#that must have been a present from mari??

[destinyandcoins]

oh my god i just finally realized ryan’s necklace is a cartouche of his name spelled in hieroglyphs 🥺🥺

#that must have been a present from mari?? #i've seen it in several videos i just never got a good close up of it until now to realize it was hieroglyphs #but i just looked up how ryan would be spelled phonetically in hieroglyphs and yeah that looks about right #that's so adorable #ryan bergara #i only caught it because i saw the bird and i know that's an ''a'' because i had a little egyptology book as a kid #which showed you the hieroglyphs so you could write out your name #and r is also in my name. so then i noticed the reeds above which are ''y'' #well okay i'll be honest i didn't remember what letter the bird is but i DID remember it was also in my name #and i was more sure the reeds were ''y'' because a single one is ''e'' and double reeds are ''y'' #and both of those letters are in my full name so i remember drawing a loooooot of reeds #anyway you get the idea and the idea is that ryan has an adorable necklace with his name on it from his wife

[01zfan]

pray/want | j. sc

bad boy!sungchan x church girl!reader | 9.5k words

back at it again with another installment of my sacrilegious series! hope you guys enjoy heh. loosely based off of it will come back by hozier.

contains: drug mention, hand stuff (f. and m. receiving), biblical references and allusions to mary magdalene

sacrilegious masterlist

you were too forgiving. too merciful. you were raised to think it was a strength. giving extra grace to people who don’t deserve it. forgiving those who took advantage of you. 

it was a problem you had since you were a child. you always considered yourself to be empathetic towards others before you even knew what the word meant. if they were mean to you, they must have been having a bad day. if someone took your toys on the playground, they must have wanted it more. if you were pushed, they must be in a hurry. everyone in your life told you this was a strength to have. they presented your patience as if it was a holy virtue, and it was your duty to give it to everyone. your private christian school only further instilled this mindset. meeting everyone where they were often came at your expense, but you didn’t mind. school was an echo chamber of positivity and life was a bubble inside the padded walls of the church.

sungchan was your first introduction to the world outside. he was a new face at mass, round and young just like yours. you remember being confused at the way they scowled at him, how the elders pinched his sides and told him to pay attention to the preacher. he remained unbothered, always picking at the chipping paint on the pews or messing with the flimsy hand fans. you watched as they called sungchan a problem kid and a troublemaker. you think that the words they whispered about sungchan was the first time you were exposed to the harsh reality of people. you watched those words mold sungchan into the very thing they called him. whispers from the elders told you that he was out doing drugs, having sex with women, and hanging out with the wrong crowd. you remember your parents pulling you aside and telling you to not get involved with him, that he would only drag you down. 

your empathetic heart couldn’t stop you from extending an olive branch to sungchan. you didn’t see him as the terrible person they claimed him to be. you saw him as a troubled boy with no guidance. he was still so young, the same age as you with baby fat present on his cheeks. 

sungchan taught you that your forgiving heart was a character flaw. it was a problem you were developing, not being able to leave him alone. you were like his silent apostle, set on the mission of fixing his tumultuous relationship with the church. you would sit next to him during youth group and answer for him, singing extra loud during hymns incase he didn’t know the words. your voice had gone raw from talking to him constantly. you would talk to him for ages to only get a simple shrug or a one worded reply. it didn’t stop you, only further encouraged you to try and break down his walls. 

you came to him in between mass and individual prayer when you saw him sneak out through a door in the kitchen. you found him outside leaning against the church, smoking right below the kitchen window. all someone had to do was look outside and they could see him.

“you know you’re smoking right in front of the window?” you ask him. 

sungchan didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. your polite and slightly nagging voice seemed to follow him everywhere. but sungchan found himself looking to you often, loving the shocked look on your face when he’d shrug his shoulders and blow smoke clouds into the air.

“i don’t care.” sungchan says. 

his tone had become flatter over the years, losing that playful lift he had when you first met him. his sentences had become deadpanned words and eyes became stone. it didn’t drive you away, it only did the opposite.

you come down the stairs, lifting your sunday dress as you did so. the flowy fabric grazed your ankles, and revealed your cute frilly socks. sungchan watched you let the dress come back down your legs, using the same hand to motion at his cigarette. 

“can i try?” you ask.

sungchan has amusement on his lips as he raises his eyebrows at your question. he takes in another drag, turning his head away so he doesn’t blow smoke in your face.

“you smoke?” sungchan asks.

you shrug your shoulders, trying to copy the way sungchan did it. it feels awkward pretending not to care about anything and you’re sure sungchan can tell that your shoulders stayed up for just a moment too long.

“yeah. sometimes.” you lie. 

you don’t know why you are lying to sungchan, or why the lie fell so easily from your lips. you were never the type to ever lie, telling the truth no matter what consequence fell upon you. sungchan looks towards the door to the kitchen. someone could come out at any moment and catch you.

sungchan was intrigued by you. he let his eyebrows fall back down his face and looked away from you to knock the ash from the end of his cigarette. he was intrigued how you continue to stay there while all of his attention went to the ash falling from his cigarette, something that came like second nature to him. sungchan let his eyes go to your clear jelly shoes, something he had only seen children wear. he couldn’t stop himself from letting out a little laugh seeing you nervously rock back on your heels while he basically ignored you. 

once the ash had fallen to the ground sungchan walked over to you. he looked down with a smirk as he moved it to your lips. when you tried to grab it with your own hand sungchan raised it just out of your lips reach. you looked at him and he lightly shook his head. 

“the smell will get on you, let me hold it.”  sungchan said.

he watched you as you took your first drag from the cigarette. you almost went crosseyed to focus on the butt of the cigarette lighting up. it was fine only for a moment, before your lungs that were only used to pulling in air filled up with smog. your lungs started screaming at you and you could feel your throat burn, but sungchan looking at you expectantly egged you on.

“attagirl.” he said once he decided you were done. 

he pulled the cigarette away from you and watched you intently.

you could only hold in the smoke for a second before you started coughing profusely. sungchan gently clapped his hand over your back, your face started to burn along with your throat and lungs, embarrassed at how you couldn’t stop coughing. the heat only intensified when you looked up at sungchan. being so close to sungchan made you realize how angelic he looked. he was like a cherub, with his soft cheeks and unblemished skin. you were wondering how anyone in the church could call someone so pretty such awful. he had a smile on his face while looking at you, biting his lip to not laugh in your face. he distracted you almost to the point your body forgot it had to cough, having to turn away from his face to cough into your fist. right before you could cough, you heard the screen door of the kitchen open.

“what are you two doing?” a woman said. 

you recognized the woman from the congregation. she had a hand on her hip and the other clutching a purse just a little too big for her close to her chest. her dresses always matched her purse, and you always found your eyes ruefully drifting to the fraying garment of her apparel.

sungchan looked at you, like he was expecting you to lie to the woman. your heaves had turns into slightly labored breathing, clearing your throat to keep yourself from coughing. he saw your expression and decided to take matters into his own hands. he leaned against the wall of the church to hide his hand. he dropped his cigarette to the ground behind him, putting out the end with his heel. he cleared his throat and you cleared yours again. when sungchan straightened his back you did too.

“praying.” sungchan said sarcastically.

the lady rolled her eyes. you saw her sneak a pack of cigarettes back into her purse and she flicked her head towards the door.

“go back inside. they need help setting the table.” she said.

sungchan puts his hands in his pockets and starts heading towards the door. he is unfazed by the light scolding, something he has gotten used to over the years. you, however felt your heart drop at the thought of disappointing someone older than you. the shame is doubled when the older lady stops you before you go inside.

“you’re a good girl. you shouldn’t be hanging out with him. he’s a bad influence.” she said quietly. 

you know sungchan could hear it, because his steps falter for a moment before he continues walking out of sight. you nod in haste, wanting the interaction to be over. the lady closes the door and you watch sungchan go past the kitchen. he continues to walk down the hallway of the church, far away from everyone else.

the lady’s warning set the dynamic for your relationship with sungchan. it didn’t stop you from seeing him, it could be argued it made you want to hang out with him more. you had become his goody-two-shoes sidekick, tagging along to his adventures and indulging yourself in his lifestyle. 

you had your first drink with sungchan. you remember taking the shot, the clear liquid stinging the back of your throat and making your stomach warm. it had become more enticing to you than the blood of christ that touched your lips during communion. the cheers of your name from the unfamiliar faces around you tempted you to take another.

when your hand reached for the bottom sungchan places his hand over yours. you looked up to sungchan and found the same look on his face of when you took your first drag of the cigarette. you didn’t know a look could be so powerful, giving you the courage to do things you would’ve never done in a thousand years. 

you watched sungchan’s friend get a tattoo the same day you got your first piercing in the bathroom. sungchan leaned over the sink to inspect your ear, marking the perfect place. you could feel his hot breath fan your neck as he prepped your ear for the puncture.

“you’re parents might be upset.” sungchan said.

he pulled away from your ear to look at you. he was giving you the chance to back out, to refuse the piercing. but it was that look he gave you that had you shrugging your shoulders—it was starting to come to you naturally.

“i don’t care.” you said. 

the truth was you did care, but you cared more about the man dangerously close to you. your parents were the furthest thing from your mind as sungchan went back to looking at your ear, sticking a needle through your lobe. the sound you made caught both you and sungchan by surprise. you bit your lip when he did the other ear, not trying to make that sound in front of him again. your teeth nearly drew blood from your lip when sungchan moved backwards to inspect you, making sure the punctures were even.

when sungchan turned you around in the mirror he stood behind you as you checked out the new jewelry. you turned your head, trying to take it all in. you looked to your ears then sungchan, standing behind you with his hand on your shoulders.

“it’s pretty.” you said.

sungchan looked into the mirror to look into your eyes.

“yes. very pretty.” sungchan said.

just when you thought you had sungchan, he disappeared. it was like he was a ghost or a figment of your imagination. one day he was sitting next to you in the pews and the next day he wasn’t. he stopped coming to church, his parents stopped coming too. rumors spread that he had runaway after a particularly bad argument with his parents. the fact that his parents were too ashamed to come back made you assume they did something awful the church didn’t want to admit.

sungchan was even harder to get in contact with. each time you had hung out with him he came and found you. when you wanted to reach him, you realized you had no way to do so. 

not being able to see him led to your imagination running wild. everyday you would go outside to the kitchen window where he would smoke, looking out into the forest that surrounded your church. your mind had helplessly come up with a scenario each time you’d walk down the steps. your mind conjured up the image of sungchan hiding in the trees, scared to be seen by anyone else but you. after seeing sungchan you’d stop in your tracks, so surprised to see him standing there. you had practiced your facial expressions, letting your eyebrows raise and your eyes get large. you saw yourself mindlessly walking over to him when he’d beckon to you. you imagined that he would bring you in for a kiss, a type of kiss that would make up for the months of all the yearning and pining. 

then afterwards you imagined that sungchan would tell you how much he missed you, not being able to find god at the parties of the bottom of shot glasses. you’d then walk him back to the church and have the congregation apologize for pushing his soul to stray even further away from the path of god. you wondered about a christian wedding, going full traditional. having kids that were baptized for everyone to see. everything about you two would be by the holy book, except for sex. you don’t think you could wait that long.

your manifestation of sungchan coming to you didn’t come to fruition. you didn’t see sungchan until months later as you were leaving choir practice. the expression you had practiced didn’t pan out the way you wanted to. your binder fell from your hands, sheet music falling onto the rocky parking lot.

sungchan came over to help you quickly, catching papers before they could run away in the wind. you had bent down to take the music from him, but you were frozen, stuck in place looking at sungchan. he didn’t say a word to you until your papers were safely tucked away again in your binder, closing it and putting it back in your hands. he looked to you and you couldn’t believe your eyes. your feet were stuck to the ground keeping you both in the squat position.

“hi.” sungchan said quietly.

you nodded you head and cleared your throat. you hung onto your binder, the only thing keeping you present.

“where have you been?” your voice is barely above a whisper.

you had a white knuckle grip on your flimsy plastic binder. you don’t know why you were so nervous to ask sungchan a question. in his absence he had become someone you didn’t want to doubt, scared that he would leave you again. 

sungchan’s face flashes for a moment before he stands up. he dusts himself off, metaphorically wiping your question off of him. he holds out his hand for you and you grab it, surprised at how clammy his hand is on yours.

once you’re up you still stare at him like he’s a ghost.

“can i take you somewhere?” sungchan asks.

it was dangerous to have sungchan in your life. you found yourself nodding quickly to every question he had, you think you would leave the church the same way he did if he held your hand while you walked out. seeing sungchan smile outside of the church made you wonder what life was like outside of it. maybe it was nice and you would be happier than you were here. so you nodded as he led you to the motorcycle that looked similar to his fathers.

he helped you to the back and took a helmet out of the side compartment. he coaxed your musical binder from your hands to put it in there, tightening the leather strap to keep it safe. you were nearly shaking with anxiety as sungchan put on his helmet too, throwing his leg over to straddle the seat.

the engine revved underneath you, and your hands that were previously gripping your binder were now clenched at your sides. you waited for sungchan to reach behind him and guide your hands to clasp around his waist.

“hold on tight.” sungchan said as he pushed away the kickstand.

your words were drowned out by the sound of the motorcycle leaving the parking lot. you held onto him, letting your head rest against his back as he hit the throttle. you thought that the road sungchan was taking you down at an unbelievable speed could be comparable to your life. the fear that came with your future turned to excitement when sungchan turned around and looked at you, asking if you were having fun. everything that was scary seemed fun when you had your arms around sungchan’s waist, even the idea of getting into an accident on the motorcycle turned into a thrill for you. it was the same thrill that sungchan always seemed to give you. it was one that only subsided when you used the same hand that signed the cross on yourself underneath the sheets. you pressed your hands flat against his stomach, feeling how solid he was through his shirt. sungchan’s back vibrated against your head from laughing.

sungchan didn’t move your hands until the motorcycle was parked. your eyes didn’t open until the engine stopped roaring and sungchan gently touched you to let you know you had both arrived. you don’t know how long your eyes were squeezed shut to get here. you opened your eyes to  sungchan standing in front of you, helping you out of your helmet. this was somehow more intimate than having your arms wrapped around his waist as you two plummeted down the highway. you had to look away for your own good, focusing on the concert venue that had a steady stream of people going in. you saw people dressed like sungchan going in, various crowds of people were around the concert hall smoking while others tipped their heads back and wiped their noses.

“have you ever listened to music that wasn’t religious?” sungchan said.

he had leaned against his motorcycle as you took in the view around you. it felt like you were dropped in a different dimension or alternate reality from your own. you had no idea that people like this existed so close to your modest township. it was all so foreign to you that you couldn’t even find the words to describe the aesthetic. the words came and went, trying to define ripped skinny jeans and people cursing freely. what this had to do with music was beyond you, but before you could answer sungchan’s question you saw him turn his head towards someone in the moving mass of people.

“sungchan! you’re fucking late!”

you followed the voice until it landed on someone dressed similarly to sungchan. black leather jacket and ripped skinny jeans, with hair that was so black it shined underneath the street lamps. he looked younger than you and sungchan, he had an innocent look about him that betrayed the clothes he was sporting. the only thing you had in common with the person in front of you was the same beat up shoes you both everyday. you felt nervous and out of place, like you didn’t belong here.

“who is this?” the boy said.

he seemed to know you didn’t belong here either, his voice significantly lower than when he called to his friend. the boys gaze went back to sungchan after giving you a once over. you did the same, looking to sungchan like you didn’t know who you were.

“this is,” sungchan looked like he was contemplating for a moment. a hand that was supporting his body against his motorcycle pointed towards you. “my friend from church.” sungchan said.

anton’s eyes got big for a moment, head slightly tilting in confusion. it was almost like a lightbulb went off anton’s his head a second later. anton turned to you, his face suddenly neutral.

“oh. nice to meet you. i’m anton.”

he didn’t offer his hand out to you, they stayed stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. he nodded his head and you did your best to copy him. it felt just like when you started shrugging your shoulders to copy sungchan. anton took his phone from his back pocket and showed the time to sungchan. it was about to be your curfew.

“wonbin is about to be on soon.” anton said.

“let’s go then.” sungchan said.

sungchan pushed himself off his bike and started following the crowd heading towards the building. you followed behind the two men, not really having anywhere else to go. you couldn’t help but stare at every face you passed by, wondering where all these kids your age had come from.

the only indication that showed you were in your town still was that the building had the same look as everything else in your town. there was a certain archaic and abandoned look to the building on the exterior. the brick had cracks the painting was chipped, and vegetation grew along the edges. the closer you, sungchan, and anton got to the building you could make out the faded sign of what the building once was. it was a factory who knows how long ago, and judging by the size business was booming at one point. now it was honing beacon for all the rebels in your town, young adults that were the same age as you but looked wiser and seemed significantly more mature. you had always been proud of your innocence when it came to life, but your lack of experience weighed down on you heavy as you looked past the large doors into the unknown. 

you saw two burly men guarding the entrance dressed in all black with shades on even though it was nighttime. both of their eyes immediately went to you, and you felt even more out of place than before. sungchan followed their eyes to see what they were looking at. he grabbed your hand and you grabbed it back, trying to seem as casual as possible. sungchan visibly straightened his shoulders a little more, his hand settling on something in his back pocket. you saw anton show his ID to the other bouncer while sungchan’s hand led you to the other one. the bouncer held out his hand but before he could ask for your ID, sungchan smiled big at him.

“she’s with me.” sungchan said cheerfully.

“still need to see ID.” he said.

you see sungchan pull whatever it was from his back pocket and hand it to the bouncer. it’s something small, but sungchan’s body blocks your line of sight to see exactly what it is. the bouncer gives you one last look and you can’t stop yourself from looking down at your feet. you’re sure it is painfully obvious you shouldn’t be here. the bouncer takes mercy on you for some reason and nods his head. sungchan pulls you by your hand to drag you inside. the bouncer only continues to look at you for a second before tending to the next person in line.

the inside of the venue was completely opposite of the outside. if the outside was worn down the interior looked like it was recently experienced a complete rebirth. the ground you thought would be cracked concrete was reworked hardwood. the mass of people coming in walked towards a medium sized stage, where a curtain was drawn hiding who was behind it. this was what you imagined to be a concert venue now, equipped with stands on both sides for extra people. you didn’t know something like this existed in your town. you stopped for a moment and anton looked back at you smiling.

“first time?” anton asked.

sungchan looked between you and anton with an apprehensive look. you almost felt like you shouldn’t talk to him before you nodded your head yes.

“this is like sunday mass but for a different type of congregation.” anton said.

you don’t know anton said it to poke fun at you, the smile on his lips fading when he looked at sungchan. but it made complete sense. everyone looked the same, dressed in attire for the occasion the same way you dressed every sunday morning. anton and sungchan bobbed and weaved through the crowd, sungchan leading you through the mass of people until you ended up on the side. anton said something to the security guard, leaning in close before turning around and pointing at you and sungchan. the security guard faltered for a moment before stepping back and pulling open the safety gate. the three of you walked through and made it on the other side of the curtain to a smaller room.

immediately when you walk in the something musty and pungent fills your nose. it’s strong and almost skunky. you look to anton and sungchan—they are unfazed. you don’t comment on the overwhelming smell, or the smoke that filled the small room. 

you only remember being in the room for ten minutes before your perception of time changed. one moment you just suddenly felt yourself looking to the clock every ten minutes to see that only two had passed. you sat on the couch while sungchan navigated the whole room. they listened to every word and the way they followed him around made you think of disciples. it made you giggle, you smiling into your hand when sungchan came to you on the couch.

“what’s so funny?” sungchan asked.

he had a smile of his own now, and his eyes were low and bleary. when you forgot the answer you just kept smiling. sungchan smiled back at you. you were giggling while sungchan when sungchan told his friend to break a leg, and you were giggling when sungchan grabbed you hand and took you to the bathrooms. you laughed at how piss covered the floors and how there was no toilet paper or soap in the dispensers. you were nearly in tears when sungchan started stuffing pieces of toilet paper into your ears as makeshift ear plugs. he was laughing too, quelling your worries that the toilet paper would get stuck in your ears. 

whatever you felt had died down by the time the show started, the loud music pulling you from your trance. the music thumped in your chest, you had to hold a hand to your heart to make sure it was still beating. sungchan seemed unbothered by being so close to the speakers though. he was cheering and singing along with his friend on stage. sungchan smiled more than you had ever seen him do so in church, and he knew all the words unlike the latin hymns he mouthed unsuccessfully during service.

everyone sang along to the lyrics except for you, bodies bumped into yours and everyone was pushing. if it wasn’t for sungchan behind you, you were sure you would’ve been swallowed up into the crowd. the music was nothing like what you were used to, but you tried to enjoy it anyway. it was different to see what rebels your age were doing while you were busy knowing nothing about life beyond your oratory.

the music blared from the stage, the bass made the floor underneath your feet shake. it went right through the soles of your shoes and travelled up from the balls of your feet. the bass went all the way to your head, shaking the individual hairs and rattling your skull. it was like all your senses were being taken away from you and replaced solely with the music that played onstage.

you could barely make out anything from the strobing lights, as fast as you were granted vision it was ripped away. the flashing lights contributed to the energy of the people surrounded you, like a ticking time bomb as gasoline filled all the way to the ceiling. everyone’s restless bodies started colliding when the music intensified. you don’t know if people started forgetting there were bodies around them as the music got louder and louder. it was the same way it was at sunday service. you saw people be overcome with emotion as they pushed to the music. they were swayed by the band on stage the same way your congregation was swayed by the priest. but just like there and just like now, the only thing that swayed you was sungchan. the only difference was that in church you could only dream about how close he was to you now. his hands rested on your hips as he guarded your body from the people moving around you. you felt his wet lips place a kiss to your neck, so soft and gentle unlike the harsh music that played onstage and the hectic crowd of people that surrounded you. 

sungchan’s wet lips pressed to your skin. you could feel the heat coming off his body in waves, and you were sweating on your own. the air seemed to vibrate as sungchan worked his way up to your ear before kissing the shell and leaning further in. you could feel his chest come close to your back as he whispered in your ear.

“i missed you.” sungchan said against your neck.

you weren’t sure if you were supposed to hear what sungchan said to you. his voice had intent, but it was supposed to be drowned out by the riffing guitar onstage and the bass that vibrated the speakers next to you. but when sungchan spoke to you, it cut through all the noise. it made the pulsing bodies surrounding you disappear. suddenly it was just you and sungchan in the venue--maybe in the whole world. 

you knew that whatever you said would be lost over the sound of the music. you just tilted your head until it rested on sungchan’s and nodded, to make sure he knew you felt the same way. 

you knew sungchan understood when his hands on your hip dug into the your church dress. the fabric stood no chance against his grip, it was almost like there wwas nothing there at all as sungchan held you tight.

“i want you.” he said into your ear.

you smiled as you looked ahead to the stage. want was so juvenile to you. you learned about want and have felt want for so long that it came to you like breathing. the want you were taught about in church was subject to god’s will. what you felt for sungchan couldn’t be contingent on anyone, not even if they were all knowing. 

what you needed couldn’t be defined as something so simple as want. it was defined as a burning desire and something you pretended wasn’t a necessity until now. the same way you taught sungchan about the bible you planned to teach him about something else. so while you were shoulder to shoulder with sweaty pushing strangers you turned around to face him. sungchan was still leaned over to kiss your neck when you put both hands to his face to pull him in. he kissed you with want but you kissed him back with necessity. it was carnal the way you took his bottom lip into your mouth and the way the bass in your moan rang in both of your mouths. you only took a hand away from sungchan’s face to push his hands lower on your body. he gripped your ass as you deepened the kiss. you kissed sungchan so eagerly that his face was being pushed back as he tried to reciprocate. 

when the song ended you pulled away first. sungchan was in the same place you left him, with his eyes closed and head tilted. his lips were red and swollen. want couldn’t compare to what you felt. you could fill this warehouse to the ceiling with want. what you felt for the man before you was something that could only be expressed underneath the sanctified sheets of your bed.

“my parents are asleep around this time. they don’t get up till afternoon service.” you said.

you said it at normal volume, still thinking it was just you and sungchan. the lights around you barely illuminated your face as your faced sungchan. your voice was lost in the screaming crowd, and sungchan could hardly make out the words your lips mouthed. so he looked into your eyes, he let them guide his next actions as he nodded his head. sungchan looked down to see your hand and your gaze fix on the exit. 

the show was over when sungchan grabbed your hand and led you to the exit. it was sungchan who was pushing concertgoers now, bumping into people without care if they were in the way. you trailed behind him, bumping into people as a result of it. you apologized to who you could, but someone giving you a hard look was the least of your worries. you would repent for being impatient later.

you and sungchan beat the crowd leaving the venue. he didn’t bother to look for his friend or to say goodbye. sungchan was only focused on making sure his spare motorcycle helmet was secure on your head before kicking his bike off the ground.

you held onto sungchan’s waist as you sped down the highway towards your home. you took the risk to let go of him when he hit the highway. he slowed down on the empty road to let you spread your arms out. you felt the wind around you, and you hoped it would carry away the smell of cigarettes and skunk that stuck to your clothes. sungchan still knew the way, and he knew to park his motorcycle on the side of the road instead of pulling up to the driveway. 

you looked to sungchan one last time before opening the door to your home. he was on his own path that deviated from the church a long time ago. you weren’t sure what he was doing besides enjoying music and doing drugs, but it didn’t matter. him being outside of the church as you were leaving had to be something like divine intervention. 

it was that intervention that led sungchan down your creaky hallway, sneaking past your parents that were sleeping on the couch. with a finger to your lips sungchan found himself following someone else’s orders for the first time in awhile, taking the same steps as you to be as quiet as possible.

sungchan walked down your hallway that was adorned with crosses and decorations of angels. he was sure he saw the statue of jesus on the top of a table, and a painting of his birth was stuck to the wall. sungchan let you pass by him so you could slowly open the door of your bedroom. he looked down the hallway to see the glow from the television casted on the wall. he heard the low sound of a late night televangelist before hearing your voice.

“sungchan.” 

you called to him gently from the depth of your room. he couldn’t see from his spot in the shadow of your hallway, so his feet carried him until he was beside your doorframe. 

sungchan saw you sitting on the center of your bed. you were still in your dress, but sungchan felt like you were laying yourself bare before him. he was frozen in place underneath the rosary that draped your doorframe. he was compelled to do the sign of the cross over his body, but nothing could make him move. it wasn’t until you beckoned to him that sungchan took a deep breath before taking a step into your room. 

sungchan said nothing about the religious paraphernalia in your room. suddenly the crosses you had collected over the course of your life was humiliating as sungchan looked at every single one of them. you motioned for him to turn off the lights as he closed the door behind him, but the miniature figure of christ you had on your desk could still be seen in the dead of night. sungchan almost felt like something terrible would happen to him if he mentioned it, like getting struck by lightning or your parents suddenly coming into your room. 

the only thing that kept sungchan calm was looking at you. you felt unrest seeing sungchan stand still in your doorway. he must’ve still feared something judging him by the way he looked at you. you patted the space on the bed beside you, adjusting yourself on your knees to seem as welcoming as possible. 

sungchan sat on the bed next to you, his legs leaning over the side of the bed. he was ready to get up and leave at any moment. you’re body head to toe is tingling with excitement, and you want to remind sungchan about the want he told you about earlier. you turn your back to him and reveal the zipper down the back of your dress.

“can you help me?” you ask.

sungchan says nothing, but you can feel the pads of his fingers hold the fabric surrounding your zipper in place while he brings the other hand to the zipper itself. you can feel the pads of his fingers on the bare skin of your neck that the dress doesn’t cover. you shake as your hear the metal teeth open down your back, and the cold skin of your room touches your skin.

when the zipper is all the way down, sungchan brings his hand to your two shoulders. he slowly helps your arms out of the sleeves, and you let it fall off your body. you can hear him exhale and feel his breath fan the skin of your back. sungchan brings hesitant fingers to the clasp of your bra. you can hear him behind you shuffle to move his body further on the bed.

“can i?” sungchan whispers.

you swallow and nod your head.

“yes.” you say quietly.

sungchan misses the clasp on the first try, and it catches you off guard when your chest suddenly feels free after his second attempt. he helps you out of the bra the same way he did with your dress. you let it fall off your body, falling on top of the pile your dress made.

you stretch the curve or your back. sungchan only looks at your shoulder blades, too nervous to move any further. you lift the top of your dress from the bed and press it to your bare chest. you look behind your shoulder to look at sungchan. his eyes break from your shoulders to your eyes, and then to your lips. sungchan watches you as you move backwards onto the bed, giving him space to move in front of you.

the two of you sit in the silence of your room, looking to eachother. you can hear the sound of the wind blowing outside, and the sound of a loud commercial break on the television in the living room. you move underneath the loose fabric of your dress and bring your legs closer to your body. sungchan shifts too, and you can see his hand reach out before he brings it back to his body. he lets his finger press into the duvet on your bed as you clear your throat.

“do you still want me?” you ask.

sungchan nods his head and moves forward towards you. he still hesitates, not letting his hand that’s on your calf go up any higher. 

“i want you so bad. you don’t understand.” sungchan said.

you hated that you understood what sungchan meant all too well. you could sit here and debate the logistics with him, how you could teach him what it feels like to truly yearn something like the way you yearned for him. you wanted to show sungchan about passion that went beyond want, and you longed to drive him so crazy that he would feel the same burning desire you felt when you didn’t see him for all that time. so you grab sungchan’s hand and guide it to the dress you had let go of. it rested on your body like covers, ready to be taken off if sungchan was willing. he looked to you and you nodded your head as he held your dress. 

sungchan pulled the dress away from you slowly, revealing more and more of you to him. you gasped as you felt his eyes on you. by the time sungchan takes your dress fully off, you are only left in your cross pendant and underwear. sungchan is entranced, eyes dragging down your whole body. he lifts your legs to help pull the dress off all the way. sungchan gently drops your clothes over the edge of your bed. you point at sungchan’s shirt, and he takes off his shirt and pants too. 

you are both left in your underwear underneath the plethora of crosses on your wall. the bible is next to your bed on the table with a rosary piled neatly on top. it’s ignored when you sit on your bed and spread your bent legs slightly. sungchans hand starts from your feet, tracing up your leg slowly until he reaches your knee. his fingers come down your leg as he slots his body in between them. 

his fingers don’t stop until he thumbs the cross pendant on your necklace.

“sign of the cross.” sungchan says quietly.

you settle further into your bed, and spread your legs further.

“do you remember how to do it?” you ask

sungchan nods before bringing three fingers from his right hand to your bare body. he touched your forehead, then dragged his fingers down the valley of your chest to your solar plexus. sungchan touched both of your shoulders, using your collarbone as a guide. you let out a breath sigh of amen, but sungchan didn’t do the same. he brought his hand back to your stomach, going lower and lower on your body. he looked at you for permission, and you nodded and spread your legs further. 

you felt the carnal desire that evolved from want fill your room to the brim as sungchan let his fingers go underneath the waistband of your panties. he teased you only for a second, the pads of his fingers bumping your clit before his fingers went further down your folds. you gasped when sungchan finally put his fingers inside of you. he kept his fingers still for a moment inside of you, waiting for you to adjust and move first. you wasted no time pulling your hips back to bring them forward again as you used sungchan’s fingers to pleasure yourself.

he brought his other hand to your lower stomach, feeling the supple skin of your stomach.

“i’m so bad for you, you know.” sungchan said.

his actions differed from his words. the way he had his fingers on you made you feel so good, and the high you felt from the drugs in your system and the rush from the night made you want to continue chasing that feeling. so you ignore sungchan’s indirect warnings and continued to push your hips to meet his fingers.

“i can save you.” you whimper quietly. 

sungchan looked from your hips to your eyes. he looked deep into you but you didn’t shy away. you continued to push your hips to feel his fingers go inside of you deeper. you didn’t break eye contact until sungchan bent his fingers and hit a spot you didn’t know existed. you bit your lip and tilted your head back. your whole body leaned, forcing you to prop yourself up on your outstretched hands behind you. 

sungchan moved from his spot on the bed to get closer you. he hovered over your body, his hand on top of yours as his other hand continued to pump in and out of your body. you looked up at sungchan, spreading your legs further as sungchan took over. he let you rest as he started doing all the work. he wanted it to be fast, seeing your chest jump as his finger started pistoning into you. you brought your hand that was free to hold sungchan’s bicep. he still held your gaze, nodding as you let quiet moans fall from your lips. your eyes closed in bliss—you couldn’t stop the words from falling out of your mouth.

“oh my god.” you sighed.

“i know.” sungchan whispered back.

sungchan kept going, even through the pain of you digging your nails into his skin. he kept going even when you fell to your back and closed your thighs around his hand. sungchan didn’t stop until you cried out his name from your pillow and slick want came from you. you clamped around his fingers and sungchan scissored them inside of you, trying to give you all you could take. he didn’t stop until your legs slid down your bed and you used a weak hand to pull his fingers out of you.

sungchan watched you bring your hand to your chest as you stared at the ceiling. sungchan laid on the bed next to you and placed a hand next to yours. he could feel your heart pounding in its cage. he brought a hand to his heart and he could feel it beat with the same urgency.

you let yourself relax next to sungchan. you let your hand go down his body. you do the same thing sungchan did to your body, your three fingers grazing across his body before going underneath the waistband of his boxers. you look up and kiss sungchan’s forehead as you wrap your hand around his length. it’s heavy and twitches in your hand as you slowly stroke him. 

his usual demeanor crumbles almost instantly, he is the vulnerable one underneath your touch. he pushes his body further up until he is resting against the headboard of your bed and you follow him. you face sungchan as you continue pumping his length, and his hands dig into your sheets. you come closer to his lips to kiss him again, trying to swallow the tiny sighs he lets out. sungchan gives you the reins and you let desire take control of your actions. desire makes you pull down sungchan’s waistband and it makes you put your tongue into his mouth. sungchan pulls his underwear off the rest of the way and you take a peak at his length. in the darkness of your room the moonlight comes in perfectly, giving you just enough sight. you can see your hand glisten in the light as it goes up and down sungchan’s dick. it’s a soft wet sound, only magnified by the quiet of the night. 

sungchan grips your hand and tightens it around his length. he starts lifting his hips to fuck himself up into your hand and you watch his body work to bring himself pleasure. you can see the sweat form on his taut skin, and his hair starts to stick to his forehead from the exertion. sungchan can barely bring himself to look at you as he chases his own pleasure. you force him to make eye contact when you move his bangs from his face and lift his gaze with fingers underneath his chin. the pace he set with his thrusts falter for a second when he looks into your eyes. you help him by bringing your hand down faster and tighten the grip of your hand. you can feel sungchan’s hand clasp around yours further, and how his thighs start to shake from the work of thrusting. 

that’s what separates you and sungchan. his want drives him to hastily fuck your hand, trying to reach a high that only came to him hours ago. what you needed has had time to ferment. it started as want—you wanted sungchan to come to church. you wanted him to find his path. you wanted him to kiss you. but it had time to brew in your stomach over the time time you didn’t see him and when your mind was forced to fill in the gaps. it was like a wound, festering on your skin and reopened anytime sungchan came into your orbit. he knew nothing about yearning or craving something the way you did. but you kept pumping your hand for him, because you wanted to keep him coming back for more. you wanted to become a wound on his skin and burn the fleeting touches into his brain. you were going to become something sungchan longed for, and maybe over that time your own craving would subside. sungchan would need you and you would be able to use a word as weak as want to describe how you feel about him. 

when sungchan’s hand go back into your panties, your hand faltered. you looked to sungchan bewildered, but he only looked back at you with blown out eyes. his eyes consumed you while his bitten lips drew you in again. maybe sungchan already felt the same as you, he was just better at hiding it. maybe the plan you had for sungchan would end up destroying the both of you. you didn’t care as you helplessly rutted into his fingers. if desire killed you before it subsided to want you would be okay with it. if you were to die at the hands of something that felt so good, you would welcome it with open arms. 

you brought your mouth away from sungchan’s to go to his neck. you suck and bit at his skin, and he brought a hand to your back to bring you closer. you were kneeling beside his body, praying into the skin of sungchan’s neck as he whimpered next to you. in the comfort of your bed kneeling wasn’t painful. you wondered why you spent so much of your life kneeling for forgiveness on the rough ground of the outside world or the padded walls of your church. you wasted your time kneeling to anything but pleasure. 

your revelation hits you the same time it hits sungchan. he thrusts into your hand once more before staying there. he whined quietly as his hand presses deeper into your back and inside of you. you can feel his dick twitch and warmth covers his hand and yours in spurts. you continue to pump his dick as he becomes a mess underneath you and you grind your hips on his hand so you can feel your own revelation again. your body turns to jello for the second time of the night as you lean your entire body weight against sungchan’s chest. you can’t stop letting your sounds increase in volume as you lean further into sungchan’s chest. you let your sounds out into his clammy skin as he continues to finger you. you have to take your hand from his dick and pull his hand out so you can calm down.

“i’m sorry.” sungchan says.

he wraps both arms around you and brings you weak body in for a hug. you only shake your head, trying to form a coherent thought.

”it’s okay.” you whine.

after you come back from heaven, you realize exhaustion is starting to weigh down on your body. you’ve had a busy day, the adrenaline high crashes down on you fast. you end up drifting to sleep still leaned against sungchan’s body, but he is left wide awake. he only says your name once, slightly shaking your body to see if you will come to. you don’t wake up, and sungchan uses what’s left of his energy to slide down from the headboard so you’re both laying on the bed. sungchan feels the mess he made over his hands and stomach. he believes that he doesn’t have a home here, or the right to lay in your bed. so he gently moves your sleeping body, pulling your hand wrapped around his waist and turning you so you lay on the pillow. your body instantly adapts, pulling in a blanket to hold it the same way you were holding him. 

sungchan gets up from your bed and starts putting his clothes back on. it’s slow and hesitant—he does everything in his power to keep you asleep. sungchan starts walking towards your door with his jacket and belt in hand when he hears shuffling on your bed.

“do you need a place to sleep tonight?” you whisper sleepily.

sungchan froze before he could turn the handle. he looked back at you, seeing your state and he nodded solemnly. you thought even in the dark of night you could see his crestfallen face, or maybe it was waves that radiated off of him in droves. you thought for the night he wouldn’t be alone as you lifted up the corner of your sheets, showing an empty spot just for him. sungchan came from your doorway to your bed, setting his jacket on the back of your chair and taking off his jeans. in just his boxers and shirt he crawled underneath the covers. he held open his arms, showing he had a spot for you too. you nestled into him without hesitation, tucking your head underneath his chin.

“i would give you anything you need.” you whispered into sungchan’s chest.

his arms around your body wrapped around you more, pulling you closer. you had almost wished he had drifted off to sleep. you wanted to whisper into his chest that he could come to you like a stray cat, wounded and hungry and you’d take him in each time. you wanted to tell him that you didn’t care if you were too forgiving or too naive. you wanted to be there for him like a saint if it meant you could continue to receive his offerings. if you enabled him until there was nothing left you would savor each moment you had with him. if you ended up saving sungchan you would make a future with him.

sungchan knew that he wouldn’t be able to rid himself of you even if he tried. something about you entranced him and had him wanting to come back. maybe it was the way you prayed with the same hands you used to undress yourself backstage. he imagined nights in the near future of him sitting on the edge of your bed while you gave him a show. maybe it was a trauma response. sungchan knew that the life he was living would drain him emotionally and physically. if he were to appear on your doorstep in the dead of the night after a show or a bender he knew your forgiving heart would let him in. he knew you couldn’t bare to see someone else in pain, especially if it was him.

you both knew the dynamic you two were actively changing all night was going to become volatile later down the line. you would end up taking mercy on sungchan’s self-destructive lifestyle in exchange for the freedom he brought you, while sungchan would use you to recuperate before going out and destroying himself some more. you would try to change him under the guise of showing him “the light” and he would corrupt you under the guise of showing you life outside the church. who needed who more would only become blurred and several lines would be crossed. you both knew you were trapping yourselves in a vicious cycle, one that you would probably go through on your own to keep it a secret from the church and your family. 

it didn’t matter when sungchan sighed contently and kissed your forehead. his lips were soft against your skin, it brought you the same comfort the church used to bring you. so you sighed from the comfort and settled further in your tomb, underneath the six layers of your clothes and blankets. your body was still cold, the only thing that brought warmth was sungchan’s body. it made you feel like you were alive, like you would be reborn when you emerged from the covers in the morning.

“you know i’ll be back.” sungchan said clearly.

when you woke up the next morning, sungchan had dug himself out from under the blankets. he had risen revived from your forgiveness while you were left alone in the grave.

#01zfan: sungchan #seriez: sacrilegious #sungchan smut #riize smut

[annabelle--cane]

so I don’t have the knowledge of details that you have (complimentary) but is there anything in the computer code Colin looking into being written in German and Jonah Magnus’ buddy living in the Black Forest and finding that crypt that one time? Or is that Too far a reach?

vibrating at the speed of sound. so there are a couple of floating details around from the podcasts, the arg, and some promotional materials that may point back to germany having particular relevance. some of this is absolutely me going full pepe silvia, but there are enough threads here that I feel like it has to amount to Something.

so. germany.

archives 'verse:

-> point 1: johann von württemberg. while staying with his nephew in the schwartzwald in 1816, albrecht von closen finds an old mausoleum with the inscription "johann von württemberg" over the door, and it is guarded by a man with no eyes who nonetheless seems to be able to see. in a deep chamber well beneath the ground is johann's coffin, and the room is completely lined with books so old that they'd all rotted through and fused together, the marble shelves they're placed on having little carvings of open eyes all along them. the only two objects in a good state are an illuminated manuscript in arabic that had been kept apart from the rest of the books, and a gold coin with an engraving of a young man with flowing hair, the initials "JW," the year 1279, and the words "für die stille" (google translate tells me that’s “for the silence”). albrecht asks around for any information about johann because the name is unfamiliar despite his quite good knowledge about local history and nobles, and someone says they remember him being called "ulrich's bastard," likely referring to ulrich the i or ii, two counts of württemberg from the 1200s. with that information, in the present day jon is able to find some historical records that point to ulrich i having a son out of wedlock in 1255 who was rumored to keep the company of witches.

-> point 2: the von closens. it seems that a servant nicked the coin albrecht found before he could go home with it, and that was probably for the best for albrecht, because that servant Died Badly from what was ruled to be an animal attack. albrecht did take the book with him, however, and presumably went on to show it to jonah magnus. he then must have gone back for the rest of the rotten books at some point, though, because when doctor jonathan fanshawe visits his estate in 1831, albrecht has a full library of recently re-bound books that he tells fanshawe he got from the tomb, and owning them has done terrible beholding-esque things to him. fanshawe, in his capacity as a doctor, says they should return the books for albrecht's health, and they do so, but just as the last book is returned, albrecht dies, and fanshawe realizes that all the books were blank and finds out that jonah arranged to have them all swapped out by the book binder. when fanshawe performs an autopsy on albrecht's body, all of his insides are covered in eyes.

in his statement from 1816, albrecht says he and his wife carla have been unable to conceive, though in 1831 fanshawe mentions that all of albrecht's sons were away at school when he came to visit. not something that's impossible, they could have managed to have children shortly after 1816, but it does make me raise an eyebrow. magically blessed fertility? dimension shenanigans? fanshawe does mention a tree being burned on the von closen estate that feels remarkably similar to the tree on hilltop road.

anyway, wilhelm, albrecht's nephew, has some children, and the family stays in germany for about another century, but one branch eventually moves to england, and their descendants include mary and gerard keay. according to gerry, mary was big into mythologizing about the von closens and really tried to get him to continue her idea of a legacy for the family, but he thought most of what she said was made up.

protocol 'verse:

-> point 3: colin's comment about source code being written in german. nothing much to explain here, just that it's Weird that source code for some Weird bespoke program for the british civil service is written in german, right? Bit Odd.

-> point 4: the usenet forum. okay so I'm an avatar of the idiot and only read up about the arg after it was already over and don't know anything about code and whatnot, but as best as I can understand: on the OIAR's official website, if you try to submit a form, you get an error message, and if you look into the source code for the error then you find Some piece of code with an IP address shaped hole in it, and there's an IP address hidden in an OIAR advertising video, so you put that IP address into the code, do something else (???), and then find yourself at an old defunct usenet forum from the 90s/00s for people who left east germany.

(it is from here that I got too verbose for my own good, so the rest is under a cut)

notable things about the forum: most of it is pretty normal, and, naturally, it was pretty much all in german, massive shoutout to everyone who helped to translate all 21k words of it. there are threads about finding work in various countries, weird cultural idiosyncrasies, resources, reminiscing about berlin, yknow, normal stuff. the mod “SandmannS” (translates to exactly what it looks like) ran the forum with a bit of an iron fist, which I guess makes sense, it’s the kind of forum that attracted people who wanted to say some heinous stuff and he was really serious about not letting anyone solicit personal information, but he was also kind of overzealous about keeping threads on topic and locking any discussions that he thought were “pointless.” he was eventually strongarmed into opening a thread for cat pictures, and that’s as good an opening as any to talk about some of the Weird things about the forum.

one of the cat photos was posted in february 1994 and shows a cat standing in front of the thames, with what looks like the completed o2 arena in full view (great choice of a red flag landmark to include @ whoever chose it. nice big landmark that was called “the millennium dome” when it first opened, a handy reminder that it was made to celebrate the turn of the millennium and construction wouldn't even have started in 1994). several comments across the threads are dated as earlier than the comments they’re replying to, one person references the content of the phantom menace a few months before its release, and several comments were somehow made after the mod locked the forum in dec 2001/jan 2002.

and okay. the forum locking. I’m going to condense this to all hell because this is already [redacted] words long but basically, “einsamernarr” (translation: lonely fool) was an active user of the forum with a big conspiratorial streak, real paranoid about “the government” spying on him, always getting warnings and just dodging getting banned just before going too far, yknow, a Type of Guy. in december 2001, he mentions in a book rec thread that he was trolling through some databases and found a bunch of old records and he can’t tell if they’re fictional or not, but he’d like to share them if he can. about five days later, he starts posting in several threads that he did something really dumb, people are after him, the meetup they were planning is not safe and this forum is being watched, people should look for him if he doesn’t come back within a week, and he’ll try to leave some info behind for them just in case. a few days later, a couple of people post worried messages asking if anyone’s heard from einsamernarr and that they’ve been getting weird cryptic emails about an “institute” from him, and sandmanns says that he did everything he could, but he can’t keep doing this, and he closes the forum.

marina “avatar of the idiot” annabelle--cane showing my face here again, I don’t know how this next part happened, but it’s possible to retrieve the email einsamernarr sent, open it with a password found in colin’s code repository (that’s a whole ‘nother thing), and find inside: 1. some pictures of bonzobucks, 2. a weird pdf of an old german book on alchemy with a lot of symbols and codes in it, and 3. a spreadsheet of the names, ages, and test results of the hundreds of children the protocol 'verse magnus institute was performing psych studies on. which finally brings us to our next, much shorter section.

-> point 5: “gerard kaey” (sic). gerry’s name is on that spreadsheet, which I think is relevant to this conversation given mary’s obsession with the von closen legacy. archives ‘verse mary keay resented the magnus institute for what she felt it stood for comparison to what she felt she stood for; she saw jonah magnus as a thief who stole away her family’s honor, so what might be different about the protocol ‘verse situation? why would mary keay in this universe send her only heir to go get scrutinized by a bunch of self-important academics?

-> point 6: the berlin dead drop. more arg stuff, we’re getting into things that I’m sure probably have more to be said about them than I’m capable of saying, but from some clues in a picture of cookbooks that einsamermarr posted in the cat pictures thread of the usenet forum to annoy the mod, and a voicemail on the OIAR’s telephone line, people found out the date and location of the first irl arg event, and it was for somewhere in berlin. a newspaper covered in alchemical symbols was found in a bookshop, and from that people somehow derived coordinates, and those coordinates lead to the last irl event where a battered old video tape with a video of a creepy ritual was found (note: the tape was too badly damaged, so another copy of the video came from an arg affiliated tumblr account).

-> point 7: klaus.xls. from a floppy disk found in the second irl arg event, klaus.xls is a spreadsheet originally written in german with about 100 dates and times of potentially paranormal sightings. a lot of it is corrupted and unreadable, but there are columns for category, rank, “TSHU,” and notes. translated into english, notes sections that aren’t corrupted say things like “mr. b,” “war people,” “avoid, “unhappy child,” “ink,” “lady m,” “cats lol,” and “I hate witches.”

-> point 8: albertus magnus and the philosopher’s stone. right, this is where I go a bit off the rails, and credit to this post by @misfitmagpie for discovering some of this. first, nearly every official visual we’ve had for tmagp has been covered in alchemy symbols. they’re all over the logo, they’re all over the in-universe OIAR and magnus institute websites, they highlighted hints in the arg, they’re everywhere, and the end goal of alchemy was the pursuit of the mythical philosopher’s stone, a substance that could turn base metals into gold and produce an elixir for eternal life. the tmagp logo/the coat of arms for the OIAR is centered around an upside down alchemical symbol for the philosopher’s stone, a circle in a square in a triangle in a larger circle. 

albertus magnus (aka saint albert the great) was a bavarian philosopher and scientist who did some writing on alchemy and has been widely rumored to secretly have been a master alchemist, mainly as a result of a lot of people attaching his name to writings about alchemy that he never touched. some have credited him as discovering the actual philosopher’s stone, and while he never made that claim in any way that survives, he did record that he’d witnessed seeing base metals be turned into gold. something of which to take note is that he didn’t go by the name “magnus” during his life, that was appended to him posthumously, it’s just another way of calling him “the great” with a fancy latin word, but it does kind of remind me of that edmond “reimer” halley -> maxwell rayner thing from mag 140. if you discovered the elixir of life and became immortal, you would probably need to nab a new identity at some point, and if people have already been nicknaming you “albert the great,” well…

anyway, the thing that’s really cemented his potential relevance in my mind is his birth and death dates: c. 1200-1280, lining up perfectly with the time period of johann von württemberg (thought we’d moved on from him, didn’t you?). I know magnus timelines are notoriously a bit unruly, especially the further back into the past we get, but it’s scratching at my brain. besides that, I think it would be a really cool move if the magnus this podcast is named for was a completely different person than the magnus the last podcast was named for.

if albertus magnus isn’t directly relevant then I’ve got another theory about the title that I’ll be posting in a hot minute, but it’s not germany related and this ask is already long enough. 

just, to sum up, a lot of protocol content so far has been germany-adjacent, and even if nothing more comes of it I think there are a lot of interesting threads here to speculate about.

#tmagp #answered #anons #tmagp spoilers

[our-flag-means-love]

every time i see anyone say the writing in s2 isn't very good overall, i think of one specific line from episode 4. (and no, not "to love the sea as she must be loved requires change," because even though it might be my favorite line in the whole show, i've talked about that one before.)

ed's main internal conflict in episode 3 is that he feels unlovable. he feels like a monster for killing his father and for all the things that he's done in general, and he thinks that because of that, no one could ever love him.

we, of course, know that stede does love him, even knowing about his past. but ed doesn't know that, and even after he wakes up and starts interacting with stede again, he has no reason to think that.

until they sit down on anne and mary's couch and have a proper difficult conversation for the first time in their lives.

even now, ed doesn't think stede could love him without a beard. he says, "i'm sorry if my horrible naked chin disgusts you so much."

and before he can even finish his sentence, stede shoots back, "i love your chin. naked or otherwise."

it's stede's first pushback against the idea that anything about ed is unlovable, or that stede's love for him is conditional.

and what immediately follows is even better, because there are so many things stede could've told ed in that moment.

a simple, "i love you."

ed would've thought, "okay but which parts of me? and what will i end up doing to ruin it?"

"you're not a monster."

ed thinks he is. ed wouldn't have believed him.

"i love you despite your past."

ed would've been left thinking that his past actions were still a permanent stain on him, that it's a major hurdle in the way of him ever being loved by anyone, including stede.

but stede doesn't say any of those things. he says:

and it's perfect. it's exactly what ed needed to hear in that moment. the writers could not have picked a better line.

because ed is lovable, in the present and the past, and nothing he's ever done has detracted from stede's adoration for him, and that was the only thing stede could've said to properly convey it.

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd meta #edward teach #ed teach #stede bonnet #blackbonnet #gentlebeard

[villain-crown]

needle | @jegulus-microfic | words: 786

critical care, part 2 | (part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6)

a Jegulus nurse!AU

“Prongs!”

Sirius strolled onto the medical-surgical intensive care unit with a coffee in one hand and an exasperated Remus Lupin in the other. James had to hand it to them—ever since his friends started sucking faces and Remus had flatly refused to let Sirius sabotage his 15 minutes early arrival policy, Sirius was never late to work anymore.

“Hey, mate,” James replied over his shoulder, examining the patient assignments that he’d just outlined.

“Are we in charge?” Sirius demanded into his Starbucks when he’d come close enough to read the board.

“Yeah, I'm charge nurse for the medical patients, you can have the surgical ones. Looks like your brother’s floating up here today.”

Sirius hurried to gulp down the sip he’d already taken. “Reggie? Yesss! Put him on my team! I want to boss him around.”

“How is that different from any other day of the week?” Remus asked.

It was on the tip of James’s tongue to ask—why would Marlene warn me not to stare at your brother?—when the two-toned wail of the code blue alarm blared through the hallway, automatically pulling their focus towards the far side of the ICU.

Sirius sucked up the last of his coffee, attempting to simultaneously shrug off his jacket and stagger towards the action. “Fucking hell, okay, OKAY!”

James was already taking long strides towards the other end of his unit, his eyes flicking to the blue light over room twelve’s door and the controlled chaos unfolding within it. Three people were already present: his two Gryffindor nurses, Lily and Mary, along with a very slender man in dark green Slytherin scrubs performing chest compressions.

“We started compressions about fifteen seconds ago,” Mary supplied from her position performing rescue breaths via bag mask at the head of the patient’s bed.

“Do you need a step stool?” James asked without thinking.

Stranger.

Slytherin scrubs.

This must be Regulus!

As the petite nurse looked up to spare him a glare while continuing to stand on his toes to maintain his rhythm, James realized exactly why he’d been warned not to stare.

He’d seen it all in the course of his career: severed fingers, gaping wounds, and infested flesh. When Marlene had warned him to keep his eyes to himself, he’d figured it was because there was something physically off about Sirius’s little brother; a scar or imperfection of some kind.

He was wrong.

Regulus Black wasn’t some deformed hobbit.

He was fucking gorgeous.

Truly, James couldn’t imagine anything he’d like to do more than stare into those stunning silver eyes set in that lovely face. His eyes had barely swept down to register the man’s slender body and neat little waist when fingers clicked sharply in his face.

“Watch your fucking eyes, Potter!” Sirius snapped, having finally caught up, pushing roughly past him to join his brother at the patient’s side. “Hold compressions, Reggie.”

Regulus paused his movements, backing off slightly to come down off his toes as everyone in the room observed the meaningless squiggles on the cardiac monitor fade from the reading. A wavy, trembling line replaced the previously jerky chaos.

“V. Fib,” Regulus concluded, correctly identifying the lethal heart rhythm.

He was much smaller than James, which was exactly what James liked. It would make pinning him up against a wall by the hips as they fucked a lot easier.

“Yeah. Take over compressions, Lily. Reggie, can you give a round of epinephrine? Where’s Dr. McGonagall?”

“In a budget meeting, according to the intern answering her phone,” Regulus answered, drawing up the medication with a needle.

Fuck, even his voice was just incredibly lovely. James imagined how it might sound in a much dirtier context than they were in now.

“Ah. Pour one out for McGonagall,” Sirius instructed Remus, who obediently emptied a syringe of sterile saline into the garbage.

Regulus paused his own movements, watched this action incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s good luck. What, you guys don’t do that in Slytherin?”

“We don’t need luck in Slytherin.”

James rolled his eyes. “See, this is why people hate you guys. Okay, one milligram of epi is in.”

“Hello, everyone!”

James looked up and scowled upon seeing Barty Crouch Jr., one of the resident physicians on loan to them from Slytherin, swanning into the room like it was a lovely day. He seemed distinctly unconcerned by his late arrival and more interested in sidling over to Regulus and throwing an arm around his shoulder, making James frown.

“Hey Reg! Wow, they’ve really got you slumming it with these surgical idiots, huh?”

“Are you here to help or hit on my baby brother?” Sirius snapped over his shoulder from where he was recording the code events with a dry erase marker on one of the windows.

Crouch frowned. “Where’s McGonagall?”

“Budget meeting,” came from three different directions.

“Oh. Hey, Lupin, pour one out for—“

“We already did that! Now fucking give us orders, you cretin!”

“Oh. Alright, pause compressions, let’s check a pulse…”

#regulus black #james potter #jegulus #sirius black #starchaser #sirius and regulus #marauders nurse!au #marauders fandom #jegulus microfic

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

pt II our flag means death but I've never watched it

HELLO OFMD FANDOM! It's the Good Omens Mascot and Resident Dumbass, back again for part II. First, let's clear the air of all controversy!

Some of you lovely maggots were kind enough to warn me about certain discourse about a salad spoon and also about a certain gentleman named Izzy. I was warned not to make assumptions and not to take sides, and I hear some members had to leave the fandom for a while because it got toxic. Maggots. All the rest of you. Worry not about me. I'm here to unite the OFMD fandom! How, you ask? By being so undeniably stupid in my own opinions that you all will have to unite to disagree with me. You underestimate the power of my dumbassery. Well, let's not dilly dally and dawdle, here's the updated summary:

I have been informed there is cannibalism on this ship but it is not real. Someone pretends to eat someone and then their wife helps them fake their death while they run away from the ship though their lover wanted them to run to China.

There are BDSM lesbians, which is honestly such a slay, Pinterest has let me down by not informing me of that when I made Part I. I will no longer be using Pinterest a reliable source in future academic essays.

Mermaid Stede performs necromancy while a song called Kate Bush plays (I don't know who this is, a politician? Idk whether of US or UK).

Gravy Basket is a destination and Buttons is a sea witch and there is educational stabbing. Buttons is then a bird because of the BDSM lesbians.

There is a lady who is extremely beautiful and intimidating and powerful and she has twenty husbands and I assumed incorrectly that you were all talking about a Jack Russel terrier.

Let's start with the controversy! Izzy. Secondary protagonist or antagonist? Good or bad? Kindly father figure or homoerotically charged friend? Necessary death or not? No no no. Behold:

I present a new question, a hot take sizzling from the pan: Did Izzy really exist?

Personally, I firmly believe that no, he did not. I believe that the rum on the ship was spiked with hallucinogens.

Izzy was simply the manifestation of Ed's Freudian subconscious, taking the shape of a human being, vaguely resembling a humanoid potato Ed was forced to boil as a kid. I was a psychology student with a final grade of 99% and I accept only destructive criticism on my posts thank you. Feel free to discuss whether he boiled the potato in a fit of rage or whether he was forced to.

There are assorted Ned's, Mary's and an uncertain number of Jeff's on ship.

One of the Jeff's is an accountant, and there is a nonbinary talking sword named Jim. Actually I'm not sure if they talk.

Love you all, rooting for the show to be renewed.

REMINDERS. Be polite to each other in the reblogs, on tumblr reblogs spread posts and not likes (which don't do anything for visibility) unlike other social media sites, but MOST IMPORTANTLY.

I ACCEPT ONLY DESTRUCTIVE CRITICISM, THIS BLOG IS A GODLESS, LAWLESS LAND, AND ALL RAGE AT EACH OTHER MUST BE REDIRECTED AT ME. UNDERSTOOD? YAY.

#good omens mascot #weirdly specific but ok #asmi #maggots #lgbtqia #renew as a crew #adopt ofmd #ofmd #ofmd fandom #pirate omens #our flag means gay #our flag means death #omfd summary #omfd izzy #izzy hands #ofmd meta #ofmd discourse #spanish jackie #stede bonnet #blackbeard #ed x stede #blackbonnet #gentlebeard

[woso-dreamzzz]

Big Adventures Thoughts

So, my fics were pretty short tonight because I was stuck on a coach for six hours and couldn't write much but I do have some random Big Adventures thoughts that may or may not make it into fics at some point but I'm just going to share them all with you now 😊

I've mentioned it very briefly in an ask before but when Princesse was very young she spoke Swedish with a slight Danish accent and Magda hated it. It faded after she started living with Magda but it's always funny to Pernille whenever anyone brings it up

It's not been used a lot but moster Frido is a big part of Princesse's life. This is coming in a fic soon but after the doctors and Magda and Pernille, she's actually the next person to hold Princesse and she's the one that brings her girl-swan and girl-moose when she's a baby. Princesse adores her in the way all young girls idolise their older, female relatives and Frido's definitely the one she turns to when she's older and doesn't want to talk to her mums about certain things

Magda feels a bit inadequate sometimes (particularly early on) when she finds out just how easy Pernille and Princesse work together on things and it's a pretty steep learning curve for her but she adapts pretty quickly

Every shirt Princesse gets when she's younger, she wears to bed the night she gets it. Some shirts (like Leah's) she hoards for weeks before letting them get washed and framed if she thinks they're special enough

Princesse is deathly allergic to kiwi, banana and avocado but only slightly allergic to latex

Sometimes on the bus to away games, Princesse curls up on Jessie's lap and naps with her. Pernille has a whole photo album of pictures of Jessie and Princesse napping

The gloves that Zećira gives Princesse after the match against the USA, Princesse keeps. It becomes a bit of a superstition but before every match, she puts them on and then takes them off to put on her own gloves because she wants Zećira's good luck from that game to rub off on her

Princesse is absolutely a prodigy at keeping. Magda and Pernille debate sometimes whether there must be some kind of keeper dna in the donor they chose (because it certainly didn't come from Magda's) or whether or not it was the near hero worship Princesse has for Zećira that made her want to prove herself

Princesse's schooling ends up being a bit all over the place. She only starts school when they all move back to Germany and she only really goes in a few times a week because Magda and Pernille's schedules can be erratic sometimes and it's a bit easier to home-school her (and because of the slight separation anxiety Magda develops but will forever deny). When Magda and Pernille retire and they end up in Sweden, Princesse's time is taken up by academy training and then when she hits fifteen, professional training so she ends up taking online school

I think I've mentioned this as well but Princesse never lets in a penalty her entire career and it makes other players all the more nervous during penalty shootouts at major tournaments because she continually blocks them. It becomes kind of a thing that commentators at matches talk about in the 'is this the day someone finally scores a penalty against her' kind of way

Like Magda did, Princesse gives away her World Cup medals but this time to Magda and Pernille rather than a child of her own

Almost all of Princesse's World Cup jerseys get given away to players from her childhood (if and when she defeats their teams) while the others go to Magda and Pernille

For club football, Princesse has her first name on her back but for every international match, it's her last name

Princesse feels awkward getting praise sometimes from people that aren't her mothers which is something that carries into adulthood so, at award shows and such things, she always brings them with her because it makes her feel less awkward

Speaking of award shows, Princesse is presented with awards by both Mary Earps when she grows up along with Alexia and Aitana

#The Big Adventures Universe

[multi-fandom-imagine]

A/n: it's been a while since I posted this idea but I am finally writing it. And ugh I am not happy with this 😩

Fem!Reader x which ever Jordan you like, i love them both so I couldn't pick.

It was known to everyone on campus who you were dating, Jordan made it known to anyone that approached a five mile radius from you. They were'r t blind, they could see how half the guy's looked at you. You'd even get a few looks from some of the girls too.

They didn't know why it bothered them so much, they knew you'd never leave them but sometimes that thought couldn't help but drift in their mind every once in a while. It was a concern they voiced to Marie though they never expected her to go to you with their insecurities. Their mind racing from what you might say but of course you didn't bat an eye, you just kissed their cheek then bounded off to your room to change.

Shaking their head, Jordan rubbed the back of their neck. They could still feel the warmth of your kiss on their cheek though they didn't have the chance to think it over as you rushed over to them with a bright smile on your face.

"Ready to go?"

Jordan gave you a teasing smile, their fingers clutching the edge of your dress they then pulled you in close. "We can stay here if you want. Make our own little show."

Rolling your eyes you returned the smile giving their cheek a playful pinch. "How about this, if you enjoy this walk down the path of lights with me then once we get back to our dorm then you can fuck all night long."

Tilting their head to the side, they licked their lips nodding their head. "I am holding you to that." Giving your hand a soft squeeze you two were off.

Smiling, you let your eyes rank over all the lights and though Jordan was smiling you can see some worry in their eyes. You knew what they must be thinking, why were you with them. Nibbling your lip you gave their hand a squeeze as you tugged Jordan to a smaller path of lights.

"You know Jordan, I don't want a lot for Christmas."You gave them a smile rocking on your heels.

"Oh?" Jordan gave you a teasing grin. "And prey tell me, what is this one thing you'd like?" They asked resting their head on yours.

Grinning, you playfully stuck your tongue out at them. "Well there is just one thing I need, annnnnd I don't really care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree."

Jordan chuckled shaking their head as they gave your hand a light squeeze. "Are you gonna get to the point." They teased.

Humming, you stood on your toes letting your lips brush theirs. "I will."

Giving them another kiss you pulled back then rested your head against their chest to listen to their steady heart beat. "I just want you for my own Jordan,More than you could ever know." You wanted to make sure they understood how much you loved them. That they were important to you. "So, will you make my wish come true? And be the only thing I want for Christmas?"

Jordan tensed then relaxed as they pulled you into their chest, a small laugh escaped their lips. Clearing out their throat they cupped your cheeks as they pulled you in for a kiss under the twinkling lights.

"I love you, you know that right?" They muttered agains't your lips before pulling away. "I will be more than happy to be your little present." They teased.

Sighing, you quickly hid your face into their chest, a smile on your face to hide the warmth. "Good." You muttered. It was a beautiful night, with all the lights are shining so brightly, children laughing as they rushed to each spot to look at the display.

But you did not care, because you had someone you love in your arms.

#drabbles #drabble #jordan li x reader #jordan li x you #gen v prime #gen v #gen v amazon #gen v x reader #gen v x you

[eyesthatroll]

NOBODY'S LOVE

pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader

summary: your best friend is getting married, this is supposed to be a happy day, right?

warning(s): sad shit, idk

word count: 1.7k

author's note: would first like to give a disclaimer that i am not meaning any ill will toward any blondes who meet the beauty standard, it's just a plot line within the story. secondly, here are the songs that i listened to while writing this, that you could also listen to, to better the experience:

-Nobody's Love by Maroon 5

-Can I Be Him by James Arthur (acoustic version!)

-Everything You Want by Vertical Horizon

really hope you enjoy. sort of ends on a cliffhanger but i kind of like this a lot for the moment. as per usual, reblogs + feedback / constructive criticism are always appreciated. sending my love —mari

You can't help the sour expression that twists your features as your gaze remains fixed on Luke and Lacey. They're entwined in an intimate dance on the crowded floor, more akin to grinding than traditional dancing, with his hands gripping her waist as she moves against him.

Luke, as always, looks gorgeous, his white dress shirt slightly unbuttoned to reveal the glimmering silver chain nestled against his neck, and droplets of sweat glistening on his chest. His hair had at last emerged from the clutches of that dreadful mullet, now a lush cascade of curls artfully styled, with their length nearly reaching the nape of his neck.

She looks absolutely stunning, adorned in her sleek, form-fitting, white lace reception dress that gracefully accentuates every curve of her figure. Her blonde hair, meticulously blown out, showers down her back like a silken waterfall, its length elegantly concluding just below her waist. Of course, Luke had to marry a girl who was the epitome of the beauty standard.

You savor another mouthful of your White Russian, the sweet liquid sliding down your throat in a single, indulgent gulp. The empty glass collides with the table, emitting a sharp clink that punctuates your mounting inebriation. The responsible choice at this point, would be to balance it out with some water to regain sobriety. However, the longer you fixate on Luke and Lacey, the more you find yourself making repeated trips to the bar for another round.

Drinking, aside from providing a numbing effect to shield you from the emotional turmoil of observing Luke and Lacey, also effectively distracts you from dwelling on the rather disheartening image you must present: a solitary figure at a table in the back corner, solemnly nursing your drinks amidst the vibrant celebration of your best friend's wedding.

In this moment, regret gnaws at you for not scrounging up a plus one. Granted, you wouldn't have genuinely cared for the guy, but at least it would have spared you the pain and humiliation of sulking alone the entire reception. You could have been dancing with him, providing a buffer against the impending flood of tears as you watched Luke dance with Her.

Finishing off your glass, you stand up from your seat, and begin an unsteady journey back up to the bar, your gaze fixated on the ground in hopes of not having to make conversation with anyone. You slump on one of the barstools, and the bartender sends you a look of pity, shaking his head before you can even open your mouth to ask for another refill.

"Boss man says you're cut off, sorry." He apologizes, his hands efficiently polishing an empty glass.

Your mouth drops open, bewilderment etched across your face. You rub at your eyes, hoping to shake off the daze. "Boss man?"

He nods affirmatively. "Mr. Hughes."

Your face goes blank at his words. The revelation that Luke had noticed your excessive drinking at his wedding and even went as far as instructing the bartender to cut you off, feels like another dagger to your already wounded heart. An overwhelming sense of embarrassment envelops you, clinging to you like a suffocating second skin. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, and with a heavy heart, you make a hasty retreat to the nearest bathroom, craving the solitude it offers for your impending emotional breakdown.

You rush into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a resounding thud. Your back meets the cool, unforgiving surface of the door, and you sink down to the floor in despair. Sobs wrack your body, escaping your quivering lips in a heartbreaking symphony of agony. Your elegant dress, once a symbol of celebration, now clings to you in disarray, its baby blue fabric gathering at your ankles. Unchecked tears stream down your face, creating dark rivulets against the pastel material, as you draw your knees up to your chest, a fragile attempt to find comfort amid the chaos of your sentiments. Snot drips from your nose, and you make no effort to wipe it away, too lost in your own despair to care about appearances.

The pounding music from outside serves as a veil, muffling your cries and offering you a small refuge, shielding you from the judgmental eyes of the reception as you succumb to this moment of pathetic, emotional turmoil.

You shouldn't have come. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest the moment Luke's voice choked out his vows to Lacey. It was in that poignant moment that you understood that attending this wedding had been a grave mistake. A searing pang of bitterness and longing seized your chest, an agonizing blend of emotions that consumed you entirely.

Luke poured his heart out to Lacey, and your own heart burned with a fiery jealousy you couldn't extinguish. You wished desperately that it was you standing at the altar, facing Luke with the warmth of family and friends as witnesses. You yearned for the opportunity to exchange vows with him, to profess your love openly and honestly, but it was a privilege that belonged to Lacey. Beautiful, intelligent, and sweet Lacey.

You searched relentlessly for a rational reason to despise her, an explanation that could somehow justify your feelings towards her, but she remained an enigma of kindness and grace. Lacey always went out of her way to strike up conversations with you, treating you with unwavering honor and consideration. She respected the cherished traditions you shared with Luke as best friends, even went as far as asking you to be a bridesmaid in the wedding. She truly was the epitome of an angel in human form, embodying virtues and qualities you felt outperformed your own shortcomings by a mile. Even so, you hated her. You didn't show it, but you felt it in your chest every time she was around, or Luke mentioned her.

You're unsure how much time passed as you sat there, silently weeping. A soft knock on the bathroom door, however, jolts you back to reality, and you unsteadily scramble to your feet, trying to compose yourself in a quick manner. As you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, a bitter, mirthless laugh escapes your lips. The person staring back at you is hardly recognizable.

Your once-radiant makeup is now a smudged mess. Black mascara and eyeliner have streaked down your cheeks, giving you the appearance of a disheveled raccoon. Your eyes are swollen and red from crying, and your foundation is ruined, marred by tear stains that have traveled all the way down to your neck. The reflection staring back at you is a stark contrast to the composed, put-together version of yourself you had intended to be at Luke's wedding.

You hastily tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the dispenser, letting them soak under a stream of warm water for a few moments before setting to work. The damp paper towel becomes a weapon against the lingering evidence of your emotional breakdown as you scrub mercilessly at your skin, each harsh stroke a testament to your turmoil. You ignored the stinging pain that accompanied it, and only when the paper towel had become a shredded, saturated mess, rendering it unusable, did you finally cease your relentless efforts.

Exhaling a series of deep breaths, you wipe at your eyes one last time, a sudden exhaustion mixed with the overwhelming desire to be alone, washing over you.

The night was far from over, and the lively atmosphere of the party still pulsed through hall. Family members of both Luke and Lacey, along with a scattering of friends and NHL players, mingled and celebrated. Your eyes scanned the crowded space, contemplating the possibility of making a discreet exit through the back door, escaping without notice.

As you inch closer to the side exit, your heart skips a beat when a sudden hand lands firmly on your shoulder. Startled, you instinctively clutch your chest, the adrenaline from the surprise coursing through your veins. You turn around, your breath slowing at the relief of seeing it's only Jack. His intense gaze locks onto yours, his hand still resting on your shoulder as he asks, "Leaving without saying goodbye?"

Your voice quivered, barely rising above a harsh whisper, as if the music's deafening volume could somehow amplify your confession. "I can't be here."

Jack's gaze softens with a deep understanding as he witnessed the raw emotion you could no longer conceal. His gentle touch finds its way to the small of your back, effortlessly drawing you into his comforting embrace. Your body quivers with dejection, and you give in to your overwhelming afflictions, sobbing uncontrollably into his collar.

"I shouldn't have come, Jack. It hurts too much," you stutter, your sobs punctuating each word like an unwelcome intruder within a happy home. He stays silent, his hands tenderly massaging your back in a desperate attempt to offer solace. Though it's a mutual understanding that the one person who could truly comfort you in the situation, could never know the reason behind your pain.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," he says, his apology carrying the weight of an unspoken truth. Jack shouldn't be apologizing for his brother, but he can't help it. He was there throughout the entirety of you realizing your newfound feelings for Luke. He truly believed that the two of you were destined to be together, especially after you had confided in the him about what happened between you and Luke that one night.

He was there when the light dimmed in your eyes, the day when Luke introduced everyone to Lacey just a week after meeting her, claiming immediate love at first sight. You are like the little sister he never had, and he found himself standing at a crossroads, torn between the pain his little brother had caused you and his desire for both of you to find happiness. But the realization that it might not be with each other changed the dynamic within everything.

"What's going on here?"

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes imagines #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes fic #luke hughes fanfiction

[teawitch]

Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I just stumbled on a YouTube video about Catholic Core and am sitting here with my head in my hands doing the laugh-cry bit. I can't make it past the first 5 or 6 minutes because apparently no one, including the young youtuber explaining Catholiccore seems to understand Catholicism.

Okay so after a brief look at Met Gala gowns, we get an image of a Tiktoker selling "confession readings" for only $5. Then we are advised not to use this person who has supposedly only been baptized and to go to priest who has studied the bible for years and has achieved a level of certification to give confession readings.

The long lapsed Catholic in me is crying.

wtf is a "confession reading"? Certification?

A priest is ordained into holy orders in the Catholic church. Only a priest can absolve sins after hearing confession and granting penance. If you confess to anyone other than a priest, you must still confess to a priest if you are seeking absolution from sins. The priest is seen has acting for God and not granting absolution as himself.

Nuns and monks can't grant absolution, even though they have taken holy orders. They are not ordained priests. (There is always ongoing debate about expanding the role of women in the Catholic church but let's face it, the church is a long standing Old Boys Club)

There is always discussion around Last Rites and what happens if a priest is not present. I believe Pope Francis finds himself caught up in that one. During the Last Rites, the dying person is suppose to make a final confession of all sins and the priest to grant absolution so they can go to heaven. The current thought may be that if the dying person makes a true and final act of contrition, they may be considered absolved even if a priest isn't present.

I have no idea what a "confession reading" would be.

No one on tiktok can hear your confession. Even if they are somehow an ordained Catholic priest - confession through electronic means isn't considered valid. (This caused issues during Covid lock down. It must be in person.)

I'm not really worried about Catholic appropriation. Wear that rosary like a necklace. I'm just confused as to what tiktok is up to now.

[hooked-on-elvis]

ELVIS interviewed during filming of 'Change of Habit'

— AMONG OTHER THINGS, YOU'LL LEARN ABOUT HOW ELVIS DID SOME IMPROVISATION IN HIS LINES FOR THE MOVIES AND HOW SELF CONSCIOUS HE WAS ABOUT HIS OWN FILMS

Filmed on location in the Los Angeles area and at Universal Studios during March and April 1969, Change of Habit was released in the United States on November 10, 1969.

Elvis Presley On Set: You Won’t ask Elvis Anything Too Deep?

Elvis talks, but he doesn't say much

BY WILLIAM OTTERBURN-HALL HOLLYWOOD – The notice outside the big grey double-doors was simple and to the point. SET CLOSED, ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE. You find notices like this outside a lot of film studios, and they tend to have a certain elasticity. This one, outside what looked like an aircraft hangar but was actually Stage D at Universal Studios, meant it. Inside, Elvis Presley was filming. And where Elvis goes, the barriers go up as if some sinister germ warfare experiment were being carried on within. Like a suckling infant, he is swathed and coddled against the realities of the world outside, as if he were made of rare porcelain rather than hewn from good old-fashioned Tennessee stock. But this day he was on show. I had been given the magic formula. The secret open-sesame known only by its brand name of “Colonel Parker’s Okay” had been handed me. The doors swung wide, and I was in. They say Colonel Parker is the man who built Elvis from the erotic gyrating days of the swiveling Pelvis through 14 long and fruitful summers to his present status, by pushing and pulling his protege through the tricky cross-currents of pop music taste. I wouldn’t know. I had asked to see him, this onetime Texas fairground barker, to thank him for the green light. But he was always somewhere else. In his office at Universal, over at Metro, down in Palm Springs, in Las Vegas to lay the trail for the next live show... always somewhere else. No matter. Who needed Colonel Parker when Elvis himself was alive and well and filming? The Publicity Man who escorted me as close as if he were handcuffed said proudly: “I’d like to work with him again, he’s so sweet and uncomplicated. I was surprised you got through – no one’s talked to him yet, you know. There must have been a good breeze blowing.” The good breeze continued to blow as far as the set. A mauve-walled pad with kitchen adjacent and a king-size bed visible through half-drawn yellow curtains. Elvis sat at a table, staring at his hands, while three mini-skirted girls, Mary Tyler Moore, Barbara McNair and Jane Elliott, scurried around with trays of food.

L-R: Mary Tyler Moore, Jane Elliott and Barbara McNair.

The film is about three nuns who pose as nurses to “identify with the people” in a Negro ghetto in New York. The title is Change of Habit (yes, it is) and stars Elvis as a medic who falls for one of the nuns. Elvis is wearing a paint-stained blue denim shirt and tight blue jeans. He looks relaxed and affable and rather meatier around the jaw-line than one remembers from previous films. Marriage (back in May 1967 to Priscilla Beaulieu) is obviously agreeing with him. His eyes have that smoky slow-burn of the old-time movie vamp. He seizes a guitar and strums a few chords. It’s the last week of shooting, and like the good days between exams and the end of term.

The atmosphere on the set is hip and loose, full of leather-clad youth and clever in-talk. The director is thin and intense, wears a check shirt and gym shoes, and is called Billy Graham, which is going to look interesting on the posters of a swinging nun. Elvis produces some dialogue. He is never likely to win an award as an actor, but he knows what the kids want and he gives it to them. The girls are talking about a party. The cameras turn. Elvis says: “You get a lot of people down here on a Saturday night, and all the old hates come out. Before you know it they’re bombed out of their skulls and you’ve got World War III on your hands.”

The scene is this one below. NO, it was not cut out during the editing of this movie.

Earth-quaking stuff. But this simple homespun philosophy is off-key. “Bombed out of their skulls” wasn’t in the script. And the director isn’t too happy about it. “It’s a good line,” says Elvis. “Okay, okay,” says Billy Graham. The line stays. Maybe it will come out in the cutting room, but it’s there for now. “The whole thing is downhill,” says a technician. “He don’t talk to anyone, except his own friends.” There is no sign of tension, but then Elvis has nothing to be tense about. He can go on churning out the same thing for another decade, and they’ll still queue to see it. If he’s over the top, as some unkindly souls occasionally try to make out, he doesn’t seem bothered. He is 34 . . . Raised in Memphis . . . Once a truck-driver, stumbled into records, took the world by storm as the original snake-hips . . . Now lives in cloistered seclusion in a colonial mansion near Nashville, with a Rolls, a solid gold Cadillac, a wife, a daughter (Lisa Marie, aged one) and several bodyguards for company . . . Has made 29 films, grossing 220 million dollars at the box office, and sold more than 200 million records.

Elvis Presley and director William A. Graham on the set of Change Of Habit (Universal 1969) between takes.

Elvis heads for his trailer in the far corner. A group of friends (known in some quarters as the Memphis Mafia) close around him like a football scrum after a loose ball. The code-word is given. I am beckoned over. The good breeze was still blowing. “You won’t probe too deep, will you?” The Publicity Man asks anxiously. “This is just an informal chat, that’s the deal. So keep it light and airy, okay?” Well . . . okay. I checked my notes. Does Elvis fly high on acid trips? Does he see himself as a prophet for the new generation? Does he think his style is too square? Does he have any sexual hang-ups? His marriage altered his attitude to life in any way? Does he kick his cat? Does he have a cat to kick? What are his views on pop, religion, hippies, demonstrators, Vietnam? Stuff like that. No, I wasn’t going to probe too deep. In the dressing room Elvis shakes hands in a firm grip. “This is Charlie, this is Doc.” Two small, burly men light leather jackets and open-neck shirts rise and shine briefly and subside again. The trailer feels a bit crowded.

Elvis Presley on the set of Change Of Habit (Universal 1969). Mary Tyler Moore, Elvis and director William A. Graham share a joke between takes.

Elvis talks. He speaks slowly and carefully, and puts a lot of space between his words. “The film? Uh, well . . . it’s a change of pace for me, yeah. It’s more serious than my usual movies, but it don’t mean I’m aiming for a big dramatic acting scene, no sir. The way I’m headed, I want to try something different now, but not too different. I did this film because the script was good, and I guess I know by now what the public goes for." “Most of the scripts that come my way are all the same. They’ve all got a load of songs in them, but I just did a Western called 'Charro', which hasn’t any songs ‘cepting the title tune. It did have a couple of nude scenes, but they’ve been cut. Anyhow, can you imagine a dramatic Western where the hero breaks out into song all the time?” He has said plenty, and now he leaps to his feet, hands flashing to imaginary holsters, and sings in a deep drawl: “Go for your guns . . . you’ve got ’til sundown to get outa town . . . ” It could be the start of a promising sketch. The others follow suit, singing, clowning, all on their feet. If this is the Memphis Mafia, they’re a friendly bunch.

Elvis on set of 'Change of Habit' (Universal 1969) talking to fans.

Elvis sits down, and everyone stops singing. He eyes himself in the dressing room mirror. “I don’t plan too far ahead, but I’m real busy for a while now. I’ve got a date in Vegas, and maybe another film after that. Then I’m going to try to get to Europe, because I’ve always promised I would and I’ve got some good, faithful fans over there.” Slow-talking Elvis may be. But he certainly isn’t the slow-witted hick from the backwoods his detractors make out. If he is, then he’s a better actor than they give him credit for. Get through to him, and you find a pleasant, honest, not-too-articulate hometown boy who has been protected for his own good from the hysterical periphery of his present world. The party was warming up. Elvis cracked a gag. Charlie cracked a gag. There was a call from the door. Elvis was wanted, and the good breeze was still blowing as he made for the set, one hand on my shoulder. Charlie and Doc were all smiles.

Elvis and his manager, Colonel Parker, on set of 'Change of Habit' (Universal 1969).

“Okay?” said the P.M. “You did real fine.” "Well . . . not quite." I said. "This Colonel Parker, would he be around for a word later?" Elvis stopped in his tracks. The P.M. went a whiter shade of pale, and whispered something to a friend. The friend nodded in sympathy. “I must tell you about an experience I had like that once,” he said, eyeing me as if I’d just crawled out of the woodwork. Elvis said: “I think he’s in Palm Springs. I’m not sure...” He hurried off. The P.M. said: “Don’t let’s push our luck any more. We never trouble him for too long a time. You should be very happy. You had more than anyone’s had in years.” Somewhere along the line, unaccountably, the good breeze had dropped. This story is from the July 12th, 1969 issue of Rolling Stone.

Source: www.rollingstone.com

#elvis presley #elvis movies #change of habit #mary tyler moore #barbara mcnair #jane elliott #1969 #60s movies #1969 movies #elvis articles #elvis interview #rolling stone magazine #vintage articles #vintage magazine

[i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end]

I can't stop thinking about this moment in "The Secret of Sherlock Holmes" ...

[Sorry for the bad audio quality, as far as I know there's no better recording. The script is under the cut below so you can read along, although it's not verbatim. Also be aware, there's shouting at approx. 0:42 in case you get startled by sudden loud noises (like me).]

Holmes is scared and lives under a feeling of impending doom, beginning to lose his grasp on reality, imagining not only Moriarty's presence but also having conversations with Watson in his thoughts ... And when Watson finally arrives, Holmes of course "can‘t say “Thank you”; he cant say “Good night,” can’t say “Help.”" ...

So he asks Watson for a match to have him close for a moment (they are in Baker Street, Holmes must have his own matches lying around) - I think this is the most logical explanation. He craves Watson's assistance, but he does not know how to ask for it. So he asks for a match instead.

Ahhh, I would sell my soul to travel back in time and see this on stage! (Yes, this is a photo from the play - but I have no idea from which scene.)

Here is the link to the full audio recording of the play on YouTube: Act I - Act II You can find the script via this post by @muchtohope ! I also used it for the text under the cut, thank you OP! :)

The mood changes again: darker, menacing, intensified by sound.

HOLMES becomes aware of another presence: the terrifying image of MORIARTY. His shadow stretches across the stage, street lit, in a London mist. HOLMES is alert, afraid.

HOLMES Professor Moriarty, I presume…? (The shadow remains. Silence) When the time is right, my friend, when the time is right…

The shadow moves away. WATSON's voice is heard.

WATSON Holmes? (HOLMES stays perfectly still) Can I be of assistance?

HOLMES Your presence might be invaluable.

WATSON You speak of danger. You are afraid of something?

HOLMES Well, I am.

WATSON Of what?

HOLMES Of air-guns.

This comes as a terrifying shriek from HOLMES. WATSON's voice has been in HOLMES' mind. Now his voice can be heard off-stage.

WATSON Holmes?

HOLMES (with quiet relief) My friend…

HOLMES rises from chair, as WATSON in outdoor clothes enters in natural light.

WATSON How are you, my dear fellow? I've brought you a cake. Mary baked it especially for you.

WATSON presents a cake tin. HOLMES peers inside, the briefest of glances. He puts in on the desk.

HOLMES How kind. And how is Mrs Watson?

WATSON She is extremely well, and sends you her compliments.

A pause.

HOLMES Watson… I think you know me well enough to understand that I am by no means a nervous man. At the same time it is stupidity, rather than courage, to refuse to recognise danger when it is close upon you. Might I trouble you for a match? (WATSON lights HOLMES' cigarette and sees him staring ahead in a momentary trance before he becomes aware of WATSON's presence again) You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?

#sherlock holmes #granada holmes #the secret of sherlock holmes #jeremy brett #edward hardwicke #jeremy paul #i am going insane #asexual falling hard for actors from an 80s show

[widowsofchaos]

could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭

synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.

pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader

ao3 // modern au // 5k words.

warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.

a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3

“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”

The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.

“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”

A scoff escapes.

“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.

That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.

“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”

The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.

Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.

Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.

She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.

Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.

Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.

Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.

An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.

He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.

A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.

It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.

Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.

Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.

All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-

“What an incredible scent you have—-”

Oh God, no.

“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”

Fuck.

“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”

It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.

A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.

Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.

A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.

“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?

As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.

“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.

A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.

“Why?”

You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.

“They’re too easy to hunt?”

You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.

“They bore me.”

“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.

It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.

Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.

Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.

“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.

A pregnant pause.

That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.

“You like blondes.”

Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.

“Just one in particular.”

Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.

“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.

But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.

How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.

“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.

Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.

A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.

This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.

It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.

She isn’t normal.

Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.

So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.

But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.

None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.

Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.

Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’

Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.

“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.

Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.

You’re too drunk for this.

“This cat is too tired to entertain.”

“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.

An offense has been made.

“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”

The mask slips.

It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.

“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.

And now the mask has been dropped.

“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.

Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.

Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.

Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.

But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.

Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.

“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.

You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.

Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.

“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.

“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.

“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.

“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.

It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.

“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.

“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”

Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.

Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.

“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.

Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.

You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.

By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.

You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.

All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.

“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.

“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.

You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.

“Goodnight, Carol.”

Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.

-

The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.

The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.

The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.

“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”

Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.

Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.

Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.

“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”

Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.

Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.

Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.

“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.

Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.

“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.

Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.

“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.

“Let me see if she missed me.”

A string of no no no slip from you meekly.

One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.

As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.

Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.

A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.

A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.

“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”

“That’s when I was young and stupid.”

Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.

Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.

Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.

“It seems she missed me.”

All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.

All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.

Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.

Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.

“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.

“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.

“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.

Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.

“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.

“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”

“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”

Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.

“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.

Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.

Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.

A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.

Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.

Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.

Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.

You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.

Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.

Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.

Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.

Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.

Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.

Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.

Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.

A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.

Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.

A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.

Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.

“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”

Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.

“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.

“Then why do you make her cry?”

“What?”

“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.

“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”

Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.

Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.

“Don’t you want to be a family again?”

She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.

Damn her.

“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.

You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.

In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.

Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.

Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.

Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.

You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.

A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.

Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.

In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.

“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.

Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.

“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.

Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.

Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.

Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.

Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.

A pause.

It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.

You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.

-

Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.

Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?

A silent white flag has been waived.

A lonely dog always comes back.

Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.

The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.

No words are needed.

Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.

-

Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.

She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.

-

In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.

Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.

Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.

A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.

Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.

Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.

For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.

The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.

You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.

It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.

The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.

It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.

But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.

Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?

But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.

You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.

#widowsofchaos wrote this #carol danvers x reader #dark Carol Danvers x reader #carol danvers x female reader #dub non con #dark elements #lesbian Carol Danvers

[throughtrialbyfire]

more cicero thoughts because i've been thinking about this so much. this post will specifically focus on the dynamic between he and the night mother, and is sorta headcanon-based but i have so many thoughts and need to get them out.

i definitely think there's a lot to be said for how cicero's attachment to the night mother can almost be described as oedipal, but i also don't think it quite extends that far, nor do i think he hates her. i believe his experiences, his emotional attachment, his investment in her is religious devotion. it's worship. it's a deep and unwavering sense of loyalty and duty, to sithis, to the brotherhood, to the night mother.

yes, i do think he loves her. yes, i do think to some degree he despises her. wouldn't you? alone, for eight years, with nothing but a corpse you're expected to take care of every single day, to keep clean and sanctify, falling into routines, the only one to talk to who can never talk back? this also probably leads to an unhealthy degree of emotional projection on cicero's part towards her, but i won't get too into that here.

this desire to be chosen by her, then, must feel like release. it's relief from a silence never-ending, it's a sort of validation, a grasping back of hands he's been extending for eight long years. the silence he describes in his journal is cruel. it's rage, wrath, it's ever-present and makes him feel small. but then, as the years pass, he accepts the silence as all he will get. because even though he's done everything (the only survivor of two sanctuaries, three if you spare him. the only one who has tended her, devoted his entire being to her and worshiping she and sithis, carrying her casket from cyrodiil to skyrim and spending every damned day thinking about the night mother and sithis and his loyalty to them) he is not the listener. he knows. he knows he will never be the listener, the night mother has not chosen him (as he states, he remains "unworthy"), despite sacrificing everything.

still, he is the keeper and he would do anything for the night mother, even if it destroys him, because now she's all he has. he has nothing else attaching him to a former life, and he's devoted his entire life as keeper to her. he's reverent towards her because she's all he has, perhaps she's his god more than sithis in a way, because at least she's tangible. she is something dependent on him, and as such, he's codependent on her. and this devotion is religious and unholy. it's a mixture of hatred (feeling unworthy, feeling as though all his effort has gone unappreciated) and the intense love (she is quite literally a divine being to the dark brotherhood, tantamount to a mother mary - would this make him a Christ or a Magdalene or something else entirely? anyways) and the religious devotion and the earthly rage of not being enough. being passed over by her hand and her voice reaching someone who only just joined, or only recently became aware of the night mother.

frankly, in cicero's shoes, i'd lose my mind a little bit, too.

#tesblr #skyrim #tes v #cicero #cicero skyrim #the dark brotherhood #the night mother #tes #bishop.txt #headcanons #i have so many more thoughts but it's late and i need to get to work on my fics HAHKJHFDKJGJ #one day my cicero analysis will see the light of day................

[haggishlyhagging]

“Florence Nightingale was subjected to a ‘ladylike’ upbringing of enforced idleness with the most constructive activities allowed being those of company and visits, (Strachey says she was not even permitted to read to herself, but was read to, a practice which Nightingale describes as ‘like lying on one's back and having liquid poured down one's throat’ (ibid., p. 19).) It was against the uselessness and the despair of such an existence that Nightingale revolted and engaged in a continual battle with her parents. Her mother, who insisted on Nightingale's vacuousness in order that she might be marriageable, relented slightly as Nightingale grew older, rejected proposals, and passed the acceptable marriageable age. It was this relaxation of control, as well as Nightingale's determination, which led to her being able to break out from her suffocating existence and to pursue what she perceived as her vocation. But before she was able to make her move, she had to endure for more than thirty years the repressive regime of a leisured and unmarried woman, 'shut up tight within the conventions which forbade independent action to a woman' (ibid.). It was from this experience that she wrote about and analysed the position of women.

Florence Nightingale recognised that men insisted that women should be happy, and that women therefore were required to assert that they were happy — no matter what the circumstances of their lives — for men took it as a personal offence if the women whom they 'supported' declared themselves unhappy, with the result that women who wished to continue to be supported continued to state that they were happy even when they were most miserable. (This is a point taken up by Jessie Bernard in The Future of Marriage (1972), though, of course, she does not suggest that this is a fairly old idea and one put forward by Florence Nightingale.)

That it is obligatory for a woman to be happy, to present a contented and cheerful disposition to her master in order that he can feel satisfied with the arrangement and secure in the knowledge of his own psychological (as well as financial) indispensability, is a lesson that mothers unwaveringly teach their daughters, argues Nightingale. The only way such a lesson can be taught successfully is by the systematic denial and removal of passion from women. If emotion were allowed to reside in women, says Nightingale, women could not bear their lives, so women go round teaching ‘their daughters that "women have no passions." In the conventional society, which men have made for women, and women have accepted, they must have none, they must act the farce of hypocrisy, the lie that they are without passion — and therefore what else can they say to their daughters, without giving the lie to themselves?’ (Strachey, 1928, p. 396).

And the daughters, taught to deny the existence of any passion, to deny the existence of any will or force in themselves to cultivate a smiling, serene veneer, which reinforces men's images of themselves, try to find amusement, fulfilment, meaning, in the most 'escapist' activities. This is why women read novels, states Nightingale, for in a novel, the heroine has generally no family ties (almost invariably no mother), or, if she has, these do not interfere with her entire independence (ibid., p. 397); and the reader can dream. Women thus ‘wish their lives away’ because their daily existence denies them purpose, meaning, commitment, aspirations and action. They simply exist to cater for the psychological and physical needs of men and are permitted no life of their own. 'Passion, intellect, moral activity — these three have never been satisfied in a woman', says Nightingale. ‘To say more on this subiect would be to enter into the whole history of society, of the present state of civilisation' (ibid., p. 398), for women are given neither time, opportunity nor sanction to develop their own resources for themselves. (Mary Beard, 1946, had a great deal more to say on this subject.)

'Women are never supposed to have any occupation of sufficient importance not to be interrupted, except "suckling their fools", she continues, and women themselves have accepted this, have written books to support it, and have trained themselves so as to consider whatever they do as not of such value to the world or to others, but that they can throw it up at the first "claim of social life". They have accustomed themselves to consider intellectual occupation as a merely selfish amusement, which it is their "duty" to give up for every trifler more selfish than themselves (Strachey, 1928, p. 401).

So she continues, explaining why it is in a sense, women do not exist as individuals, why it is that women cannot pursue any intellectual activity, systematically, why it is that women's time is not considered valuable, and why it is that they do not have any. 'Women never have half an hour in all their lives (excepting before or after anyone is up in the house) that they can call their own, without fear of offending or of hurting someone' (ibid., p. 402), for they must always be available. And 'for a married woman in society, it is even worse. A married woman was heard to wish that she could break a limb that she might have a little time to herself. Many take advantage of the fear of “infection” to do the same' (ibid.).

Florence Nightingale gives every indication that she understands why the two sexes are required to behave in the manner that they do, and why it is that women's loss is men's gain. If it was this aspect of the woman question that she had in mind when she stated that she didn't expect much from the vote, her assessment was completely justified and her conventional portrayal as anti-feminist is then cast in a very different light. The changes that she sought (and which to some extent she managed to procure for herself — as did Harriet Martineau) were so radical that there was little likelihood that the vote would have been of much assistance in bringing them about.”

-Dale Spender, Women of Ideas and What Men Have Done to Them

#dale spender #florence nightingale #womens history #feminist history #reluctant motherhood #female oppression #male entitlement

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Our Promise｡⋆.

Jason Todd x plus size reader

There are those in the world who are destined to be- through unimaginable challenges they will find each other, no matter what.

Warnings: tiny hint of star-crossed lovers, I made this long as hell for no reason other than i got really into it, fluff so much goddamn fluff, reader has shitty parents, mentions of convents and being sent away, references to pregnancy and sex, also Jason is totally a girl dad- fight me, some drinking

WC: 2.7k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

You could safely categorise your life into three parts- when you met Jason Todd, the day you were reunited and the moment he made your life complete. You found him in the library on the border of Crime Alley when you were both barely 10, the starving little boy and the socialite-in-training. You both reached for the same copy of Jane Eyre but quickly threw yourselves apart the moment your fingers touched. His face blazed deep red under the smudge of dirt on his cheek and nose as you bashfully looked away.

There was a brief moment of silence as he took you in: perfectly clean and pressed pink dress with brand new black Mary Janes before he asked- “wanna share?” You sat side-by-side on one of the large bean bags in a quiet corner of the old building, taking turns reading aloud to each other before being kicked out by the ancient librarian well after closing.

You saw him every chance you could, sneaking away from your tutors just to join him on little adventures through Gotham or just reading together. Jason became your sanctuary, your escape from the cruel jabs of your mother and the cold shoulder from your father. He was the only one to make you smile, and dare you say it but the first boy you fell in love with (not that you could admit it even to yourself). 

Everything was great, for a while but all good things must come to an end. Your father had become suspicious of your continued absence from your vital lessons so he sent one of his many bodyguards to trail you for a while. You were found curled into Jason’s side as he attempted his hand at reading Shakespeare, of course failing horribly. You screamed and cried as the huge brute pulled you away from your only friend, shoving you into a huge black SUV as Jason screamed for you.

The last time you ever saw him was that day as he chased the car down the busy Gotham street before he was left in the dust as you sped off, his voice just barely carried on the wind, “I’ll find you!”. You would never forget the pure heartbreak that his blue eyes held as you were ripped away from him. It haunted you when you were forced onto a plane destined for France and each night you spent in that convent where you would spend all of your teenage years. 

You were shaped into the woman your parents wanted you to be. You were graceful, eloquent and intelligent, smart enough to navigate the intricacies of high society while hiding your true motives. And for that, you were granted a reprieve from the overbearing and downright cruel nuns who had controlled you for so long.

About a week after you turned 21, you were finally allowed to return home, of course under the condition that you were to be presented to the Gothamite society for possible suitors. And what better place to do that than an infamous Wayne gala. Dressed to the nines in a deep red velvet dress that hugged your generous curves like a second skin, you immediately drew everyone’s eyes. But you truly did not care, if it had been up to you, you would’ve been at home with a good book or even in some far off place after having faked your death.

Unfortunately, you were stuck here. So you decided to drink. Saddled up to the open bar, you sipped on the expensive whiskey that was provided by the generous mister Wayne and scanned the crowd. You knew the people your parents wished for you to marry- the uptight men and women who pretended to be good people while actively letting Gotham fall to ruins. 

The thought of being forced to marry anyone at this party made you feel physically ill. You glanced over your shoulder to where well-dressed waiters continuously streamed from a side hall. Maybe you could make a run for it if only someone would create a distraction.

“You know I take great offence when beautiful young women such as yourself aren’t having fun at a party in my home.” A large man slid up to the bar next to you. Dressed in a navy suit with his dark hair slicked back, eyes shining with a mischievous glint, you immediately knew who he was.

“I’m assuming you’re Richard Grayson.” You raised a brow at him and took a sip of your drink. He beamed at you, letting his gaze roam your body before meeting your eyes once again. He slid closer, his muscular body now mere inches from you. 

“Call me Dick. And who would I have the pleasure of spending this evening with?” You allowed him to take your left hand and lay a soft kiss to your knuckles. Your stomach still turned in disgust but less so than when the mayor’s son had attempted the same move a mere 15 minutes ago.

You gave him your name and suddenly Dick stiffened, his face paling. “Y/N Y/L/N? As in the only daughter of the Y/L/N family who’s been missing for the past decade?” 

“The one and only.” You responded with some confusion. Quickly, the eldest Wayne son straightened up, a kinder but somehow sadder smile growing on his face. A strong arm wrapped around your wide hips in a somehow friendly gesture and pulled the drink from your hand. 

“Then I have someone you just have to meet, plus it’ll get you out of this party.” You were wary, of course and evidently it showed on your face because Dick scrambled to ease your nerves. “Just trust me- I wouldn’t do this unless I really meant it. Besides, you can use that knife that’s strapped to your thigh on me if you need. I can see the outline of the hilt through your dress. You need to learn to hide it better.” He chuckled at your wide eyes, using your shock to quickly guide you from the huge ballroom and deeper into the bowels of the mansion.

Your high heels and his black dress shoes clacked against the dark hardwood in sync, the sound quickly drowning out the increasingly soft chattering of the gala attendants until all you could hear were your footsteps. Dick’s hand had now shifted to the small of your back, directing you through the empty halls and up a flight of stairs before reaching the only door with light streaming through the bottom.

He gave you a wink and knocked, opening the door before the occupant could answer. The room was childish, decorated in posters and tacked up photos. An old guitar sat in the far corner, almost entirely hidden by open cardboard boxes, all of which were half-full of trinkets that had only just been taken down from dusty shelves. A giant of a man sat on the double bed in the middle of the room, holding a worn book that had definitely seen better days.

He sighed heavily as Dick opened the door even further, gesturing for you to enter. “What part about ‘I don’t want to see your dumb fugly face until tomorrow’ didn’t you get?” You were ashamed to admit but the deepness and pitch of the mysterious man’s voice sent a flutter of arousal through your belly. Dick just huffed under his breath.

“Well I brought you a present so you’ll have to forgive me.” You sent a furious look his way, missing how the other man raised his head, his eyes settling on your figure. The mattress springs creaked, making your whip your head around.

He easily stood at a massive 6’6, towering over not only you but Dick as well. And with the addition of his whole body being practically made of muscles, he was terrifyingly huge. But you weren’t scared. 

You were frozen in place, stunned by the bright green eyes that started back at you in a way that felt so painfully familiar. “Y/N?”

“Jason?”

——————

It was surprisingly easy for your lives to mesh together again, especially since Jason somehow convinced your parents to let you move into your own apartment (you never wanted to know how exactly he accomplished that). But you never spent any time there- it was abandoned in favour of spending all your time in Wayne Manor, with Jason of course.

Your cheeks constantly ached from smiling and there seemed to be a permanent soreness in your ribs from how hard he made you laugh. Both of you were different, no longer the children you used to be but adults who had been shattered and glued back together so many times that you could no longer tell which parts of you remained unbroken, but you were together and that was more than enough.

You spent days just talking, huddled together on his bed, the large couch in the den and even the roof, although that stopped when Alfred found you one night and almost had a heart attack. And the days you didn’t or couldn’t talk, you would hold each other. Legs tangled and foreheads pressed so tightly together, your noses were squished. It was like you were physically glued together, unable to let go for the fear of losing each other again.

Even the both of you admitted that it was absolutely disgusting (which the rest of the Waynes wholeheartedly agreed with) but you were happy so what did it matter.

Sleep hovered on the edges of your vision as you snuggled further into the heated blanket around your shoulders. Unconsciously, your legs squeezed together as you got comfortable, your soft inner thighs pressing against the sides of Jason’s head. He grunted and assuming you squeezed him too tight, you tried to pull your legs up to fold them underneath you. He grabbed your shin with his right hand, only briefly letting go of the game controller, and forced the soft muscle back against his strong chest where your legs had been dangling. “Stop moving around. You’re supposed to be my pillow.” He mumbled.

You buried your hand in his back hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. “Sorry Jay.” He practically purred as he relaxed back into you, giving a sweet peck to the inside of your knee. The sounds from his video game started up again and your eyes fluttered shut. Just as you were being lulled to sleep by the repetitive sounds of fake gunfire and footsteps, another, much younger voice spoke up.

“I don’t get it.” Damian stood with his arms crossed right on the threshold of the room. His gaze firmly fixed on you and his brother, who sat on the floor in front of you, your legs thrown over his shoulders. “You both are so affectionate to each other and yet you are not a couple.” You just shrugged.

“Friends can be touchy and it’s still considered platonic.” You felt Jason nod against your leg.

“We’re best friends who both had a shitty upbringing. We’re obviously severely codependent so you might as well leave us alone cause it’s only gonna get worse from here.” His deep voice vibrated up the  length of your thigh and you had to make an effort not to squeeze his head once more although this time for a whole other reason.

Damian’s scowl darkened almost comically. “But won’t any partners you have take issue with that?” That made both of you pause. Ever since Jason had come back to you, you hadn’t even thought of anyone else. He consumed your entire being, not leaving space for anyone else. And you were just fine with that but what if Jason didn’t feel the same? Could you deal with another woman in his life?

Your stomach churned at the thought of his arm around someone else’s shoulder, of his lips on their skin, of him sleeping with them. Unbeknownst to you, the man nestled between your legs was having the same thoughts.

His eyes quickly grew dark with a burning fury. Without a word, he threw your legs from his broad shoulders and stood up. He shot Damian a withering look as he strode from the room, leaving you both in confused silence. You glanced at the tween but he held no answers. Before you could get up to follow your friend, he returned.

“Jason?” He grabbed your hands and tugged you violently to your feet. Jason smirked at you with a wink, making your heart skip a beat. 

“Observe demon spawn.” And then suddenly, he was on one knee, holding a ring. It was simple- a gold band with a singular teardrop stone in the centre. The band was scratched and the diamond didn’t shine, worn down with age but none of that mattered because the man you loved more than anything, your soulmate, your best friend was offering it to you with the most gentle smile you had ever seen. The same smile he gave you in that decrepit library so long ago.

He didn’t even have to ask. “Yeah?” He gestured to the ring. You giggled through the tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Yeah.” You nodded and held out your left hand, allowing him to slip the perfectly sized ring onto your finger. Jason sprung to his feet, immediately taking your face into his large hands. There was a moment where your eyes met and then he kissed you.

Stars exploded around you as the kiss slowly deepened. Jason’s hands moved to your wide hips, tugging you even closer.

“What the hell kind of proposal was that?!” Startled, you jumped apart like caught teens, only to be greeted with the sight of his whole family in absolute hysterics. Tim was obviously the one that yelled given his red face and clearly exacerbated expression. 

The others were stunned into silence save for Bruce who was quietly sniffling into a handkerchief. You and your fiancé glanced at each other, unable to hold back your smiles.

“I had to make sure that she was my best friend forever.”

——————

The last coat of house paint was drying quickly in the hot August sun, giving Jason a chance to sit in the shade of the huge Oak tree in the backyard. The ground vibrated beneath him as he collapsed onto the cool grass, his head falling back against the trunk.

He groaned as he stretched out his long legs in front of him. The renovations to the house were coming along slowly but Jason couldn’t be mad about it considering it was mostly his fault. “Daddy!” A blur of blue slammed into his chest, briefly knocking the wind from his lungs. There was the reason for the delay in renovations.

“Well hello miss Jane! How was your nap?” Eyes identical to his own looked up at him, sparkling with newfound energy. Her dark blue smock dress (the exact colour of uncle Dickie's uniform) floated around her legs as he planted herself on his thighs.

“Was good! Mama let me sleep in the big bed!” Jason smoothed down her black hair which was still mussed from sleep, smiling softly at his 4 year old.

“She was a very good girl, helping me with making her daddy a special drink and feeding the baby.” You practically glided over the lawn, still glowing from pregnancy even though Elizabeth was now three months old. You held a large glass of cold lemonade in your left hand, making your wedding bands glint beautifully in the sun.

Lizzie was dead asleep in the sling across your chest, making Jason’s heart clench with fondness. He took the drink from you, taking a big sip and just barely suppressing a cough. Evidently you had added something a little extra to his as a treat. “Thank you pretty girl.” He managed to get out through the burning in his throat. 

You smirked evilly at him as you pressed a kiss to your baby’s head. “You’re welcome daddy!” She giggled and slid from his lap so she could bolt over to the play structure he had built for her birthday. Jason watched her run off before turning to you.

“You are in for it Mrs Todd.” He growled playfully, his hand curling around your ankle.

“Well then it’s a good thing that the kids are having a sleepover with grandpa B and uncle Dami tonight isn’t it?” You beamed, running your hand through his hair. Your husband nuzzled into your touch, soaking up all the affection you were offering.

Jason Todd was your promise, your life, your everything.

Request: Jason Todd x chubby reader where they’ve been best friend before he was adopted by Bruce but lost contact because he couldn’t find her . One day he came across her again and promised to not let her go so he’s been clinging to her almost all the time, and whenever she hangs out at the manner with his brothers he’s not ashamed to be close to her, putting his head on her lap, or even sitting down in front of her with her legs open as he laid to her front while playing video games with his brothers. His brothers wouldn’t dare to teased him anymore because once they did it, Jason just didn’t care and continued cling to her. One day Damian said something like “they’re acting like a couple but they’re just friends, and it’s absurd” then Jason just casually asked if she would like to be his best friend forever and pulling out a ring which God know how long does he kept it for and everybody in the manor were just too stunned to react as reader teared up and said yes softly. Then Jason kissed her for the first time “Damn, I could do this every day.” “Now we’re best friend forever, you cannot leave me” and started to randomly being cute (as always when he is with her) planning to move to their own house, and telling her how many children does she want and just being cute imagining many little mini me(s). @wittysunflower

DC Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3slothy @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @km-ffluv

DC

@snedhdh @kobaltdragon @Blackhawkfanatic @8bookishworm8

Jason Todd

@jason-todds-bitch @honkytonkbabe @nini-trash-forever @itsbqueenthings @batmaninamaiddress @getoutofthere @theweepingvulcan91 @luvvvjada @im-a-satanic-ritual @m0nster-fvcker @rosalietodd013 @onlystarshere @stabmemaybe @beautyb1ade @star-dusst @aleck-cross @ambassadortotrilliusprime @originalsourpatch @oxymorondemon @n3muru

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd imagines #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #jason todd x y/n #female reader #plus size reader #reader insert #fluff #inbox #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x plus size reader #jason x plus size reader