#translated fanfiction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zepskies · 2 months ago

Text

Lost in Translation

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Female POC!Reader

Summary: Living with this man isn’t easy, and you’ve absolutely had it with him. Supe or not, you’re one step shy of kicking him out. Will he try to make it up to you?

AN: So after getting requests for a Soldier Boy x POC!Reader, I’ve had a short series in development called Unravel Me. I’m a bit stalled on the outline right now, so I thought this could be a fun way to introduce their relationship and see if you guys think I should continue with the prequel, kind of like how I did with Checkerboard and the Break Me Down-verse.

This story would take place after Unravel Me, after a fair bit of character development lol. It also fulfills a bingo square for @jacklesversebingo!

Prompt: “Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is No!”

Song Inspo: “Damage” by H.E.R.

Word Count: 3.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, bit of dirty talk, fingering, edging, some angst, fluff and feels. The reader is a mixed race POC (Afro Latina), with textured hair.

The apartment was quiet, but not peaceful.

You were in the kitchen washing the Mt. Everest of dishes piled in the sink, partly because someone hadn’t rinsed off his own plate of carne guisada.

Ben had asked for beef for dinner yesterday, and you’d graciously delivered with your grandmother’s recipe for the stew. It was filled with chunks of tender, fall-off-your-fork beef, garlic, onions, carrots, and more—all marinated to perfection, if you said so yourself. You even added in some little yellow potatoes, both for taste and texture.

Apparently, he couldn’t be bothered to put those meaty man muscles to good use, aside from shoveling three helpings into his mouth.

A bottomless pit and a freakin’ man-child, I swear to God, you inwardly groused as you scrubbed the ceramic a bit too hard with the rough side of the sponge. No matter how many times you asked, nicely, it seemed your boyfriend couldn’t manage to pull his weight around here.

Okay, you knew his job could be demanding, but so was yours.

What the hell is this, Maid in Manhattan? Newsflash: I’ve got shit to do too!

“And I cooked!” you muttered in indignation. That reminder propelled you to scrub a bit harder. The least he could do was clean the kitchen. Or take out the trash. Or toss the laundry into the washing machine once in a while. Like you really wanted to handle his dirty boxers all the damn time.

Did he have no shame? Couldn’t he do anything for you without you having to ask him three million times?

Es que él es bruto, mija, as your Dominican grandma would say about your grandpa, often while swiping a tired hand over her long braids. Es como un animal con ropa.

Just then, you heard his heavy steps creaking on the wood floors in your bedroom. Today was his day off, so he was probably taking his sweet time rolling his ass out of bed.

Meanwhile, you were hustling to get the place at least decently clean before you got yourself together for work. The thought made you simmer as you continued to place dishes on the counter rack. Each one clacking to rest was satisfying, but it also ticked up your internal dial to a fine boil.

You heard him bang the bathroom door open and cringed internally, your teeth grinding. You’d reminded him three times already about the neighbors and the noise.

Sabes que, supe or not, I’m about to—

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Ben’s voice washed over you, deep and still a little rough with sleep as he stepped into the kitchen. His old man loafers slid against the floor with every step when he approached you from behind, and his heavy hands found a familiar resting place on the curve of your waist.

He swiped your slightly wild curls to the side and pressed a tantalizing kiss into your neck. His voice, his touch, the brief scrape of his beard; it all caused a small shiver of delight up your spine.

“Hmm, you smell good. Good enough to eat.” And he teased you with the graze of his teeth, biting gently enough where your neck met your shoulder. You flinched with half a huff, trying not to smile.

Just like that, it took the edge off your irritation…a little. You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could…

“Hey,” he said, “since you’re already up and about in here, how about some breakf—”

Your spine tightened once again.

“Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is No!” you snapped. You moved out of his arms to grab a hand towel to dry your hands with. They were all pruny from washing dishes.

“I’m already running late. Why? Because this place is a fucking mess, and the only one who seems to care is me!” you exclaimed. First, you gestured to the dishes now drying on the rack. “Hmm?”

You then opened up the lid to the full-to-bursting trashcan. “What do you call that, huh? You said you’d take this out last night. After I asked you twice. What, was I not speaking English? Did something get lost in translation, or are you already losing your hearing? Just let me know, ‘cause I can sure as hell crank up the volume for you!”

Ben raised a brow. You read his thoughts in his surly frown. You have some fucking audacity, talking to him like that, but it’s still early. He hasn’t even had his coffee, for Christ’s sake.

If he was more awake, no doubt he’d be barking back at you. Instead, he heaved a sigh, drew closer to you and shut the trashcan lid. At least there was one lid he knew how to close.

“All right, it’s just a little mess. No need to get fucking hysterical,” he said, trying to grasp your arm to placate you. You shrugged out of his hold and crossed your arms in anger.

“Ben, it’s not just a little mess. And what is this, 1945? I’m not hysterical!”

His lips twitched at a smirk, making you even angrier. But he’d caught enough smoke from you in the past to know he didn’t want it at 8:00 in the morning. He grasped your arms and rubbed them up and down, trying to sooth you.

“Okay, okay. It’s a little early for all this Latina temper, don’tcha think?” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your gaze snapped up at him with a glare.

Oooh, this man. He knew how to get you mad fucking tight.

Not in a good way.

Instead of exploding like Mount Fuji, you kept it all under your skin. You turned away from him and aimed to continue getting ready for work, but first, you took out a Greek yogurt from the fridge and wholly ignored him taking up space in the kitchen. You wouldn’t answer him when he called your name. In fact, you were going to give him the most frigid of cold shoulders—so cold he’d get hyperthermia through that invulnerable skin.

He waylaid your plans when he grabbed your hand, swinging you back into his arms. You gasped at the suddenness of it, looking up into his cocky, charming smile. You couldn’t stare too long at his green eyes, or the rest of his handsome, bearded face. Not when he knew exactly how to use it against you.

“Don’t think that’s gonna get you out of this,” you warned him. You set your yogurt on the kitchen counter and pushed at his chest, but it was no more effective than pushing at a mountain and expecting it to move.

His hands spanned your waist, his fingers beginning to press into your soft sides. He bowed his head, brushing his lips against your neck and the shell of your ear when he said, “Out of what, baby doll? Looks to me like we can still have a good morning.”

His voice once against trilled heat and tingles through your body, but you managed to lean back, holding the pads of your fingers to his lips.

“Hey, I’m not playing around here. If we’re gonna do this,” you pointed between him and yourself, “then let me make one thing really clear. I’m not la sirvienta around here, okay? I’m not your fucking maid. I’m your girl. Your partner. And since you live here now, I’m gonna need you to do your part.”

Ben almost rolled his eyes, but you grasped his chin. He frowned at you with furrowed brows. There was a time where he would've been inclined to grab your wrist and try to intimidate you with his temper. You saw it lying in wait behind his pursed lips and irritated stare, but you weren't afraid of him. Not anymore.

“Listen to me. I get that you haven’t lived like us commoners for most of your life, but this stuff is important,” you said. You took a deep breath, and you counted to three. You met him with a calmer gaze. “Ben, I love you.”

You let go of his chin and lowered your hand, letting it splay over his chest. He softened, ever so slightly, even though his frown remained.

“I love you,” you repeated, “but I don’t need a man-child.”

"Excuse me?" he did snap this time, his hold loosening from around your waist. "The fuck did you just say?"

You narrowed your eyes right back at him.

"You heard me," you said. "I want a man. A man who's going to be my rock when I need him. Can you do that for me, like I do for you? Are you gonna be my man, or do I need to claim you as a dependent on my taxes?"

His expression sharpened again at your thinly veiled accusation…but the longer he looked into your eyes, no longer angry, but earnest and imploring, the more he actually listened to what you were saying. His jaw worked for a moment in annoyance. You subtly softened him with your hands soothing up and down his arms, a slow back and forth over solid, warm muscle.

Eventually, he was able to curb his instinct to bark a callous reply. He nodded, expelling a breath through his nose.

“Fine,” he said.

Your brows rose. “Fine?”

“Yeah,” he said flatly.

You knew it was the closest you were going to get to an agreement, as well as an apology. You were still working on that last one, but dating this man was a work in progress, for both of you. With a sigh, you patted his arms that were slowly wrapping back around you.

“Okay, I’m really running late now,” you said.

“You should probably get a move on then,” Ben said.

Still, he didn’t release you. He stared down at you with an amused smile while you struggled against his hold. You uttered a laugh.

“Babe, I need to get to work.” You leaned over and spied the oven clock. “Oh, shit! it’s almost 8:30! If I’m not there by 9:00—”

“You sure you want to go now? Tense, body all tight,” he said, his voice deep with sensuous suggestion.

His lips neared yours, but he didn’t kiss you. Not yet. His lips veered away to brush against your cheek. He inhaled deeply as he moved, taking in the floral scent of your soap, mixed with the army of products you styled your hair with, and the faint imprint of your perfume from the night before. He skimmed down your neck and along the shell of your ear.

“Wouldn’t you rather I fuck all that tension right out of you?” he offered. “Leave you nice and warm and satisfied, have that pretty pussy coming hard on my cock.”

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes as his filthy mouth and the timbre of his voice struck a chord through your body, tinging warm arousal between your legs. Your fingers tightened on his strong arms, digging into the fabric of his loose robe. Ben took that as a wordless confirmation. He bent at the knees and grabbed you up by your plush thighs. You wrapped your arms around his neck on instinct, with a small gasp.

But you recovered quickly. Taking his face into your hands, you met his lips roughly with yours in a devouring kiss. He set you down on the kitchen counter hard enough to make the clean dishes rattle. His hands were just as claiming as his mouth, squeezing your hips and thighs as he spread them open to make more room for himself.

While your tongue dueled with his, you shoved the robe off his shoulders, followed by his sleep shirt pooling to the floor. His hand slid under your top as well, and almost ripped it at the hem in his haste to get it up and over your head.

“Ow, ah-ow!” You giggled when the collar got caught on your hair. Ben’s breathy chuckle reached your ears. He was gentler in how he helped get the shirt off the rest of the way. Your mane of hair fell into your face, and you huffed.

Ben did you the favor of brushing the thick curls away from your eyes, tugging several strands behind your ears, even though most of them didn’t obey him. He framed your face with his big hands, and his thumbs swept along your skin, the rich complexion shining in the morning light filtering through the kitchen window.

There was more care in his touch now, his strength tempered just for you. Fond amusement colored his features. For as much shit as you gave him, you still gave him more of yourself; more of your trust, your patience...and all the rest of it. You gave him more than anyone that had come before you, and deep inside, he doubted anyone that might come after you.

You smiled up at him, a little wryly. You leaned up and met him for a gentler kiss. Your eyes fell closed at the feeling of him, and the spicy hint of his aftershave. It was a scent that often clung to his pillows. When he was gone on a mission for days on end, you wouldn’t admit to clinging to one of them to help you sleep, and make you feel safe.

“Mmm, you smell good,” you whispered. And it was true. He smelled like mint and spicy aftershave. You plied his lips with deeper kisses, licking into his mouth with a sensuous tongue, before you stole his words. “Good enough to eat.”

He uttered a groan deep in his throat. It satisfied you, enhancing the warm flood between your legs.

Fuck it. You were calling in sick today.

You drew him back into the pull of you, winding your arms around his neck and your fingers in his hair. It was getting long again, but you liked it. You liked something to hold onto, just as much as he did. Your nails brushed against his scalp, down the back of his neck, earning a hum of pleasure from him. You wound your legs tightly around his hips and invited the press of his hard cock against your throbbing core, even through your panties and pajama pants. A faltering groan caught in his chest.

“Needier that I thought this morning,” he remarked. His warm hands drifted down to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over dark, pebbled nipples. You sighed into his mouth in response.

You heard the cocky grin in his voice, but for once, you didn’t care. You did need him. You wanted him to fuck the stress and chaos out of you.

…Well, he’d caused most of it, but still. He was gonna damn well fix it.

And he aimed to do just that, with his hands sliding farther down your body with purpose, grabbing the waistband of your pajama pants and roughly sliding them down, along with your panties. Your bare ass felt cold against the tile counter, but you didn’t have too much time to think about it with Ben’s thick fingers probing between the wet, glistening folds of your pussy. He soon found what he was searching for, circling firmly over your clit.

Your hips raised off the counter as you whimpered against his lips and ground yourself against his hand. You broke from his kiss to bury your face in his neck. Ben’s free hand grasped your hip and pulled you right to the edge of the counter.

There he held you down, his brows furrowing in concentration. His fingers sought your entrance and slipped inside you with ease. By now, he knew what angles would have you squirming, writhing, your body arching into him, while your inner walls clenched around his hand.

“Fuck. That’s right, baby doll. I’ve gotcha,” he said roughly, continuing to fuck your pussy with his fingers. His thumb rubbed against your clit between strokes.

The coil in your lower belly began to tighten, the delicious throbbing deep inside beginning to make your thighs shake. But just as you felt yourself tipping over the edge, Ben withdrew his fingers from your sopping channel.

You struggled to catch your breath in shock. Your head raised from Ben’s shoulder to glare at him. When your mouth opened to deliver an indignant protest, he silenced you with his mouth claiming yours. Your nails bit into his shoulder in retaliation, even though you knew it wouldn’t hurt him in the slightest. In fact, it only curved his lips into a smirk against yours.

You slapped him on the shoulder, immensely frustrated, but also laughing. “You’re such an assh—”

Before you could even finish cursing him, he gathered you up again and lifted you off the counter. He walked you over to the couch in the living room. He would’ve loved nothing better than to lay you out across the two-seater table in the kitchen, but he thought the shitty old wood might just give out under the strain of him fucking you. So the living room was a close second, and in this tiny-ass apartment, it was barely a few feet more to walk.

He laid you out underneath him on couch, and it groaned and squeaked under both of your weight. You squeaked too, if for a different reason. It had Ben smirking down at you. He freed himself from the confines of his pajama pants and coated his rock-hard arousal with the leftover wetness coating his hand.

“I approve of the scene change,” you said breathlessly, once again stroking his arms. Your fingers slipped over every dip and plain of muscle.

“Didn’t think you wanted to be fucked on some cold tile,” he said, even if the sentiment behind his words warmed you. You were pretty sure he didn’t used to care about that. At least, before he met you.

He grabbed your hips, lined himself up to your entrance, and his cock breached you smoothly, pushing into you until his hips fit snugly against yours.

“Oh, fuck,” you choked out, your thighs squeezing around his frame.

“Feel good, sweetheart? All fuckin' filled up,” Ben teased, a bit breathless himself. You were a tight fucking fit. He slid out of you experimentally, drawing a moan from your lips. You nodded.

“Yeah, baby. So good,” you freely admitted, panting all the while.

Ben’s hot gaze drew over you as he continued moving hard and fast inside you. He took in your every bare curve, the way hot breaths and sexy moans fell from your lips with every thrust, the way your hair fanned out underneath you and hung off the side of the sofa cushion, the way your hands still explored him and touched him, demanding, but still loving.

For that, it was all the more tantalizing against his skin, warming even the darkest places he tried not to show you.

And every drag of his cock inside you stretched your inner walls in the most delicious of ways. It wasn’t just that he was able to fill you to the fucking brim. He also just knew his way around a woman’s body. He knew you, and he knew exactly how to make you come undone. Even quick and dirty on your couch, he made you feel brand new.

He was right, damn him.

The coil deep inside you snapped. Pleasure crested through you and made your inner walls squeeze him tight, fluttering and pulsing with warmth. You came hard on his cock, hard enough to milk his release shortly after for all he was worth.

His forearms fell to the cushion on either side of your head. You were basically being smothered, but for the moment you didn’t mind. You just held his sweat-slick body against yours while you both caught your breath, each of your heartbeats falling back into a steady rhythm.

He was always so damn warm. It was nice, considering how cold it was this winter, but the thought always made you a bit sad. It reminded you of the power housed in his chest, and every memory he caged there as well.

You laid a gentle kiss on his shoulder. In return, his lips found the side of your head and hesitated there.

“You’re not going to work,” he said. It was more an observation than anything else.

You laughed breathlessly and shook your head. “Nope.”

He nodded. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

You could get behind that. Your kitchen was finally clean, which meant your kitchen was closed until further notice.

“Shower first,” you stipulated.

You felt Ben’s smile grow against your dewy skin. “All right.”

You sighed, and he guided you to your feet along with him. You had a feeling “breakfast” was going to be lunch by the time you and Ben finally escaped this apartment.

AN: Lol hope you had fun with this one! Let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! 💚💚

Spanish Translations:

Es que él es bruto, mija. Es como un animal con ropa.

It’s that he’s stupid, my daughter. He's like an animal with clothes.

However, “bruto” can also mean brutish, crude, and/or like a beast, so it fits in more than one way. 😂

Sabes que, …

You know what, …

La sirvienta

The servant (or maid) (female)

Join Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Jacklesverse Bingo 2024 Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Soldier Boy Tag List

@spnwoman @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @adoringanakin @rizlowwritessortof @chernayawidow

@midnightmadwoman @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@deansbbyx @sarahgracej @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @jacklesbrainworms

@waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @syrma-sensei @alwaystiredandconfused @globetrotter28

@mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @k-slla @deanbrainrotwritings

@jackles010378 @deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @just-levyy

@leigh70 @kmc1989 @ghostslillady @siampie @jessjad

@beautyvaliant @mimaria420 @kaleldobrev @pieandmonsters @twinkleinadiamondsky

@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2 @mostlymarvelgirl @artemys-ackles

@chevroletdean @winchestergirl2 @a-lil-pr1ncess @winchester-whiskey @spnbabe67

@cheynovak @megara0224 @yoongi-holland @illicithallways @perpetualabsurdity

@deansimpala @impala-dreamer @jc-winchester @k4marina @atenea585

@kayleighwinchester @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @star-yawnznn @number1whorehome

@g0ldfishd00dles @10ava01 @sixxteenbullets @tayl0rfanatic @everything-is-all-clear

@suckitands33 @cookiechipdough @trashmoutth @riteofpassage77 @mxltifxnd0m

@bleuatlas @luci-in-trenchcoats @valerinapetrova @spnaquakindgdom @podiumackles

@ladykitana90

@lamentationsofalonelypotato (I believe you said you would like to be tagged in this one. If not, I'm sorry, friend. Please disregard! 💚)

283 notes · View notes

sukunasbow · 9 months ago

Text

you remind me of the colour blue.

pairings: charles leclerc x fem!verstappen!reader.

warnings: slightly inspired by ‘congratulations - mac miller.’

in which you’re finally ready to go public with your relationship to your brother’s friend.

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 631,821 others

yourusername we’re headed to miami, baby 🌴

view 78,244 comments

charles_leclerc see you there ☺️

liked by yourusername

user22 yoo?? max is fuming rn

user8 bro stop it’s just a normal comment they’re friends 😭

user12 charles??!

maxverstappen1 let’s goooo! ✈️✈️

liked by yourusername

kellypiquet gorgeous as always y/n!

user11 ermmm…

francisca.cgomes so excited to see you bb 🤭

yourusername 😝 me too

pierregasly stay away from my girl, y/n😟

yourusername you mean..MY girl?

lorenzo_zurzolo y/n! you should come visit me next, mi manchi 😌

yourusername anche io! dovresti venire a trovarmi invece 🙂‍↕️

user12 y/n is friends with him?! HOW DID YOU GUYS MEET?!

user9 i think he went to a race a few years back and they met there since she was watching max, he mentioned it in a interview a while back

user39 lorenzo and y/n?? waitttt

charles_leclerc i think not

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 722,392 others

yourusername getting ready for the sprint race!!

view 59,283 comments

maxverstappen1 wish me luck little sis

yourusername always 😊🤞

user1 think she’s gonna be wishing a certain ferrari boy luck…

redbullracing see you soon!

liked by yourusername

user12 Y/N TELL US ARE YOU DATING CHARLES?

user9 sooo are you gonna address the rumours 🫢

user62 ARE YOU WITH CHARLES

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 1,283,912 others

yourusername you remind me of the colour blue. 🩵

view 822,741 comments

charles_leclerc i love you so much.

yourusername luv u luv u luv u🫶🏻

user92 SOBBING 😭 so cute

user12 omg 🥹💗

maxverstappen1 treat her well, i know where you live

yourusername cus we live together…

user4 WAIT WHAT??

user11 OH SO ITS SERIOUS OMG MY FAV COUPLE

maxverstappen1 🙄🙄

yourusername 🖕🏻

user45 sassy max lmfaooo

user9 he’s just the protective older brother rn 😭

user97 ICONIC. she really went silent for the rest of the gp then dropped this insane post

user3 why’s no one mentioning how cute the caption is 🤭 i love that song

user23 huh wdym? what song is it??

user3 congratulations by mac miller! the caption is a lyric from the song <3

charles_leclerc 📍 miami

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1, and 2,841,677 others

charles_leclerc girl, i’m so in love with you.

view 1,722,693 comments

yourusername 🥹💗

liked by charles_leclerc

maxverstappen1 🤮 eww

yourusername i hate you.

maxverstappen1 love you too little sis!

user12 the matching captions 😭 so cute

liked by charles_leclerc

user67 wait how do they match?!

user12 “you remind me of the colour blue. girl, i’m so in love with you.” MAC MILLER MY FAV!

user74 the lyrics in the captions 🥲 perfect hard launch

user92 NEW FAVOURITE COUPLE!!

user3 such a perfect couple 🫶🏻

user29 she’s so pretty 😍

liked by charles_leclerc

701 notes · View notes

domaystic · 5 days ago

Text

4th year of Domaystic: 2025 prompts!

Everything's ready for Domaystic 2025 :D

Domaystic comes from “domestic” + “May” and it's a prompt event that runs throughout May with a list of 31 prompts for its 31 days. And also 5 alternatives are back. The overall theme is that of the domestic trope: anything inside, outside, beside the house or that has that normalcy flavor of everyday life.

Anyone, in their own way of expression, is welcome to use the prompts and create: fics, art, gifs, podcasts, whatever tickles your fancy, there are no restrictions. For any questions or such, the ask inbox is always open :)

Text prompts:

1 Fraud 2 Scattered on the floor 3 Local flea market 4 The dream 5 Withered flowers 6 Sports 7 Story time 8 On all four 9 Black out 10 Stuck with someone/something 11 Scene at the parking lot 12 Colleague's fault 13 Rainbow 14 Pros and cons 15 Doing the dishes 16 National ～ day 17 Scars 18 Back to school 19 Decorations 20 It's full already 21 In the spotlight 22 Bragging 23 Stressful days 24 Embarrassing gifts 25 Picky eater 26 Funeral 27 Infestation 28 VIP 29 Spare set of keys 30 From the other side of the road 31 Home alone?

5 Alternatives:

A. Multiple winking B. Bowing profusely C. Constant yawns D. Mimicking an animal E. Covering s/o mouth, eyes or ears

-> More details under the cut!

Other languages:

Text prompts in Spanish: click here Text prompts in Italian: click here Text prompts in French: click here

General rules and guidelines

All fandoms or original content are welcome.

Any kind of media is welcome.

No restrictions in ships, size, pixels, min/max word count or language.

There are a 31 prompts, one for each day of the month + 5 alternatives if needed.

If you plan to share your work, and if you want, you can add it on the 2025 AO3 collection; or, by tagging or mentioning this blog here on tumblr, I'll reblog it.

It's okay to combine more prompts together or with another event.

You don’t have to do all the prompts: do the ones you enjoy.

Domaystic runs actively throughout May; tracking #domaystic2025, mentions @domaystic, and previous years tags too; if you tag the blog on a later date, that’s fine too, I just reblog on a lower pace after May is over.

Tags to navigate the blog: tumblr post or page on blog

Tagging your tumblr post:

Mention: @domaystic or use the tag: #domaystic2025

Tell me the fandom name or if it is original content

Tell me if it is sfw or nsfw

Tell me which prompt you used if a day# or an alt#

For lengthy posts, please use the “read more option”: ctrl-shift-k on rich text; [[*MORE*]] on html (remove asterisks)

Please, TAG PROPERLY. If there are any trigger warning, I will base my own reblog on your tags so, please, take even a moment longer to carefully tag it. I hope all participants to stay safe in this event.

Here’s an example:

This is my fic/art @domaystic !

#domaystic2025 #day1 #[altA - E if alternative prompt is used] #[fandom name or oc] #[sfw or nsfw] #[trigger warnings that I get from your post] tw

AO3 collection

As the previous years, the domaystic2025 collection will be open from May, 1st. On the profile page you'll find all the info and prompts as well.

Link to the 2025 collection: click here

#domaystic #domaystic2025 #post about the event #domesticity #domestic trope #prompt list #prompt event #multifandom #fandom event #prompts #also prompt 16 is blatantly taken from a user on r/fanfiction that has been listing such (inter)national days :D so cool #thebigbangblogproject #as always if anybody has corrections on my translations pls tell me #did I forget something? hopefully not?#weeeeeeeeeeeeeee

101 notes · View notes

ato-dato · 1 year ago

Text

Spent an hour of my day just sitting together with my sisters and my mum showing each other gomens edits. Both sad ones and thirst traps. Family bonding time.

My mum also has fanart of aziracrow kissing on her phone home screen. And today she said sometimes she just stares at it longingly. Shes in her 3rd rewatch of s2 as well.

#She's David Tennants Nr. 1 fan Im telling you #And can you blame her #Honestly I think if we sent her a fanfiction to read she'd do it #But she doesn't speak English. Sadly.#Anyway #If you know of a good gomens fanfic that's been translated into German #Hit me up #good omens 2 #Good omens #Atospeaks

1K notes · View notes

raven-ovs · 7 months ago

Text

LISTEN UP ‼️‼️

Some Italian ghesties and I have come together (as one) to bring you this doc with advice for using Italian phrases and words in fanfics!

Check it out here ⬇️

ITALIAN 101 DOC

You can find us all on X and contact us for help with translations:

@ wobbleforge

@ AlexandrMcQueer

@ ravenovs - @raven-ovs

@ noisy_void

@ elebonnypan - @elebonnypan

@ Honey_tongued_ - @honey-tongued-devil

@ itsluciferclaw

#the band ghost #ghost band #ghost #ghost bc #papa emeritus #nameless ghouls #sister of sin #ministry #fanfic #fanfiction #ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfic #italian #translation #writing help #writing resources

252 notes · View notes

azalawa-scroggs · 5 months ago

Text

About Eddie Fender and why he was a dick to Miles

I first started this post in response to something, but it got so long I decided against inflicting it on OP. This is very long and very meandering and the form is kinda weird, as a warning. It's also kinda spoilery for Ace Attorney Investigations 2.

When we first start playing AAI2 and are introduced to "Ace Attorney Eddie Fender," it's true he doesn't come across as very likeable. The first thing he says to Miles is basically "Oh, look! Here comes Manfred von Karma," and the game happens three years after the truth about DL-6 came out. That's incredibly low, very petty, cruel even. He does start off as a dick to Miles, unfair on him until he gradually realises he isn't as bad as he thought, and as he starts warming up to Miles we start warming up to him.

But also... I kind of get it.

Like... Imagine you're 19 years old. Your boss just died in a sudden and shocking murder. You inherit the law firm even though you haven't even passed the bar yet. You're grieving as you keep working hard to become an attorney, now without the guidance you used to have. Maybe you even blame yourself a little - after all, you worked on that case too, you were likely there for the trial, you left both Edgeworths to take that elevator by themselves. Had things played out differently you would have been there, too.

Did you think of your boss's son, in the middle of this whirlwind? Probably a little, but you're a 19 year-old law student. You're nowhere near a suitable place in your life to even think about fostering a kid. Besides, Gregory Edgeworth was your boss. Someone you greatly admired and whose death you will never stop mourning, but still just your boss.

(It's unclear how well Eddie knew Miles. Enough for Miles to recognise him instantly, but certainly not as close as Miles and Phoenix were.)

You take it on yourself to continue the work he left behind, to help the clients Gregory can no longer help. For ten years you try your best to uphold the reputation and the values of his firm and name, and every day you witness a little more how corrupt the system really is.

Then, one day, you start hearing about this young new prosecuting upstart. Passed the bar at 20 and already has the legal world in his pocket. Rumours of forged evidence, backstreet deals, manipulated witnesses. Not only is that just like the whole lot of them, the tactics you became so familiar with over the years - no, it sounds painfully, specifically familiar to that one long, drawn-out case, the last one you worked with Gregory. It turns out the young prodigy is the student and protégé of Mr. Perfection himself, the man who never lost a case in thirty-five years, even though he should have lost against you ten years ago if the world was even a little fair. You would hate the boy for that alone, but on top of that he's also the son of the mentor you lost, the son of the man you both used to admire so very much.

And that hurts. That none of Gregory's legacy lived on in his son. That this sweet, kind boy, who Gregory always used to worry about not making any friends, became a parody of all they used to despise.

Perhaps you even get to see him. You catch a glance of him in the courthouse corridor as he passes you by without so much as a nod to acknowledge you, or you stumble upon a picture in the same paper that struck Phoenix Wright so deeply. You see that damn suit. That damn smirk. That damn waggly finger. His features may have something of Gregory but everything in him screams von Karma. He's spent a decade trying to shape himself into him, and it shows.

Prosecutors are a privileged bunch, and the Edgeworth kid grew up into a downright brat. Entitled. Rude. Arrogant. Obsessed with his fucking perfect record. You hear he goes around cutting the salaries of detectives that make a tenth of what he does and insulting the opposing counsel in court. He became the worst of them all, taught by the worst of them all, he is everything Gregory fought against and everything you hate.

Why would you want to associate with that? Why would you ever think he is not perfectly fine where he is, with his cushy office and his cushy sports car and his doubtlessly cushy pay?

A couple years later you hear he's been arrested for murder. Maybe you follow the trial, maybe you only see the headlines after everything, after DL-6 is finally solved. Honestly, that's when you start having a reason to reach out. When, had you been less embittered and jaded by the thanklessness of your job, you might have wondered what it was like for him to grow up in the shadow of his father's murderer. You might have been stricken with compassion and horror at the thought of fifteen years spent in crushing guilt, believing he killed the father he used to love so much. You might have empathised, despite your contempt for von Karma, with how his ward might feel to be so cruelly betrayed, thrice over, by the man who raised him since he was nine, who taught him everything before throwing him away like a piece of used junk.

But you still think of how he was like a son to von Karma, of how he got to spend fifteen years in wealth, following a shiny, easy, corrupt new path while you grieved and desperately tried to keep the pieces of your shared dream together. You think of how uneasy Gregory seemed with the idea of von Karma as a teacher, you think of how eager Miles seemed to follow in his footsteps and how much Gregory would have hated it. You think of the many defendants this boy callously condemned with barely a thought, just like his mentor. Of how he may not have his father's blood on his hands, but with the way he acts you'd think he had his murderer's in his veins. And you really, really don't want to deal with any of that.

You think, somewhat unfairly, that maybe Miles ought to have seen it coming. It's not like it's much of a secret that Manfred von Karma is a piece of shit, and good riddance to him.

Three years later, you actually have to interact with him again. It's been 18 years since you last saw him in his father's shadow, looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, back when everything was so simple for the three of you. It's been 3 years since the truth about his oh-so-esteemed mentor was uncovered. He still wears the cravat. His brow is still furrowed, his eyes are still piercing.

But slowly, begrudgingly, you talk to him. You start realising he actually has some honour to him. That he's not really the Demon Prosecutor the papers made him out to be, that maybe you misjudged him a little bit, in you grief-stricken, angry bitterness. That maybe he can be trusted, after all, with his father's legacy.

Why would you think he ever needed saving?

151 notes · View notes

sentientcave · 8 months ago

Text

Retirement Party

Chapter 6 - The Butterfly Effect

Read on AO3

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, Everyone learns new things about each other, Manipulation, PTSD, Doll has a tragic backstory, Poorly translated Spanish, Lots of introspection

~4.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above but honestly nothing particularly bad happens this chapter.

John gives you space for the next few days, letting you settle in around the edges of his own routine. You’ve always been an early riser, and so is he, but he starts every day with a run, and you prefer a slower pace. You’ve taken to coming downstairs after you hear the front door close, and stretch on the living room floor (you wouldn’t call it yoga, but you’ve spent the last few years keeping up with the Kinsey kids, and you know how important it is to maintain flexibility), and make coffee before you go back upstairs to get dressed and ready for the day. John always showers first thing after his run, but after the second day he starts taking off his shirt before he drinks a glass of water at the sink, watching you from the corner of his eye to see if you’re looking.

And maybe sometimes you are. It would be a useless endeavour, pretending that he’s not nice to look at. He’s big, barrel-chested, with thick, muscular arms, and he’s hairy in a way that’s unbelievably attractive, and he gleams with sweat after his runs. If he didn’t look so damn smug every time he catches you looking, you’d probably gladly spend a few long minutes studying him. Something about the man makes your fingers itch to pick up a pencil.

You just orbit around each other for those first few days. He’s working on some project outside, and you putter around the house a bit and look for new jobs online. You were surprised that he didn’t confiscate your laptop to keep you from calling for a rescue, but he made no effort to stop you from using your laptop or your phone. Perhaps he’d really listened when you’d tried to set boundaries. He’s certainly given you space to adjust.

On Wednesday, you video call your Lola— It’s been routine for ages, since you always had Sundays and Wednesdays off from work— and catch up. You start the call shortly after John leaves, to give yourself some time to talk privately. It’s nice to see her familiar, wrinkled brown face, even if she’s half the world away from you.

She clocks that you’re not at home right away, and gets that sly, knowing smile when you tell her you’re staying with a friend. “¿Estás viendo a alguien?” she asks. “¿Un joven tal vez?” Are you seeing someone? A young man perhaps?

“No nada de eso. Sólo quedarme con un amigo.” No, nothing like that. Just staying with a friend. Once again, lying to make it seem like you’re not in trouble. It’s not like your Lola would be able to do anything about your situation anyway. You would just worry her.

Of course, Lola is much too observant not to see that you're hiding something-- Even if all she sees of you is a video call once a week, you're her granddaughter and she knows you. "Dalisay," she says, her tone a mocking approximation of sternness. "Eres una mujer adulta. Me gustaría saber que eres feliz, que estás saliendo con alguien agradable. No tienes que mentirme. Mientele a tu otra abuela.” You are a grown woman. I would like to know you're happy, that you’re seeing someone kind. You don't have to lie to me. Lie to your other grandmother.

You laugh. "¡Es complicado Lola! Él es—" It's complicated Lola! He's—

The door opens, and John limps back in, early. "Rolled my ankle," he explains, taking your wide-eyed look as concern. "Just need some ice."

"Muéstramelo," Lola demands, laughing. "Tiene una voz hermosa.” Show him to me. He has a handsome voice.

John turns toward you, frowning. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"I always call Lola on Wednesdays-- John, sit down, you need to ice your ankle, what are you doing?"

He's standing on one leg, in the middle of the kitchen, fishing a mug out of the cupboard rather than getting something cold and sitting right down. "I--"

You're not sure what possesses you, but you get up, and you make him sit, and you go to make him his coffee and wrap a bag of frozen peas in a tea towel. When you turn around, he's reached across the table to pull your laptop closer, smiling at the camera when Lola claps he hands together, beaming.

"Es guapo, Dalisay. Pero no joven, ¿eh?" She says, laughing. He's handsome, Dalisay. But not young, huh?

"No," he agrees, "soy demasiado viejo para ella. Todavía soy lo suficientemente egoísta como para intentarlo de todos modos.” I'm too old for her. I'm still selfish enough to try anyway. Lola laughs at his honesty, pleased with John already.

You set down the coffee and glare at him. But you gently set the ice pack on his raised ankle. He pulls you into his lap, sitting you on his other thigh. "John!" You protest.

"Oh, relájate, apo,” Lola chides, unhelpfully reading the situation just the way John wants her to. She seems impressed by John's accented Spanish, happy to not need to translate her words to English to speak with him. She speaks English perfectly well, but she prefers Spanish, calls English clunky and ungraceful. "Yo también fui joven una vez. Me preocupaba que ella nunca encontrara a alguien.” Oh lighten up, apo. I was young once too. I was worried she would never find someone.

"No es que ella no pudiera,” John says. "Ella es tan hermosa, pero mantiene la distancia." It's not that she couldn't. She's so beautiful, but she keeps her distance.

“John, stop that,” you say, and you do mean the way he’s talking, but you also mean the hand that’s firmly gripping your hip, kneading your soft flesh. It’s not hard enough to bruise, not even enough to hurt, but it’s distracting, and makes your heart flutter. The movement is also hitching your skirt up a little higher on your thighs.

The innocent, laughing look he gives you is no help. “Sorry, love.” He kisses your shoulder, his hand sliding up to your waist instead.

You glance over at the screen, wincing when you see two of your cousins crowded into the screen with Lola, all of them stifling laughter and one of them holding a chubby baby.

“He needs to buy you a ring, cuz,” Ligaya says, waving her baby’s chubby hand at you. “Say hello Berting, that’s your auntie Dalisay and her boyfriend.” She and her sister, Ceci dissolve into giggles. The baby laughs too, although he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on around him.

“He’s too old to be anyone’s boyfriend,” you grouse.

“He looks more like husband material to me,” Ceci crows. She points a threatening finger at the webcam. “You’d better be good to her! She’s our favourite cousin.”

“Y mi nieta favorita,” Lola says, And my favourite granddaughter, cupping her hand around her mouth as if that would keep Ligaya and Ceci from hearing her. They both laugh, unoffended, Ceci batting Lola’s shoulder lightly.

“I will,” John promises. “She makes it easy. She’s much too good for the likes of me.”

“And don’t you forget it, English!” Ligaya agrees. “Are you coming to see us for Christmas this year, Lisay? There’s at least four babies you haven’t met yet.”

“I’m not sure I can afford to this year. We’ll see if I can find work—”

“¿Qué pasó? ¿Perdiste tu trabajo?” Lola asks. What happened? Did you lose your job?

“You practically raised those niños!” Ligaya protests, as if that would change the facts of the matter. “They love you!”

You grimace, and haltingly explain that Mr. Kinsey had made a pass at you, and you’d been fired so that he and his wife could work out their marital issues. Apparently you’d been just too tempting to have around, despite the fact that you had less than zero interest in your former employer. By the end of your explanation, Lola looks ready to fight, and Ligaya and Ceci both look furious too. “It’s alright,” you say, trying to convince yourself as much as you are them. “I wouldn’t have been able to leave if they didn’t fire me. And I didn’t want to be raising someone else's’ kids forever.”

Ceci wiggles her eyebrows at you. “Yeah, Lisay, you want your own babies, eh?”

“You should start painting again,” Ligaya suggested, flicking Ceci with the hand not currently supporting her son. “You could sell prints online, portrait commissions. You’re as good as your mother, and she made it into that London Gallery.”

Lola notices the way your smile strains and shoos your cousins away. “El consejo es bueno aunque graznan,” she says. “Eres demasiado buena para dejar de pintar.” The advice is good, even if they quack. You’re too good to stop painting.

You change the subject, and Lola talks some about the children, about neighbourhood gossip, catching you up on everything before you end the call. You sigh, sinking into John unconsciously. He’s so big, and so solid, you wish you could do away with that undercurrent of fear ruining the little comfort his arms would provide you otherwise.

“Why’d you stop painting?” he asks.

“It’s not the same anymore.”

“Is anything ever the same?”

You twist to look at him. His eyes are too blue, piercing though you like he’s able to read the thoughts in your head. You have to remind yourself that he can’t, that he doesn’t know you well enough even to guess. You’re getting to know him pretty well though, and you recognize this earnestness, this plea to let him in, to let him help. John is a man who needs to do something all the time, that needs to focus on a task. You wonder what it is that nips at his heels so sharply— Is is inherent, genetic, something unavoidable, written in the core of his very deepest, truest self? Or is it just that he’s running from something, and must stay in motion, driving himself ever forward to keep it from catching up?

“Have you ever lost anyone, John?”

Surprise widens his eyes for a flickering second, before he hides it behind a tight smile. “Think we’re talking about you, Doll.”

“You don’t have to answer. I think it’s just easier to understand, when you have. Painting just reminds me of my mam. It’s like trying to swim with lead shoes on. It’s so hard to keep my head above the water that it’s easier just not to swim.”

“Maybe you could try takin’ off the lead shoes,” he suggested, his arms tightening around you. Levity and reassurance, like he knows exactly what you need. “Or maybe you just shouldn’t go swimmin’ alone.”

“A lifeguard,” you say, rolling the thought around in your head. Maybe that was the problem, the empty space was too apparent when there was no one around to fill it. You’d painted the flowers on the credenza with Ripley there, and that had even been nice. You’d thought it was just a fluke, but you hadn’t really thought about why it had been different. “That’s an interesting thought.”

“Did you have everything you’d need? We can look through the boxes for your supplies.”

You shake your head. “No. Yes. I have watercolours somewhere. Just no acrylics. But I could start with watercolours.”

“Yeah? We can look now, if you like.”

“Maybe in a bit. I’ll make breakfast first.”

“I can do it,” he offers quickly. “I want to take care of you.”

As much as you aren’t quite ready to admit it, he already is. “No, I think it’s my turn. Just give me a minute. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but this is kind of nice.”

He hums his agreement, picking up his coffee. You think he’s doing it so he can’t kiss you, and you’re so pleased that he’s starting to get it that you almost consider kissing him instead.

But you don’t. You just let yourself enjoy the moment.

Maybe that’s enough, for now.

You decide that having him sit and watch you painting would be awkward, so once you hunt down your watercolours and a sketchbook with heavy paper, you set up outside while he works. He’s constructing some kind of frame over a concrete pad, a covered porch, you think. You sit out of the way, facing the copse of trees that surround the house, and the overgrown, weedy garden. It looks like it had been set up early in the season with the best of intentions, but you suspect that it was too hard on his knees and back. He’d made the mistake of planting everything straight in the ground— You probably would have suggested planter boxes, if you’d been here in the spring. Then he could have sat on a stool— It would have helped keep the bunnies out too. The few tomatoes left on an abandoned vine have little bites nibbled out of them— Almost everything has little bites taken out of it.

It makes you smother a laugh. It’s easy to imagine John railing against nature— He’s so stubborn, there’s no way he gave up for a good long time— Cursing the rabbits and deer, leaning over the once-neat rows until his back ached. There’s a pair of rusting garden shears stuck out of the ground, evidence that he quit in a fit of pique some months ago.

He’s looking at you— He has a sense for when you let happiness slip through, like a hound picking up a rabbit’s trail in the woods. You can feel the burn of those bright blue eyes on you, the heavy weight of his attention. Does he make note of everything you smile at? You wonder how long the list is now. Puppies, the Stuart kids, Lola and your cousins, and now his poor attempts at gardening. You haven’t really let much else get past your careful, polite mask, knowing full well that stone-walling him is your best defence. He’s searching for an opening, and once he finds it, he’ll pop you open like a clam.

It seems inevitable. Still, he’ll have to work for it, if he wants you to let him in. He’s already set himself the first of his Herculean tasks, to get you painting again. It would be easier to face the Nemean lion. Your grief has sharp teeth, unblunted even after a decade, still dug deep into your heart.

“You aren’t painting,” John says in your ear. His hands settle on your shoulders, holding you in your seat when surprise would launch you a few centimetres into the air.

You turn your head to look at him, and he’s far too close. “You aren’t working.”

“Takin’ a break. You look like you’re thinkin’ hard about something. What’s on your mind, Doll?”

“Your garden. Must have been a storm of misfortunes to make you give up.”

“Few things get the better of me, but this was one of ‘em. Have to settle for buyin’ produce at the shops like everyone else.”

“It’s not really so hard.”

“You the expert in gardening?”

“No, I just used to help my gran with her garden. Picked up a thing or two about keeping green things alive.” You take a dry paintbrush and dust it over his fingertips idly.

“That the one we talked to today?” he asks.

“No, that’s Lola. Gran is the Scottish one.”

He hums, smooths out tension in your shoulders with his thumbs, catching the slightest touch of your skin at the collar of your sweater. "Didn't think you had family in the UK."

You tip your head back, looking up at him. He shifts, leaning his forearms on the back of the chair, hanging over you. "Just my Gran, she got remarried a bit before we moved to Manchester. She thought her husbands-- Well, I'll say kids, but they were full adults, older than my mam already-- She thought they were more respectable than my parents. Wouldn't categorize her as a real warm and fuzzy lady."

"You don't talk then?"

"No. Not since my parents died. We had a proper row at the funeral and she's never apologized, and I'm certainly not going to."

"Learnin' a lot about you today, Doll."

“That I’m stubborn and that I distance myself from the people that love me?” you ask, flicking the paintbrush at the tip of his nose. His whole face scrunches, and it’s kind of endearing. You’re already feeling soft about him from this morning, because Lola liked him, and because he didn’t ask if she spoke English, just launched right into Spanish that was a maybe a little rough around the edges, but good enough.

“That,” he agrees. “But I think it’s good that you hold your ground. You’re not stubborn for the sake of it, you say what needs to be said. I’d bet good money that you were in the right.”

“It doesn’t always matter who’s right and who’s wrong, John. Sometimes you have to set aside ego to make things right.”

“Tryin’ to teach an old dog new tricks?” he asks.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll teach yourself. Now go on, get. You’re distracting me.” You wrap your hands around one of his, and press a fleeting kiss to a spot between his thumb and his wrist before releasing him. “And be careful of your ankle. If you need to carry something heavy, let me help you.”

He laughs and withdraws, his shadow sliding over your page as he moves away. “Yes ma’am. You’re pretty cute when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always cute,” you say blithely.

You don’t look at him, so you miss the way he glances back over his shoulder, blue eyes burning. “You’re damn right about that.”

Ducking your head down to hide your smile, you pick your pencil up and look back to the garden. Something about the red-handled shears stuck in the soil speaks to you, so you lightly sketch it out on the page, humming to yourself quietly. The next things you need to hunt down are your headphones and the old mp3 player so you can listen to music while you paint.

There’s something soothing about hearing John work anyway. The whirr of his drill as he screwed framing lumber into place, or the buzz of his saw when he cuts pieces to size. He’s methodical, exacting— What makes him so good at building probably made him a poor gardener too. He can cut and fit pieces of wood together to make any shape he pleases, he can make a plan and nothing will fight back against it, beyond a warped bit of lumber here and there, but a garden grows as it will, and there’s no controlling the wind or the sun or the rain, let alone the creatures that might come looking for something tender and green.

That same struggle plays out between the two of you. He sees a map and a destination where you see a landscape. The journey, the exploration, is what matters to you, the light and shadow, the soft growing things and the hungry teeth that nip at the roots. In his mind he’s already built a house at the top of the hill, and he wants to pull you inside, lay you down, plant his seeds in a different garden, watch something new grow. It’s not simply impatience, but a need for control, for surety.

He exerts that control outwards, bending the world to the shape he likes. You’ve always turned it inwards, pulling in on yourself, turning your life into a safe little cocoon, turning deprivation and isolation into an art. Constructing masks to get you through, reliable scripts, being whomever you need to be to make things easier.

And perhaps it was easy, but it was lonely too.

Maybe they really had done you a favour. By pulling you out of your comfortable routine, they’ve forced you to face yourself, for the first time in ages, to ask yourself what it is that you want, to see who you are.

You feel like a butterfly, wings still damp and unfurling, perched in John’s hand. He could risk letting you fly away, or he could force you to stay by destroying some integral part of you. There’s no telling which path he intends to take, not yet.

You can just hope.

It might be insane— It certainly feels insane— but you really want him to be a good man. Not just out of self-preservation, although it probably weighs something in the equation, but because you want him. He’s right when he says there’s something here, something that’s been rolling around in the back of your mind since Ghost dumped you in his lap. It hasn’t even been a week, but it feels longer.

You keep half an eye on him while you put the first pale washes of colour onto paper. A few small versions first, to get a handle on light and shadow, colour values, just to remember how to mix colours the way you want to, and then start on the larger version, feeling a little more confident.

You’ve just blocked in the base colours when you notice that John’s limping again, and showing no sign of stopping his work. Sighing, you set your paintbrush down and stand. “John,” you say gently, putting yourself in the path between the saw set up and his lumber pile. “It’s time to take a break.”

“No, I’m fine, Doll. Get back to your painting.” He tries to move around you, but you side-step and block his path again. “It’s just a sprain,” he says, exasperated. “I’ve worked through worse.”

As if that was a good reason to ignore pain. “And you never considered that maybe you shouldn’t have had to?”

He frowns down at you. The difference in your heights has to be at least a foot, but he has a funny way of tucking in his chin and hanging his head when you’re standing close like this, and looking at you straight on anyway. A soft little hand settles on his stomach, unbidden— You’re not sure that you’ve instigated contact with him before, it’s always been him reaching out for you, his big hands achingly gentle. Is anyone ever gentle with him? Is he ever gentle with himself?

“The work will still be here tomorrow,” you remind him. “You have time to rest.”

A raindrop splashes on your outstretching arm. The two of you look up in tandem, at a heavy grey cloud that’s rolled over head— It hasn’t blocked out the sun yet, and neither of you had noticed it creeping up— and then at each other. “Guess the weather agrees with you,” John says.

You both scramble apart and into action. John covers the pile of lumber and the saw with tarps, weighed down with a few odd bricks so they won’t blow away, and you quickly pack up the water colours and your paintings. You don’t get there in time to stop a few splashes of rain from hitting the page, but you get everything inside before it’s completely soaked and set it on the kitchen table for the moment.

While you’re filling the kettle and looking outside, watching the rain splash against the window, John comes in too, and looks at your work. “The rain ruined it,” he says. “I should have been paying more attention to the weather.” There’s guilt in his voice, as if it’s his fault that the rain chose to fall where and when it did.

You set the kettle to boil, and join him, studying the paintings. Each of them unrefined— The smaller ones are just work-ups anyway, but the raindrops have warped the colours, creating voids with saturated edges. You wouldn’t say they’re ruined. There’s an artistry to incident, story preserved on paper in a way that your art wouldn’t do alone.

“No, I like it better this way,” you say decisively. “It underlines the theme of futility, don’t you think? How we’re at the mercy of the weather, whether we like it or not.”

“S’pose so,” he admits grudgingly.

His mouth is set so it almost disappears under his moustache. He really does hate the reminder that he has no control over some things. You dash upstairs and grab a couple of towels and tuck them under your arm, and take John’s hand, leading him out onto the front porch.

He follows you without resistance, although there’s a funny, curious look on his face. “What’re you doing?”

You let go, and put the towels down on the bench. “What does it look like I’m doing?” The rain is coming steadily now, the sky turned darker, sun all but blotted out, and it’s cold on your skin when you step out from the shelter and into the downpour. You throw your arms out and spin, laughing.

There are many things in this life that you can’t control. Things that are fixed, unchanged and immovable, laws of nature, the whims of weather, and Captain John Price. But you have choices too. You can try to move a mountain, but you’d be better climbing over it. You can choose to struggle against the current, or let it sweep you along. You can dance in the rain rather than wish it were sunny.

And you can hold out your hand, and invite John to dance with you.

Image Credits: Banner Dividers

#Cave Writing #Retirement Party #RP Chapter 6 - The Butterfly Effect #John Price x OC #OC: Doll #John Price x Reader #x reader #call of duty modern warfare fanfiction #It's funny to tag it that when it is like sooooo far removed from the source material #Thanks for your patience everyone! This chapter kicked my ass #transitions are hard #If the Spanish is bad please let me know it is google translated and only slightly peer reviewed

206 notes · View notes

bosbas · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 11: tell me I've got it wrong somehow

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy!fem!reader WC: 4.3k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, small part of the dialogue in French, idiots in love!!, mentions of violence (nothing too graphic), mentions of blood

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

A/N: FINALLY. except not really. oops!

June 30, 1816 – If last night’s ball was any indication, it seems Lady Y/N has lost interest in finding a husband this season. More than a few whispers indicate that the Montclairs will journey to Spain to find better prospects for their youngest daughter. Let this be a call to action to the eligible bachelors of the ton so that they might consider being more… enticing suitors for our beloved Y/N. All this, of course, is to ensure that the Montclairs do not flee to the Spanish sun at the conclusion of the season. If nothing else, the Montclairs must stay so we can avoid losing Lady Y/N’s much-needed sense of style.

Colin stared in disbelief at Lady Whistledown’s column, letting it fall from his hands as he leaned back in his bed. If you were going to Spain at the end of the season anyway, why was he still here? He’d much rather be as far away as possible from anything that even remotely reminded him of you.

Unfortunately, Daphne had given him some sort of misguided hope that staying in England would magically make you like him. Or perhaps make you hate him a little less. But it was becoming increasingly apparent that this was not the case.

He wasn’t exactly sure what had changed from one day to the next, but you could barely look at him now. After your promenade, Colin thought you’d finally put your differences aside, and he could, at some level, be grateful to Lord Barlow for that, even if the man had acted completely indecently.

But the truce didn’t last.

Just three days ago, he’d run into you on the way to your father’s study to discuss pearl diving, and his heart had nearly skipped a beat when he saw you. You looked beautiful as ever, of course, and he was just staring at you dumbly, wanting to take in as much of you as possible.

You’d been humming as you walked down the hallway, smiling softly to yourself as you passed by a particularly large flower arrangement you had most likely received from a suitor. At that moment, Colin was sure that if you ever looked at him like that he would never recover.

Colin had tried to call out to you. Maybe if you were out of sight of the rest of the ton, you’d be more willing to speak with him. But the words had died in his throat as you had looked up and spotted him, just staring at you, across the room.

Your eyes had widened, and your demeanor had instantly changed. A switch from serene to shaken so sudden that Colin had barely had time to react before you had clutched your skirts and ducked into the nearest room.

And though Colin had traveled halfway across the globe largely on his own, he had never felt so far from someone.

Even now, in his room, away from Montclair House, he couldn’t help the deep shame that washed over him as he recalled how immediately you had rushed to get away from him. And Colin still had no idea why.

That was the worst part of it all. If he only knew what the problem was, he’d fix it. He’d do anything to be with you. Colin had had more than his fair share of escapades during his time abroad, but nothing even came close to the feeling he got when he was around you. The only person he’d known to dislike him. It was a cruel twist of fate, and he’d think it was funny if he didn’t physically ache with the need to be near you.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Colin. The more he was consumed by you, the more you pulled away. He’d been doing his best to avoid social functions for this very reason, but he feared he would not be able to do the same tonight.

“Colin?” called Violet, peeking her head through his door. “Is everything alright? You look a bit…”

“I’m fine,” insisted Colin, wiping his slightly damp eyes and sniffing as he sat up.

“Anthony and Kate are hosting a ball tonight,” said Violet carefully. Colin’s recent absence from balls had not escaped her notice, but as much as she felt for her obviously lovesick son, he was not excused from familial duties.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“And you will be in attendance.”

Colin groaned. “Must I really be there? It’s one ball!”

“Actually, it’s been something like fifteen balls,” Violet shot back, unimpressed. “And I have graciously allowed you to be absent from them, but you will not miss your brother’s ball. You are still a Bridgerton. We do not miss family events.”

Sensing he didn’t quite have a choice, Colin sighed, “Very well, then. Could I at least continue sulking before we go?”

Violet laughed softly and gave her son a sympathetic smile. “It’s not a bad thing, you know. Being in love. Even if it’s a complicated situation such as this one.”

“I’m not in love!” lied Colin. “It’s just… I don’t know. It’s not love.”

Violet raised her eyebrows pointedly but said nothing, closing the door quietly as she left her son’s room.

Once he was alone again, Colin let out a frustrated groan and rubbed his temples. You would more than likely be in attendance tonight, and he needed to prevent what had happened in your hallway from happening again. He didn’t think he could bear having you practically sprinting away from him as soon as you saw him again.

Colin would simply have to stay out of sight of you. It was the only way he could stay at the ball. He didn’t ever want to look into your eyes and see the disdain and hurt that he saw three days ago. So, he decided he would be a wallflower tonight. Anything to keep you from seeing him. He would need to exercise a gargantuan amount of self-control to stay away from you when being near was the one thing he wanted, but the pained look in your eyes that haunted his sleep was enough to keep him in check.

---

Viscount Bridgerton’s ball was proving to be a supremely amusing affair. Your mother had decided that Louis should start looking for a wife, never mind that he was only two-and-twenty, and you were thoroughly enjoying watching how he was passed around from eligible lady to eligible lady.

After nearly an hour of dancing and politely chatting, your brother finally stumbled over to where you were standing. Of course, you couldn’t help but snicker as he muttered something or other about needing a drink.

“Tais-toi,” muttered Louis, crossing his arms over his chest as he crossed his breath (Shut up). “Maman veut aussi que tu danses avec quelqu'un” (Mother also wants you to dance with someone).

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Vraiment?” (Really?).

“Oui, c'est un autre duc,” Louis nodded and smiled evilly, gesturing toward where your mother was speaking to someone who looked to be at least Philippe’s age, if not older (Yes, it’s another duke).

“Non, mais je peux pas,” you whined (No, but I can’t). You thought your mother had given up on finding you a husband for this season, but you supposed she couldn’t help herself if it was a duke. Even if he were a prince, you were not so sure that you would want to speak with him.

Nigel Berbrooke and Lord Barlow, and you supposed Colin Bridgerton, too, had significantly dampened your excitement for the season. At this point, you were just looking forward to going to Paris for a few months once the season was officially over and trying to find a husband again in Spain next year.

But you didn’t even want to think about that. It felt like you were preparing for a prison sentence. One last year of traveling before you were limited to the confines of your future husband’s home with no escape other than your own mind. It was a chilling thought, and you were trying your hardest to avoid thinking about it. However, having your mother chatting you up to a duke was complicating that a bit.

Standing beside you, Louis was feeling quite annoyed after one grueling evening of speaking to unmarried ladies and their mamas. However, he knew that you had experienced about fifty times that many. So, taking pity on you, he leaned down and whispered, “Va dans le jardin, vite. Avant qu'elle ne revienne” (Go to the gardens, quick. Before she comes back).

Your eyes looked to the open doors leading to the gardens, and you decided the slightly nippy air was worth it if you could escape your mother and the unnamed duke. There were enough people outside that there was no risk of being caught in a compromising position, but it was far away enough from the ballroom that you knew your mother wouldn’t be able to find you immediately.

Flashing your brother a grateful smile and squeezing his arm, you practically ran toward the exit, wanting to get away as soon as possible. Once you were outside, you maneuvered yourself so you were hidden behind a fairly large plant, but still had a view of the ballroom through the window.

As Louis had predicted, your mother had come back to where you had been standing, duke in tow. She gave Louis a questioning look when she didn’t see you, and he simply shrugged, pointing to the other side of the ballroom. You sighed in relief, silently thanking your brother and promising to stop being quite so irritating toward him.

“Y/N?” you heard a voice say behind you.

Your stomach dropped. You turned around slowly, growing nervous as Lord Barlow came into your line of vision.

“Lord Barlow,” you said, feigning politeness in an attempt to avoid a scene. Your last interaction with him had not gone so smoothly, and you were afraid of what he would do now.

“So it is you,” said Arthur Barlow, his face contorting into an ugly sneer. He had never sounded so chilling when you were courting him, but you supposed at that time you hadn’t done yet anything to make him act so abrasive.

You cleared your throat nervously, looking around to see who else was nearby. But it seemed that everyone was too intrigued by this confrontation to put a stop to it. You internally cursed the duke for showing up at the exact moment that you wanted to be inconspicuous, but you smiled politely anyway.

“I hope you’re doing well,” you said awkwardly, not quite sure what else to say.

It seemed like the right thing at the moment, seeing as how no one, not even Lady Whistledown, knew what he’d been doing since he proposed to you. However, Barlow’s quickly narrowing eyes clued you in to the fact that it had actually been the exact wrong thing to say.

“You hope I’ve been doing well? You hope? I’m sure you do, Lady Montclair,” he said sarcastically, fury evident in his voice. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to learn that the Barringtons are positively drowning in debt. Sorry, were drowning in debt, since I had to pay off all of their debts once I was forced to marry into the family. And now I’m in financial ruin, all thanks to you. You, Y/N, have brought on the downfall of the Duke of Monmouth.”

You would be lying if you said you weren’t the least bit pleased that things had turned out poorly for Arthur Barlow. But more than satisfaction, all you felt was indignation as you looked at the pathetic man in front of you.

“I believe it was your decision alone to go outside the night of the Bridgerton ball, Lord Barlow,” you said, trying to sound as biting as possible. “It is a shame that your hubris has ruined your dukedom, but kindly leave me out of it.”

Barlow’s frown deepened and his eyes narrowed further, if that was even possible, as he practically shook out of barely contained anger.

“You harlot!” he screamed at you, raising his hand and reaching out to you.

“Barlow, you will cease at once!” came a commanding voice next to you.

You turned to see Colin Bridgerton at your side, and you couldn’t help the flutter in your stomach that you felt every time you saw him. But now was not the time to get distracted by inconsequential feelings.

“It’s alright, you don’t need to do this,” you urged Colin. “It’s not worth it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

And surprisingly, you meant what you said. As much as you disliked Colin Bridgerton, you had no desire to see him hurt, even less so because of you. In some twisted way, you cared about this man. Far more than you cared about Lord Barlow, whom you had been ready to marry at one point in time. And more than anything it made you impossibly frustrated.

Upon hearing Colin, Arthur scoffed and turned to face him. “I see you’re happy to be next in line for my cast-offs, Bridgerton. But let me tell you, she’s far too uptight, that one. Won’t even put out when you tell her to.”

Immediately, your spine stiffened, anticipation tingling through your nerves as you sensed the mounting tension in the air. Colin growled lowly, clenching his fists and stepping closer to Lord Barlow. Yet, just as it seemed he might strike, the duke swiftly sidestepped, causing the Bridgerton to stumble.

Your lips parted in a silent scream as you saw Lord Barlow aim his fist at Colin. You watched, as if in slow motion, how Arthur’s knuckles made contact with Colin’s nose, and you felt tears welling in your eyes as he fell to his knees, his head thrown back with the force of the duke’s punch.

“Colin!” you screamed, finally finding your voice. You could barely breathe, feeling like your heart was beating out of your chest.

You rushed to his side, only vaguely registering that Lord Barlow was being roughly escorted out of the garden and likely out of the ball as well. Your eyes were glued to Colin, who was groaning in discomfort and bleeding profusely out of his nose.

“Colin, are you alright?” you gasped, kneeling beside him, and clutching his arms as you choked back sobs, your heart still beating out of your chest. “You shouldn’t have done that,” you scolded, tears running down your face as you found yourself unable to be civil with him even when he was kneeling on the ground with a bloody– and most likely broken– nose.

Colin, who was clutching his nose and groaning in pain, shot you an amused look. “Do I at least get some credit for trying to defend your honor?”

He sniffed, wiping away some of the blood with his hand, and reached for a handkerchief by his breast pocket. You were staring at him, horrified, as the blood kept streaming and he winced in pain. You had stopped sobbing now, but a steady stream of tears remained on your face as the panic mounted in you.

“Colin, you shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered again, trying and failing to sound upset with him as you instinctively reached out to wipe some blood off his cheek. You hiccupped as you reached over, trembling slightly as you did, but his hand caught yours before it could touch his face.

He suddenly smiled wide, and you rather thought he looked a bit deranged. There was blood on his face and his hands and he looked more than a little banged up, but he was still smiling widely at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Can you say that again?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

“Say what? That you shouldn’t have done that?” you sniffled, wanting to cross your arms over your chest in annoyance but not wanting to let go of his hand.

“No, the part before that,” he said, smiling cheekily as he intertwined your fingers with his.

“How are you smiling after someone broke your nose?” you said, growing irritated with him but not quite letting go of his hand yet. “You could have gotten seriously hurt. That was a stupid thing to do, Colin-”

“Yes, that. Again,” he pleaded, the yearning evident on his softly smiling face as he grabbed his handkerchief with his free hand, holding it up to stop the flow of blood from his nose.

“Colin-”

“Yes, that’s it. Just say that again.”

You shot him a confused look. “Colin?”

Is that what he wanted you to say? His name?

“Yes?” he pressed, smiling wide at you. “Can you say that again, please?”

“Again? Colin, why-”

“You hadn’t ever called me Colin before,” he said, looking at you wistfully. “I like how it sounds when you say it.”

“Oh,” you gasped softly. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bridgerton, I forgot myself. It-”

“No, please,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t bear to have you call me Mr. Bridgerton one more time.”

You averted your gaze and bit your lip, suddenly feeling very conflicted. This was Colin Bridgerton. This was the man who had jumped at the first opportunity to compromise you once he heard you didn’t put out for Lord Barlow. You could not be on a first-name basis with him.

“Y/N,” he said softly, cautiously.

And suddenly you felt butterflies erupt in your stomach. Maybe you could allow yourself to be on a first-name basis with him. Maybe it felt too good to hear him say your name. Maybe you weren’t strong enough to hold him at arm’s length, and a half arm’s length would have to do.

“Colin.”

“I didn’t give him access to that terrace, you know,” Colin spoke, a hint of indignation lacing his words.

You nodded, lifting your gaze to meet his. “I know. I was looking for anyone to blame when Lord Barlow was the only one who wronged me. Your mother told me he forced the door open.”

“I could never have done that to you, it would’ve been unseemly” Colin insisted, gripping your hand tighter.

But you froze. Couldn’t he have done that to you? Based on what you knew about him, he certainly could have. But it was so difficult to parse the man who had just now defended you against Lord Barlow, who was sitting on the ground next to you and holding your hand, with the man who had wanted to continue Nigel Berbrooke’s disgusting conversation at the Danbury ball.

Feeling you stiffen, Colin’s heart clenched. This couldn’t be happening again. What had he done wrong this time? He was here, on the ground, literally bleeding for you, and you still had something against him.

“Please talk to me,” Colin begged, suddenly feeling very desperate to fix whatever was happening between you once and for all. “If you want me never to speak to you again, I will do that, but I must know. I must know why you hate me.”

You shifted uncomfortably, retracting your hand from Colin’s and placing it on your lap as you looked anywhere except for him.

“I don’t hate you-” you started weakly, but he was having none of it.

“Oh, spare me. I am not a fool. You hated me from the moment you saw me in Lady Danbury’s ballroom, even before our rivalry properly began.”

You bit your lip anxiously. If you were to tell Colin why you truly disliked him, and he was to take it in bad faith, you would be finished. Colin could tell everyone that you had been unchaperoned in the presence of two men of the ton, and given his place in society, no one would hesitate to believe him.

But it was exhausting. Hating him was far more difficult than anything you’d ever done, and you weren’t particularly eager to keep doing it. Perhaps this was the only way to let go, and trusting Colin right now would make things infinitely easier.

You finally met his gaze, feeling his blue eyes boring into yours. There was no anger in his expression, just a look of concern, with a hint of something else you couldn’t recognize.

Resigned, you sighed. “I saw you with Nigel Berbrooke at the Danbury ball before you even asked me to dance,” you explained.

A look of realization came over Colin’s face, and his lips, caked in dried blood, parted to make a perfect circle.

“Oh heavens,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed. “I apologize that you had to see that. Honestly, I would feel worse about what happened, but he really deserved it.”

“I beg your pardon?” you said, frowning. “He really deserved what?”

Colin’s eyebrows furrowed and he sent you a questioning look. “You saw me break his nose in the gardens, right? That’s what you’re talking about? I promise I’m not usually a violent man, though I’m not particularly proving my point tonight. I apologize if I scared you off; it was not my greatest moment, but I do stand by my actions.”

“You- You broke his nose?” you said, your confusion growing as you tried to piece together what Colin was telling you.

“Well, yes. That’s why he left town for a month. His face looked something awful, and he was too embarrassed to say why. Though that won’t be a problem for me, since everyone already saw my nose get broken anyway,” he shrugged, wincing as he lightly touched his nose. “That’s what you were referring to, no?”

“Oh, dear. Oh, no,” you said, mortified as the realization dawned on you.

“What?” he pressed. “What is it?”

“I didn’t see any of that. I heard you talking with Mr. Berbrooke in the hall. He said that you could have any girl you wanted and that you just had to look for one with a big dowry and good hips. And then you asked to continue the conversation outside. And I thought- I just thought-”

Colin’s eyes widened. “And you thought I actually wanted to continue the conversation.”

You nodded, barely able to meet his eyes because you were so embarrassed. “But I suppose you just went out to the gardens to... Oh, no. And when he came back into town, he told me the only reason you were- the only reason anyone was pursuing me was because they wanted what I wouldn’t give Lord Barlow.”

“Y/N, I would never-” Colin started, fury in his voice, but he was too mortified to continue.

All this time, you had every right to resent him, and yet he stooped to childish antics to spite you. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually said those things; they were completely vile, and Colin understood that Nigel implicating him in that kind of talk would have been a glaring warning for you.

The incessant teasing, snide remarks, and rude comments were a grave misjudgment. How could he have treated you so poorly? How could he have treated anyone so poorly, for that matter? He had presented the most unbearable side of himself, sometimes descending into cruelty, all because he felt insecure. You had a valid reason for your hatred, and his behavior was nothing but a misguided attempt to mask his own insecurities.

What a complete mess.

“I’m sorry,” he said, resigned.

You shook your head quickly. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I-I misunderstood and let that guide my actions. The fault is all mine.”

“Except it really isn’t, is it?” he said, reaching for your hand again, desperate to have contact with you again.

But you drew your hand back, too embarrassed that you had rushed to assume the worst so quickly. How differently the season would have gone if you hadn’t spent half the time trying to get under Colin’s skin.

“Either way, I’m so sorry,” you said, mortified as you saw just how much blood was on his face.

Colin had been willing to put himself in harm’s way to protect you and your honor. And you had spent months thinking he was one of the men who had no respect for you. You shook your head in disbelief, chiding yourself for your headstrong ways.

“I’m sorry, too. You had a real reason to dislike me, and I was just being childish,” Colin said, his eyes dropping to your mouth as you anxiously bit your lip.

If he wasn’t caked in dried blood, he might have tried to kiss you right now. He knew it would probably hurt like the devil, given that his nose was most likely broken, but he would have been willing to endure that just to feel your lips on his. But he couldn’t do it. Colin could still taste the bitter metallic taste in his mouth, and he knew he was in no state to be kissing anyone.

You nodded at Colin, fixing a stray strand of hair that had fallen out of place. “Can we be friends now, then?” you asked, half-smiling. “And not just as a favor to Eloise.”

Instantly, Colin’s heart dropped. He scolded himself for thinking you could ever consider him as a suitor. It was a well-known fact that you were looking for a titled gentleman with a large fortune. And, as a third son, he had neither of those things.

“Yes, friends,” he smiled wide, not wanting to fracture the fragile peace he had been waiting for since the moment he met you.

Friends was alright. Colin could do friends. He’d take anything at this point.

But as you turned away from him to see Anthony rushing over to scold his brother for starting a fight in his home and nearly giving Kate a heart attack, Colin felt his smile falter.

Oh heavens, he really did love you.

—

previous part || next part || buy me a ko-fi!

I no longer have a taglist for this fic, but turn on post notifications for @bosbas-library to stay updated when I post!

575 notes · View notes