#this is giving fleabag and i love it

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

Priest getou and nun reader or villager reader....(anything other than the word both isnt acceptable...😡😡😡 /j) -🪄

🪄 ANON I SEE YOU AND YOU RAISE A VALID POINT but please consider…… priest!geto and non-believer!reader.

imagine just waltzing into a church one day. almost as if on a whim. you don’t believe in god, you aren’t interested in praying, but you’re exploring this quiant little town, and the church looks pretty from afar, and you figure it could be a nice way to burn time.

you enter the building to find that a sermon is taking place. a priest is speaking to the few rows of people listening. the church is fairly small, but paintings and sculptures and the mellow glow of beautiful cathedral glass give it a sense of mystique that you’re drawn to. you take a seat and listen along, halfheartedly, not praying like the rest, not singing along to the hymns… you stick out like a sore thumb, but hey, it’s not as if anyone is paying attention.

except someone is, and it happens to be the priest that was holding the sermon just a second ago. the same one you spent most of your time oogling once the paintings started to bore you, because he’s so pretty for a priest. beautiful long black hair, amber eyes, sharp facial features, pretty hands and fingers — and the smoothest, silkiest voice you’ve heard in your life. like a sun-soaked bundle of lillies.

… also, his cassock is just a little too tight of a fit to tear your eyes away from.

you stick around a little longer once almost everyone has left, just scrolling on your phone and basking in the quiet, and that’s when he approaches you. he jokingly tells you that it’s always obvious when a non-believer enters a place of worship, but he’s not mad; he’s amused. you end up chatting a bit about your beliefs, he’s a lot more chill than you expected, and…. well. he’s just really, really charming.

so maybe you end up coming back the week after. maybe his smile is a bit like a spider’s web. maybe it becomes a kind of routine to speak to him after his sermons; you still don’t sing along to the hymns or spend any time on prayers, and he still finds it funny. maybe once in a while you end up liking a paragraph from the scripture he’s reciting, and he’s always more than happy to discuss it with you. but mostly you’re there for him. for your chats, for standing outside and badgering him about his beliefs while he smokes and listens with an amused grin.

rain hits the ground with a steady rhythm, earthy tobacco floods your veins, spiders by the ceiling weave a web of dew, and his presence is just a little more intoxicating than you’d deem appropriate.

suguru just… isn’t a very orthodox priest. he doesn’t care for the bible as more than a literary piece, he has his own view of god, his own thoughts on worship. he smokes. he may or may not occasionally manipulate church-goers into donating money so he can invest in another overpriced painting. you ask him if there are any bodies in the basement you should know about, and he answers that any self-respecting priest wouldn’t conduct their blood rituals in the basement of their own church. he knows how to pick locks. he tells you once, very quietly, that he doesn’t believe man was created in god’s image. there’s a look in his eyes that you don’t comment on.

he’s funny. charming. pleasantly suspicious. your conversations are enjoyable for the both of you, and eventually the edges of his cedar eyes begin to crinkle the slightest bit whenever you walk into his field of vision. sometimes he eyes your lips for a little too long, and a honeyed irony seeps into his grin when you call him out on it. he asks you if you’re tempting him on purpose, and you shrug. whatever exists between the two of you remains unspoken.

one day, he tells you that he believes it was god who sent you to him. you furrow your brows with a protest, a mutter reminding him of your beliefs, how you believe in free will — how you waltzed into his church out of your own volition. no one else’s.

he only smiles, and flicks the butt of his cigarette. you think he remains unconvinced.

[feral-teeth]

Friendly reminder that you don’t deserve bad things to happen to you. You don’t deserve to be in pain. Even if you said something mean or bad or wrong or feel like you did something bad and even it was on purpose. You don’t deserve bad things to happen to you. No matter what.

[zevranunderstander]

idk how to phrase this but like. people retroactively calling Fleabag a privileged, dissociative portrayal of feminism which is Bad, Actually, are lowkey deranged to me because, yeah, Fleabag IS about the expierience of womanhood. but like. through the lens of ONE woman? like, nowhere in the show is it ever implied that fleabag's expieriences are supposed to be universal, relateable core pillars to womanhood?

its almost like half of the population of the world is female and I think it's kind of weird that all stories about women always have to be feminist and activist, and can not just be an exploration of an imperfect woman, they have to be correct about *all* of womanhood?

i also think that the people saying this don't really understand the character of fleabag and i do think that the show is feminist in many ways, but even when no person working on this show would have had any intention of making this a "feminist story", i think that would have been their right to do that?

breaking bad, fight club, american psycho, lolita, etc. all tell the stories of white men who are objectively horrible people. and these stories still treat these characters with a level of empathy and understanding of how they got there and why they are like that. the stories don't excuse their behavior because of that, they are simply a fictional analysis of a person who is not virtuous or good in a lot of ways.

but women, people of color, disabled people, and other minorities are never given the same right to just tell a story about a character, the character has to be virtuous, a good role model, a representation of their whole group, likeable, flawed only in an "unproblematic" way, never make a bad decision, and its insanely limiting in what stories can be told by writers, when they want the approval of the general audience

and i so genuinely want more fleabag women, who may interact with feminism, but who are actual human beings in a real world, who have real flaws and who can be selfish and cruel, but who are still treated with empathy by the story

[methewizard]

Like Fleabag, Crashing is sharp and darkly funny. It’s bursting with sad and self-conscious people awkwardly grappling for a connection.

I just finished watching Crashing and yes yes yes give it to me I love that trope I love it so MUCH!!! People trying to find connection with each other and stumbling through life one awkward, messy situation at a time?? And then realising that they're all aching for the same feelings fundamentally and learning to love their life and the people around them?? Sprinkle a bit of found family on there and it's OVER for me I'm DONE IT'S ALL I NEED

[borbealis]

and everything i do— it makes me think of her. and i can never get away from the joy that loving her created. and i can never get away from the gaping hole that is all i have left. 

and i hurt unbearably everyday and i miss her

and it never ends

[vividgoth]

Going through the Fleabag tag and every post is about that fuckass priest and not a moment of the wonderful fucking heartwrenching season of television I just watched

[atlasshrugd]

all hot priest needed was a therapy session with fiona shaw’s character and he’d be back with fleabag in no time

[engineering-myself]

My only beef with this season of ted lasso: needs more Sam

[pladoskif]

OKAY HEAR ME OUT FOR A SECOND

I’ve just come up with a parallel improbable and, at the same time quite fitting…y’all are gonna hate this.

Just imagine them as Dido and Aeneas…

“Oh, I don’t

know what

this feeling is…”

“Is it God

or is it me?” “It’s God,

isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

[happyfreeconfusedaandlonely]

my tell-tale sign of detachment is not liking your stories anymore

[avengers-rule103]

(i need to know if a fanfic exists where the priest chooses fleabag. i need to know if someone, anyone, has rewritten the ending, i need to KNOW. and i need to read it asap please. because i am still devestated. absolutey wrecked. "it'll pass" no, no it won't. give me my happy ending damn it.)

[earthpit]

Just hurt my own feelings thinking about Tim stoker

[seducteurs]

kiissme​:

muse — FAYE BROOKES. 35. bisexual. journalist / aspiring publisher. karen gillan fc. plot — it's the holidays and faye has no choice but to visit her family back in glasgow, scotland for the holidays. her mother, ever the church go'er has invited the new young priest for the first family dinner, years spent in catholic school had taught faye to not engage with men of the cloth, but your muse is proving to be quite...different. smut and angst abound, muse can be scottish, can be not. inspo.

               It was her childhood bedroom, in the home she grew up, the city she was born into, and she felt like she was a teenager again, smoking out the window so the smell wouldn't linger in the room and her mother would have something to say about it. Was it ridiculous that a grown woman sought to avoid a lecture from her mother? Absolutely. Then again, being back made her feel like a teenager in all sense of the word. Inhaling deep, it gave a bit of warmth in the crisp Scotland air as she held the smoke and then exhaled, finding her nerves relaxing at least a bit after what was supposed to be a calm, happy family dinner. But, Sheila Brookes was a woman that was almost as inquisitive as her journalist daughter, except her questions were more invasive. Not that she would ask Faye about her work — w e l l, not entirely true. She asked one question and then followed up about any romantic prospects the redhead had. Which was ridiculous, in her mind, her love life certainly active but not at all lasting. Certainly not something she could openly talk to her mother about, at any rate. Perhaps she would tell her uncle about her latest exploits when she was set to meet up at his pub and after a few drinks, but certainly not her mother, and most definitely not at the dinner table with their guest. Sprung last minute on Faye, dressed in casual attire that for a panicked moment, Faye worried this was to be a blind date or set up concocted by her mother. But oh no, it was much worse. Though dressed casual, he was, in fact, the new priest that came into the city and it took all of Faye to not laugh outright when it was explained. Of course her mother would invite a priest the night Faye flew back home! She was surprised Sheila didn't suggest a baptism renewal or some other god awful thing right there at dinner, to wash away the sin from Faye's body. For fuck's sake, she thought, going for another drag, at least thankful it wasn't her ex that came to supper, small favors and all that —

               A knock on the door and a second later it opened. A bit rude, she thought, not waiting for an answer, turning her head to see the holy vessel themselves at her doorway. She let out a soft huff, taking a moment to take yet another drag as she looked at them, "You won't tell me ma, would you, Father? I dunno if smokin' in my mother's house is a sin per say, though I'm sure in her book, not so much yours." She couldn't help the snark out of her voice, she never much done well with his type, the holy type, so quick to judge and condemn her. Tapping her cigarette at the ash tray she smuggled in, she let out a sigh, "If your lookin' for the toilet, it's the other end of the hallway, unless you want a smoke yourself. I think you lot can do that... Not rightly sure."

      in what oliver was considering to be his quarter life crisis, he felt as though all the years he’s spent on this earth thus far had amounted to nothing. he’d been working as a copywriter for years since graduating top of his class with a degree in liberal arts, but the longer he sat behind his computer screen and spewed work for a voice that was not his own, the less invested in his own future he became. he’d never imagined himself here, though. growing up with a scottish mother and a sicilian father, religion was always something that lingered in his household though the young creative never thought much about it. he’d just ooh and ahh at the trinkets his father would bring home from the motherland, bits and bobs and even at one point, a rosary said to have been touched to the last known piece of the cross jesus himself was crucified to. surely as a child this seemed massive to him, but the novelty of it all wore off when the soft spot on his head began to form up and he was able to see it all through a much larger lens than the one his parents curated for him. 

      why religion, then, if it was now seen to the writer as fallacies from generations past simply looking for something to believe in? that was exactly it. he could make nice and wear the cassok robes with his little clerical collar and bow his head during sermons and tell those who instill their faith and trust in him to reroute it to the big guy in the sky, but oliver’s real interest lied within watching people fall to their knees all because they believed in something so wholly. his mode of thinking was maybe if he’d spend a year or two doing this, either he’d learn to believe in himself and his talents or maybe it’d all make for a good tell-all. i spent two years in a scottish monastery and all i got was this stupid collar. 

      something he hadn’t accounted for was the actual attendees of the church wanting to welcome the new young, american priest into the communities and in this case - their homes. he didn’t know what to expect from the dinner but he could lead a prayer over a roast dinner and some red wine, spouting off the same three tales from the bible he’s sure anyone in the city of glasgow could recite at this point. nerves all but simmer when the room he was hoping was the bathroom was occupied by who only assumed could be shiela’s daughter that she’d mentioned was visiting. despite being surrounded by the accent all day, he found it interesting the way the rugged tone seemed to stop there, not at all matching the redhead who stood before him. a few beats pass as if to listen for any other movement in the house before he’s settling his frame further into the room, watching as a plume of smoke nearly dances from the window along with the chilly winter breeze. “i’d actually love a drag, if you could spare it.” he says finally, aware that it was a frowned upon habit that he missed sorely. “and it’s not exactly allowed. sort of a hush-hush thing if you choose to indulge.” he answers her question before finally closing the door behind him. “i take it you’re faye? your mother has told me a lot about you. she seems really excited that you’re here. i’m oliver.” a hand extends to meet hers in a shake. 

[teddylupin]

.

[deluxeyellowflower]

Tag Game: Eight Shows to Get to Know Me

@myfawnwy tagged me in this!

Halt and Catch Fire

Bojack Horseman

Russian Doll

Over the Garden Wall

Station Eleven

The Expanse

The Haunting of Bly Manor

Mobile Suit Gundam Unicorn RE:0096

Honorable mentions: Derry Girls, Gentleman Jack, Fleabag, Death Parade, Pride and Prejudice (1995), Howard’s End (2017)

Dishonorable mentions: BBC Sherlock, Shugo Chara

I’m not the sort of person to @ people but if you see this and want to participate, feel free to @ me hehe.