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maryangelex · 1 month

Note

Please, please, please.

I am requesting an Ex!husband John price/ Fem!reader, where they divorce and he’s absolutely devastated by it, grovels and upset that he lost the love of his life, and then years later by circumstances are in force proximity with each other and have to deal with communicating all their grievances and then bam heated smut and pent up frustrations at each other, and then get back together.

Thank you so much and I really appreciate you! But it’s also okay if you skip my request :)

a/n: anon how could i possibly leave this delectable prompt unanswered!!?!?!?! i have literally been saving this one for almost last because i need to use 110% of my prune brain its so amazing. one thing about me is...im a whore for ex-husband!price *clutches pearls* im sorry for making ya wait, i hope you love it!!!

this is gonna be a long one!

c/w: ex-husband!price, make-up sex, forced proximity, quickie, against a wall, p in v, creampie, john price yearns for his pretty wife

It hadn't been easy, no divorce is easy, really. Much less when it was something you didn't really want to do, but more so saw yourself as needing to do. The nights without John had gotten too lonely, his side of the bed had gotten too cold. You thought the times he was back would make up for the times he wasn't. When John came back from deployment it felt like a coin toss: sometimes it was your honeymoon all over again, but other times he was cold and distant.

You had two kids in tow; two kids that needed their father. You were a wife that needed her husband just as much. You don't blame him for not being there of course. After all, you owed it all to him; all you ever wanted he got for you, he provided you a house to raise your children in, to grow old in. He gave you nothing but unconditional love. That's what made everything harder when you decided you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't keep hoping he'd come home to be his normal self every time just to be met with the shell of the man you fell in love with.

You knew it wasn't his fault, you knew his line of work. But having to be alone the majority of the year plus having to still be alone when he was around had gotten to you, it had become too much. And John knew this. When you told him through sobs and wails that you couldn't do this anymore, that you felt hopeless and alone and like this was the only remedy, he understood. He had packed his things and left without a fuss, leaving you the house and renting an apartment barely a drive away. He tried to make it as simple as possible, arranging to stay with the kids every weekend and more if you needed time for yourself. His silence and compliance to separate felt like more of a dagger in your chest than the reason to separate to begin with. You wished he had fought for you, that he had yelled at you and argued with you to stay and fix this.

Little did you know that when he found himself in the empty single-bedroom apartment he rented himself he did nothing but cry like a neglected child for hours until his eyes stung and couldn't physically push out any more tears. John Price was a man made of stone and yet he found himself clutching his chest as he sobbed for his wife nearly every night and every lonesome morning. He kicked himself for not fighting for you, as well. He blamed himself for having to come to this in the first place, for leaving you alone and not knowing how to cope well enough to be the very best of himself when he came back from grueling missions. For not being able to look you in the eyes after losing a man, for not being able to open up to you and cry like this in front of you when he needed to let it out of his chest, for not making love to you like a tending husband should at his wife's every whim.

He felt like the consequences of choosing his career had finally caught up to him, and losing you was his penance.

The two of you finalized your divorce quietly and without struggle, feeling like it only drove the knife deeper into your chest. You settled on the kids seeing John every other weekend and he'd be more than welcome back home to be present as their father. Because that was the thing about John: he may have not seen himself as a good man (not good enough for you, for sure) but you both knew he was the best father your kids (and you) could ever ask for.

It's been a year since your divorce; John had been living in his separate flat whilst you and the kids stayed home. He'd come every week, and take the kids every other weekend. Now your oldest's birthday was a few days away and who were you to deprive him of coming? After he had been doing such a good job at not crossing your boundaries, at being a loving father and giving you every bit of warmth and kindness and love that he gave you when you were still together...the more you listed these things the more your heart ached and you doubted yourself. The more you realized you still loved him.

On the day of your kid's birthday, he made sure to get there extra early to help you set up the place. He bought the necessary supplies, picked up the cake from the bakery, and set up the chairs and balloons. Hell, you barely lifted a finger. And of course, he was more than happy to do everything and anything for you with that cheek-pulling smile of his. As the party went on and the house filled with guests and wild kids running about, you scrambled around the house to make sure no one needed anything. That's when John intervened.

"Everythin' alright, hon? Been runnin' round the house like mad," his voice was sweet like honey as he entered the garage, where you were taking out can after can of soda from the spare fridge and into the cooler with ice you brought with you. You didn't turn to look at him as you sighed in exasperation, but you could feel John just a few steps behind you.

"Just making sure everyone's got something to drink...the sodas've run out in the cooler outside and--"

"Everyone's havin' a good time, love," John cut off your rambling with a light chuckle, the rumbling of his voice making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He interjected by taking the cooler from your hands "Let me get that for you," he said, lifting the heavy plastic for you. You sighed again and brought the back of your hand to rub your forehead. You finally looked up to meet his eyes, which were gazing at you with so much adoration it made your stomach twist.

"John..." you started, and he responded with a furrow of his brows and a silent question. "Please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like you still love me," you blurted, and the beat your heart skipped let you know you physically regretted saying that, instantly.

John's lips pressed into a thin line as he paused for a moment in silence.

"I do still love you," he confessed. You shook your head in disbelief and scoffed.

"John, please, it's our kid's birthday," you dismissed as you turned on your heel and made your way to the door except-

Right, you now remembered why it was a rule in your house this past year to not close the garage door: the lock was busted. You gripped the knob firmly and gave it one, two, three harsh tugs, hoping to somehow force the door open. You banged the door with your fist in frustration, hoping maybe someone heard it on the other side but all you heard was the music playing on the other side.

"Let me have a go," John said, placing the cooler down and tugging just as harshly, even slamming his shoulder against it to see if it would budge, but nothing. You and John were trapped in your garage. You let out a groan and a quiet curse as you pinched the bridge of your nose with a hand on your hip.

John placed a hand on your bicep. They were cold from the ice but the squeeze and rubbing of his thumb on your skin was filled with warmth.

"S'alright, take a breather, hon," he said tenderly, "they'll miss us soon enough to come lookin' in here."

You nodded as you stepped away from his touch. You never stopped John from still using terms of endearment for you, it never felt like a big deal. You were frustrated from the party, the perfectionist in you wanting nothing but to give your kids the best party, and now you were locked up in the garage. To make matters worse, you were locked up in here with your ex-husband who just said he still loves you.

"I meant what I said, love," his voice was barely a whisper but it still brought you out of your thoughts.

"John..." you warned.

"No, I mean it," his tone rose, firmer this time, "I still fuckin' love you, baby."

"Well, it's too late for that now, isn't it? You're gonna make an effort now, John, a year later?"

John was silent, pleading blue eyes gazing at you, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

"You didn't fight for us, John. You didn't fight for me." your finger pointed to your chest firmly as you looked back at him with tear-filled eyes.

"I know, baby, I know," his voice shook in his throat, "I should've fought for us... I should've been a better husband to you, better dad for the kids I-- I should've just been there."

You were quiet as you choked on a quiet sob, the tears escaping down your cheeks.

"I haven't stopped loving you for a second, my only regret in life is not having fought harder for you, having let go of you so easily - fuck," you watched the tears prick his eyes as he stepped closer to you. His palm came to cup your cheek and his thumb wiped away the tear staining your cheeks.

"I failed you. I just...please, baby, I just want one more chance to be a better man for you... I just want my girl back." His tone was soft as if he was reciting a prayer kneeling at a pew. His other hand came to the other side of your face, tucking your hair behind your ear before it cupped your other cheek alike.

You sobbed and brought your hands up to his wrists, shaking your head lightly, knowing all you really wanted was to forgive him despite your denial.

His forehead pressed against you as he whispered once more, "Please, baby..."

"John..." you tried

The tip of his nose rubbed against yours, "Please," he repeated, "be my pretty wife again...be mine again, yeah?" His lips brushed against yours and his hands were firm on your cheeks. You sobbed one more time before his lips pressed against yours, slotting together like two pieces of a puzzle. And fuck, you melted as your lips met.

His lips against yours just felt so right; they were your husband's lips, after all. They were made for yours and yours were made for his, that's why you knew you were so perfect for each other. The way he kissed you made your chest break into a million pieces because you just missed him so much.

The hold on his wrists became limp and you didn't resist - you couldn't resist his kiss because you wanted it so desperately, you've wanted it for this entire past year.

Your mouth moved with his, lips clashing and caressing against each other, teeth clicking together with the force of your desperate kisses, your tongues hungrily pressing their way into each others' mouths. John's hand slid to the back of your head, fingers snaking into your hair and raking through your scalp. You hummed into his mouth at the feeling.

Your hands slid up his back, balling into fists over his shoulder blades and gripping the fabric of his shirt as if you'd lose him again if you didn't hold him firm enough. You held him impossibly close to you as he did the same, your bodies familiarly molded to each other.

You felt John step forward as he still kissed you, backing you up into the nearest wall and it made the heat in your core ignite like a bonfire. When you felt the cold wall against your body, you pried your mouth away from his to gasp a breath but it wasn't half a second later before he captured your lips again. His hands slid down the frame of your body, pawing at your chest and curves before eagerly bunching up the skirt of your dress around your hips. You scrambled to his belt, clumsily and hurriedly doing your best to unbuckle it and undo his pants.

He scoured under your dress to tug your underwear down your thighs with messy urgency. His lips sloppily and wetly trailed up and down your chest and neck before finding their way back to your mouth.

Your hand palmed his hardened length through his boxers and he groaned into your mouth. One of his hands took hold of yours and stuffed it in his boxers to stroke his aching cock as you both panted between kisses.

"All yours, darling," he groaned as he guided your hand stroking his cock, "forever fuckin' will be yours."

And you whined at his words, or maybe at the way his other hand snaked between your legs, fingers wetting themselves with the slick pooled between your folds before pressing into your hole. He pumped his fingers in and out, making you reminisce on how those thick digits have made you feel so good in the past.

You moaned his name like a prayer, pleading for him to fuck you because you needed him. You've needed him for a fucking year and couldn't wait a second longer.

John would give you anything and everything, he always has. So he wasted no time in removing his fingers from your pussy, coating his cock in the slick they collected, and using his other hand to hike your leg up around his waist.

You braced yourself against the wall and with your hands against his shoulders as he practically lifted you off your feet and insert his girthy, swollen cock inside of you. You moaned unabashedly at the way he split you open as he bottomed out.

"So perfect...my perfect wife," he breathed, "made just for me, baby." His fingers dug into the flesh of your thigh and you were sure it would bruise the same way your nails clawing through his shirt were sure to leave crescents on his skin.

John pumped his cock in and out of you slowly but firmly for a few strokes before picking up the pace. His rhythm was relentless as he fucked up into you, pistoning his hips and making your skin clap against each other.

You threw your head back as you whined and moaned at the feeling of the head of his cock bullying against your cervix. Thank god for the music outside.

John hiked up your other leg, wrapping both around his waist as he fucked you against the wall hard and needy. His eyes looked deep into your teary ones, not breaking away to not miss the gorgeous sight of his pretty wife getting fucked by him after so long. He moaned at just the look on your face, at the way your walls gripped him like a vice.

"Look at you... never lettin' go of somethin' so beautiful," he practically slurred, his rhythm becoming sloppy and desperate as he chased his high, and he knew you were close too.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and took his mouth into another starved kiss. Your hands tugged at the hair on the back of his head and you let him fuck you with the same longing and desire as the first time.

You chanted his name between breathy moans as you climbed up to your climax. John was a mumbling mess of endearments and sweet nothings as he kept thrusting hard and sloppy into your squelching pussy.

"I love you, John," you choked out through tears, not knowing if it was from the pleasure he was giving you or from the overwhelming emotion being with your husband again was making you feel.

"I fuckin' love you more, dove," he accentuated his words with thrusts until he felt your walls clamp around his length and watched as you wailed and sobbed out more moans, sending him into his own climax with just a few more pumps shortly after. You were sure you'd bear him a third child with the way his cum seeped out of you.

He rested his sweat-coated forehead against yours as you both panted. You were a flushed mess against the wall, limbs liquefied and throat raw. John slowly let you down with the utmost care in the world, gently holding you up on your feet like you were a delicate porcelain doll.

You held each other close as he peppered soft kisses on your face, the same way he'd always done after sex when you were married. John Price, always the gentleman.

You basked in the afterglow as you gazed at each other, love filling John's wide dark pupils. It was hard for you to hide the smile that tugged at your lips and it made John chuckle, thumb rubbing your cheek lovingly.

Then, you heard the rattling of the door and you quickly stood up straight and collected yourself up on your feet the best you could. Kyle, or Uncle Gaz as your kids coined him, and the other two men had burst through the lodged garage door.

"Oi, how long you two been locked here?" he questioned.

"Aye, we been callin' youse for half 'n hour," the Scott quipped behind him.

John scolded them for not acting quicker if they were so worried, and scowled at the way the younger two had shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. He dismissed them as he picked up the cooler, which was now more full of water than ice, and shot you a look.

You chided at his smirk with your bright red cheeks.

"This mean I can move back in?" he teased.

"We'll see, John" you fought back a smile.

#cod mw2 #call of duty mwii #cod fanfic #fanfic #john price #anon ask #anon request #thanks anon!#price mw2 #captain john price #captain price #price #price x reader

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astroboots · 6 months

Text

Heatwave

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Summary: Santiago and you try to occupy yourselves during another heatwave in Florida.

Rating: Explicit, edging, bratty-ass behavior from one Santiago.

Pairing: Santiago x female reader (you)

Word Count: 4,000

Homecoming Universe | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' masterlist

At what point does a spiking high temperature no longer count as a heatwave and just becomes the new average temperature for the local area. Is it after the third or sixth heatwave in a month? And for that matter, how many record breaking high temperatures can one summer have in store for a state that is already known for its hot climate?

Fuck! Why did he move back here again?

Santiago is melting. Lying slumped against the cool flooring of the bedroom where the breeze reaches. He's stripped off his clothes, wearing nothing but his boxers and staying far away from any walls because they are fucking radiating heat. At one point he's pretty sure he saw the edges of the walls wobble from the inferno temperature raging outside... either that or his vision is blurring out on him.

It must be what? 150 degrees, 200?? He doesn't care what the weatherman is reporting, there's no fucking way it's only 110 out there.

Leaning his head back down on the cold wooden flooring for reprieve, he can't remember the last time Florida got so hot. (If it has, he hasn't been here to see it).

Shit, it must be even hotter than that time you drove him down to the airport, what was it now, ten or twelve years ago? It got so fucking hot that the radio was warning about staying away from the highway because the tarmac was at risk of melting.

No one in their right mind would've gone out on the road that day. Except you of course. In your shitty little Volvo, with a broken A/C and a clutch that creaked with every change of gear. It's lucky the old piece of junk made it to the airport at all, and nothing short of a miracle that you made it there in time.

He can still see it in his mind's eye. The way your hair was matted with sweat as you pulled up to the drop off point. Still remembers how his old t-shirt was glued to every inch of his sweaty back as he peeled himself off the passenger seat. How, even as disgusting as the two of you felt, drenched in sweat and smelling like two dumpster diving raccoons, having been trapped on the highway for over an hour in that heat, you had held onto his torso as if you were never going to let him go. Your pinkie wrapped around his, so tightly, he was sure the blood circulation was entirely cut off as you told him in no uncertain terms: "You better fucking come back home in one piece, Santiago."

A smile breaks out across his face at the memory. From a distance he can hear the familiar sound of your footfall from the hallway, followed by your voice echoing all the way upstairs as you call out for him.

"Santiagoooo!"

If it wasn't for the heat, he'd call back in response to you. But all the strength is zapped out of him. Plus, he suspects that the reason you're calling for him is to rope him into helping Frankie with the latest crazy home project the man's set on finishing this weekend (and in this heat Santiago's not going anywhere near that).

"Honey." The endearing nickname has him smiling even wider. His mouth parts, just about to respond to you when he hears the rest of your sentence.

"Frankie needs help sanding down the fence."

Bingo.

No way in hell he's responding now.

He can hear you opening and closing doors all over the house in search of him. You'll find him eventually, but it doesn't mean he's not going to take his time enjoying the last few moments of being in the safe shelter out of the sun.

There's a soft click as the door to the bedroom opens. From his limited view on the floor, he sees glimpses of your feet from the corner of his eyes as you march in front of him until you're standing above, looming over his form.

"Santiago. I was looking for you everywhere."

He lets the hand resting on his thigh slide down to the front of his boxers without thought and that catches your immediate attention.

There's a sharp and sudden inhale from you, as if the air is spiked. You look like you've forgotten how to breathe properly.

You liked that huh? The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he holds eye contact with you.

"Sorry, must've dozed off."

"Har, har. Stop lounging around half naked and acting like a thirst trap. Frankie needs help with the fence."

"It's 200 fucking degrees. I'm not going to do that. Frankie can finish his home improvement project when Armageddon isn't happening outside."

You shoot him a small frown. Arms crossing in front of your chest.

He pats the space on the floor right next to himself, as he continues. “Come lay down with me for a second to cool down. You look like you might be overheating. Don’t wanna get heatstroke or anything. Frankie can wait a few minutes.”

You don't move from the spot, making no move to join him. "Poor Frankie is doing all the work."

Santiago's itching to retort that there's nothing "poor" about Frankie's situation. Man is having the time of his life out there. He loves doing these projects.

But Santiago keeps his mouth shut. Because he knows if he doesn't, he'll inevitable set you two up for a back and forth of who's right and wrong, who wins and who's losing the argument, trying to one-up each other the rest of the afternoon. And it's not that Santiago doesn't absolutely love doing that with you but...

Peering up at you, the way your lips are swollen with heat and parted as you look at him, Santiago has a much better idea of how he wants to spend the rest of the afternoon with you.

"Just a little bit, sweetheart," he says, doing his best to sweet talk you as he pats his free hand over the same spot on the floor in invitation. "Come sit with me for one minute, and I promise I'll go help Frankie okay?"

Glancing over your shoulder, you throw a quick glance over the window, probably to check in on Frankie.

"Just a minute, okay?"

"Mhmm. Just one."

It doesn't take more persuasion from him than that. Next thing he knows, you're walking over to him. Soft steps and an even softer gaze in your eyes. Then you sink down on the floor and sit down on the spot right where he patted.

That was... surprisingly easy.

He'd expected more resistance from you. Was fully prepared to do a filibuster marathon to try to convince you to join him. Hadn't quite expected you to just... give into him the way you just did. He blinks up in surprise, at your face mere inches away from him. He's not fully sure what just happened. You've never turned down an opportunity to put up a fight with him before.

You stare down at his chest and bare stomach, lingering there. You swallow down reflexively as you take him in with heated eyes.

Huh...

Santiago knows the effect he has on women. He just never knew he had that effect on you.

As arrogant as it sounds, he knows he's a good looking man. Knows that he's charming to boot. But the relationship between the two of you, for all the love that you had held for each other, had always remained platonic back in the day. You don't look at him the way other women do. And Santiago doesn't flirt with you the way he does with other women. Those were the unspoken rules you two had set for each other from the start and it's all you two have ever known.

And while things have changed now. While Santiago's seen the heated looks you give him when he's in bed with you, your relationship has remained largely unchanged outside of it.

You still pull him up on his bullshit when he's earned it. Never hesitate to square up with him in a competition for anything.

This... This is new.

He taps his bare thigh, almost experimentally to test his theory. He doesn't miss the way your pupils dilate with interest, and as always he can't resist the urge to goad you.

Not when you're eyeing him so appreciatively, in a way that you've never done in the past in all your years of friendships until recently. He figures he's earned the right after all this time to be a little bit obnoxious and revel and preen in the attention from you.

"Cariño," he calls out, until your eyes pulls back up to his face. "Eyes up here," he teases.

You roll your eyes, smacking him in the chest. It's supposedly a playful gesture, but you do it with enough strength that it knocks the breath out of him.

"I know," you retort, but your eyes drift back to his chest and then continue downwards and the attention has heat spearing through his limbs.

"You're still looking," he teases, and his hand snakes down over the plane of his thighs, reveling in your attentive gaze. "Didn't know you were such a perv."

By now you'd usually retaliate or cuss him out, but you don't.

Instead, you continue to stare, eyes blown wide as if you've been cast under a spell, mesmerized.

He palms himself through the front of his boxers, and he can feel the rush of blood rushing down and away from his head as his cock stirs to hardness. If Santiago was considered full of himself before this, it's nothing compared to how he feels in this moment with the way you're looking at him. Your expression blank, like the sight of him has made you lose your ability to speak. Mouth parted, the glistening pink of your tongue peeking out, as if you would devour him if he'd let you.

"Should I give you a show then?" he asks.

After all, if you want to look, he's more than happy to give you something proper to look at.

You nod with an eagerness that has your head bouncing up and down like the bopping bobble head toy Frankie keeps on the dashboard. Santiago lets out a laugh that's more breathless than he had expected from himself. He blames it on the heat.

Dragging down the edge of his boxers, he keeps his eyes on yours as his fingers wrap around the base of himself and his cock jumps in response to the touch.

Shit, that's good. A sweet spike of pleasure runs through him at the languid touch, and he feels breathless with it. His cock is slick with precome that drips down the length with each slide of his hand.

Running his hand up the rigid length, the calloused skin graze against the sensitive skin. Pleasure ooze and drips inside his chest and down his limbs, until his legs tremble with it. Santiago's touched himself countless times before but it's never felt like this before.

Maybe it's the heat that's getting to him. Or maybe it's the way you're inching closer with each passing second until you're practically straddling him on his lap. You and your soft and perfect thighs pressing down on his own, keeping him pinned onto the floor as he tries to keep going. The heat he can feel from between your legs, through the thin layer of cotton that's pressed onto his bare skin. Yeah... maybe it's that.

Santiago goes slow and languid as he touches himself for your benefit. And as ridiculous as it sounds it is for you. Because if it wasn't for you, there's no chance in hell he'd be going this slowly. He'd be fast and almost sloppy, squeezing down on his cock until the desperate need that's riding his spine lets go with his climax. If you weren't here, gorgeous eyes all focused on him, with a look that he wouldn't even let himself dream of in the past, he wouldn't want to prolong it the way he is.

Even now, with the strained effort of taking it as slow as he can possibly stand, he's not entirely sure how long he'll last. He feels like he's on a precarious edge, his climax taunting him, swelling up and simmering with a slow burn in his stomach.

Your torso tilts forward, squirming in his lap, with the tiniest movement every time his hand moves upwards, in time with his strokes.

You're practically riding his thigh, and Jesus fucking christ, that isn't helping Santiago's situation right now. At this point you're both going to come dry humping each other like horny clueless Mormons on their wedding night.

"Sweetheart, wait--" he tries, but you press yourself down on his thigh all the same, and he can feel your sweet slick drip down on his thigh and coat him with it. All he's capable of is a deep and shameless moan.

His cock twitches in his hand, and for several alarming seconds, Santiago thinks that's it. That it's already too late and he's going to come right then and there, spilling himself all over his hand and stomach.

Santiago squeezes down hard around the base of his cock to stave off the needy sensation.

"Shit," he hisses. "Fuck. fuck. Sweetheart, gonna need you to--" he doesn't finish his sentence. Can't spare the seconds it would take to properly think. One hand is already reaching out under your dress (thank god you're wearing a dress) wedging your panties to the side, his other pulling you closer by your waist until your pussy is lined up with the swollen head of his cock.

He doesn't even have time to move his hand in place to grip at his cock before you push down on him. Heat streaks through his insides until his lungs feels like they're burning. Your perfect pussy envelops all of him, every single throbbing aching inch with slick warmth and perfect pressure until his vision whites out.

Fuck, why is he so fucking sensitive.

He can't... fuck, he can't hold on. A desperate groan tears out of his throat and he buries his face into your neck to hide from the sensation that has him surrounded.

He thrusts upwards, canting his hips until you're taking all of him.

Pleasure singes his entire spine, and it burns him alive with it. The heat is unbearable, sweat is plastered to his back, but it doesn't matter. Santiago's skin is damp and sticky, but he's still pressing you closer. Wants every inch of you, warm and gorgeous and so fucking soft, pressed against him in every way he can have you, and he's still not sure if that'd be enough.

Wants to make up for every year, hour, minute and second that he'd wasted of his life, being away from you. Wants all of that even if it kills him.

Planting his feet on the wooden floor for leverage, he grabs your hips to force you down as far as you can take him. Until your head throws back with a high-pitched whine, palms pushing down on his chest as if it's too much for you to handle, and he lets go, sinking down his hips back towards the floor, until only the tip of him rests inside you.

He gives you a handful of seconds to catch your breath. Then he grabs your waist and push you down on his cock. Again, and again. To the gorgeous sounds of your keen moans and whines all blended into one, as you're sobbing out his name.

Forceful, deep thrusts that has tears pushing in the corner of your eyes. He keeps going as the sweet aching heat has him drunk and euphoric on you, with each and every rise and cant of his hips.

He's not going to last. Shit, shit, he's not going to last like this.

But that's okay. Because judging from the way you're grinding against him. Needy and desperate. Your cunt squeezing so tight around his cock it makes it hard to breathe, you're not going to last either.

His hand strays down below your stomach, sliding between your legs until his thumb catches at your clit, slippery and wet, and absolutely dripping for him. You sob at the contact, wracked in shivers as he continues to rub smooth little circles over it, and he can feel just how close you are.

You're perfect. Eyes squeezed shut, head tilted back in surrender, a high-pitched whine escaping your throat and oh fuck Santiago was not prepared for this.

His brain stalls out, hand stopping as his movements comes to a still to take in the sight before him because...You are so fucking beautiful like this.

"Santiago, what the fuck, make me—" you're slapping his shoulder, voice high pitched and desperate that makes his spine tingle as you grind on him. "Fuck make me cum, don't be an ass."

Fuck what is he doing?

Santiago's not sure. Not sure why he's stopped, even as every nerve and muscle in him is screaming for him to chase after the pleasure until both of you are coming.

Not sure why he's just sitting there dumbfounded. Except, this is everything he's wanted for so long that he's denied himself and he realizes that right now— it's here, landed in his very lap. You're the woman he's loved for so long, no matter how much he's denied it to himself, and he just wants to make this moment last.

All he knows is that he doesn't want this to end.

"Wait, sweetheart," he murmurs, even as you squirm from his grip pinning you in place. "Just give me a second. Want to remember this," and he means it with more sincerity than he ever thought he had left in him as he stares up at you in complete awe.

He wants it to last.

Not just out of a ill-placed sense of pride. Not just because he knows you're going to give him shit for coming too fast.

He just wants this to last. Wants you in his arms like this. Wants you to look at him, just like this, like you need him to survive, more than your next breath. This. This. This. He wants it to last forever.

You don't listen to him though. Of course you don't, because you never make it that easy for him. Your hips roll against him, grinding with desperation until his cock nudges something devastatingly perfect that has him convinced his brain is melting.

Shit, he has to stop. Oh fuck oh fuck, he's too close—

"Stop stop," he warns, hand gripping down on your hips to stop you "Boa, Stop— fuck you're gonna make me—"

But it's too late. It's already happening. He can feel his cock pulse and throb as he spills himself inside of you, shuddering through his orgasm— and fuck this was not how it was supposed to go down.

Everything slows. It's everywhere, rushing through him with a chaotic frenzy as it wrings him dry. The euphoric sensation overcrowding everything else, and his head feels like he is going to split with it. He can't think. Can't breathe.

But even in his post-cum haze he knows you still haven't come and he can't have that.

Santiago grits through it. Biting down and clenching on his jaw to ride through the over-brimming sensation that threatens to burst out of his skin as he continues to thrust into you.

Oversensitive and overstimulated. Every slick slide of your perfect pussy has him gasping for air. It's too much. Like live wires are running through his skin and every cant of your hips against him sets every receptor in his brain on overdrive. His cock is so sensitive, he can feel every fraction of you wrapped around him.

And it's perfect and it's good. And it's just so fucking much.

You're burning hot. He feels feverish and on the brink of delirium from the heat. Like he's inside a live furnace, but he doesn't want to stop. Can't stop. Not until he's seen your eyes roll into the back of your head. Not until you've come apart for him.

Locking his arm over the small of your back, he flips you over, onto your back. Pushing his free hand between your bodies until his thumb is rubbing rough little circles on your clit again.

He keeps going, pushing inside even as every nerve at him is screaming for respite. Santiago doesn't stop though. You're so close, and he just has to hold on even as each flutter and squeeze of your cunt is pushing him over the edge of too much.

Doesn't stop even as your gorgeous eyelashes flutter dramatically, your eyes rolling back as you kick your leg out and finally, finally comes on his cock.

The sensation of your climax punches the last breath out of him. He can hear himself whine pathetically into your neck.

The overwhelming tightness of you, your pussy squeezing and clenching down over and over, as if you're trying to wring and empty him out of anything he has left him. It brings him to his knees and collapses into you.

Everything feels sticky and clammy. Both of you drenched, as he's pinning you down with his weight. He feels weightless and heavy all at the same time. It doesn't make sense and shouldn't even be possible. But it certainly didn't help him in his efforts to move

To the protest of his exhausted limbs, Santiago rolls over to lay on his back next to you there on the floor. Both of you sweaty and panting.

God this might have been a bad idea.

It was too fucking hot even before all the physical exertion, now it's like an inferno. He's seconds from passing out. But at least the floor is marginally cooler against his back than the surrounding air, while you're laying there catching their breath.

Every inch of him thrums with pleasure, and his body practically tingles with the afterglow of his climax. But he can't help the scowl on his face. He's mentally cringing.

He came too fast.

Shot his load like some overeager virgin.

And there's no fucking way you wouldn't have noticed that he came before you. It's only a matter of you catching your breath, before you start giving him shit about it.

He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, preemptively trying to come up with some kind of defense or comeback but nothing comes to him. The only thing that fills his head is the image of your eyes from seconds ago, gazing down on him, looking at him the way that deep down, through all those years of platonic friendship, for all the way he's tried to repressed it, he's always wanted you to look at him.

It's so fucking stupid, but his stomach flutters pleasantly at the memory.

"Hey, Santiago...?"

He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face trying desperately to pull himself together. Because even though he knows it's coming. Right now he feels too naked and raw, without protection to brace himself at whatever joke you're sure to make next at his expense.

Feels a little bit too exposed after that perfect moment of having everything he never let himself acknowledge that he wanted right there in his arms.

He swallows, bracing himself for the witty remark, as he responds to you with a weak, "Yeah?"

You don't say anything.

Instead, he feels just the barest touch against his hand, and he looks down. Your fingers slides against the heel of his hand, searching for his hand before you find his pinkie and curl around it. He drags his eyes back towards your face and you have the softest smile on your sweaty, gorgeous face.

"I'm glad you're here," you say, there's no sarcasm there. Your voice is soft and quiet, and so sincere.

He doesn't know what is happening to him but his chest constricts and is drawn so tight it's painful. And suddenly he's blinking back tears. Call him dramatic, but for a brief moment Santiago swears the chest pains are a sign of cardiac arrest, until you grip his pinkie tighter and the pain eases.

"Yeah...." Santiago nods. Has to clear his throat before he can get the rest of the words out from the lump that is lodged in his throat. "Yeah, me too. Sweetheart. Me too."

Sweat sticks to his back, and the heat is unbearable. But he doesn't want to move. Doesn't ever want to leave this spot with you lying next to him.

He'll never admit it out loud. But he knows why even though he hates Florida with every inch of his soul, he'll always find his way back here. Why no matter how far away he goes, a part of him will always be left behind here. A long long time ago in the drop off zone of Miami International, on a disgusting hot and sweaty day just like today, he made a promise. He promised that he'll always came back home to you.

Dedication & Credits: To my dearest @thirstworldproiblemss who came up with that DEVASTATING concept of the pinkie holding post-sex.

Follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#oscar isaac #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago x reader x frankie morales #frankie morales #pedro pascal

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richiehugs · 3 months

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Chris

An old friend of a friend.

Chris is your average 5'11 / 180cm Middle European guy with a remarried mom and a rich father. He used to spend his summers with friends and family in exotic places, or at some local beach.

He was a skinny boy in the early 2010's when he had just turned 18. He was a sporty guy, playing football and doing karate, and of course, he liked to party.

After his graduation, he got a job at an airfield as a security guard, and let's say, it wasn't as active as he might have expected.

Because he started piling on the kilos. He was exercising less, but still going out with his friends and traveling with his family and his girlfriend. He was enjoying life, but life had some unexpected turns for him. He was becoming less and less active on social media, he wouldn't post anything shirtless anymore. He wouldn't take his shirt off anymore even around friends. He knew he got chubby, and he was feeling embarrassed (though it wouldn't stop his beer-bellied friends to mock him - what are friends for, right?).

But then, in 2017, he met a girl at his workplace. The circumstances of the end of his previous relationship are unknown to me. But he was starting to look happier. And rounder.

He must have passed 100 kilos around 2018 - and 110 around 2019. His girlfriend was obviously pampering him, living at his parents house, they didn't have to worry about the slightest thing. Only his weight and his figure. His clothes were dangerously tight, showing every curve of his swollen body.

So he married her. He became a father. And then the pandemic happened.

For anyone he knew from before, he got unrecognizable. From 2020 to 2023, he must have been bounced further up to 120, or even 125 kilo / 280 pounds. His double chin was covering his entire neck. His moobs were resting on his belly, which formed a round ball under his shirt. Sucking it in wouldn't help anymore.

Due to the pandemic, he had to leave his job as airports for closed. He started a job at IKEA as a sales manager. Must have been the stress and the IKEA food that turned even him to a meatball.

But sadly, before turning into Nikocado, another turning point - his wife left him. The reason is again, unknown, but my bet would be his ex gf.

His ex was starting to spend more time with him, and boom, they made up. The girl had become a fitness coach - some sort of freak running marathons and such. Well, Chris has never run a marathon - but he has tried running before.

He started off 2023 with 120+ kilos, beautiful, obese, an aspiring superchub, growing uncontrollably 20 pounds a year - by the end he must have dropped around 20 kilos. So at around 100 kg / 220 lbs, he remains thick, he still has a dadbod, but sadly his best days have faded away. His ex, the old-new gf changed him, his lifestyle, his perfect shape, but he is happy.

This was the story of Chris, a friend of a friend. From 75 kilos to 125 kilos - and then back to 100. The pictures are from 2011 (18yo) to 2023 (30yo).

Not an influencer. Not sharing any names or socials. Please, don't reuse any of the pictures.

#chris #weight gain #belly #chubby #bhm #fat #dadbod #wg story

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 8 months

Note

AITA for threatening to get my best friend sectioned?

This actually happened 2 years ago, but last night he made a joke about it that kind of seemed like he might still be mad at me about it. So. Anyway, ages and all are written as they were at the time.

For context, my (18m) mom took guardianship of my friend (17m), called “J”, after his grandfather passed, a few months before this happened.

Not going into specifics, but J has struggled with OCD and an ED for years, and I suspect when he’s an adult he’ll probably get diagnosed with Narcissistic Personality Disorder at some point.

(Update from the Present: no dice… yet.)

A close family friend of his passed away and it caused his mental issues (particularly the ED) to get a lot worse really quickly.

Even thought my mom was technically his guardian, she kind of relied on me to keep tabs on him because he’s usually pretty honest with me compared to other people. Like, if he’s not doing well, I have the best chance of finding that out.

So. His family friend dies, he gets worse, I report all of this back to my mom, who starts trying to get some sort of more intensive treatment lined up for him (difficult and time consuming because of where we lived at the time).

My mom tells me not to tell J, because he “talks a big game” about not wanting treatment or whatever and she firmly believes it’ll be easier if he doesn’t have time to stress himself out about it before it happens. Okay. So I don’t tell J.

Somehow, he finds out anyway, and also finds out that I knew and had chosen not to tell him, but doesn’t tell me that he knows. (Convoluted, I know, sorry.)

I pick J up from an after school thing one night, we end up talking about pretty heavy shit in the car for a /long/ time, and after the conversation died, he put a hand on my shoulder, leaned over, and kissed me. And like not a short kiss either. It was like a 3 to 4 second kiss.

Context again, I realized I was gay and that I liked J in a not particularly friend-like way when I was 13. I never told him and never planned on telling him. I told him a lot of things but I intended on growing old and dying with that one kept nice and secret. Even if he was some form of not-straight, which I was 99.99% sure he wasn’t, I didn’t think it was worth jeopardizing my closest friendship with romantic and/or sexual feelings that could at best confuse him or make him uncomfortable or at worst outright disgust him.

Anyway. We don’t talk about it, I end up going to stay for a few days with a guy (20m but not really relevant) I’d been sort of seeing/sleeping with for a couple months because I literally couldn’t be in the same house as J or I would probably implode.

Fast forward a week, I’m picking J up from a hospital 2 towns over because he ran away (? unclear really, haven’t discussed the particulars w him and I wasn’t staying at home at the time) and ended up having to go to the ER.

In the car (best time to talk to someone because they can’t run away), he apologizes for kissing me. I’m thrown off by that, because he hadn’t said anything up to this point and it honestly wasn’t even in the top 5 things I was thinking about.

I asked him why he did it and he just sighed and explained in this tone of voice that, I don’t know how to explain it, but had just the right lack of empathy or affect that I knew he was being 110% honest.

Condensed version: he found out I was reporting everything he told me to my mom (still don’t know how). He was pissed. He was aware he needed more intensive treatment, and he knew my mom was aware. He did not want treatment. He knew I had liked him for years. He knew that I was relatively fragile about it. He knew that if he did something (like kiss me for example) there was a good chance it would break my brain and I would freak out.

He essentially kissed me to decommission me for a few days so he could formulate a plan to run away.

FINALLY we have arrived at the AITA part.

After hearing all this, I tried very hard to come up with something rational to say, but ended up saying (essentially), “You’re fucking insane, and I’m telling my mother you need to be committed.”

I know I wasn’t wrong to be angry. But I also know from past knowledge and experiences that he had a deep fear of being deemed “insane” or unfixable or whatever, and also that he was really afraid of treatment in general.

Idk. I go back and forth on whether or not I was out of line, or needlessly escalating the situation, by threatening him. It was a much bigger threat in his mind than it was in mine, and so even though I know I said it as a reaction to a fucked up situation, there’s still the idea that I blew it completely out of proportion and weaponized his own mental issues against him.

So AITA for threatening my best friend by telling him I was going to get him committed to a long term psychiatric hospital?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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moony-2001 · 7 months

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What the ✨actual fuck✨ is the Lore Olympus timeline? I never tag anyone, but @genericpuff @minthe-lover if y’all want to add onto or comment on this please I’m all ears.

You’re telling me that in Persephone’s first week in Olympus in the FIRST 2 DAYS she:

Is given an excess amount of alcohol, blacks out, and wakes up in a unfamiliar man’s house with no idea how she got there or what happened to her

And after returning the next day she is r*ped by her best friend’s brother

Are you fucking kidding me.

It gets worse. This next photo is week 2

First of all, all this takes place within the course of 3 days. Three. Days. Within 3 days:

Hades breaks up with Minthe, his on-again, off-again partner for years, after a week of officially dating (unsure of whether or not they actually broke up 2x or if that’s just a typo)

Persephone has a traumatic fight with the man who r*aped her in which he tells her that he doesn’t care about her or her well-being and that she “doesn’t have like to like him to be his wife”

PERSEPHONE STARTS HER FIRST ACTUAL DAY AT WORK IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THEIR FIGHT

And either within the same day or early the next day, she kisses a man who she a) has known for less than 2 weeks b) IS HER FUCKING BOSS and c) JUST DUMPED HIS LONGTIME PARTNER FOR A CHILD HE BARELY KNOWS

And yeah Persephone is a child. When they kiss she’s like what a fresh off the boat adult? Barely 20 if I’m not mistaken? While Hades is thousands of years old? What the actual fuck.

Mind you, all of this happened within the first 2 weeks but has spanned across 110 episodes.

What’s worse is that pretty much everything leading up to the trial takes place over a month. A single month. 4 weeks. You wanna know how many episodes fall in that month? 190 out of the 250 episodes. That is over 3/4s of the series (that is available so far) that is dedicated to a single month.

I can’t. I hate this comic so damn much. Deadass about to become an anti LO blog /jk

#rant #lore olympus #anti lore olympus #anti lo persephone #lore Olympus timeline #timeline #what the fuck #unpopular lore olympus #unpopular LO #lo critical #lo criticism #lore olympus criticism #lo critic

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siempre-bucky · 2 years

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Sunscreen

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob burns. Your daughter gets very paranoid when he forgets his sunscreen one morning and insists on bringing it to him.

wc: 1.4k

a/n: ahhh my first bob fic. I just love the idea of him as a dad!

“Do you have everything?” You called from the kitchen, the rustling of objects from upstairs perking your ears.

“I got it, darlin’,” Bob told you kindly as he trotted down the stairs while zipping his tan backpack.

Beach football had become a tradition since the first game almost seven years ago. One football emoji from Maverick in the team’s group chat would have everyone rushing off base or nearby homes and gathering on the beach across from the Hard Deck. Bob would smile every time but quickly turn off notifications and grimace as Phoenix and Hangman started their taunts.

The blond wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your cheek, “Don’t come home with a bloody nose, please,” you jokingly pleaded, pushing up his aviator glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Your husband chuckled and draped his backpack over his shoulder before walking over to the other side of the counter. His hand playfully grabbed hold of one of his daughter's space buns and pulled her closer. “Be good for your mom, Ames” he told her as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m always good, daddy,” the six-year-old sighed dramatically and looked up at him, her matching aviator glasses slipping off the nose that also matched her father's.

“I know, but as your dad, it’s my job to say it,” he reminded her matter of factly before offering a quick ‘I love you’ and ‘I’ll see you later’ to his favorite girls.

Amy returned to her coloring book, her cheek resting against the palm of her hand as she meticulously colored her half-finished page. You leaned against the counter and watched as he walked towards the front door, casually eyeing him up and down with a smirk appearing on your face as his yellow shirt rose slightly. “Gross,” Amy mumbled under her breath after hearing the door shut.

You playfully scoffed and tugged on her other bun before kissing her forehead. “One day when someone catches your eye, baby, the payback will feel so good,” you chuckled before leaving her to her coloring book.

The house was still.

Like her father, Amy was a quiet child and her soft voice only ever rose when she was in distress or angry, which wasn’t often. “Mom!” she cried. Your blood turned cold at the shrill tone of her light voice, the basket of clothes collided with the wood floor.

“Amy,” you breathed as you hurried into the room, your heart pounding against your chest. The little girl stood in the center of the kitchen, tears filled to the brim as she looked down at the cylinder spray bottle in her hand. You came closer and got down on your knees, instantly looking for scrapes. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, moving the can towards you. “Daddy left his sunscreen,” she told you meekly.

Your face instantly softened as she passed it to you. Amy was never the same after last summer when the sunscreen was left in the room while you were out in the hot weather. Bob came back a bright blinding shade of red. The sounds of his pained groans and restless nights still haunted Amy. She hated to see her dad in any kind of pain or even slight discomfort.

“He’ll probably borrow Aunt Nat’s sunscreen,” you tried to reassure her, taking your finger and pushing up her glasses.

“But it’s his special sunscreen,” she grumbled, her eyes slowly narrowing. “We have to go give it to him!”

You looked down, the bold labeling reading: up to 110-degree protection. A laugh threatened to escape your poorly concealed smile. Bob swore by this stuff, proudly taking it with him everywhere during summer outings since the incident. “Ok,” you gave in, “we’ll go.”

The salt air was refreshing, the seagulls wailing loudly from above and the testosterone-fueled shouts were not any less quiet. You took a quick glance inside the windows of the Hard Deck, sending a quick wave to Penny before Amy pulled on your other hand.

“I see him!” Amy gasped excitedly, seeing Bob sitting in the sand with some of the other aviators while they reset for the next game. She let go once she noticed you watching, taking off towards Bob. “Daddy!” she called.

Bob’s eyebrows knitted together as he heard the familiar voice, he looked up to the sun wondering if he was overheating. The voice called to him again, the voice huffing and puffing before standing in front of him, her little shadow blocking his slightly pink face from the blazing sun. He looked down in surprise, “What are you doing here?” he asked with a grin.

“You left your sunscreen at home,” she said as she pulled away, showing him the can.

“She was adamant about bringing it to you,” you chimed in from behind. Bob’s torso turned and he wrapped his arm around your calf to pull you closer to his side.

Bob chuckled and took the can, pressing his kiss to her cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’,” he hummed. Amy put her hands on her knees and inspected his face, noticing the small patch of red forming on his nose. There was only one way to get her to relax. Bob popped open the lid and removed his glasses before spraying it all over his face. “Is that better?” he asked, one of his blue eyes opening to see her reaction.

She was about to tell him to spray his face once more but a gasp left her throat as she was hoisted into the air and seated on broad shoulders. Her eyes were screwed shut and her arms had a death grip around the person’s neck. “I didn’t think I’d get to see my favorite girl today,” he said.

Her eyes opened once she heard his Texas drawl. “Jake!” she giggled, her eyes opening widely and a bright smile forming on her lips.

“Come to save your old man from losin’, baby bob?”

Amy blushed and shook her head bashfully. It was no secret to the team that Amy had a little crush on Hangman. “No, daddy left his sunscreen at home. I didn’t want him to get burnt.” Jake looked down at Bob and tsked, teasingly shaking his head in disapproval before carrying Amy off towards the water.

You took a seat next to Bob and looped your arm around his. “You know I just borrowed Natasha’s, right?” You couldn’t help but smile at the small laugh he had in his voice, it was your favorite sound in the world.

“I know,” you sighed, resting your head on his clothed shoulder. “You should have seen her face. She was worried you looked like a lobster.”

“I was doing just fine,” he hummed, turning to kiss your temple. “I promise.”

You looked down at his sand-ridden forearm. Raising a single eyebrow in suspicion, “You’re looking a little pink there,” you smirked, nudging him with your shoulder. Untangling your arms, you moved to sit on your knees, taking the can from its spot in the warm sand. “You could always…” your voice faded off as you eyed him up and down, hoping he’d get the hint.

Bob noticed the slight change in your tone and watched as your thighs clamped together while your eyes examined his clothed chest. “Baby,” he said in a low voice.

"Lift," you said sternly. He did as he was told and lifted his arms so you could spray his strong arms. You looked over, Amy was still sitting on Jake’s shoulders as he ran her down the beach, her little arms held the red football tightly to her chest, and giggled as the guys tried to reach for it. “She’s with her fan club,” you murmured before dragging in your lower lip.

The blond gave in and took off his shirt, gently placing it over his backpack. “This is what does it for you?” he joked, pointing at his pale skin.

“Very much so.” You nodded happily and started to spray his chest and back. Goosebumps started to form from the cold mist, naturally flinching to get away from it. “You should keep your shirt off,” you told him, sending a wink in his direction.

He pulled you in for a kiss, “You would like that wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” he mumbled against your lips.

“You guys are so gross!” Amy whined as she trotted towards you, plopping down right in between your bodies. Bob rolled his eyes and took back the sunscreen, spraying a little on his finger and dabbing it on her nose. She pouted, yet still nuzzled against his bare chest. “Thank you,” she sighed, scrunching her wet nose.

Amy shifted into your lap after the team called for Bob. He groaned and stood up from his spot, instinctively reaching for his t-shirt. A low hum of dissatisfaction rumbled from your throat, his head whipped towards you and caught your knowing expression. “Fine,” he sighed before walking back towards the beach, looking back to see your grin. He looked down at Amy and pushed up his glasses, making his daughter giggle and do the same.

#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd fanfic #bob floyd fluff #top gun #top gun maverick

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misteria247 · 8 months

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Ya know something Twilight is kinda lucky that Midna isn't with him anymore cuz she would 110% throw his ass under the bus with all the reckless, idiotic stunts he's pulled. Like she'd ruin his mature, responsible image. Like imagine-

Wind or Sky going to jump off something and Twilight goes to stop them, telling them to be careful and then Midna at that moment:

"You're one to talk. You literally jumped off of the Hylia bridge with zero hesitation."

And Sky and Wind just look at Twilight in this baffled awe. And Wind's instantly like:

"Oh so me and Sky can't jump off of things but YOU on the other hand-"

And he just gives Twilight absolute grief cuz he's literally 13/14 years old and it's not often that he gets to be relentless towards the country boy. Meanwhile Sky's trying to figure out how to invite Twilight to go jumping with him cuz now he has to know if Twilight can correctly jump off of things safely or if he just wings it.

Or perhaps Hyrule and Wild end up getting into trouble, and it involves fire and monsters and Twilight's reprimanding them for being so careless while Legend is watching all of this go down then Midna pops up and goes:

"Ya know, if I recall correctly I believe that you too at one point set something on fire. Hmmm perhaps a house, trying to get a shadow insect?"

And there's this dead silence before Twilight let's out this sputtering:

"YOU KNOW THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT I DIDN'T MEAN TO-"

While Legend completely loses his shit cackling cuz holy hell he did not expect the sweet country rancher to set a house on fire. Meanwhile Wild's instantly on his mentor's case demanding to know the details while Hyrule is hella curious in figuring out how Twilight even managed to accidentally set someone's house on fire.

Or maybe it's a late night and Time and Warriors are just chilling and talking about all the somewhat unsettling things they've encountered and Twilight's just really uneasy hearing how nonchalantly his mentor/ancestor and brother are talking about this stuff and Midna comes up next to him and chimes in:

"Aw don't look like that, you've faced some pretty nasty stuff too like the Shadow Beasts so this shouldn't be so surprising."

And the other two overhearing this just kinda stare at the duo before Warriors breaks the silence with:

"What in Din's hell is a Shadow Beast?"

Que Midna explaining what they are and how Twilight fought them by basically mauling them too death as a wolf while Warriors and Time just give him this look of 'We're talking about this at a later date.' While Twilight desperately wishes for the ground to swallow him whole.

Or maybe Four is talking about something risky he'd done during his adventure and Twilight's like saying that it's dangerous and that Four should be a bit more careful in the future and Midna's like:

"You literally shot yourself out of a canon willingly. I don't think you've got no room to really tell anyone to be careful."

And Four just stares at him in this silent way, eyebrow quirked in a 'Oh really now?' Kind of way while Twilight glares daggers at Midna who's way too amused.

Like I can just see Midna pulling up the most embarrassing and unhinged stuff that she and Twilight had experienced on their adventure just to fuck with him while Twilight slowly dies on the inside lmao.

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pumpkin-spice-whump · 25 days

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Okay I got a little more confident. Here's the first chapter.

This is a while after Jack had first been kidnapped and sold. This is the first chapter of the book, the other one was a flashback. (Sorry that's confusing. It'll make more sense with the whole thing)

Jack bangs his head against the wall. 106. He lazily lifts his neck and drops it again. 107. He decided he was on his way to beat his all time high of 318 a while ago. He only stopped then because he blacked out for a second, and he figured that repeatedly smashing his head into the wall wasn’t the smartest.

Except who the hell cares what the smartest thing to do is when you’re bored out of your mind.

108.

Not ‘oh there’s nothing on TV’ bored. Bored like Jack only has eight books in his cell anyway, and never mind the fact that he’s already read them all so much he’s got them memorized, but also the light has been flickering and if it goes out then he’ll be in darkness for months on end so he might as well just sit in darkness now by choice. So that’s what Jack did. He took a nap. Again. And then sat in darkness and banged the back of his head against the wall because that was better than letting his mind wander.

109.

Jack can never let his mind wander. When it does he always ends up sobbing so hard he throws up, or plots how he can potentially end his own life.

110.

If he lets his mind wander he might think of his mom. He might think that she’s forty eight now, and he missed another Christmas with her. He’ll think about how terrified he was when he was grabbed and thrown into a van. How he never even thought about that happening to him and so he had no idea what to do except lash out and kick his attacker.

He’s still got the scar on the side of his head from the man’s rings.

111.

Jack will think about the times he’s tried to keep track of the days on the wall next to his bed, but he just gave up when he stopped being aware of when was day and when was night. He had a little breakdown that day, when he realized that he’d been there so long he didn’t know exactly how long anymore.

112.

He’ll think about the fingers he lost for trying to run. The way he limps every time he walks and keels over every time he breaths. He’ll think about the part of his ear that--

113. 114. 115. 116.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up!

Jack had a TV once. One of those big box TVs with the VHS player attached that he hadn’t seen since he was in elementary school. He played the few tapes he had basically 24/7. They weren’t good movies, he saw Joe Dirt so many times he dreamt about him, but it was something. Human voices to occupy his time. Voices besides his painful memories and… Mr. Reeder.

117.

Mr. Reeder isn’t the man who first took Jack. Once, in a bout of quiet contemplation much like this one, Jack let himself realize that he was in fact a victim of human trafficking. In his mind, trafficking was only for sex slavery or organ harvesting. But he was kidnapped, and then sold. For money. It’s not like he’s got Google on hand, but Jack’s pretty sure that’s the definition.

118.

No, Jack’s actually got no idea who first threw him in the car. He was walking home from a friend’s house. Not even a friend, just someone to hang out with so he wouldn’t be bored.

Man, 15 year old Jack had no idea what boredom was.

It was dark. He had headphones in playing music. He was alone. He was an idiot.

He never heard the car pull up beside him. Someone grabbed his shoulder and he turned around to ask them what the hell, but by the time he understood what was going on he was already in the man’s arms, hand over his mouth and phone tossed to the street. Jack had kicked out, managing to kick his attacker in the shin, but it didn’t stop him. He was thrown into the trunk of the car, and before he could even catch his breath to call for help, he was knocked out.

The whole ordeal probably didn’t take more than two minutes, if that. No time for anyone to hear a scuffle and come looking.

Jack woke up later to his arms and legs tied up, duct tape around his head, and the feeling of blood on his face.

119.

He doesn’t like to think about the early days. The constant fear and exhaustion that took hold of him. That still does if he’s being honest. He likes to think he’s more resigned now. Apathetic, if you will.

It makes stomaching his own existence a little easier.

120.

He lifts his head off the wall once again, but pauses before he can get to 121. Jack is a very very good listener, out of necessity. So despite being a floor down and many walls away, he can always hear Mr. Reeder’s car pulling into the driveway. No matter how many times he heard it, Jack can never stop the way his body tenses, the way his heart rate picks up. He swallows and stares up at the ceiling, waiting for more.

It’s been a few days. Mr. Reeder would leave to go to work every day, and sometimes he’d go somewhere for a night or two. But this has been the longest ever. Jack had woken up and went to sleep eight different times (half were naps, he knew, but even still it was at least four days.) He’s running out of food. Even if he didn’t see Mr. Reeder every day, he at least knew he was home.

Sickening that this is his home.

The door upstairs slams and Jack can’t repress a flinch. He stares up into the darkness, eyes following the sound of heavy footsteps across the floor. The footsteps stop. Jack holds his breath to listen, the only unwelcome sound that of his own heavy heart.

A slamming door is not good. Stomping across the living room is not good. What kind of mood is he going to be in?

Jack gasps and flinches at the sound of Mr. Reeder yelling, a wordless, angry shout, and then something crashes to the ground above him. Another shout and crash. Another. And another.

Mr. Reeder’s throwing things. So it’s safe to say he’s in, what Jack would call, a not good mood.

He tries his best to tune out the sounds above and focus on himself. He needs to calm down before Mr. Reeder gets here, or it’s going to be worse. Freaking out beforehand helps no one, and he ends up being in pain anyway so, you know. What’s the point. Jack closes his eyes (he can’t see anyway) and takes long, deep breaths in through his nose, and out through his mouth. His ribs flare painfully with each inhale, but Jack welcomes it. It grounds him. Lets him know he still exists, in this painful body and dark basement. He still exists.

Unfortunately.

Jack makes himself keep breathing as the footsteps get closer and closer, making their way down the stairs and stopping just outside his door.

It never gets easier. The suspense of waiting for his captor, it just never does. Even if his mind knows it’s going to be the same old same old, his body was terrified. It was tired of being hurt, of being hungry, of being tired and bored.

Sometimes he’s so bored he’s actually excited, not nervous, when Mr. Reeder comes. Oddly enough, this was not one of those times.

The keys jingle. A lock clicks. And Mr. Reeder pushes open the door.

Jack squints against the light from the basement filtering in from the cracked door. He lets out his last inhale and stares down at the heavy boots in front of him. They weren’t originally that dark of brown, but … you know. Blood.

Mr. Reeder just stands there for a moment, staring at his captive. He’s silhouetted against the light so Jack can’t see his expression. Jack waits for him to say something, anything. He doesn’t.

Jack clears his throat. “H-hi Mr. Reeder.”

“Shut the hell up.”

Jack nods, looking at the ground, heart pounding in his ears.

Mr. Reeder’s hand shoots out suddenly, gripping Jack by the hair and hauling him up out of his room. Jack hisses in pain, hands clawing at the fist tangled in his hair. If it was up to him, he would’ve shaved his head ages ago. But Mr. Reeder would never give him a razor.

Jack kicks at the ground, trying his best to get his feet under himself enough to relieve the pressure on his head. His bad leg howls in protest at the sudden actions, but he does his best to push through. As he begins to be dragged up the stairs, Jack grits his teeth to stop from crying out, knee painfully banging against each. Individual. Step.

Each step, Jack is able to brace the pain a little more and become more aware of what exactly was happening.

He is going upstairs. He hasn’t been upstairs since he first got here. The current circumstances are much different than those last time, so why the hell is Mr. Reeder bringing him upstairs?

He begins to fight.

Jack has been doing this a long time. Longer than he actually knows, but he’s positive it’s years. He’s an adult probably old enough to drink. That’s a long time to become a professional at getting your butt kicked. And being a professional victim, Jack knows that the less you struggle, the easier it is. Easier to deal with the pain, faster to get it over with, and easier to stomach your own cowardice… Or resourcefulness. He’s a survivor, that much he knows.

So he only fights back when he’s really scared.

And he has reason to be. When Jack was just a brand new greenie kidnappee, demanding to be let back upstairs, Mr. Reeder had leaned down, close to his face, so close that Jack had to lean away from the smell of the peppermint gum he was chewing.

“The only way you are ever going back up those stairs,” he said lowly, coldly, “is if I want to see your brains on the wall in natural lighting.”

It was the first time that Jack had thought I might not make it out of here alive. It took him a much longer time to accept it.

Apparently he hasn’t accepted it at all, Jack thinks as he wrenches his head out of Mr. Reeder’s grasp and dives to crawl away from him. It was never going to work but he needs to try.

Jack Thatcher was NOT taken away from his mother for years just to be shot in the head by some isolated lunatic. At least, he wasn’t going to without a fight.

Mr. Reeder grabs him easily, yanking him back by his bag leg, stretching it out. Jack can feel poorly healed bones in his knee scraping together, pinching the long disused muscles around them. He let out a shout before Mr. Reeder pulls him by his waist instead, hauling him into a room and slamming the door shut and sitting in front of it, trapping Jack inside.

With nowhere else to go, Jack pushes himself into the corner farthest from his captor, arms protectively shielding his right knee. His chest heaves and he can feel the stupid tightness starting in his throat that happens before he cries. He hates crying in front of Mr. Reeder, but it is continuously unavoidable.

Mr. Reeder sits in front of the door, catching his breath as well. He runs a hand through greasy hair, staring at the ceiling. He sighs heavily, like his life is the one here not worth living.

Tragic.

With his captor temporarily distracted, Jack takes stock of his surroundings. A mattress with no sheets is pushed against the corner opposite himself, some dirty clothes thrown at it’s end. A cracked mirror is attached to a dresser, dust slightly distorting the image of the ceiling. Behind Jack is a window half boarded up, letting a sliver of light into the room, washing over his captor. It looks like it’s golden hour outside.

Jack’s struck with the thought that this is the first time he’s seen the sun since he went down those stairs. Really, since he was thrown into that car as a teenager. He always had a blindfold on, or he was transported at night. The most fundamental, most simple and base thing a human has access to, Jack hasn’t for years. Still just out of reach.

His attention is brought back to Mr. Reeder when he sighs again. He warily looks up at Jack. “You’re lucky you know.” Jack doesn’t move. He’s heard the ‘you should be glad I’m not worse’ speech before. “You have no idea what you’ve missed. No idea… what you’ve been spared. What I’ve spared you from.”

Jack only watches apprehensively. His body is tight, poised like he’s ready to try to run again. Where, with Mr. Reeder blocking the door? That’s for future Jack to find out.

“I didn’t mean to spare you from it,” he goes on. “Heaven knows that wasn’t my intention. I think you could have benefited from being in the middle of it all.” He chuckles and Jack shrinks away even more. “Oh the look on your face would’ve been everything… Oh well. It’s just about over anyway.”

It’s nonsense. Utter nonsense. Mr. Reeder is certifiably insane, no doubt about it. He’s gone on long manic monologues before, Jack’s heard about everything.

He’s never seen Mr. Reeder pull a gun from his waistband though.

He can’t help the sharp intake of breath, the sudden urge to run! Run now! Go! He’s got no idea what to do with it so he just stands up, so quickly it doesn’t even hurt, and backs even further into the corner. Mr. Reeder always threatened that he had a gun but Jack had never had proof until right now.

Mr. Reeder looks at him from under his brows. “Sit down Jack.”

All he can do is shake his head, breaths coming out fast and shallow. The floor is liquid beneath his feet, making his body shake where it stands.

The gun clicks and points right at Jack. “Sit. Down.”

He slides down the wall, hands up. His throat bobs with a swallow, just to do something with his mouth other than sob. Tears fall steadily down his cheeks and his lower lip trembles.

Mr. Reeder, satisfied with Jack’s cooperation, relaxes his grip on the gun, hefting it like he’s simply judging the weight.

“There wasn’t much time,” he says. Jack shifts his focus from the gun to his captor, staring with wide eyes and frayed nerves. “I was trying to think about what to do with you but… I mean there just wasn’t much. I’m not sure I would’ve done anything even if there was. You’ve said it yourself Jack, who wants to die alone?”

His eyes meet Jack’s for the first time and Jack can see… tears. Welling in them. It only terrifies him more. “Mr. Reeder…”

“Shh. Shh sh sh.” He shakes his head, working his jaw. “Do you believe in God, Jack?”

Jack swallows. “I don’t know,” he whispers, voice catching on the words. “I used to.”

“What about heaven and hell? Think those exist?”

Jack can feel the panic claw up his throat, making him want to sob and scream. “I hope so.”

“Hmm… I wonder if hell will be any worse than earth.”

This is it then, Jack thinks. He’s going to take us both out, as a sick end to his sick life. He’s bored of me and now it’s over, it’s all over.

“Mr. Reeder please,” Jack begs, tears blurring him, “please don’t. Don’t do it.”

He furrows his brows, and looks down at the gun. He shakes his head. “See you in hell, Jack.”

#whump #captivity whump #gun tw #my writing

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misguidedasgardian · 1 year

Text

The Winter Sun

Prologue.

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen Reader

Warnings: Cursing, death of characters, medieval and asoiaf customs, death at childbirth

Wordcount: 1.4 k

Notes: Reader’s mother is a Stokeworth, I chose this house because they are from the crownlands, they are mentioned in the current stories, and their sigil is a lamb and their motto “proud to be faithful”, i think is funny. Reader will be very shy and naive… so there it is jeje

110 AC. 4 years after King Viserys marriage to Queen Alicent

The night was cold, a storm raging outside the castle, its winds seemed to shake the very foundation of the huge castle.

The King was awakened, as was the Queen who was sleeping right next to him

“Your grace, a noble lady has died in childbirth tonight”, the guard whispered. Viserys grumbled, with the sleeve of his nightshift he rubbed his face, trying to shake sleep away from him

“That is unfortunate Ser Harrold, but I truly doubt that is a reason to wake up the King!”, he said

“It was the daughter of Lord Stokeworth, your grace”, he whispered, but Viserys still couldn't understand what he meant

“What is it, Ser harrold?”, Alicent asked

“The babe, your Grace, was born with Targaryen features, and the Lady’s mother had confirmed it… the babe is your niece”. Viserys then finally understood it, jumping form the bed and dressing quickly in a robe

“How could you let this happen?”, he barked at Ser Harrold

“You had forbidden them from seeing each other, but he did not listen, they must have been using the secret passageways”. Viserys had betrothed his brother to a Baratheon girl, but apparently, he was in love with someone else, this girl from House Stokeworth

“I understand”, he grumbled

Ser Harrold guided the King through the corridors of the Red Keep, Alicent soon followed. They walked towards the chambers of members of the court, and from outside of one of the rooms, they could hear the wailings of a newborn baby

“A girl you say?”, Lord Westerling only nodded. Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King met them there

“Your grace I have been briefed on what happened”, he said efficiently

Viserys nodded, and entered the room

A Midwife and a Septa were both there, calming the babe and placing her in her crib from them to see, and they bowed as they saw him. The king and queen walked until they leaned in, to watch the babe, she had the silver hair of the Targaryen family, from old Valyria

“She is a bastard your grace, we can take her to the Septas, or the silent sisters”

“She is not a bastard!”, the king whispered, “she is my brother’s child”

“They never married your grace”, whispered Otto

“You are the King”, Alicent whispered, her hand gently caressing his arm, “she is your niece…”

“Of course, as King, you are entitled to declare her as legitimate”, Otto said, looking at the baby in her cradle.

Aegon, King Viserys and Daemon’s younger brother had, apparently, been having an affair with a Lady of a lesser house, who in her state was kept in secret by her family. She died in the birthing bed, and the child? a small, silver haired beauty, growing in her mother’s belly right in the Red Keep, under everyone’s noses

The whole situation was troubling, and was proven to be a headache to the Hand of the King as he watched the babe wiggling in her crib. She wasn’t crying, but the little noises she made were proving to be a future storm, like the one that was raging outside.

Otto thought long and hard about this one… she was a nobody, a bastard, a silver haired one at that… Did she mean trouble? he didn’t think so.

“You can always send her to dragonstone, to be raise amongst other Dragon seeds”, Otto whispered, but only one look from Alicent and Viserys shook his head

“Never”, he said firmly, “she is my niece”, and Alicent smiled. “Call in my brother…”

“He is in Braavos my lord, negotiating with the Iron Bank…”

“I don’t care”. He said with a faint smile, looking down at the child

The very next day, they gathered the court in front of the Iron Throne, right in front of it, in the center, a cradle was placed, with the baby girl inside it

Viserys stood from the Iron Throne, coming down those treacherous steps, until he was standing right in front of the baby girl, who looked up at him with eyes that reminded him of his brother.

“I present to the court this day, (Y/N), daughter of Aegon of house Targaryen, and Lady Falena of house Stokeworth their legitimate daughter, they had been married in secret, therefore I Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the first men, lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm, declare this child a legitimate heir to her houses, and I present her as Princess (Y/N) of House Targaryen!”. He gently place the blade of Blackfyre in the rail of the crib, and the court applauded

A small lie, that nobody was going to question

The Stokeworths wanted to see her, only after he legitimized her, but he wouldn’t let them, taking the baby girl in his own chambers, where Helaena, of only 2 name days and Aemond, his own newborn, where living.

The babe was a Targaryen now, a dragon, not a sheep.

Aegon was known for his wild character, he took after his mother, Alyssa Targaryen, but contrary to Daemon, his own brother, he also followed his father, he was a joust, responsible man, and Viserys had relayed on him many of the diplomatic missions. He had this easiness to him, but he was a dragon trough and trough, so he helped greatly to the crown in as many aspects as he could.

When he heard what happened in the Red Keep, he flew back on his fearsome dragon Vhaelar, a white she dragon, fearsome beast, hatchling of Vhagar, his father’s dragon, her egg placed in his crib when he was born.

He felt mixed feelings on his belly, for one, happiness, he had a daughter, a healthy daughter who looked just like him, and on the other side, terrible sorrow, the love of his life was dead. Falena was dead and he wasn’t there on her side as he should have. He thought he could go to Braavos and return before the ninth moon, but the baby came early.

Nothing could stop him, the maester said he jumped off the carriage that awaited him in the dragon pit and he ran all the way to the Red Keep.

He trampled everyone on his path until he reached his nieces’ rooms inside the Red Keep, where he saw her, his baby girl, on her crib, being accompanied by her cousins.

A breathed a relieved sigh when he saw her, healthy, beautiful, so tiny, so cute, looking back at him with eyes just like him, but filled with innocence.

He grabbed her gently and placed her against his chest. The baby cooed in his arms

“Hey you”, he greeted gently, he touched her little hand and she grabbed his finger with strength, “hey little one”

“Brother, you are home”, greeted Viserys, entering his rooms, “I’m glad, how are you going to name her?”, he asked softly

And with a long sigh, he named you.

“You can stay here, brother, she can be raised alongside her cousins, she will lack nothing… no love, nor comfort, nor food, she will…”

“I’m taking my daughter home”, he sentenced

“And where is that?”, the King asked. Aegon only smiled.

Viserys never saw his brother again, he had said he had a castle whe bought from a broken family in the Vale, where he raised his daughter there. He was a father now, so he relinquished all his responsibilities as a representative for his brother, his only job now was going to be to care for his child, his only child, who he loved with all his heart

The next time Viserys saw his niece, her ten year old’s face was covered in tears and snot running down her nose dangerously towards her mouth.

His brother, her father, had died from a fever. And she was now on the doorsteps of the Red Keep, with trunks of her clothes.

And she was an orphan now

#cregan #cregan x reader #cregan stark #house targaryen #targaryen!reader #targaryen!oc #hbo house of the dragon #house of the dragon #house targeryen #misguidedwinter

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shizucheese · 2 months

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So full disclosure, I actually listened to episode 7 on Saturday, but this episode had so damn much to it and I got a bit side tracked by a theory that I'm still working on but I really want to get this out before episode 8 comes out.

As usual, if you want to see the continuously updated and reblogged version of my red string board, you can find it here.

Today is Tuesday, 2/27/24. Episode 7 came out 5 days ago on 2/22/24.

“Talkers”

Norris (Voice: Martin?/ Alex)

Episode 1: “Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]”. The Stranger? The End? The Dark? The Lonely? The Flesh? Arthur (Nolan?).

Episode 3: "Infection (full body" -/- Arboreal [Journal entry]". The Spiral? (Paranoia? Auditory, visual and olfactory hallucinations) The Lonely? The Corruption. The Flesh? (Callbacks to the Flesh Garden from S5)

Common Themes: Hearing the voice of a dead/ missing loved one?

Chester (Voice: John?/ Jonny)

Episode 1: “Transformation (eyes) -/- Tresspass [chat log]”. Magnus Institute, The Eye. (Involves a forum; the Web?).

Episode 5: "Disappearance (undetermined) -/- Invitation [Internet blog]". The Eye (Movies. Movie name: "Voyeur" "Must be seen to be believed"...). The Web? (Another website?). (Very reminiscent of Mag 110: Creature Feature.) The "poor old guy" at the theater is totally an Eye avatar, right? Kinda gives me "Simon Fairchild when he was first introduced" vibes.

Episode 7: "Agglomeration (miscellany) -/- congregation [email]". The Stranger. The Burried. The Desolation. Possibly all of them if my theory about the items the Volunteers brought in is correct...

Unsure if this is Eye related like the other statements were. This is also the first "Chester" statement where the source material wasn't from a website or blog, which don't have the same expectation of privacy that the sources of the other statements do. Email, though, so still internet related, and this seems to be an open letter rather than personal correspondence, so it still might align with the theme.

Agustus: (rare?)

Episode 4: “Collection (blood) -/- musical [letter]” The End. The Lonely? The Slaughter.

Letter writer thinks passing on his violin might allow a part of himself to live on in his nephew. Very Jonah Magnus of him.

Music teacher hears “faraway music”, then goes crazy and throws himself out of the carriage and dies. Reminiscent of Mag7 and the Piper? The merchant’s wares include dice (Mag 29?). Got the violin from him (took his blood?). Effect of the violin reminiscent to Grifter’s Bone (Mag 42).

(Oliver Bardwell lol very funny guys)

Non-Talkers (?)

Episode 2: "Transformation (full) -/- dysmorphic [video call]". The Spiral? The Flesh. The Stranger. Ink 5oul (avatar/ entity?)

Episode 6: "Injury (needles) -/- intimidation [999 call] "Corruption? The Spiral? The Flesh? The End?

"Needles" reminds me of Michael!Distortion.

Notes and Thoughts:

"It's not like we're dealing with Tape Recorders..." I'm side eying you real hard, Celia. And what's with all of the questions? The "looking for patterns" question is 100% fair but those examples are AWEFULLY SPECIFIC. I wasn't entirely sure I bought the idea that Celia was the same Celia from TMA, but no this is totally her for sure. "DO YOU KNOW WHO JOHN" IS EXCUSE ME? WHAT REAL STUFF?

HILLTOP CENTER BRANCH?!!! 0 managerial or other support from HR; very reminiscent of the weird circumstances surrounding the house on Hilltop Road. Bear skin rug very reminiscent of the Gorilla Skin in TMA S3. The Volunteers remind me of the medical students from Mag34. The email is about events from 2015. This was the same year Gertrude died and John became the Head Archivist in TMA. Why am I not seeing anyone else talk about this?

I have a theory that I was originally going to put in this post but detangling that giant ball of red string entirely is taking too long so I'm just going to put the TL'DR here and maybe make a proper list later if I can ever finish pulling the string on that particular red sweater. Between the items the Volunteers bring in, and the events of the incident itself, what if every single Entity is represented? The gunshots that were heard were the Slaughter. The fire was the Desolation. The person who wrote the email being crushed by all of the items was the Buried. There are a number of artifacts that get listed off that could represent at least one if not multiple Entities (which might be their purpose; considering how many times the fact that the categorization was imperfect got brought up in TMA, it's probably more helpful to view them as a spectrum more than anything else), including some that are very reminiscent of things from specific TMA statements (The bear skin rug -> The Gorilla skin, Old medical equipment -> the syringe in mag 45? The telescope -> Maxwell Rayner was originally Edmond Halley, the Astronomer, etc. etc). So...okay, hear me out: what if this was all part of a ritual, and that's what the "good cause" was? A ritual that involved all of the fears being represented? Sound familiar? Except instead of it being a ritual to start an apocalypse or reshape the world in the image of one or more of the fears, what if it was a ritual to summon something that was associated with all of the fears? Or, rather, what if it was a ritual to summon someone who had been touched by all of the fears? And that's also why so many of the items seem to be analogous to things from statements and events from TMA? Like....maybe I'm wrong entirely. Or maybe I'm right about this being about summoning someone, or something, (maybe someone from TMA? Maybe Celia?), but wrong about it being John who was being summoned. But, again, this incident took place in 2015, which was the same year Gertrude died and John became head Archivist, and I feel like this means something.

#the magnus protocol #the magnus protocol spoilers #the magnus protocol speculation #tmp #tmp spoilers #tmp speculation #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #tmagp speculation #tma spoilers #shizu's red string board

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