#the corinthian interview

[boydholbrookfanpage]

Article found HERE

*thank you for sending me the source! 😊

Boyd Holbrook talking about the return of the Corinthian:

I NEED him to come back as the Corinthian.

[evenmyhivemindisempty]

First off,happy new year!!!

second,you know I've got to ask how the Boyd's celebrate it,if they even do!

Steve Murphy: He gets invited to an embassy party he really doesn’t wanna go to. He usually does go anyway, and doesn’t have any fun. He actually kind of hates New Year’s - the thought of another year just makes him feel like he didn’t do enough in this one.

Donald Pierce: You know, I have this really clear image of Pierce, his first year at A-T, pretty new to the whole corporate life, at some small NYE party and mostly spending it talking to Gabby, who he’s been slowly bonding with the last few months. When it hits midnight she startles him by leaning it and pressing a quick, teasing kiss right on his mouth. He’s too drunk to try to play it cool or lay on the swagger, and instead he just blushes so red, which makes her immediately snort-laugh.

Cap Hatfield: His family does a little shindig each year which he always looks forward to! They eat pickled herring at midnight, and his mom buys donuts from town.

Clement Mansell: He goes clubbing, gets hammered, and when it hits midnight he plants a big sloppy kiss on whoever’s standing closest to him. He’s accidentally started so many fights because of it. Turns out a lot of big tough macho guys don’t like being suddenly smooched by another man, and they also don’t care to see another man kiss their girlfriend either!

The Corinthian: You know, I think he loves going to different cities to participate in their celebrations! He’s absolutely been to Times Square to watch the ball drop, but he’s also been to the cheese drop in Plymouth, Wisconsin, and the 400 foot LED chile drop in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He’s walked in the Mummers parade in Philly, and he’s checked out the fireworks in Vegas!

Eli Klaber: Eli thinks NYE is a delightful excuse for a soirée! And a soirée can just be him and his cat if necessary! He’ll dress up fancy and drink champagne either way!

Danny Maguire: He’s actively strategizing how to dip out of his dad’s lame party and get to the one his friends are hosting downtown. His dad always insists on Danny coming up with a list of resolutions each year (“I know you haven’t had a real job, Daniel, but even there your boss expects you to turn in your goals…”) and Danny hates it every damn time, especially when he has to run each one by his dad for approval.

Ty Shaw: He’s shooting off SO many fireworks!

Quinn McKenna: Oh yeah, it was NYE wasn’t it? Well, he went to bed at the reasonable hour of 9PM. He notices that unlike you, he’s well-rested and hangover free.

[epicactusauces]

i love their eyes

[ilovewhiteroses]

Boyd talks about what makes The Corinthian tick - GIFs by me

[tampire]

Gay Headhunter Vampire Bites

[zombie-bait]

Glad to see iwtv season 2 adding on to the gay lil glasses trope

[inspirednarcissus]

Boyd Holbrook by Craig McDean for Interview Magazine.

[duncan-vizla-honeybee]

Okay a job interwiev... I'm dying, my nerves... Omg.. I need my mental support.

[lokitty-supreme]

Mmmm…

Honorary mentions

[daylightaftertherain]

the corinthian and lestat would get along so well tbh

[praetorqueenreyna]

a knife for every heart, Lestat/the Corinthian

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), Interview with the Vampire (TV 2022) Rating: Mature Relationships: The Corinthian/Lestat de Lioncourt Summary:

The Corinthian and Lestat bonding over being sexy blond queer immortal serial killers.

The first thing he noticed were the eyes. A vibrant, dazzling blue that seemed too bright to exist in nature. But exist they did, on a gorgeously refined man with long blond hair and flawless pale skin. The Corinthian wondered if those eyes would taste of the sun and sky. He was determined to find out.

Ever since his almighty creator had been imprisoned, the Corinthian took full advantage of his freedom in the waking world. He ate, drank, fucked, and killed whatever and whoever he wanted. And although he made it a habit of obsessively checking on Roderick’s estate in London to ensure that Dream remained in his cage, he still found time to travel the world. He felt like a king, with all the pleasures of earth laid out before him, ripe for the picking.

He was currently in Paris, lounging on a velvet couch in a swanky salon. While he didn’t think much of the French language or the people who spoke it, the decadent wine and elegant establishments more than made up for its flaws. He swirled a glass of Bordeaux that cost more than his flight into the city under his nose, fixated on the beautiful man with the beautiful eyes. His clothing was a little old-fashioned but perfectly tailored, emphasizing broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs that the Corinthian dearly wished to wrap himself up in. The stranger threw back his head and laughed, showing off the marble expanse of his neck. The Corinthian licked his lips. He wanted to pour wine into the man’s perfect mouth until it overflowed, spilling down his neck so the Corinthian had to clean him up with his tongue. He wanted to do the same for the eyes, filling the empty sockets with Chardonnay until the white wine turned red with blood, and then lap it up.

(Continue reading on AO3)

[flowerandblood]

The Gate of Salvation [2/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: fingering, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After her meeting with the Pope, she had been writhing around all night, terrified and humiliated, unable to sleep. She couldn't forgive herself for her stupidity, for not seeing in time that it was obvious her uncle was trying to slip her over to the head of the Catholic Church like a snack he might be tempted to focus on.

The worst part was that he had hired her and she didn't know how she could take it back, defy the Pope himself, communicate that she was rejecting his proposal.

She got up before dawn, recognising that she would not get any rest anyway, and decided to take a warm shower. She thought while standing under the stream of hot water that she would try to distance herself, be professional and not give satisfaction to either her uncle or the Pope himself.

She hoped that when he finally decided to give any sort of interview the commotion around him would quiet down and she could quickly offer her resignation.

She sighed heavily, running her hand over her wet face, wondering how she was supposed to reconcile this madness with her classes at the University.

A car with the same driver as the day before arrived outside her townhouse again and took her straight to the Vatican; driving through its streets, she noticed that many people had pitched tents in and around St Peter's Square, waiting for any new information about their Pope.

She sighed quietly, resignedly thinking about how unnecessary his stubbornness actually was.

This time it was not her uncle waiting for her in the square, but a middle-aged priest who could have been her father, dressed in a plain black cassock. He smiled at her in a way that seemed genuine to her and she reciprocated the gesture when he indicated with a movement of his hand that she should move to follow him.

"The Pope is just having breakfast in the garden and he will receive you there." He said as they walked along the marble corridors filled with works of art; she looked at him surprised and sighed quietly, glancing out of the window, finding that it was indeed pleasant warm weather, the sky was cloudless.

They walked out one of the back exits to the cloisters into a small garden consisting of a maze formed of walls of shrubbery, which, however, easily led them to its centre, on which stood a large arbour styled in antique manner, with a dome and Corinthian-style columns.

She grinned with some kind of disbelief when she spotted his figure seated at an ornate small white table, his cassock also white, he held in his hands a newspaper he had just been looking through.

She thought with amusement that he was reading about himself.

Only when they got closer did she notice that other gazettes from different countries lay folded on the table top; the front pages of each asking who the new pope was, why he wasn't showing himself, why he was silent.

"Your Holiness." Said the priest standing next to her and nodded; the young pope, however, did not even bestow a single glance on them.

She pressed her lips together as she saw his thumb go to his mouth, he licked it and then used it to flip the page of the newspaper.

The priest who had brought her left them alone, as if he had already become accustomed to the lack of reaction and any culture on his part. She stared at him in silence for a moment, standing in front of him in the same dress as the day before, not having time to buy anything else.

"Holy Father." She said softly, wanting to get it over with, standing a few steps beside him.

He did not look at her, instead lifting his hand and extending it towards her, a signet ring of pure gold on his heart finger.

She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, then swallowed hard and walked towards him, grasping his warm hand in hers.

She leaned in, placing a quick, brief kiss on his ring and let him go immediately; he took his hand without even giving her a glance and went back to reading the newspaper.

She pressed her lips together feeling his intense, pleasant-smelling male perfume again.

"What do you think of what they write about me?" He asked, carelessly tossing the newspaper he had just read onto a pile of others, the discouragement on his face bordering on disgust, as if what he had read made him sick. "They are already reaching my family. Day and night they chat outside my mother's house."

She felt a tightness in her throat at his words and some kind of sympathy, because although he must have known what his decision entailed and what the consequences would be, some journalists crossed all possible boundaries, recognising no sanctity.

She shifted from foot to foot, looking at the French croissants that lay on one of the porcelain plates and a jar of strawberry jam, and reminded herself that she hadn't eaten breakfast. She grunted quietly, looking away, staring at the field flowers that grew around them – she spotted a gardener in the distance who was cutting the shrubs with his big steel shears.

"They won't stop until you give them something, Holy Father." She replied truthfully, hearing him snort under his breath.

"They will always want more." He replied dryly and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye – he was staring at her sitting with his legs crossed.

She shuddered and looked at him in disbelief as he pushed the other chair in front of her with his foot clad in white elegant shoes, moving it away.

"Sit down, child. You are pale. Did you eat breakfast today?" He asked disapprovingly, like a parent expressing their discontent. She shook her head and he sighed heavily, indicating with his hand gesture to the seat next to him.

She thought that this certainly had nothing to do with behaving according to protocol, but decided that it probably didn't matter much to him. She sat down next to him, smelling the intense scent of his perfume again, adjusting her dress, remembering not to sit with her legs crossed.

"Eat." He said dispassionately; she wasn't going to argue, figuring that since she was being forced to be at his every beck and call now, she could get something in return.

Therefore, she reached for the croissant and jam, which immediately drew the attention of her stomach – she casted him a wordless surprised glance as she heard the sound of the lighter being lit and the hiss of the cigarette he held in his mouth.

He took a deep drag and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully, letting the smoke out through his nose. He smirked, as if something in her gaze amused him.

"My chancellery contacted your University. They were happy to hear that you will be doing a sort of…internship here. You don't have to worry about your exams or classes." He hummed as if he was talking about something trivial and uninteresting, an irrelevant piece of information he had to convey to her, and took another drag, the tip of his cigarette igniting red.

"− what − but −" She started, but decided it made no sense; whoever he was, this man had clearly already planned everything for himself and had no intention of changing anything, much less asking her opinion.

"I thought you'd be pleased. Your uncle arranges for you accommodation and studies, the Pope makes sure you pass your exams without your personal involvement. Isn't that beautiful?" He asked with a sneer, and she felt a tightening in her throat, a cold sweat on her back; she stared wide-eyed at the half-cut croissant on which she had just spread jam, but lost the urge to eat.

He knew everything about her and thought she and her uncle were the same.

She pressed her lips together and leaned back against the backrest, placing her hands on the armrests even though she shouldn't be doing so and crossed her legs. She saw his gaze drop involuntarily to her bare knees, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

"My uncle wants you to take me to your bed, Holy Father." She said quietly, recognising that she didn't have the strength for this, for their games, their hookups, the secrets they obviously adored, of which the entire Vatican was made.

She blinked when he chuckled, his pointing finger hitting his cigarette so that the ash from it fell to the stone floor beneath him.

"Tell me something I don't know. Eat. We have a lot of work ahead of us." He muttered, taking one last drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose, extinguishing the remnants of it on his plate.

She stared at him with her heart pounding fast, thinking in disbelief that he really was a few steps ahead of everyone else.

He was perfectly informed, and although his words and actions seemed chaotic, there was purpose in them.

"What do you want, Holy Father?" She asked lightly, taking a piece of croissant into her mouth. He threw her an amused look and raised an eyebrow.

She had the impression that he took satisfaction in teasing her, his gaze fixed on her lips, which she involuntarily licked.

"Many things. Above all, holy peace and quiet, but I am not afforded it. Get up, let's take a walk." He said matter-of-factly and rose abruptly, putting his hands behind him, moving ahead without looking at her towards the corridors made of tall, evenly trimmed bushes.

She quickly swallowed the piece she just had in her mouth and stood up, following him, levelling her step with his, sunshine and birdsong all around them.

"We're being watched. It's harder for them to eavesdrop on me as I walk." He said coolly; she turned behind her and saw the gardener she noticed before, who was apparently just pretending to water the flowers around the arbour.

She looked at him in horror, realising that he must have been spied on all the time.

That they all wanted to know what he was going to do, surely he must have kept them in an iron grip since no picture of him had leaked to the press yet.

"What's going to make the atmosphere calm down and the journalists back off?" He asked discouraged, and she sighed quietly, looking up at the cloudless sky.

"Your private invitation."

She was surprised that her idea that he would hold a press conference where he would be invisible and only his voice could be heard appealed to him. He felt that, in fact, his faithful should hear his words and what he has to share with them, and this did not require his image to be revealed at all.

He decided to receive the TV and newspaper envoys in the Sistine Chapel, recognising that this was some kind of milestone moment that required a special place, a black veil was placed in front of his papal throne.

Although on the one hand it looked comical, on the other it added a sort of solemnity and impression of holiness, something tangible and yet inaccessible.

The cardinals and his office workers had prepared a script for him, which he tore in front of her eyes before the speech itself, handing her the shreds that remained of the pages, staring blankly at the black fabric in front of him. She took it from him, not knowing what else she could do; he demanded she be by his side in case someone asked an uncomfortable question.

Her heart was pounding like mad, she could feel the cold sweat on her back and wondered if he felt a similar anxiety.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and although his face was stony, he seemed even paler to her than usual, his large hands on which she could clearly see the outline of his veins clenched on his armrests – he sat comfortably on his throne with his legs crossed.

"Holy Father, why don't you want to show your face to your faithful? Is this some new kind of Vatican policy, a way of getting the whole world's attention?" They heard the question echoed by the first journalist on the other side of the curtain; she saw him press his lips together and swallow loudly before his cold, matter-of-fact, dispassionate voice began to spread around them.

"My face is not useful to my faithful for anything. They need my action. My causality. They need my intervention in matters of urgency, in the problems of paedophilia in the church, in the embezzlement and misuse of church assets, in the restoration of law and order, in the opening up of the church to young people who feel forgotten and unwanted. My face, my history, my personal views will distract them from all these things."

He said without stammering. She looked at him in disbelief, realising that he couldn't have prepared this answer beforehand.

He was saying straight from his heart what he was thinking and there was something touching about it.

Somehow she understood what he meant.

"What about the pilgrimages, what about the Sunday masses celebrated by the Pope?" Asked another journalist. She heard him sigh heavily, noticed that his hand trembled as he raised it to his face, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose.

"The Pope is not alone, he has his cardinals who can assist him in his missions around the world. As for the masses, I will attend them as a guest, but I will not be visible. The Pope is not unique. The Pope is chosen as first among equals. As Pope, I still remain a cardinal, one of the apostles. I am not Christ. I am not God."

She looked at him in pain, breathing unevenly through slightly parted lips, remembering what she had told him a few days earlier.

They need a guide, not another invisible God.

She couldn't believe that after what she had heard she had begun to feel sympathy for him – his answers seemed thoughtful and sensible, and she wondered if she had just seen his true nature, or if he was as perfect a manipulator as any of the cardinals.

She wondered how he had convinced them.

How he became Pope.

When it was all over he left without a word; the journalists were led away, and she prayed that it would help, that public opinion would calm down a little.

She watched all the news editions that evening with bated breath – the whole world quoted his statements and his decision, to her relief, most of the experts spoke warmly of him. The newspaper headlines also left her under no illusions.

The Pope has spoken. He doesn't want to show his face, only his actions.

The Pope who chooses the fight against paedophilia over the glamour of glory.

The Pope without a face − a new beginning.

The end of splendour − the Pope retreats to work like any of us.

The end of the church as we know it. The Pope at last again the voice of the weakest.

The next day she arrived in the Vatican with a stack of newspapers, eager to show him the result of their work, hoping it would satisfy him and allow her to return to normality.

"The Pope is exercising, but he said he would receive you." Said the priest, who was called Father Lenz, and who was apparently his private secretary, always waiting for her to lead her wherever he just happened to be.

"He's exercising?" She asked with amusement, and he just raised his eyebrows, himself clearly not knowing what he thought about it.

He opened the door for her and she stepped into a large room, with a beautiful baroque vaulted ceiling and hundreds of paintings on one side, rows of tall windows on the other, illuminating an exercise machine consisting of a small bench with a mattress on which he placed his back as he pulled on the railing at the end of which the weights hung, his legs braced on either side of the machine for balance.

He was dressed in white tracksuits.

She stared at the sight in disbelief, waiting for him to notice her; it only happened after a while when he took a break and sat down, reaching for a bottle of water standing on the old wooden floor. She lifted up a bundle of newspapers and he nodded, running his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his breathing after his exertion.

She walked over to him and handed him the magazines she held in her hand; she felt a pleasant throbbing between her thighs feeling the smell of his sweat mixed with the scent of his perfume, his lips slightly swollen and pink from the blood that pulsed faster through his body.

He flipped through the front pages of the papers one by one and sighed quietly; she thought with surprise that there was a sort of expression of relief painted on his face, as if what was happening frightened him somewhere deep inside and filled him with anxiety.

He put them down at last, looking ahead, grabbing the white towel that hung over the railing at the other end of the machine.

"I prayed to God after I was elected. I prayed that he would show me the way, and although he usually answered me in some way, that evening he was silent. It was a silence full of rejection, as if the heavens did not agree with the decision of the conclave. How was I to go out to the crowds in such a situation, to convince them that Our Father in the heavens was sending me to them?"

He asked, rising with a quiet creak from the metal bench, surprising her completely with his words; because of his clothes and the way he spoke she had cognitive dissonance and had to remind herself that he was the Pope and not just a young man close to her age.

His confession touched her in some way – she was able to imagine his despair on the evening he was elected as people chanted his name, but it was the voice of God that he wanted to hear.

He stood a few steps away from her, drinking the contents of his small water bottle to the end, and stared ahead, as if he had returned with his mind to that time, as if he needed to get it out of himself.

"That's why I asked my faithful to pray from me. And what did they do? They despaired. They despaired that they could not see my face, that they could not touch me, tear me apart, dissect my private life and my past. I have never felt so lonely." He said with a regret from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say, reminding herself with shame that she had thought the same thing about him as all those people.

"Perhaps it was also the will of the heavens. In the end, when the time comes everyone will face God alone. Maybe it was his words: don't follow the crowd, don't conform, that's not why I sent you." She said softly, but immediately regretted her words, recognising that she had no right to interpret anyone's spiritual experiences, much less those of the Head of the Church.

She heard him snort with amusement; he pulled a lighter and cigarettes from his pocket and for a moment she thought he would want to smoke in this beautiful baroque chamber, however, he moved ahead towards a small door other than the one she had entered through.

"Come." He hummed, so she moved after him, knowing that it was pointless to resist.

For the rest, the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.

They passed through a narrow corridor and began to climb up a stone staircase that spiraled around a large pillar – it seemed to her that they were in some older part of this great complex. They reached a small wooden door, and when he opened it they emerged onto the roof of one of the buildings located to the right of St Peter's Square.

The view in front of her struck her –the sun was rising over the Vatican, lazily leaning out from above the church standing in the centre of the square like a nimbus, the air around them pleasantly cool and crisp.

She watched as he moved ahead and walked closer to the stone wall, firing up his lighter and leaning forward with a cigarette in his mouth – there was something so obscene about the sight that she smiled involuntarily.

He looked at her over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, taking a drag, then slid his cigarette out of his mouth with a motion of his hand and let the smoke out silently through his nose, shaking the ash to the ground with a flick of his finger.

"It has been reported to me that journalists are slowly making their way into my past. Don't worry, I don't think it's your fault. I knew it would happen, but I thought I had more time." He murmured lowly seeing her surprised, horrified face, suddenly as if tired and discouraged, taking another drag with a quiet hiss of fire.

She thought looking at his silhouette illuminated by the first rays of the sun, that he looked like a saint.

"I want you to hear it from me. Will you listen to what I have to say?" He asked calmly and she nodded, feeling her heart pounding fast, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, terrified of what he wanted to tell her.

"My mother I told you about is a nun. She adopted me a few years after I was placed in a convent orphanage." He said calmly, looking away, staring at the crowds of people walking around St Peter's Square.

"They took me from the woman who gave birth to me because she liked to inject various stimulants into her veins. She was asleep when one of her men decided he didn't like the way I looked at him, that I was complaining about being hungry. He decided that he would gouge my eyes out, but he only succeeded with one, my screaming would wake even the dead."

He muttered, not looking at her but somewhere in the distance, letting out a puff of smoke with a deep breath; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain feeling the squeeze in her throat, her cheeks red with emotion.

She wanted to say something but was afraid to interrupt him, she knew that what he was telling her was of the utmost importance and she wondered if anyone else knew about all this, if he had confided in anyone.

"Sister Alicent after I was brought in wouldn't let me call her my mother. So I called every woman I saw that, cooks, cleaners, teachers. She adopted me in the end, unable to look at it anymore. She got a dispensation from the Pope." He said lowly, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his completely white Adidas.

"Some trashy, cheap magazines are already writing about the fact that I am the son of a nun and the Pope, others with mockery recognise that I am certainly her immaculate conception. That they mock me doesn't bother me, but it fills me with sadness that journalists stand outside her house all day. She can't even go out shopping or gardening. I guess you think the only way out of this situation would be an interview where I would tell my story?"

He asked disapprovingly, looking at her finally; she was shocked and horrified that he was asking her opinion on such an important matter. She shook her head helplessly, shrugging her shoulders.

"You cannot allow them to make your mother a hostage, Holy Father. You must show strength. Call press conferences where you talk about what decisions you make, but don't answer questions about your family. In the Vatican, you are Pius XIII, not Aemond Targaryen. When they see that they cannot blackmail you, they will let go. In my opinion, you both have to bear it." She said what she thought, thinking in the back of her mind that journalists would always want more and the matter would only get worse.

He looked at her silently as if analysing her words and sighed finally, kicking a stone that lay under his feet with his shoe.

"Have you ever kissed?" He asked lightly and she looked at him with shock written all over her face, feeling her heart pounding like crazy, her cheeks burning with heat.

She couldn't believe such a question had come out of his mouth.

"You don't have to answer. I'm just curious. I've never kissed anyone." He replied after a moment, seeing her embarrassed reaction, as if he wanted to clarify and elaborate that his interest was purely scientific and theoretical.

She swallowed loudly, pressing her lips together, thinking that he had told her about himself, about the most private aspects of his life, and decided that nothing bad would happen if she answered him.

"Once, in high school." She muttered, stroking her arm in a gesture of uncertainty and embarrassment, looking away. She heard him hum under his breath, intrigued.

"Did it feel good?" He asked softly, standing a few steps away from her with his hands tucked into his snow-white tracksuit bottoms, cocking his head.

She looked up at him in disbelief, breathing erratically, clasping her hands tighter, involuntarily her gaze escaped to his full, glistening lips.

"It was a very moist, soft and warm sensation." She muttered feeling a tightness in her throat, her gaze fleeing from his eyes to his lips, unable to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to feel how they tasted.

"Hm." He murmured, looking away thoughtfully.

They stood like that for a moment in silence – she could feel the wordless tension around them, as if electricity flowed through the air with their every word and movement.

"Did you confess this deed?"

She blinked and felt her heart stop. She shook her head, looking at him with slightly parted lips.

"Pardon?" She asked in disbelief, feeling discomfort in her lower abdomen and a cold sweat on her back, not believing that he was suggesting such a thing.

"Failure to maintain chastity before marriage is a sin." He replied indifferently; she pressed her lips together, feeling tears of shame and humiliation under her eyelids, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"So I am a sinner, Holy Father." She said coldly, and turned away, leaving without any pleasantries or even a simple goodbye.

She burst out sobbing as she ran down the narrow stairs.

It was only a kiss.

She just wanted to see what it was like.

In fact, she felt bad afterwards, but not because she thought it was a sin, but because she was not in love with this boy.

She asked Father Lenz for any of the drivers to take her home; seeing her face red from tears he asked what had happened, but she did not answer him.

She opened up to him, spoke about an intimate part of her life, and he could only judge her, make her another Eve, a fallen woman.

It was only a kiss.

She returned to her flat filled with regret and disappointment – she angrily pulled off her long dress she had bought and chosen specially to be able to present herself as expected, to keep herself humble, but for what?

She decided that she would never appear there again.

There was no kind of real contract between the two of them, she had only signed documents regarding her collaboration with the Pope's secretaries and a confidentiality clause.

She changed into her pyjamas, undid her hair, took the box of leftover cakes from the cupboard and lay in bed, browsing social media platforms on her phone, trying not to think about what had happened.

She tilted her head back and groaned in frustration when she saw that her uncle had started to call her. She muted her phone and flipped the screen down, sighing.

She lay back on her bedding, staring blankly at the window, and thought with pain that the man who should be giving her the strength to be a better person had made her doubt herself, made her feel sinful and dirty.

She started to think that maybe she should go to confession after all, that maybe he was right, that she was only making excuses for herself without wanting to admit that she was wrong, but she felt even worse at that thought and just burst out crying.

Exhausted by sobbing and remorse, she finally fell asleep, seeing only through her closed eyelids that the phone display lying next to her glowed again and again.

She shuddered, rising quickly to sit up in complete darkness when she heard someone's loud knock on her door; she looked around with a pounding heart, not knowing where she was, whether it was evening or morning.

She glanced at her phone and saw that she had slept for several long hours and the sun had set, on her screen 20 missed calls from her uncle and a plethora of text messages that she didn't have the energy to read.

She sighed heavily and got up, walking reluctantly to the door, knowing her uncle would now make a litany for her; she turned on the night light on the way so she wouldn't trip over anything and she turned the lock, opening it.

"Oh God."

She muttered, seeing the figure of the young Pope in front of her, still in the same white tracksuit and sneakers.

He had his hood up over his head.

He pulled the white earphones out of his ears with a soft flick of his hand – she could hear the heavy metal music playing from them.

"Will you let me in?" He asked indifferently; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking he was risking a lot by going outside just to see her.

She sighed quietly and stepped back, allowing him to go inside. She leaned out wanting to check if anyone had seen him and closed the door quickly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw that he had turned off the music on his player and put it back in his pocket.

They stood for a moment in silence, his gaze focused on her naked thighs; she swallowed loudly with shame at the thought that she was standing before the Head of the Catholic Church in nothing but pyjamas consisting of cream shorts and a shirt buttoned up the front, under which she didn't even have a bra.

She turned her head, running her trembling hand over her face, her heart pounding like mad.

"I made a mistake." She heard his voice full of regret. "I wanted your uncle to pass it on to you, but you didn't answer."

"I didn't and don't feel like talking to anyone, Holy Father." She muttered, feeling a tightening in her chest, fiddling restlessly with the cross hanging on her neck.

She heard him swallow loudly and look to the side, pulling the hood off his head.

"I made you doubt in yourself. In your purity and your value in the eyes of God." He said lowly, and she felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. She closed her eyelids and tilted her head back, trying to control herself, not letting them flow out.

She did not reply.

"My words arise from my depravity, which I fight unsuccessfully. From my vanity and jealousy. I would rather have you locked up in a convent. You could then be by my side and no one would ever touch you again. You could be mine." He said softly, thoughtfully, looking at some point on the floor, as if he had drifted off completely in his musings – she felt her lips part in disbelief, her brow arching in pain.

I would rather have you locked up in a convent.

You could be mine.

What was she to reply to such a shocking confession?

She shuddered when he finally turned his attention to her, the gaze of his healthy eye sharp and piercing, while his artificial one was empty, white, lifeless.

"Though never before have my members reacted to the sight and thought of a woman, when I see you, I long to touch you, to taste you, to smell you. I have become addicted to your scent and try to recall it after evening prayer before I fall asleep." He spoke calmly, as if it was not an emotionally driven statement but something thought out, something that had been going on in his head for a very long time.

She felt with fear how her body reacted to his words with a greedy throbbing between her thighs and a moisture from which the material of her underwear was getting wet, her nipples hardened, more clearly visible from under her shirt.

She froze when she saw his gaze flee to her breasts, seeing exactly what she feared, his full lips parted slightly; she could hear his breathing clearly, fingers of his hands rubbing against each other in an anxious, nervous gesture.

"What do you feel now?" He whispered and she drew in the air loudly, feeling a tightness in her throat. She licked her lips dry from stress, taking a step backwards, hitting her back against the wall, feeling that she had nowhere to run. She helplessly clenched her thighs together, wanting to stop what was happening, seeing that his pupil widened at the sight.

"I'm wet." She confessed in shame, recognising that there was no point in pretending that there was something innocent in what was happening – her body was twitching with desire, begging for his touch and relief, her heart pounding like mad.

She heard him draw in a loud breath at her words while looking straight into her eyes, she saw fire in them, heavenly or hellish.

"Does it feel good?" He asked softly, gazing shamelessly at the spot between her thighs – she felt a wonderful heat in her lower abdomen and a tickling inside her, her walls were clenching around nothing at his question.

She thought helplessly that she had never felt anything like this before in her life.

"Yes." She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her whole body quiver and pulsate, feeling desire in her fingertips, in her lips and down there, deep, deep inside her.

She shuddered as he approached her with a slow step and lifted her terrified gaze to him. His lips were parted in an anxious, hitched breath, in his eyes heat and darkness from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and between her thighs.

He stood over her, for a moment just looking at her – his trembling hands finally raised, reaching for the buttons of her shirt. They looked at each other with some kind of pain and suffering from which she felt a sting in her heart as a coldness enveloped her naked skin.

It seemed to her that it lasted an eternity – he took his time, his gaze fixed on the line of her bare body as he unbuttoned her shirt fully; he didn't expose her breasts, he just looked at her.

She gasped when he lifted his hand and ran his fingertips slowly over her sternum down to her stomach – she closed her eyes and sighed quietly, feeling her lips pulsate with desire, swollen and thirsty.

"− so soft − so warm −" He whispered; her quivering palm rose and touched his fingers, his hand larger and more massive than hers, she could feel the outline of his veins clearly under her skin.

She pressed his hand to her heart, heard him draw in the air hard as he felt it beat beneath his fingertips.

He looked at her, remaining still, as if frozen, knowing that one word from him, one expression of hesitation and they would be left with only shame, only regret, only disappointment.

She felt the tears under her eyelids, which involuntarily one by one ran down her face; he noticed it and shook his head, his breathing shaky, uneven, despairing.

"− you're so pure −" He whispered, nuzzling the tip of his nose into her cheek as if seeking refuge. She clenched her eyelids in shock at how intimate and desired this closeness was, his scent filled her entire lungs, his warm breath enveloped her cheek.

"− looking at you I feel terror because I regret − I regret that I will never feel you − that I will never give you what I want −" He muttered in a trembling voice; she felt his warm tears running down her skin.

They both gasped when his shaking hand tentatively began to slide lower and sobbed in pleasure as his fingers slipped hesitantly under the material of her shorts, deep between her thighs.

They were panting and quivering with desire, her trembling hands clenched on his arms as his fingertips pushed the material of her underwear aside with a shy gesture full of shame, she heard his low, helpless groan as he felt how wet she was.

"− God, help me −" He mumbled in a broken voice full of guilt – she tried but was unable to stop the moans of pleasure that left her mouth with each tentative movement of his fingers that brushed her swollen, throbbing womanhood, her body was so tense she felt she was on the edge.

"− please −" She whimpered pleadingly, placing her hand on his with a gesture full of desperation, wanting to feel him harder, deeper.

She tilted her head back as she finally felt him the way she wanted to, his fingertips digging into her fleshy, hot, moist folds with intense, circular strokes – she could feel his hot, ragged breath on her skin, his face pressed against her cheek, her hands clenched in a helpless gesture on the material of his sweatshirt.

Tears of despair and delight streamed down their faces, tired of pretending and fleeing, shivers ran down her spine every time the tips of his fingers teased again that tender bud from which her sobriety of mind was taken away; it seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, something hard and throbbing under his trousers rubbing against her thigh with desperate strokes.

"− forgive me − say you forgive me −" He mumbled pleadingly in a breaking voice.

She felt him trembling all over just like her, unable to stop now, knowing there was no way back, her face wet with her and his tears.

She reached her palm into his hair and combed through it with her fingers, letting out her breath with a loud sob, moving involuntarily to the rhythm of his hand as it pressed harder and harder against her fleshy skin with the lewd click of her moisture.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for forgiveness −" She gasped as she felt something approaching, moaning louder and louder.

She thought that despite the fact that he was touching her in this forbidden, sinful place, some incomprehensible kind of intimacy and innocence was added to what was happening by the fact that he hadn't exposed her naked body, that he hadn't wanted to possess her, only to experience something with her and in her presence.

"− good God, you're leaking − so sticky − I'll lick it off my fingers −" He whispered with a kind of awe, as if he were talking about something sacred and mysterious.

She felt that his words had done something to her – she cried out loudly, parting her lips in disbelief when suddenly a wave of warm pleasure surged through her body like a lightning bolt.

She felt wonderful tickling in her lips, in the tips of her fingers, in her breasts, in her chest, her inside's clenching greedily around nothing, her moisture trickled down onto his hand, she heard his low, surprised groan.

Her body suddenly became numb; she would have fallen if he hadn't put his arm around her in time, his hand ran over her cheek heated from the exertion.

"− you look like Bernini's Saint Teresa − so beautiful −" He mumbled in a trembling voice, panting hard along with her, looking at her dreamily. She sighed sweetly, laying her head on his chest, letting him embrace her tightly.

She could feel his manhood throbbing under the damp material of his sweatpants.

He came.

She stayed in his embrace not daring to look at him, not daring to think about what they had done, wanting to push back the moment when they would feel remorse, pain and regret, sinking only into this wonderful relief.

You look like Bernini's Saint Teresa.

A sculpture in which a holy woman curves in ecstasy after an angel pierces her with an arrow of Divine Love.

God's Delight.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses

[jayflrt]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝟕𝟖𝟔 26. the athenaeum

JAY HAD GONE THROUGH NUMEROUS INTERVIEWS IN HIS LIFE; THIS WASN'T ANYTHING HE HADN'T EXPERIENCED BEFORE.

The Athenaeum, which was the building designated for the Order members, looked grand on the outside, but it was even more magnificent on the inside. The living space was adorned with decorative sculptures and Corinthian pillars, and a spiraling staircase led to several upper levels. Jay swallowed hard when he realized that he would be living here if he was selected. That would surely make it harder to hide that he was only here for his assignment.

He walked in at 8:06 p.m. on the dot, hoping he had made the right decision, and a little anxious knot unraveled in his chest when Kim Jennie approached him with a pleased smile.

"Right this way to your interview, Jay," she said in a sweet voice, although her smile dropped as she tried to maintain a stoic expression.

In retrospect, the interview itself didn't sound too intimidating. A thirty minute interview with several people asking questions would go by quickly. But a room's worth of eyes were on him, and he felt his throat closing up. Surely, there were scarier things in the world than fifteen pretentious college students sizing him up, but Jay couldn't seem to think of anything but how stuffy the large room seemed to feel.

They were all sitting high above him, circling around the one chair in the middle of the room like a committee of vultures. They were all wearing dark cloaks with a golden wreath adorning the tops of their heads. It looked a little silly, but he tried not to stare too long at the headpieces.

Park Sungjin, Sunghoon's older brother, was seated right in the middle, eyes flitting between Jay and the sheet of paper in front of him. Jay looked around the room for a brief second, making eye contact with Jeonghan, who nearly cracked a smile before returning to looking impassive.

"Welcome to your interview, Jay," Sungjin began with an overwhelming air of authority, motioning for him to sit down. Jay cautiously took a seat, but he immediately felt swamped by everyone's gaze. "We've spent the past semester getting to know you and your accomplishments. All of us are quite familiar with your merit, but this interview is for us to get to know you on a deeper level to see if you have what it takes to be part of our next delegation."

Before Jay could even open his mouth to respond, Sungjin turned to the member to his right, asking, "Baekhyun, would you like to start us off?"

Byun Baekhyun nodded before leaning forward on his forearms. "Jay, if you could be president, during which historical event would it be?"

Jay almost gawked at him. Almost.

He treated the question as if it was any other professional interview question, though. If the Order was taking it seriously, then he had to, as well.

"Probably during the Great Depression," he answered after a few moments of pondering. "I would've done the opposite of whatever Hoover did with his laissez-faire approach, meaning more government intervention, more relief efforts, and less tariffs. Without the Great Depression, Germany probably wouldn't become fascist, so they would have no reason to form a huge army and start the second world war."

"Nice answer," Sungjin praised, which left a surge of relief flooding Jay's chest. "Jisoo?"

The pretty senior smiled coyly, scooting up in her seat to ask, "If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?"

Jay seriously thought this was all some sort of sick joke. What kind of question was that? Had he been taking all of this way too seriously?

"Maybe one of those Moon Trees," he said. "I think it's pretty cool that the seeds were still viable after going to the moon and back."

Kim Taehyung was next to ask a question, clearing his throat loudly to cover up Jeonghan whispering to Xu Minghao about where they could find a Moon Tree seed.

"Jay," Taehyung started, "if you could slap any person—living or dead—who would you slap?"

Jay leaned back in his chair, taken aback by the question. Was there a correct way to go about such a question? Could he really just list any person? He could perhaps say Hitler or Stalin, but that was stupid; anyone would slap those two if they were given the choice.

He could go for a more entertaining route, but Jay's mind was currently blanking and he could only think of one person that would have been completely inappropriate to blurt out. He knew you told him to be honest, but honesty would probably do him more harm than good.

However, the seconds were ticking by, and Jay was suddenly overly-conscious of everyone's blank stares. His heart started to beat faster when he realized that everyone was waiting for him to respond.

"Park Sunghoon."

Jay didn't even realize the words actually came out of his mouth until he noticed that the room was dead silent. As if he wasn't nervous already, his blunder made his heart beat against his rib cage like a drum while his palms grew clammy.

It was over.

There was no recovering from such a royal fuck-up. Jay had to find another way to go about this mission. He would have to tell his client that he failed. Maybe he would finally be let go, but then he would have to leave—

A snicker. Then another. And another.

Soon, the entire room had burst into laughter over Jay's answer, including Park Sungjin. Although most of them still looked as if they were in disbelief, they found it absolutely hysterical.

Kim Doyeon, who was currently wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, fought down giggles as she said, "We need you to elaborate."

"Looks like your brother pissed someone off again," Oh Sehun joked, nudging Sungjin from behind.

Sungjin returned a half-grin before folding his arms across his chest and looking down at Jay. "I'd like to hear why, too."

"Uh..." Jay was floundering for an excuse, buying himself time by rubbing his nose. He surely couldn't mention anything that had gone down between Sunghoon and you, so he thought back to a previous memory with the junior. "He puked on my new shoes last semester and never acknowledged it after that. I had to clean them by hand, and he puked on them again."

More laughter chorused from the fifteen of them, and Jay felt a little relieved that he managed to come up with a believable excuse to throw them off. As dumb as their questions were, he almost got himself into trouble there.

Once Sungjin managed to calm down the rest of the members, he shot Jay an apologetic look. "Sorry about them. This is supposed to be a professional interview." He shot pointed looks around the room, but even he wasn't taking his own words seriously. "None of us have ever laughed this hard over an interview question. How about we move onto Minghao?"

Minghao, who Jay couldn't tell was smiling because of his answer about wanting to punch Sunghoon or because Jeonghan had finally shut up about the Moon Trees, straightened his back and squared his shoulders. "Jay, how would you describe the color yellow to someone who's blind? You can take your time to think about this one before you answer."

Jay frowned as he thought long and hard about Minghao's question. It wasn't that it was anything challenging to answer, but he was never really a big fan of the color yellow in the first place.

Sunshine. Dandelions. Canaries. Sunflowers.

Sunshine—but he wasn't really keen on bright, blinding sunlight. Jay more so enjoyed the yellow hues of a sunset or a sunrise. He supposed people associated the color yellow with happiness, but he couldn't really see it.

And then he thought harder about those bright yellows, wondering what it was about the vibrance that made people feel so much joy. He furrowed his brows, and then it came to him all at once.

It wasn't the sunshine itself. Sure, maybe it was a contributing factor, but he remembered that hike he went on while he was back in Washington for winter break. You were standing on a large tree root with your hands on your hips, squinting up at the brilliant sun before nearly tripping over your feet and then laughing hysterically. Something warm and joyful exploding in his chest back then, making him wish he could freeze time.

Maybe that was yellow.

"When you're sad, you say you feel blue," he responded, "so I'd tell a blind person that yellow is their happiest memory. It's like that feeling you get when you look up at the sun and feel its heat on your face, or seeing someone you care for smile really big."

(He swore he could hear Bae Joohyun cooing at his answer from the left end of the room.)

"I think we'll have to wrap this up soon because the next interview is gonna be soon," Sungjin said. "Jennie, would you like to take this one?"

"I can," she said with a nod. "Jay, can you tell me your interpretation of how the name 'Order of Kryptos' came to be?"

Rather than his mouth going dry this time, Jay was more than ready to answer this question—a real question, unlike the previous icebreakers he had been getting. He had done his research far before he even started going to networking events for the Order.

"If I remember correctly, Kryptos is in reference to the sculpture by Jim Sanborn—the one outside the CIA headquarters. It contains four messages, the first three being solved and the fourth remaining one of the most famous unsolved codes in the world," Jay explained. "The name 'Kryptos' itself is the ancient Greek word for 'hidden,' so I believe your society's goals revolve around seeking intelligence and discovering the unknown."

"And what do you think the number 786 signifies?"

"The passcode to the building?"

"Correct."

"Seven-eight-six..." he mumbled, trying to rack his brain for an answer. "The sculpture contains a total of 1,800 characters and only 768 of them are decoded. That's the only connection I can make in my head that relates to 786. Other than that, I don't really know."

Jennie smiled. "Thank you, Jay."

He swallowed thickly. Did he mess up? No, he couldn't have. Jay had been on thin ice when he said he'd punch Sunghoon, but everything else, for the most part, had gone smoothly. There was no possible way he had any idea of knowing what the passcode was for.

"That concludes your interview, Jay," Sungjin said. "We are still deciding on when we're starting Tap Week, so we'll reach out with more information once we've solidified plans. Thank you for meeting with us today."

"Thank you," Jay echoed through the dry mouth and slack tongue.

He went around giving everyone firm handshakes before walking out of the Athenaeum. Although he didn't feel like his interview went terrible, Jay had a sinking feeling that his answer about Sunghoon was going to come back to bite him.

prev | masterlist | next

SUMMARY ▸ private investigator jay park just wants to complete his mission quietly and move on with his life. you, his new assignment who keeps consuming his thoughts, don't make that very easy for him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ▸ SORRY WILL ANSWER ASKS WHEN I WAKE UP! so eepy rn

TAG LIST ▸ @zdgx1 @smouches @heesdazed @teawithbucky @leep0ems @peachpie4you @niniissus @kgneptun @jaeyunluvr @hooniesuniverse @zerasari @enhalov @sophiko22 @iselltulips @hoondiors @baekhyunstruly @jays-property @woninluv @heerinnie @fakeuwus @yizhoutv @en-happiness @theothernads @y4wnjunz @dammit-jjk @en-happiness @mari-oclock @enhypens-baby @soonyoungblr @jakeslvt @taetaenic @jebetwo @fairysungx @hsgwrld @shmooooo @ineedsomezzz @mrowwww @enha-stars @isawritesss @seongclb @lockburn-castle @alyssajavenss @enczen @calumsfringe @w3bqrl @luvyev @uhsakusa @luvnicho @wildflowermooon @navsnct

[marksbear]

MULTI FANDOM MALE READER SCENARIOS 

It’s been a while since I done one of these, but I think it’ll be good for me to practice more at writing different characters and such so enjoy!

The fact is I had more tags to share 😭

-Miguel O’Hara biting your neck harshly to get your attention when he feeling jealous. Or marking you as his.

-Izzy Hands always lightly taking your hand and helping you either up the steps or down the steps. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it most time. Everyone in the ship always notices it but doesn’t say anything.

^^Ofmd

-Bob taking off his glasses and putting them on you then starts to compliment you how good and cute you look.

^^Top gun!

-Matt Murdock tracing your face in morning when he thinks your still sleep. He also traces your face anytime your two are arguing because he wants to see your emotions.

^^Marvel

-You and The Corinthian driving around during late nights with his hand on your thigh as he drives you around.

^^DC

-Tony stark buying you whatever you want or even dream of. It can be jewelry all the way to new houses and cars.

^^Marvel

-Bruce Wayne and you being a power couple throughout Gotham. Lots of magazines and headline about you two.

^^DC

-Teaching Adam Warlock about feelings about like having a crush or being in love.

^^Marvel

-You and Doom head being an unstoppable duo anytime you two are paired up in a game.

^^Rob Zombie movie 31

-You and Richard Madden making fun of each other accents in interviews for the newest movie you two are in.

^^Actor

-You and Hobie Brown making out in a middle of Miguel’s rant.

^^Marvel

-Homelander wrapping his arms around you as you two makeout and he slowly rises from the ground bringing you in the air with him.

^^The Boys

-You we’re very close with Love to the point all lot of people thought you two were dating. Joe was furious so he started to stalk you planing to murder, but all that stalking for weeks slowly became to months and he slowly started to catch feelings.

^^YOU

-Benedict Bridgeton being so in love with you, but he so scared that his family would disown him as well as everyone around town.

^^Bridgeton

-You and Benedict sneaking off during ball’s and random events to be with each other alone.

^^Bridgeton

-Imagine sitting down in the bleachers waiting for Mark to be done with his track meet.

^^Author/ Me

-Playing with Dutch Van der linde hair during a camp meeting and he tries to stay focus but he can’t.

^^RD2

-You and Larry smoking as you two listen to Sal play the guitar.

^^Sally Face

-Ted feeling ashamed after he realized that he caugt feelings for you even though your a player.

^^Ted Lasso

-When Dean first met you y’all both were very young. You were reckless and carefree while Dean was taking care of Sam and brought him along while you two hanged out. And he caught feelings, but he was confused about why he had feelings for a man so he kept it to himself.

^^SPN

-Helping Mark walk without his leg brace or crutches.

^^Author/Me

-Stu Marcher giving you neck kisses in the middle of class. And most of the time teachers sees him and gives you both detention.

^^Slashers

-Hannibal Lecter leaving bite marks all over your neck and shoulders.

^^Slashers

-Roy Kent being soft spoken and quiet anytime he’s with you.

^^Ted Lasso

-Larry Trainor slowly warmed up to you being his boyfriend so he lets you touch his skin underneath the bandages.

^^DC

-Anytime before a fight Arthur asks you to hold his hands. He says it’s for a good luck, but he’s just really stressed and tense.

^^Peaky blinders

-Steven Grant still being so shy and quiet with you even though you two has been dating for years.

^^Marvel

-Bringing Namor gifts like flowers, jewelry and even little things like a picture of yourself or a padlock necklace. He cherishes all of them and keeps them safe.

^^Marvel

-Meeting Namor on the beach at night almost every night.

^^Marvel

-Bobby and Athena inviting you into their relationship. They both didn’t cheat on each other to find about their feelings for you they just kinda knew one day and talked it out and for a while and a lot of thought they asked would you be willing to date them.

^^9-1-1

-Being a rich man while Steven is your trophy husband.

^^Marvel

-Dying your hair with mark.

^^Author/Me

-Watching Mark stay up all night writing just for him to randomly stop to watch a movie.

^^Author/Me

-Lee and Maren catching you eating a person right in the middle of a dark and empty road.

^^Bones and All

-Being a different love interest for Elio and being heartbroken once he chose Oliver over you.

^^Call me by your name

-Imagine rejecting Derek Shepheard after finding out he has a wife.

^^Greys anatomy 

-Rue hugging and crying on you tight after she relapsed.And you being her favorite person ever since what happened with Jules and Elliot.

^^Euphoria

-Being a father figure to Rue.

^^Euphoria

-Imagine being Maddy Perez brother and finding out Nate pulled a gun on her so you pulled up to his house barged in and looked for him and beat the shit out of him.

^^Euphoria

-Billy Hargrove acting like he hates the nickname “Curls.” Or “Curly.” But when you say it he loves it.

^^Stranger things

THE END

[vintagetvstars]

Avery Brooks Vs. Ricardo Montalban

Propaganda

Avery Brooks - (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Spenser: For Hire) - ben sisko absolute all time tv dilf and have you heard him SPEAK... the stage background absolutely shows and it truly makes him a standout in a legacy franchise *full* of incredibly talented people. also frankly top 3 all time sexy bald guy

Ricardo Montalban - (Fantasy Island, Star Trek) - While not a tv show, he was 62 years old when he played Khan in the Wrath of Khan movie and he had the best pecks in the business. His chest is so good no one believes its real. In an interview in 2017 the director said, "I have been asked this question 23,472 times. I stopped answering it at 71." but even he said he asked if 'that was really his chest?' the first time he saw it (Source), His run as the star of Fantasy Island was his big roll after this movie. He was also apparently a good dad to his 4 kids, and was married to his wife for 63 years until her death (Source).

- No Negative Propaganda Please -

Master Poll List | How to submit propaganda | What is vintage? (FAQ)

Additional propaganda below the cut

Avery Brooks:

Avery is a certified TV sci-fi hottie as Benjamin Sisko in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. The first black star trek Captain, he also negotiated his signature look - the bald head and goatee - against haters who thought a Captain should always be clean-shaven. Thank God for that, because he looks devastatingly hot in a a goatee (a phrase never before uttered). He went on to direct several episodes of DS9, use his pleasant voice to record music and multiple host documentaries, and mostly retire from acting to teach as a professor.

TW: Flashing Lights

with that wonderful stentorian baritone voice he could move from intimidating commander to gentle and compassionate space dad...benjamin sisko is a man of many qualities, thoughtful, morally complex, understatedly hilarious, a lil unhinged, really really excited about baseball, and avery brooks never fails to breathe life, depth and dimension into the character and also did i mention his voice. fun fact he was a professor of theater arts at rutgers while filming deep space nine and would occasionally teach classes via vhs tapes recorded on set, complete with starfleet uniform. he also directed a number of ds9 episodes including notable ones like "rejoined" and "far beyond the stars", and performed many of his own stunts as sisko. stunt coordinator dennis madalone said, "of all the stars that I've worked with on all the Star Treks, and all the other shows that I've been on other than Star Trek, I've never seen an actor so physically capable of just doing everything...every time I'd bring in a stunt double, he'd be angry, sitting on a bench, because Avery was doing so great." he's also a distinguished stage actor and an accomplished musician and singer who's performed everything from jazz to opera. science has yet to discover whether there's anything this man can't do.

Ricardo Montalban:

He was a famous spokesperson for Chrysler and the way he said "Corinthian Leather" was a meme. Here he is seducing us with his voice in a Chrysler commercial

[zinnie-zoloft]

I fucking love fake true crime episodes about fictional characters, or any type of fictional documentary

I love all the true crime style fanfic about Charles and Edwin’s deaths, I need so much more of it, but give me one’s about the other characters and events in the series

Give me a deep dive into port townsend, the most haunted town in the pacific northwest. An unusually high murder rate, disappearing girls, mysterious suicides, multiple serial killers, all in one small town

Give me all the documentaries, interviews, and reality tv segments about the Surname-Von Hoverkraft family, their controversial artworks, and their public image

Include stuff from the sandman as well, the unexplained sleeping sickness, the far more dangerous non-sleeping sickness, how they both emerged at the exact same time

The serial killer known as the Corinthian and his apparent copycat/successor, and the sudden influx of serial killers confessing to their crimes all at once

The burgess family and the rumours and mysteries surrounding them, the numerous other murders that may or may not be connected to them

The constantine family and the things people wouldn’t even realise were connected to them, the death of Rachel, the “devil and the wandering jew”, and so on