#there are obviously interactions between them and paul

[kutekitty-43]

Mafuyu: Looks like we can't Envy Cat Walk our way out of this one, boys.

Paul, starting up Project Diva Megamix: Not with that attitude.

[venus-haze]

Sinnerman (Father Paul Hill x Reader)

Summary: You can’t even see your old life from Crockett Island, but nevertheless it weighs on your conscience like an anchor on the ocean floor. Father Paul Hill tries to pull the anchor up, only to sink your whole damn ship.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Reader is a lapsed Catholic for plot reasons. I also played with the show’s timeline a little bit for this fic. Anyway, 10 years of Catholic school later and this is the result. Inspired by the Nina Simone song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and violence. Reader’s morals are all over the place. Obviously a lot of Catholic themes (especially guilt) and imagery. Sexually explicit content between a member of the clergy and a lay person. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Unlike pretty much everywhere else in the country, houses on Crockett Island garnered very little interest. There were no frustrating bidding wars or last minute phone calls made to real estate agents. The available houses barely registered on the listings you scrolled through, some having been on the market for years. When you called about a two bedroom you’d never even stepped foot in, offering to pay upfront in cash, the agent on the other end of the line almost hung up on you, assuming it was a scam. No scam. You just wanted to disappear.

To the world, you were gone, a vapor who abruptly quit her incredibly well-paying job with a generous severance package. Painting was a hobby that got increasingly pushed to the backburner as you focused more on your career until you couldn’t remember the last time you touched a paintbrush. Of course, that wasn’t why you quit your job, but it sounded a lot nicer than the reason that ate you alive. You hoped that if you disappeared, the guilt that made its home in your gut would go away too. On Crockett Island, however, you were far from invisible. 

Despite the unforgiving ocean wind that raged the day you arrived, you were met with nothing short of a welcome party. The mayor, his wife, the sheriff, and the elderly monsignor of the singular church on the island accompanied by a woman who constantly hovered. Nice enough people who greeted you with a mixture of delight and disbelief that you were moving onto the island instead of off. You shot yourself in the foot the second you mentioned you had been raised Catholic, as everyone but the sheriff extended offers to join them at mass that you awkwardly declined.

Sheriff Hassan gave you a sympathetic look when he left your new home, the last of the informal welcoming committee to do so. Get used to it, his eyes said. You almost asked him to stay for coffee if you could dig your pot out of whichever cardboard box you packed it in. You decided against it. On an island so small, coffee could turn into something else quickly enough.

It took a week or so to get into a comfortable routine. Wake up early, make coffee, take your time eating breakfast, then head out to some new part of the island with your art supplies in tow, only to be held up for fifteen to twenty minutes by someone inevitably stopping you to talk. Usually small talk, but you could tell a lot of people were just happy to have someone new to tell old stories to instead of regurgitating them to the same handful of people all the time.

Some days, when the fog made it almost impossible to see your outstretched hand in front of you, you’d find yourself drawn to St. Patrick’s, painting or sketching the church. The fog would inevitably roll away, and in the distance you’d see the monsignor, sometimes with Beverly and other times by himself. He’d always wave at you, though his face betrayed his confusion as to who you were. Poor guy. You thought the parishioners were crazy to send him over to Jerusalem.

The day after he left for his trip was another foggy one.  You made your usual trek out to the church to draw. It was a nice, informal ritual. Spiritual enough for your tastes without the risk of bursting into flames if you stepped foot in the place. With the monsignor gone, mass wasn’t being held, and the area was quieter than usual. Not completely, though.

“You know, you’re always loitering outside of the church, but I never see you in it,” Beverly said while you were sketching the weathered wood building. 

You kept your focus on the page you were working on, not sparing her a glance. “Not my thing.”

“At one point it was, though. You said it yourself on the day you moved in that you were raised in the faith.”

“Not my choice.”

Her lips pressed in a thin line, her voice strained, “Well, you’re always welcome at St. Patrick’s. I’m sure when the monsignor returns, he’d be overjoyed to see you in the pews. We all would.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“Yes, well, have fun doodling.”

Your jaw clenched. Doodling. You shot her a glare over your shoulder when she walked away. 

Luckily, you weren’t the focus of the islanders’ attention for much longer, because the Flynns’ son had returned home from prison on the mainland. A quiet guy who kept to himself despite Annie excitedly introducing you to Riley. You were polite, but didn’t pry. It seemed like he wanted to keep to himself too. Then, the following day, the parish was in a tizzy over the unexpected arrival of a new pastor, a temporary replacement for the aging monsignor. You didn’t know the old guy very long, but he wasn’t quite with it. Doubtful the replacement would be temporary. Maybe he said that to soften the blow of not being able to give their monsignor a formal goodbye.

You had mixed feelings about the new guy. The evening following his first mass on the island, Father Paul had sneaked up on you while you were trying to paint an old fishing bungalow. He startled you so bad that you jumped, arm jerking and leaving a green streak on the paper in its wake. He was nice enough, apologizing profusely for scaring you. Still, you felt the pit in your stomach that’d become somewhat more manageable recently threaten to engulf your psyche again when he said that Beverly mentioned you were a lapsed Catholic, because of course she would, and expressed disappointment at not seeing you at mass.

“You’ll be at the potluck at least?” he asked. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

You laughed. “Yeah, the Crock Pot thing. I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic, maybe we can talk more then. I’ve bothered you enough, nearly ruined your painting.”

“Happy accident. I can make a tree,” you said.

“That’s a nice way to look at it, but really, I’ll be going now.” He smiled. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

You caught his profile as he walked away, handsome in the golden hour. Setting your painting supplies aside, you grabbed your sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing. Maybe the guilt you felt was for finding a priest attractive and not the resurgence of your past sins. The word weighed heavy on your conscience. You could sleep better at night convincing yourself you’d made some mistakes. You could learn and grow from mistakes. Sins held magnitude beyond what you could manage on your own. 

The day of the potluck, you slept in, only rolling out of bed an hour before it was supposed to start. When you walked over to the gathering, you felt that pit in your stomach causing you trouble again. The islanders’ devotion left a sour taste in your mouth, and seeing the physical embodiment of it in the form of ashen crosses on their foreheads didn’t help. 

You made small talk and wandered around with your plate of food, taking a seat on one of the benches. One huge perk of living on the island was the fresh seafood and dozens of people who knew how to cook it all perfectly. Everything on your plate would’ve cost at least sixty dollars in a nice restaurant on the mainland. You got it all for your five dollar donation. 

While tearing apart a piece of bread on your plate, you could hear hushed voices arguing to your left. They were either speaking louder or getting closer to you, but either way, you recognized Beverly and Father Paul’s voices.

“Her? Father, she doesn’t attend mass. The church should not be—“

“I’ve made up my mind, Bev,” Father Paul whispered loudly before waving you over. “Y/N, I have something I’d like to run by you.”

You gave him a hesitant nod as you got up from your seat, leaving your plate to walk closer to where he and Beverly were standing.

“I’d like to commission you to paint a mural on the west-facing wall, where the sun sets. I already discussed the idea with Monsignor Pruitt, and he raved about your talents.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna end up being the next monkey Jesus lady.”

He gave you an amused smile. “I’ve seen your work. You’re more than capable of what I have in mind.”

“As long as it’s not that godless abstract nonsense,” Beverly interjected.

“Tell that to Alfred Manessier,” you said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

You scoffed. “He was one of the most celebrated modernist painters of the past century. He created some of his best works using St. John of the Cross’ Spiritual Canticles as inspiration.”

“See?” Father Paul interjected. “I can’t think of anyone better for the job. I made a mock-up, a crude sketch, really. I can show you when you have time to go over some of the details I have in mind.”

“Sounds good.”

“You haven’t given your price.”

“Why don’t we work that out afterward?” you said, not sure if you were even going to go through with this. “I am going to need supplies, though. Different paint and materials depending on the type of mural you had in mind.”

“Yes, of course, whatever you need, we’ll have Sturge bring it from the mainland.”

Not long after that, the festival ended on a heartbreaking note as Joe Collie’s dog died, was poisoned more like it, but there was no proof. You didn’t get much sleep that night. It didn’t matter. Early the next working, you were pulled from your half-slumber by a rapid knocking at the door.

Without thinking, you shuffled over, opening it to find Beverly standing on your front porch, less than impressed with your wrinkled pajamas and dazed expression at the sunlight in your face. 

“Yeah?”

“Father Paul has time this afternoon to speak with you about the mural.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be there?”

“I guess, what time is it anyway?”

“Seven-thirty, I wanted to come by before the school day began. If you’re not serious about this, don’t waste his time.”

“Alright, I’ll be there around two.” 

You didn’t wait for her to respond, shutting the door in her face and heading back to bed. If you woke up in time to make it to the church, you supposed you’d do it. When you lifted your head from the pillow later on and checked the time on your phone, it was a quarter after one. Damn. You were actually doing this.

The otherwise unassuming church seemed to loom over you as you approached. You sighed. It was just a building. Still, you hesitated outside of St. Patrick’s for a minute or so before building up the courage to walk inside. No hellfire or spontaneous combustion upon your arrival. Though, there should have been, with the way Father Paul was sitting on the steps leading up to the altar, legs splayed out in his jeans. Your mouth almost went dry. Suddenly his eyes were on yours. You panicked, dipping your hand in the font and making a sign of the cross with the holy water. That had to absolve you of thinking a priest looked hot for a split second.

He practically jumped up from where he was sitting, closing the distance between you with an excited smile and a folded up piece of paper that he handed to you. 

He spoke animatedly and used sweeping motions in reference to the wall and what he wanted it to look like. “Call it divine inspiration, but I had a vision of an angel. It’s burned into my mind. It needs to be up here for the parish to see.”

You looked at his sketch, tilting your head as you took in the monstrous creature that resembled Nosferatu rather than an angel. Still, it wasn’t like artists regularly were commissioned to paint elaborate church murals anymore. You supposed the prestige of being able to say you did such outweighed the odd nature of his vision.

“I was thinking just on the wood wall here. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“No, but I think for the best result, I’ll have to strip the existing paint off the wall and then prime it to paint over. That may take up to a week, depending on how much of the wall you want the mural to take up.”

Father Paul chuckled humorlessly. “Bev’s going to have a heart attack when she hears that. Why don’t you write a list of what you need, and I’ll give it to Sturge.”

You would have been surprised at how quickly he agreed if he weren’t so enthusiastic about his vision coming to life. He kept talking, rambling was more like it, about the angel and his vision. There was an air of conspiracy to his voice, almost as if he was telling you something that was meant to be kept between the two of you. His rambling was interrupted by Beverly’s appearance. You took the opportunity to slip out, claiming you promised your mom you’d call her to catch up before dinner.

By the end of the week, you had all of the supplies you needed, and Father Paul gave you free reign of the church when mass wasn’t going on. You hadn’t expected him to be such a big help in the preparations, figuring you’d be scraping the stripped paint off the wall yourself. It made the process go by faster, even though Beverly looked constipated every time she saw the bare wood wall in contrast to the rest of the church. Father Paul had to remind her it was temporary.

The hours spent with him felt almost natural, like you were talking to an old friend. At least, he was nice enough to let you ramble about art and the mural techniques you read about on your phone the past few days. Though, you didn’t miss his offhand comment about how so many great artists were Catholic. You wanted to clarify that you weren’t Catholic, not anymore. Besides, there were great artists of all faiths. The Catholic Church just had the money to bankroll some of the more prominent ones. Deciding it best not to stir up any unnecessary tension before you even started on the project, you let the comments roll off your back, not bothering to acknowledge them. Things were going great, otherwise. At least, they were until it was time for you to actually start painting.

That pit in your stomach started acting up again as soon as Father Paul told you that he went ahead and primed the wall already, so you could start painting the mural. 

“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll work better if I’m not breathing down your neck. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

You smiled, giving him a silent nod as he left. Hesitation overtook you, soon followed by dread as you looked at the wall in front of you. There was no way to back out, at least not without drawing the ire of the growing number of devout islanders. You hadn’t witnessed Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, and as much as the skeptics tried to talk circles around it, you couldn’t think of any other explanation for what had happened. It scared you, how real the faith you were raised in felt here. 

As soon as your brush touched the primed wall, you nearly passed out. It was a holy place, meant to reflect the power and glory of god. You didn’t feel worthy to alter it in such a significant way, as if you were Michaelangelo or DaVinci and not some corporate flunkie who only got such a big severance package because—no, you couldn’t think about it in this church of all places, not one where god seemed suffocatingly present. The brush then fell from your hand with a clatter that seemed to echo through the church, through your ears.

Father Paul spoke your name softly, tentatively, like you were a wounded animal. “Why are you crying?”

You weren’t sure how long you were in your fugue state of despair for him to find you like that. “I don’t think I’m the right person to do this. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s you. It has to be you.”

Shaking your head frantically as he approached you, you threw your hands over your mouth to muffle your sobs. He outstretched his arms, not forcing you to accept his comfort, but you felt inexplicably pulled to him, to the absolution he offered if you’d just accept it.

“Do you know what St. Teresa of Avila said about prayer?” 

“What’s that?”

“She said that prayer is allowing yourself to be loved,” he said. “Pray with me.”

He took your hands in his, bowing his head and closing his eyes. You did the same, though you were unable to focus on his words, not when your mind was racing so much. Too loud, too overwhelming, you couldn’t take it.

In the middle of his prayer, you blurted out, “At my old job, my boss did a lot of illegal stuff, and I helped her cover it up because I knew if I did that I’d be set for life. Except it’s been eating me alive ever since. She offered me this huge severance package if I’d sign an NDA when I quit. I can’t–I feel like it’s gonna drown me one day.”

“What did you—surely it can’t be that bad.”

The cry you let out was akin to a howl. “Father Paul, I can’t—I’m a horrible person—“

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—“ you paused. “I’ve never truly confessed in my life.”

He nodded, understanding and encouragement in his gaze rather than the judgment you expected.

“My boss was one of those cutthroat types. I admired her for it for the longest time, even when she got indicted. I used to work late nights, so I told her if she gave me a raise and a promotion, I’d testify that she was in the office with me on the days the prosecution had her doing some of the stuff she got charged with,” you said. “I thought it wouldn’t bother me. I’d been screwing people over to claw my way up the corporate ladder for years and learned how to shake it off, but this shit—it might as well be in my veins. Some people lost everything because of me, because I lied.”

You were hyperventilating, and all you could focus on was how tightly Father Paul was gripping your shoulders.

“The worst part is, I thought it’d make up for the emptiness. I spent so much time working that I pushed people away, and I wanted something to show for it. I’d give anything to feel that emptiness again,” you choked out. “I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. 

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. I promise it is. The bible shows us time and time again that god can use our past sins to glorify him, to show the power of forgiveness in the blood of Christ. You feel guilt, regret, and sorrow. That’s good. Your penance,” he said, pointing to the blank wall. “God brought you here knowing you needed absolution, while this church is on the verge of a renaissance. I don’t think something like this happened by chance.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “I—I’ll do it.”

You fumbled your way through the Act of Contrition, Father Paul guiding you through the short prayer you’d embarrassingly forgotten most of the words to. In his name, my god, have mercy.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the church may god give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, making a sign of the cross over you.

You nodded, making a sign of the cross. “Amen.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, wiping away the tear tracks that’d begun to dry. He smiled kindly, warmly, and you felt warm too. Taking a deep breath, you brought the paintbrush to the wall, making the first stroke of what would become Angulus autem Crockett Insulus, the Angel of Crockett Island. 

Work on the mural went smoothly after the roadbump the first day, and you felt better than you had in months. The guilt that’d tethered itself to you for so long had vanished. You’d never received so many compliments on your art in your life. Suddenly dozens of people were admiring your work, regarding it with awe as if it were in a cathedral rather than a small fishing town’s wooden church. Erin even had you come to the school and teach an art class for the students. It helped that Father Paul took every opportunity to talk up your skills whenever someone would mention the mural. 

While the lighting in the church was undoubtedly better during the day, you’d work at night sometimes, just to get an idea of how it’d look when no one was around to see it. The shadows that fell over Father Paul’s angel made it appear almost sinister. You wondered if it was something you could fix in the morning, soften it a bit to not be as harsh and imposing.

You almost laughed when you saw Father Paul standing in the door of the sacristy, knocking on the door frame as if it weren’t his church the two of you were standing in. 

“I know it’s late, but do you want coffee? I’m about to brew a pot,” he said.

You smiled. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Door will be open, just let yourself in when you’re finished here.”

“Oh, in the rectory?”

“Yes, but if that makes you uncomfortable–”

“No, of course not. I’ll be there in a few.”

He made his leave, and you grabbed a paintbrush, noticing an odd, shadowy spot on the angel that wasn’t due to the lighting. You winced a bit. Your hand had started cramping recently. Of course carpal tunnel would catch up with you, working almost non-stop on an elaborate mural would do that. 

The last thing you wanted to do was take a break on the progress you’d made. Father Paul’s enthusiasm was infectious, and you didn’t want to lose the inspiration you were running on to bring his vision to life. 

Taking a step back, you frowned. The shadow over the angel almost looked worse. You set your brush down, figuring you’d have a better idea of what to do with a fresh set of eyes in the morning. 

You kept your supplies on a plastic tarp to avoid getting paint elsewhere, and so it could be easily moved out of the way for mass. From what you’d heard, there was a full house every Sunday, and daily mass actually had decent attendance. You could remember seeing only Beverly, Annie, and Leeza making their way into the old church for the early morning services during the week. 

The lights were off in the sacristy, and you took a few tentative steps toward it. You knew there was a door through there that led out back toward the rectory, but something in you hesitated at entering that part of the church. Instead, you walked out the main doors and around the building.

There was an eeriness to the lone house not too far off in the distance. You’d learned from your time on the island that lighthouses were meant to warn incoming ships that they were nearing cliffs or rough waters, not so much welcoming them in as advising them to stay at arms’ length, be aware and alert. The light that shone from the rectory gave you a similar impression. 

You walked up to the small house, finding the door open for you. A staticy oldies station played in the living room, Father Paul leaning against the kitchen counter as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. 

“All of this stuff is so old. Radio barely picks up any reception,” he said bashfully.

“It has its charm. This whole island does. I feel like I’m really starting to be part of things.”

“You are!” he exclaimed. “Our resident artist. Everyone’s wondering when they’ll see you at mass.”

“Maybe next Sunday,” you said unconvincingly.

“I think you’ll be impressed at how different it is from what you remember growing up with. Things are changing—for the better,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”

He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, older and chipped with a faded ‘Crock Pot 2003’ printed on it. He poured the coffee, preparing it to your liking and handing you the mug. You followed him over to the kitchen table, taking the chair next to him rather than on the other side of it.

The radio became the slightest bit clearer a few notes into Dusty Springfield’s version of Son of a Preacher Man. It was one of those songs you grew up hearing, but never truly understood the lyrics until you got older and really listened.

“You know, growing up, I didn’t know Protestant pastors could get married. I thought they were like priests where that wasn’t allowed,” you said. “Do you think it makes that much of a difference? Not being married, or even romantically involved?”

He paused, furrowing his eyebrows before giving you the non-convincing answer of, “It allows me to devote myself to God and focus on my congregation.”

“Yeah, but the Catholic Church is so pro-family, saying all that crap about not using contraception. Why not lead by example? Isn’t it natural to do that?” you asked, stopping yourself before you could go on talking about pregnancy with a priest. “I overstepped, sorry.”

“No, they’re good questions. I’ve thought about them myself.”

“Have you ever wanted to have your Sound of Music moment? Y’know, how Julie Andrews just says ‘Fuck it’ and gives in to her feelings for Christopher Plummer?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe not Christopher Plummer specifically, but in more or less words, yes.”

“Do you ever feel lonely?” you asked softly.

He didn’t speak, only reaching over to squeeze your hand. The suddenness of the tender gesture sent a shock through your system, and you could feel your heart skip a beat. Whoever was the late night DJ at the oldies station must have had it out for you as Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely started to play.

You squeezed his hand in return. “So do I.”

He stood up, murmuring something about refilling his cup. You kept your slight grip on his hand, standing up from your seat at the table. You shouldn’t have even been thinking about it, not when you’d finally rid yourself of a guilty conscience. The corners of his lips quirked up, and he tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry as to what you were going to do next.

You kissed him. You kissed a priest, and it didn’t even feel wrong. Father Paul pulled you closer by your entwined hands, releasing it when your chest was pressed against his. He was a bit clumsy, but you’d have been surprised if he weren’t. You opened your mouth for him the slightest bit, feeling his tongue on your lips, inside your mouth, a hesitancy behind his actions still.

Pulling away from him, you caressed his cheek. You couldn’t absolve any guilt he may feel, but you could keep it at bay, only if for a night.

“I want this, Father,” you assured him. “I want you.”

His eyes searched your face for any indication that your words weren’t sincere, and finding none, he pressed his lips to yours with more confidence than before. Still, you took the lead on deepening the kiss as he became more comfortable with how you felt, his nose brushing against the soft skin of your face. His hands held onto your hips, fingers digging gently into your jeans. Your tongue gently swiped at his lips, and he opened his mouth, allowing you access. 

Your lips curled into a smile when you finally pulled away, but only to divert your attention to his throat. His breath hitched upon feeling your hand on the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the base of his throat. You bit into the crook of his neck, sucking and biting the same spot until he made a pained noise of protest. 

“Don’t worry, Father. I won’t leave a mark,” you whispered, proud of the way he reacted to you, to your touch, feeling his length pressing against you through his pants. 

You kissed his neck again, gentle this time, though you slid your hand from his neck, down his torso, to his crotch. Palming him through his pants, you lifted your gaze to see his eyes hooded, head tilted back a bit. He was still holding back, you could tell that much, so you squeezed a bit, feeling his cock twitch against the fabric, his hips involuntarily thrusting.

“Bedroom,” he choked out to your surprise.

Your hands were still on him, groping his crotch, his ass, the softness of his belly as he clumsily led you to the small, sparsely decorated bedroom. He kissed you again, barely managing to shut the door behind him. He moaned into your mouth as you began unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly and relieving some of the pressure from his hard cock. 

His passivity didn’t last long after that. He pushed you onto his bed, lustful determination in his eyes as he undressed you, hesitating just a moment when he reached your panties. As soon as his fingers hooked beneath the waistband, it was like a switch flipped. You watched as he rid himself of his clothes, your fingers teasing your wet pussy when he pulled off his clerical collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

You laid back as he climbed on top of you, allowing him to take the lead. He fondled your breasts, his thumbs brushing your sensitive nipples, making you gasp.

“You’re so soft, honey,” he murmured.

You smiled. Honey. Too sweet for you, what you were doing. Taking one of his hands, you guided it down to your pussy, making him feel your wetness, velvety between your folds. “Softer,” you whispered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sliding his index and middle fingers inside you.

He pumped them in and out, almost cautiously before you lifted your hips for more. His thumb brushed your clit, rubbing it as he curled his fingers drawing a ragged moan from you. A groan escaped his lips as he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, wet and wanting for something more.

“Father, I need you,” you moaned. “Inside me—I—“

You choked out a gasp as he slid his cock inside you, your pussy clenching around his length as he thrust into you. He pressed your hands into the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours, loving and intimate. You whimpered beneath his intense gaze.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, his voice a bit husky. “Feel good. Take me so well.”

A harsh thrust, and you cried out, throwing your head back on his pillow. He kissed your open mouth, greedy for you. He released your hands, and you immediately grabbed at his forearms, digging your nails into his skin as your body began to tense up before its release.

“I’m close. Father–fuck–I’m gonna—“

“Let go, honey,” he moaned. “I’m there too.”

He came inside you, his cock pumping his cum into your pussy, his thrusts sloppy as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. Your orgasm followed the brief, scandalous realization that you’d let a priest cum in you. Tangling your fingers in his dark hair, you tugged at it as you rode out your orgasm on his cock, not as hard, but still buried inside you. 

After a few moments, he pulled out, lying down next to you. His eyes didn’t show any regret or guilt, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He traced your features with his fingertips, softly, mindlessly, as if he were in a haze until he whispered. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

“Since golden hour.”

“Golden hour,” he repeated softly

“When you first came to see me, I was working on the painting of the fishing hut at sunset. Artists call it golden hour, when the natural light is perfect, like liquid gold.”

“I think I’ve always wanted to, it’s come and gone in waves, but it’s always been there. You—you’re something else.”

“You’ve done this before,” you said, an observation, not in judgment.

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he were about to make a confession to you. “You asked me earlier if I ever wanted to have my Sound of Music moment. I did. I should have. That mural you’re painting, the angel. It’ll make things right.”

The church bell chimed its midnight tune, and you sighed, reminded of where you were, who you were with. “I should go.”

He gave you a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I wish things were different, that you could stay and—“

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You hastily threw on your clothes and gave him one more kiss before cracking open the front door. Glancing around briefly, you didn’t see anyone else around, and slipped away into the night. The overwhelming guilt you expected to feel never manifested. Instead, you felt almost giddy at the thrill of what you and Father Paul had just done. 

When you returned home, you let out a laugh in disbelief. You had no expectations of it becoming a regular thing, that it’d even happen again, you having sex with Father Paul. The subtle intimacy that had coiled around your relationship with him from the start had only magnified with this. Perhaps once was all you needed, but you secretly hoped it’d devolve into something far more torrid. 

Bright and early the next morning, you woke up feeling light, almost wanting to chalk up the past night to an unusually vivid wet dream, if it weren’t for the ache between your legs. You decided to detour from the church for the day, opting to work on something else temporarily while you were in a great mood. A smaller part of you worried things would be awkward with Father Paul. He didn’t seem guilty or regretful when you left, but he still had plenty of time to overthink.

You ran into Father Paul as he was leaving the Gunnings’ house, an odd expression on his face as he looked back at the place briefly.

“Would you mind coming by the church later tonight?” he asked. “I have something—it’ll be easier to explain there.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. “See you later, Father.”

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, you sat at the docks, sketching portraits of the fishermen as they came and went. They were all so expressive, their weathered skin and deep lines in their faces betraying the decades of hard work they did. You’d heard from the islanders how difficult things had become for the fishermen between the oil spill and restrictions on what they could catch. Still, the ones who recognized you from St. Patrick’s smiled, stopped and talked to you despite being busy. Maybe you really would go to mass on Sunday.

Your stomach reminded you that you’d missed lunch, so you headed back to your house to get something to eat and look over your work from the day. Tonight. Father Paul wanted you to meet him at the church, but didn’t give a time, just at night, after dark. You wondered what he was going to tell you. Surely if it were about the two of you having sex, it could be said privately in the light of day.

Around nine o’clock, you left home again, heading for the church. It was dark. The rectory too. Was he even there? You walked up to the building, opening the front door to near pitch black. For some reason, you stood there, not bothering to call out for him.

The only light in the church came from the sacristy. Your eyes were drawn to your mural for a moment. Somehow, the angel looked like it was enrobed in shadows, far more sinister than when you’d started painting it. Your attention was soon returned to the sacristy. You could hear shuffling, low murmuring, and something almost like a strong gust of wind. Your brow furrowed. Maybe some of the local kids sneaking communion wine. 

You took a cautious step toward the illuminated room, and for the first time in years, you truly prayed to god that none of the old wooden floorboards would creak and give you away. Not that you deserved his favor, having repented of your sins and then turning around and sleeping with a priest. The light only grew brighter as you approached, your heart in your throat as you peered into the room where the priest and altar servers would prepare for mass. 

Father Paul stood in front of the communion wine. Your eyes were glued to the creature by his side. It looked like it could hardly fit in the room between its height and the width of its wingspan. Huge, imposing, sickeningly pale. It opened its mouth, razor-sharp teeth in full display.

You nearly gasped at the realization of what it was. The angel from the mural. Monstrous, otherworldly in a way that made you want to vomit. Surely even Beverly would regard something like that as demonic. In either shock or self-preservation, you weren’t screaming, though your brain was howling for you to leave. Get the fuck out of there while you still could.

Father Paul looked inexplicably calm around the thing, comfortable, even. You didn’t know how. There was no way you could ever look at something like that and consider it holy. You held your breath as you retreated, internally begging god for enough mercy to get out of the church alive. A floorboard creaked just as you got to the door. You ran.

The cool night air stung your eyes as you bolted down the unpaved roads, too afraid to look back and see if you were even being followed. Aside from a few porch lights, the island was pitch black. All you needed to do was make it home, and you’d be safe. No. You needed to get the fuck off of Crockett Island. Then you’d be safe.

You may have been a shitty person and an even shittier Catholic, but you knew things like this weren’t acts of god. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing all along, a power-hungry false prophet intent on turning the whole island to fit his corrupted vision of holiness. 

With a final push of adrenaline pumping through your veins, you sprinted to your house in the distance. As soon as you got inside, you locked the door, pushing one of the kitchen chairs in front of it. Realistically, it wouldn’t do much to stop the angel if it were coming after you. At least you could say you’d done something.

Grabbing your suitcases from under your bed, you opened them on top of your comforter, considering what to pack. You wouldn’t be coming back to Crockett Island. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be anything to come back to. You could tell as much. That thing you saw, the monster in the mural, it couldn’t mean anything good for the islanders. They deserved some kind of warning, even if they didn’t believe you. 

You paused for a moment. Your mural was their warning. They could see the grotesque angel materializing for themselves, and they praised it, full of wonder and awe. A voice in the back of your mind said it wasn’t enough, it was a cop-out, another way to shirk responsibility for your actions, falling into old cycles all over again. You drowned out the voice with a bottle of wine you’d kept around for cooking, and shoved clothes and painting supplies in your suitcases in your half-drunk stupor.

Pale, golden light filled your bedroom as the sun rose. With a shaky breath, you looked around your house for the last time. In the weeks you’d been living on Crockett Island, it’d become a home. You should have known it was all too good to be true.

The suitcases in your hands made your fleeing the island appear less conspicuous, going on a short trip with the intention of returning rather than abandoning the community that had taken you in, leaving them at the mercy of the creature that was waiting to pounce.

You bought a round-trip ticket for the Breeze’s morning voyage back to the mainland. Round-trip. As if you’d be coming back.

“Father Paul know you’re headed back to the mainland?” Sturge asked, helping you with your bags.

He’s just a priest. It’s none of his business, you wanted to snap back. Instead, you gave him a small smile. “Yeah, my mom’s come down with pneumonia. I’m gonna help her around the house for a week or two.”

“Late in the season to get pneumonia.”

“Her immune system isn’t great.”

“Maybe bring her on over to the island. Miracles happening here every day.”

You knew your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think she’d really like that.”

As you watched the island shrink on the horizon, the guilt that settled back in your gut felt comfortably familiar. Maybe you weren’t meant for absolution.

[always-andromeda]

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Father Paul Hill x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 2925

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you."

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ okay, I haven't exactly finished a piece in a good while. so this one is sort of serving as a warm-up and if it's terrible (which I have a good feeling it is lmao), I'm gonna have to ask y'all to be gentle on me. I've loved this man for a while now and this is sort of experimental. tl;dr: I am a sensitive little baby right now so treat me as such.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), obviously a pretty massive gap in both age and power, depictions of blood and death, could be read as dub con at first (if you squint really hard) but firmly lands on the side of full con, a lot of religious mumbo jumbo (lmao let's ignore the fact that I know almost nothing about Catholicism <3), so much blasphemy, oral (female receiving), a twinge of sub!Paul, and that's all I can think of!! let me know if more is needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

Behind closed eyelids, all you saw was darkness. And through that darkness came white hot agony. It was practically blinding as it shot up your spine before detonating in your brain. Those little fragments of pain speckled across the inside of your skull.

You wanted to scream, hurl, cry, something. Anything to physically release the intense pain assaulted your nerves. But you wouldn't be granted that mercy. No.

For now, your suffering was confined to this unending darkness. For now, you waited in the void of your own being for the tragedy to subside.

For weeks you anxiously waited for the return of Monsignor Pruitt from his mission trip. Though spending your afternoons looking after the dementia ridden clergyman wasn't exactly your idea of a good time, it was far better than slumming it with Beverly Keane. After all, you were 99% sure that whatever Bev heard managed to make its way all around the island.

Crockett Island was a melting pot of rumors. By now you'd heard the stories; the mythology of the island's residents had woven together to form a complex tapestry. And the longer you stayed, the more you realized how little you desired to be a part of it all.

But you didn't have a choice. Whether you liked it or not, Crockett's citizens had already spun your narrative.

Everyone knew how your mother had taken you away from the island at the ripe age of five years old; saving you the heartache of being raised by an alcoholic father. Part of you had always been grateful for it despite how tough it had been being raised by a single mother who hardly had anything to her name. Yet you couldn't help the guilt that poured into your lungs like cement whenever someone mentioned how much your father had suffered before he died.

Because that was the only way you would've gone back to the island that lived in the shadows of your memory: death. And upon meeting Monsignor Pruitt, it became clear that death would also be the only way you'd want to leave.

The relationship that had bloomed between you and him was a humble one. He'd offered to talk you through your grief which you'd promptly denied. Though you attended services, you weren't much for religion and you weren't about to embrace it fresh off of the death of a father who was practically a stranger. It felt disingenuous.

Finding God is reserved for real tragedies, right?

You'd asked the question like it was a joke.

Monsignor Pruitt had merely tilted his head before replying in that lilting, raspy voice of his: Depends on what you think qualifies as a tragedy.

With a quick eye roll, you'd written the answer off as one of those unbalanced moments of his. Over the course of a few months, you'd become well acquainted with them. Going to services and keeping him company was something to do. Something other than rifling through decades of your father's clutter and further entangling yourself with the community. Something other than being reminded of your own wasted potential.

Strangely, the monsignor felt less like an all seeing eye and more like...a friend. And now, faced with his "temporary" replacement, you were finally certain of what qualified as a tragedy to you.

From the moment Father Paul had addressed the church, you were unsettled. He may have been perfectly kind and personable enough, but his mannerisms edged on the uncanny valley. It was the way he spoke during sermons and how that tone rarely changed during one-on-one conversations. Though he couldn't have been older than thirty, he often held himself as if he'd been around the block more times than anyone could fathom. It was easy to chalk it up to his nature. Of course the man of God had an eerie way of making you feel like a puny mortal.

But Monsignor Pruitt had never made you feel like that. You couldn't brush the thought of the old man out of your mind.

Every time Father Paul attempted to placate your worries, it only pushed you deeper into the depths of distrust. Somehow you just knew he was lying.

And for all of Father Paul's wisdom and mystique, he wasn't a good liar. His tone would shift as he glossed over your concerns with a quick reassurance that Monsignor Pruitt was recovering just fine on the mainland. When you felt brave enough to press him for more, he'd wring his hands or squeeze them into fists. Almost as if he had to physically stop himself from reprimanding you. After all, who were you to question him?

When your eyes finally opened, your vision was overwhelmed by the light. Softly, slowly, the light haloed around the head of a figure that carefully came into view. As your sight sharpened, you quickly realized who stood over you. 

The man you held the most wariness for was kneeling over you. His long face wrought with concern, the alarm bells were already blaring in your muddled mind. But as much as you tried to force the air from your lungs to scream, you could only let out a pathetic, strangled squeak.

That was when he spoke. His voice shook with what sounded like uncertainty, "You mustn't overexert yourself. You're still coming back. But don't worry, you'll be yourself again soon. All in due time."

No matter how much you tried to speak, to move, neither of the actions came to you. All you could do is watch as Father Paul pulled your paralyzed body into his arms and cradled you. And as the potency of your helplessness settled in, you vaguely felt tears prick at your waterline. 

Normally, you would've rather died than allowing yourself to cry in front of someone, especially in front of the father. This time you couldn't control the few tears that slid freely down your cheeks, landing on the father's hand where he gripped your still aching shoulder.

He noticed them immediately and let you out of his grasp long enough to stare into your glossy eyes.

You couldn't quite decipher the intent behind the softness of his gaze. But somehow it was enough to allow the nausea that had slowly been rising in your chest to subside.

Father Paul raised a hand to cup your face. His thumb carefully stroked your cheek, sweeping away the wet trails left by your despair. And whether it was from your sensitivity or the intimacy of the act, you didn't know. But your skin shivered. 

As you gradually regained the feeling in your body, you realized that the first thing you felt after the pain was him. The inherent warmth of his embrace. And in some fucked up way, it was comforting. Feeling like prey, you blinked back the rest of your tears and allowed yourself to soak up as much of him as you could; anything to get rid of the dull pain that plagued your nerves.

You noticed there were tears brimming his own eyes as he smiled softly. "There, you mustn't cry. You've been so brave and in return you've been blessed."

It was then that you began to regain enough cognizance to question what was happening.

Flashes of memory played each time you blinked.

That damned question had been on the tip of your tongue again.

So you found him in the recreational center. There he’d been, on his knees, praying fervently.

Hopefully you're praying for the monsignor's return.

You regretted the words almost as soon as you'd said them. Because as soon as Paul turned, he gave you that dark look that rarely graced his features. This time he hadn't even tried to hide it with his usual discretion.

He merely stared right past you with his eyes wide and pleading. 

You hadn't had the chance to see the thing that attacked you fully. But you felt its teeth at your neck. You felt your own blood dripping from your neck in such a thick stream that the dizziness came almost as soon as you hit the ground. You felt the rough, pale skin of the creature as it smothered you, greedily devouring every ounce of your life.

Of course you were surprised to find yourself lying on the sheets of Paul's bed in his modest home, but that shock was the least of your worries. How were you still alive?

He told his tale as your body mended itself. You didn't know how much time passed. All you knew is that you were enraptured with the sticky sense of dread that was growing in your stomach as he spoke.

You were acutely aware of just how much it sounded like a sermon. How, whether he was aware of it or not, he was pulling out every stop in the preacher's handbook to try and convince you. And if he didn’t sound so convinced himself, you would swear this was deliberate manipulation. But nothing else could possibly explain his youthful appearance and all that he knew. He could recite your history right back to you despite the fact that you’d never once trusted him nearly enough to give it. Only the monsignor knew your deepest fears and your darkest secrets. But this wasn’t your monsignor.

Father Paul was some new beast; an amalgamation of the sweet old man you’d once known, the deceptive preacher who took his place, and some other supernatural force that you couldn’t quite name.

Though you’d only caught half a glimpse of the creature, you attempted to express your terror. That only spurred him on further as he contended that when an angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds upon the birth of Jesus, it deliberately told them to not be afraid.

But none of that explained himself. None of it allowed you to comprehend how Monsignor Pruitt could've shed decades of life; how the old man could now stand there, blood drying on the bottom half of his face, and look at you as if you were something he could have.

You didn't have to ask. You knew by then that when the creature had had its fill of your blood, Father Paul had pulled the scraps of you away for himself. The thought hit you dangerously and made something deep inside you rumble. Like a natural disaster, this had unearthed a litany of complications that you never could’ve anticipated.

“We are at a crossroads," Father Paul said gently before letting his conviction surge again, “Now, you once said that finding God was reserved for those experiencing tragedy, correct?”

You nodded sagely. 

Father Paul grasped your trembling hands in his own, “Have you not experienced one of life’s greatest tragedies? The ending of it? You fell right over the edge of life and before the waters of death could claim you, He brought you back. Hebrought us together.”

You shook your head in defiance.

“This was meant to happen. This was part of His plan, for our faiths — our lives — to be renewed.”

With your throat still stiff and dry, you croaked angrily, “There was nothing wrong with my life! There was nothing that needed to supposedly be renewed!” 

He raised his voice suddenly, “Why did you come to this island?”

“Because my father died.”

“A father who was no better than a stranger to you,” he recalled your own words quickly. If the monsignor had been wise, Father Paul was as sharp as a knife, taking his jabs at you with complete accuracy. “You didn’t have to come here. You didn't have to make friends with a crazy old man. By the grace of God, you were led here. You were led here so you could be shown this truth; this gift. And you are denying this gift."

You had to admit that your draw to Crockett had been strange. At first you'd attested it to some childhood curiosity. But you'd deliberately put off taking care of your father's run down property, instead opting to spend time walking in the light of Pruitt. In truth, his companionship had been a breath of fresh air. 

Though the people of Crockett adored him, it was always tinged with pity. You'd never pitied him; only admired him for his wisdom and his resilience. 

Paul's expression softened as he held your face in his hands. "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you." That was when you saw the edges of his wisdom begin to lift and fall away like a second skin he'd crafted over his own vulnerability.

Underneath it...he was simply a man. A man who wanted to save you. 

“Let me give you more. Let me show you how you can trust me," he whispered.

The first kiss inspired an odd mix of emotions in your chest. There was the coppery tang of dried blood on your tongue, strong enough that it took everything in you not to flinch away from his hold on you. But you remembered his reference to the angel and the shepherds.

Do not be afraid.

So you continued, deepening the kiss with a turn of your head. And for all of the worldly experiences Paul had, you became acutely aware that this sort of connection was not among them.

Whether there'd been any true romantic feelings for the aging monsignor, you couldn't quite say. But your fondness of him had transferred to the man before you. Granted, the transfer wasn't smooth, but it was there nonetheless. Somehow it was stronger than ever as he took your hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss he pressed against your palm was slightly tacky with your own half dried blood still lingering.

You brushed a lock of his wavy, dark hair back so you could properly meet his gaze. With the shroud of time having fallen away from his features you could see just how handsome the man was. It was a hesitant sort of attractiveness; as if the banner of God had prevented him from seeing his full potential.

He'd fed on your life and made himself new. And the thought of your monsignor living on in that small way...all because of you? The electric twinges that sparked in your chest were almost too much to bear.

Without fear you devoured him in another kiss. Quickly the mood turned from reverent to ravenous as Paul attempted to keep up with your fervency.

He couldn't remember the last time sin had overpowered his sense of morality. Because he knew in the traditional sense, this was pure sin. No matter how wrong he believed it might have been to let his hands roam your figure, in his bones it was a temptation that finally felt correct. There was none of that hesitance or shame or fear that he'd felt before. The pendulum had shifted on morality and he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Hardly a moment was spared as he tore into the long skirt and the underwear that had kept you modest for far too long. Perfect beauty like this had to be cherished.

So that is what he did. Planted firmly between your legs, he stared up at you with eyes that gently pleaded for permission; for salvation. With your own half lidded eyes, you nodded before spreading yourself open for him.

Like a flower, you bloomed beautifully and Paul groaned at the sight. He could practically feel the thrumming pulse before him as it waited to indulge him. His hot breath teased you and made sparks dance right beneath the surface of your skin. Still you stayed in place, patiently allowing him time to drink in the sight of your folds already puffing and glistening with slick.

Quietly, you heard him mumble something that you only caught the tail end of.

“–forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

It wasn't too long after that when his tongue found a home in that tight, warm crevice. Your hand knitted itself into his dark hair as you searched for something to ground yourself from the overpowering sensation. Something about this new condition of yours heightened every aspect of pleasure.

If you were in your right mind, it would make sense logically considering you'd felt the unbearable pain of your spine shattering and being put back together again. But this was overwhelming in the entirely opposite direction.

You experienced the pleasure on a cellular level as your climax rushed through your limbs. You seemed to feel the vibrancy of every emotion and atom that comprised your being. Nothing was spared from the glory of this blessing. Not your spasming cunt as it contracted around Paul's blessed tongue. Not your heart that was firmly on the track of restoration. And not your mind as it all at once fell apart in time with your quivering thighs. Blood pulsing, every single one of your pores felt more alive than ever as you finally embraced the higher power that had been waiting for you in the shadows all along.

At that moment, you believed it all. From the Angel to Father Paul's divine transformation to the euphoric paradise that enveloped your entire being...it was all real. And most of all, it was all yours. Thanks to the father's grace and generosity, you would create paradise with him. And that seemed possible. After all, with his head between your thighs, you’d both already created one.

[tossawary]

I'm letting the 1984 "Dune" film play in the background and there's a LOT to say about this beautifully campy ridiculousness, but the part that's really getting me is the "inner voices". The audience at times hears the internal thoughts of various characters, presumably taken largely from the book, in a whispery voice. And it's not even just from Paul! It's from his mother and father and other characters as well, each making various observations and sometimes delivering exposition via their thoughts shared in voiceover narration.

Character A: "Greetings, Character B."

Character B: "A pleasure, Character A."

Character A: (inner voice) "That special outfit indicates that this person is secretly working for our enemies."

I made this exchange up, but that's the vibe here and it's wild. It's shockingly frequent too! Directly sharing character thoughts like this is something I'm used to seeing only in older novels, comics, and anime, due to the strengths and limits of their mediums. Like, the last thing that I was watching with any "tell, don't show" device similar to this was probably "Jojo's Bizarre Adventure"! It's striking (not a compliment) when other live action film (including the most recent "Dune" films) tends to prefer using actors' expressions and body language to communicate certain "unspoken" ideas like suspicion or affection or awe, and to let other sweeping visuals and musical cues speak for themselves as well.

You can also just have the lights go out, zoom in on a character's face, and have them whisper aloud, "Sabotage!" if you need to be that blunt about it, rather than have us hear the character's thoughts directly. You can insert a conversation of "as you know" technobabble between characters if you really have to do hasty exposition.

I don't want to call this film style "bad" exactly, inherently. But it's more than a little confusing when some characters are a little telepathic(?) and lighting is dim, so I'm briefly unsure which characters actually heard certain lines.

And I do personally think this kind of heavy-handed bluntness generally undermines what can be achieved with acting, sound design, music, set design, prop design, costume design, and so on. And I also think that a degree of uncertainty for the audience can be good for tension anyway. These inner thoughts being shared in this film are generally not ideas that couldn't be communicated through acting, visuals, or direct dialogue between characters, so this choice by the film often feels redundant and clumsy to me. Let the actors do what they're good at! Good actors can often communicate their emotions and thoughts to us without words! Or they can at least stand there while a majestic musical score communicates to us the depths of the character's grief and determination.

Like, not every use of voiceover narration in film is a bad thing. It's a choice. Sometimes it works really well and sometimes it doesn't. Voiceover narration often gets used at the beginning of films because it's an efficient way to quickly convey a lot of exposition and set the tone of the story!

But this film seems like it has a bad case of "science fiction is obviously too confusing for movie audiences to follow just by watching the characters move through the world and interact with each other, so we had better hold their hand every step of the way via voiceover narration constantly overshadowing the acting and musical score". It's not really helping the story, in my opinion. It's not letting the film breathe. Though "showing" in storytelling is often preferable, "telling" in a story is not always bad, but damn, this is a LOT of "telling" for an audio-visual medium.

[l0stfoster]

Hi same anon who asked abt paul (i love him so bad) what are the reactions from the others the first time paul (or marcia/cherry for that matter) gets jumped like, real bad .

Paul Anon (that's what I'm dubbing you now get fucked /silly) the beloved OKAY SO! Giving you some deets on their first jumping & how their closest friends (or in Cherry & Paul's case {Marcia's if you're a Marbit fan} how their partners react) Cherry:

- For Cherry (and Marcia) the initial reaction the gang has is absolute anger and fury. The fact that the girls were attacked just for merely being in/around the presence of the gang and or part of the population that holds power is so infuriating. They're girls, so they're not roughed up as bad as greasers usually are on account of general 60's shit, but it's still not great. - Cherry's is arguably worse between her and Marcia's on account of a psychological impact; she's got rope burns around her wrists due to them being tied to stunt her power and her hair was cut practically up to her ears- both to prevent any magic usage and just for raw humiliation. She's also bruised and beaten a good bit; god knows fights are horrendous. I wouldn't be surprised if they ripped her earrings out, as Bev's the one who leads their jumpings. - Ace loses her absolute fucking SHIT. The only thing restraining her from going nuclear and burning down soc territory in her rage is both the risk of prison and to an extent doing something that drastic would get innocent people hurt. That would make her no better than the socs. It sure as hell doesn't stop her from going wild on the ones she can find, probably gets herself a few nights in the slammer for it. - Recovery is rough all over. They get her a neater haircut but she's shaken for obvious reasons, it probably takes a while before she has the guts to walk around her side of the tracks again.

Marcia:

- Marcia's lack of power means that she's less of a target, but if she gets the sight of her, it's a rougher fight. She can't defend herself all too well, but her jumping is more on the physical aspect as they beat her pretty bad too. Lots of bruises and cuts and her earrings are ripped out too. She probably has a better chance of fighting back because she wasn't automatically restrained, but 1v4 (or more) doesn't go well. - The most impactful thing for her that happens during it is that they destroy the feather she was gifted by Two-Bit. That's quite literally one of the most cherished things she owns, as she values how Two's been willing to interact with her after she'd watched his jumping without trying to stop it. Bev burns it beyond salvaging and Marcia's absolutely destroyed. She could handle the beating, can overcome being sore and pained for days, but having the thing that resembled the trust she'd fought so hard to earn back was devastating. - Two was probably THE most pissed off of the entire gang for Marcia's jumping, not only at how she was hurt but the feather being destroyed is such a blow to him as a Harpy. If he weren't afraid of Bev under the risk of having his wings fucked with again, he'd hunt her down and give her a taste of her own medicine. Cherry and Ace are also super pissed, 'cause the girls gotta stick together, but they don't really match the fury that is a pissy harpy; especially since harpies gang together— Two could've easily had every other greaser harpy on his side if he prompted it. - Recover is obviously just as rough, I wouldn't be surprised if Marcia starts rooming with someone on the east side out of fear of returning to the west side; especially since it's fully known now by other socs that she's powerless despite her association.

Paul:

- Paul is, to put it simply, almost beaten into an early grave. Not only did he previously have the most notoriety of the socs— which made him hanging with greasers a complete slap to the face— but he is also cursed. Another really prominent reason behind his humping is pretty simple; he’s gay. Society will look at Cherry and Marcia and the socs will go easier on them because they’re girls, but Paul? Paul’s a man, a guy who turned his back on the high society in favor of these pests. - His jumping Is rough all over. They're taunting him throughout, snarking about his sexuality, poking fun at how he can't even fend them off with his magic because not only is he weak, but he's a cursed who can't even do that right. They fuck him up bad; busted ribs, broken nose, and his arms are likely dislocated from them pulling him around hard to tie his hands together so he couldn't use his magic. He's got cuts and bruises galore. I'd go as far enough to say they probably broke an arm or something. I like to imagine they ripped his letterman jacket away from him because he didn't deserve something their kind wore when he was with those freaks now. Honestly, the only reason they stopped was because they couldn't see he was still breathing from the angle they were at, though they killed him, and booked it 💀. If they hadn't, though, they probably would've gone until he did stop. - The only reason he's found is because his familiar trails back to the house and grabs the attention of whoever’s there to get them to come with her, since Paul’s completely knocked out. It’s most likely Soda who finds him since he is arguably the one she likes most of the gang and she’ll gravitate towards him. He’ll follow easily too, since he likes her. It’s very similar to finding Johnny, practically that all over again - Darry is obviously the most pissed, probably the same level of anger he felt after his brother's jumpings and Two’s own. The same people who used to be on Paul’s side of things turning a switch so fast over what? A bit of magic and the fact that he likes dudes? Anger doesn’t even describe it in a way— the fae are territorial, and as far as he’s aware, Paul’s a part of that. He's out for blood; but Paul won't spill names so he's got no specific target. That sure as hell won't stop him from finding out, though. He's just got to behave enough to keep his brothers in his care. - The rest of the gang is a whole mixed bag. Dally doesn’t like Paul but his general response is “It’s deserved but only if I were the one doing it”, so take that as you will. Pony’s petty like Dally but since Darry cares he helps out with patching him up. The rest come to the conclusion that pretty boy here probably needs some watching eyes so he’s stuck with them for a bit. He does NOT know how to respond to it. Pretty much the idea for them is that only they're allowed to fuck with Paul, not the socs. - Paul probably has the easiest (mental) recovery for a few good reasons. It's certainly not his first fight/jumping, and it's not his first time being hurt that badly. There's a reason he's gravitated toward his mom despite her efforts to shove him away.

[deeply-unserious-fellow]

Things in Zombies Re-Animated that I can't stop thinking about/just stuck out to me Idk:

Bartleby. He is very cute.

Like literally one of the best looking scenes in the entire show is the bit where he licks the sandwhich Dae gave him. The way his eyes close and his ears go back makes me so happy I love it when animals do that

Also Bartleby screaming in Something to Tok About is a really funny gag Idk-

The animals in this show are all great tbh I love that so many characters get to have weird little pets

WHEN BUCKY MET BARKY IS SUCH A SWEET EPISODE SJFNVKEMFMEMDN

Bucky somehow picking up on Dae being an introvert before anyone else does???

The Trevor Tordjman jumpscare in Something to Tok About

Shrimpossible

Bucky loving cool frogs, mostly because it's a mood

Just Bucky in general tbh

Also I really like Dae! I was kinda worried she would be annoying, because one of her defining traits is how quirky she is and that kind of character can get annoying FAST, but so far Dae's actually been really fun!

Also I think it's very funny that her VA(Kayhun Kim) was in Cocaine Bear

The Mothership not being Ru Paul anymore. A VERY understandable choice(getting Ru Paul back would be EXPENSIVE), but disappointing none the less

The fact that Bree canonically writes fanfic about A-spen and Wynter because she has a weird disconnect between them being her friends and them being her favorite band-

The fact that Wyatt and Eliza actually got together and then broke up over the course of like, 5 episodes? Which isn't a bad thing! I think their relationship was actually handled really well, which is why I'm gonna be thinking about it a lot lmao

WE'RE BRINGIN IT IS STUCK IN MY HEAD AND I CAN'T GET IT OUT H E L P

Bucky and Willa being friends. Them being friends is very important to me.

Zeddison. Just Zeddison. I love them <3

Willa and A-spen BARELY interacting in the first 11 episodes :(

Willa and Bree friendship :)

Bucky and Dae friendship :)

S p a g h e t t i W a t e r f a l l

Im glad Trevor Tordjman is ACTUALLY singing again in the show. If you don't count rapping(which I don't bcuz rapping and singing require different skill sets), he hasn't had an actual solo part in anything since like. Fired Up Competition. Which is weird cuz he's actually a pretty decent singer???

I'm also glad we get to hear Kylee Russell sing more!!! Her voice is so pretty :)

The soundtrack in general is really good

Eliza singing a love song to a vending machine

Addison and Bree's joint hallucination being the thing to prove to them they're still besties. Only real ones share hallucinations fr

Coach and the Solstice Slasher being highschool besites???

RAZZMATAZZ!!!!!!!!

Just Coach and his relationships in general tbh

The poster of Eliza in Invasion of the Bucky Snatchers. That image is going to haunt my nightmares f o r e v e r

SERIOUSLY I LITERALLY CANNOT GET WE'RE BRINGIN IT OUT OF MY HEAD IT'S TOO FUCKING CATCHY-

Also my brain has constructed a version of It's Okay where Wyatt's part is replaced with the chorus of I'm Not Okay, I Promise by MCR and that won't get out of my head either 💀

Also also every time I see the title of that song I start thinking about It's Alright by Mother Mother?

Basically everytime I think about It's Okay I get every song EXCEPT It's Okay stuck in my head. For some reason

And then We're Bringin It gets sTUCK IN MY FUCKING HEAD AGAIN SERIOUSLY IT WON'T FUCKIN L E A V E

Bucky is canon m-spec and polyamorous that one scene in A Wyatt Place confirms it I'm nOT INSANE I'M NOT-

I miss the Aceys 😔

This show has a surprsingly similar sense of humor to South Park and Smiling Friends? Like obviously it's really toned down because Re-Animated is on fucking Disney Channel, but like... idk it has the same vibes

The Blob

I wanna know when the rest of the season is coming out cuz I need moooooooore

[danicamaximoff]

Pretend To Be Nice | Chapter One

 next chapter | masterlist 

Chapter One: Bowling Alleys and Balding Men

Summary: A few months after forming their band "The Pussycats", Hazel and her friends PJ and Josie get noticed by a record label, and are quickly skyrocketed into fame. It's a dream come true for them, and all three of their lives are flipped upside down. Their quick arrival on the scene quickly draws the attention of many other artists and bands, including a popular girl band called "Nymphology". Unfortunately for Hazel, a mix-up and unintentional awful encounter ends up creating tension between the two groups right before they all leave for Nymphology's upcoming tour. Now forced to frequently interact with someone who she was convinced couldn't stand her, Hazel is desperately trying to fix things with the band's lead guitarist. However it doesn't help that Y/N is actively avoiding Hazel as much as possible, and the fact that Hazel found her insanely hot definitely didn't make things any easier.

Warnings: angst, rockstar au, eventual smut, slowburn, swearing, occasional alcohol mentions/use

Word Count: 2450

Hazel had always joked about starting a band one day and blowing up and getting super famous. When she was little, and her parents were still together, she used to dress up like Freddy Mercury and perform one-woman concerts of her favorite queen songs for her parents. Sure, third grade Hazel was definitely way off pitch, but after the third night in a row of being forced to sit through her completely butchering the high notes in Bohemian Rhapsody, Hazel’s parents quickly enrolled her in voice lessons. 

For Halloween during the fourth grade she went as Paul Simmons from Kiss. Most of the girls came as fairies or princesses, even a few witches, but not Hazel. She showed up to class with a shit eating grin on her face, waving at people as she passed by as they stared, smiling to herself about how cool people must think she looks. However, apparently people were less impressed than she thought, as during lunch a few of the girls from her class came up to her, giggling to themselves as they approached. 

One of them had asked why she looked so weird, and Hazel, assuming they wanted to know more about the band Kiss, began rambling about the band and her costume, eager to talk about her current obsession. They invited her to play with them during lunch, and even let her reenact songs and clips she had seen of the band from concert videos on YouTube, which she was more than happy to perform, as she had thought she was making friends, and they were genuinely interested in the band. 

However, later that day while waiting to get picked up, she learned that wasn’t the case, as she overheard the girls from lunch laughing with each other as they all made fun of Hazel, unaware she had been listening. Needless to say, Hazel didn’t go trick or treating that year.

In an attempt to make her feel better, a few days later her parents offered to sign her up for guitar lessons, which she quickly agreed to, convinced this was finally the start of her path to becoming a rockstar. She figured it would be easy, and once she became a master at guitar everyone would obviously want to be her friend. After all, who didn’t want to be friends with a super rich and famous rock star? Unfortunately, apparently it is much harder to learn the guitar than it seemed, and was much harder than the songs she would play on Guitar Hero afterschool, so she quit guitar lessons. 

She decided she would put her efforts into something easier, and also way cooler, and that year for Christmas her dad bought her a drum set, and she started learning how to play the drums. Turns out it’s way more fun to learn to play an instrument when your tiny elementary-schooler fingers aren’t in almost constant pain, and you get to hit stuff with sticks and make a lot of noise.

As the years went by she got better and better at the drums, meanwhile, her parents' marriage got worse and worse. Turns out aggressively whacking your drumsticks while you drown out your thoughts by playing the drums is a very good way to deal with all the negative emotions surrounding your parents’ divorce. 

In high school she met PJ and Josie, and for the first time in years, she felt like she actually had friends. Sure, maybe Josie and PJ hung out a lot more than the three of them did, and PJ always sort of changed topics whenever Hazel brought up cool facts she found out space and NASA, and maybe she’d groan everytime Hazel mentioned Orcas, especially during the period where Orcas were frequently attacking and sinking yachts, but Hazel didn’t mind. That’s just what friends do. 

She had brought up starting a band a few times, as she knew Josie could play the guitar, (How she handled the near constant feeling of sore fingertips and the sound of your nails scratching the metal strings the wrong way was beyond Hazel, but that’s besides the point) but every time she mentioned it would be cool or fun, Josie just said she’d be too scared, and PJ said it was lame.

So imagine Hazel’s surprise when PJ comes bursting into Hazel’s dorm one day during their sophomore year of college saying they all needed to start a band. Hazel was immediately onboard, though very confused as PJ had always said it was lame when Hazel brought it up, and initially Josie was against it, as she had stage fright, but PJ wouldn’t shut up about it, swearing up and down that if they started a band chicks would be lining up just to make eye contact with them, eventually wearing Josie down and getting her to say yes.

Hazel, of course, was the drummer, Josie played the guitar, and PJ, well, for a while PJ couldn’t decide what to do besides sing, and was totally against Hazel’s idea of playing the cowbell, claiming it was “dumb” and that “no girl looks at someone playing the cowbell and gets turned on.” Josie eventually got PJ to play the tambourine though, since PJ had awful stage presence, so she needed at least something to do while singing to distract from the fact that she had no clue how to perform on a stage. Hazel had tried giving her tips a few times, but PJ never accepted the help.

This led them to their current situation, as Hazel had pulled a few strings and got her classmate who worked at a local bowling alley to convince the manager to let Hazel and her friends play gigs once or twice a week there. PJ was convinced they were going to blow up and become super famous, but they had been playing at the bowling alley for a few months now, and the only thing that seemed to be “blowing up” was the bathroom during the occasional kids birthday parties that were thrown there. Maybe they’d have at least somewhat of a following if their band had a name of some kind, (PJ swore the right name would find them when the time was right, but that had yet to happen), or if the manager let them play during special event nights, when there were actually teenagers and young adults here, but alas, they were stuck with no name, no label, and playing on a cramped stage in a shitty bowling alley while middle-aged men met for their bowling team practice and complained about their wives.

“Hey guys, not to be like a buzzkill, but I don’t think the bowling alley is the best place to do gigs.” Hazel says as she stuffs her drum sticks into her bag.

“Yeah, I think Hazel’s right. I don’t think middle-aged men who are slowly balding at their weekly bowling team meetups are a great audience.” Josie says as she zips up the bag to her guitar case.

“What are you talking about? They love us! I literally saw Steve nodding his head to one of our songs earlier!” PJ says defensively as she scoffs and gestures to where the bowling team was sitting earlier.

“He wasn’t bobbing his head, he was drunk! He almost ate shit every time it was his turn to bowl!” Josie says as she rolls her eyes.

“Wait, seriously? How does that even work?” Hazel asks as she gives Josie a confused look from where she was sitting behind the drums.

“No, not seriously, Hazel! It’s a figure of speech!” PJ says as she rolls her eyes in annoyment.

“But you said-” Hazel says as she looks over at Josie with confusion.

“I meant he kept tripping and almost falling down. You know, like when someone falls on their face or something, people say they ate shit?” Josie says as she sighs as she cuts Hazel off and explains what she meant.

“Oooh. Yeah that makes more sense, you should’ve just said that.” Hazel says as she tilts her head back a bit in realization.

“Oh my god.” PJ says with an annoyed expression on her face. “Would you guys just trust me! We are going to get noticed! I swear! Maybe not… today… or super soon… But it will happen! There’s no way it won’t! And when we do, we’re going to get super rich, and super famous, and there’s going to be girls lining the block to see us, and everyone is going to wish they were us! I’m serious!” She says as she waves her arms around dramatically as she talks.

“PJ, that’s not going to happen! Stop lying to yourself! We are playing shitty gigs on shitty days of the week at a shitty bowling alley! We’re not going to get noticed! All this is doing is tanking my English grade because I’m practicing for these stupid gigs instead of writing my essays! It’s one thing if I was getting a C because people actually enjoyed and listened to our music, but the only people who are listening to us right now are a bunch of men who are going through midlife crises and give us weird looks! If I have to listen to them talk about Jimmy Buffet one more time I am going to lose my mind, PJ!” Josie says as she hoists the guitar case over her shoulder, clearly stressed out and looking a bit frazzled at the moment.

“Okay, I don’t think-” PJ starts to say, before Josie cuts her off.

“PJ, please! I can’t keep playing at bowling alleys!” Josie cries out dramatically.

“If you guys want I can reach out to my mom or something and see if-” Hazel starts to say, trying to suggest a way they might be able to play at places other than the bowling alley.

“No!” Both PJ and Josie snap at Hazel before turning back and continuing to argue with each other, causing her to wilt back in her seat a bit at the outburst.

“Okay, you know what? Fine! You win Josie! We’ll stop playing here, and we’ll figure out a name, or just stop the band all together and we’ll all die sad, miserable, lonely deaths!” PJ says as she snaps back at Josie. As they continue to argue, Hazel’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she pulls it out to see a text from one of her classmates.

—

Emma (Calculus)

Hey! Random question, but you’re in a band, right?

—

That’s ironic. Hazel thinks to herself as she reads her classmates text and glances at PJ and Josie, who were still arguing, and looks back at her phone as she responds.

—

Hazel

Yeah! We just finished a gig! :)

—

Emma (Calculus)

Oh cool!

Are you guys free this Friday?

My brother’s throwing a party but the band he was going to have play canceled, would you guys be interested in playing? 

You don't have to be good lol, everyone will probably be super drunk anyways, he just likes live bands.

—

Hazel’s eyes go wide as she reads the text messages, blinking a few times in disbelief before looking up at PJ and Josie, who were still bickering with one another. “Guys, guys!” Hazel calls out as she tries to get their attention. “Guys, would you shut up and listen to me?” Hazel yells as she rolls her eyes, finally getting their attention.

“What do you want now, Hazel?” PJ asks as she looks at Hazel with an annoyed expression.

“I found us a gig! It’s this friday! This girl in my calculus class said her brother is throwing a party, and asked if we wanted to play!” Hazel says with an excited grin as she holds up her phone, despite the fact that PJ and Josie definitely couldn’t read it from where they were standing.

“Seriously? Holy shit! You said yes right?” PJ asks, both a shocked and excited expression on her face.

“No, because I wanted to make sure we were all free before-” Hazel starts to say before PJ cuts her off.

“Obviously we’re free! It’s a fucking party! See Josie? What’d I fucking tell you! I told you we’d get noticed!” PJ says as she hits Josie in the arm excitedly.

“We didn’t get noticed, PJ, Hazel just has friends.” Josie says as she gives PJ a look.

“So? That’s still technically getting noticed! We’re being asked to play at a party! I mean you just said you didn’t want to keep playing here, well here’s our chance! We have to do this! Just think of how many people are going to be at the party! I mean there’s gotta be at least a few girls who think we’re hot!” PJ says defensively as she rolls her eyes.

“Wait, are you only doing this to get with girls?” Hazel asks as she gives PJ a confused look. “I thought you actually wanted to be in a band and get famous and stuff.” She says as she frowns a bit.

“Yeah, I do! Because when you’re rich and famous everybody loves you and wants to be with you, and everyone who doesn’t is jealous of you and wants to be you!” PJ says with exasperation.

“Well I don’t think everyone-” Hazel starts to say, before PJ cuts her off.

“Okay, this is besides the point! We have three days before we play at the party, we need to figure out what we’re performing and find super hot outfits!” PJ says as she rolls her eyes and lets out an annoyed groan.

“Oh my god, there’s going to be so many people.” Josie says nervously as she looks away, eyes wide with fear.

“Yeah, so many people who are going to love us! This is our big break! After this we are going to become a party staple, and everyone is going to want us to play at their parties, and then from there, it’s only a matter of time before we get a record deal and become a global hit and the whole world knows our name!” PJ says excitedly as she waves her hands while she talks.

“If we’re going to play at parties and be super big and famous, don’t we kind of need a name?” Hazel says as she thinks, a confused look on her face as she looks back and forth between PJ and Josie, who both seem to remember they had yet to figure out a band name.

“We’ll do that tomorrow! We’ll all meet up and figure out a name for the band! It’ll be easy!” PJ says as she shrugs and looks at Josie and Hazel.

I hope you guys like the first chapter lol. I'm trying to update as frequently as I can but I do have work and college so bare with me lol. also lmk if you want me to make a tag list!! dividers from @saradika and @animatedglittergraphics-n-more graphic made by me lol

[savagewildnerness]

How very dare Sam Reid stop right there as he's talking on playing the "version" of Lestat at the trial, saying "...but also it was kind of lonely as well, because... I'll stop..." SAM THAT IS THE EXACT PLACE NOT TO STOP!!!

I imagine he was going to say something about it feeling lonely to not be able to play a real character as you understand them...? Because here he has to play Armand's version of Lestat, with maybe a bit of Louis' Lestat (let's say... we haven't seen it yet, of course.) I honestly can't explain to you how unnerving I found Lestat in episode 3. I think the best expression of it is that on a purely aesthetic level, Lestat has never looked better to me than in his Harlequin attire, yet I can't *like* Harlequin Lestat at ALL because he may as well be a walnut shell without the walnut that is Lestat's SOUL within, for all the Lestat I feel from him and it is like a bottomless well to not feel the character you know Sam can give within that being! I found it personally sad that the first moments of The Vampire Lestat and the wolfkiller cloak we ever see are this not-Lestat. But y'know... it's the story.

And so, in the trial, well, the stakes are SO much higher. But if Lestat isn't real-Lestat, he also cannot interact with any other character as real-Lestat would and so surely in the mind of the actor it must constantly JAR against who you understand you are. And then, like how do you do it? Do you play 100% the version the person telling the story is presenting the character you are as? Do you add a layer of the actual character under it? I don't know what Sam has done here. But I did not feel real Lestat at all in Armand's Harlequin version (well, at least only in fleeting moments - for example when he dismantles the coven as that's the closest to real events... and that's still SO different, with Gabrielle obviously not there...)

Anyway, Jacob - Delainey, Sam... if you want us to "not think about it too much" you're absolutely in the wrong place!! Jacob! The birds are Louis fearing HE might go insane, in exactly the same way Paul did!!!

Interesting that that was supposed to be a bird in the throat... as it looks like... but the subtitles say it is a bat!!

Also I NEED TO HEAR Concerto for gashed throat and orchestra. I'm just saying - for me, it literally cannot be *too* weird. That's not a thing.

I'm also curious that the bondage vibe between Louis and Armand was supposed to be much more heightened... it would have given more context to Louis's vibe with Armand if we'd seen that. I'm very curious to hear more about that.

Interesting interview in any case, yay. Though it makes me nervous for the trial. I absolutely need an interviewer who could have got out of Sam whatever he was going to say next there though! That is not a place you can leave it! Lock the door till that sentence is complete. hahaha!

[where-theres-smoak-2]

I am fascinated by the interactions between chani and gurney and chani and Jessica. Here you have three people who are very important to paul and who care about him deeply but who all represent different parts of his identity. Jessica represents the bene gesserit and Kwisatz Haderach part of him, gurney the atriedes Duke, and chani his fremen side. What's interesting is they all want to protect paul, but each of them have a very different idea of how to protect him. For Jessica it's by using the power of the prophecy and Paul's power as the Kwisatz Haderach. For gurney its about military power, the atomics and the fremen army. And when it comes to chani well she's more interested in protecting his soul, helping him stay who he has chosen to be. However chani's want to protect paul more emotionally puts her at odds with gurney and Jessica who seem more concerned with his physical safety, which leads to some interesting interactions.

Chani very obviously mistrusts and dislikes both Jessica and gurney and I get the feeling she puts up with them because she knows they are important to paul. But she also knows that they both have there own ideas of who paul should be, she knows that they both want paul to grasp for power and she knows this could change paul, that it could take him away from her and we see this in the scene where she asks if he'll always be with her, it's showing that fear she has that he won't be.

There's that really interesting scene between Jessica and chani after paul drinks the wol, where Jessica comes to wish chani luck. It's interesting to me that Jessica seemed to have the desire to fix the relationship between chani and paul, she kind of advocates for him by telling chani he didn't have a choice. We see earlier as well when she tells paul that she's sorry about chani, thing is I actually do think she means it, I think she is genuinely sorry that her getting what she wants has caused this rift between paul and chani, almost like she feels a bit of guilt over it but still believes her means justified the end. It's the same when she wishes chani luck for the fight ahead, I genuinely think Jessica doesn't want any harm to come to chani. I do wonder if this is because paul and chani remind her of the love she herself had with leto and maybe she wishes in an ideal world paul could have both be the Kwisatz Haderach but also still be with chani, but I could be misinterpreting that.

Chani's response to Jessica wishing her luck is honestly understandable, zendaya did such a good job delivering that line, 'I'd wish you the same, but it seems you've already won your battle.' It's so full of bitterness but it's also chani calling Jessica out, she's come here all pleading almost and almost with an olive branch but chani is having none of it. As angry as she is at paul for drinking the wol, she knows that Jessica put a lot of work into manipulating both her people and paul, fanning the flames of the prophecy. They were both kind of battling over Paul's soul in a way and Jessica just won that battle, which makes chani feel bitter and angry and I think she holds a lot of resentment towards Jessica.

Then we have those scenes with gurney. As I said above it was clear from the moment he showed up that chani didn't trust gurney and again its understandable considering one of the earliest interactions they have is her overhearing gurney trying to persuade paul into using the prophecy and the fremen army to avenge his father. We get that little moment where her and paul are watching gurney trying to set up his tent and failing miserably, despite her mistrust of gurney when Paul says he is family chani still goes to help gurney showing that she is willing to put aside that mistrust for Paul's sake.

Then we have the war council scene where gurney very much is almost controlling chani, pulling her down when she starts shouting about the prophecy being fake and a means to control them, stopping her from interfering when Paul makes the crowd angry and pulling her down again when everyone bows to paul. But what is interesting to me is yes gurney is constantly stopping chani because he wants paul to get power and doesn't want her getting in the way of that, but there's also this underlying concern for her I think. He says when he pulls her down the first time that she'll get herself in trouble. Maybe I am wrong, but I also feel like maybe he stopped her jumping in when Paul angered everyone, partly because he didn't want her to get hurt. When you look at gurney's character in the first film he was the loyal guard of the Atreides, it was his job to keep the family safe, the Duke, Jessica and their son paul. To me it makes sense then that now that he sees paul as the Duke, he sees chani as he sees Jessica as the duke's lady/partner. So it would make sense if he feels a certain obligation to protect chani and keep her out of harms way.

It's fascinating to me how you've got these three individuals who all care about paul and who are all important to him and yet they are all kind of obstacles to each other's own motivations when it comes to paul and on chani's part there is also that mistrust and dislike over what Jessica and gurney are doing to paul. But despite that there still seems to be this concern for chani's safety from both Jessica and gurney, like they know what it would do to paul if harm were to come to her. They all come from different places and have different wants and views yet they are all connected by that one thing, their love for paul, and I just think that brings about some really interesting dynamics between the three of them.

[good-to-drive]

Do you think that George and John would have fixed their relationship had John lived past 1980? Because I don't.

I'm probably the wrong person to ask about this because in general I'm not a fan of speculating about what a person would or wouldn't have done had they lived. One of my favorite pieces of advice I ever got was when I was tutoring disadvantaged students during college (the best job I've ever had) and my supervisor told me potential is unknowable by definition. Meaning it's just as misguided and counterproductive to say someone has a lot of potential as to say they have no potential, because that's just not how that word works. Partly because people are dynamic and changeable but also because there are recesses of our character that no one, including ourselves, can be aware of.

So I truly don't know what would have happened between them, and I don't think you know either if I'm being totally honest. But, to throw all that out the window and speculate anyways, I think the most realistic answer is: Possibly.

I think it's fair to say that John and George were both highly mutable individuals, and that of the four beatles they spent the most time and energy trying to understand the self and achieve some kind of self awareness and personal growth (even if those attempts were sometimes misguided -- I'm looking at you, primal therapy). And I think in this case their mutability is both a complicating factor and an indication that reconciliation really was a true possibility for them. 

John was making enormous strides in his mental and emotional health at the time of his death, and it's entirely possible that might have led him to feel differently about George over time, or to simply decide he didn't want to put energy towards being angry at him anymore. (Not to equate letting go of anger with being adapted/self-aware – just that that’s one way growth can manifest, it’s definitely not the only one or the best one.) 

For his part, George was very vocal both musically and irl about all the ways he felt he needed to change/grow, though of course whether he ever got there is a difficult question to answer. His views on forgiveness are really interesting here (and sometimes a little magnanimous, tbh) but one thing that initially surprised me is that Paul credits George with convincing him to forgive Yoko.

(Which I guess just surprised me because I always believed the conventional wisdom that Paul is the sweetie and George is the cranky guy, but obviously that's a very limited snapshot of both of them.)

Anyways, to me the fact that George was putting time and energy towards learning to love Yoko implies that he may have been hoping or wanting to relearn his love for John as well (if he hadn't already.)

So I do think it’s possible that at some point in the last 40 years they’d both have been in a mental space to want to interact positively with one another again. It's not something that was guaranteed to happen, and I don't think we can even fairly say it was probable or improbable because that implies a level of knowledge of their souls that no one has or has ever had, but it's not outside the realm of possibility.

On a related note, another thing I've found kind of profound in analyzing the beatles (or anyone) is the line “The wounds of childhood do not heal” (Maryse Condé, Crossing the Mangrove.) Which is to say that the pain we experience as children shapes us so profoundly that every experience we have as adults is seen through the lens of that pain, and we reenact our childhood and our childhood family systems again and again without healing.

Now, in the case of the beatles, I think it’s a little blurry what constitutes childhood and what constitutes a family system (“family” system being a misnomer because every close collection of people has the tendency to form a system). Because they found each other as adolescents, and went through a life changing and arguably traumatic experience at a very young age that no one else could ever understand, the system they formed shaped them very powerfully and the wounds it instilled probably never healed, either. 

I guess that's my way of saying that the four of them had kind of an extended adolescence, and they continued to reenact the system they built as adolescents in order to survive the insanity they were living in well into adulthood.

Since George was something akin to a forgotten child in this system, and Paul was something akin to a golden child, (both of which are miserable, horrible ways to live, btw – this trend of using golden child to mean “spoiled” is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen and also incredibly destructive to people who have actually experienced that trauma) those two really did have a tendency to be at odds with one another throughout their entire adult lives.

(Obligatory reminder that this is wild speculation and I'm not their therapist, or indeed any kind of therapist at all.)

But I think it’s that (and the fact that we tend to analyze anyone who touched Paul’s life purely through the lens of Paul) which tends to make people think George was fundamentally opposed to forgiving people who’d hurt him or allowing systems to adapt over time, even if that assumption doesn't really bear out in any of his other relationships. And, obviously, it's a little tricky to try to transplant the Paul/George relationship onto the John/George relationship and equate or even compare the two, because John played a very different role in the system and was a very different person from Paul.

Also, the fact that the wounds of childhood do not heal absolutely does not imply that we'll always be a slave to them. Crossing the Mangrove is an amazing book about decolonization and intergenerational trauma but one of its most powerful themes was the idea that we can continue to build ourselves and build our world in the shadow of enormous pain. And we'll always be informed by that pain, but being informed isn't the same as being defined.

All this is just to say it's very hard to anticipate what kind of changes John and George would have undergone in the last 20-40 years and whether those changes would have brought them closer together (or, if not closer together, would have encouraged a sense of acceptance towards one another.)

I also think there’s a conversation to be had about whether rebuilding that friendship would have actually been for the best for their mental and emotional wellbeing (a LOT of children from toxic family systems ultimately come to find that sorting through the pain isn’t worth it for the chance of reconciliation and that’s okay), but this is already way too long lol. 

Anyways, thanks for the ask and sorry this turned into such a novel!

[bennett-mikealson]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3arAh1DNiPM

Kat even mentions in this video how close her and Claire was. So it's just down right cruel to utilize that on-screen. Also about her and Paul, them being a trio in season 4 would have been iconic and make that season way less garbage.

Exactly, why try to focus pointless friendships between Rebekah and Caroline or Rebekah and Elena when you already establish that Caroline and Elena didn’t like Rebekah instead of giving us bonbekah moments.

This reminds me of the same thing that happened with Klonnie. Before Joseph was given a love interest on the show him and Kat made it know that they got along well behind the scenes. Kat even talked about how she caught Joseph watching a Klonnie shipping video (making it know that they both were aware that people were shipping their characters together). They both even supported the idea of Klonnie having more scenes together. Then all of a sudden Joseph is being paired with Candice for klaroline when their characters had no interactions. It’s funny bc even tho klaroline became a pair Joseph still publicly vouched for Klonnie. 

It’s like the writers purposely pushed Kat away from any well loved characters to sideline Bonnie/Kat even more than they already did in and outside the show. Like a big slap in the face; I don’t respect or like you so I’ll make your character suffer as well.

The same thing happened with Paul bc in season one Bonnie and Stefan had so many good scenes together and people would ship Bonnie and Stefan given Paul and Kat’s Chemistry. Then suddenly Caroline and Stefan are getting more screen time together and are now besties even tho Stefan barely acknowledged Caroline in season 1 nor cared for her. Bonnie was the one he would go out of his way to be friends with and care for. Stans always use that time Kat said she couldn’t focus around Paul bc they would laugh and joke around as a way to explain why Bonnie and Stefan began to have less screen time together but I think it’s simply bc the writers didn’t want Bonnie having any shine. Especially with the main character who are the viewers loved.

When it comes to Bonnie, Stefan and Rebekah being a trio I can see it. To go deeper since season 4 Bonnie was “dark” and was obviously struggling dealing with Shane’s/Silas’s mind manipulation, understanding expression and balancing family issues with her mother and father being around Stefan and Rebekah being friends to her would of been fresh and nice to see. Especially when Bonnie already seen the dark side of Stefan (ripper side) and in season 3 Bonnie work with a dark side of Stefan (no humanity) it would of been cool if the writers make Bonnie a source of light, hope or peace for Stefan at that time he was going through things then turn around in do the same with Stefan for Bonnie. Then adding in Rebekah as a fresh face bringing in her good vibes would have been fun as well. Imagine Rebekah taking 2 of the most serious and reserved characters in the show loosing them up and having a good time. That would of been good to see. And since both Stefan and Rebekah both knew Bonnie’s ancestors (Ayana and Grams) them sitting around, chillin and telling Bonnie stories about their time with her ancestors would have been such sweet moments for Bonnie. Especially since she was going through her dark time and rarely got any Intel on her ancestors.

The amazing storylines that could of came from Bonnie were endless. It annoyed me so make hearing that the writers excuse for not writing Bonnie better was them just not knowing what to do with her when it was obvious that they could but didn’t want to. You claim you don’t know what to do with Bonnie or how to write her but when you need a quick fix Bonnie’s there for you. They would even add onto Bonnie’s family dynamics to push forward other storylines while making it have no true connection back to Bonnie nor caring how it affected her negatively. So when you need to push the plot all of a sudden you know how to write for Bonnie but when it comes to caring for Bonnie’s character in general then it’s “oh we don’t know what to do”.

Seems fishy to me. 🤔

[sugdenlovesdingle]

Endings week Season 5 countdown tag game

Doing this right away because I'm pretty sure I forgot last week's @lonestar-s5countdown

1) Which 911 Lone Star season finale is your favorite? Gotta be season 4 - the tarlos wedding. Though season 3 with the 3:18 proposal in 3x18 was good too!

(2) What was your favorite moment from the season 4 finale? The tarlos wedding obviously. Tommy singing for them and both of them getting a little teary eyed, TK holding onto his husband's (!!!) arm, Carlos telling his mum it was the best night of his life, their vows (!!!), both of them being romantic idiots, "You are the key that unlocked me" "You are the dream I would not allow myself to have", "You saw me for the man I hadn't yet become" "I vow to take care and nurture your heart as if it was my very own", Paul officiating (!!!), the two of them in their own little bubble dancing in the background, the cake smash scene!!! (I don't care that it was deleted - it counts).

(3) Are there any storylines that you would like to see brought back for a more satisfying conclusion? Not so much a conclusion but I'd like to see Carlos' sisters again - just to see their dynamic with him some more. We barely saw them at the rehearsal dinner and then the next time was Gabriel's funeral. I want to see them tease their little brother, I want TK to join in and just interact with his in laws other than Andrea.

Or if we're going full delusion - Gabriel. He had to fake his death and now Carlos is solving his 'murder' and when the bad guy is locked up, he comes home to be with his family and see his son happily married to the love of his life.

(4) Pick one character and tell us where you hope to see them at the end of season 5. I think most of all I want *everybody* to have a happy ending. though i don't know how likely that's going to be if they really do what I think they'll do with Judd's storyline.

And maybe for Owen to have a FRIEND. No more random girlfriends young enough to be his daughter.

(5) What is one thing you really want to see before the show ends? An announcement abc (or any other network) has picked up the show? Nancy and Marjan kiss and fall in love and live happily ever after? (shush let me live in denial) On a more realistic note... I think I'd like Andrea and Owen to bond over losing their partner/the other parent of their child/children and Judd will probably be joining that club too this season I want tarlos to be a united front with whatever drama comes their way this season. No fighting between them please. I'm curious about Carlos' new work partner (RIP Lexi Mitchell, you'll always be famous) and even though I think it'll be like the Cooper of it all, I really hope it won't be. Carlos would absolutely never cheat, and TK knows it, but I don't particularly want him to be "jealous" of how much time Carlos is spending with New Guy for work. And I want at least one Catan crew hang at the tarloft. I want tarlos to be That Couple that's constantly making heart eyes at each other, telling the other they missed them when they've been apart for more than 5 minutes, just being all loved up and obnoxiously happy. Carlos went to the store to get more snacks, was gone for maybe 20 minutes, slides the door open, and TK all but jumps up from his seat to greet him with a kiss.

"Hi baby, I missed you."

"I missed you too."

Nancy *rolling her eyes* "He was gone for FIFTEEN MINUTES!"

open tag + tags under the cut

@bonheur-cafe @carlos-in-glasses @pimento-playing-hopscotch @lemonlyman-dotcom @theredandwhitequeen

@chicgeekgirl89 @bringingclawstoagunfight @nancys-braids @captain-gillian @literateowl

[stvlti]

It probably goes without saying but rewatching Dune 1 makes watching Dune 2 so much more rewarding because you notice all these little parallels between the 2 movies and how these moments are recontextualised after Paul's character journey through the Arrakis deserts. Much have been said about this topic already but I thought I'd list the parallels I found too:

"Father, I've found my way"

In Part 1, Paul shares his worries with Leto that he might not become the heir Leto hopes he would be, to which Leto says that he believes Paul will find his own way when he is called to lead. When Paul says this line in Part 2, he has made the decision to embrace the title of the Lisan Al Gaib. Obviously his late father would never have imagined his son leading a Fremen army against the Emperor as his "way to lead". Ironically though, he has inherited and executed far more successfully the same strategy his father aimed for: form an alliance with the Fremen and harness desert power against the other Houses and the Emperor himself.

"I recognised your footsteps"

Paul says this to Gurney in the training room, the first time they interact onscreen. It shows how familiar they are with each other. Gurney also raises the point that in battle, an enemy may imitate his stride. When Paul says this line in Part 2 they meet each other on the battlefield. Ironically, Paul recognising his footsteps is what saves Gurney from the Fremen's knives. (Also, it's worth pointing out that the first time Paul has a vision in the desert in Part 1, he utters this line too as Gurney comes up behind him. It's a direct parallel to when they meet each other in the deserts in Part 2.)

A frame-by-frame parallel between Paul and Chani on the battlefield

At the 1:38:55 mark, when Paul has his first vision of the Holy War, we are shown a snippet of Paul fighting alongside his army in the battlefield. He flips over several enemies as he decimates them and rises up, taking his helmet/mask off to reveal his blue-within-blue eyes. There's a shot for shot parallel of Chani doing the same thing on the battlefield in their assault on the Harkonnen's Arrakeen fortress in the last act of Part 2.

"The Emperor has no sons. His daughters have yet to marry."

This is less a parallel and more foreshadowing. Actually it's not even foreshadowing, this is the film telegraphing exactly what Paul's plan will be in Part 2: marrying Irulan to make a play for the throne. The fact that he still decides to go through with this plan, a strategy that belongs to imperial court politics and not among the Fremen fedaykin that he's come to represent in Part 2, despite the life he builds with Chani and his total assimilation into Fremen ways and customs, shows just how much his transformation into Muad'dib has and hasn't changed his path towards total dominion over the Known Universe.

"May thy knife chip and shatter."

Both films end on a duel with many parallels between the 2 duels. Part 1 ends with a fight where Jamis challenges Paul & Jessica on their place and acceptance among the Fremen. Paul volunteers as his mother's champion in this duel, just as Feyd-Rautha volunteers as the Emperor's champion in the duel for the throne at the end of the second film. In Part 1, Jamis says the famous Fremen 'battle cry' (so to speak) to Paul. By the end of Part 2, Paul who has fully assimilated into the Fremen's ways says the line to Feyd. Despite all that has changed about Paul though, he still does the Atreides salute (knife raised against his forehead) before the fight with Feyd-Rautha, just as he does in his duel with Jamis.

[enquiringangel]

Statements like: ‘None of the Lost Boys like Star’ lack a firm basis in canon. Talking just movie canon here rather than novels, scripts, etc. which actually add a bit more nuance to the whole thing.

Star's place in the story is as Michael's comphet love interest and as window dressing, because all movies must include a hot chick(tm). She has very little agency or role in the plot other than to lure Michael into the vampires' world. The story could have easily worked without her with only a few minor changes.

But that's typical of the film industry doing lady characters the dirty. We all know this. And we all know that characters of her type are widely disliked across Fandom as a whole for a bunch of reasons, one of which is probably that those of us who identify as women became sick to death of being portrayed as objects without agency because it can hit too close to home. Let's not flog that dead horse anymore.

Back to her relationship with the boys: they don't share enough screen time for us to definitively say they feel any particular way about her. Aside from Paul briefly saying "Ah, chill out girl" when she tells them off for hazing Michael, the only one who interacts with her at all is David. And that is very limited too: after the two scenes where she gets on the back of his bike, he basically pays her no attention for the rest of the movie. Though it is implied that they have some conversations off screen (about making Michael her first kill, etc.) that we don't see .

The boys' focus moves to Michael, and on male-male bonding. (I am very straight-faced while typing this.) Star fades away into the shadows during Michael's initiation not only because she was unable to stop him from making her mistake, but because her presence is unwelcome. It would be like someone's girlfriend going along to a wild bachelor party: probably doesn't happen that often and likely to be uncomfortable as hell. It's a boys' night. She'd cramp their style.

Whatever the writers' intentions may have been, any attempt at creating a rivalry between David and Michael for Star's affection falls flat on its face because David simply does not care to play that role. He does not seem to give a damn that Michael is obviously lusting after her, and shows no signs of being bothered about them sleeping together. In my view the scene where he makes Star get on the back of his bike instead of Michael's has very little to do with Star - that triumphant smirk makes it clear he's trying to get a rise out of Michael.

From the little interaction David does have with Star, I get the impression that their relationship is one of ownership. He views her as belonging to him, but obviously he has no problem sharing her if it means he gets what he wants - Michael joining them. For her part she comes across as being a little afraid of him, which is understandable considering the boys are literally horror movie monsters who brutally murder people. (Contain yourselves you monsterfuckers, yes I know, we all love them because of, rather than in spite of this.) But the way she laughs while riding on the back of his bike, the sheer joy in her eyes, it makes me think that's not all there is to it. There is happiness in her time with them as well.

[sebastianswallows]

I adored the hell out of your Feyd/girl!dad headcannons because it wasn't only well written, but yoy actually used little Marie as the inspiation and main character to Feyd. But I have one question, wgen you wrote that Margot was to go to Ksitain to answer for her crimes, do you propose that she SA' ed Feyd as you may have interpreted it from the movie, because I felt that Feyd was very willing even with being under her BG influence. As one commenter wrote, "Margot may had led Feyd to water, but he was alredy thirsty and was willing to drink,". I love hearing different opions on their interaction, so it helps me understand more fully. But I reakky do enjoy Feyd and Margot together cayse they had a lot of chemistry.

Hello! Thank you for your kind words, I'm glad you liked it! 🖤

When I was coming up with a "plot" for the headcanons (because I can never seem to just write ideas, I always have to have some longwinded narrative to it), I initially thought that Feyd would just kill Margot. And then I decided that he would very deliberately not do it in front of Marie, as it would traumatise her and it would be too much of a dick move, even for him. But then as I was writing the idea came that they'd just be upfront about what Margot did and have her tried and sentenced. That was the gentler option. Because leaving Margot alive and free would just be a danger to him at this point. He wouldn't risk her trying to get Marie back.

Now, as to whether it really was sexual assault, yeah. Rape, even.

I don't really go by the movie version when I write, mind you, I go by the books. And in the book, Feyd is indeed attracted to Margot, he even offers to dedicate his kill in the arena to her (which she rejects), although he's also slightly intimidated by her. He's just turning 17, by the way (a fact which might get lost since he always seems to be played by 32 year old actors lol). But even if he's attracted, the fact that Margot uses Bene Gesserit mind tricks on him makes it non-consensual. This aspect is more clear in the movie, because there's no scene in the book of them being alone together.

What's not in the movie, however, is that while they're having sex Margot imprints Feyd with a phrase (a meaningless prana-bindu word, specifically "uroshnor") which is meant to paralyse him temporarily if he should hear it again. It becomes relevant before Feyd's duel with Paul because Jessica, being able to tell from how Feyd walks that he's been imprinted, advises Paul to use this word if he begins to lose the fight. Paul outright refuses because he wants an "honourable" win, and it's in fact his visible, dramatic struggle over not speaking this word that confuses Feyd and gives Paul the chance to stab and kill him.

So clearly there were a lot of mind tricks involved between Margot and Feyd, and even though he would have slept with her consensually, this hypothetical scenario could not be proven in court. The only thing that can be proven is that she manipulated Feyd, and imprinted him with a word that could paralyse which, obviously, can be fatal in certain situations.

So I guess this was my version of mercy for Margot, because yeah, originally I thought Feyd would just kill her 😂 But I figured he'd be a bit more forgiving for Marie's sake.

[sineala]

Looking through the reblogs of this post with that panel from "Captain America: Sam Wilson" where Steve says Sam's Captain America, he's just Steve and you tagged it as Hydra Cap and I know it is but it still made me snort irl for some reason

I know it seems kind of silly to tag a picture where he isn't doing anything obviously evil, but I started tagging reblogs of panels like that as Hydra Cap as a courtesy to people, shortly after the Hydra Cap reveal. Since it was about two months between Steve becoming Hydra and us finding this out, that meant there were a lot of panels of Steve floating around that we hadn't known were Hydra Cap.

I know there are people who don't like anything about Hydra Cap and don't want to interact with anything Hydra Cap, period, so I wanted to make that easier for them. So that's part of it.

And even among the people who are okay with seeing Hydra Cap content -- like, speaking for myself here, I like knowing whether the Cap I'm looking at is Hydra Cap. I don't mind seeing Hydra Cap but I mind not knowing it, you know? I have some Uncanny Avengers fic from that time period that I never finished because I didn't like knowing that the Steve I was writing about turned out to be Hydra Steve. And it feels weird going back and looking at, for example, all that nice Paul Renaud art of Steve from Standoff after the deaging and seeing that I thought it was great… and now knowing that it wasn't Steve. (Honestly, I really hope the artists drawing Hydra Steve before the reveal were told who they were drawing; if I were them and I hadn't been told, I would be upset.)