yes a lot of this is not in line with what i think happened. im either playing pretend with my friends or doing fictive wish fulfilment!! please be fucking normal!!!
hello. im an adult and you can call me visions! im aroallo and i use he/him pronouns. this is where I will make posts that are Notttt going on my main fandom blog or My Main. expect to see jonelias (mostly in the form of contributing to my friends' ideas) and regency era. there's horny posts here but it's not the entire content of the blog. just like. a lot of it
If you ask me to tag for something I will do my best to remember but otherwise. idk and im Not gonna remember to tag Shit
you can be horny in my inbox as long as it's horny for the Characters. and be normal about fictives vibing with headcanons and ideas you dont or die by my fucking blade
if you disagree with my posts please for the love of fucking god just leave and filter my url so you don't need to see it. please.
documenting how getting stitches felt before I forget and obviously the best way to do that is write fic
jonathan fanshawe gives jonah stitches, warning for pain and period-typical medical stuff, drug mentions. it's loosely implied that usually when jonah is engaging in pain play with jonathan it's as a masochist dom, so some amount of role reversal from the lack of control he has in the situation (though he did consent to this)
-
It is midnight. Jonah Magnus is sat at Jonathan Fanshawe's table, bleeding profusely from his wrist onto some mostly clean rags that cushion his arm. An accident—a slip, a broken plate, a cut.
The wound's placement isn't deadly. It does, however, require urgent attention.
How lucky, then, that Jonah Magnus should happen to have a doctor for a lover.
"Are you ready?" There's a note of concern in his voice, his hand hovering in the air above the cut. Above Jonah's arm, strapped securely to the table by way of some carefully but hastily tied rope. The laudanum, while helpful, won't make him entirely numb, after all—best to minimise how much he can jerk around during the procedure to begin with.
"It's hardly the first time you've caused me pain, dear. Not even the first time you've done it—for my own good, so to speak."
Jonathan smiles, seeming both amused, and… a little reassured. "It is the first time you've bled so prettily on my table, though."
Any hesitation is stripped from his face. The needle goes in as Jonah watches.
Despite the fact that he is bracing for it, it hurts. It hurts so badly that he howls, unable to contain his outbursts, despite the pride he typically takes in stifling his reactions. It is—so small, so localised, and yet so, so, agonising.
He glances up to see his doctor's face once more.
There's no concern there. Not even the warmth or familiarity that always seems to be there. None of the neediness that he's used to seeing, when he allows Jonathan to hurt him. Merely a keen focus, a concentration on doing his job to the exclusion of all else. It's as though Jonah's cries fall upon deaf ears.
And then—he screeches, the needle going through to the other side, and then the thread is ,pulling. This, too, hurts, but a little less sharply. He sobs, softly. Everything is beginning to feel strange.
Is it the pain? The laudanum?
"Please," he says, not entirely knowing what he's asking for. For it to end, maybe, but he knows he must see it through, knows it will help him.
Everything feels too warm. Stifling. But it's not the room—it's his body. Feverish feeling, almost. Particularly with the way his limbs have begun to feel heavy, sluggish, loose.
His head, in particular, feels—stuffed. Like a particularly firm pillow, full to the brim with heaviness and base emotion, no room for his logic, reason. His rationality is drifting beyond reach.
All that remains of it is the fact that he knows it will be worse if he does not at least try to stay still.
The doctor begins the next stitches, and Jonah sobs softly, whimpers, because it still hurts, but—he feels very far away from himself. The howls and screeches he started with are not quite in his grasp.
"I don't feel well, Jonathan," he whispers. The words seem to fall from his lips without his input. "I want you to stop. Please."
That, alone, garners a response. A laugh, both comforting and mocking. "Just a little longer. You can hold on for me, can't you, Jonah?"
More pain. Jonah isn't looking at his exposed flesh, the blood pooling under his hand, not anymore, his head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling. He feels dizzy. Empty and full, at the same time.
An eternity passes, punctuated by his quiet sobs filling the room, more pain, and then there's something, a sensation, almost familiar, save for the fresh starburst of pain that it heralds.
Lips, pressed to the inside of his wrist. A little lick.
"There," Jonathan murmurs. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
All Jonah can respond with is a pathetic little whine.
There's a sigh, then. Almost fond. "Let's get you cleaned up, darling."
i dont think shipping is antithetical to good media analysis but even in situations when the romantic reading absolutely makes a story worse sometimes you have to go well. we're playing with toys. yes i know this character would not get into a conventional romantic relationship and if they did itd ruin a lot of the themes of the story but fortunately the original story still exists and i have no control over it. im playing in the space and nobody can stop me.
i know that intersexism in the Getting Molested All The Time game that is also weird about a whole lot of other things is nobody's primary concern but like. man.
