between you from his side alone. “And how do you know I’m not one of those scary, dangerous men. Hm?” His voice is warm, it seems to rumble straight from his chest. You release a shaky sigh.

“Well you haven’t hurt me yet?” Your voice lilts out, and you engage in a long stare off. There’s a different kind of tension in the air now, it’s hot and feels heavy on you. It oozes into the nooks and crannies of your balmy skin and slithers between your thighs. You can’t take the heat and you stand, beginning to bring his dishes to the sink to wash. It’s quiet for a while, John B watching you with this thoughtful and almost knowing smile as you tidy up around him. Even he couldn’t run from how good ‘domestic bliss’ felt.

You let yourself indulge in the fantasy too. Wife cleans up, husband sits behind at the table and sips at the drink she poured him. You wanted nothing more than to experience this everyday, and your heart sinks sadly at the fact that this will probably be the last. You lose yourself to thoughts and daydreams as you scrub away, to the point you nearly don’t hear him stand up, slowly walking to lean against the sink beside you.

You smile at him politely as he eyes you, and return your gaze to the plate in your hand. You mustn’t dwell. He moves, and soon he’s behind you, a hand resting against the sink beside your hip, head craning round to look at you from the other side. “You’re really serious about this husband and wife thing, aren’t you?”

“Very serious, sir.” You bat your lashes at him earnestly and his cock stirs in his pants at the title, unexpected but not unwelcomed. Bless your heart, you were only being courteous. He presses his lips together in thought and the side of your face warms with his slow exhale. Turning your body, you face him fully now. “I just think it was divine intervention that you wound up in my barn. You’re like an angel sent to take away my loneliness.” You’re shy, a little bashful about your beliefs and without thinking he cups your cheek in reassurance, thumb swiping slowly over the skin.

His eyes take in your every detail, and your lips part with a wobbly breath, nervous. “May I kiss you, John B?” You address, just as his thumb strokes the delicate skin below your eye. He grins, slightly amused by your formality and simply nods his head.

You stand on tip toes to reach him, socked feet almost knocking at his boots as your body presses to his, lips meeting. You’re a little messy, inexperienced— which comes as no surprise to the boy as he tilts his head, welcoming your mouth at another angle and taking control in order to guide you. You’re mostly a quick learner, slowing your pace to something much more sultry and he nearly can’t contain his excitement. He wants to be a gentleman, but as soon as he introduces his tongue — you lose composure, needy and all but panting into his mouth right then and there in the kitchen. He pulls away and breaks the string of saliva that connects your lips with his thumb, stroking it over your moist bottom lip as you stare at him readily.

He tilts his head, eyes wide and almost innocent as he gestures away. “You… want me to show you what husbands do with their wives?”

You nod so hard your eyes nearly roll back like one of those baby-dolls.

John B is the one to take your hand this time, leading you slowly and carefully through the house. You partially think he’s giving himself time to rethink what he’s about to do, but from the way your pussy is drooling into your panties — it feels set in stone. He finally reaches your bedroom and you watch his head move left and right as he takes it in, cheek lifting with a smile at the China dolls on the wall and the frilly white bedsheets. It’s clear your room hasn’t changed since you were a little girl. The sun is just starting to disappear behind your lace curtains and he switches on the lamp, sitting you down.

The man joins you, easing himself down at your side and cupping your cheek as he begins to kiss you again. He takes it slow, but the passion and need only grows as the splayed hand on your back begins to slide upwards until its cupping the back of your head and he’s beginning to slowly lower you to lie down like you’re made of glass.

Naturally you shuffle up the bed and he follows, hovering over you and leading with his tongue this time — the wet muscles wrapping around eachother languidly making you moan, legs falling wider apart.

“I wanna make you feel really good, okay? That okay with you?” He asks gently and you nod, sucking in a breath. You’d waited for something like this since you knew what pleasure was, craved the touch of a man with strong coarse hands and a wet mouth. Routledges thumbs swipe across your tits through your dress, massaging them until your nipples were poking painfully through the fabric as he burrows into your neck, licking and sucking.

Your whole body feels like it’s on fire as he tugs gently at your dress, eyes meeting yours once more.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?”

He tugs the garment up and over, puffing out his cheeks as he blows air out his mouth, brows raised at the sight of your naked body. You look so soft, so pliable beneath him. He was already hard just from kissing you, but this made him feel like he might combust. “Took your underwear off?” He smirks, pressing kisses to your stomach and between your tits before bringing his face up to eye level with you, same kind but teasing smile on his face. “Have you been needing me aaall day? Hm?”

You turn your head to the side, flustered and clammy with a whine— eyes screwed shut. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, now you’re shy?”

“No, s’just — when you speak like that— n’say stuff like that… makes me hurt…” You’re breathless, hips twitching and bucking slightly as he grins, pearly whites showing.

“Aw.” Is all he manages before continuing his descent down.

He’s a real tease, spending an ungodly amount of time on your tits— sucking, licking and biting your nipples until you’re arched off the bed, teary eyed and wincing from sensitivity. It’s then, and only then he starts to kiss lower, pushing himself down your pristine sheets until he’s settling between your legs, gently easing your ankles upwards so that your knees faced the sky, your cunt fluttering and open right infront of his face.

“Well she’s very pretty.” He smiles up at you, thumbs coming up to spread you. He leans in slowly, hot breath fanning over your heat before he simply presses the softest kiss to your clit. He draws back again as you whimper, running the pads of his thumbs up along your spread folds. “Hear that? So wet, pretty girl.” He marvels in a whisper.

“Just want you to make it better.” You mewl and he nods slowly in understanding, tongue swiping over his lips as he observes you.

“That I can definitely do.” He confirms before leaning in, licking and sucking at your clit as his thumb automatically rolls downwards to massage your hole. You gasp, knees shooting up towards your chest as he eats you, similarly to the pure fervour and passion he only recently devoured the meal you cooked for him. You wondered how any appetite remained.

When he sinks his middle finger inside you, your stomach tenses — a high pitched noise of relief and utter devastation leaving you. You had no idea how badly you’d craved fullness to this very moment, and you weren’t even halfway there. He’s smiling against you, glancing up as you flutter around his single digit and make plenty of noise for him. “Yeah? Think you’ve really been needing some of that, little girl.” He nearly laughs at your extreme reaction. He had to admit, it was fun doing this with someone so inexperienced. Everything to you seemed like the best thing ever.

He eats and eats away, proving himself to have quite the monstrous appetite for your slick . Your feet rest on his shoulders at one point, lost in pleasure as you whine and writhe and to keep you out of the way, the outlaw pushes your legs up and pins them there, nose deep in your gloss.

“Feels too good— feels— hurts!” You cry, because you don’t know how to put that you’re simply aching to cum.

“Doesn’t hurt, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” He corrects in that low reverberation that you’ve grown to love. After a series of ‘Uh’ and ‘Mm’s, you feel yourself hitting that peak — the one you usually reach all over the soft cotton of your pillow, but ten times the strength.

As soon as he senses this happening, he doubles down and continues repeating the same action with his mouth over and over until you’re squealing and pushing him away, curling into a ball as your completion dribbles out of your quivering hole.

He grins, real proud of himself as he pushes up on his hands to near you, gently shushing you the same way you would to soothe a baby to sleep. “I know, that was a lot huh?” He coo’s, rubbing your back with his warm hand as you suffer the aftershocks, clenching and whimpering, a smaller clammy hand reaching out to his shirt to grab a fist of it.

He forces you softly onto your back, stroking a hand over your warm forehead. For someone so convinced the two of you shouldn’t be together, he sure did look at you like you were his entire world. By the gaze shared, you would never know the two of you only met that morning.

“What now, hm?” He smiles, quiet. You open your mouth to speak, and your voice rasps from the loud and explosive release that had you calling out.

“Wanna… make you feel as good as you made me feel, John B.”

He licks his lips, thinking over it. If it wasn’t already clear, his dick was throbbing in his pants just from pleasing you— and had you wanted to end things there he would be sure to take a trip to the bathroom to finish in his hand. Maybe swipe a pair of your underwear from the basin for inspiration, but that made his stomach tense with guilt.

“Think I can manage that, yeah.” He nods before reaching slowly for his belt. “Sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Good, good.”

His belt is still undone from after dinner so he slides the snakey leather from its loops with one hand, the act more attractive than you anticipated which made you clench once more with need. He sits on the edge of the bed and you usher up beside him, pressing your naked body to him and ghosting your drooly lips over his jaw line as he sighs, working his length out of his pants.

“Oh my.” You breathe, as soon as you look down. Now you hadn’t had much experience in dealing with the male anatomy, clearly — but you knew for certain John B had to be miles larger than the average man. His cock stood tall, straight — slightly mauve towards the tip with a beautiful blue vein drifting down his shaft like a river on a mountain. His balls sat beneath, heavy and pink — inviting in a way that made your mouth water primally.

“Yeah? This is… what m’working with.” He chuckles, sounding a little nervous.

“How do I…” You mutter after a moment and he’s quick to take your hand, pressing your fingers so that it forms a cup and bringing it to your mouth.

“You wanna spit for me, pretty? Right here.” He encourages and whilst you don’t understand, you do as he wishes, letting a bubbly glob of saliva drool out into the cupped crevice of your hand. You look up at him with wide unsure eyes, searching for praise or reassurance that you’d done as he asked. He presses his lips together at the sweet and submissive expression, shifting his hips a tad in excitement. “Mm, fuck.” He punctuates with an airy chuckle, ticking his head in a single shake.

He brings your hand down and begins to smear it all over himself, releasing a shaky exhale as he does so. “So, uh… you’re gonna wanna move your hand. Just like this.” He sighs as he works your hand up and down his shaft, slowly jerking him off. Your eyes flicker between his face and pretty dick to make sure you were doing it right. As you do so, he presses a lingering kiss to your lips, muttering a “So sweet, bubba.” Against your mouth.

This only encourages you to gain confidence, doing whatever feels right. You twist your hand— squeezing just a tad harder towards the tip as that seemed to be what made him release that heavenly groan, jaw constantly agape as he watches your hand.

“Theeere you go sweetheart. Easy right? Like milking a cow.” He kisses your temple briskly once more before his eyes screw shut, chest heaving with quicker breaths. You get carried away, fascinated by the pearly precum that seeps from his slit as you work him with your hand and following your own judgment you lean down. You figure if he used his mouth on you, you could return the favour.

His eyes open with a loud shudder when you tentatively wrap your plush lips around his tip, working your hand up and down to try and squeeze more of the interesting salty flavour from him. You let out a long drawn out moan of your own as you feel your clit throbbing with desire, liberating his precum from your mouth to let it dribble back down his shaft in messy bubbles.

He winces, placing a hand on your shoulder and removing you with such an abrupt speed that you nearly flew off the side of the bed. You sit up straight, slick mouth pouting as your eyes flicker between his, worrying that you’d done something wrong. There’s a second of just looking at eachother, before you stumble over some words.

“S—Sorry. Did I hurt—”

“No, no God no. I uh— I just wasn’t sure if I should make a mess all over that pretty face just yet.” His wide eyed expression melts into a reassuring smile, thumb rising to swipe lovingly at your cheek. You lick your lips, savouring the taste of him and nod — not quite sure where to go from there.

Your silence makes him question, and he eyes you. “Is there… anything in particular you want now?”

You think, blinking your doll-like eyelashes off into the distance before nodding once more— pushing off away from him and scurrying to the head of the bed where you lay yourself gently on the pillows.

“Hm?” He follows up in confusion, craning his neck round to watch you.

“Would… like a baby now, please.” You spread your legs a little, shy and bashful in your request like you wasn’t sure if you’d asked impolitely. His face falls as he stares at you for a moment before closing his eyes, rubbing over his face with an exasperated chuckle, elbows on his knees.

As you stare at him with with an upset little pout, already ashamed by your forwardness. “Like husband and wife?” You try to justify and he sighs out his nose, turning his body fully to you.

“Oh sweet girl.” He tugs you gently lower toward him by your hips, rubbing his thumbs at your waist. “We just met.”

You launch into full fledged begging, whiny and high pitched with tears threatening to dive over their trough. “I’ll make you so happy John B, I’ll make all your problems go away and you won’t have to run anymore. Please?” You were deadset on this man giving you your dream life, and you’d officially pushed shame to the side in order to get this. His brow is permanently creased, staring with those big wide puppy dog eyes, continually stroking your skin in hopes to calm you.

“Are you… sure that’s what you want? You’re still young. So much time for all that.”

“Just want it now. I’d never be lonely again.” You sound defeated, staring down away from him now. He felt bad, he’d always hated disappointing people. Once upon a time he was a fixer, always running to his friends aid to make their problems go away. That urge never died, just burned low and quiet like an old candle flame. He wanted to make your problems go away too.

“Okay.” He presses his lips together. “I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart.”

He watches your devastated expression lift into a radiant grin, and it was like watching the sun appear from behind a grey cloud after weeks of downcast weather. “Yeah?” You chirp toothily as he crawls over you, leaking tip grazing your tummy and then your folds as he buries his face into your neck.

“Uh-huh.”

When he pushes his tip inside, John B says a prayer for the first time in his life.

He’d never really followed any religion. His father had been the type to say it was all a bunch of ‘Mumbo jumbo’ and that he should believe in the human psyche instead, or something like that. But as your wet folds swallow him and you release that high pitched mewl at the inevitable stretch — he finds himself asking God — please, please don’t let me knock this young girl up.

There’s a warm blanket of chills that cover his spine as he slowly sheathes inside of you, feeling like he was pushing deeper and deeper into a black hole that would selfishly keep sucking him inside for the rest of his life. It felt too good, calming — like falling asleep. He was euphoric.

“So — so big inside me!” Your cry knocks him out of his thoughts and he kisses your shoulder before looking down to watch himself push in all the way to the hilt.

“Feel okay, gorgeous?”

You nod, a pained whine falling from you as you dig your nails into his skin, walls fluttering around him like they were constantly trying to accommodate for this thickness. “Fuck.” He groans, before sliding back a little and starting to thrust. Yeah, he wasn’t gonna last too long— he needed to get to work on you fast.

As he gently fucks into you, your plush tits recoil with the movement and he can’t close his mouth, sounds and sighs leaving him without permission. A hand slides between the two of you, the other pulling his shirt up to grip between his teeth— giving himself a better view of the way he strokes at your clit — your legs being spread exposing it, making it easier for him.

You clench, and shudder — that sweet face contorting with each time his tip ever so slightly grazes your cervix, careful not to bruise it. You really were beautiful, that type of homely beauty he’d thought of marrying in his lonely nights of travelling through desert and grass. The type of girl you work for, the type that deserves spoiling, princess treatment. The more he fucks, the more he’s convincing himself that impregnating you might not be the most awful thing after all. Why should he chase away security?

Your fingertips grace his chest, and he takes your hand — pinning it to the bed as your fingers intertwine, using the grip to aid his rolling thrusts— speeding up the pace and force now he knew you could take it like a champ. His mouth opens to speak, and his shirt drops out of it.

“Taking me real good baby. You like getting fucked, don’t you?” He coo’s and you can only nod, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes before rolling down to your temples. Poor thing, lost for words.

There’s a wet slapping sound with each thrust, your cunt equally gushing as it was thirsty — hungrily welcoming each inch of his, and even demanding more by locking your ankles around his lower back. Perhaps you did it for comfort, or perhaps because you suspected a hesitance, the threat of him pulling out last minute too much for your baby-crazed brain.

“Jesus. Sweet little puppy.” He breathes like it’s a revelation beneath your ear, the curly tuft of hair above his shaft tickling you as he continues to rub your clit.

“S’gonna happen again, John B. The big feeling.” You strain, eyes clamped shut and sniffling— too overwhelmed by your impending orgasm. He kisses each eye lid and watches you closely, experiencing you unfold once more.

“Thats my good girl. Let me have it, pup. Gimme a good one.”

You’re an explosion of whimpers and moans, thrashing under his firm grip once more— and he’s not sure when your orgasm ends, if it even ends at all— he doesn’t care, the release pushing him close to his own. He speeds up his pace, hand that was at your clit now wrapping around your lower back, forearm pushing your lower half up and against him, forcing you to just keep taking him.

He was like a beast from a fairytale book, fucking wildly into you with a primal determination that had you struggling to breathe. You’re crying now, full out crying because it’s just so much. There’s still one last thing you require, and only he can give you it.

“You wanna make me daddy, huh?” He demands, that gentleness in his voice gone. It’s nearly unrecognisable from him, and you preen beneath the rough touch.

“Mhm!”

“Words.” He barks. He didn’t mean to be mean, he just got a little bossy when he was close. You’d come to learn that.

“Please give me a baby. Please just — make you a daddy! Need it!” You’re squealing, voice shaking from the hard ‘plap plap plap’ of his balls slapping against you. You feel you might pass out if this goes on much longer.

He releases with a long groan, lips dropping to the centre of your chest and back arching upwards. You register his sounds before you feel it, hot slimy ropes of him— shooting up inside you, warming your walls. You moan too, because it feels so good to be full. It feels right, like this was what had been missing after all.

Everything is a blur for the next few minutes. It’s like you black out a little, because maybe you forgot to be breathing like you should have been. You briefly recall John B scooping you up and helping you through that, ignoring the gooey seed dripping from you to cradle you like a baby, humming a calm “Breathe, sweetheart. In and out. With me, c’mon.” Your gentle boy was back, and through your haze you smile.

Once you’re tucked at his side beneath a soft cotton blanket, his hand stroking over your head after cleaning you up, a whispered conversation ensues.

“Do you really like me John B? Like, you really think I’m beautiful?” You inquire, gazing up at him with stuck together black eyelashes. The question was so innocent, yet he could tell it was so meaningful.

His expression doesnt falter, a gentle smile sat comfortably on his lips as he continues to pet you. “Baby, I think you’re the ponds swan. Just… gotta get to know you a little better, okay? ‘Specially if I really did put a baby in you.” Only then his smile falters, brows knitting as the reality sets in. Oh Lord.

“Okay.” Your eyes flutter closed, happy to leave it at that, happy to fall asleep right by his side under his watchful eye. It was unnerving how safe a lonely girl could feel with a stranger.

“Okay. Good girl. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.” He quietly reassures, watching you drift off. He’s not sure if he’s trying to dispel your fears, or his own.

#outlaw!johnb #john b fic 🎀

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opbackgrounds · 9 days ago

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The Romanticism of One Piece I: Definition

Part II Full essay posted on AO3 here

“Romanticism is the star which weeps” —Alfred de Musset

One Piece is a Romance. It’s the title of the opening chapter as well as the first volume, and was liked enough by Oda that he recycled it for the first chapter and volume after the time skip. Sprinkled throughout the story Luffy and others will declare certain moments to be romantic. But what does that actually mean?

If you go to website for Mirriam-Webster and scroll down to the fourth definition, you’ll read that romance is “a: marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized

b: often capitalized : of, relating to, or having the characteristics of romanticism”

It’s this second aspect of romance that I want to focus on today, because while One Piece is imaginative, and emotional, and adventurous, the roots of the manga dig much deeper than these superficial traits and tap into the much bigger movement that at one point dominated the Western World.

As with many things, Romanticism is a concept that at its face seems quite simple, but the more you try to pin down specifics the more it squirms into something amorphous and difficult to define. In his lectures on Romanticism, Isaiah Berlin described it as, “the greatest single shift in consciousness of the West” before spending an entire hour of his introductory lecture trying to distill it down to its purest essence. In the Romantic movement we find our modern ideas of imagination, childhood, and sentimentality. Its influence dominated everything from politics, philosophy, poetry, literature, art, music and architecture. From the Romantics was born the Nationalism of the late 18th and early 19th centuries, which would lead to tragic results in the 20th. It spanned Europe and America, the Western world alight with hope after the French Revolution only to watch with horror as it was followed by the Reign of Terror, Napoleon, and the wars he brought to the rest of the continent.

Pinpointing dates is difficult, but for simplicity’s sake it’s easiest to put it as lasting from approximately the mid 1700s through the mid to late 1800s. As Romanticism was a pan-European movement, it didn’t hit every place at the same time. It swept from France through Europe and eventually America at its own pace, blooming and dying independently of one another, with various precursor movements such as the Storm and Stress era in Germany, as well as holdovers lasting well after the golden age ended, the last embers clinging on until the First World War. Romanticism picked up the local flavor of wherever it went, the Romantic ideals of France related but not identical to the Romantic ideals of Germany, just as the Romanticism of William Wordsworth wasn’t the same as the Romanticism of Lord Byron.

When attempting to define Romanticism, it is perhaps easiest to see it in what it was trying to push back against. As with every movement, the Romantics were in conversation with the past, in their case the Enlightenment thinkers of the 17th and early 18th centuries. The Enlightenment as a movement is just as difficult to pin down as the Romantics, but on the whole it said that there was one, specific way men should live their lives, that there was a formula for happiness and improvement of the human condition using reason, science, and an appropriate methodology. While the various Enlightenment figures all disagreed what that methodology was, for the most part they all agreed that it existed. It favored cold, hard logic, a celebration of science and of learning, and was hopeful for a future where humanity could better itself through its own effort by understanding the universe in which it lived.

The Romantics looked at all of this, and said…no.

There are other factors to consider when discussing Romanticism, such as the increase in urbanization following the Industrial Revolution and the political instability brought on by corrupt, crumbling monarchies and the revolutions they spurned, but in my mind this defiant no is the beating heart of Romanticism. It’s a philosophy that emphasizes the self over all, prioritizing feeling over reason and experience over logic. In fact, to the Romantic, there was no knowledge without feeling.

Institutions such as the church lost some of their power even as the Romantics became more obsessed with spirituality and the occult. The idealized, pastoral past of their beloved romantic ballads was yearned for even as revolts broke out against the monarchies that ruled in those stories of old. There was veneration of the child and the so-called Noble Savage, who were free from the corrupting forces of society and civilization. Freedom was the rallying cry, with abolition, women’s, and animal rights movements all stirring within this time period, but there was no greater freedom than the freedom of self. To do what you wanted when you wanted to do it.

There was a preoccupation with individual genius, and there was little that could bolster one’s career more than living fast and dying young. The Romantic world was one where death was frightfully common, with the increased density of the rapidly growing cities leading to frequent breakouts of disease even as populations boomed. Nearly half of children didn’t live to see their fifth birthday, and for those who did survive to adulthood, the political instability of the time made the future seem uncertain. Better then, to reject the all-consuming industry of the modern age and the cities that seemed to destroy more than they built in favor of spending time alone in the glories of nature and their own imagination, living as they pleased, beholden to no one but their own conscience.

You’ll notice in the examples that I quote that most are white men and most of these men were well-educated. It’s a simple fact that the opportunities they were afforded were different than women and people of color, and their voices were amplified as a result. While there’s been increasing scholarship in recent years to diversify the canon, and there’s good fruit to be found in that regard, it must be acknowledged that the worldview shaped by the most famous Romantics is limited by this singular perspective.

That being said, there can be a more universal application to Romanticism, and One Piece proves that. The defiant no to the binding chains of society and the enthusiastic yes of personal freedom is something that we all feel at one point or another, and it’s what makes up the core of One Piece. Romanticism is a cosmic wanderlust, the ability to poeticize everything both great and small, the neverending search for, well…that depends on the person. But the important part is that they do search and they do dream. And it’s that search that I want to explore in more detail as I dig into specific aspects of Romanticism, and how One Piece applies.

#opbackgrounds #the romanticism of one piece #romanticism #one piece

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crumblinggothicarchitecture · 8 months ago

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Taylor Swift is a Female Rage icon? Get a Grip.

I’ve just received word that Taylor Swift is calling her show “Female Rage: The Musical.” Here is my very much pissed off response to that nonsense:

The phrase, Female Rage has an intimately rich history:

Some of the first accounts of female rage dates to the Italian renaissance. To be clear, women in those days were not allowed to become painters- the arts were seen as the domain of men. They did not believe that women have rich inner lives capable of delivering the type of artistic innovation with which renaissance men were obsessed.

However, rebels abounded, through the might of their fucking rage. Several women created some of the most compellingly emotional paintings I’ve ever fucking seen. They did it without permission, without financial support, and often under the threat of punishment. They did it as a protest. In paintings like “Timoclea Killing Her Rapist” by Elisabetta Sirani (1659), and another by Artemisia Gentileschi “Slaying of Holofernes” (1612) as it depicts the bravery of Judith as she slayed a traveling warlord out to rape Judith and enslave her city. The painting often is referred to as a way Artemisia was envisioning herself as slaying her rapist. These paintings were used against these women as proof that they were unfeminine- and far too angry. Both these women suffered immensely for their audacity to call attention to the violation men perpetrated on them. Female Rage bleeds off these paintings- bleeds right through to the bone-deep acknowledgement of the injustice women faced being barred from the arts and having their humanity violated in such a sick way. Both women were hated- and considered far too angry.

In philosophy, also as early as the 15th century, an example of female rage is a philosophical text, often hailed as one of the first feminists works in the western world, written by Christine de Pizan titled The City of Ladies (1405). She wrote in protest on the state of women- writing that “men who have slandered the opposite sex out of envy have usually know women who were cleverer and more virtuous than they are” (“The City of Ladies”). People mocked her all her life- but she stood fast to her convictions. She was widowed at a young age with children to feed and the men wouldn’t let women have jobs! She wrote this book and sold it so that she could feed her family- and to protest the treatment of women as lesser than men. Her work was called aggressive and unkempt- they said she was far too angry.

In the 18th century, a young Mary Wollstonecraft wrote, A Vindication of the Right of Women ( 1792) upon learning that the civil rights won in the French Revolution did not extend to women! She wrote in protest of the unjust ways other philosophers (like Rousseau) spoke about the state of women- as if they were lesser. She wrote to advocate for women’s right to education, which they did not yet have the right to! She wrote to advocate for the advancement of women’s ability to have their own property and their own lives! The reception of this text, by the general public, lead to a campaign against Wollstonecraft- calling her “aggressive” and far too angry.

Moving into modernity, the 1960’s, and into literary examples, Maya Angelou publishes I know why the caged Bird Sings (1969) in which she discusses the fraught youth of a girl unprotected in the world. It beautifully, and heart-wrenchingly, described growing up in the American South during the 1930’s as it subjected her to the intersection of racism and sexism. The story is an autobiographical account of her own childhood, which explains how patriarchal social standards nearly destroyed her life. Upon the reception of her book, men mostly called it “overly emotional” and far too angry. Maya Angelou persisted. She did not back down from the honesty with which she shared her life- the raw, painful truth. With Literature, she regained a voice in the world.

Interwoven into each of the examples I have pulled out here, is the underlying rage of women who want to be seen as human beings, with souls, dreams and hopes, yet are not seen as full members of society at the behest of men. They take all that rage, building up in their souls, and shift it to create something beautiful: positive change. Each of these cases, I have outlined above, made remarkable strides for the women as a whole- we still feel the impact of their work today. They were so god-damn passionate, so full of righteous anger, it burst out into heart-stopping, culture-shifting art. Feminine rage is therefore grounded in experiences of injustice and abuse- yet marked too by its ability to advocate for women's rights. It cannot be historically transmogrified away from these issues- though Taylor Swift is doing her best to assert female rage as pitifully dull, full of self-deprecation, and sadness over simply being single or losing money. She trivializes the seriousness with which women have pled their cases of real, painful injustice and suffering to the masses time and time again. The examples above deal with subjects of rape, governmental tyranny, and issues of patriarchally inspired social conditioning to accept women as less human than men. It is a deadly serious topic, one in which women have raised their goddamn voices for centuries to decry- and say instead, “I am human, I matter, and men have no right to violate my mind, body, or soul.”

The depictions of female rage over the last few centuries, crossing through many cultures, is an array of outright anger, fearsome rage, and into utter despair. The one unyielding, solid underpinning, however, is that the texts are depicting the complete agency of the women in question. The one uniting aspect of female rage is that it must be a reaction to injustice; instead of how male depictions of female rage function, (think Ophelia), the women are the agents of their art with female made- female rage. They push forth the meaning through their own will- not as subjects of male desires or abuses, but as their own selves. That is what makes the phrase so empowering. They are showing their souls as a form of protest to the men who treat women like we have no soul to speak of.

Taylor Swift’s so-called female rage is a farce in comparison. Let’s look at an��example: “Mad Woman” (2020). I pull this example, and not something from her TTPD set, because this is one of the earliest examples of her using the phrase female rage to describe her dumb music. (Taylor Swift talking about "mad woman" | folklore : the long pond studio sessions (youtube.com)

The lyrics from “Mad Woman” read “Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy/... And when you say I seem angry, I get more angry”

How exactly is agreeing with someone that you are “crazy” a type of female rage in which she’s protesting the patriarchy. The patriarchy has a long history of calling women “insane” if they do not behave according to the will of men. So, how is her agreeing with the people calling her crazy- at all subversive in the way that artworks, typically associated with concept of female rage, are subversive. What is she protesting? NOTHING.

Then later, she agrees, again, that she's “angry.” The issue I draw here is that she’s not actually explicating anything within the music itself that she’s angry about- she just keeps saying she's angry over and over, thus the line falls flat. The only thing this anger connects to is the idea of someone calling her angry- which then makes her agree that she is... angry. So, despite it being convoluted, it’s also just not actually making any kind of identifiable point about society or the patriarchy- so again, I beg, what on Earth makes this count as Female Rage?

In essence, she is doing the opposite of what the examples above showcase. In letting an outside, presumably male, figure tell Taylor Swift what she is feeling, and her explicit acceptance of feeling “crazy” and “angry,” she is ultimately corroborating the patriarchy not protesting it. Her center of agency comes from assignment of feelings outside of herself and her intrinsic agreement with that assignment; whereas female rage is truly contingent on the internal state, required as within our own selves, of female agency. As I stated above, the women making female rage art must have an explicit agency throughout the work. Taylor Swift’s song simply does not measure up to this standard.

Her finishing remarks corroborates the fact that she's agreeing with this patriarchal standard of a "mad" or crazy woman:

"No one likes a mad woman/ You made her like that"

Again, this line outsources agency through saying "you made her like that" thus removing any possibility of this song being legitimate female rage. There is simply no agency assigned to the woman in the song- nor does the song ever explicitly comment on a social issue or protestation of some grievous injury to women's personhood.

She honestly not even being clever- she's just rhyming the word “crazy” with “crazy.” Then later rhyming “angry” with “angry.” Groundbreaking stuff here.

Perhaps Taylor Swift is angry, in “Mad Woman,” but it is not the same type of rage established in the philosophical concept of female rage of which art historians, philosophers, and literary critics speak. Instead, it is the rage of a businesswoman that got a bad deal- but it is not Female Rage as scholars would identify it. In “Mad Woman” I fear her anger is shallow, and only centered on material loss- through damaging business deals or bad business partners. She is not, however, discussing what someone like Christine de Pizan was discussing by making a case for the concept that woman also have souls like men do. In her book, she had to argue that women have souls, because men were unconvinced of that. Do you see the difference? I am saying that Swift’s concerns are purely monetary and material, whereas true examples of female rage center on injustice done against their personhood- as affront to human rights. Clearly, both things can make someone mad- but I’d argue the violation of human rights is more serious- thus more deserving of the title “Female Rage.”

Simply put, Taylor Swift is not talking about anything serious, or specific, enough to launch her into the halls of fame for "Female Rage" art. She's mad, sure, but she's mad the way a CEO gets mad about losing a million dollars. She's not mad about women's position in society- or even just in the music industry.

She does this a lot. The album of “Reputation” was described as female rage. Songs in “Folklore” were described as female rage. Now, she’s using the term to describe TTPD, which is the most self-centered, ego-driven music I’ve heard in a long time.

Comparing the injustice, and complete subjugation, of women’s lives- to being dumped by a man or getting a bad deal- wherein she is still one of the most powerful women of the planet- is not only laughable, but offensive.

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copperbadge · 7 months ago

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I took a survey when I left the Country Music Hall of Fame that asked me about "artifacts" in the collection, which isn't wrong but did crack me up as a term to use, so here are two of my favorite weird artifacts:

The photo of the front seat of the car is just so unhinged. I'm going to do the description of it here because I want to make sure you guys notice that this is a white open-top car with front hybrid bench-bucket seats upholstered in leather, but that is where the normalcy ends. The door handles on both outside and inside are made of SIX SHOOTERS with mother-of-pearl grips, the sun shades are embossed leather flaps like cowboy boots might look if you flattened them, and between the two front seats where the gearshift normally goes is a large saddle covered in silver dollars. The horn of the western-style saddle might be the gearshift, it's tough to say. According to a placard nearby, this is the Nudie Mobile, so called because it was customized by "Nudie's Rodeo Tailors" which did a lot of early costume design for country performers.

This image looks more normal but I promise you it is not.

This is a Gibson F-5 mandolin, billed in the placard as the most famous mandolin in American music history, which seems like a low bar to clear, but I'm not a mandolin aficionado. Again, for an image ID, it is an extremely worn-looking eight-string instrument, a fairly standard modern mandolin. It has a number of bare patches and scratches on the soundboard. Wanna know why?

It's because this famous mandolin belonged to Bill Monroe, who bought it from a barbershop (how a Gibson made by Lloyd Loar got into a barbershop is a mystery) in the 40s. He played it for decades until 1985, when an intruder broke in and beat the mandolin to pieces with a fireplace poker. So what you're seeing in that image is the original Gibson -- reassembled from about 150 splintered pieces by Gibson company. Monroe kept playing it, including in recordings, until he died in 1996.

I have to say, I spent maybe five, ten minutes standing in front of it, leaning this way and that, looking like an idiot I'm sure as I tried to detect seams and cracks where it was reassembled, and whoever at Gibson put this back together did a spectacular job. For all it looks kicked to shit in this picture, it looks fantastic in person.

#the biscuits and bbq trip #country music hall of fame #mandolin #classic cars #firearm warning

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trevuorzegras · 1 month ago

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some cowboy!luke for you .ᐟ

dirt road anthem — jason aldean 💿

for @wnderify & @star2fishmeg !! ⏳

cowboy!luke having his finger wrapped around your belt loop at all times. especially when the two of you are at a bar, and he gets nervous, not wanting to leave your side.

luke’s an attractive guy, so women flirting with him was a given. it was mostly tourist, women who just weren’t from around here, and most of the time, that was very clear. he would nervously look around for you, not too sure how to put his words nicely, “look, i don’t mean to be rude, but i’ve got an ol’ lady.”

in my head cowboy!luke is absolutely a pro bull rider, entering local competitions, and traveling with his manager for bigger ones in different states. for luke, it was never about the money, it was always about his love for what he did.

until luke was 13, he was forbidden from getting on any kind of bull. so he strictly stuck to horses, and then eventually when he turned 13, he was finally able to ride his first bull. he absolutely fell in love with it, just like his brothers had.

luke never liked coffee, but you always had. so every morning since the two of you began dating, he would get up, and make you coffee. you had insisted he didn’t have to do that, but he was very persistent on doing it. he claimed “i’ll be makin’ my tea anyhow.”

when the two of you go muddin’ luke thinks it’s just the cutest thing ever to see you covered in mud. mud splatters on your face, and your clothes covered. the both of you laughing as you ride back, after a long day, hands tight around his middle.

cowboy!luke buying the two of you matching hey - dudes after seeing you borrow his to feed the horses one morning. he quickly picked up how you kept them on throughout your morning, making a mental note to buy the two of you some when he goes into town again.

random dates! an absolute must with cowboy!luke. he’ll randomly decide he wants to camp in his back yard, having a tent facing the pond. the two of you just enjoying the view, weather, and each other.

luke taking you to one of his shows, watching you absolutely fall in love with the show horses. in that moment he thought it was the sweetest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

cowboy!luke teaching you how to play pool at the local bar in town. he didn’t go there often, but when he did it was always a good time. the sweet western bartenders adored the two of you, claiming you were just the cutest couple ever, behind terry, and lorelai. you later learned, through luke, they were an older couple who had been together for fourty - five years.

cowboy!luke who loves dancing on the front porch with you. music blasting through his speaker, as he grabs your hand, bringing you to the middle of the porch, before you guys began dancing. the two of you would spend forever dancing together if it were up to luke.

cowboy!luke carries a pocket knife with your initial on it from years ago. he bought it one day when he was in town looking for a new pair of boots. he stared at it debating weather or not he was gonna make the purchase. it had been pretty early in the relationship, and he didn’t know if it was good timing. he had ultimately decided to get it, and he glad he did.

#๋࣭ ˖ 𐔌 vamp writes ࿐ . ۫#kind of?#ᯓ luke hughes ᡣ𐭩 #cowboy!luke #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes fluff #luke hughes oneshot #luke hughes fic #luke hughes blurb #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes imagine #i’m going insane i love cowboy!luke #please send in your ideas

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redr0sewrites · 11 months ago

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Striker x Reader General Hcs

guysguysguys plsssss hes soooo- cowboys r a guilty pleasure of mine

🥀Cw: fluff, smut, switch!striker, riding + face riding, oral, somno

🥀minors dni with the nsfw portion

sfw:

striker never expected to have a real, long term partner, especially with his line of work

sure he's had hookups and flings over the years, but you really threw him off his feet

there was something about you that really dazzled striker, and he knew that you were the one

he dates to marry, and that is truly reflected in how he treats you

striker is a gentleman when he's courting you, he'll do the basics like holding the door for you and giving you gifts, but he somehow always finds a way to take it a step further.

you're both walking down the street and you have to step over a puddle? no need to worry, striker will scoop you up and carry you right over. you ran out of your favorite food while you're craving it? don't fret, striker will run to the store and grab it for you without a second thought

this is all before you both are even together! hes truly a sweetheart towards you, and it shocks everyone how you've managed to tame the wild assassin

striker definitely has a lot of nicknames for you, all circulating around his western class

poppet, sugar, darlin', doll, sugar, and lil' lady (if ur fem) are all ones you'll definitely hear

when talking about you to others, he'll call you "the apple of his eye" or other sappy things like that

he knows how dangerous his job is, and being associated with him can put you in danger. because of that, hes a little reluctant to court you, so he may give slightly mixed signals at first when hes feeling anxious about your safety

it wont take long for him to decide what he wants, but striker definitely wants to make sure you know how to defend yourself

even before you're together he offers you self defense lessons, and is always trying to keep an eye out for you to make sure you're safe

hes protective, but he also trusts you a lot and won't try to interfere with your life or anything, he just wants to make sure you're okay

underneath his tough persona, striker definitely has a soft, domestic vibe. as previously stated, he's the type to want to get married, and even if you don't, he still wants to have a good bond with you

hes a really great person to live with, he def is the type to cook and clean for you and overall carries his weight around the house

he sees it as a respect thing more than anything, and wants you to know how devoted he is to you and that he doesn't expect you to take care of him

he never forces you to do anything though, you can't tell me that he wouldn't absolutely despise people who force their spouses to cook and clean for them. he thinks relationships should be equal, and that you both should share the weight of household responsibilities

i dont think striker is the type to expect much from his partner if that makes sense? he would never want to put pressure on you to be with him or to carry any burdens. he knows how dangerous his job is, and will occasionally ask you if you're still comfortable with him and everything he does

everytime you say yes, he gets this wide eyed grin and ruffles your hair. a part of him is always afraid of pushing you away, its not easy to date a literal assassin, but the fact that you love him and that you want to be with him amazes striker every time

hes def an acts of service guy through and through, striker's actions always speak louder than anything

because his job is so busy, he sometimes works super late or has to get up ridiculously early. striker often feels pretty bad about his crazy working hours, and always dotes on you if you stay up late waiting for him and kisses you on the cheek everytime he has to leave

HE LIKES TO PLAY MUSIC FOR YOU ON HIS GUITAR AND HE'LL SING SONGS FOR YOU

striker also really enjoys dancing with you, and you two r definitely the type to slow dance in the kitchen sorry i don't make the rules

you're one of the few people he lets touch his cowboy hat, and also the only person who has ever ridden Bombshell besides him <3

he keeps a photo of you in his wallet/jacket and looks at it after rough missions

nsfw

yk the phrase "wear the cowboy hat, ride the cowboy"? or "save a horse, ride a cowboy?" yea those both were made for him btw

the cowboy hat stays on during sex, but not on him /hj

seriously tho, he loves the sight of you wearing nothing but his hat, and its one of the quickest ways to rile him up

striker LOVES and i mean LOVESSS when you ride him

theres something so exhilarating about seeing you on top, and after a long, stressful mission, there's something so pleasing about just letting you take the reins and ride him senseless

his fav positions are cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, face sitting, missionary, mating press, pretty much anything where he can see your face

striker is big on eye contact, whether hes top or bottom he loves the intimacy of eye contact

he memorizes everything about your body, what makes you tick, where to touch you that will make you moan loudest, your most sensitive spots, he has pleasuring you down to an art

def into bondage and shibari, whether its you tying him up or him tying you up, he loves it

striker likes the intricacies of shibari, but will always check that the ropes aren't too tight (unless you want it that way... in that case he'll indulge you ;)

he is soooo talkative, he loves praising you and degrading you and he talks you through every orgasm

when hes dom, striker is more of a groaner, he'll let out these throaty, deep rumbles and groans while whispering about how fucking good you make him feel in the deepest, most delicious voice ever

when hes in a more submissive mood i think hes a little quieter, he'll let out some breathy pants and moans but won't be super vocal

hes into (consensual) contact play and doesn't mind being pushed around. i also think he'd have a gun kink and would face fuck you with a gun (never loaded tho, you're far too precious to risk hurting)

ORAL FIXATION.

striker loves giving, like hes def a giver 100% and loves it when you ride his face

he wants you to SIT on his face, in his opinion his face is your throne and it doesn't matter how big you are, strikers a strong guy and will take all of your weight without a second thought

hes a gentleman, he makes you cum at least twice during foreplay before he even actually fucks you

striker is into somno, you both have def had convos about him fucking you in your sleep before

he comes home so late for work sometimes, and the sight of you sleeping on the couch, waiting just for him is so adorable

he likes teasing you and hearing you're unfiltered gasps and moans, the way your body responds to his simple touches without even being awake turns him on a lot

striker also loves it when you moan his name in your sleep, he has a secret possessive side and the fact that you're thinking about him even in your dreams is just so hot to him

sometimes though it'll be the other way around, he'll collapse into bed after a long mission, passing out in mere seconds. meanwhile, you creep into bed with him and give him a handjob, watching as he moans and whispers your name like a prayer. he'll hump into your hand, and sometimes he'll cum so hard he'll wake himself up

when you ask him what he was dreaming about he'll chuckle, but the blush on his cheeks gives him away

when hes sub, striker is like the male version of a pillow prince sometimes. he just wants to lay back and be pampered, theres a part of him that just wants to be loved and taken care of

....mommy/daddy/master kink... what? u hear sum?? i will write ab this...

hes a bit into semi-public sex, but wouldn't ever let anyone actually catch you both. you're body is for his eyes and his eyes alone

striker takes his time undressing you and kissing every inch of your body before the foreplay even starts, and sometimes his tail will rattle a little as he does so. hes just so enamored with you, he can't help it

guysgys GUYSSYYSYSYSYSY RUGERHEHEHSSBSSHSH I FUCKING LOVE STRIKER SM HES MY FAVVV!!!! ALSO HELLUVA BOSS IS OPEN FOR REQS !!

im not gonna make a separate masterlist for helluva boss im just gonna add this to my hazbin masterlist ahshsh

#striker x reader #striker #striker helluva boss #striker x oc #helluva striker #helluva boss striker #striker x you #striker smut #striker fluff #helluva boss #helluva boss x reader #helluva boss x you #helluva boss x y/n #helluva boss smut #helluva boss fluff #helluva striker x reader #helluva boss striker x reader #helluva

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milky-aeons · 10 months ago

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— FLY AWAY WITH ME

ᯓ★ starring: dazai osamu, kunikida doppo, atsushi nakajima, chuuya nakahara and ranpo edogawa; what their honeymoon would be like.

warnings: marriage, female reader, wife reader, sexual content for dazai, kunikida and chuuya, mentions of death, bondage, swearing, mentions of vomiting, alcohol intake, mdni, w.c 4.2k

𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐖𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .

To honeymoon after one's wedding was not as practiced in Japan as it was the western world — however, Dazai, of course, jumped at any opportunity to slack off from work. A week away from the city with his newly married wife sounded right up the agent's alley.

And when Dazai Osamu was given an inch, he always strove to take a mile.

"Kunikida-kun is going to kill you when we get back, Dazai." You scolded your husband sitting at your side. But when you turned to him, attempting to pin him down with a look, you just couldn't help the sides of your lips curling into a smile. "Like — actually kill you, this time."

Dazai rolled his head, humming a musical sound. "To have my life ended under the cold, bony hands of an Idealist. How could you even speak those words, my love?"

"Only you would find a way to convince the President that a week away in Okinawa would be good for two of his agents. Paid all inclusively, too. What did you call it?" You quirked an eyebrow. "Sand resistance and underwater training?"

The briny sea air teased at his loose shirt and wild, unkempt curls, making him look like a divinity — a mythical creature of the ocean. Both of you sat side by side on the coast's cool sands; sipping from a bottle of sake, watching the sunset bleed the sky into twilight. After spending the day full of adventurous activities; wandering nature trails, stopping for a late-afternoon lunch under the canopy of marine trees, only to take each other by the hand and venture through the Churaumi aquarium's glass blue halls — you both had been content to cuddle up and watch the stars, that evening. Listening to the lull of the sea, talking about everything and nothing at all.

Dazai cocked his head in that funny little way he always did. "Is that not what we're doing?"

"Of course," You agreed, and then leaned over to poke the tip of his nose. His surprised little blink almost had your heart melting into a puddle. "And tomorrow, I expect you up bright and early, because we have an extra strenuous day of whale watching to attend."

Dazai leaned in, as if you were both sharing a secret, and touched his warm forehead against yours. It made your pulse flutter; the shade of his eyes, so complex when he was this close. They softened into something a lot more sultry. "Hmm? Whale watching? I was under the impression our schedule was already taken up tomorrow, though."

"Oh?" You smiled, your breath mingling. "Do divulge me, Osamu."

That was when he went for you. Pouncing with the agility of a leopard, a beast, until he had pulled you against his lean body and you were both rolling around in the sand — shrieking and chuckling.

"I am to accompany my beautiful princess bride on a mission that could mean life or death! World dominion or forever peace! The very nature of things hangs in the balance and I have the key to it, right in my very hands!"

"Osamu—you're—!" You chortled. "Stop! You'll get sand in my ears!"

He brought your rolling bodies to a halt with you laying flush against him. There was mirth dancing in his eyes, his face — looking at you like he was a teenager in love for the very first time. He pouted playfully.

"You don't want to hear my master plan to save the world?"

"You just don't want to go whale watching."

"Hmm~" He purred, and you felt those long fingers begin to trail up your thighs — so sensitive, almost completely bare to him underneath the cotton beach skirt you wore. They drew languid, mind-numbing circles that traced a picture of fire from your thighs, the small back, your thighs again. You found yourself arching back instinctively into them.

Dazai craned his neck up then — just so he could trail his lips against the shell of your ear and whisper, "Because I am much more inclined to hear someone else moan for me all day, instead."

The last of his words were accompanied with his palms coming down on your ass, squeezing possessively — the shock of it lurching you forward a little. You gasped, and he revelled in it. You could see it in the way his tawny eyes darkened into a promising mahogany. Whenever Dazai looked at you like that, it eddied any and all coherent thoughts from your mind. Just like the first time you met him, the second, the millionth, you'd never tire from marvelling in your husband's beauty. Both on his gorgeous face and inside his well-protected soul.

You just had to peel back each and every layer he had learned to build up until you coaxed it out. But you would wait — for him, you would wait a lifetime.

Chuckling a heady sound, you leaned down, ghosting your lips over his parted ones. When he shifted up to try and connect your mouths together — you were mean. You pulled just out of his reach, grinning a wicked, vixen-like smile.

"All day?" You challenged. "But—oh—!"

A yelp tore from your throat when Dazai startled you by surging foreword and rolling until you were beneath him; trapped underneath his long, caging arms. His bangs tickled your face when he pitched forward to arrest you in his intense stare. Holding so much weight, so much promise, that it sent a thousand sparks of pleasure racing from the crown of your head right to the tips of your toes.

"Every day, my beautiful wife."

You didn't think either of you could wait until then.

𝐊𝐘𝐎𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐀 . . .

After the rather formal affair that was you and Kunikida Doppo's wedding; a honeymoon was far removed from your mind. So you were surprised, when your new husband approached you one morning, two long-distance train tickets held firmly in his grip. The ledgers are already taken care of, he had assured you when protests rose on your tongue, you needn't worry. There is enough staff to cover our absence.

There was something — something fiercely intense in his eyes when he had said those words, too. Of course, your husband Kunikida Doppo was a fierce man by nature; it was one of the many things you had learned to love about him. But then, you had been unable to place the heat in his eyes, the way his body strained towards you — as if holding some monstrous part of himself back.

You had been unable to place it — that was, until now.

His naked body stalked around the foot of the bed — soft, buttery light throwing all of his defined muscles into focus. The curtains of this private suite were decorated with cotton and cashmere, letting as much natural light into the room as possible while still offering you two some privacy. In fact, one of the drapes from your bathroom window were missing — but that was because it had been wound tightly around your wrists, pinning you to the headboard.

"One hundred and forty-five." Kunikida spoke suddenly.

Through your lust addled mind, you tried to parse his words. Your brows came down over confused eyes. "W-What?"

He stopped, snapping his Ideal book closed in one hand. And when he turned towards you — God, your tongue pasted to the roof of your mouth. He was marvellous. He was breath-taking — his blond hair let loose around his shoulders, the length of him standing stiff and erect for you to see.

"One hundred and forty-five," He repeated. The mattress dipped when he leaned one knee against it, then the other. "That is the amount of days which have passed since I had the first indecent thought about you."

He might as well already be touching you — the way those words instructed a shiver to race down your bare skin. Kunikida pitched forward so he was on all fours now — and with savouring slowness, he began to crawl towards you.

"O-Oh?" Was the only coherent thing you could get out. Your eyes darted all over him, you tried to rub your thighs together to garner some type of friction since he was so adamant to tease you. Kunikida's quick-silver eyes noticed the movement, however, and reached a large hand out. He flattened it on the bare skin of your thigh; a silent command for you to be still.

Frustrated, you levelled a heated glare at him, huffing, "This is no way to treat your new wife."

"Believe me," Kunikida's tone was controlled — always controlled, but you delighted in the fact that his lips twitched into a smile. "I have every intention of treating my wife very well, indeed."

Your breasts strained taut when he came to settle himself just over you and leaned up — bracketing your hips with those strong thighs. Ever since he had gotten your clothes off; Kunikida Doppo could not stop himself from just looking at you. An extremely controlling part of him was overcome with the mind-consuming urge to lock you up and keep you all for himself. But he knew he could not do that. So here he would revel, every moment he could, in you flushed and bare beneath him. Begging him with your eyes to touch you, to relieve that ache only he had caused.

Shit, Kunikida Doppo thought when he looked down at you, he'd pay only the finest artist to paint you like this. But then he'd have to rip their damn hand off.

He reached a hand out to trail it against your twitching tummy muscles. The hand which brandished that newly crafted gold band.

"It was exactly 11:48am, Tuesday the 7th," Kunikida murmured in a deep, throaty voice. His eyes glazed over as he trailed his fingers all over you — from your naval to your breastbone to letting them dance across the planes of your face. "When you walked into the main office with a large stack of reports a certain someone has been slackin' on. You bent over — in that tight little skirt you always wear," He inhaled, dragging your bottom lip gently with his thumb. "And I was overcome."

"O-Overcome?" You echoed. If he kept this up, you were very certain your new husband would make your heart burst out of your chest. You burned, you needed him like your air, like the blood roaring in your ears.

Kunikida leaned in close enough until he was all you could see. He dropped his voice, and the words rumbled out of his chest.

"Overcome with the need to bend you against the table and fuck you, right then and there."

A small whimper climbed up your throat. Like a butterfly, caught and pinned against a board, you fluttered restlessly beneath him. Kunikida placed the softest kisses against your skin; but you could feel the tension that tremored underneath his marble skin. He was taking his time. He was adamant to keep you here for as long as possible just to savour you, over and over again.

And you were more than willing to oblige.

"And now," You whispered, hot and needy, against him. "You have me right where you want me, Kunikida."

Your husband groaned and began to roll his hips against you — absolutely unable to help himself when you said those words. Gasping, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and you were barely lucid enough to hear him growl out the words;

"And you'll always have me at your mercy, darling."

𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈 . . .

You and Atsushi had decided to get married under the gentle blossoms of springtime, but it had always been your dream to escape on a winter's honeymoon. Of course, when you broached the topic with him a couple of weeks before the ceremony, Atsushi took some time to gradually warm to the idea. He had never been out of the country, after all, and the thought of boarding a metal tube that soared thousands of feet in the air definitely did not appeal to his feline side.

"It's... so it doesn't stop off, somewhere?" He had asked you with those adorable wide eyes. "What if I need to pee?"

His country naivety was all too amusing to you — a warm grin brightened your face, and to stifle the chuckle, you buried into his silver hair, instead.

"There are toilets on the plane. And refreshments, and seats." You replied to him. "Besides, there'd be nowhere for us to stop off. We'd have to cross over the ocean, after all."

"T-The ocean?!"

The Harbin Ice and Snow festival held its open ceremony a few months after you and Atsushi's marriage, but once you got there, you knew it had been well worth the wait. The city was crafted with ice structures and snowy castles, illuminated by floodlights that coloured them all different shades. Both bundled in layers, you and your husband walked side-by-side through them, warming the other's hand. Atsushi bought you a delicious hot chocolate to share, and never missed the chance to kiss the cream off of your face.

"I have no idea how you're not wearing gloves," You said to him one evening as you strolled around the resort. From here, the blanketed mountains stood stark against the night sky, littered with evergreen trees. Each step you took crunched the snow beneath you.

"Ah," Atsushi piqued. He then lifted his hands to show them to you, and when you inspected them closer; you noticed that he had coated them in a thick layer of tiger fur. "Ta-dah!"

The funny sight caught you so off guard that you doubled over giggling. "What a convenient talent. I wish I could do that when I get cold!"

"You know I would if I could," He said, the warm sincerity of it coming to hug around you like your very own blanket. "But there's something that I can do."

"Oh?" You leaned up to regard your new husband — only to realise that he was no longer by your side. Instead, he had taken a few strides ahead, leaning forward onto all fours in that familiar position he took before an ability activation. Whoosh, the snow whipped up to bite your cheeks, the entire landscape was drowned out in the supernatural blue light as he shifted from man to beast.

The bands of light exploded to leave him in their remnants — only bigger, furrier, and so much more deadly. Not an ounce of fear touched your body, however — because even though standing in his place was a monstrous weretiger that prowled towards you; those were still Atsushi's eyes. The tender bump he gave you with his head still belonged to the person who had Atsushi's soul — your Atsushi.

You carded your fingers lovingly through his coat. "Hello, there." You murmured, taking his big head in your hands and scratching behind his ears. "What brings you here, Mr. Weretiger?"

Atsushi's honey-gold eyes held yours for a moment. Then, he made a swishing movement with his head — an indication for you to follow. You knitted your eyebrows, initially confused at what he wanted when he couldn't use human speech — but when he lay down in the snow and made his back easier for you to reach, you suddenly realised.

"Oh, okay." You hummed, manoeuvring to the side of his massive body and hiking your leg up. Shifting, you found a comfortable sitting position on his back. But not before you cuddled into his soft fur a little. "You are so warm, no wonder you don't need gloves."

His great big lungs reverberated when he spoke something you couldn't understand. Atsushi padded the snow — an indication that he was going to move, letting you know to hold on tight — before straightening up to his full height.

Then, he was running.

Galloping through the snow scape like you weighed absolutely nothing at all — the wind ripping through your hair, smattering your cheeks in little flecks of snowflakes. You gripped on tight to his coat, feeling the wild rush of adrenaline spike in your blood. His great big paws ate up the distance with agility, with grace. As easy and breathing for him in this form. You held on tight to your husband's body when he hopped from rock to rock, from tree to tree, taking you through your very own winter wonderland on a night you'd never forget.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .

After the unholy shitshow — as your husband eloquently puts it — that was your wedding reception, it was safe to assume that Chuuya Nakahara was adamant to get out of the country in order to spend a few days alone with you. Somewhere extremely far away. And what better place was there, than the classy city of romance and wine?

He had been cunning in the preparations, refusing to reveal anything until it was the evening you scheduled to fly out on one of the Port Mafia's private air jets. Sure; the plane had been in regular use to smuggle large shipments of drugs across the Japanese border, but Chuuya had gone to touching lengths in order to make it special for you.

The inside was completely cleaned out and lavished with first-class opulence. When you stood in the hanger, suitcase in tow, you couldn't believe how beautiful he had made it look. And when he handed you a flute of fizzing champagne before boarding, he pulled you in by the waist; kissed you on the cheek, and said, are ya ready to see the real Eiffel Tower, sweetheart?

The sheer beauty of Paris was all you needed to make up for the long-haul flight over. Each building towered above you; beige stonework, panelled windows, the smell of fresh baked goods and coffee in the air. Chuuya walked with his hand on your back through the winding cobblestone walkways. He did not complain once when you spent hours busying around the shopping district La Vallée, gushing at all the quaint boutiques and bakeries. He bought as many pastries as your heart so desired. And on your last night, he told you to wear your finest dress, and took you on a boat ride around the city.

"This mustn't have been good for your bank account," You pouted, leaning over the side of the boat to admire the glossy river water. "Even for you."

Chuuya popped a piece of steak into his mouth. One eyebrow quirked. "I thought I told ya never to worry about money when you're with me, doll. Even more so now that you're my wife."

My wife, you closed your eyes, savouring the sound of it wearing his voice like the meal in front of you. It still sounded so foreign — a little out of place, when you had just gotten used to being to as the General's fiancée. When you opened your eyes, you allowed yourself a few seconds to marvel at the man who worked to make all your desires come true — and not because he had to, but because he wanted to, he loved to.

Chuuya's blue eyes twinkled underneath the fairy lights that hung from the boat's canopy. "What?"

You beckoned to all the other empty seats around you. "How did you manage to rent an entire boat for just the two of us, though?"

At that, your husband's lips lifted into a wide, vulpine smile. The type that made delicious heat lick down your spine.

"Do ya object to being on this big boat all alone with me, sweetheart?"

The heat cascading down your spine spread its fingers — until it was all over you, reaching the tips of your cheeks, the skin of your chest left exposed by the open dress. You swallowed, not breaking the eye contact, and placed your fork down with very precise movements.

You purposefully flicked your hair behind your shoulder — exposing your collarbone, the long column of your neck.

"Quite the contrary, my beautiful husband. In fact, I think the rocking could make riding you senseless feel extra good, if that was even possible."

There was a heartbeat where Chuuya didn't move. And then, the table was knocked to one side, there was a harsh clatter of metal and plates and his chair scraping against the deck when he surged for you.

You shrieked in delight when you felt his hands on your hips — hoisting you swiftly from the terrace chair and into his arms. Guiding your legs to wrap around his waist, you were held securely against him, looping your arms around his neck as he made quick work of the ships decking and down the stairs into your private bedroom.

When you both resurfaced onto the deck for some fresh air, you were blissfully unaware that the sun had risen and it had already become morning — but the crewmates definitely were.

𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐘𝐎 (𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃) 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐏𝐎 . . .

When your newly-wed husband Ranpo Edogawa pitched the idea of a honeymoon in Tokyo; initially, you were quite sceptical. Tokyo was a city packed with people and, God forbid; a very advanced transport system. Whatever could your particular partner want in the bustling capital of your country?

Roller-coaster rides and donuts and mickey mouse ears, apparently.

He was such a child at heart, you thought fondly as you watched him flutter around the food stalls at Tokyo's Disneyland Resort, pointing at all the colourful sweets he wanted to try. You suppose Ranpo never really had the opportunity to have a childhood; being hunted for his mind and hopping from job to job just to survive before he met the President. And you cherished that part of him. Your heart grew twice its size when he returned to you, a chest-full of of packaged goods and two sticks of candyfloss.

"According to my Deductions," Your husband boasted, thrusting the candy floss out to you. "Poo's Honey Hunt is the next attraction which will have the least amount of waiting time."

You took your candyfloss carefully from him. "Of course. Although do you think it's a good idea to go riding when you have a stomach full of sweets, Ranpo?"

He leaned back and guffawed. "Pwah! Nothing is impossible for the World's Greatest Detective!"

It turned out that spinning in a plastic honey pot one too many times was a little too much for the World's Greatest Detective, after all. You rubbed soothing circles against your husband's back and held his cape out of the way as he upheaved into a colourful trashcan the moment he stepped off of the ride. You hushed anything he tried to say, instead guiding him to sit with you by the riverside — watching the fairy tale boats float on by until the nausea subsided.

A bottle of water and a handful of pastries later; Ranpo Edogawa was right back on his feet again, dragging you by the hand to the next attraction with excited, skipping steps.

And when the sun dipped low behind the bright pink castle that was a landmark to the grounds and the sky darkened into twilight, your forever partner guided you across a beautiful bridge closed off to the public for the rest of the evening. Of course, you scolded him with each step, telling him that this would get you both in a world of trouble. Only for him to turn around and wink, assuring, the stewards only patrol this area of the park every quarter of an hour. We have at least twenty minutes until anybody will be near this area again.

"Ranpo, darling, I love you," You said to him, stepping over the foliage and onto the bridge painted with bright gold — mimicking those found in story books. "But if we get fined for this, I am taking away all of your sweet stash for at least a month."

He twirled around to face you when you came to a stop in the centre of the bridge; his hands folded behind his back. His tongue stuck out. "Boo. You wouldn't be able to figure out the code."

"You doubt the mind of a wife who is angry." You cooed, but were completely unable to help the smile that tickled your lips. You were like two schoolkids; sneaking around in a no-trespass area trying not to get caught. Although you didn't understand the entire reason as to why you were stalking around a closed area of the park late at night.

You decided to question him, tilting your head. "Remind me, why is it that we're slinking around Tinkerbell's Garden and running the risk of getting caught, again?"

Your question was left hanging when Ranpo decided to keep his lips shut. Instead, he lifted three fingers up in the air. You watched with knitted brows as he brought down one — leaving two left. Then, brought down the other. And just as he let the final finger close into his fist, there was a shrill whistle, a tail of sparks flying through the night—

BOOM!

The most brilliant firework exploded in the sky.

You gasped, turning to look above the canopy that hid you both. Boom, there was another — a brilliant explosion of red and yellow. Boom, boom, two at the same time. You were arrested in place, marvelling at the light show that sent a thousand sparkles reflecting in your eyes.

Warmth. Skin. Ranpo's hand coming to intertwine with yours. His soft lips ghosting your temple, whispering the words so sweet;

"They're almost just as beautiful as you, my wonderful wife."

ღ . . . the bsd men ON THEIR WEDDING DAY

requested by wonderful [ nonnie! ]

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