#that man has suffered more than jesus christ

[deepdwellingsteamboat]

THE FRANCHISE 2024・1x07 Scene 113: The Bridge

[thermodynamic-comedian]

Finally started listening to Manevolent due to you and another tumblr person rambling a lot. Finished ep 5 and Aurther's killed 3 men, died(?), wanted by the police, fought a wraith, saved a baby, and learned of another world.

Wtf (affectionate)

yeah. yeah

[inspjavert]

THE HORRORSSS CAN WE PLEASE SAVE LOGAN HOWLETT FROM THE HORRORS

[yappacadaver]

funny little note

during my run today i replayed the tape audio since i was talking abt heavy breathing and all that...

he legit sounds way more emotionally affected trying to justify himself (really badly) in front of rebecca than he does when recording his suicide note while in the middle of mortal peril...

[occamstfs]

Triple Shot Theft

Trying to nab himself a sweet treat, Liam finds himself growing into the behemoth whose order he stole.

Shorter story! Petty thief to meathead bodybuilder, hope you enjoy this slightly more succinct story! -Occam

The coffee was in his sights. Liam just needs to wait for a moment when the mobile order counter was unattended andddd- There. He’s already out the door and headed down the street with enough caffeine to get him through his morning. I mean he’s not proud of his little act of delinquency, but it’s not like anyone’s suffering right? The coffee shop has unlimited resources, they'll make whatever poor schmuck whose drink he just nabbed a new one. 

Speaking of, now that he’s home free it’s well time for the first sip. Liam briefly checks the name on the cup, Elijah. “Well Eli, cheers to you. Bottoms up-” Raising the steaming togo cup to his lips Liam prepares for the ritual first burning sip. Not checking the label as he wants to be surprised by whatever hides underneath the lid. As soon as the drink touches his tongue it is revealed to be quite the unpleasant one as he rears back from the scalding drink and grimaces.

Totally unrelated from the boiling heat, the taste was the single most bitter thing he’s ever experienced before in his life. Sticking his burned tongue out before whispering a complaint he checks the label, “Jesus Christ dude!? What the fuck did your order?” Taking no time to analyze his criticism of a man who is by all intents his victim, his eyes grow wide as he sees the drink is a Black Dead Eye, that is drip coffee with three shots. 

He feels his heart flutter as he thinks about the amount of caffeine he now holds in his hand and plans how he is going to ration it out so he doesn’t completely overload himself. His mind briefly tries to picture the type of man to order this, though before a clear thought could be produced he shrugs and takes another sip. Could’ve at least had some syrup in there guy. Still taking a strained sip, an idea unfamiliar fills his mind, ‘psh as if I��m gonna drink some empty calories to start my day.’ 

Eliam’s eye twitches as he scrunches his face, presumably from the bitterness and grunts, “ugh, I hate-” Feeling a frog in his throat he clears it a few times in short succession. “Man, this drink sucks.” His brow immediately furrows as he hears his voice almost sounds deeper to his ears? Eliam eyes the drink for half a second before shrugging and assuming he must be coming down with a cold. Something within his subconscious questions how that will affect his time at work? No, not work, something else. Something close though, his arm rises in a right angle and he tilts his head as the thin limb tries to flex, immediately confused as to why he just did that, after a pause he reconsiders. Why does his bicep look so puny?

Uncomfortable with his bicep barely manipulating the sleeve of his shirt he considers, “Maybe I should start hitting up the gym?” Eliam scratches at his chest and frowns as he feels truly no muscle definition hiding under his T-shirt. His head buzzes with foreign emotion and instinct as the general apathy he has for his body and appearance is rapidly being replaced with disdain nearing disgust. He grunts and keels over as static, burning pins and needles, begins to overwhelm his senses. In the process he nearly spills his coffee which hits him with far more anxiety than losing a drink you didn't even pay for should.

His mouth is cold and dry as he stares at his nearly lost midnight dark drink and, even greater than the bizarre numbness and strange sensations contorting his body, he feels an urge, a need, to drink. Lips puckering as they strain to get closer to the cup as he brings it to his mouth, his legs give out and he falls back against a shop window. Passersby sneer at him as doggedly sits on the sidewalk and raises the cup completely upside down and lets it pour into his wanting mouth. His throat struggles to keep up as something besides himself, something with a will stronger than his own, forces him to down the burning drink in one go.

Mission accomplished, he gasps for air and wipes the few drops of coffee that landed outside of his mouth off his face before sucking them off his stained finger. When a businessman looks down at him with an eyebrow raised Eliamh feels a burning in his chest at the challenge. His jaw clenches and every muscle burns with the desire to show the pen pusher what’s up, dude doesn’t even know what the grind is! Eliamh’s eye twitches and he clenches at his gut as for the first time in his life it seems to be straining his intentionally baggy shirt.

The pettiest thief struggles to stand, using the wall for support as his legs suddenly struggle to carry his body. All the while making embarrassing grunts. He begins burping loudly as his stomach tries to get him to reject the drink in the only way it can. He feels more bloated with every labored breath and heavy movement, his midriff now exposes his thin treasure trail as his arms begin to fill the sleeves of his wrinkled button up. In between burps and groans he just gets out in his now decidedly duller voice, “Whuh- what was in that cup-” 

Usually happy to hide, Eliamh feels a rising need to challenge every man in sight, realizing something is beginning to overwrite his usual instincts, his rational ideas. As his pants begin to strain, thighs and ass bulging larger, Eliamh realizes that no matter his new desire to post up he needs to wait out whatever, uh, food poisoning this is. Stumbling into the storefront he’s thus far used as a stabilizer he groans out to the clerk, hand covering his mouth as he tries to hold back a loud burp, “Burmgh- I, ugh. Need yer restroom, dude.” Mouth curling into a frown at the clearly unwell man the cashier just points to the room at the back and Eliamh quickly stumbles through the door and locks it behind him.

Panting, Eliamh falls to the floor. Sweating through his clothes he leaves a trail on the door as he slides against it. Unconcerned with the filth of being on a bathroom floor his mind screams as his body begins to expand in every direction. Fabric tears as his bloated gut redistributes itself across his whole form. His arms that only recently bulged with any weight at all suddenly rip entirely through his shirt. Veiny biceps tear through, bursting larger than his thighs before his forearms race to match. His hands grow rough with callouses as he tears at his clothes as they begin to suffocate him.

Elijam’s shoulders pecs are initially inhibited by the clothes barely hanging in there. As soon as they give way and his torso is freed to the air do they begin their transformation outright. Drool pouring from his mouth as his mind flitters between the horror of becoming something anathema to himself while at the same time rapidly recognizing the arms as the powerful weapons he has honed for years now. Initially absent, the muscle on his chest pointedly makes up for the years spent abandoned. Pumping larger as his lungs expands and his chest widens to match shoulders that thicken to be shoulderpads, his pecs begin to become unseemly. Weighty enough that his current legs could never support them, his pecs surge to a size where the idea that he could ever be anything but a diligent bodybuilder is foolish.

His rougher hands trail down his sweaty, impossibly large chest and find that there are now swaths of his body where his bulging biceps and dense pecs collide that he simply can no longer touch. Moving down to feel abs as they push themselves out of his lower torso like cobblestones, his grunts and burps turn to deep moans as he bathes in the pleasure of becoming Elijah. Finally reaching low enough to free his package as it begins to fill his constricting pants, Elijah palms his balls as they begin to fill his body with hormones that make his boorish mindset make far more sense. 

Outside in the store the clerk contemplates calling the authorities as the deep moans echoing from the bathroom begin to scare off customers. Back in the restroom the bodybuilders thighs expand to truly the size of tree trunks as they lengthen along the cold tile. Immediately do they tear his pants as it becomes clear that he’ll never take a step without his massive legs rubbing against each other. It’s a wonder his package has any room at all to be as large as it is given the real estate taken up by his massive lower body. In no time at all the sweaty behemoth finds himself filling the small room with his musk which only heightens his heady delight.

His eyes cross as the few shreds of Liam that remained ingrained in his psyche through it all begin to give up the ghost. His balls pulse as the paltry aspects drain from his mind and every inch of him fully shifts to that of Elijah. Memories of countless hours spent underneath the bench press bar, tracking protein consumption, comparing his form with other massive titans. At the very same moment do loads begin to fly. Shooting high enough to grace the ceiling, his spunk stains the wall behind him like splatters on a canvas. His impossible changes took less than a minute but in his ecstasy he feels each and every one of Elijah’s memories soar to fill his mind.

Stumbling to his thick soled feet Elijah scratches his head as he tries to think how he’ll leave this store with nothing to cover his titanic form. The cogs of his mind turn slow enough that it seems like he can barely produce a thought at all. He grabs toilet paper to start to clean the mess made, but only ends up smearing it against the walls. Suddenly he laughs a dull guffaw as he remembers he lives nearby, just needs to run through the store and he’s home free. He’s sure the customers won’t mind seeing him in the buff, he thinks as he smirks at his peaking bicep. 

His cock stirs again as he wonders when he got this pump in. Knowing he doesn’t have time for another session right now he covers his impressive package with his torn clothes and sprints through the lobby, the clerk doesn’t have time to finish his name before he’s exited the storefront and begun to sprint homewards. Pushing through any man who doesn’t quite move out of the way in time, Elijah hits himself in the head as he realizes he needs to apologize to his bro for stealing his coffee this morning. Just as soon does the thought fade with another slow witted guffaw. He’s sure Elijah won’t mind, he’d probably do the same even. After all, they’ve got a lot in common.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Christian Woman

(König x Nun!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k Tags/warnings: Pining intensifies, religious despair intensifies, minor injuries, treatment of wounds, crying, enthusiastic kissing, König gets a few boners. 18+ for eventual smut in this story.

A/N: Don't tell me you wouldn't get horny scared too if you saw this tall guy suddenly emerging from the shadows in his full war gear :) There's a cute date night and a lot of angst in this chapter too, I tried to summon an actual plot here... As always, I need to explain why they’re bonking! But smut is coming, next and last chapter will be full of fluff and steamy first times (Reader is virgin!)

Part 2

You have a feeling that this is the last day you’ll see him.

The stranger from the Austrian Alps, the kindest mercenary you’ve ever met – the only mercenary you’ve ever met – the giant soldier who now carries a piece of your heart with him. You wonder if he even knows he owns it.

The morning prayers and mass are a chore and bring you no comfort, and the usual dawn bliss is gone. You find no delight in singing with your sisters, and withdrawing to your cell for solitary prayer feels like stepping back inside your own personal purgatory. 

You’ve been in heaven and in hell for days now. Maybe since the moment you met him...

But at the same time, you know it must’ve been the Lord who brought you together. There must be a reason for God to make you two meet, you refuse to think it’s only because He wishes to tempt you. There must be a bigger plan; the connection, as sinful and carnal as it is, has to serve some higher purpose.

And you wonder if you’re going mad, because your most sinful thought is that you actually see God in him. It’s just your lower instincts speaking, a demon of some sort that tries to misguide you because no man is like Lord Jesus. 

And yet, don’t they always preach that you meet Him in every person you meet? And that through you, other people meet God too…? 

This reasoning feels much better. It solidifies the mercy you’ve longed for during the brief weeks you’ve known this man who brashly calls himself König. You want to believe that he carries a spark of the Divine in him, and that you hold a grain of the Virgin Mary’s compassion and love in you. 

You decide to hold on to this thought: that you were meant to meet so that you could come to know God through each other. For in König, you see a suffering God, a crucified Christ who rises against evil by offering himself to the cruelty of men. Somehow, the image of him as a mortal man starts to twist into a divine, dark trooper, someone who battles the forces of the evil in this world.

And this reasoning leads you to think that it is only natural that you, a Sister of the Faith, have helped him find some rest and relief in the middle of his work. It’s pretty clear that König has found some solace in your company, and even if things have ventured into a forbidden area of low, simple lust, it’s not dark enough to taint the beauty and grace you've felt together. As long as you hold on to this purity, nothing can go wrong.

While praying for both of you that morning, you find yourself replaying the smiles and touches König has given you these past weeks. You know you will drown yourself in memories after he's gone because they are all you’ll ever have of him.

And they're more than enough.

Or at least they should be…

You feel a tiny dagger of guilt push into your heart, the place reserved for Christ, when you’re assigned to do some spiritual reading instead of helping out in the kitchen or organizing the small library. The appointed texts are about falling into temptation and sin, reminding you about the consequences of such actions. You read the passings with a heavy heart and then slip out to meet König, possibly for the last time.

You wear your everyday clothes to the café, and König says nothing about your sudden moral choice, only gives you another longing, enamored once-over. You keep him at arm’s length, both physically and emotionally, and the effects of this unexpected cold shower are immediate. The man doesn’t even try to disguise the sad, puppy-eyed stares he shoots your way. 

You hate it that the bright, playful air of your meetings is gone, and your heart is tearing itself apart in your chest because the only thing you wanted was to spread joy into his world. Even the Lord seems disappointed in you being so cold-hearted, and you can’t bear to see His sadness and suffering in König’s eyes.

You get offered not one, but two coffees today, and a large piece of dark chocolate cake that tastes of pure sin. He talks about how he would love to write to you, but you tell him you can’t be in correspondence with a man who isn’t your brother or father. König isn’t even married, so it would only raise questions – you would find yourself reading spiritual texts about lust and sin until it drives you crazy.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he finally reveals with a voice thick with sorrow. “Can I see you before I go...? One last time?”

“I’d love to, but… I’m sort of being watched,” you say, slowly coming out of your shell to make it clear that you’d want to spend the rest of your life with him, but you simply just can’t.

Your weak, apologetic look is like a dose of confidence shot through his veins because the face opposite of you brightens immediately. König’s whole posture gets a hopeful uplift.

“Just for a little walk...? To see what the city looks like in the evening?”

“I don’t know if I can make it… I have to work until six... And attend the evening prayer at seven. And then silence starts at eight…” 

You’re wringing your hands under the table while you explain, hoping König will come up with a solution to this dilemma.

“We can go for a walk after silence, then,” he shrugs.

“I–I can’t just escape from the window.”

“...Why not?”

You look at König; he looks straight back.

The man’s serious about you sneaking out your window at night; he’s actually serious, even if there’s a dark, playful smile rising on his lips. 

“I can help,” he grins.

Your heart cracks open, it shoots full of light only more and more with that smile. König doesn’t need to ram a door down and shoot his way through your chest; all he has to do is sneak inside your heart and take the place that belongs to God. You don’t even feel the difference as he makes himself at home. 

Well, actually, you do... It’s like your Christ’s love and mercy have finally come to flesh and blood before you. They're materialized in the man sitting opposite of you, bouncing his knee excitedly and grinning like the most innocent little devil on Earth.

You find yourself whispering “Ok”, and the whole world shifts. 

You take a step towards something forbidden but great, your whole heart starts to sing along with life. You haven’t even done the actual thing yet but you’re already filled with bubbling laughter and excitement. If only your friend could see you now, about to do things she probably did when she was fifteen...

But everything feels so right that it can’t be a sin – if it is, it just so happens to be the most natural, most divine thing to do too.

If this is the last day you’ll ever see him, you can surely steal a tiny moment for yourself and forget about rights and wrongs for a moment. Just forget about the rules, and live in the actual world for a few hours, breathe the worldly air, see what normal people do and pretend you’re one of them, for just one night. 

…

You feel like Cinderella when picking clothes for the evening.

You rummage through the only closet in your room – during the time that should be spent in silent prayer before bed – and notice you still have your old jeans.

They’re light blue and still fit; actually, they fit more than well... You know that König’s eyes will be glued to your butt when you’re not looking.

You have completely forgotten how nice you look in jeans, and it’s the Devil talking, making you admire yourself in tight denim like this. You never cared about how you look before; you certainly never gave much thought to how men see you or if they’re checking out your butt or breasts. Now you’re grooming yourself like never before, trying to decide what to do with your hair as if your life depended on it.

You choose a simple, black t-shirt to pair with the jeans and not make it too obvious that you’re trying to flaunt yourself. It hugs your form but is otherwise plain, and for some people, your choice of clothing is probably their regular work outfit. To you, it feels like you’re about to go out to seduce everyone.

Everything’s so tight and earthly; everything’s so… there. Visible... Touchable.

Lord, have mercy on me. I know I’m weak. But please let me have this, just this once…

And König has seen you without makeup all this time, so what on earth has possessed you to lament the fact that you don’t own a single case of lipstick? You’d kill for a few sweeps of mascara, too, just to bat your lashes at a silly man.

It’s not a date, you remind yourself.

It’s not a date... It’s not a date. You’re just going to have a short walk with him.

And you fear that accepting König’s “help” was a mistake. If you get caught with a man on the convent perimeter, you’ll get your ass thoroughly whooped…

Can a man of his size even keep quiet?

He probably suggested it so that you wouldn’t chicken out of this. If König is at your window by 8 and there’s no sign of you, he’ll probably just come in, throw you on his shoulder and jump out. He knows where your window is located now, and surely has some questionable skills due to his profession, skills you know nothing about, but you’re still about to have a panic attack from pure excitement when the clock strikes 8. 

You push the window ajar and settle on the sill to keep watch, gasping when you hear his familiar accent down below as soon as the window is open.

“Kätzchen...”

“König…?”

You peek down and meet his stupid, grinning face – God, he’s so happy to see you kept your promise. His eyes are shining, his fingers interlock to help you have something to place your foot on. 

“Here, kitty, kitty…”

You could easily jump out the window without hurting yourself, but of course he wants to help you since you were so kind to tell him where he could come and "pick you up".

But to see that playful smile and hear him trying to coax you out like you’re some skittish little kitten…

Could a grown man get any more silly?

You wiggle yourself out the window, trying to ignore the fact that he’s probably staring at your butt, still grinning like crazy while you do it. 

SupportING your entire weight like it’s no trouble at all, he helps you down. You’ve never been this close to him since you bumped into him: you have to take support from his shoulders as you search for a footing, and he scoops you in his arms the minute both your feet are safely on the ground.

“I knew you’d come,” he purrs with joy, and you place your hands on his chest – not to keep him at bay, but to touch him in a way that is as appropriate as possible when a man is hugging you like this.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you whisper, still unsure if this is the best or the worst decision of your entire life.

“Kitty… Live a little, hmm?”

You have to crane your neck to look up at him – you’re not sure if you’re in the embrace of Jesus or Lucifer because the warmth of those eyes compare to the love of God, but they also make you weak and helpless. Whenever you’re with your sisters, the feeling is pure, pristine love, not a surge of complex emotions and thrill like it is with König.

“You’re a bad influence,” you breathe – König only laughs, and the grip around you tightens. 

“My lady. You’re the one who climbed out the window.”

“Because someone would’ve probably thrown small rocks on it if I hadn’t…!”

“Natürlich. And if that didn’t work… A serenade or two. Do you like love songs?” 

You look down at his chest, smiling, heart fluttering at the thought of a silly Austrian man serenading under your window. You have no trouble imagining him singing something syrupy in German, waking everyone up with his racket.

“You’re crazy, did you know that...?” 

“Sure. They tell me that all the time at work. Aber du… Du bist süss.” 

“...What’s that?” 

His smile only widens as he takes in your lips, your neck, the tight shirt that finally gives him something more to look at.

“You’re cute.”

…

The whole evening is heavenly. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted from a date and more.

He doesn’t take you for a short walk, oh no. He takes you out to eat, at some lively restaurant where they serve delicious, artisan, wood-fired pizzas. You have créme brûlée for dessert, and König gives you his strawberries when he notices you eat them first, but only on one condition: you have to let him feed them to you one by one. 

He buys you a rose: a big, red, plump one. No man has ever bought you flowers before, and even if you love lush, abundant bouquets, the fact that he chose you a single red rose after you’ve spoken about the beauty of simplicity, doesn't escape you.

König hasn’t only listened to you these past few weeks: he gets you. And how symbolic is it that he chose a rose that’s also tied to all the mysteries of God?

You walk the streets with a flower in one hand and his palm in the other. It's a holy trinity of him and you and the Great Mystery, it’s passion and it’s thorns, it’s blood and beauty and pain, and you feel like he just gets you; he knows you through and through. 

You pass by an outdoor bar with live music, and the place is so crowded that people are dancing on the streets. No cars honk as they slowly pass by the scene, the music and the laughing, dancing pairs make even the grumpiest passersby smile.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that König pulls you to him before you get to escape the scene. You’re drawn flush against his chest, hips colliding with his, hands finding each other in a slow sway that has never even seen the steps of Latin dances.

“Nuns are allowed to dance, no?” 

He smiles dreamily, enveloped in the same sweet haze as you.

“Not with a man,” you correct, but don’t even bother to push him away. Instead, you let König guide his hand down your waist and draw you closer. If this isn't a date, you don't know what is...

“I can take the blame,” he says. “You can tell everybody it was me.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” you laugh. 

“Why not?” 

His eyes are glued to yours, making you warm all over, so much so that you feel like you’re burning from the neck up. You guide your stare down to his chest, then over to the quick heartbeat on his neck.

He's nervous, too... Your cruel soldier is nervous, and kind, and shy because he's pressed against you.

You rest your head there on his chest, watching the golden sunset far away, painting the rooftops with a genial glow. Your heart is made of molten gold, too, as you allow yourself find a home in his embrace.

“I can take your sins,” he promises above you. “Jesus did that too, right?”

“You’re not Jesus,” you smile against his shirt – black, always black...

“Are you sure? I would go to hell for you.”

Your dance comes to a halt as you swallow and lift your gaze. The smiles are gone now, both yours and his. He’s so close now he could touch your lips with his if he wanted to.

And he does want to.

You don’t shy away as he leans down to kiss you. It’s chaste at first, a slow exploration, but then he opens your mouth with his, demanding, hot, intoxicating. You melt in his arms, and he somehow supports you through it all, turning the dance into an embrace and the decent little kiss into a full French one.

It’s hot and wet and slow, so, so passionate that your knees are about to give in. You devour him back, feel how he grows hard against your stomach – the swelling erection makes you dizzy before you come to your senses, but only barely.

You break away an inch, panting into his mouth while he’s panting into yours. What a blessing that you don’t own any lipstick; both of your lips are red without it…

“This is–”

“Inappropriate?”

His voice is husky, and sends a flood of wetness down between your legs. Your heart is racing, but you can’t even note how terribly alive you are before he attacks your lips again.

The kiss is even more desperate than the first one, and the slow urgency is gone. His mouth leaves you without air, and then – he wraps his arms around you and picks you up from the ground like you weigh nothing. Your hands get squished somewhere between you, naturally coming to cup his face as you kiss him back. 

It’s eager, pure lust, so powerful and needy that it scorches through your chest and ties your heartstrings into tight little knots, makes your brows knit together, too.

He grunts into your mouth, sensing you’re more than up for this after all. You let him see the full depth of your hunger and your lust, just waiting to be released and taken – made love to until you’re both sore and messy and limp.

God… This is better than God…

You hear whistles and whoos in the distance, some men yelling, “Let’s go!” and “Get a room” while they pass by. Realizing you’ve fallen into a dream trap of strong arms and needy lips about to depart tomorrow, you know it's something you could have had years ago, perhaps, but not anymore. You'll lose everything if you break your vows tonight: basically, you’ve already broken them, but no permanent damage has been done.

You can still turn back if you turn back now…

You push yourself away, push him away, heart clenching when you see his adoring, love-drunk, half-lidded stare.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, fighting back tears as you come down from your high. “I just–I can’t…”

He breathes labouriously, still clutching you against him, holding you in the air like you’re the thing he has searched for his entire life and now, finally discovered… Only to be told that he now has to put it back where he found it. 

You’re crying by the time he sets you down, and you have no heart or will to pull away. Instead, you bury your face in his chest and cry your fill in his shirt. It’s soon damp from your tears as König hugs and supports you through his own stoic heartbreak.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry…”

You repeat it until you can’t repeat it anymore, bawling in his chest while the world around you continues to spin despite your heaven and hell, despite your vows, despite your stupid devotion. The world revolves like it always has, as you choose a crucified man over the one who’s flesh and blood and holds you through your pain.

“Kätzchen, don’t cry,” he pets your hair while you sniffle and tremble in his embrace. You know this is not the last time you will cry your heart out over him, but knowing it doesn't help you when he offers you his last, bittersweet comfort.

“It was a good dream while it lasted...”

…

The rose withers in your cell.

You turn it upside down and tie it to the curtain rod to prevent it from dropping its petals. It dries beautifully and keeps its bloodred colour, now reminding you of both Jesus and him. 

There hasn’t been a word from König in months, and of course there hasn’t. You denied his wish to write you, and the dried rose is the only thing left of your time with him. 

In the first weeks, it’s hard to keep up a charade. You show up to prayer, work and mass with red eyes, revealing to everyone that you’re going through a loss of some sort. Somewhere during the first week, the abbess summons you to meet her and you brace yourself for a scolding.

God knows you don’t need the rebuke, and when you close the door and turn to face the symbolic mother of the convent, you end up breaking into tears right in front of her.

“Whatever you were up to, my child, I am glad that it is over now,” she says with all the gentleness of the world. 

“Me too,” your voice breaks, and when the abbess extends her hands, you go to her, fall to your knees, and have another heartwrenching cry with your face in her lap.

You’ve denied yourself love and mercy for days, expecting to be expelled or shamed or ridiculed, but mercy is what you’re offered now, even after you’ve sinned.

The abbess caresses your hair just as softly as König did just days ago, and the fact that her kind gesture reminds you of some silly, infatuated soldier, only makes the breakdown worse. You bawl like a little child who’s deprived of candy, and you don’t even have the strength to berate yourself for it.

“I hope you haven’t done anything irredeemable...?” 

“No... Nothing happened,” you sob and look out of the rose window, desperate for sun while your head rests on a gentle but distant lap. 

Nothing happened except the most sinful, beautiful, lustful kiss of your life... Nothing happened except that you saw this man every time you could, held hands with him, swam in his smiles and affection, and went to bed with thoughts inappropriate for any human being. 

“The world tests us in many ways... But Lord never tests us. He only loves us.”

Something in that sentence finally quenches the neverending flow of tears. Your muscles start to relax, and you remember that this is the eternal truth: to surrender, over and over again, to a power far greater than you. 

The abbess never asks for details about what you have done. She never tells you you have sinned; you don’t need to be told that. The punishment has been dealt already: whoever ties herself to this world and its temptations will suffer exactly like this when the passion and excitement ends. The key to escaping its grip is to simply let go first, once and for all, surrender to the love of God, and trust that everything fill fall into place eventually.

“You must offer your mind and body to work now,” the motherly voice speaks above you. “Work, time and prayer will ease your pain.”

…

Work, time and prayer do ease the pain. 

They ease all pains, but it takes almost six months to stop thinking about him every hour of every day.

You’re proud of yourself when you find out one day that you haven’t thought about him at all. He just now crossed your mind when you remember how he used to smell: of salty seabreeze mixed with intoxicating musk, the scent of excitement and safety all in one. 

You could almost swear you catch a whiff of that particular scent in the yard when you go and water the flowers one evening, but it can’t be: he’s gone, and there’s nothing you can do about it, nothing you even want to do about it because you already made your choice. This path leads you to greater peace of mind in the long run, and you know you made the right decision even if it hurt you and König.

Sunsets still remind you of him, the colour of rose and gold mixed with endings, but the memories are now laced with bittersweet love rather than blunt despair and pain. The times you spent with him are a collection of brief, blissful moments, and you treasure every single one of them in your heart. You still pray for him, not every day, but nearly every day. You touch the rose when the hurt reaches its peak, but the last time you did that was almost a week ago.

And you thought you had forgotten his scent, but apparently, you have not. In fact, it seems to drift to your nose again, which is odd because you’re outside, after all…

“Kätzchen.” 

A whisper is hissed from the shadows just as you’re about to straighten and investigate, because either you’re going crazy or then there’s someone here who smells exactly like him.

You startle and almost drop the watering can, staring straight into the shadows under your window. The tallest man you’ve ever seen steps out from the dark in full combat gear, and while you can’t see his face because it’s covered with a draping black hood, you recognize it’s him simply from the way he moves. 

��Don’t be afraid. It’s me,” he rasps and tries to straighten from the slightly hunched position he’s in, but immediately falls back, then slants to lean on the wall. His gear is dirty, and he holds the side of his stomach with one hand, the lively blue eyes either drunk or very very tired.

“Dear God… What happened to you?”

You abandon the watering can and rush to him; it’s useless to ask if he’s injured when, clearly, he’s trying to prevent himself from slumping to the ground. 

He’s enormous and intimidating even when wounded, a soldier loaded with ammo and weapons and protective paddings and guards, wearing a hood and a helmet and a radio of some sort, his tactical gloves bloody and eyes droopy. The weapon by his side is almost half as tall as you, and God – is that a grenade strapped to his vest?

“I got compromised,” König looks down at the wound but doesn’t remove his hand. He looks so different, like another man entirely when he’s not dressed in his customary olive green pants and a casual black t-shirt. He seems even buffier now, even taller, so terrifying that you wonder if you ever even knew this man.

You must look like a frightened deer because König mistakes your horrified look as sweet, simple concern.

“Don’t worry... They have it much worse, I assure you,” he says with his usual grin – you can hear it from the way he says it that he’s smiling. But it’s so weary now, so exhausted and frail compared to his confident, playful laughs and that husky voice with which he spoke to you after your kiss.

“I came to ask for help,” he continues under his breath, wobbling even when leaning against a wall. “You’re the only one I can… trust.”

“Of course, anything. I will do anything I can.”

His eyes smile down at you from behind the executioner’s veil. It’s that same devoted stare you’ve been trying to dispel for months now. You give yourself a quick mental shake, then tell him to wait here while you go in and call for an ambulance. 

König bounces off the wall and seizes your hand, telling you he can’t go to a hospital and that, if anything, he must avoid any kind of public places. You don’t ask any further questions, even if you know you’re in a pickle now, and not only because those glacial eyes are making your knees weak again. There’s nothing much you can do: he’s wounded and still in danger, saying he can’t trust anyone else. Of course you have to help him in any way you can. If he says it’s not safe, then you must help him get somewhere where it is safe. 

And besides, aren’t you a nun? You’re supposed to help those in need. 

So when he asks you if there are any motels or a bed & breakfast nearby, you say you know just the place. 

It makes your heart bleed that König takes support from you while you slowly make your way down the street. A man of his size, a body trained to withstand whatever his job throws at him, seeking support from a frail little nun… It’s a joke, indeed, and a horrid one. 

When you get to the small place run by a humble old man, you don’t know who to feel more sorry for: the elder behind the counter or König, desperately trying to stay on his feet.

“I mean no trouble,” he says while pushing an unnerving amount of money across the table. “I just need a place to rest.”

The receptionist’s eyes dart to you, then back to König, who still has what you suppose is a loaded rifle dangling by his waist. The safety is on, probably, but there are also knives and grenades strapped to his person, and with that hood, he mainly looks like a terrorist of some sort.

“She’s here to help. See...? Bride of Christ. Even less trouble than I am.” 

You try to smile reassuringly as the man risks a better look at you now instead of being fixated on König or his weapons.

You must make an odd pair, a soldier and a nun... The old man probably has a ton of questions in his head right now.

“No shooting,” he says to you, but his words are directed at König.

“No shooting,” he promises. “No mess if no one knows we’re here. Ok...? You’ve never even seen us.”

The receptionist nods. Then he extends a trembling hand and takes the money, and hands out a key without taking any check-in information.

You go to König and help him up the small stairs and into his room paid with bloody money and a menacing appearance. The fitted carpet is old, and floral patterned, the room small and adorable and meant for visitors far more petite than König. The bedspread is old-fashioned and floral too and has never even seen blood, of that you are sure when König lays himself down with a grunt. 

You spend the next minutes – or hours, you can’t tell – in a tunnel-visioned fog as you do exactly as he says.

You help him out of his gear and weapons and lay them aside quickly but gently, you cut his shirt with an ugly-looking knife, then get a watered towel for him to press against the wound. You rush back to his tactical vest and search for a first aid kit and some medicine, and start to treat his wounds per his advice.

The sun sets in the window, and you patch up your injured soldier with care, trusting his word when he says it’s only a flesh wound and that it looks far worse than it is.

“I should get shot more often,” he purrs when you’re cleaning the rest of the blood off his skin.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scold, trying to focus on your task and not the vast plates that make his chest. Or the thick abs, right there under your fingertips… Or the fact that he has incredibly narrow hips, and a luscious breath of dark hair leading from his navel down and underneath the waistband of his pants. 

You suppose this is what your friend calls a happy trail...

And it does make you very happy.

You don’t dare to look beyond that because the pants he usually wears aren’t as tight as these, and you fear he’ll catch you checking out his junk in an attempt to see if your friend was correct about his size. 

To your blessing – or your curse – you don’t even have to look straight at it to see he’s having an erection. You can actually see from the corner of your eye how König grows hard while you’re treating him – it’s right there, a robust tent that rises beside you while you concentrate on wiping off the blood. 

“Pay no mind to that,” he says thickly and completely without shame. “It just happens… Can’t control it.”

He breathes a bit too heavy for someone who’s lying down, and you fear it’s because of the blood loss. But then you start to suspect it’s probably because all the remaining blood has gone between his legs… He doesn’t even try to tone down the heated, obsessive stares he shoots your way, and you suppose he’s either missed you very much, or then there’s a fever rising after all. You’re not sure if you’re glad or disappointed that the bullet didn’t scrape his leg instead.

“I missed you,” he says like he just read your thoughts. He whispers the sentence slowly and with purpose, saying it like a long-withheld secret.

“I missed you too,” you whisper back. 

Gosh… Here you are, a silly little nun who’s tried to get over a crush for six months, crying after him at night and caressing his rose during the day. You’ve been petting a withering flower some mercenary gave you in hopes of getting into your pants, you’ve fawned over memories of a few smiles and a kiss, all the while the said mercenary has killed people for money and now got shot. He came here to work again, but never sent a message, he only came to see you when he was injured… 

...And you’re glad he did. If a bullet was needed to bring him back to you, then you’re grateful for it, no matter how horrible it is.

“Did you ever… find someone?” You ask while keeping your gaze fixed on his navel instead of the raging bulge in his pants.

“Someone, who?”

“Someone to hold hands with.”

He gives a strained laugh. “Ah. No. No time for that.”

You swallow, and slowly guide your eyes to his.

“Are you still happy with your crucified man?”

Ouch.

“I… I don’t know.”

His brows knit together; you can see it even in the dim light of the table lamp, you can see it even if there’s some godforsaken black war paint all over his face under that hood.

There’s a distant hurt in his eyes before he blinks softly, slowly.

“I wrote to you, Braut Christi... Many times. Never sent the letters… They’re still in my room, at the base.”

Your heart skips a beat. 

He hasn’t had “time” for women, yet has written you letters all these months. He’s written letters while you’ve caressed a rose…. 

You wonder if hearts can find each other, even through a distance, and if you’ve felt the urge to go to the flower he gave you at the same time König has gotten the desire to write another letter to you. It’s bittersweet, like this whole thing between you two, the mystery that both brings you together and rips you apart. 

“I wish I hadn’t… I wish I...” you start, but can’t bring yourself to finish.

“Liebling. I should’ve sent them anyway.”

You go get rid of the bloodied paper towels before you start to cry in front of him.

God… You’re not only in a pickle, you’re neck-deep in trouble, and you only notice you forgot to wash your hands when you return to him.

He reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Peace settles in, even if there’s blood on your hands and the man you adore is lying next to you, patched up with the help of a first aid kit when he should be lying in a hospital, receiving treatment and care.

There’s a knife and a pistol tucked under the bedspread, next to his hand, and the fact that he’s still prepared to fight anyone who tries to come through that door underlines the fact that you two come from very different worlds. König is more than just a rose buying, coffee offering gentleman, he's more than just a silly guy who threatens to sing serenades under your window if you don’t come out to play with him.

You’re not sure if you’re more enamoured or scared.

“You’re an angel,” he rasps from the bed as you try to swallow the tears that refuse to go down.

“No I’m not.” 

“Yes, you are.”

A teardrop falls on the innocent floral bedspread as you wish you were in this room as a married couple instead of an injured, horny soldier and a childish nun in love. Spending your honeymoon or something, getting some rest after an eventful day in town, choosing this absurd old Bed & Breakfast as your place to stay for the night.

You wish you were doing anything else than treating his wounds, lethal or not.

“Are you crying?”

His voice is gentler than you even remembered. Six months of despair have turned him into a dark, alluring trickster when he’s really just a man, a big, amazing, tender man who’s multifaceted, multitalented, and always kind.

He's about to fall asleep, and it’s no wonder. The events of the evening have left you drained, too. You kneel beside his bed, too tired to even sit on a chair, wondering if he’ll die from his wounds tonight or get hunted down by the people who still want him dead. 

“I wish you would stop killing people... I wish you would stop getting killed.” 

You must look silly, kneeling beside a giant soldier’s bed, crying and holding his hand between yours as if praying. But his eyes smile at you, and while you’d want nothing more than to see his face again, you realise you kind of like König this way. Masked and menacing and mean to his enemies, but stripped down to his soul when he’s with you.

“I wish you would stop praying... And start living,” he mutters gently.

“Praying helps sometimes,” you whisper.

In truth, you wish you’d start living, too. You always thought you were brave when you said ‘no’ to the world. Perhaps you were only running away from it…

The hand is warm but not feverish. His breaths start to even, and his lids get heavier; his thumb gives you a small caress before he drifts off to sleep.

“Perhaps that’s why I’m still here, Kätzchen.”

[ghostaholics]

wait but the angst of a soulmate au with price and not knowing he’s your soulmate: you’ve felt phantom pain for every single injury he’s ever gotten during his military career – like this man has gotten beaten, bloodied, bruised, tortured, stabbed, shot, and jumped out of an exploding helicopter on multiple occasions so he’s experienced his fair share of bodily trauma; and after it started happening frequently, you recorded each one down in a journal that you carry everywhere with you (time/location/duration) because it can hit you literally whenever, wherever on your body, for however long, and you've sworn to yourself that if you ever meet your soulmate that they've got so much to answer for

but you’re living a normal civilian life so he’s been spared the anxiety of worrying about how his soulmate’s doing, because for all intents and purposes, he’s not sure if he even has one, never met you but can at least gather that if you do, you’ve been existing somewhere safe, far away from the stuff he gets himself into

but then he does encounter you and it's in the worst way possible during the attack on London in Piccadilly Circus; Price feels the muffled pain of a shotgun to the shoulder and Jesus fucking Christ, he knows you're here in the thick of the pandemonium, never felt the crushing fear of his soulmate being in trouble before until now and it’s a startling revelation – he’s probably put you through absolute hell with all of his near-death experiences and whatnot (why does he feel so monumentally devastated?)

he has a job to do, the utilitarian in him says to save as many people as he can but his eyes are still sifting through the chaos and the mayhem, past crumbling buildings and wailing ambulances, for somebody who's got a GSW weeping blood, and he doesn't let it show on his face but there's this awful, sickening lurch in his stomach as he wades through victims, both injured and casualties alike, because shite, there's a good possibility that you haven't made it out alive and he can usually keep it together pretty well, but now he's approaching a state of total collapse for this person he's never even met, this person without a name or a face, this person he didn't even know he was tethered to until just moments earlier

and he comes to find you somewhere in the wreckage, after he's gunned down all the terrorists, finally makes it to you and discovers that you had been trying to save some little kid caught in the crossfire and took a bullet to show for it – a chink in his armor, because the two of you haven't even exchanged words but that act of valor already says a lot about you

when his eyes finally meet yours, he can see the realization dawning over you, this devastated expression that's making pain shoot through his chest that hurts more than anything he's ever suffered through with the dealing blow being you reaching out to him with a trembling hand

he doesn't know what the etiquette is for meeting your soulmate for the first time, but he sure as hell doesn't give a damn

so he cradles your face, tells you that you're safe, can't believe that you're real and you're in front of him, and his heart is an open fucking chasm because his initial thought it that this absolutely can't happen and if anybody knows what you are to him, they'll use you as leverage; cue protective price and forbidden relationship where they deny themselves each other

Price is certifiably fucked in this scenario

bonus scene is you showing him the journal where you've written down your notes and he's extremely impressed by how well you've recorded it all but something in him is utterly shattered as it shows how much longer you've been in this than him, been aware of his presence, and even though he's the one who's gotten all these injuries and had a past colored in blood, he wouldn't wish that affliction on anyone else – it kills him to know you've been sharing that burden and pain with him

so he fills out the journal as best he can because you deserve answers and despite not being able to remember everything, he does jot down a majority of the injuries and how he got them, respectfully asks for permission before showing you his scars while elaborating on some of the stories because some of them are in obvious places, but he has a lot on his chest and back that are hidden underneath his shirt and you also ask if you can touch them (you're not sure if it's appropriate, because he still is technically a stranger even though fate wills it that you're supposed to be together) before you're tracing the raised skin with the tips of your fingertips and he gently grabs your wrist to stop you because it gets to be too much after a while – and as you've both agreed, this thing between the two of you won't work with the danger of his job

imagine waiting you're entire life for your soulmate and being told you can't be with him; it's almost worse than not having one

and now that you've met him and you're trying to stay away, you're actively fighting against destiny, which the universe does not approve of and is also making sure that it hurts

but the worst part is that when he gives you your journal back, you see that he made a new entry for you and here's the info (it's the exact moment he met you)

Time: October 25, 2019; London Location: heart Duration: indefinitely

[twistedwonderlandshenanigans]

Valentine's Day...Gifts They Give You?? I Think. IDK.

HAH SCHOOL CAN KICK MY BUTT BUT BY GOD AND THE DEVIL WILL I SHARE A LITTLE BIT OF LOVE!! (I'm suffering Jesus fucking CHRIST this course is gonna eat my fried up brain for breakfast lunch and dinner) This is done assuming they're pining for Yuu, save for Ortho he's Idia's little wingman. GN reader as always bbssssssssss if anything seems canon divergent, check out my HCs lmao

Heartslaybul Ace: He thought about making it super romantic, like he spent the week leading up to Valentine's day brainstorming ideas on napkins and doodling on scrap paper, trying to come up with a way to ask to hang out that would make it feel different than normal, but not so obvious that he...you know, likes you. He ends up showing up at Ramshackle before class with a box of chocolates he bought the day before and a bit of a blushing mess. "I just got these because who knows how much Sam will have by the end of today, you owe me half, ok?"

Deuce: He absolutely called his mom to ask for some advice, and asked his dorm mom (Trey), to proofread the hand written note he had meticulously written and supervise while he tries to make a heartshaped quiche. Why quiche? Well he knows you guys have...Memories about eggs, and he remembers it fondly, and he knows that quiche freezes well, so if he makes a big batch, you can eat what you want and have a readily available breakfast to just pop back in the oven whenever you want it - hopefully you'll remember him each time you do, and you'll ask for more when you finish it! He ends up at Ramshackle a little disheveled and out of breath, trying to make the quiche early enough in the day that he could make it there before breakfast so maybe you could share a meal before class. "It's still warm??" "Yeah, I ran here as fast as I could once it was cool enough to handle." "You didn't have to..." "I wanted to! You're more than worth the effort it took to be here on time." Trey: Mans has a major advantage in that he is great in the kitchen, but he can't just make your favourite dessert. He can do that any day. No, for weeks ahead of time, he plans, makes, tests, and revises a new recipe, something that is unique and meant to be for you. It's more effort than he normally puts into his work, but it's so worth it when he shows up at Ramshackle in the evening to deliver his gift and a small note, though he gets shy. He leaves it on the front door step, knocks once, and moves to hide by the side of the house, relying on Grim's nose to bring you to the door if you didn't hear him knock. Seeing the way your face go from confusion to joy and excitement as you read the note is worth every moment he spent crouching. He knows tomorrow you'll want to talk to him in person, but for now, that's more than enough for him.

Cater: Consumerism Capital lmao. He has a really sweet, genuine gift to give to you, but the time he's spent with his sisters makes him second guess whether or not something is "good enough". So, yes, he will have spent 72 hours painting a fucking masterpiece on a phone case for you, or a pair of shoes you said you wanted, or a skateboard so you guys can skateboard together, or something you mentioned you wanted offhandedly months ago, but he's not sure if it's enough, so to "make up" for his "shitty handmade gift", he buys a shit ton of Valentine's day merchandise! He shows up with the giant teddy bear, the bouquet of flowers, the chocolates, the sappy movies, a trending perfume and some sort of specialty drink he picked up at a cafe. Depending on your reaction to all that stuff, he might actually give you the gift he worked on, otherwise you'll see it by accident or something and he gets embarrassed and a little flustered because What If You Don't Like It, Isn't Everything Else Better Than That Thing I Worked On Specifically For You. Treat him gently please. That's a personal request slkdjfhlskdjf

Riddle: He's new to this. So of course he researched long and hard on how to best express his interest in you without trying to push anything on you. Cater tried to show him cute stuff on social media, but it all seemed so scripted, disingenuous, or so over the top he couldn't see himself doing it that way. Or on the other end - they were couples, well into their relationships and living together- that wasn't where he was with you, at least....not yet. He ends up watching, reading and listening to tutorials on how to put together the perfect bouquet - his beloved rose garden would have more than an aesthetic use now, and with a little magic, a beautiful gradient came easily to the bunch of roses he arranged beautifully. Before you, this holiday just seemed ridiculous. Maybe it still was, but he would indulge if it meant it brought a smile to your face.

Savannaclaw

Jack: He can't be direct for the life of him, not in terms like this. The night before Valentine's day, he's still stumped on what to do for you that won't be...inherently romantic and obvious, but show that he cares about you!! His eyes end up settling on his little cactus and he ends up finally getting an idea. Somehow after class, but before you got home, he managed to gift you your own tiny cactus. He left it sitting in a box, a small knitted coaster of sorts sitting underneath the flower pot - he put it in the box just so that the yarn wouldn't snag on the uneven wood outside of Ramshackle- and a tiny cowboy hat sitting on top of your cactus. It had been from one of his little siblings dolls that ended up in his bag from the last time he'd gone home, but either they didn't even notice it was gone, or he could get them a replacement later.

Ruggie: "Do you have plans for Valentine's day?" "Yep. Wait for it to be over." He doesn't really care for Valentine's day, but the sale that starts on the 15th? Goddamn, yeah, he's gonna capitalize on that....and he might even like you enough to share a little bit of it...maybe while watching a movie....and snuggling up under the same blanket at Ramshackle...that he may or may not have snagged from Leona's pile of Really Nice blankets....all it takes is for you to say you want some chocolate or treats too.

Leona: He really doesn't care for Valentine's day and all the shit that comes with it, but his sister in law asked him to at least try to make the best of the day. Initially, he was going to...at least try to contest it, but ultimately decided there was a simple way to do it. He ends up firing you a quick text to meet him in the greenhouse. While the way he pulls you into his little nest for napping is rather unceremonious, once you've settled he tucks a pink camellia behind your ear before abruptly telling you he's going to sleep and you're welcome to join him or you can get out of there if you want. He hopes, that just maybe, you'll be able to identify the flower he gave you and find out what it means.

Octavinelle

Floyd: Azul is making him work overtime for Valentine's day, he doesn't get up early enough to do anything Before classes, and by the end of his shift he's EXHAUSTED and MAD. He likely has the wherewithall to bring you a serving from the special menu in a takeout container before flopping down on the couch next to you, then onto you, just looking for a little bit of physical affection. The next day he does feel a little bad for not making you feel as special as he could have, so he'll wake you up with breakfast in bed. Jade: Again, he's been working overtime but he was more ready for Valentine's day than Floyd. While he can't take you anywhere on the day of, he has an easy hike and picnic planned for the weekend if you'll join him. Despite being in the wild outdoors, he's determined to make you a dish that would be worthy of serving at the lounge. He will not handle being asked to stay home very well, but ultimately will if you want that more....but it's going to be in your backyard.

Azul: He had so much on his plate leading up to Valentine's day with marketing, organizing shifts and maximizing profit. But, some of that profit was already planned to be set aside specifically for you. It was about time that you got a bit of a leg up, right? I mean working for Crowley can only pay so much, and he's the head of the dorm that represents generosity anyways. So on the day after Valentine's day, he shows up in the evening with a laptop, and envelope with cash, and a grin, ready to show you the wonders of ✨investing✨. He may have forgotten you still...want to go home. He'll backtrack a bit and offer to help you find contractors that will renovate a part of Ramshackle for you.

Scarabia

Jamil: He didn't even bother trying to plan something for himself with you. How could he? It was a holiday, as ridiculous as it was, it meant that Kalim would inevitably want to celebrate it on the dorm level, and Jamil, of course, would have to plan and organize and arrange everything in order to make it work out. However, that didn't mean he wouldn't make sure to invite you. It didn't mean that he wouldn't make the time to ensure your favourite dish was served. Or that your favourite song would come on during the dance party portion of the celebration. Or that he wouldn't check on you just as, if not more frequently than he did on Kalim to make sure you're enjoying yourself. And if you're not, if it's all too much, he accounted for that already and will show you where you can stay until you feel okay again. Of course, if you show up an hour or two early and demand (you can't ask, he'll say no) to be given a task to lighten his burden, he might just admire you a little bit more (even if he still says no).

Kalim: Valentine's Day means partayyyyy time!! There's gonna be food, and dancing, and games, and lots of people, and live music because he, Cater, and Lilia are gonna perform, won't you come see him?? He needs you there so he can perform the best he ever has!! Come on Yuu, please??? They did actually practice, because they had to change a few lyrics so that it could be a better cover for Valentine's day and he was thinking of you when they modified it, so can you pleeeeeeeease come?

Pomefiore

Epel: He isn't sure whether he wants to continue a tradition he had from home or not, where he would show up at school with handmade lollipops and give them out to people....but his class at primary school was soooo much smaller, it wouldn't make sense to do it here for everyone. Not to mention, he usually had his grandma help him make them, he's never done it on his own. He likely does it for all the first years in his little friend group because he doesn't want to be obvious to anyone person that maybe...he likes them a little more...however your lollipop is the only one that seems to have no imperfections. Funny how that worked out.

Rook: Screw your alarm clock, he knows when you wake up anyways and will be outside your window, serenading you until you wake up. Even if you end up rolling out of bed lookin like a sewer rat and peaking out the window, once he knows you're awake he'll start reading poetry to you. He kinda just lingers until you're done getting ready enough to come great him outside, where he gives you a single rose and a few sheets of paper that he's written his poems about you on. He'll kiss the back of your hand and offer to escort you to class. ** I just want to say, for as much as I gripe about Rook in other posts, I genuinely believe that if he knew or found out you had no Valentine, no plans, and nobody treated you, he would, by the end of the day, at least have left a rose and handwritten note on in front of your door apologizing for not having asked to be your Valentine earlier and going through and complimenting you, though the note is completely anonymous. Rook is a bleeding heart (hehe Snow White ref) and regardless of his feelings for you/your feelings for him, he wants to make sure Valentine's day is positive for you.

Vil: Ugh, Valentine's day. It's a tacky, meaningless holiday that corporations push for the sake of profit. He agrees to model stuff still, sure, he has to in order to try and keep up with Neige, but he hates it. He gets his nails done so that they are jet black. Part of him wants to go goth for the day, but really that would be an overreaction to something so minor. He rejects any Valentine's day gifts, and likely won't want to do anything special, so if anything, you get to see a slightly out of character Vil as he either facetimes you to make sure you've been drinking water today and rant about the industry and how it's ruined Valentine's day, or. You send him a really cheesy gif wishing him a happy Valentines day and he very reluctantly replies, but tells you to never do that again (and it segues into Above).

Ignihyde

Idia (+ wingman/little shit Ortho): Ortho didn't really intend to snoop, but his big brother just left his phone out in the open...well he threw it onto his bed and mumbled something about being a loser. According to Ortho's analysis of Idia's phone, he hadn't been on a mobile game, so what got him so worked up? He sifted through until he found the culprit- the draft of a really sweet...and yeah, kinda cringey message he had written out addressed to the prefect of Ramshackle. Eugh he didn't need to read that...but...but Yuu should. He sends the message for Idia right before his brother comes back into the room, mumbling about how he needs to delete something. His eyes go wide as saucers as he sees not only has the message been sent, but the prefect has read it and is replying in that very moment. Idia reprimands Ortho immediately, but gently until the Prefects response comes through and Ortho confirms the tone is positive. Diasomnia lord help me it's one in the morning

Sebek: Wasn't going to do anything until Lilia mentioned...."exaggerated"...just how important Valentine's Day can be to humans. His decision to try and come up with a last minute gift only amplifies if he sees someone else give Yuu a gift, and ultimately decides with a certain degree of defeat just to buy something from Sam's shop. He decides something practical is best, but gets a little distracted around the candles. Surely in Ramshackle you would appreciate something small, aromatic and it even offers a small bit of heat! He decides to go through with it, but it's only noon, surely he can customize it a bit more before the end of the day. Lilia ends up walking into Sebek's room at around 10:30, only to see him struggling to stay awake as he wipes off paint from the lid. Based on the discarded tissues around, he hasn't been satisfied with any customizations he's tried to make. Lilia gently encourages him just to write a quick note, and he'll deliver it to the prefects doorstep for him so he can get to sleep. Sebek insists it's not perfect, but is forced to accept defeat as Lilia ushers him to bed, reassuring him that the prefect will still appreciate it.

Silver: He knows that he struggles to stay awake, so he starts on his project long before Valentine's day so that he can work on it whenever he has the wherewithall to do so. Come Valentine's day, he has the gift with him during class, and ends up sitting outside of Ramshackle, passed out next to the door waiting for you to show up so he can hand you his gift, which turns out to be a dagger. No, he didn't make it, but he wanted to research the best option for someone of your size and stature, the quality, where to purchase it reliably, to make a small write up on how to care for it properly, what it can and should be used for, and activities it's not suggested to use it for, but you technically "can". It also gives him an excuse to come see you more often to teach you how to use it- often teaching someone is a great way to learn and will add another layer to his training. Lilia: He's been around for so many Valentine's Days, he probably knew the fucking saint it was named after. That being said, he loves to make the most of life, and that doesn't stop here! Get ready for a home cooked meal, you don't have to worry about dinner tonight sweetheart, Lilia's got it covered. Or he'll pay for take out. Or both, to make up for the mess in your kitchen.

Malleus: He's been aware of the holiday for years, but has never really had a reason to celebrate it. But now there's someone who isn't scared of him. Someone who, perhaps if he asked, you would allow him to spend time with you. He ends up daydreaming about the activities the two of you could do together, from making gargoyles to learning to make ice cream together, he ends up spending the entire day like that. Though he's a bit frustrated at his loss of time, he writes out a heartfelt letter to invite you to join him in those activities at a later date. He'll either wait for you outside, or if its too late in the night, simply slide the letter under your door.

---------------------------------------------------------

I was gonna do Che'nya and Neige and even Rollo but its. its way too late, I'm hungry and I have a STATS class tomorrow RIP me.

[rickssugarplum]

The Rick is Over

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR 7x05! Watch it first before reading this! Thanks and enjoy! ❤

(Rick Sanchez x Reader) Spoilers for 7x05, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

You help Rick process it all.

With the pull of the lever, all the lights in the sub-basement go out, finalizing the end of the decades-long show that's been ongoing most of his life.

It's all finally over.

Rick Prime is dead.

Still coated head to toe in blood, Rick stands in the darkness in the now useless lair, where he'd spent countless days and nights searching, tracking, and looking for any signs of his lifelong enemy. The one who caused him all his pain, destroyed all of his dreams he had when he was young. All he ever wanted, was to live as a husband and father to the two most precious girls in his life.

That life had been ripped away from him so many years ago.

Now, he has killed the man who was responsible. His ultimate goal had been achieved.

So, why does he still feel so empty?

He didn't say a word while flying back home. The voice of his grandson right beside him felt like miles away. It was as if his entire world had gone mute. He could not just go to sleep in his room. Not tonight.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

You were in your living room, reading a book in complete silence, until it was broken by the familiar whirling sound of the portal. You were clearly expecting Rick to emerge from it, but you nearly screamed when you saw him soaked in crimson blood.

"Oh my God! Rick?!!" you shrieked as you stepped towards him. He stood there, emotionless.

"Rick! What the fuck happened!? You look like you came through a slaughter!"

The old man just looked at you; still silent. It caused even more panic in your veins.

"Rick, please. You're scaring me! What is going on!? Say something!" you begged. He was never one to be quiet, even more alarming when he's drenched in blood. Did an adventure go awry or...

"W-where's Morty!? Is he okay?" You asked in fear that something might have happened to him. Your heart rate slightly lowered when he nodded, assuring his grandson was alright.

Looking more closely at him, you saw more damage inflicted on his face. "Jesus Christ, Rick. Your nose is broken!"

Rick finally spoke in a hoarse but defiant voice. "I got him."

His bloodshot eyes stared directly into yours. You saw the anger he's shown in them only when he's described his past, his stolen life; his darkest demons.

Immediately, you knew who he was talking about.

"You-you got...him?" You couldn't speak the name, despite sharing it with the man in front of you. Rick simply nodded again. Not knowing what exactly happened, the blood covering him made one thing clear.

Rick had finally killed his enemy.

Slowly, you took his hands, searching in his eyes for any ounce of how he was feeling, knowing he had avenged his wife and daughter.

"Are-are you okay?"

Morty had asked him that exact same question after it was all said and done. He said that he was. But now seeing the concern in your face and repeating his grandson's words just mere hours before caused the final crack in the dam.

Suddenly you felt two long arms around you, grasping your frame tightly, and Rick let out the loudest, broken wail you'd ever hear. His anguish was bigger than his body, causing him to collapse, dragging you both to your floor. You simply held him as he cried into you, letting out decades of repressed grief and trauma that'd haunted him.

"Shhhh... It's okay, Rick..." you murmured, placing his head on your chest and stroking his slightly damp hair. "It's over..." you whispered. "I'm here... I've got you..."

The man was trembling like a newborn fawn. He looked so fragile. You couldn't possibly know exactly what was going through his tormented mind as he screamed into your chest. His cries sounded so animalistic, it almost scared you. But your heart was breaking hearing him suffer inside. He had cried for the life he lost, his wife he had promised forever to, and his little girl, whom he swore to protect. All Rick wanted was to have his beloved Diane by his side and to see his baby Beth grow up. He wanted them to grow old together. All of his plans. His dreams. Their future, will never come.

Tears welled up in your own eyes, but you stayed and gently rocked him, whispering words of comfort.

"It's alright, baby," you said softly.

Baby. Diane used to call him that. He let out another sob at that memory. Leaning down, you press soft kisses on his forehead.

"I'm so proud of you, Rick..." you confessed. It was the truth. You wanted him to know that. How lucky you were to have the most passionate Rick throughout infinity. He squeezed you a bit tighter at your affirmation.

Time didn't matter to either of you. You could hold him forever if he needed it. That would be how long it would take to heal this broken heart.

After awhile, his sobs started to fade into soft weeping.

"Rick? Can you look at me?" You asked softly. There was no command in your voice. It was mainly to make sure he knew his surroundings. Slowly, he lifts his head up to look at you. The blood of his enemy was slightly rinsed underneath his eyes from tears. You cupped his face in your hands so tenderly, giving him a faint smile.

"You did it."

Rick's expression had become nearly blank. After all the crying, he almost felt numb. "What do you need right now?" you asked him, stroking his cheek.

He wrapped his arms around you again. This time, not in desperation, but in comfort and gratitude. In his hold, he simply whispered,

"Just you..."

It relieved you to hear his answer. You both stayed in your embrace, with no plans on letting each other go. Rick could feel a slight relief as you assured him you were not going anywhere. He closed his eyes and let everything sink in. Through all the changes he's made, he's achieved the biggest change of all. The hunt for his nemesis was over.

So.

What now?

He's going to find out.

❤

[thisautistic]

15 day bl challenge (part 1) day 13

GIVE 5 GOOD BOYS GOLD STARS

#1 PETE - KINNPORSCHE

if we're talking about good boys #1 has absolutely gotta be my man pete. my man suffered more than jesus christ but he got his man and his hea in the end. we stan so hard it hurts

2. JOE - MY STAND-IN

speaking of men who have suffered more than jesus.... gotta go with joe in second here. my man deserves the world

3. PISAENG - BE MY FAVORITE

Pisaeng gets a gold star for being the best boyfriend to ever live and for putting up with all of Kawi's shit

4. JAO - SECRET CRUSH ON YOU

sweet sweet jao. best bestie there ever was. also my man got the boy of his dreams he's SUCH a good boy

5. JACK - JACK & JOKER U STEAL MY HEART

this good boy has everything: a saviour complex, self-sacrificial behaviour, unbreakable morals.

[steve-needs-a-hug]

Halbrand as a pseudo-Jesus figure & Annatar as a pseudo-Christ

There's something eerily compelling about what the Rings of Power has done with these two guises of Sauron and how he's able to inspire trust, faith, and devotion in Galadriel and Celebrimbor. In the show, Sauron believes himself to be the one who needs to save or redeem Middle-Earth. The effectiveness in his manipulation of these characters involuntarily reminds me of the exploitative and manipulative nature of Evangelical Christianity and how powerfully it markets itself as the one way to solve people's deepest existential problems. So I thought about some parallels between Sauron's two main guises or personas in the show, and how Jesus and/or Christ is popularly depicted or understood (especially in Evangelical spaces). To me this helps illustrate why RoP!Sauron's deception is so effective, while exposing some unsettling issues I have with Evangelicalism.

Halbrand as a pseudo-Jesus

Halbrand was presented to Galadriel (as well as us the audience) as a scruffy, humble, ordinary man. Although more glamorous depictions of Jesus were common in Catholic art, the recent Evangelical trend has been to portray a humanized down-to-Earth Jesus (e.g., in The Chosen series, Jesus sweats, cries, gets hungry and tired and frustrated). Scripture allegedly described Jesus as humble and unexceptional in appearance and growing up through adversity and suffering (Isaiah 53). Halbrand is (ostensibly) a smith's aide, Jesus was a carpenter - both trades involving working and crafting with one's hands. It's then "revealed" that Halbrand comes from a lost royal lineage and Galadriel hails him as the King who can save his people from enslavement to an evil overlord - Jesus came from the line of the legendary King David and was hailed as King of Jews, expected to rescue his people from the Roman Empire's oppression.

Halbrand's surface-level resemblance to Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor, can't be ignored either (this is partly why I found the character of Halbrand so insufferable in s1, he seemed like an Aragorn knockoff to me!). It's also been argued that Aragorn is a Jesus-like figure, though he turns out to be one of the most legendary fantasy heroes rather than one of the most notorious supervillains (Sauron).

Galadriel grows to trust Halbrand and view him as her friend and possibly the only person who truly understands her. Celebrimbor also develops a close friendship with Halbrand as they work together. Evangelicalism emphasizes a "personal relationship" with Jesus as your very own friend (some even lean towards a lover) who knows everything about you and helps you with your problems and gets you what you want. Jesus' disciples were also close personal friends with him while possessing little understanding of his true divine nature.

Annatar as a pseudo-Christ

Now this is where things get a lot more interesting. In 2x02, Halbrand reveals his "true nature" to Celebrimbor in an awe-inspiring display. This goosebumps-inducing moment is akin to a religious experience for Celebrimbor, who instinctively bows in reverence to this angelic figure. Christ has also been depicted and described as arriving with the clouds (Revelation 1:7), and I'm sure the religious symbolism of this scene was not lost on many viewers. Even though Annatar seems to be a powerful emissary of the divine, he still tells Celebrimbor that they are to be equal partners in their work to save Middle-Earth. An important tenet of Christianity is that Christ desires to partner with humanity to accomplish His works. This all sounds well and good to Celebrimbor, but Sauron's ultimate mode of "saving" Middle-Earth is to enslave all its peoples and creatures to his will.

Annatar is known in Tolkien's lore as the Lord of Gifts (in the episode he describes himself to Celebrimbor as "a sharer of gifts"). His gift is the knowledge of the way of Middle-Earth's salvation. Evangelical devotionals and sermons frequently refer to salvation of the soul as a "free gift" Christ offers to humanity. (I can go on about how this phrase is a redundant tautology - oops, there's another one - but that's a whole other discussion.) I will suffice to say that the term "free gift" reads like a salesperson's marketing pitch and it bothers me. Evangelicalism as a whole feels like a colonial mission converted into a giant media marketing operation - its glossy veneer of concert-like megachurch services, prepacked apologetics, and friendly approachability often conceal sinister things (exploitation, corruption, discrimination, abuse, the list goes on).

Sauron chose to prey on two vulnerable people with potential for influence - Galadriel and Celebrimbor, both feeling isolated and slighted by their people and striving for a deeply personal and important goal that feels just out of their reach. However, he didn't force himself on them. They chose to let him in, and as a result he took advantage of their trust. In Christianity, God is described as someone Who stands at the door and knocks, and for those who choose to open the door to Him, He will come in and share a meal with them as friends (Revelation 3:20). This is more or less exactly what Celebrimbor did in 2x02 when he allowed Halbrand in, gave him food and wine, and called him his friend. This was the most eerie parallel to me, inspired by some great analyses I've read about how Sauron is depicted in the show thus far.

In season 1 Sauron as Halbrand laid his strategy bare to Galadriel - give your opponent the means of mastering their greatest fear, so you can master them. I can't help but feel that this is what organized religion does - providing the sense of assurance, safety, and emotional comfort that people desperately need, in exchange for gaining control over their life choices and even their thought patterns through rules, dogma, and pressures of social conformity. Shaping minds and bending wills sounds pretty Sauron-like to me. [Disclaimer: This is not meant to be a dunk on religion as a whole, just a reflection as I work through unlearning and critically inspecting beliefs I grew up with.]

[loveerran]

The 99 (plus 1)

On September 9th, President Russell M. Nelson, prophet and leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, will turn 100 years old. His has been a full life, dedicated to service and a desire to improve the lives of others.

As part of that ministry, the prophet has invited us to help celebrate his birthday by reaching "out to 'the one' in need", "'the one' in our lives who may be feeling lost or alone". This invitation references the parable of the lost sheep (Matthew 18 and Luke 15), which emphasizes the value of one that is lost.

This is interesting to me as a transgender disciple of Christ. Transgender individuals generally make up no more than 1% of the overall population, making us (in some very real ways) 'the one'. If a typical ward has 100-200 active members, then there should be approximately 1 transgender individual in every congregation of the church. It is sad there are far, far fewer than that. Most leave. They feel alone, lost, isolated and discriminated against despite the council President Nelson has given.

There will be a special broadcast commemorating the prophet's 100th birthday. During the broadcast, "Examples of what people around the world have done over the past 100 days to commemorate his birthday will be shared through stories from people who were 'the one.'"

Throughout his ministry, I see the Savior ministering to those who felt lost or alone, forgotten or marginalized. I imagine that the broadcast will show outreach efforts that look familiar to us. When I think about the people the Savior ministered to, I often think on those who were rejected or discriminated against by the society around him, including:

Those who may have been considered enemies, like the Samaritans - including the good Samaritan of the parable or the woman at the well,

Those who may have been considered outsiders, like the centurion's servant - or tax collectors and sinners like Levi and others,

Those who may have been considered unclean, like lepers (at least one of whom was another Samaritan) and the woman with the issue of blood,

Those who may have been considered sinners, like the woman taken in adultery or the woman who washed his feet, and others.

We also read of several times where Jesus' followers didn't want him to interact or minister with a certain class of people, from the blind man who called after him "Jesus, thou son of David, have mercy on me" to the little children he instructed should be suffered to come unto him.

I am grateful for the church's emphasis on (and exercise of) ministry and outreach, and for the good that it will bring to the world. I am grateful for those who try to make the world a better place, as President Nelson has. I hope someday we will see inclusion of LGBT people in our outreach narratives, including stories of truly sensitive, kind, compassionate and Christlike ministry - even when some in our society may consider us to be enemies, outsiders, unclean and sinners.

Love, Erran

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up Summer challenge.

Stays in Mexico

Prompt: Summer | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: E | CW: Recreational Alcohol Use, Sex | Tags: Summer Vacation, Anniversary, Long-Term Relationship, Older Married Steddie, Role Playing in Public, Platonic Stobin, Long-Suffering Robin, Putting Up With These Two Dinguses

Sitting at the bar in the Cabo Wabo Cantina, is a perfect golden god, all tanned skin, lush hair, and moles that Eddie would kill to trace with his tongue. Dressed a little dorky, for sure, like he's came straight from a Jimmy Buffett concert, but still fucking gorgeous. 

Eddie can overlook the Hawaiian shirt, the khaki dad cargo shorts and the flip flops. 

He can even overlook the gold wedding band. If Eddie can ignore the one on his own finger, he can ignore the one this guy is wearing.

And Eddie can't tear his fucking eyes away. He watches from across the room, tequila in hand. They couldn't be more different. Eddie is midnight. 

And he's sunshine. 

He's even got some sort of drink monstrosity in front of him, all fruit and umbrellas and a goddamn curly straw. 

It's endearing. 

Eddie bets he tastes like pineapple. 

He wants to find out. 

It's been decided. Eddie has to talk to him, has to shoot his shot, has to try and bite off more than he can chew tonight. There's no way around it. 

So, Eddie sidles up to him at the bar, leaning close.

"Are you a Parrot Head?" 

"Am I a what?" the guy asks, and Eddie chuckles. 

"Nevermind," Eddie says, the guy must just enjoy a loud shirt. "This your regular spot?" Eddie follows up. Like he can't tell he's a tourist. 

"No, it's my first time here," Steve says.

"Same," Eddie answers, and he asks questions, wanting to know more about this man sitting all alone tonight.

Turns out, his name is Steve. A first grade school teacher. Hawkins, Indiana.

Eddie pushes Steve up against the light pole in the bar parking lot, waiting for a cab back to the resort. Pressing his mouth against Steve's, thigh sliding between Steve's legs, pressing upwards. He's hard, Steve's hard, and he really, really wants Steve to come back to his room with him.

"The things I want you to do to me, they're fucking filthy," Steve whispers against Eddie's mouth.

"I'll do 'em. Anything, everything. We're in Mexico. There's shit down here the devil himself wouldn't do. But me? I will. With a goddamn smile." 

And Steve grins, pressing right up against Eddie, "You better." 

Steve's moaning, feet curled around Eddie's waist, squirming all over the bed. 

"Hold still, you wiggle worm," Eddie says and Steve laughs. It's gorgeous.

"It just feels too good," Steve whines, bucking, pushing himself back further onto Eddie's dick. 

"If you want to drive, just say so, sweetheart," Eddie says. 

"Just fuck me harder," Steve says. 

"Anyone ever told you you're bossy?"

"The nag I'm married to. All the time," Steve says, and that won't do. Not at all. 

Eddie pulls out, and Steve whines about it, but Eddie manhandles Steve over onto his knees, nudging him towards the head of the bed. 

Steve grabs the headboard, and leans forward, so Eddie can thrust back into him as hard as he can. They're both gonna feel it tomorrow. 

Good.

"Oh, god, oh, god," Steve chants. 

"Eddie is fine," Eddie says, and Steve laughs, shaking them both. Eddie grips his shoulder, looking at Steve's strong fucking back, with the miles and miles of freckles. 

"You're fucking hot," Eddie says and Steve tilts his head backwards, so he can look at Eddie. 

Eddie takes the opportunity, and kisses him, as he keeps snapping his hips. 

Steve finally pulls back from the kiss, and whispers right against Eddie's mouth, "Come in me." 

Jesus Christ, it takes everything Eddie has to not do it right that second. 

But Steve stills, tensing, moaning, and he's coming, clenching Eddie's cock. 

And Eddie comes in him, just as requested. Slumping forward, kissing his shoulder, his neck. 

Steve lets go of the headboard and stretches both arms behind him, wrapping them around Eddie's head, holding Eddie to him. In him. 

Holy shit. Steve Harrington. Eddie cannot believe his luck. 

The night rolls into day, and they stumble down the beach, finding chairs, drinking again. 

One more margarita, and Eddie's falling in love. Then it's shots of tequila, and he's licking the salt off Steve's warm skin. 

They wade out into the water, and Steve's skin is slick, slippery, as Eddie clings to him in the ocean. Floating with the motion of the waves, trying to look innocent as Eddie works his hand inside Steve's swim trunks, under the water.

Hard cock in hand, as Steve breathes in his ear, hot and heavy. 

Eddie's memorizing it all, before this ends.

The sand and seawater washed off, Eddie's holding the phone. 

"Your wife," Eddie says, covering the receiver, "Please don't tell her about me, and our torrid vacation love affair."

Steve rolls his eyes. 

"Hello, wife. How are the kids?" Steve asks.

Eddie put it on speakerphone before handing it over, and now Robin's voice is filling the room.

"Gross, no. Don't involve me in your kinky sex shit," she says, and Eddie laughs right along with Steve.

"You knew the risk when you befriended me, Buckley," Eddie shouts, starting to pack up their stuff.

"I befriended Steve-"

"Because he's your soulmate," Eddie teases.

"-and you just came along with him. An unwanted free gift with purchase."

"Hey!" Eddie laughs out, but he knows she loves him. Not as much as she loves Steve, but she does love him. Whether she likes that fact or not.

"When's your flight getting in?" Robin asks.

"Ten-fifteen."

"I hate you both, you know that, right? You couldn't arrange daytime flights?" 

"You love me," Steve says.

Eddie interrupts their banter, "Thanks for watching the kids. Let me say hi." 

"They won't come to the phone. They haven't missed you at all. They're hoping Aunt Robin stays forever." 

Eddie laughs, picturing their two black cats that Robin is only slightly allergic to, both happy and full of treats. 

They probably don't miss them. 

"Happy anniversary, dinguses. See you at eleven." 

"Ten-fifteen!" Steve screams, but she's already hung up. 

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

Notes: This is based off the Toby Keith song Stays in Mexico and I've wanted to do something for Steddie with it for a long time. The first line is "His name was Steve..." and that obviously gave me ideas, haha.

Lots of the lyrics show up in the fic, in some fashion, but I flipped it so it was just role-playing cheating, not real cheating. Fun fact: I contemplated writing it as part of the Take the Money and Run epilogue in 2022, that's how long this has been kicking around my head.

[rosewaterandivy]

got lovesick all over my bed

Summary: it might be worth it for once.

Warnings: facetime shenanigans, rockstar!gf had one too many glasses of merlot, my usual brand of filth™️

a/n: be a slut, do whatever you want!

🎶 everyone wants him, that was my crime, the wrong place at the right time 🎶

It was stupid.

Borne of desperation and one too many glasses of red wine, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Steve was off filming for the next few weeks and you were back in an empty house in Laurel Canyon. You tried, unsuccessfully, to not be a bitter Betty about it all; oh, woe is me! My incredibly talented boyfriend has to go back to work.

Were you even his girlfriend? 

Jesus Christ.

It’s been what, less than two weeks and you’re already spiralling. 

Shuffling from the couch you pocket your phone and try to ignore the desire to double-text.

Hey

Could you be any more pathetic? Hadn’t even “defined the relationship,” whatever that meant, and already slipping. You know he’s busy, on-set, and suffering through night shoots in the desert somewhere.

Leaning against the island of your kitchen, you uncork some wine and pour it into a glass. Watching as the crimson liquid sloshes against the curved glass, you idly wonder if you should seal the deal and live your best Olivia Pope fantasy by having popcorn for dinner.

Before you could think better of it, you felt the subtle vibration of your phone in your pocket,

S.H.: Hey yourself

wow, so clever

wow, so bratty

You bit your lip and took a sip of wine in an attempt to quell the low swoop of your stomach.

The texts were intermittent for the next hour or so before he was called back to set. It was a nice distraction from the utter lack of plans you had for the evening. Your producer had sent over the final mix of your new album that you needed to proof and sign off on, so that was the plan while Steve was off filming for the next few hours.

He’d asked if he could call you later, once filming wrapped for the evening and you’d agreed not realizing that it would be nearing  2 a.m. and you’d be half a bottle in. 

Settled back in your bedroom freshly showered and laptop atop the duvet cover, you’re only briefly startled when the FaceTime ring trills out.

“Shit!” 

You quickly pause the song you were listening through and hope you look halfway decent before answering Steve’s call. Mussing your hair, you minimize the image of yourself and enlarge the one of him.

“Hey sweetheart.”

Steve smiles slow and sweet, huffing a laugh at your poor attempts at primping.

“Stop messing with your hair, you look great.”

“Uh huh,” you brush off with a smirk, “Watch me make red wine drunk the next trendy TikTok look.”

He looks to be back at the Palm Springs house, settled against the headboard of the bed that you swore was going to fall off the wall from the sheer amount of times he’d fucked you into the mattress the last time you visited. 

Your skin warms at the thought.

“Can’t wait.” He smiles and takes a screenshot as you flip him off, he’s always doing shit like that— his iPhone or one of his many film cameras or, your least favorite, FaceTime. Says he has to have up-to-date photos of you for the Missing Person posters he'll make once the coyotes finally get you out in the Canyon.

What a dork.

“How was your day?”

“Oh fine,” you say with a sigh. “Did a whole bunch of nothing, showered, I was proofing the final tracks for the album and then you called.”

“Oh,” he pulls a face, grimacing because he thinks he’s disrupted you at work, “I can fuck off if you—”

“Harrington, if you finish that sentence I swear to god—”

“Fine, fine,” he relents with a chuckle and runs a hand through his hair, knocking the glasses off of his head. “So that’s where these went.”

You roll your eyes, this man, honestly.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, just tired is all.” He heaves a sigh. “These night shoots are the fucking worst.”

You hum, “I can imagine. The cold desert at night?” You blow a raspberry, “And you’re worried about coyotes carrying me off?”

“I have a vested interest in your safety, y’know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware.” You tease, taking another sip of wine. “I got thick thighs and a fat ass, and the only person I want to eat me is you.”

“Aww, I’m touched.” Steve laughs, hand to his heart. “Look at you, gettin’ all sappy and borderline cannibalistic over FaceTime.”

“I know,” you demure and bat your lashes. “I’m so emotionally mature.” Setting the glass on the nightstand, you lean forward inadvertently giving him a generous view of your tits.

“Anyway,” you sit back against the pillows of your bed. “What’re you wearing, honey?”

It’s like his brain glitches for a moment or two, and he needs to reboot. 

“Uh,” he glances down with a furrowed brow. “Boxer briefs.”

“Thrilling.”

Could it be that Steve’s never done something like this before? It hadn’t been exactly discussed between you, but he was looking so delectable and you missed him so much.

Fuck it.

“What about you?”

A slow smile splits your face, a waggle of your brows. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Instead of a verbal reply, you pan the camera down to display your latest lingerie acquisition— pale pink and adorned with tasteful floral embroidery, because Steve is a sucker like that. You can hear him swallow and his shallow breaths from the speakers.

“D’ya like it?”

“Fuck.”

There was a rustling sound as he settled more comfortably on the bed. The room lights were dimmed casting shadows across his bronzed skin, an errant lock of hair falling in his face. His voice was so low when it came through the speakers that it sent heat straight to the pit on your stomach, “Wish you were here.”

“Me too baby,” you purr and set the macbook further down on your bed. “Tell you what,” you say taking a final sip of wine, “Why don’t you go ahead and record this for those lonely desert nights, hmm?”

His eyes nearly fall out of his skull. “Y’sure?”

“Course I am handsome.”

He was leaned over in front of the camera, undoubtedly attempting to prop it up on something and hit record.

“Gonna be good for me?” you rasp when he comes back into view, “Let me take my time with you?”

Steve nods, eyes finding yours as his breaths even out. You watched him hook his thumbs into the band of the boxer briefs and drag them down his toned thighs on screen. His hard length sprung to his stomach once the waistband passed his tip, hard and thick where it lay. You licked your lips.

He took himself slow, his fist tight at his tip as he slid down his length at an excruciating pace. That was how he usually slid into you, savoring that first push as you surround his cock in your warmth.     

Your core fluttered in time with the stroke of his palm, slow and deep passes up and down his length that would no doubt feel like ecstasy inside you.

“Feel good baby?” 

You own hand skates down your torso, lingering here and there before ever so gently brushing against your clit. 

“Thinkin’ about my pretty mouth wrapped around your cock?”

He let out a moan, eyes rolling back at a particularly good stroke. 

Fingers stuttering over your clothed clit, your free hand snakes behind you to unclasp the bra and let it fall down your arms. 

You watched as he fell back fully on the bed, his hand picking up pace as the other reached down to cup his balls. A choked moan came from the screen followed by even more hushed words. 

“Miss you daddy,” you whine. “Want your big cock fucking my mouth n’ gettin’ me all messy.”

Barely able to swallow around your dry mouth, you watched him lift his head and watched his hand stroke his length. Steve’s face was obscene; eyebrows furrowed deeply and mouth hanging open in pleasure.

You were overstimulated if anything, never imagining you would have such a visual of him getting off while you were beyond wet, almost uncomfortably so. Your clit pulsed as you caught on screen Steve moan a choked fuck as he writhed on his borrowed bed. 

Fingers pressing headily against your clit, you rubbed tight circles around the slick bud at the sight on the screen. Couldn’t remember the last time you’d been this wet for long-distance sex, no matter the hour. Dipping your fingers beneath the lace of your underwear, the slick of your slit wetting your fingertips. 

A small whimper left your lips as the contact, wishing that they were Steve’s fingers slipping through your folds instead. 

“Fuck, I’m so wet for you.”

He cursed deeply as he slowed his pace, mostly likely trying to hold out from coming too soon. Everything made it hard for you to articulate what you wanted at that moment.

On screen Steve brought you back, his head tilted back as he pumped his length beautifully. You could see his stomach tensing. You could see the tops of his thighs jumping before they disappeared from the camera’s view where they hung off the edge of the bed. You could see his jaw clench every time his tight fist circled his tip. The sound of him spit slick and stroking himself was so lewd paired with his pants and moans. 

While you were enamored with the screen, the fingers of your free hand brushed your nipples. You couldn’t stop your gasp if you wanted to. Every touch had your cunt clenching and begging for attention.

You could tell he was close, and kept teasing your skin but refrained from dipping a finger into your slit. Your breathing was labored, soft whines elicited from the back of your throat as on screen Steve moaned your name. 

“So pretty daddy, wanna see you come so bad.”

He was breathless at hearing your words, the low rasp of your voice filtering through the speakers. Fuck, does he miss you. 

You sigh again, whimper like a little punctuation, sheets rustling. “Thinkin’ bout your tongue and how wet you make me,” and your voice is so low, so needy, “I wish you were here. Touching me all over.” And the picture in his mind of you, so pretty and open, wild at the mere memory of him—

“Keep going. Think about me riding you, baby. Slow at first, how you like, taking you a little bit at a time. You’re always so hard.”

There it is, egging his own fist on to match the pace of a subtle and steady sluiced-up rhythm, your fingers working over, inside, back out, twisting and turning.

He’s lost in the way his heart pounds all the harder at the sounds you make because it means you’ve let yourself go. How you’d scramble for his fingers next, lacing them through yours, squeezing him there and everywhere.

And oh, how exquisite you look with that sheen of sweat across your chest. Hovering over him like a goddess and fucking him like a wet dream.

“Baby,” red lip pulled pale between his teeth, hands working in tandem—imitation and imagination constructing a well-oiled machine in your absence. “Baby, fuck. Miss you on me—miss you fucking me. God–”

“Yeah? Gonna come?” You’re panting, too, noises high and obscene, the background echo of your hand growing more frantic and unrestrained. “Me too, pretty boy. I want to do everything with you—have all of you. Your hands, your mouth, your cock.”

It’s all too fast. Your words, his words, your hands, his hands. Feels like he’s barely started when his eyes roll back against his lids. He’s spilling out, over his fist, up his clenched abdomen, body pulled tight, panting heavy and hard as he tugs at himself a few more times, breathing and listening, heart rattling against his ribcage when you whimper one last time.

Watching him come was enough to bring you hurtling over the edge, fingers pumping messily in and out of your sopping cunt, imagining yourself there and clenching around him instead. Your eyes flutter close, your release drenching your hand.

Steve aches then. His eyes flutter open. Heat smothered cold and lonesome like the embers of a dying fire. His neck hurts. His heart hurts.

“Babe,” you say and he hears it in you, too—the same ache, the same want. Like at the end of every call you’ve made to him since you’d left Palm Springs.

“When you get back,” you sigh, the telltale mantle of sleep falling over you, “I’m gonna let you know just how much I miss you.”

He’s hot all over, chasing the ghost of your doting kisses, the phantom touch of your skillful hands. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

A cheeky wink followed by a sleepy wave, and then you’re gone.

He closes out of FaceTime and types out a text to Robin.

Need an appointment with Lorraine Schwartz ASAP pls.

And if he peruses the jeweler’s instagram studying engagement rings for the next hour, well, no one needs to know.

[gorgeousgreymatter-x]

An excerpt from my unfortunately likely very belated birthday fic for @wynnyfryd my beloved:

It’s not like there’s a definitive set of tracks that Eddie’s on the wrong side of, but there’s something about being in Loch Nora, driving through the suburbs of these rich-y rich neighborhoods that made his skin crawl. Like he’s wearing a huge neon red sign that says I’m not supposed to be here. But there are a few things he’ll venture out to Doucheville for.

The main one being money.

Okay — the only one being money. But who was he to turn down practically double his normal rates simply because Heather Holloway was too prissy to meet in the woods? Whatever, for that much extra cash he’d throw in home delivery just this once.

Of course, because nothing in Eddie’s life is fair or easy, it backfires. Not in the lack of payday kind of way, he thinks, patting the thick roll of cash newly stuffed into his back pocket. That part had gone just fine. Heather had played her part of the stuck up cheerleader and Eddie the scummy drug dealer and yada yada everybody went home happy.

It backfires more in the almost crashed his van into a tree and died simply because he’s a horny idiot kind of way.

Because the universe apparently decided that Eddie, who’d literally promised himself that he was no longer going to be an obsessed freakazoid over Steve goddamn Harrington, must be tested, must truly suffer. Why else would right now be the exact moment in time he drives past the guy while he's clearly on a run and sporting a pair of nearly indecent length running shorts coupled with a — jesus h. christ — a Hawkins High Marching Band t-shirt cut into a crop top revealing a gloriously thick treasure trail. And muscles. So many muscles.

The universe clearly wanted Eddie to die.

And now Eddie has to sit here, rubbing awkwardly at the bruise he definitely feels blooming on his forehead from the unfortunate whack it’s taken against his steering wheel. Because, as mentioned — idiot. He has to sit here while Steve fucking Harrington peers into his open window with this unfathomably sweet look of concern on his stupid angelic face that makes Eddie, for a moment, kinda wish he was dead. Especially because his brain decides, “There was a squirrel!” is the best thing to blurt out when Steve asks if he’s okay. The hasty, “I mean, I’m fine,” Eddie adds after definitely helps sell it a lot. He can tell by the way Steve’s brow is all furrowed in a stupidly cute stupid way.

“I dunno, man,” Steve says (and Eddie definitely does not stare as he watches a single bead of sweat drip down the slope of Steve’s throat, over those pair of freckles Eddie absolutely hasn't thought about sinking his teeth into), "I kind of have a lot of experience with head injuries and that looked like it hurt. Are you sure –"

"Why do you care?"

Steve's worried expression crumples into something steely that just makes Eddie feel like even more of a dick than he knows he's already being. "I just know how shitty concussions can be, sorry for worrying about you, I guess --"

Fuck. Eddie sighs. It would be so much easier if Steve was the jerk Eddie'd always thought he was instead of what he's really turning out to be, which is such a fucking sweetheart that Eddie can't help but want to do a lot of really, really not sweet things to him. "Shit, no -- I'm being an asshole. Maybe chalk it up to that possible head trauma you're worried about?"

Steve is quiet for a moment, but then that look of cool detachment disappears, and he smiles, all gleaming white teeth, and it feels like watching the fucking sun splitting through storm clouds or some shit. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Eddie blinks and sees that Harrington's got his middle finger up, flipping him the bird with such a smug little smirk on that pretty face that Eddie can't help it. He laughs. "Cute."

"You really think so?" Maybe it's the heat. That's gotta be it, Eddie thinks, watching how Steve's cheeks flush, watches as it spreads down past his throat, past those tufts of chest hair poking up teasingly past the stretched out collar of his borrowed t shirt.

The t-shirt Steve had so clearly borrowed from Robin. Robin, who was supposedly Harrington's girlfriend. The image of Robin from earlier in the cafeteria that day wearing Steve’s letterman jacket flashes across his mind and he has to bite him own tongue to stop himself from wincing.

Eddie's gonna throw up. Maybe he does have a concussion after all.

[thedecadenceofwar]

Elle Argent as Jesus Christ: Heartstopper art analysis.

Yesterday, I made this post where I wordlessly compared Elle's art piece for the Lambert School to the painting that draws her attention at the Louvre, Caravaggio's Supper at Emmaus, a depiction of Jesus breaking bread for his disciples after his crucifixion and subsequent rising.

Elle's perspective on the painting / a full view of the painting (source)

The first thing I noticed that helped me draw the connection between these two paintings was their composition, the basic triangular lines that guide the eye in each painting; from Jesus and Elle in the center to the innkeeper and Tao at the top.

Heartstopper also clearly wanted us to make some connection between Elle and this Caravaggio: they focus on her face before they show us the painting, so we wonder what exactly it is she's seeing, which increases its narrative importance. I assumed she recognized herself in a painting; she did, but not in the way I expected.

The National Gallery (see above source) has this to say about the Caravaggio:

On the third day after the Crucifixion two of Jesus’s disciples were walking to Emmaus when they met the resurrected Christ. They failed to recognise him, but that evening at supper he ‘... took bread, and blessed it, and brake and gave to them. And their eyes were opened, and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight’ (Luke 24: 30–31). Painted at the height of Caravaggio’s fame, this is among his most impressive domestic religious pictures. He brilliantly captures the dramatic climax of the story, the moment when the disciples suddenly see what has been in front of them all along. Their actions convey their astonishment: one is about to leap out of his chair while the other throws out his arms in a gesture of disbelief. The stark lighting underlines the dramatic intensity of the scene. Typically for Caravaggio, he has shown the disciples as ordinary working men, with bearded, lined faces and ragged clothes, in contrast to the youthful beardless Christ, who seems to have come from a different world.

Jesus, in the story, opens the eyes of his disciples in more ways than one (I pulled my Bible out for this!). First, in the scene depicted in the painting, the disciples do not know that this man is Jesus until he blesses the bread and breaks it for them, revealing himself as Christ. Second is the context in which Jesus comes to share dinner with his disciples: they meet him on the road during the day before, and he interprets the Old Testament for them: (stay with me I promise we'll leave the Biblical stuff and get back to the gay stuff soon)

Luke 24:13-16 Now on that same day two of [the disciples] were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. Luke 24:25-27 Then he said to them, "Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?" Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

If Safe Space is an exact analogue to Supper at Emmaus, then Elle takes the position of Jesus, and she draws from the story of Christ's crucifixion and rising a trans metaphor.

Death does not always mean death. For example, in the world of tarot, the card of Death does not signify literal Death, but a transformation: that the idea of death is a catalyst for change. If you're trans or non-binary, you understand the idea of the person you were being dead; that's why they call it a deadname. For me, the girl I was is dead. The person I am now, a living, breathing, non-binary person, is alive.

Jesus died and lived again; the boy Elle was died and the girl Elle is lived. Elle takes the spot of Jesus. Elle is risen.

There's another half to this metaphor: of the disciples that don't recognize Jesus. See where I'm going with this? At first, after Jesus had undergone his transformation, the disciples do not recognize him; literally "Their eyes were kept from recognizing him." The fault is not on them – it is another stronger force that maintains their blindness. But Jesus stays with them, despite the fact that they don't know who he is, and he talks to them about the scriptures.

We don't know much about Elle, pre-transition. But we know that Elle, Tao, and Charlie, at least, were friends before Elle's transition, and she had to come out to them at some point. So, in essence, she is Jesus on the road to Emmaus; unrecognized, a stranger, until she reveals herself for who she is.

She takes the moment Jesus tells his disciples who he is and shows what happens when Elle stays. We don't all have the luxury of being the Son of God, who can just pop away at a moment's notice after coming back from the dead (which is what he does, in the story: once the disciples have their eyes opened, he leaves). But this is Elle, out, resurrected, staying.

"So. There've been a lot of changes in my life over the last couple years. But with this piece I guess I wanted to capture a place that holds a lot of happy memories. Even in the darker times. Somewhere I always felt safe."

Safe Space comes after the moment of realization, after Elle comes out, after her friends' eyes are opened. But implied in its source and its inspiration is the moment of truth, the moment of coming out. There's been a lot of that, this season, coming out. There's people that want to and are scared, and people that refuse to and walk away. We never had to go on that journey with Elle. But she's telling us about it, now. She's telling us that it was glorious, that it was godly, that it was religious, that she died and was resurrected.

Before I leave, I want to touch on Tao's importance in this piece. The disciples in Supper are the two men that are seated; the man standing is the innkeeper, who is not quite a part of Jesus' world. Interesting, that Charlie and Isaac, the two people of Elle's group who are part of the queer community, take the place of the two disciples, and Tao, the token straight friend, is standing in the place of the innkeeper; not a follower of Jesus but a witness to the miracle of his resurrection anyway. They are all different people in this painting; different identities, different lives, different loves. But they were all there to witness Elle revealing herself in her resurrection. Tao, afraid of being left alone, is brought into this inner sanctum of Elle's world. Into her safe space.