#pope wayward

[semperintrepida]

So apparently there are warriors who are also nuns who like to run around Europe, dancing, drinking, occasionally getting tranquilized(?) and some of them are cute and gay for each other?

[phantompoguefangirl]

The Hot Tub-JJ Maybank x fem reader

Word count: 2900(sorry if this is a lot)

Tags/warnings: Hurt/Abuse mention, alcohol, fluff/smut

Synopsis: A reimagining of the hot tub scene in 1×07, in which reader and JJ are best friends and reader finds JJ in the hot tub instead of Pope and Kie. Things get emotional and some secrets come to light. Song inspiration: I Won't Let Go by Rascal Flatts

This one of my first smuts. It is also on my wattpad, SerpentBeauty1710, in my All The Oneshots book, and might get posted to my AO3.

It's like a storm that cuts a path

It breaks your will, It feels like that

You think you're lost, but you're not lost on your own

You're not alone

I will stand by you, I will help you through

When you've done all you can do

If you can't cope

I will dry your eyes, I will fight your fight

I will hold you tight, and I won't let go

It hurts my heart to see you cry

I know it's dark, this part of life

Oh it finds us all, and we're too small

To stop the rain, oh but when it rains

I will stand by you, I will help you through

When you've done all you can do

And you can't cope

Iwill dry your eyes, I will fight your fight

I will hold you tight, and I won't let you fall

Don't be afraid to fall, I'm right here to catch you

I won't let you down, It won't get you down

You're gonna make it, yeah I know you can make it

'Cause I will stand by you, I will help you through

When you've done all you can do

And you can't cope

And I will dry your eyes, I will fight your fight

I will hold you tight, and I won't let go

Oh I'm gonna hold you, and I won't let go

Won't let you go

No I won't

............

You headed back to the Chateau, anxious as hell after the day's events and just needing a break. You practically lived there just like the rest of your friends, the pogues. At this point, John B should probably rename it The Routledge Home for Wayward Teens or some shit.

It was your safe haven from everything going on at your house, not only because of the freedom, but because JJ was always there. He understood you on a personal level because his home life was similar and he always knew what to do to make you feel better. You, of course, did the same thing for him. You and JJ had been best friends since like kindergarten and you had pretty much been in love with him from the moment you met him. Not that he felt the same way. He could have any girl he wanted and he flirted with literally every girl he met. But even though he was a little bit off the rails, he had a deeply caring, loyal heart and he'd do absolutely anything for the people he loved. He was recklessly fun, ridiculously hot and was stupidly good at pretty much everything as though it came naturally to him. It really wasn't fair for someone to be so perfectly imperfect...

The lights and music ahead broke you out of your thoughts and you looked around, your eyes widening in shock.

Someone had hung up string lights all over from the trees to John B's house and put random decorations everywhere. In the middle of the yard was a hot tub, and in the hot tub was JJ. He had sunglasses on and a bottle of champagne in one hand.

"JJ, what did you do?" you asked, trying process the scene in front of you.

"I have a jet going straight up my butt right now," JJ chuckled, sounding a bit buzzed. He grabbed a glass that was floating by on an inflatable flamingo cup holder and poured champagne into it. "You should get in, like, immediately."

"Dude, how much did all this cost?" You pressed.

JJ looked around. "Ummm, well, with the generator, fuel, oh and express delivery....pretty much all of it."

"All of it?!"

"Yeah. All of it." he said.

"You spent all the money in ONE DAY?!" You asked incredulously.

"Yep. Burned a hole right through my pocket." He answered. "But I mean, come on dude, look at this! Finest in jet based massage therapy! That's what they told me, anyway."

You just looked at him in disbelief.

"What, Y/N? Can't a man have a little luxury in life? Come on, all this scrimpin and scrapin...I mean...look, you only live once right?" JJ paused then shook his head. "Enough of this emotional shit. Get in the Cat's Ass, come on."

"Get in the what?"

"The Cat's Ass. That's what I named her." JJ said, half smiling and biting his lip. Then his eyes lit up. "Oh hey yo, I almost forgot!"

He hit a switch which caused more jets to spray, the water to change colors and a disco ball to light up and spin.

He gestured around excitedly. "Yeah, that's right, I know! Disco mode! That's right, baby!"

"Are you kidding me? You could have paid your restitution or bought stuff to help us get the gold out of the well or something!" You exclaimed.

"Okay well you know what I didn't do that!" JJ yelled, standing up. You gasped at the big purple bruises and welts all over his body. You immediately knew they were from his father so you tried to say something but just he ignored it and kept going. "I got a hot tub. I got a hot tub for my friends...no, you know what? Screw that! I got a hot tub for my family! Alright? I mean look at this. I got this for you! For us!"

"JJ...," Your voice caught in your throat as you reached toward toward him slowly.

"No, just stop being emotional! It's fine, okay?!" he snapped, slightly hysterical now, raising his hand in the stop gesture.

JJ tried to keep going on about the hot tub but you were already in motion. You climbed in fully clothed and pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around you as he broke down crying into your shoulder.

"I can't take it anymore!" he cried out desperately.

"I know, baby, I know. I'm so sorry," you murmured through your own tears as you hugged him.

"I just wanna do the right thing..." he mumbled sadly.

"I know," You repeated quietly, "It's gonna be okay."

You both stood there holding each other and crying for a long time. You placed soft reassuring kisses on his head as you brushed your fingers through his hair and rubbed his back.

When you both finally pulled apart, he asked you to stay in the hot tub with him and you obliged.

You always wore a bikini under your clothes since you lived on an island, so you just threw your shorts, shoes and top on the grass nearby and sunk into the water next to him. You sighed as the heated, bubbling water enveloped your body. JJ offered you a glass of champagne and you accepted. You both just relaxed for awhile, sipping alcohol and talking.

"Th-thank you," he said quietly, out of nowhere.

"For what?" You asked, confused.

"For the hug. For being here. For understanding. Shit, for everything." JJ answered, looking like he was contemplating something.

"Awe, JJ-"

"I love you." He stated suddenly.

You froze. "What?"

He fidgeted nervously for a bit before taking a deep breath.

"I love you, Y/N. As in, like, I'm in love with you. I always have been. But you've always been way outta my league so I didn't think you'd like me back and then we made the stupid fucking no pogue on pogue macking rule so I had to pretend like you're just a friend to me. Just one of the guys. But you're not. You're everything to me. I mean, god, Y/N, you're fucking amazing and I-I just- I don't know what I would do without you. I love you so fucking much. I'm sorry if this ruins everything but I need you to know." He rambled, trailing off at the end.

You sat there in shock for a minute. You had to be dreaming. There was no way JJ Maybank just said those words for real. You had imagined this moment a million times but you never thought it would actually happen.

But here you were.

As you gazed into his gorgeous ocean blue eyes, you saw that he was completely serious. You'd always had a knack for knowing whenever he was lying and right now you could tell he was not.

And you were not prepared for the onslaught of feelings that hit you all at once. You couldn't even form words.

So you did the only thing you could think of to do.

You grabbed JJ's face, being careful of his injuries of course, and pressed your lips to his.

JJ almost immediately responded, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. You snaked your fingers into his hair which illicited a small moan from him as the kiss became more passionate.

You knew JJ had a reputation for being a good kisser but you had no idea he was THIS good. This was easily the most amazing kiss you had ever experienced, and you lost yourself in it. You couldn't think. All you could do was feel his soft, perfect lips, which tasted absolutely delicious, against yours.

He expertly brushed his tongue across your bottom lip and then against your own tongue, battling for dominance and winning quickly.

After a while, you both pulled away breathing heavily and he pressed his forehead to yours. You lowered your hands to rest on his shoulders.

JJ met your eyes, panting a little bit and slowly breaking into a smile. "Sooo I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that this, plus the fact that you called me baby earlier means you do, in fact, like me back."

You giggled at him and nodded, still trying to catch your breath. He smiled wider and stared into your eyes for a moment.

"Can you say it?" he asked tentatively.

"What?" you replied, confused.

He looked down for a second. "I mean...I don't want to force you to say the words if you're not ready...but if you are ready...I wanna hear you say it. I don't know why...I just feel like I need to hear it."

Damn it, you just wanted to throw JJ's dad right off a cliff, along with anybody else who ever made him feel unwanted and unloved. Because he deserved the whole world and did not deserve the shitty way he had been treated his whole life. It was so messed up and unfair. He deserved to be told he was loved every minute of every day.

You brought a hand to his face and he leaned into it subconsciously.

"I love you too, JJ Maybank, more than words can describe. I'm sorry I never told you before. I pretty much had the same reasons as you. Stupid pogue rules and thinking you'd never feel the same way when you could have literally any other girl on the island, except maybe Kie and Sarah," You told him.

His face lit up like a christmas tree and it was honestly the cutest thing ever.

"Well, maybe, but I don't want any other girl on the island. I want you, Y/N, and only you," JJ said, brushing your hair out of your face and kissing you again.

You both melted into the kiss and then it slowly became more heated, more needy. You moved your arms up around JJ's neck and tangled your fingers in his hair again as you straddled his lap. He slid his hands up and down your back and sides, squeezing your hips and then your ass. You moaned softly and involuntarily grinded against his already hardening groin.

JJ groaned and pulled away from your lips for a second. "Mmm, okay, hold up. Is this really about to go where I think it's going? Because as much as I want to go there with you, we don't have to if you aren't ready yet. I know you've been hurt before, and I want you to feel comfortable, you know? Not feel like you have to do anything just to appease me."

"It's okay. I want this, JJ. I want you. And I want to make you feel something good after everything you've been through today," You said reassuringly as you leaned in toward his lips, "I want you to feel how much I love you."

That was all JJ needed. He closed the short distance between your lips and went back to exploring your body with his hands. He began trailing kisses from your mouth down to the base of your throat as he untied your bikini top and tossed it somewhere off into John B's yard. He sucked on the sweet spot on your neck, biting down just enough to drive you crazy, while his hands made their way to your boobs and massaged them.

"JJ..." You moaned, gripping the back of his neck and hair.

He grinned against your skin, continuing kissing down to your chest until his mouth found each of your nipples. He sucked on them both in turn, enjoying the sounds this caused you to make. Then he made his way back up to your lips and devoured them with one of his hands on your waist and the other sliding into your swimsuit bottoms. He rubbed slow circles around your clit for a good amount of time and then slid a finger inside you.

"Fuck, JJ...," You moaned loudly against his lips as he pumped his finger in and out of you.

"Mmm, you like that baby?" he murmured back, adding a finger and speeding up a bit.

"Oh y-yes," You managed to say, biting his lip as you kissed him and pressing yourself against his hand.

JJ groaned into your mouth, removing his hand from your center. Before you could protest, he deftly untied your swimsuit bottoms, threw them out of the hot tub and then kicked off his swim shorts. He lined himself up with your entrance and thrust up into you.

"Ohh my god, Y/N," JJ moaned into your shoulder breathily.

"Fuck, JJ," you moaned, adjusting to his size. He wasn't huge but he was definitely bigger than you were used to.

You basked in how amazing JJ felt as you started moving up and down, which prompted him to start thrusting in and out of you in sync with your movements. He eventually began thrusting a little faster and harder, which provoked more moans from both you.

The feeling of JJ's lips and fingers on your skin as you rode him was like nothing you felt before. You'd slept with other people, and so had he obviously, but everyone else was too rough, grabby and too focused on getting what they wanted out of the deal. JJ, however, worshipped your body like a goddess and every touch sent shock waves through your core. The hot water also made everything that much more intense. You began moving your own lips, tongue and hands over every inch of his tanned skin you could reach, softly kissing each bruise and mark that you found, slowly moving up his chest to his face and then kissing, sucking, and nibbling down his jawline to his neck. That must have been his sweet spot as well.

"Fuuck, Y/N," He growled, tightening his grip on you and thrusting even faster and harder into you.

Holy shit. That growl was probably the hottest thing you'd ever heard and it set you off in a whole new way.

"Ohhhh!" you moaned, feeling the build up to your climax burning inside you. "Fuck, JJ, I'm gonna-"

"Oh god me too," he captured your lips with his again as he sped up further.

This was enough to send you over the edge.

"JJ!" You cried out as your inner walls clenched around him and you came undone.

"Oh FUCK Y/N!" JJ nearly yelled, finding his euphoria a second later.

"Wow," you both said, out of breath, as you collapsed on him gently.

He just held you, basking in the moment as you both came down from your high.

Once you both had the energy to move, JJ helped you out of the hot tub and you both went inside. You got cleaned up and then he put on a pair of clean sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. You, having realized most of your clothes that you kept at the Chateau were dirty, ended up just putting on one of JJ's tshirts and a pair of underwear. You climbed into his bed and snuggled into his waiting embrace.

"So does this mean you're my girl now?" JJ asked sleepily.

"Oh no I thought confessing our undying love to each other and consumating it in a hot tub were things only friends did," You said sarcastically, giggling. "No shit, sherlock. Of course I'm yours."

"Okay sorry!"JJ laughed,"I was just clarifying to make sure, geez. Also how are we gonna tell the pogues? 'Cause, I mean, you realize they're gonna freak, right?"

"I know," you said as you kissed him, "We'll figure it out, but right now I just wanna sleep, okay? I love you."

He nodded and smiled as he kissed you back, "Kay. I love you too."

JJ pulled the the covers over you both and you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arms around you.

And it was the best sleep either of you ever had.

@thecameronchronicles

[charlesreeza]

Bust of Costanza Bonarelli, terracotta, c. 1636, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, in a private collection - photo by Charles Reeza

Yes, Costanza was confined to a monastery for wayward women for more than six months! The servant who slashed her face and Bernini’s brother were exiled from Rome. Bernini was originally fined 3000 scudi, but the Pope pardoned him because he was “Excellent in art.”

Costanza’ s husband was buried in their parish church, but she asked to be buried in the great Papal Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. Gian Lorenzo and Luigi Bernini were also buried there 18 and 19 years later.

[audikatia]

Another year, another 110 books read! I don’t love organizing books by genre because I feel like so many of the books I read are a mix of fantasy/horror/queer romance/mystery/etc, but I like to see how it all falls into place. I had started 2022 with the goal of reading more poetry but otherwise had no specific goal except to read whatever I wanted. There were some disappointments, some books I have been meaning to read forever, some new favorites, and some comfortable rereads of old favorites. Overall, a good year!

List of books read + my ratings under the cut

Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Males of the Gay World, 1890-1940 by George Chauncey ⭐️⭐️⭐️���️⭐️

The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner ⭐️⭐️⭐️

No Voyage and Other Poems by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The River Styx, Ohio by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

All’s Well by Mona Awad ⭐️⭐️⭐️

You��ll be the Death of Me by Karen M. McManus ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Summer Sons by Lee Mandelo ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Twelve Moons by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

My Heart is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones ⭐️⭐️

American Primitive by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Dream Work by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

House of Light by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

New and Selected Poems: Volume One by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

White Pine by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

West Wind by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Leaf and the Cloud by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

What Do We Know? by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Owls and Other Fantasies by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Long Life by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Why I Wake Early by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Conventionally Yours by Annabeth Albert ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Dune by Frank Herbert ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Blue Iris by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

New and Selected Poems: Volume Two by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Thirst by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Red Bird by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Out of Character by Annabeth Albert ⭐️⭐️

The Truro Bear and Other Adventures by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Evidence by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I Kissed Shara Wheeler by Casey McQuiston ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Then She Was Gone by Lisa Jewell ⭐️⭐️

The Woman They Could Not Silence by Kate Moore ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Charm Offensive by Alison Cochrun ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Swan by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Dog Songs by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Blue Horses by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Felicity by Mary Oliver ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Woman Beyond the Attic: The V.C. Andrews Story by Andrew Neiderman ⭐️⭐️⭐️

So It Goes by Isis Molina ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Slippery Creatures by K.J. Charles ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Sugared Game by K.J. Charles ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Subtle Blood by K.J. Charles ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

To Trust Man on His Oath by K.J. Charles ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

How Goes the World by K.J. Charles ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Band Sinister by K.J. Charles ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting by K.J. Charles ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Mary Magdalene Revealed by Meggan Watterson ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Le Petomane 1857-1945 by Jean Nohain and F. Caradee ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Carry On by Rainbow Rowell ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Wayward Son by Rainbow Rowell ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Any Way the Wind Blows by Rainbow Rowell ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Woman in the Library by Sulari Gentill ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell ⭐️⭐️

Magdalene: Poems by Marie Howe ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Love, Hate, & Clickbait by Liz Bowery ⭐️⭐️⭐️

All Eyes on Us by Kit Frick ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Song That Moves the Sun by Anna Bright ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The House Across the Lake by Riley Sager ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling by Ross King ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Family Upstairs by Lisa Jewell ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Family Remains by Lisa Jewell ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Secret Wisdom of Nature by Peter Wohllben ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley ⭐️⭐️

Hell Followed with Us by Andrew Joseph White ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Cult Classic by Sloane Crosley ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Lock Every Door by Riley Sager ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Every Other Weekend by Abigail Johnson ⭐️⭐️⭐️

You Only Die Twice by Brynn Kelly ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Nineties by Chuck Klosterman ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Snakehead by Patrick Radden Keefe ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Dead Romantics by Ashley Poston ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Cultish by Amanda Montell ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Dream Thieves by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Blue Lily, Lily Blue by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Opal by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Call Down the Hawk by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Mister Impossible by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Greywaren by Maggie Stiefvater ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Feeling of Falling in Love by Mason Deaver ⭐️⭐️

Nothing More to Tell by Karen M. McManus ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Daisy Darker by Alice Feeney ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Heroine with 1001 Faces by Maria Tatar ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Red White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Just Like Home by Sarah Gailey ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Dracula by Bram Stoker ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Husband Material by Alexis Hall ⭐️⭐️⭐️

What If It’s Us by Becky Albertalli ⭐️⭐️

Here’s to Us by Becky Albertalli ⭐️⭐️

JELL-O Girls: A Family History by Allie Rowbottom ⭐️⭐️

My Policeman by Bethan Roberts ⭐️⭐️

Love in the Time of Serial Killers by Alicia Thompson ⭐️⭐️

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M. Danforth ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Wicker King by K. Antrum ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Monster of Elendhaven by Jennifer Giesbrecht ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Cremains of the Day by Misty Simon ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Icebreaker by A. L. Graziadei ⭐️⭐️

Skin Deep by Sung J. Woo ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Foxhole Court by Nora Sakavic ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Raven King by Nora Sakavic ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The King’s Men by Nora Sakavic ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng ⭐️⭐️⭐️

[jraker4]

Still an outsider, but the more I think about it, the more disturbing and repellent it is. It would again be one thing if the writer was saying 'Israel claims to speak for Judaism, and that claim is wrong'. The extent to which Israel does claim to speak for Judaism is, I understand, a contentious idea too, but that's besides the point. But to say it's not Jewish at all? It's not even misguided-Jewish, reactionary-Jewish? I didn't realize Judaism had a pope that could excommunicate wayward believers. Also, just for funsies, I'm neither a historian nor am I Jewish, but if we're going to talk 'collaborated with Nazis', something something Grand Mufti of Somewhere buddy buddy with literal Hitler.

Ok gotta talk about it.

As a Jewish historian, I fucking hate Israel in ways most probably will never be able to comprehend. I'm going to try and explain it anyways. The central creation myth of Israel is that it is Jewish, and then consequently, that Israel is a part of Jewishness. Its easy to simply state this is false, but fully comprehending this and putting it into practice in thought and deed seems rare to me.

The evil at the heart of this violence predates the recent acceleration of genocide. Israel is a colony, and more than that, an antisemitic fraud itself. After WW2, when Israel was being founded, the Jews of Europe generally did not wave goodbye to their neighbors and head to the promised land. Many were expelled from their homes. Zionism itself, as an action, was a false choice at the time. A mere excuse to place an ally in the middle east, and an excuse to complete the expulsion and destruction of the European Jew. The Zionist Jew is more than complicit in this, they actively seek the destruction and assimilation of all other Jews.

Many fail to realize, and largely because of Israel, that Jews are not inherently white, Ashkenazi, European-descended people. Our faith and culture has an immense variety that is spread all across the globe. Jewishness, in population and volume of culture, exists more so outside of Israel than within it. Israel is for a very specific kind of Jew. The kind that lets Yiddish die, that attaches themselves to European things, that makes themselves and their practices as white as possible.

And they have the nerve, the fucking belligerent GALL, to frame themselves as the necessary saviors of our people. To the Zionist, questioning Israel is to question Jewishness itself. They bake adoration for the colonial machine into their very prayers, and push them on us even as children. To *not* oppress, to *not* kill, to *not* genocide, is to invite death. This is the core of fascistic thought, of course. "Kill them before they kill us." And they KNOW this too, they really do. The truth of that irony does not matter, because as is true for all fascists, the truth itself does not matter to them. They wanted this, they wanted this even before the British saw it in their best interest to give them the land. Any excuse to RETVRN, as the neo-nazis say of Rome, or the German Empire, or whatever the fuck stupid country they want to poorly animate the corpse of. Some select Zionists even *sided with the fucking Nazis* in agreement they should abandon Europe to colonize Palestine. (Haavara Agreement)

My people have proved time and time and time again you don't need a nation state to have an enduring culture. We have protected ourselves for thousands of years without the help of these spiteful, doom-saying maniacs. I was going to post something like this on Passover, but that would be hypocritical. The state of Israel doesn't actually have shit to do with Jewishness. שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל יְה Vi tsu derleb ikh im shoyn tsu bagrobn. [my best translation] Hear Israel (beginning of a prayer in Hebrew) I should outlive him long enough to bury him. (an old Yiddish curse)

Free Palestine. Donate what you can, they need it right now.

[seekfirst-community]

Feast of St Josephine Bakhita and St Jerome Emiliani. 

"Jesus summoned the crowd again and said to them:

“Hear me, all of you, and understand. Nothing that enters one from outside can defile that person; but the things that come out from within are what defile.”

"When he got home away from the crowd his disciples questioned him about the parable. He said to them:

“Are even you likewise without understanding? Do you not realize that everything that goes into a person from outside cannot defile, since it enters not the heart but the stomach and passes out into the latrine?” (Thus he declared all foods clean.) “But what comes out of the man, that is what defiles him. From within the man, from his heart, come evil thoughts, unchastity, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice, deceit, licentiousness, envy, blasphemy, arrogance, folly. 

"All these evils come from within and they defile.” (Mark 7: 14 - 23).

Wednesday February 8th 2023 in the 5th Week of Ordinary Time is the feast of St Josephine Bakhita and St Jerome Emiliani. 

St Josephine Bakhita (1869 - 1947). Sudanese. Virgin and Religious. Josephine was brought to Italy as a slave. By Divine Providence, she became a sister of the Canossian order. Her exemplary and holy life was noticed. She bore patiently and heroically her last illness. Pope St John Paul II brought her relics to Sudan where she was canonized in 2000. St Josephine Bakhita is the patron saint of Sudan and victims of human trafficking.



St Jerome Emiliani. (1481 - 1537). Italian. Priest. Jerome was wayward as a young man. When he was surprised by grace, his life changed 360 degrees. He founded a religious congregation (Somaschi) which looked after the sick, the poor and orphans and abandoned children. St Jerome Emiliani died of the plague while ministering to the afflicted.



Jesus teaches: “But what comes out of the man, that is what defiles him. From within the man, from his heart, come evil thoughts, unchastity, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice, deceit, licentiousness, envy, blasphemy, arrogance, folly. 

"All these evils come from within and they defile.”

Can we live a life that is undefiled? Not possible without the power of the enabling Holy Spirit. 

St Paul warned the Galatians: "I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God.  In contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness,  gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.  Now those who belong to Christ [Jesus] have crucified their flesh with its passions and desires.  If we live in the Spirit, let us also follow the Spirit.  Let us not be conceited, provoking one another, envious of one another." (Galatians 5: 21 - 26).

Brethren, let us remain in the Holy Spirit and our salvation will be assured. 

Daily Bible Verse @ SeekFirstcommunity.com

[devil-in-those-eyes]

One Day part 4-Rudy Pankow

Alright, my lovelies. I really hope you enjoy this part, i’m slightly nervous about it but fingers crossed. 

Warnings: Cursing, angst(?)

Taglist: @thebendslikebendover @awkwardnesshabitat @dpaccione @danicarosaline @infinityspacesuniverse @pogues-never-say-die @collectiveuniverses @jjmaybankx @1d5sosddl @k-k0129 @popcrone818 @starlightstories @jeyramarie @obxlife @angvelic @sovuckie @abigailpankow @rudypankow-whore @y0ungandfuckingdumb @her-silent-gaze @sunwardsss

~~ Y/N

           You wanted to bang your head against the table, mentally yelling at yourself for the events that unfolded two days ago. For the past forty-some hours you’ve been constantly talking down to yourself, trying not to relive the moment you let your emotions take over your head.

           You had a lot of How could you’s and an immense amount of you’re so stupid. Why did you let it happen? Was it being tucked away in his room, thinking about the last summer you spent together? Hearing that he hadn’t gotten rid of any pictures to do with you? The feel of his broad chest warming your back? The whisper of his breath across your shoulder and cheek?

           Whatever it was, you ended up shirtless with your nails racking down his chest and his tongue doing delicious things inside your mouth. It happened so quickly, one moment your looking at his pictures and the next you’re hearing him whisper I love you into your mouth.

           Fuck, I love you.

           It was such a sweet whisper, filled with desperation and following a hungry kiss, but it was enough to douse ice cold water over your whole body because as soon as you pushed him away, you saw the look in his eyes and it scared you.

           He meant it.

           Every time he told you that he loved you, he got this look in his eyes. As if electricity just rolled through his eyes and made them shine almost neon. As if he was discovering what heaven felt like, just by looking at you. Like you were his whole world and held his heart in your dainty hands. And when he told you two days ago, he had the exact same look in his eyes.

           You could see he was shocked by his own confession, like it rolled off of his tongue without a warning but instead of admitting you were still in love with him as well, you felt the tears well up in your eyes because he just once again shattered your heart, without even trying very hard.

           In the end, Rudy was leaving. You would be left as a memory inside his head, soon he’d forget his feelings, but you would be left with everything. The heartbreak. The sadness. The abandonment. The love. For a split second, you let yourself believe that one day was starting in that second, but with his murmur you were reminded that his career was just starting and his Hollywood life had no room for you.

           “Breakfast really that bad, hon?”

           You lifted your head from holding it up above your food and looked to see Penny sliding into the booth across from you. You cleared your throat, straightened your back and looked at your coffee, blinking a few times to get rid of the tears that were welling inside your eyes.

           “Hi, Penny,” you said softly, giving her a smile.

           Penny’s eyes stayed round as she nodded to your plate, “Not hungry?”

           “My eyes are bigger than my stomach,” you said, relaxing into the booth.

           “Honey… you haven’t touched it since it was brought out twenty minutes ago.”

           You stared at Penny and she briefly tilted her head, you looked over her shoulder and saw Alec and Henning sitting in a booth across the restaurant, they both gave a little wave before Alec threw a piece of toast at Henning, starting an all out food war.

           “I’m just not feeling well,” you tried to say, but it came out as a question.

           Penny breathed in deeply before resting her arm on the table, her chin in the palm of her hand. “I feel like I have pretty good mother’s intuition, yeah?” she asked, “good relationship with my sons?”

           Your eyebrows pulled together, wondering where Penny was going with this. You nodded slowly before she continued, “I don’t do a lot of meddling in their lives to make things easier, I let them work out problems, right?”

           “Um,” you hummed, still confused as hell.

           “I watched you and Rudy pine over each other for two years. I watched you two learn how to love, I was there for every fight, almost every happy moment.” Her soft smile faltered. “I didn’t tell Rudy how bad of an idea it was to break up with you, because I knew you two could do long distance. I saw you both fall apart and try to pick up the pieces.”

           You chin wobbled at her words and you quickly looked away. Along with Henning, Penny was another person you didn’t talk about your heart break with because she was Rudy’s mom. You had your own to run too and you never wanted to put her in an awkward position, but her words were really hitting you square in the chest.

           “Honey, I can’t sit back and watch you two do this to one another.”

           “He’s leaving,” you whispered. “He’ll forget about me.”

           Penny went silent for a moment, and you could have sworn she was agreeing with you in the midst of the silence until she said your name softly. “Y/N, he hated this pretty girl for about three months. When they ended things, his one explanation was, and I quote, ‘She wasn’t Y/N’.”

           You looked up at her, surprised but Penny wasn’t. She offered a half smile and slid out of her seat. She stood next to you and kissed your head, “give him a chance.”

           You looked at her as she stepped away, heading back to her sons. You sighed, her words leaving your brain feeling jumbled. Instead of her easing your on going mental war, it only made it worse and you ended up just not touching your breakfast and going to work with your head in the clouds.

           “Listen, I gotta tell you something, but I don’t think you’re going to care.” Kennedy said as you sat in your family room and watching some TV.

           You two had been on the phone for the last twenty minutes. It was late evening and your parents were out at dinner with friends, you didn’t really feel like being social so you opted out of meeting some friends at a bar and Kennedy had just walked into the bar because you could hear the music in the background. “What’s up?” you asked, laying down on the couch.

           “Tucker is here, wrapped around some girl.” Kennedy said with hesitation clear in her voice.

           There was no blow, no hurt that rippled through your chest because technically you two weren’t together. It almost made you feel better that Tucker was with someone else, so you didn’t have to feel guilty for being stuck in your feelings about Rudy.

           “Good,” you murmured, “maybe now I wont have to have the ‘we shouldn’t see each other anymore’ speech.”

           “That would be ideal,” Kennedy said and sighed. “Are you sure you’re okay, Y/N?”

           “I’m good,” you lied. You just wanted to be alone tonight.

           “Rudy’s here,” she said softly. “You should come out.”

           “I just want to be alone,” you said and tried to give your tone a bit more pep. “Listen, have fun tonight, okay?”

           “Yeah,” Kennedy sounded unconvinced but you two hung up.

           Penny’s words rang deeply inside your head and had been doing so all day. You were almost over it, over the self doubt and the sadness and heartbreak, but you needed one last night before you started to pick yourself up again. You didn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel, but one day you would. Soon, Penny would see that you and Rudy weren’t meant to be.

           The idea of a future without Rudy in your life made tears well in your eyes.

           I’m not ready for that…

           You groaned and sat up. You made your way into the kitchen and grabbed out bottle of wine, but when you started uncorking it the doorbell rang. You first thought was that it was the girls coming to your rescue because you guys never allowed each other to wallow alone. Then the thought of Jamie flickered across your mind because you knew Kennedy would flap her lips to him and he would fly to you, but when you opened the door you realized you were completely wrong.

           “Hey,” Rudy breathed, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and looking at you.

           “Rudy,” you stumbled over his name, confused. “What’re you doing here?”

           Rudy stood in front of you in dark jeans and one of his old high school soccer sweatshirts, his light hair still unruly but he had shaven and his cheeks looked smooth. His eyes looked tired as he looked down at you, breathing in your sweats and t-shirt. For a split second, you wondered if his mom spoke to him and if she did, what did she say to him?

           “Kenn, uh, she told me you were staying in tonight,” he said, as if that gave him a good excuse as to why he was standing on your porch at 10:30 at night when all of your friends, plus his co-star, was at a bar in town.

           Remembering Chase, you looked around him to see if his friend was in his truck, but no one was there, so you looked back at him. Rudy closed his eyes and breathed out in a heavy puff of air, when he pried them back open he stared at you and began to crumble.

           “I just,” He groaned, “fuck.”

           You stomach swirled nervously as you held onto the doorknob, steadying yourself. He pulled a hand from his pocket and he touched his stomach, “I just gotta say something, then I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone.”

           You went to say his name, tell him not to bother because you couldn’t stomach it. You didn’t want to hear about how he still loves you, or how he couldn’t continue believing in one day because either way you would be left heart broken. He tells you he loves you, then what? Long distance?

           “I’m not giving up on us, I can’t give up, Y/N.” he breathed, as if his words knocked the air out of his lungs and he was struggling to breathe as he looked at you. His blue eyes searching yours. “I know you think I have but forgetting you would be impossible, learning to unlove you is like me trying to learn how to perform brain surgery, it’s just, it’s impossible, Y/N. It’s never going to happen.”

           Your bottom lip quivered as a barely there smile touched his face, hanging a hand on the doorframe. “Rudy,” you whispered.

           “I don’t expect you to love me the same way you did when we were kids, you have walls up and your guarded and scared, but I’m going to keep pushing. I’m going to break down these walls, you will love me unconditionally again.” He said, bringing his free hand to his chest, touching the space where his heart lay. “I refuse to give up on the way I feel about you, because fuck the distance. If I have to fly out every month to see you, or fly you to sets, I don’t give a fuck anymore, Y/N, because I love you.”

           Tears rolled down your cheeks and you quickly wiped them away.

           “I’m not standing here, expecting you to tell me you feel the same way, because I know it’s going to be a fight.” He reached out and touched his hand to your chin, tilting your eyes up to look at him. “Baby, if you want to date other people then that’s fine, but they better be prepared to fight for you, because we both know I love to play dirty and I’ll do whatever it takes to make us happen.”

           Stunned. Shocked. Astounded. All of the above was how you felt by his words. Rudy’s thumb brushed over your cheekbone as he took you in. No words passed between you two for a few seconds, his words ringing around inside of your head.

           Rudy stepped closer and leaned down, your eyes fluttering closed as his face neared yours. You felt the soft glide of his lips in the corner of your mouth. It was soft, a barely there kiss but your heart fluttered so deeply you felt it in your toes. He smelled delicious, like his musky cologne mixed with the Alaskan fresh air. He smelled like Rudy and it warmed your body.

           When he pulled away, his fingers dragged down your jaw and over your neck, sending goosebumps throughout every inch of your skin. He was still wearing his gentle smile when he turned away from you, leaving you melting on the floor because you believed every gentle threat in his words.

           Rudy was about to give the fight of his life, and he wasn’t letting you go so easily.

[waywardork]

The pope really said fuck it gay rights fo today

[gayhenrycreel]

i am so sorry, but the western christianity community is absolutely insane. you are very unlikely to find other christians who respect you. i grew up atheist but still culturally christian, and heres the shit i dealt with (without even believing in god):

people will try to "save you". they are convinced that you are a disgusting sinner but they can get jesus points if they save you from hell, which is like, stopping you from feeling things. (fun fact, in some denominations theres an extra deadly sin; depression. like the mental illness. this is not explicit in other denominations but is inforced anyway)

the whole of society will shame you for anything they decide is sexual. queerness is treated as inherently sexual

jesus is literally god on earth, and questioning ANYTHING he said is the highest sin. you will be shunned if you dont obey. also, priests are supposedly the mouthpieces of jesus who is also his own dad, and christian communities will say that as such, priests are to be obeyed to the word. questioning a priest is questioning god.

you have to be a housewife, unless you are a sinner in which case you have to hate yourself, but dont be mentally ill because thats a sin and is ungrateful. sinners are bad slaves to their husbands.

christianity is the religion of saviourism. those natives who were forced to covert? they were being saved from their savage ways.

anything that came before is heathenry. i have a copy of the bible, a rare edition by john brown. heres a quote: "Detesting every species of false worship, let me rejoice that Jesus, the fruit of the earth..."

yeah he called non christians "species of false worship". john brown is apparently extremely popular in christian theology.

brown also claims the hebrews suffering under the egyptians was a punishment from god for unspecified reasons (it seems the punishment is for being jewish).

7. how could i forget the bible fandoms favourite weapon? satan is the cause of all evil. if a priest is a creep, the devil made him do it so its okay. if you are queer the devil possesses you and you must be cast out, lest the demon infect the servants of god.

8. in christian theology, christianity is often referred to as "the true religion". self explanatory really.

9. christianity is a more evolved form of judaism, which itself is savage and lost without the true god: some guy from a country that doesn't exist anymore so people can argue about where hes from and murder millions of people over it. the original texts of judaism are butchered into pieces. john brown himself admits that the old testament is actually pieces of the torah cut into bits and glued back together, centuries after jesus died.

10. the "bible" is literal. the flood actually happened and anything else is blasphemy. note that every time throughout history that the bible has been rewritten it has been altered. its not a translation. its a rewrite. old kings and popes changed it to control people by saying that what they made up is objectively true because they read it out of a book with "bible" written on it.

11. a sin is not a mistake. its an irredeemable crime against god.

12. thoughts of sin are sin. if you feel jealous of your neighbour, good job youve thought something greedy, you committed a deadly sin and now must hate yourself and cry to a priest. in a small room. with no one else around. often christian parents make their wayward children do this. we all know the track record of catholic priests.

13. ONCE AGAIN if you feel bad you are an ungrateful cunt who cant appreciate the crumbs jesus gave you.

14. if you are poor or otherwise suffering, its your fault. you angered god. this is your punishment.

side note, many christians believe the holocaust to be divine punishment for heathenry (being jewish)

i can garrentee that if you convert to christianity people will tell you your suffering is punishment for being jewish. i got told my suffering is punishment without a reason, and it WILL be worse for you.

please, dont make yourself go through what the rest of western society has gone through. christianity didnt even exist until after jesus died. he was not around to see the writing of the bible. it has zero direct quotes from him. its basically "this guy heard another guy say something and he wrote it down. its been translated through a dozen languages but lets assume this is his actual word".

christianity relies on literal interpretation. you can not suggest that it may be metaphor or paraphrased.

do not believe the words of a dead man who no one ever got direct evidence of. historians have evidence that jesus was real, but its indirect. the earliest known depiction of jesus is a piece of ancient graffiti making fun of a christian (google "aleximenos worshipping his god").

you would be expected to interpret the words in a thousand-time google translated book as objective reality.

please. dont join a community that believes in thought crimes. trust me, the idea of thought crime has ruined western civilization. dont think something you no longer believe in, dont dare think about suffering, dont think about that homeless person they are being rightly punished and you should not interfere, and DEFINITELY dont have intrusive thoughts.

theres a reason so many children of christians have ocd. its a religion that trains you to fear your thoughts. if you have a brief thought about maybe disobeying god, you better hide it. dont forget to beat yourself up over it. the next bad thing that happens to you is punishment for that thought.

its a cult. its an inherent part of a religion that teaches one to fear hell above all. hell as a concept is a tool of control. if you tell someone not to do something under fear of eternal punishment, they will obey your every word.

christianity is built in threat of punishment with no room for improvement. i fully understand how your mother feels. christianity has been used as a weapon against every demographic you can imagine. it did not originate like this, but in its current form it is inherently something else. it started as a weird offshoot of judaism, but now is a monster.

christians will fear for you because they believe you are going to be punished for jewishness and they don't want to be near you lest they get infected, and everyone else will fear for you because of how christians treat those who are not perfect.

please, it will give you guilt beyond what you can imagine. it will make you feel guilt for being a descendant of blasphemers. it will make you feel guilt for your private thoughts and distress.

i was raised by an agnostic atheist and an antitheist, and i still have to unpack this shit. dont make yourself suffer what the rest of us had. ive been trying to run from christianity my whole life and for good reason. if forces things onto you. it makes you feel like a sinner for being suicidal.

you can follow the word of jesus, but know that his modern followers are vile. current christianity hates those who are not perfect. you would have to be a christian without community, because said community hates people like you.

i dont want you to suffer like i did.

My mum just told me to go back to tumblr and keep talking because its keeping me quiet....my dear Jewish mother I hate to break it to you but I am on this app talking about how I love Jesus...Im sorry

[kidlnthedark]

I've just finished watching Outer Banks and I would happily give my life to see John B, Sarah, JJ, Kiara and Pope get their gold and live happy lives.

[giasesshoumaru]

“You think you want to know the truth, but you don’t. It’s worse than you can possbily imagine.” - Sherrif Pope to Ethan Burke (Wayward Pines, Episode 1.3)

[twinksintrees]

Please tell more about your playlists! I've been listening to some of them and I'm rll curious about why you put certain songs in playlists and ur anlysises on them!

thank you for the ask!! Bc this ended being way longer than I thought it would be, I’m only going to be focusing on one playlist here, but I will write up similar post for most of my other playlists as well. Today we will be focusing on my Glenn Close playlist.

Edit: a link to the playlist has been added below bc I forgot to put that in when I first posted lmao

Analysis under the cut

Carry on my wayward son: this might be one of the simplest to explain, and its because the cast themselves have joked and talked about how this song fits glenn, even going so far as to make the title to one of the most important glenn centric episodes. It has to be on there imo.

Highway to hell: this one is also simple to explain, glenn became a demon and went through his owm highway to hell, as it were. It also fits into his dad rock theme, as does carry on my wayward son.

I miss having sex but at least i dont want to die anymore: i dont have a real reason for this one honestly, i think i heard this song on a random playlist and it made me think of glenn? I think theres a version of glenn in my head that lives as a human and goes back to the human realm as normal with the other dads and this would be from his pov after he grows and gets older and does some healing i guess?? It doesn’t make a lot of sense ik.

Anna sun: this is one of the songs most closely (heh) associated with glenn in my head. This song makes me think of young glenn, fresh after morgan died, being left with a 7 y/o Nick and no idea how to cope with either of their grief. The chorus of “this house is falling apart” sung with more and more intensity makes me envision a scene where its young glenn, standing in a small, lonely apartment holding a tiny nick in his arms as he looks around, no idea what to do without his wife and best friend here to help him. The lyrics “we got no money, but we got heart” make me think of glenn, failing rockstar, determined to make a way for himself and for his son.

Sickly sweet holidays: i found this one on another glenn playlist, and the christmas theme was perfect, but also, the lyrics “im crying every day, i wish that you were here, when christmas comes this time each year” are so heartbreaking applied to him and morgan if its him singing that after shes gone.

Last christmas: it fit the christmas theme and i just liked the jimmy eat world version lmao.

Home: this song. just breaks me. The pain and the heartbreak and the tragedy of losing someone you care so deeply about just is glenn with morgan. The lyrics “and i got mad when they said that you weren't coming back to me, cause i hate hearing the truth” are crushing in this case especially because glenn does hate hearing the truth. He’s the type of person who avoids his problems until they slap him in the face. He does that with his grief, doesnt acknowledge his or his son’s pain, and it isnt good for him. For either of them.

Ghost of york: this song is on the playlist solely because it slaps and because of the lyrics “and from the corner of my eye/i saw you dressed all in white/i saw you pass right by/maybe i had too much wine/you never said goodbye” for me, this song speaks to a sad, depressed glenn mourning his wife and drowning his pain with drink, wishing he just had the chance to say goodbye one more time.

Afraid: “when i wake i'm afraid somebody else might take my place” i mean, this literally happened with him and jodie. The chorus is glenn talking shit about jodie. “It hurts but i wont fight you” is glenn accepting jodie as Nick’s new father.

Pope is a rockstar: i dont care i dont care if the lyrics are ‘pope is a rockstar’ Glenn sang ‘go little rockstar’ to nick when he was young and you can't change my mind.

Never love an anchor: oooohh boy. Oh boy. Pain. let's go. With the first lyrics alone “on some level i think i always understood/that these hands of mine were clumsy not clever/and i tried to do the best that i could/ but try as i might i could not bring myself to hold you” this is a very glenn song. Glenn Close was not meant to be a father, no matter how much he loved his son. In fact, with the next set of lyrics we’ll be looking at “a ship could never really love an anchor/so i did the only thing that i could/and severed the rope that set you sailing from my harbor” they can be tied directly to him making the choice to let nick go at the trial. “There are times when i still wonder about you/you are someone i have loved but never known” glenn still loves nick, but that's not the same nick he raised. He is someone glenn has loved, but never truly known after the swap with jodie. “You’ll never see the reasons i had/for keeping my claws away when they were close enough to hurt you” nick will never really know the choice, the sacrifice glenn made when he called for the switch. He will never know the pain glenn saved him from losing two parents. “I am selfish i am broken i am cruel” represents all of glenns self hatred and negativity. I think at certain points pf the podcast he genuinely believes all of those things about himself. “I am all the things they might have said to you” is glenn being terrified nick will end up exactly like him and so deeply hoping he doesn't.

The light behind your eyes: this song is from glenn’s pov in prison. “If i could be with you tonight/i would sing you to sleep/never let them take the light behind your eyes” the idea of him being able to get out and sing this for his friends around a campfire, or sing this softly to his son one last time keeps him going. “I failed and lost this fight/never fade in the dark/just remember you will always burn as bright” is glenn literally losing the court case and getting sentenced to the prison, he is the one fading in the dark, and the only thing keeping him going is the memory, the brightness, of his friends and of his son. I also think glenn sang this to nick as a lullaby when he was a little kid.

Death as a fetish: this song also represents glenns incredibly negative internal voice. The repetition of “i will never be good enough” is all of his internal thoughts that he will never open up about or share with anyone.

The soccer journals: read for a better explanation below

Hey there delilah: read the post linked below for an explanation. @that-one-queer-punk pointed this one out to me and actually wrote a fic based on it, and I’ve linked it below if you wanna check it out, it’s good shit.

Cold cold man: this for me is young glenn when he and morgan are just starting to get together. He’s very devoted to her and he truly believes “the only bed worth sleeping’s the one right next to you” he can appear to be smooth, suave guy who sleeps around, but he honestly enjoys a monogamous relationship and would never betray her that way.

Therapy: glenn needs therapy. Plain and simple.

[tropes-and-tales]

My Best Friend’s Girl, Part Five

Characters:  Santiago “Pope” Garcia and F!Reader

WC:  4904

Other Pieces:  This is part of a series, which can be found here.

CW:  Language, pining, angst.  Backstory.  Mention of suicide.  Smut, so 18+ only.

________________

Pope is scheduled to fly back to Colombia a few days after the start of the new year, which leaves him with only a handful of days with you.

It’s not enough, but he has to be content with it.  He’s under contract, after all, and if he doesn’t return to Colombia, the financial penalties would be steep.  What sort of man would he be, crawling back to the States without the means to provide for you?

Besides, that thought is Pope getting ahead of himself.  Which is out of character for him – if anything, especially when it comes to women, Pope drags his feet.  Postpones next steps.  

And further, neither you nor he broach the topic of what next?  When he left your house that afternoon, and afterwards, you both never mention any future plans with each other.

What you do seem to agree on, without actually saying it?  You both come to the consensus to keep…whatever is budding between you, well���between you.  Neither of you say it out loud, but it seems mutual to not say anything to the guys.

To not say anything to Frankie.

Pope could overthink what it means later.  He already knows he’ll parse over every single moment with you, every text, every glance, once he is back in Colombia in his lonely little apartment.  But for now – there is no use pretending that it isn’t hot as hell, sneaking around with you.  There is the usual new maybe-relationship sex, and then there is the additional layer of keeping it a secret.

Like the night at the dive bar, where you and Pope exchange polite small talk as if you are mere acquaintances, then give over to the guys’ usual ribbing and teasing about old stories from their time in the service.  When you arch an eyebrow at Pope, he knows exactly what you are thinking, and he joins you outside in the balmy Florida evening under the guise of needing some air.  

There, against the side of the building, wrapped in shadows, Pope pushes against you, works his blunt fingers under the waistband of your infuriatingly short shorts, under the lacy edge of your panties until he is inside you.  He twists his hand so that he can curl his fingers in you as he presses his thumb against your clit, slick with arousal.

“Look at you,” Pope whispers into your ear.  Your own hands are on his arms, your short-bitten nails digging into his biceps.  He can hear you panting as he works his fingers in you, as his thumb strokes your swollen bud.  You are trying to be quiet, but your breath is heavy against his neck.  “You going to come for me, querida?”

He can feel you nod, so he kisses you as he coaxes an orgasm out of you.  He swallows your low groan as you come, and then he feels the way your cunt grips his fingers, the wash of arousal that coats him and practically runs down his wrist.  Like biting into a ripe peach, and when you come down from your high, he gently removes his hand from you and then licks his fingers clean.  Which draws another groan from you as you watch him.

“Jesus, Santiago,” you mutter, and you shake your head like he’s a recalcitrant boy.  He grins at it.

“You love it.”

-----

And then there’s New Year’s Eve.

There’s a plan to spend it in Miami, the guys following Frankie, who is following his wayward wife.  Sara has been in the city for days, and there’s something sad about how hopeful Frankie is, wanting to reset his marriage in the new year.

But the guys are there too, there’s rooms booked at a hotel, and tickets to some club with a champagne toast, and Pope would rather skip it all and spend the evening with you.

Well, why not?

It’s like being in Special Ops.  Pope plans the mission and gives you your orders.  Playing along, you salute him.  He doesn’t have the heart to tell you that you’re saluting him all wrong, your palm out like the British do, because you’re so fucking cute when you do it.

The mission goes off without a hitch.  Pope goes to Miami with Frankie and the guys.  He checks into his hotel room.  He showers and dresses and spends an hour at the club, which is crowded and hot and loud.  Maybe Pope is getting too old, but he never much cared for clubs anyway.  

And if you followed his orders, you’re already in his room and waiting for him.

Pope breaks away after an hour.  Outside of the club, there’s a lovely breeze off of the ocean.  He takes out his cell phone and shoots a text to the guys – he gives a vague excuse of meeting someone, which isn’t exactly a lie.  The guys will assume he met a girl at the club, and that assumption will be on them.

When he gets back to the hotel, there’s a split second of doubt that you won’t be there.  But when he keys into the room, you are there.  You’re sitting on the bed, but you rise to greet him with that lopsided grin of yours, and Pope thinks it’s the best New Year’s Eve he’s ever had.

It’s the perfect end to his visit, though neither of you mention his fast-approaching departure.  Instead, you both live in that exact moment – the hours bridging the old year and the new.  He only gets a few steps into the room before you tackle him, your ardor for him a revelation, and it takes just a moment before he’s rolling a condom onto himself and then sliding into you.  

Afterwards, you order room service – messy burgers and an ice cream sundae that you split.  And a bottle of champagne.  You sit cross-legged on the bed in one of the fluffy hotel robes and eat together (your groan at the first bite of the burger, Pope notes, not unlike the way you groan when you come against him).

His phone chimes at some point, and he glances at it to see that it’s Frankie ribbing him about finding some New Year’s hookup.  Pope feels a sting of guilt at that – at lying to his best friend.  It wasn’t that Frankie had a claim on you, but still…it didn’t sit right with Pope.

“Everything alright?” you ask him, breaking into his thoughts.  Pope tosses the phone aside and smiles at you.

Then later that night, as the old year wanes, Pope takes you again.  He has a vague goal of coming together as the clock strikes midnight, but the countdown on the television falls away.  He can’t remember the last time he felt so…connected during sex.  So exposed.  There’s something about how you gaze into his eyes, the way your hands touch him as if you’re memorizing how he feels.  He wants to tell you he loves you.  The words are right on the tip of his tongue, but he hasn’t repeated it since that moment in your kitchen.  And you haven’t said it to him.

It’s slow and gentle, just the languid roll of his hips and the way you press up to meet his thrusts.  Like that first together, he finds that spot inside you that makes you whimper as you draw closer to coming.  And like that first time – oh, the way you sigh his name when you do finally come, arching underneath him.  He kisses you when his own orgasm overtakes him, the hard snap of release at the base of his spine giving way to a flood of warmth in his veins.  

It’s the first time since he was a kid that he felt the possibilities of a new year.  When you drift off in his arms – the first time the two of you fall asleep together – the optimism only grows in him.

-----

But then, only a few days later, he leaves.

Frankie and Sara seem to have reconciled, so Pope manages a ride to the airport from you.

“It’s not a big deal – “ Frankie starts to offer with a frown, but Pope cuts him off.

“You’ve done enough for me,” he tells his friend, and he pulls him into a tight hug.  He wishes he’d been braver, told Frankie about you while he was there.  The whole thing with you had happened so fast though – the Christmas party, then hooking up, then….maybe something more.

When you pull into Frankie’s driveway, you give Frankie a smile and a wave, but you don’t bother to leave the car.  When Pope climbs into the passenger’s seat, your smile for him is twice as bright.

But there’s something brittle about the atmosphere as you drive him to the airport.  You seem too chipper, and Pope doesn’t want to broach the subject of what next, but he’s out of time.

“So – “ he starts, but you know exactly what he’s going to say.

“Santi, let’s not.  Not right now.”

He grits his teeth and looks out of his window.  “Then when?”

There’s a beat, and then you say, “after you read my book.”

Your book.  Pope had buried it in his suitcase, worried that Frankie might find it.  It’s not out in stores yet, so it means something that Pope got an early copy – and that he’s in the back where you thanked people.  He can imagine when it’s released and Frankie reads it and sees Pope’s initials….

“Why then?” he finally asks, and he tries to school his tone to be even and not frustrated.  “Why not now?”

You glance over at him before you turn back to the road in front of you.  “Because you don’t really know me, and once you read it, you will.”

It feels like a cop-out to him, or maybe some riddle that he can’t solve.  Maybe you were just rebounding after all, maybe he was just an itch you wanted to scratch as he had suspected –

“I promise it’s not what you’re thinking right now,” you break in.  It’s creepy sometimes how you seem to read his mind.  “You aren’t a stand-in for…him.”

Him.  Pope snorts – you can’t even say his name anymore.

The rest of the ride is in silence.  So is parking at the airport, and the walk to the ticketing desk and security.  It isn’t until his bags are checked and he’s ready to walk through security that he turns to you.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, but you cut him off with a hug.  You wrap your arms tight around his middle, and he hooks his chin against the top of your head and takes a deep inhale of your warm scent.  When you pull away, he can see the way your eyes shimmer with unshed tears.  

“Santi, if you…change your mind about me…you know, after you read the book…”  You look down at the floor, say the next bit so quiet that he nearly misses it.  “No hard feelings, okay?”

“Shh,” he hushes you.  He pulls you back to him and holds you tight.  Nothing you are saying makes sense, but he rubs your back, strokes your hair.  It’s as much for him as it is for you – comforting you, but touching you as much as he can now that he’s leaving.  He doesn’t know if – or when – he’ll be back…

And then it’s time for him to go.  He gently untangles himself from you, lays a lingering kiss on your trembling mouth.  And then he remembers.

“Shit,” he mutters, and he unzips his carry-on bag, kneels down to root around through it.  He finds it at the bottom, the wrapping a little worn from being carried around, and he pulls it out to hand it to you.

“Merry Christmas,” he tells you.  “A bit late.”

Your near-tears give way to a smile, and the way you light up makes him wonder how many gifts you get.  He wishes he could buy you gifts all the time, just to get that smile from you.  You tear open the wrapping and open the box to reveal the fountain pen inside.

“It’s dumb,” he offers, but you hug him again, wrap those deceptively strong arms of yours around his waist, and you tell him it’s perfect.

“I thought because you are a writer now…” He trails off.  It wasn’t even an expensive fountain pen, it just looked nice in the store he was browsing in Medellín…

“It’s perfect,” you repeat, and you take a tone that forestalls any more commentary from him.

Then it’s really time for him to go, so you cup his face between your hands and make him swear three times that he’ll be careful.  He promises again and again, and you kiss him now, not even trying to hide your tears, and it takes Santiago Garcia every last bit of strength to walk away from you.

-----

He starts to read your book on his flight, and your weird comments start to make sense.

Pope had assumed your book was fiction.  A novel, he had guessed, or maybe short stories.  But it’s non-fiction.  A memoir, in fact.

A memoir about your childhood, and suddenly a lot of things about you make sense.

He gets halfway through it before he is back in Colombia, and even though he is jetlagged and heart-sore, he stays up to finish the whole thing.  And then he lays in bed for hours, simmering between rage and sorrow at what he now knows.

*****

If you had known that Santiago Garcia was a possibility for you, that he’d be better than you could have ever guessed, you would have never written that book.  Now, if you could pull it all back, undo the deal with the publishing house, unspool the mini-tour of readings and book signings, you would.

You’d lock those sad years away where they had languished before you put the words to page.  Bury them deep and pretend they had never happened.

But that’s what got you in trouble in the first place, pretending that bad things didn’t happen.  You had graduated from high school and then college and then had just drifted, waited for something while nursing a head full of bad memories and bad feelings until you felt so stuffed full of bad that there was no room left for any good.

There was a small part of you that was curious about how your book would be received.  An academic, scholarly part of you – your father’s influence, undoubtedly – that wanted to see how publishing the book (action) would impact the people around you (reaction).  You could guess how your mother would react, and by extension, Frankie’s mother.  Not that you should care, but part of you still craved her approval.

How would Benny and Will receive it?  Or Tom?  Did Tom even read?

What about Santiago?  And what about Frankie?

Frankie held the most curiosity for you.  You wondered how he’d react, since he had been there – right next door – for so much of it.  He had been there when you were sent away, been there when you returned.  He hadn’t asked a single question then, the day you came back.  He had just acted like it was another day…how would it hit him to know the truth?

*****

It takes Pope a full week to reach out to you.  He is busy with work, but his evenings are spent torturing himself over your book…and how he should respond when he finally reaches out.  He knows that you’re likely reading his silence as it’s own response, but Pope wants to strike the right tone.  He doesn’t want to sound angry, though he is – but not at you.

He’s angry at every other person in your life.  Your mother, mostly.  Frankie, a bit.

But he finally understands what you were telling him.  Or half-telling him – Pope didn’t know you at all.  Now he does, a lot better.  A lot of your quirks were no longer mysteries.

For example, your weird little speech at the Christmas party about mitochondrial Eve or whatever.  That was your father’s influence, an inside joke you’d had with him.  It had seemed quirky at the time (Pope had blamed the edibles), but you were really just trying to keep the man alive in your memories, especially since everyone else had forgotten him.  

Your dad had been a med school drop-out, had ended up a high school science teacher.  He had passed his love of learning onto you, used to quiz you at the dinner table about the geological time scale or the types of stars in the night sky.  The two of you had been inseparable, hiking and fossil-hunting and scouring used book stores for old first editions of pulpy sci-fi books.  He had been a curious man, and he had passed it onto his only child.  

Star-gazing seemed to be the favorite activity.  You and your father had been building a telescope, in fact, when he died.  

Frankie had mentioned your father’s death in passing once, and Pope had assumed the usual stuff:  heart attack, maybe, or cancer.  But it was neither of those things:  your father had killed himself.

And you were the one who found him.

That section of your book – Pope knows it hurt you to write it.  Hell, it hurts him to read it, to picture a teenaged you going through it.  You recount how your father had taken a sick day, and you had gone to school like normal.  Your mother – who rarely makes an appearance in your book until later – was out shopping.  It was like a domino effect of bad luck:  your basketball coach got into a fender bender, so practice was cancelled, so you walked home…called out for your dad to see how he was feeling.  When no one answered, you went into his study and found him.  

And that was only the start of it.

Your mother remarried quickly, put the whole sordid thing behind her.  She didn’t know why you couldn’t do the same.  You were in pain and didn’t have a single adult looking out for you, so you dabbled in petty crimes and mischief.  Shoplifting.  Graffiti.  You’d get caught, hauled off to talk to the parish priest, then repeat the whole thing.

You needed therapy.  Grief counseling.  Instead, your mother sent you away to a camp for troubled teenagers.

Frankie had alluded to that too, said you went away for three or four months, but the man obviously didn’t know the specifics.  Maybe he thought you were off with relatives, maybe a kindly aunt who could help you work through the trauma.

Pope wonders how it will hit his friend when he realizes the truth.

The camp for troubled teenagers was abusive.  The stories in your book make Pope sick, and he’s seen a lot in his life.  To imagine you, just a hurting kid, going through those things….

You and two other kids made a break for it one night.  You manage to get to a gas station, where a sympathetic clerk, alarmed by how thin you all are, how bruised and terrified, calls the police.  And the rest is history.

There was a lawsuit, which explains why you never seem particularly concerned about money – but that was a fight too.  By then you were seventeen, almost an adult, but your mother wanted the settlement money.  It was another court battle – you getting yourself emancipated right at the cusp of adulthood, to protect your money from your mother.

She had wanted to take a long vacation in Europe with that money.  Pope wonders if the awful bitch would have even invited you along.

-----

By the time Pope finally calls you, it’s been a week.  He sends you a quick email, asking when you have time to talk, and you tell him that the next evening would work.

The book has been released by now.  He can picture the shockwaves rippling through your life.

When he sets up the video chat, he can see the tension on your face immediately.  You’re expecting him to brush you off, maybe, to politely say that what you had for the holidays was fun, but –

“How are you doing, querida?” he asks.

You shrug.  “My mother said that I was dead to her, but she has enough pity-fodder to last her the rest of her life now.”

Pope snorts at that.  If anyone came out of the whole book looking like a monster, it was your mother.  A classic narcissist, that one.  He remembers how she goaded you at the Christmas party, how she needled at you until you snapped.  You were like a drug to her – a source of the pity she fed off of from her friends.

Before he can get any words out, though, you sigh and tell him that you know why he called you, what he’s going to say, and you understand completely –

He shakes his head to cut you off.  “I don’t think you do.  Nothing I read in your book changed the way I feel about you.”

The look on your face is something between dread and hope, and it makes Pope’s heart ache to see you so insecure.  Though it makes sense, all of it:  the negative way you talk about yourself, your belief that you don’t deserve good things. Your idea that there was too much dark shit in your past to afford you happiness now.

Pope would like to think that he could be a good thing for you to deserve.  Maybe he could make you happy.

“I don’t want you to pity me – “ you start, but he cuts that off too.

“It’s not pity, querida.  I’m so angry about what happened to you, but…but I understand you better now.  And it doesn’t change how I feel at all.”

That makes you smile, and he swears he can see a film of tears in your eyes, but it could just be the video call.  He has more to say to you, but he wants to say it in person – though he has no clue when that will be.

“Seriously though, how are things there?” he asks.  “Have you talked to Frankie?”

You shake your head.  “No, but I know Mrs. Morales read my book.  My mother told me.  It sounds like the two of them had a fight over it.  I guess Frankie’s mom didn’t know the truth either, or at least not all of the truth.”

It sets his gut churning when you say that.  Frankie’s mom was always a roadblock between you and Frankie.  What if, now that the woman knew the truth of your life, she softened her stance on you?  What if, as Frankie’s marriage slowly implodes, Mrs. Morales steered her son back towards you?  You live in their town, after all, and you were in love with Frankie for so long, and Pope is all the way in Colombia…

“I have a little book tour for a few weeks, but then I think I’ll find some cheap short-term rental somewhere.  I have a contract for a fiction book, and I’d like to hunker down to start it,” you continue.  “Get out of town for a bit until things cool down.”

“Where are you thinking of going?”

You shrug.  “Anywhere that has electricity for my laptop.  Nowhere fancy.”

Pope can’t even stop the words from spilling out of his mouth, a rare moment where he speaks without really thinking.

“Come to Colombia.  You can stay with me.”

You shake your head again, laughing this time.  “Santiago, I don’t want to get in your way – “

But the idea, half-formed, is rapidly firming up in his mind:  there’s the tiny guest room – he could put a desk in there for you, get you whatever you need – pens, paper, a converter for your laptop cord.  The guest room has a nice view of the square too, and his neighborhood is quiet…

“You wouldn’t be in my way,” he says, and he knows he sounds like an excited boy, but he doesn’t even care.  “Listen:  I’m home every evening, but you’d have the place to yourself all day, and we could be together at night.  It’s perfectly safe here in my neighborhood, too.”

Another laugh.  “You don’t have to sell me on safety.  I was born and raised in Florida.  Just last week, a drunk guy on a riding lawnmower tried to rob a McDonald’s with a machete here.”

Pope sketches the scene for you, his hasty plan, and he watches as you react to it:  at first, shaking your head in bemusement.  Then you tilt your head as if you are considering the possibility.  And finally, you nod along with him.

“If the whole private contractor thing doesn’t work out, you could consider sales,” you grumble at him, but you’re smiling so wide that Pope doesn’t mind.  And when you ask how long he was thinking, he manages to answer as casually as possible.

“As long as you want,” he says, because what he really wants to tell you – you can stay forever – would be too much.

-----

You come to Medellín in February.  Pope makes good on his plan and sets up the guest room with every conceivable thing a successful author may need.  He stocks his fridge, buys new sheets for the bed.  Fills the apartment with cut flowers.

When he picks you up from the airport, he can see how tired you are.  There are dark circles under your eyes, and he knew you took the cheapest path to him, which meant you got a little tour of the airports of the Americas:  Miami to Fort Lauderdale to Panama City to Medellín.  But when you see him, your face lights up, just like the first time he saw you.

Only this time, you aren’t beaming at Frankie.  You’re smiling at him.

*****

You haven’t had many boyfriends in the past, mostly just short-term flings that died out after a month or two.  And to be fair, this thing with Santiago is only a month old, but something feels right about it.

The man certainly went all out for you.  He stands near the doorway to his apartment, jingling his keys nervously, a tremulous smile on his face as you take it all in.  It’s a small place, but it’s charming – there’s so many flowers that it smells like a florist’s shop, and the little room he set up for you to write….

It makes you uncomfortable, but only because no one has been so thoughtful to you since your father died.

“It’s too much,” you tell Santiago, and his smile falters a little.

“I wanted to show you how much I love you,” he offers, and his voice is quiet.

You know you’re too tired to hear it, but you wouldn’t believe it even if you were well-rested.  He read your book.  He knows how damaged you are.  

“Don’t be stupid,” you snap without thinking.  “How could you love me?”

But if you were spoiling for a fight on your first day there, Santiago doesn’t rise to meet it.  Instead he looks at you in surprise and then takes a few long strides until he’s standing right over you.  Then you feel his arms as he pulls you into a hug so strong that you sag a little into his embrace.

“Mi alma, how could I not love you?” is all he says, but it’s enough.  The dam in you breaks, and it all comes out – years and years of pain, all the heartache and loneliness, the fear that you were too broken to ever be loved.

Who would have thought, all those years of stories from Frankie about his pal in the service?  All those casual mentions about Pope Garcia, the heartbreaker, the ladies’ man, the brains of the operation.  Who would have thought that you’d end up here in his arms, in Colombia no less, feeling like you found your home with Frankie’s best friend?

Santiago holds you through all of it, and he eventually scoops you into his arms to carry you over to the couch.  He sits down and pulls you onto his lap – nothing salacious, though.  He just holds you as your tears finally spend themselves and you’re sniffling against his shoulder.

You’re utterly exhausted, and he can sense it, so you let him lead you to the bedroom.  Helps you strip out of your clothes, offers you a t-shirt to sleep in so that you don’t have to dig through your luggage at the moment.  He kisses you gently, all over your face – your forehead and cheeks, your temples, finally ending with a sweetly chaste kiss on your lips.  And then he tucks you into bed and turns off the light.  He pulls the blinds because it’s three in the afternoon and sunny outside, and then he turns to leave so that you can sleep off your jet lag.

He’s at the doorway when you call out to him.  You can hear him pause, but you can’t make out his face when you tell him, “I love you too, Santi.”  But you can hear the sharp inhale of his breath, and as you drift off to sleep, it occurs to you that now that the real I love you’s are out in the open, something real can take root between you.

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[silverdrive92]

Fire Emblem Titles if they were crappy movies

FE1: Wayward Prince & the Revenge of the Lizard King.

FE2: Turf Wars: Plead or Bleed.

FE3: Hero King: Return of the Lizard Army.

FE4 Gen 1: Honey! I destroyed the Economy.

FE4 Gen 2: Seliph's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Adolescence.

FE5: Mom in Stone, Kids all alone.

FE6: Boy Meets World: Boy Strikes Back

FE7: Love, Loss, and Armads.

FE8: Game of Stones.

FE9: Ike's Men: Rise of Ashnard.

FE10: Ike's Men 2: Same shit, Different Day.

FE11: Wayward Prince & the Revenge of the Lizard King: Live Action Remake

FE12: Hero King Evolution: Love, War, and Stolen Agency.

FE13: The Hero King Chronicles: The Princess & the Apocalypse.

FE14 C: Sibling Prank War: The Dark Side.

FE14 BR: Sibling Prank War: Homebound.

FE14 R: Sibling Prank War: Dad is Mad.

FE15: Legend of the Farm Boy: The Fidget Spinner of Time.

FE16 BL: Avengers: Therapy War.

FE16 VW: The Girls are Fighting.

FE16 SS: The Pope & the Dwarf: Twerk Off.

FE16 CF: Mean Girl: PMS Gone Wrong.

[hopeamarsu]

Hi lovely!

Congratulations on your milestone. It is very well deserved. You are a beautiful storyteller.

I am requesting:

For all it's worth /Santiago Garcia

Because I am stupidly in love with him.

Thank you my friend. xo!

My darling Marie, thank you so much ❤️ I’m honestly humbled by this praise, but truly, you lovely words and support mean so much to me.

So I can tell you I'm so happy you sent a request in! I know the title sort of screamed angsty, but I accidentally on purpose went a little horny and a little sweet, a meet-cute of sorts. I'm still learning my way through writing Santi but I hope this humble fic makes him justice.

For all it's worth

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x reader

Word count 1,1k

Warnings: Airplane turbulence, some hints towards spiciness

A/N: Your seatmate at the airplane is gorgeous but he seems to be in some pain.

You sneak a glance at the gorgeous man next to you as he tries to get comfortable in the small airplane seat. His left hand rubs his knee in a soothing motion as he wiggles to find a good position and his elbow bumps into you by accident. “Sorry,” He mumbles with a low tone, casting an apologetic look at you.

You shrug it off, trying not to get too distracted by the handsome features, the soft salt and pepper curls and the intoxicating dark eyes looking at you. It’s hard but you manage somehow.

“It’s okay, these things happen.”

Airplanes are tight in general and this particular flight from St John’s feels even more so. You’ve been crammed into this metal tube for a couple of hours now and you know there are several ahead of you still, which is why you have been grateful for the aisle seat you had managed to snag during booking.

He nods at your dismissal and tries to move his body a little more, mindful of the old lady sleeping on the window seat. The turn doesn’t seem to do good for him as you can clearly see the wince flash across his face as his knee twists as a result.

He rubs the knee a little more forcefully, bending forward and you can clearly see more of the curls and a puckered scar on his neck. You wince in sympathy as it disappears under the neckline of his dark shirt.

“Would you want to switch seats? For all it’s worth, you could stretch out your legs on the aisle at least.” Your words escape you before you can grasp them properly. He turns to look at you with a grateful expression.

“You would do that?”

“Yeah, the extra space is - uh - would be good for you, right? For the knee.” You gesture at the limb and the hand still rubbing the spot. It must feel quite painful from the look on his face.

He agrees, slightly sheepish, but you just wave it off. You know what a knee injury looks like and the best help is getting it as much space to stretch out as possible. You click off your seatbelt and shuffle out of your seat, but just as he is about to move into the aisle himself, the turbulence in the air shakes the plane.

“Shit!” You yelp as you fall forward, hands in front of you as you grasp the headrest of the seat next to you. The plane jumps up and down a little as it moves through the air and you lose your grip, swinging on your feet and another shake makes you stumble again, falling until you land on something soft, the person underneath you letting out a small “oomph” at the surprise.

“Hi.” You grin meekly at him, embarrassed at finding yourself perched on his lap. You feel the powerful muscles tensing under you as he adjusts you to sit more comfortably. Something decidedly delicious presses against your ass but another violent shake makes you forget all that as you pin your bodies flush together in order to keep still.

You feel his hand wrap around your back, keeping you locked in his embrace. Finally the plane steadies itself and he slowly helps you shuffle into the middle seat. He doesn’t lose the connection though, keeping one hand on your elbow as he peers into your eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“I hate turbulence.”

“Mhmmm. Are you scared of flying?”

“A little I guess. All this shaking doesn’t feel too good.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Would you, uh… Would you keep holding my hand? It’s silly I know, but having something to focus on helps me.” You should perhaps feel a bit embarrassed about asking but something in this gorgeous gentleman pulls you in and doesn’t want to let go.

He doesn’t answer you verbally, only gathers your hand into his. His palm is warm and dry and you can feel the callous spots in the skin as his thumb slides over your knuckles as he runs it across your skin.

The plane shakes again and you grip his hand tighter, grateful for the extra support. He leans into you, his warm breath on your ear feeling like smooth velvet, “I’m Santiago, or Santi. What’s your name?” Breathless, you give your name and he repeats it, the letters vibrating as they leave his mouth. There is something promising in the way he rolls your name around his tongue and your eyes are drawn to his lips.

They look plump and so inviting, but the thought of how they would feel against you is soon wiped from your mind as the plane shakes rapidly again and you let out a small shriek as it drops in altitude. “Hey, hey, querida, it’s alright. Look at me, it’s going to be alright.”

You lift your gaze to meet his and the dark eyes drill into yours. You can see how the light is reflected off of them, how something ravenous flashes in them as he keeps looking at you, the smoulder in the low-lidded eyes very evident. You watch his eyes drop to your lips and you wet them unconsciously. The tone of the orbs turn even darker as he follows your tongue poking out from between your lips.

“Do you mind if I try something?” Santiago mumbles, his voice low and husky. The something in his question is obvious as he devours you with his eyes and you nod minutely. He leans forward a little and your eyes flutter shut in anticipation and just as the plane shakes again, he captures your lips in a kiss to end all kisses.

He fits against you like a key slipping into a lock, so perfect. He tastes of warm honey and warm summer air as he places a hand on the back of your head, drawing you even closer as he slips his tongue into your mouth. A small groan leaves him as he registers what you truly taste like and when he nibbles on your lower lip, the whole world slips away.

It’s just you and him, 10 000 feet in the air, but it feels like he is taking you higher and higher as he kisses you deeper and deeper. There is no time, no knowledge of the shaking of the plane until it settles down and he releases your mouth.

Santiago’s eyes are hungry as he plucks at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. “May I do that again?” You answer him by tugging him forward from the neckline of his shirt, more than happy to lose yourself within him as the plane flies forward.

*

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this!

Everything taglist @clydesducktape @wayward-rose @themuseic @miraclesabound @clydesfavoritegirl @a-true-janian-reply @10blurredsmoke10 @caillea @mariesackler @princessxkenobi

[pedros-mustache]

whispers of you

summary: he can’t help it—thinking of you out here. 

word count: 1k+ (like why are we even here lol)

warnings: angst, naughty dreams and thoughts (18+ bye), language, x fem!reader

a/n: uh—tbh, i don’t know what this is other than purely self-indulgent. it would probably work best if you read the “rose between two thorns” series (or at least the first part) before this lil one-shot, but it’s not entirely necessary.

he can’t help it—thinking of you out here.

it’s self-preservation. when he’s surrounded by nothing but chaos—tension between the boys, gunfire and helicopter crashes and dragging duffle bag after duffle bag through the mountains—his mind wanders. 

it wanders to you.

at the beginning of the trip, before everything went to shit, you passed through his thoughts like a wayward breeze. he wondered if you remembered to prep maria’s bottles for the weekend; if you know that the backdoor sometimes doesn’t lock the first time; if you know where the fire extinguisher is. he didn’t think about your face or your hair or your body then. no, those thoughts come later. at the beginning of the trip, his thoughts are purely business, almost parental in nature. it’s better that way.

it’s not until he’s crashed the helicopter and split his cheek open that his thoughts begin to shift, you begin to shift in his mind, and it scares him.

he’s always found you attractive. he’d be blind to not recognize your beauty on some surface, inconsequential level. he’s a man, after all, and men like pretty things. you’re young and unencumbered by the weight of the world, so different from him. he likes that; he thinks it adds to your charm. but again—those are fine thoughts for a dad to have toward his daughter’s nanny. he can think you’re cute; he can think you’re charming. it doesn’t mean anything, not really.

but when he sits huddled against the base of a gigantic rock, rain drenching his thin coat and clogging his shoes, he thinks of your warmness for the first time. he is half-asleep, hungry, and tired. he’s not on his a-game, so when an image of you, soft and warm and smiling, flits through his mind, he doesn’t bat it away on instinct. he lets it percolate. 

you would be warm, wouldn’t you? you’re always smiling when you come through the door early in the morning, always ready for whatever the day may throw your way. he imagines that warmness comes from within, and there’s no way your skin wouldn’t be warm to the touch as well. 

god, he wants to touch you. just a little. nothing dramatic. he’s only ever touched your shoulder in a friendly sort of way, but tonight, all he wants to do is hold you hand, rub the pad of his thumb over your knuckles, caress the length of your neck. he wants to know if you are as warm as you seem. he could use some warmth right now.

he startles out of his thoughts when benny says something to him—or maybe to will. he wasn’t paying attention. 

he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that, so he doesn’t for the rest of the night.

***

the next afternoon, as he wades chest deep through a river, he pictures you cradling maria against your own chest. you’re so motherly. you treat his child like your own, and for the first time, it makes his blood pump with something akin to arousal. he imagines maria’s little fist clenched against the swell of your breast, and he wonders what it must feel like to cup your breast in his own hand. 

he stops thinking about your tits—their heft, their smoothness—when tom and pope start arguing. it’s just as well, though. he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that.

***

they’ve burnt a considerable amount of money just to stay warm, and again, after the nervous laughter fades, his mind wanders to you. he wonders what your mouth would feel like. it’s on accident—the mental picture of you kissing him—but he’s so thirsty, he wonders if you might be able to quench his thirst in some small way. 

he wagers your mouth is heaven. when you speak to him, you only encourage, only lift him up. your words are sweetness to his ears, and fuck, he just wants to kiss you. at least once—to see if that sweetness extends to the brush of your lips on his and the feel of his tongue on yours.

as he drifts to some space between sleep and consciousness, his thoughts move south and so does your mouth. he imagines you kissing his chest, even the scars littering his skin from so long ago. he imagines you swirling your tongue around the head of his cock and then—

will coughs. frankie’s eyes snap open.

he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that.

***

he wants to go home. he wants to go home to you and maria and never leave again. he’s so fucking tired, so hungry, so thirsty. he’s pissed he ever agreed to this shit plan. none of this was worth it. 

he never should have left you.

after tom is dead and while benny scouts out the shoreline, he dreams of you. 

he fucks you in his dream. the scenes that flash through his mind ebb and flow between him slamming into you from behind—his fingertips gripping the skin of your hips tight, his teeth gritting against the torture of the last dew days, a harsh bite against your shoulder when he comes—and you writhing beneath him—limbs tangled and hushed whispers and soft kisses when he comes. 

he wakes up hard, and he feels sick.

he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that.

***

when he gets home, when you throw your arms around his neck and call him by his name, he presses himself against you for as long as he can stand it. 

you are warm and you are soft and you are everything that kept him alive and moving. he tilts his forehead against the side of your neck, his arms circling the small of your back, and he breathes in deeply. you smell like lavender and maria’s baby formula. 

he could take you here and now—on the floor of his living room in the middle of the night. he wants to feel himself sheathed in your warmth, and he wants to come home, really and truly come home. you are his home—you and maria both. he learned that on the side of the andes mountains, dragging dead bodies and dirty money behind him. no matter where he goes, so long as he can return to you and his baby, he is home.

but he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that. you deserve better than him.

he pushes you away. 

it’s easier that way.

.

.

.

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