#unapologetically catholic

[jewish-sideblog]

The way Phoenix and Maya BOTH forget it’s Christmas on December 25th, and have to be reminded by a murder investigation? An obvious indication that Phoenix is Jewish and Maya is Buddhist. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk, you can find wild speculation and headcanons in the tags

[inspiredbyjesuslove]

[raspberryconverse]

Coming home from the grocery store, we turned down our alley and saw two boys (late teens or early 20s) walking hand in hand. It made my heart so happy 🥰

[hcneymooners]

⋆ arcane but it's a private university au ( for the girls: pt. ii )

ice princess!f!reader x multi. f!characters. men & minors dni.

synopsis: private university!arcane headcanons but it’s really specific bc it’s based on my time at catholic private school except this au is just a private hold the catholic.

cw: this part contains scenarios for jinx, sevika, & ambessa. writing for jinx was actually my favorite portion (ambessa, please forgive me.) suggestive content. notes: i love them so bad. you can find part one here. i didn't include the intro since i did it in the first one! i love you.

jinx : the "bad influence." 

୨୧ the two of you met mid-sprint, fleeing a party broken up by the police. it was one of those raw, electric moments where adrenaline surges and strangers become allies in chaos.

୨୧ in the frenzied escape, she tripped, her knees hitting the pavement hard. without hesitation, you yanked her up, kicking away an overzealous officer with surprising precision.

୨୧ all you caught were glimpses: two impossibly long blue braids swinging like a pendulum and wide, heavily-lashed pink eyes that lingered on yours, a strange curiosity etched into their neon stare.

୨୧ your fingers found hers without thinking, and together you ran—your heeled feet stumbling across glitter-streaked concrete littered with shattered glass and discarded red cups.

୨୧ the chase ended in a hole-in-the-wall thai spot, rain pouring in sheets outside. bundled in your oversized vintage fur coat, dark brown and impossibly warm, you glanced at her—soaked, shivering, and unapologetically smug.

୨୧ against every instinct, you shifted, lifting the bulk of your coat to drape over her smaller frame. pressed close, you felt the cold bite of her skin and the cherry tang of her perfume, thick and sharp. her stomach—toned, pale, and adorned with vibrant tattoos—drew your attention as it flexed when she flagged down the waitress.

୨୧ she was so deeply beautiful and so fucking close to you and you’re shivering and wet together.

୨୧ silence settled between you as she grew overly familiar, stealing bites from your plate and feeding you egg rolls with a crooked grin. her nails scraped against your bottom lip, and she laughed when you blinked, stunned, swallowing more than just food.

୨୧ at some point, she leaned in, stealing a sip from your drink, her lips lingering on the rim.

୨୧ you paid.

୨��� "thanks, ice princess," she murmured as you left. only then did it hit you—she knew you. you must’ve crossed paths on campus, and yet, she felt like a stranger from a different world.

୨୧ she pressed a glossy pink kiss to your cheek, saluted with mock reverence, and vanished into the seedy underbelly of the city.

୨୧ you thought about her for weeks.

୨୧ you didn’t expect to see her again. but days later, there she was on campus, leaning against the vending machine in your dorm building like she belonged there.

୨୧ “ice princess,” she greeted, that crooked grin pulling at her lips. “guess we’re neighbors.”

୨୧ you didn’t know what to say. it was one thing to pull a stranger out of trouble and share a meal in some forgotten corner of the city. it was another to see her here, part of your world, like she’d been there all along.

୨୧ she started showing up more often after that—slipping into your study sessions at the library, tagging along when you grabbed coffee. she was loud and reckless, her laughter echoing off the quiet walls, drawing stares that you pretended not to notice.

୨୧ it wasn’t long before she started pushing you out of your comfort zone. sneaking you into underground parties, dragging you to rooftop hangouts where the city stretched out beneath you, glittering and endless.

୨୧ she made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.

୨୧ you couldn’t stop staring at her tattoos, the colorful, intricate designs that covered her stomach and arms. one night, without thinking, you reached out to trace a line along her skin.

୨୧ she caught your hand before you could pull back, her fingers curling around yours. “you like ‘em, huh, mama?” she said, her voice low and teasing. your cheeks burned, and you stammered something incoherent, but she only laughed, pressing your palm flat against her stomach. “gonna get one just for you. we can match.”

୨୧ she had a habit of being overly familiar—feeding you bites of her food, letting her fingers linger against your lips as you swallowed. one time, her thumb brushed your bottom lip, and you caught her smirk as she let her teeth graze her fork, slow and deliberate.

୨୧ you knew you were falling for her. it was impossible not to. the way she leaned in close when she talked, her perfume sweet and enticing, her lips always just a little too close. the way she made you feel like the only person in the room, even in a crowd.

୨୧ not everyone saw her the way you did. when someone from your social circle made a snide comment about her, you didn’t hesitate to defend her. “she’s smarter than all of you combined,” you snapped, your voice colder than ice. “and she’s got more heart than you’ll ever understand.”

୨୧ it was after that that she started pulling away. her laughter came less easily, her touch less frequent.

୨୧ “you don’t get it,” she told you one night, her voice brittle. “i’m… broken. you shouldn’t—”

୨୧ “jinx,” you interrupted, your tone firm but gentle. “i’m from a legacy family. and, according to my family, i "choose" to like girls. i’m definitely fucked up. so how could i judge you?”

୨୧ she stared at you for a long moment, her eyes softening, and for the first time, she was at a loss for words.

୨୧ your first kiss wasn’t rushed or reckless. it was quiet, heavy with the weight of everything building between you. 

୨୧ you were sitting together on the roof of her sister’s apartment, the city lights stretching out below, and she was looking at you like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

୨୧ “you’re staring,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

୨୧ “yeah,” she said, her grin softer than you’d ever seen it. “so what?”

୨୧ before you could answer, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours like a question. when you didn’t pull away, she kissed you deeper, her hand cupping your jaw, her thumb tracing your cheekbone.

୨୧ she tasted like strawberry chapstick and danger, and you never wanted to let her go. when she finally pulled back, her forehead resting against yours, she smiled.

୨୧ “told you,” she murmured, her voice soft and warm. “you’re stuck with me now.”

୨୧ you smiled back, cheeks aching. "i'm not stuck. i'm right where i want to be." ୨୧ she leaned back, dragging you into her lap. a slender finger dipped into your skirt's waistband and fingered the lace dip of your panties. your breath hitched, and she kissed your throat. "c'mon. lemme hear you, mama."

୨୧ from that moment on, you were hers—completely, irrevocably hers.

p.s you say fuck it, choose her over your fuck ass homophobic family, get disowned, get married, start a million dollar engineering empire, & have isha. 

sevika: the older student.

୨୧ you first noticed her in your advanced biochem lab—all sharp angles and calculated movements, her mechanical arm gleaming under fluorescent lights as she measured solutions with military precision. 

୨୧ sevika was notorious among grad students: brilliant, ruthless, and absolutely not interested in working with undergrads. which made it particularly unfortunate when professor silco paired you together for the semester's research project.

୨୧ she was older than most students—whispers said she dropped out years ago and came back after “handling some things.” no one was brave enough to ask what that meant, but her reputation kept most people at arm’s length.

୨୧ her expression when your name was called could have curdled milk. you lifted your chin, met her gaze steadily, and pretended your heart wasn't racing. 

୨୧ sevika didn’t bother to introduce herself. she just crossed her arms over her broad chest and grumbled, “you’re doing the talking.” her voice was low, almost lazy.

୨୧ "i'm not carrying dead weight," she said at your first session. you noticed a scar bisecting her left eye, the way her jaw clenched when she spoke. "if we're doing this, we do it my way." “thought you said i’d be talking,” you snapped back.

୨୧ 'her way' meant late nights in the lab, your designer clothes traded for practical cotton, hair pulled back from your face. she worked you relentlessly, expecting perfection in every measurement, every calculation. but beneath her harsh exterior, you caught glimpses of something else—the way she'd correct your form without mockery, how she'd appear with coffee when your hands started shaking from exhaustion.

୨୧ it was after one of these late sessions that it happened. you were walking back to your dorm, mind fuzzy with fatigue and feet stumbling, when rough hands grabbed you from behind. before you could scream, a low voice cut through the darkness: "let her go, or i remove your hands permanently."

୨୧ sevika stood there, golden eyes burning in the streetlight, her mechanical arm whirring softly. the would-be mugger took one look at her and ran. you stayed frozen, heart thundering in your chest, until she clicked her tongue in disapproval. “get it together, princess. come on."

୨୧ she led you to an alcove and watched you flutter with delayed panic like a bird, mouth twisted with an unreadable expression. "you need to learn to defend yourself," she said finally. it wasn't a suggestion. you opened your mouth to argue, but she cut you off. “gym. tomorrow. six am. wear something you can actually move in."

୨୧ that's how you found yourself spending your mornings with sevika, learning to throw punches and break holds. she was a harsh teacher, but her hands were surprisingly gentle when correcting your stance. "again," she'd say, and you'd try to ignore how your skin tingled where she touched.

୨୧ soon enough, she started showing up wherever you were—whether it was a coffee shop, the library, or your favorite bench on campus. “just passing through,” she claimed. still, the way she always ended up sitting beside you said otherwise. she knew you were anxious, your body tensing whenever someone passed by. your airpods haven’t been in noise cancellation mode for three weeks.

୨୧ her mechanical arm fascinated you. one day, you asked about it, your curiosity outweighing your hesitation. she shrugged, but you caught the faintest twitch of a smile when you told her you thought it was beautiful.

୨୧ the project evolved, and so did whatever was growing between you. she started letting you help maintain her arm, teaching you the intricate mechanisms. your fingers would brush as you worked, and sometimes she'd let them linger. "careful," she'd murmur, but you were never sure if she meant with the machinery or with her.

୨୧ in these moments, she had a way of looking at you that made your stomach flip—like she was sizing you up, deciding if you’re worth her time. 

୨୧ you began to seek her out. the first time you loitered in the parking lot of her condo, fingers twitching nervously as you texted that you stopped by. she opened the door and lounged against the doorway, thick thighs bared by her boxers and skin gleaming from a recent workout. she laughed as you gasped and turned away.

୨୧ “what the fuck, sevika!” “princess, we have the same parts. they probably would feel real nice pushed togeth—“ “SEVIKA.”

୨୧ she pushed you out of your comfort zone in quiet, deliberate ways. you’re dragged to the campus bar, taught how to play pool (and lose), and laughing when you scratch on the break. “you’re hopeless, princess,” she teased, her smirk revealing her perfect gap teeth.

୨୧ her teasing was relentless, and she always called you “princess” and sometimes “baby girl” like it was on your birth certificate. you flushed every time, which only encouraged her.

୨୧ the first time you successfully pinned her during a self-defense session, she actually laughed—a rich, surprised sound that made your heart stutter. "not bad, baby girl,” she said, still beneath you, her organic hand warm on your hip. you became acutely aware of your position, of how close her face was to yours. neither of you moved for a long moment.

୨୧ if you’re becoming way too possessive of her, sue you. you’re the only undergrad who’s smuggled yourself under her wing and you’d like to keep it that way, goddamnit. you were never good at sharing anyway.

୨୧ it came to a head at an afterparty, your eye twitching as you watched some bitch (sorry!) trace her talons across sevika’s waist, which was framed admirably by a dark pair of jeans that were practically painted on.

୨୧ it only took a few seconds for you to stomp across the room and root a hand around her neck, drawing her into a searing kiss. you kissed her like you were trying to draw juice from her lips, moaning as she tugged you in closer.

୨୧ she kissed like she fought—precise, demanding, taking no prisoners. she backed you against the counter, knocking over a bottle of malibu, mechanical hand cool against your hips. “didn’t know you had it in you,” she laughed. “shut up, sevika. my god.” you grabbed her collar, reeled her back in.

୨୧ "you're my special girl,” she'd tell you later, tracing patterns on your skin with metal fingers. “the only one i give a fuck about. no competition.” her voice was bleeding with affection, and you curled into her side. she pressed kisses to your hair and leaned over to set an alarm for the both you—one for her, four for you.

୨୧ it worked, somehow—your refined, gilded edges against her sharp ones. you learned to throw a punch; she learned that you would lock her out if she didn’t allow you to spoil her relentlessly. “princess, i already have a bike.” “keep talking, honey, and i’ll purchase the whole dealership.” “now—“

୨୧ "you're trying to kill me slowly,” she grumbled, watching you charm your way through department gatherings. but she'd be there anyway, a solid presence at your back, her mechanical hand resting possessively at your waist. and when you'd lean into her touch, she'd hide her smile in your hair.

୨୧ if anyone found it strange to see the ice princess curled up in the lap of the most feared grad student on campus, well, one look from sevika's narrowed eyes was enough to silence any commentary.

୨୧ you were a fucking princess, both in real life and in her bed, but fuck you were hers. and sevika protected what was hers.

ambessa medarda : the professor. 

୨୧ you first saw her across a dimly lit hotel bar. you were three drinks in, mascara smeared from crying after the worst fight yet with your mother. "disappointing," she'd called you. "ungrateful." all because you refused to date the son of her country club friends.

୨୧ “mommy, please,” you’d sobbed. “i’m not ungrateful. i just don’t love him.” she’d left you with the dial tone.

୨୧ you rubbed a fist across your face like a child, attempting to gather yourself. your phonecall was denied again, and you winced at the tinny voice of your mother’s voicemail, setting it down and turning it off. god, this was the worst thing to happen to you in a long time. 

୨୧ with a sigh, you glanced up at the mirror behind the bar. she was looking right back. 

୨୧ the woman was striking—white locs swept into an elegant updo, wearing a low-cut red dress that hugged her body tightly. she moved like a lioness, back flexing as she hunkered down over the glossy wood. her golden eyes met yours, and your stomach began to spin. you knew this was the beginning of a dangerous game.

୨୧ after a minute she walked over, hands bearing water instead of another drink. "crying in bars rarely solves anything, little one," she said, her accent rich and heady. when you tried to argue, she simply raised an eyebrow, and you found yourself downing the glass in its entirety. 

୨୧ you kept eye contact as you swallowed, tongue peeking out to lap at the remnants along your lips.

୨୧ you don't remember who moved first. but you remember her hands—strong, calloused—gripping your thighs. remember her voice, rough with want, whispering against your neck. remember the way she claimed you, leaving mottled marks you'd find days later.

୨୧ you remember waking up alone in her hotel room, a glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand. no note. just the lingering scent of her perfume—spiced and earthy—on the sheets.

୨୧ you tried to forget her. tried to forget how she'd called you “sweet girl” when you'd bitten her shoulder, how she'd laughed darkly and pinned your hands above your head, called you “easy” when you sobbed out pitiful demands for her to go harder and faster, do destroy you from the inside out.

୨୧ then came the first day of advanced military history.

୨୧ "good morning, class. i'm professor medarda."

୨୧ your blood ran cold. there she stood—your favorite fantasy, your most well-spent drunken night—looking devastatingly beautiful in a tailored suit. her eyes found yours immediately, and you saw the recognition flash in them, followed by something darker, more primal.

୨୧ you tried to drop the class. she denied your request personally.

୨୧ "running away?" she asked during mandatory office hours, pouring tea from an ornate set. "that's not the fierce girl i remember. you scratched me all up.”

୨୧ your cheeks burned. "professor—"

୨୧ "ambessa," she corrected, sliding the tea across her desk. “i think we’re past the formalities.”

୨୧ you couldn't avoid her. she called on you in class, her voice caressing your name. kept you after lectures to "discuss your work." you told yourself the tension would fade.

୨୧ it didn't.

୨୧ "i need a teaching assistant," she announced one evening, when you'd stayed too late reviewing your paper. "someone sharp. strategic. devoted.” her fingers brushed yours as she took your empty teacup. "interested?"

୨୧ you should have said no. you should have viewed her wolfish grin as a red flag, grabbed your shit, and hauled ass. instead, you heard yourself say, “of course.”

୨୧ being her TA meant late nights in her office, her perfume making you dizzy with memories. meant watching her command rooms full of students while remembering how she'd commanded your body. it meant pretending you couldn't feel her eyes on you, hungry and possessive.

୨୧ "we should establish some boundaries,” you said finally, after weeks of delicious torture.

୨୧ "should we?" she moved like a predator, backing you against her desk. "or should we discuss how you keep shivering when i get too close?"

୨୧ your breath caught. "this is inappropriate."

୨୧ “mmm, entirely," she agreed, one hand sliding into your hair, the other around your neck. “now, tell me to stop."

୨୧ you didn’t. 

୨୧ “little minx,” she murmured and you kissed her, surging forward and into her lap.

୨୧ it became your secret—stolen moments in her office after hours, weekends at her apartment where she'd cook elaborate dishes and tear your papers to shreds, nights where she'd make you forget your own name and squeal hers.

୨୧ “good girl” she'd murmur against your skin, switching to noxian when you drove her too far. she ordained you with names that meant something far more possessive and crude in her native tongue.

୨୧ the whole thing made you feel deliciously stained and you sought her out to purify you time and time again. you kept it hidden until graduation. until you had your degree in hand and nothing left to lose.

୨୧ the scandal was delicious—respected professor medarda and her former student, now openly living together. your mother was horrified. society whispered.

୨୧ "regrets?" ambessa asked one morning, watching you sip the spiced coffee you'd grown to love.

୨୧ you thought of that night at the bar, of all the paths that led you here. "never."  it turned out some mistakes are worth making twice.

© hcneymooners.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Ava Gardner (The Killers, The Barefoot Contessa)— She's so goddamn hot. Her and Frank Sinatra could've sandwiched me and I would've thanked them for the privilege

Anna May Wong (The Thief of Bagdad, Shanghai Express)—Wong was the first Chinese American movie star, arguably the first Asian woman to make it big in American films. Though the racism of the time often forced her into stereotypical roles, awarded Asian leading roles to white actors in yellowface, and prohibited on-screen romance between actors of different races, she delivered powerful and memorable performances. When Hollywood bigotry got to be too much, she made movies in Europe. Wong was intellectually curious, a fashion icon, and a strong advocate for authentic Asian representation in cinema. And, notably for the purposes of this tournament, absolutely gorgeous.

This is round 5 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Ava Gardner:

Ava Gardner is one of my favorite actresses of all time. Although a lot of her roles in movies are about her being beautiful and nothing else, there are some films where her acting truly shines.

Gifset: https://www.tumblr.com/pelopides/721438308726603776/ava-gardner-as-pandora-reynolds-pandora-and-the

Gifset 2: https://www.tumblr.com/portraitoflestatonfire/731899355804598272/if-the-loustat-reunion-doesnt-look-like-this-then

HER FACE. LOOK AT IT. Also was a life long supporter of civil rights and a member of the NAACP, had lots of fun love affairs with other stars, bullfighters, married several times but was also happy in between to just have lovers and was unapologetically herself.

I literally gasp every time I see her.

Between 1942 and 1964, Ava Gardner was credited in no less 50 films, and is still considered by some to be the most beautiful actresses that ever graced the silver screen. Despite life-long insecurities regarding her talent as an actress, she weathered public scandal, industry hostility, and outright condemnation by the Catholic Church with fearless grace. She would later in life talk candidly about the reality and pain of living through two (studio approved!!) abortions during her short marriage to Frank Sinatra, and while the two of them could not make their relationship work, they remained in each other’s lives for nearly 30 years. She would forever describe herself as a small-town girl who just got lucky, but always felt like a beautiful outsider.

Really genuinely one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever seen. An autodidact. Had amazing chemistry with Gregory Peck to the point where I do think about watching On The Beach again sometimes because they're so good together even though that movie did destroy me. Was a great femme fatale in many movies.

Anna May Wong propaganda:

"She so so gorgeous!! Due to Hollywood racism she was pretty limited in the roles she got to play but even despite that she’s so captivating and deserves to be known as a leading lady in her own right!! When she’s on screen in Shanghai Express I can’t look away, which is saying something because Marlene Dietrich is also in that film."

"SHE IS ON THE BACK OF QUARTERS also she was very smart and able to speak multiple languages and is a fashion icon on top of the acting/singing"

"Paved the way for Asian American actresses AND TOTAL HOTTIE!!! She broke boundaries and made it her mission to smash stereotypes of Asian women in western film (at the time, they were either protrayed them as delicate and demure or scheming and evil). In 1951, she made history with her television show The Gallery of Madame Liu-Tsong, the first-ever U.S. television show starring an Asian-American series lead (paraphrased from Wikipedia). Also, never married and rumor has it that she had an affair with Marlene Dietrich. We love a Controversial Queen!"

"She's got that Silent Era smoulder™ that I think transcends the very stereotypical roles in which she was typically cast. Also looks very hot smouldering opposite Marlene Dietrich in "Shanghai Express"; there's kiss energy there."

"Hot as hell and chronically overlooked in her time, she's truly phenomenal and absolutely stunning"

"A story of stardom unavoidably marred by Hollywood racism; Wong's early-career hype was significantly derailed by the higher-up's reluctance to have an Asian lead, and things only got worse when the Hayes code came down and she suddenly *couldn't* be shown kissing a white man--even if that white man was in yellowface. After being shoved into the Dragon Lady role one too many times, she took her career to other continents for many years. Still, she came back to America eventually, being more selective in her roles, speaking out against Asian stereotypes, and in the midst of all of this finding the time to be awarded both the title of "World's Best Dressed Woman" by Mayfair Mannequin Society of New York and an honorary doctorate by Peking University."

"Incredible beauty, incredible actress, incredible story."

"-flapper fashion ICON. look up her fits please <3 -rumors of lesbianism due to her Close Friendships with marlene dietrich & cecil cunningham, among others -leveraged her star power to criticize the racist depictions of Chinese and Asian characters in Hollywood, as well as raise money and popular support for China & Chinese refugees in the 1930s and 40s. -face card REFUSED to decline"

[perasperaadpasta]

I have no empathy for Good Omens or Sandman or whatever other Gaiman work fans who 1. just cannot help making the allegations about themselves and 2. are genuinely heartbroken to the point of being unwilling to reasses their attachment to these works (these usually overlap).

When I found out an author I was obsessed with, whose works I read nearly in their entirety and voraciously, whose stories inspired me and filled my imagination for years, turned out to be a paedophile who abused her children, facilitated the abuse of multiple others by her also paedophile husband, and raped her daughter, none of that... mattered anymore. How could it possibly?

I'm talking about Marion Zimmer Bradley, if her rap sheet isn't familiar. Having grown up a nerd who could read at highschool level at 7, and who was, at 12, already sick of how male-centered fiction (and particularly fantasy, my favorite genre) was, discovering The Mists of Avalon was a revelation. The pointedly anti-Christian, unapologetically female-centered narrative was a near-spiritual balm for a closeted lesbian kid in a Catholic small town.

I read all of her Arthuriana books and all of her Darkover series I could find. I'm interested in Arthuriana to this day because of the point of view she offered. The possibility of shifting the male gaze pervasive in art to a female view from within was so instrumental to how I approach art at all. And this is, of course, not pioneered nor exclusive to Bradley, but it was my introduction to it, to this critical and yet respectful framework of experiencing art.

And yet. When I learned what she'd done, it fundamentally and irrevocably changed what she'd said.

Is it really still a work of feminist expression if composed by a rapist? I cannot reconcile the thought that the most execrable creature in feminist thinking can be capable of anything but farcical, hypocritical emulation of sincerity, convincing as it may be. It cannot possibly be earnest and its pretense is pervasive. Even if the story was otherwise so good, so entertaining that its message could be sidelined, there's hardly a lack of that that makes this particular one indispensable.

My admiration for her is all revulsion now. I have no interest in what this sort of thing has to say about anything, safe for possibly in the context of criminal psychology.

I will never reread it. I will never recommend it as entertainment and least of all feminist entertainment.

And here's the thing, this wasn't life-ruining for me. This did not hurt me personally. My world didn't shatter, it didn't even crack. Important as it may have been, the loss of a THING, a book, ONE story in a world so saturated with them several hundred lifetimes wouldn't suffice to know them, is not a loss I would ever have the self-indulgent embarrasment of mourning. It was what it was once, and it is what it is now.

The only people who were hurt were her victims.

Absolutely no exceptions. It's vulgar to a degree I can't wrap my head around to consider otherwise.

[mypoisonedvine]

𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 | laszlo kreizler x reader

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 | being a traditional, well-behaved woman, you saved yourself for marriage. but the things your new husband has planned for you are... less than traditional, and might just show how poorly behaved you can be.

𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 | over 9k

𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 | SMUT (18+ only!!), virginity loss, age gap (unspecific; laszlo is in his 40s, reader is probably 20-25), multiple orgasms/overstimulation, fingering, oral f receiving, squirting, shy/innocent reader, religious reader (but nothing tooo shame-y or anything), some innocence kink, a hint of medical kink?, slightly pervy laszlo?!?! (moreso he's just a wee bit of a weirdo and says some cringe stuff but like. that's just his vibe sorry)

Laszlo was such an impossible paradox of a man.  Especially compared to the sort of man you always thought you’d marry— what you’d been raised for, even.

An accomplished doctor, a successful and wealthy man of high social standing— a kind, sensitive, intelligent, and patient partner who made you feel beautiful and special and, for lack of a better word, fancy.  That part was exactly as you’d always imagined for yourself, though you had never really believed you could find someone so wonderful.

And then there was the other half of him, the pieces that even in your wildest dreams you would’ve never thought would make up your future husband.  First of all, he was quite a bit older than you.  Even your parents, who had always preferred for you to marry someone already established (as they put it) rather than your own age, were a little concerned that he was in his mid-forties, and only a year younger than your father.  Of course, that was nothing compared to their offense at his profession, and the subsequent open-mindedness he had towards people your parents would rather pretend didn’t exist.  Then again, Laszlo himself having his disability made him the sort of person they would rather pretend didn’t exist, though he’d managed to hide it relatively well.

Maybe they could’ve forgiven any of that.  It was the atheism that put the final nail in the coffin, unfortunately… and someone as brash and unapologetic as Laszlo had no interest in hiding his beliefs to appease your parents.  He hadn’t brought it up, of course, or protested to the crucifixes and cross-stitched scriptures on the walls; but when they’d asked if he was Catholic or Protestant, he told them directly that he was a man of science and didn’t entertain any metaphysical notions or, as he’d so thoughtfully put it, fantasies.

They instantly forbade the courtship and warned you never to see him again.  And maybe that was when he surprised you most— he was so romantic, so… dashing.  He took a carriage to your home and literally threw pebbles at your window, daring you to climb down the lattice and join him for a midnight adventure.  It was then he suggested that you marry him anyways— he had more than enough to take care of you after a disownment from your parents.  He promised to give you anything you wanted, to treat you perfectly, to spend every day trying to keep you as happy as you made him without even trying.

There it was again, the contradictory enigma of Laszlo Kreizler.  A serious, even stern man, proposing to you like a lovestruck teenager.  He had eschewed fantasies a few evenings ago only to turn around and ask you to jump headfirst into a fairytale.

You said yes, though.  You really didn’t think twice about it— you knew he would be good to you.  And you knew you’d never loved someone like you’d loved him before.

You wanted to run away right then and there, but he told you to go home for a few more days, to gather your things— he would send for them while your parents were out, and you could move in with him as soon as you were ready.

When you did move in, though, he seemed a little surprised that you asked for your things to be moved to a spare bedroom.

“Is everything alright?” he asked you softly, stepping closer to you as you crossed your arms over yourself nervously; you waited until you were sure Cyrus was out of earshot, carrying your bags away, before you answered.

“Yes,” you replied quietly, “everything’s fine.”

“It’s understandable if you’re feeling conflicted now,” Laszlo assured.  “Having just left your parents, and not knowing if you’ll see them again—”

“It’s not that,” you promised.  “Well— of course, I feel something about that, but I’m happy to be here with you.  That’s not my issue at all.”

“Then what is?” he pressed.  “I hope you feel that you can tell me.”

You sighed as he reached up to brush your cheek; his touch always soothed you, though it felt a bit different here, in his home.  Your new home.  “I just… wouldn’t feel right about being in your room, until we’re married.”

He nodded.  “Of course.  I shouldn’t have presumed.”

You smiled a little, though it was more out of nervousness than anything.  “I… I wondered if you thought my parents were the only reason that we never— that nothing had—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pushing your hair back from your face until you looked up at him.  “I don’t expect anything from you now.  Well, only that you do whatever you like to make yourself feel at home here.”

“And what… what will you expect from me once I am your wife, Dr. Kreizler?” 

Though you were a little afraid to, you met his gaze; his brown eyes seemed deeper than ever, and you were powerless to look away from them.  “What do you think is right to give me, when you are my wife?”

You sighed a little, feeling his hand on your cheek move carefully down to your neck, his gentle fingers brushing along the smallest part of your collarbone exposed by your dress.  Words escaped you; you wanted him to know that just because you wanted to wait for him didn’t mean you didn’t want him.  Even before, even when you first met him, your mind had supplied you with thoughts that sent you straight to the confession booth.

You wanted to be one with him in every way you could think of… you just needed some to come before others, to feel right with your own beliefs.  Even if you loved an atheist, and felt surprisingly little guilt for it, you were still religious yourself and wanted to honor God’s intention for marriage.  

Didn’t mean you couldn’t yearn for your soon-to-be husband, right?  It certainly didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the full benefits of physical intimacy when the time came.

But obviously, you were far from brave enough to say all that.  Instead, you found your hands wandering to his chest, following the pattern of his suit coat up to his shoulders, biting your lip without even realizing it.  He simply continued to watch you, and you got the feeling that he understood you better than you could explain it yourself.  One of the bonuses of being loved by an expert on the human mind, perhaps.

You were almost in a trance, not noticing how long you were spending just gently touching and holding him in this simple way— until you looked up and met his gaze again, and felt a little weak.  “Can we marry soon?” you asked softly, almost under your breath.  You hoped he wouldn’t tease you, you weren’t secure enough for him to mock your obvious eagerness, to call attention to your desire for him.  Thankfully, he stayed perfectly serious, because he was just as affected as you were.

“As soon as you like,” he replied earnestly.

It was probably for the best that Cyrus walked in to the parlor at that moment, and you instinctively pulled back from Laszlo, crossing your arms again.  “Your bags are in the downstairs bedroom, madam,” he informed you, “down the hallway under the stairs.”

You nodded at him as Laszlo responded, “Thank you, Cyrus.  That will be all.”

He left, and you looked at your fiance again, feeling a bit silly for what he’d seen in you a moment before.  But he smiled at you, and you figured he’d be the last person to judge you for any of that.  “I’ll give you a little time to unpack and freshen up, if you like,” he offered.  “I hope you’ll join me for dinner at seven this evening.  I believe we’ll be having quail.”

“Of course— thank you,” you smiled, watching him begin to turn to depart.  But for a second, he hesitated— like he didn’t want to leave you— and you prayed he wouldn’t kiss you.  It’s not that you didn’t want him to… you wanted him to more than anything.  He’d only kissed you once before, at the end of a particularly exhilarating night out together, and you hadn’t stopped thinking about it for a moment since.

So no, it wasn’t that you didn’t want him to kiss you.  It was only that, if he did, you knew you’d have trouble letting it be just a kiss.

Therefore, you were just as relieved as you were disappointed when he departed without incident.

///

A few days later, you eloped.  You hadn’t felt much urge to have a ‘proper’ wedding when no one you knew approved of the marriage anyway— they were all too deep in your parents’ pocket, unfortunately.  And even if anyone cared enough to come, Laszlo refused to be wed in a church (you thought maybe he would bend on it if you really begged, he was overall quite accommodating to you, but it wasn’t worth your trouble) and so it would’ve just been another scandal.  

Truly, you were just as happy this way— it was the happiest day of your life, really.  You left the courthouse as Mrs. Kreizler, wearing a stunning silver band he’d had engraved with your new initials and flowering vines all around in a swirling, whimsical pattern.  His band was simpler, but you loved it even more— just because it was his, and seeing him wearing it made your heart skip all day.

Anticipation for your wedding night only grew with every passing moment.  Laszlo himself was in the bathroom with the door shut— you heard the sink running, the various sounds of him preparing for bed.  You were just trying to get your heart to slow down, trying not to have any specific goals or expectations for the evening.  Today had already been perfect.

But, of course, it was hard not to imagine what was next for the two of you— your things had already been moved into his room.  A vanity had been placed in it as well, a wedding gift from Sara Howard (a friend of Laszlo’s you had become acquainted with during this whirlwind romance), and you were using it now as you prepared yourself for bed.  You were already in your nightgown, having changed after Laszlo left the room (not that you had to, but it felt more natural that way), and you were carefully unpinning your hair from its meticulous style.

As you concluded the final steps of your evening routine, you saw the bathroom door open behind you in your reflection; your husband emerged, wearing an embroidered silk robe that offered a view of a sliver of his chest— not very much, but more than you’d ever seen.  You didn’t notice the way your thighs pressed against each other more tightly; he approached you slowly, and you eventually turned to look at him directly.  With you still sitting on the vanity’s padded stool, he towered over you when he stood close… and as you lifted your head to look up at him, his hand brushed softly along your jaw.  You tilted into his touch just a bit, smiling at him while your heart fluttered.

“You’re so beautiful, mein Schatz,” he whispered, and you felt a little giddy when he talked like that— he’d only ever indulged you in his German after having a few drinks, so this instance caught you off-guard in the best way.  Not to mention he’d called you Schatz before— treasure, apparently, and a common term of endearment— but he’d never tagged it with mein before.  And you were his, truly.  You were glad he’d waited to say it until it was actually true (even if, in a certain sense, it was already true before).

He motioned, rather subtly, for you to stand up.  It seemed simple enough, but you felt a little shaky as you did it— a nervous excitement, like the kind you would feel before a piano recital or debutante ball.  Except those were all public engagements, and this was as private as anything could be.

Touching your face again, he wove his fingers back around your neck, his thumb cradling your jaw right in front of your ear.  And he kissed you— just like that, quick at first but then slowing down as you both sighed a bit.

You admired how easily he’d done it, and thank god for it, because you would’ve spent quite a while working up the courage.  This was different from the night you’d kissed him after a few weeks of seeing each other— it was very different from the kiss you’d shared at the courthouse earlier that day.  It would’ve made sense if there was a sense of neediness to it, as if he were making up for lost time or relieving all the anticipation for this night.  But really, it was all rather relaxed, at least on his part.  Like he had all the time in the world: which, you know, he did.

You, on the other hand… you were feeling a bit more out of your element.  Not that you weren’t enjoying this new one so far, it was just a little unfamiliar.

His hand floated lower and traced down your back— delicately, with the tips of his fingers brushing your skin through the thin fabric until chills started to run over you.  You gasped a little into the kiss, and put your hands on the patterned lapels of his robe; you didn’t actually push him away, but he pulled back as if you had, examining your face carefully for a moment.

You hadn’t needed him to stop, but you were a little glad he did: just a moment’s break from it all before it became overwhelming.  His fingers still traced gentle shapes on your lower back through the nightgown, and you found your gaze drifting to his chest, to your hands resting on it— and your own fingertips ventured into the exposed piece of his chest.  His skin was paler here, with a reddish-blondish patch of hair just starting to be visible.  You touched it, taking a quick and shaky breath, and wondered why something inside you tightened as you pet him here.  He was so… masculine.  His looks weren’t sweet and boyish, no: he was broad and strong (he would deny that one if you said it, but to you he was) and sharp around the edges, and it was something you never expected to excite you so much.

But you loved that you could still feel a bit of friction from his beard after he’d kissed you.  You loved the subtle scent of his cologne, how sturdy he felt under your touch.

Your hands drifted up to his face, fingers brushing through his hair slowly, and he smiled at you.  His hair was just a bit long for what was typical of men these days, and you enjoyed combing through the dark brown locks and noticing the little golden highlights in the dimmed light of the room.

The hand on your hip pulled you closer, pressing your body against his, and you tried your best to relax into the warm strength of his form while your heart kept racing.

When he kissed you again, he moved in slowly, watching your face before his own eventually met with it, and you fluttered your eyes shut as his lips gently pressed to yours.  This time, you found yourself leaning in for more, kissing him back with more passion; you let out a little dampened moan when his tongue brushed against your bottom lip, taking the next opportunity to gently move further into your mouth.  

He broke away all too soon, embracing you even tighter, pressing his cheek to yours.  And when you, in turn, wrapped your arms around him and pressed yourself against him everywhere you could… you felt it.

Even if you had very little knowledge about this sort of thing, you understood what that hard, curved shape was, pressed just above where your hip met your stomach.  You knew what it was, and your body did too— heat pooled at your core, every touch awakening you even more.

“Oh,” you sighed shakily, holding tighter onto him to just have something to hold onto.

“It's alright,” he whispered, soft words floating on his breath which tickled under your ear.  “It's alright, my darling, I won't hurt you.”

You hummed softly in return, nodding as his lips brushed over your cheek, then moved to your neck.  “I know,” you replied.  “I trust you, Laszlo.”

But you couldn't help but gasp when his tongue teased your pulse, his teeth gently grazing the most delicate places they could find.  His grip at your waist tightened when you whimpered.  “Is this pleasurable to you?” he asked softly; even such a formal statement made you shudder when he said it in that low, buttery voice…

You nodded, your back arching slightly to press yourself against him, but you felt him smile against you suddenly.

“I'd like for you to say it,” he explained, an unfamiliar darkness to his voice.

“It's… pleasurable,” you panted.  “When you kiss me there… it's like I feel every touch s-somewhere else—”

“Where, my love?”

“Here,” you sighed, grabbing his hand from your back and moving it between your legs.  He instantly cupped and rubbed your mound, and your knees nearly buckled from the pleasure.

“Mein Gott, you're so sensitive,” he observed, his own voice sounding a little strained, “I've hardly touched you.”

“L-Laszlo, just touch me more,” you pleaded.

Though he’d been so careful until that moment, he suddenly started to pull up the skirt of your nightgown rather hastily, nostrils flaring as he bent down slightly and worked to hoist the fabric up.  Finally, he got under it, but teased you by rubbing and groping at your thighs instead; under his breath, you just barely heard a growl before he began to kiss your neck again.

“Even if both my hands were strong, I'd wish for more to touch you with,” he mumbled against your skin.  “I'd still want to cover you entirely, reach every part of you at once.”

Well, you liked the sound of that, but one hand was doing you plenty of good already— especially when it slid back up to cup you again, making you sigh and moan as his fingers slipped through your folds, spreading your abundant wetness all around.

Desperate to return even a portion of the sensation he was giving to you, you placed your hand against the bulge in his trousers.  Though the shape and firmness of him made you gasp excitedly, he only let you rub it for a few moments before sighing and moving your hand away.  “Not yet, my darling,” he instructed.  “It's best if we take this one step at a time, for now.”

You felt a little silly, having to be held back like that, but you nodded.  He obviously knew better than you about all this.

It was almost too much, the way he was touching you: you had your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders to try to keep yourself upright, frankly.  And yet, for how overwhelming it was, you heard yourself saying—

“More, please,” you begged, “I-I need you, just give me more, please—”

“I will,” he promised roughly, “but not here.  I think it’s only right that I take you to bed, hm?”

If you weren’t all worked up, you might’ve made some witty comment about how at least the bed’s not too far or whatever— but no, you just let him guide you the few steps to the mattress, and you sat on it as you simply awaited further orders.  So little that he’d done to you, and you’d already do whatever he asked in exchange for continued attention.

You watched him roll up his sleeve— it took him a little while with the weaker hand, but you didn’t mind letting this moment last— and didn’t even notice the way your mouth had gone slack, you were nearly salivating.  “Lay back, darling,” he instructed simply, still looking at his sleeve as he finally folded it up to his elbow, “and open your legs.”

You obeyed, of course, and bit absent-mindedly on your lip as you slowly lifted your knees and parted your thighs.  There was no point being shy now, of course— and you were more than eager for him to get back to doing what he had been before— but you still felt a nervous hesitance that made your hands (and heart) shake slightly.  Something about stopping to get in the bed had brought a bit of sobriety to the moment, and you realized in retrospect how desperate you must have looked.  Surely he wouldn’t hold that against you…

He lifted your skirt again, up to your hips, and hummed lowly at the sight of your sex.  Your face burned hotter; you liked the way he touched it, but you didn’t feel entirely comfortable with him… staring at it.

Still, it was the sort of slight discomfort that felt oddly… good?  Yes, you were a bit embarrassed and exposed at the moment, but it felt wrong in that fun, naughty sort of way; it made your hips shift a little, presumably in hopes of some friction.  Thankfully, their wish was answered: his hand was on you again, pulling your lips apart, slowly exploring you until your eyes fluttered shut.

“May I touch you inside as well?” he asked— as if there was any risk of you turning that offer down.

“Y-yes, Laszlo, please,” you whispered, whimpering as you felt the tip of his pointer finger— suddenly it seemed a little thicker than you remembered— press up to your entrance and ever so gently slide inside.

“Just one to start,” he narrated softly as that one finger made your toes curl, only one finger making your hips twist and your back arch.  How could he do that to you so easily?  “And my thumb can help with this lovely little organ you have…”

His thumb circled your bud, and you shuddered all over— even inside— and instantly struggled to catch your breath.  “Laszlo, what… what is that…” you breathed, whimpering when he rubbed it again.

“Your clitoris, my love— you’ve never touched here before?”

He should’ve known you hadn’t— even if you had… explored yourself out of childish curiosity probably a decade ago, you would’ve remembered if it felt like this.  Shaking your head, you were surprised by his little growl.

“Your poor girl,” he cooed, something a little attractive about the slight condescension of it.  “You have so much to learn.  I can’t even imagine the things you’ve never felt before…”

He slowly moved the pad of his thumb up and down over the flesh, which only grew firmer as he continued.  “Oh!” you whimpered, hips rocking back against his touch— it was so wild of you, you thought, but you couldn’t really stop yourself.  He pressed harder and your whole body jumped.  “Fuck!”

He laughed a little, and your face got warmer.  “I’ve never heard you use language like that, Schatz, but it sounds impossibly adorable when you say it.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you began, “I couldn’t help it—”

“No, don’t apologize,” he insisted, “I’d rather you said it again.  Whenever you can’t help it, of course.”

You knew that Laszlo knew more than you about many topics, being a highly-educated man of great intellect, but you hadn’t expected him to introduce you to an entirely new body part that you’d been carrying with you this whole time.  If you’d figured out how to do anything like this to yourself, you might have spent your entire adolescence trapped in your room, so maybe it was for the best that you never put it together.

You weren't sure how any woman was meant to learn these things— you figured she wasn't meant to, unfortunately— but if she had a choice, you'd certainly recommend this method, provided she could find her own husband to try it with rather than borrowing yours.  What a visceral and beautiful way to learn how much that little organ could really do: Laszlo rubbing it with his thumb, with just the right amount of pressure to make a loud moan crawl out of you.

“The noises you make are just delightful, my darling,” he praised.  “Keep going, so I know what I should do.”

“Just do that,” you begged, “just keep doing that.”

“Only this?” he pressed.  “I shouldn't even add another finger?”

Of course, that was when he did— gently pressing his middle finger to your opening until it accommodated it, and you heard your own high-pitched whine in disbelief that you'd made the sound.  “F-fuck, that feels… Laszlo, you're so—”

But you interrupted yourself, because he did something so diabolical with his fingers just then.  He'd only twisted and scissored them inside you for a moment before curling them up, rubbing the most delicate place you never knew you had— just as he pushed down harder on your poor clit.  You felt ravenous all of a sudden, terribly overwhelmed but greedy for more.

“Please, oh god, please—” you started to beg before you even knew what you wanted.  He knew what you wanted, and he gave it to you: more.  It wasn't even very significant of a movement, and yet it turned your whole body into his plaything as you started to shake all over.

“You react more than I ever expected, my darling,” he cooed.  “I never dreamed how well you would respond to my touch.  I've only just begun and I think you're already nearly there.”

Before you could wonder where he was talking about, he pulled his fingers out of you carefully.  You heard yourself whimper a little, opening your eyes and looking at him worriedly.  He smiled, seeming to enjoy how much his interruption seemed to bother you; “Take off your nightgown, my love,” he requested plainly.  “I think I’d like to get a good look at you before I go on.”

Sitting up (and finding your head a bit more dizzy than you expected), you started by unbuttoning from your neck halfway down to your chest, before lifting the thin garment up over your head slowly.  You felt so strange doing this— undressing in front of a man— but your heart pounded with hope that he would enjoy what he saw.  Tossing the dress aside, you sheepishly bit your lip and waited for his assessment as his dark brown eyes grazed over your nude form.

He moved a little closer, his hand running up your leg and then around your side, reaching up to carefully cup one of your breasts.  You breathed deeply but unevenly, your chest rising and falling against his touch.  You were almost nervous that he hadn’t said anything yet, but the look in his eyes just became more and more clear; you whimpered under your breath when his fingers brushed over your hardened nipple, ever-so-delicately pinching it until your hips shifted a bit in response.  “How beautiful you are, my love,” he whispered, making you squirm again with just his words.  “Is it true you’re really my wife?  This lovely, delicate body that only I can touch and caress, laying next to me every night… I don’t know when I’ll really believe it.”

You had to shut your eyes for a second— you might be too brash if he kept on like that, praising you so tenderly.  “You could’ve been a poet,” you told him with a little smirk, blinking open your eyes again as he guided you to lay back once more, “if medicine didn’t suit you.”

“Oh, I’m no poet, Schatz,” he smiled in return, taking one more careful squeeze of your other breast before moving down to pet inside your legs again.  “All I am is painfully honest.”

His fingers slid inside you again, and you could’ve sworn he was rubbing inside you a bit more firmly than he had been before— thrusting a little faster, pushing a little deeper.  And all the while he was staring down at you, back and forth between your face and your hole, with a delicious darkness in his eyes.

It was still a patient endeavor, so much so that you never really noticed that he was getting a little quicker and rougher with it.  You really didn’t figure it out until you heard yourself choking out his name, groaning and gasping louder than you meant to— but you couldn’t suppress it very well, either.

You soon began to realize what he meant before with that nearly there comment, without even having any prior knowledge of what it could be… there was something instinctive about it, something totally natural.  You didn’t know what was coming, but you understood it; you knew you were on the edge of something and that if you could just get there it would be perfect.

Still, you couldn’t have known how much you would enjoy it.

You couldn’t stop moaning— it was this all-surrounding, ecstatic feeling, like… sinking into something.  Relaxing into something… something warm and soft and good.  Even a lifetime of religious repression couldn’t convince you this was anything but perfect.  Actually, nothing had ever felt right quite the way this did.

Your back arched rather dramatically, until you had a good view of the headboard upside-down; and he gave you few more fast, rough pumps of his fingers into your shaking body before slowing down to a stop and letting you rest.

Suddenly drained, you melted back down onto the bed with a long whine.  “How did that feel?” he asked, sounding a little formal about it, and you only could muster a little, exhausted laugh because what did he think you were going to say?  ‘It was alright, tickled a little bit, but I didn’t mind it.’

“That was… you… you’re so—” you began a few times, giving up to open your eyes wide when his fingers pet up and down over the seam of your lips, gently exploring you, making you quiver from how sensitive you’d become.  You weren’t even done recovering from the stimulation and he was giving you more; he seemed sort of absent-minded about it, the way he gently and repetitively slid up and down and up and down through your slick and swollen folds… but it was deliberate, you knew it was, because he smiled when you moaned weakly.

One finger pressed inside you again, and he watched your face closely and you shuddered.  You were just the slightest bit sore, and it felt like that one finger was more of a stretch than before… which seemed impossible, but with the erratic pulsing of your walls, it was a little hard to keep track.

You gasped sharply when he put the second finger in you once more, almost snarling a bit as he watched you react so strongly.  “Laszlo, I— I don't think I can do that again—”

“You can, I'm sure of it,” he encouraged, curling his fingers inside of you, which required a bit more force with your channel bearing down against him in response.  “It might even come faster this time, that little spot is all swollen now—”

Before he could finish that sentence, he proved it by circling the place, making your hips jump up as another whine eked out of you.  “O-oh, I— fuck…”

He smirked a bit, a delicious smugness to his expression, and the emotion looked much too good on him.  “See?  Just let me take control, my love.  I think you'll like what I do, if you simply let me do what I like with you.”

Fuck, that had to be the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard.  You were biting your lip to try to keep back the flood of terribly embarrassing things your pleasure wanted to say for you: you can do whatever you like with me; I'm yours; I'd do anything for you; don't ever stop, but also if you don't fuck me soon I might lose my mind, you know, things of that nature.  Instead you let out a muffled moan, and nodded to make sure he knew that he had your permission for whatever he thought was best.

And, of course, he’d been right about you: that you’d be even more sensitive after coming, and would be able to go through it all over again.  It only took probably a minute or two of dedicated, precise stimulation for the feeling to grow again… except it felt a little stronger this time, like it was building past the point that it had broken at before.  Maybe your tolerance was higher, or something?  You really weren’t qualified to say— all you could think about was this sensation, this tension, and the way he looked at you as you started to shake all over.

Your eyes fell shut instinctively, your shaking hands clutching at the bed under you; you felt sort of numb all over, except instead of everything being dulled and distant, it was only heightened.

“O-oh, oh, Laszlo, I—” you tried to warn him, words escaping you as the heavy, almost sharp feeling gathered tighter and tighter…

“Give into it,” he insisted, “it’s alright— I want to see it.  I want to hear you, I want to feel you when you come—”

His voice was getting darker, rougher, more demanding as he went on; and in the same way, his fingers’ thrusts into you became more aggressive.  “Fuck, I— I think I’ll— oh god!” you yelped.

“Yes,” he encouraged, “let go, darling!”

Your arms flailed around for a second before finding a lump in the sheets to grab onto tightly, your hips rocking against his hand, your head falling back in a scream; it was so intense, and so sudden, and you felt like the pressure that had been building broke so violently that it would’ve been painful without all the ecstasy running through your veins, numbing you inside and out.

You could tell that this one was different— hotter, warmer, wetter— but you had no idea what you’d done until the high had started to fade just a bit.

His hand slowed down to a stop, you heard him quietly catching his breath, and you blinked your eyes open… that’s when you noticed small wet stains on his rolled-up sleeve, and shiny fluid along his forearm— and a very proud grin on his face.

You felt your eyes go wide and your cheeks start baking.  He spoke up before you could even try to process what to say: “That was excellent, my love— I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so magnificent,” he praised.  “You’re incredible.”

You wanted to believe him, but it didn’t really offer much explanation.  “Laszlo, I… did I—?”

“No, darling, don’t worry,” he cooed, scooting a little closer on the bed as he pet the inside of your thigh.  “It’s natural— one of the… rarer ways that a woman’s body can respond to stimulation.  I’ve always found the concept fascinating, but until now, my knowledge was… purely theoretical.  Actually, I’d love to gather your perspective on the experience, possibly for a future research paper on the topic— but that’s an issue for another time.  There’s a more pressing matter I need to discuss with you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious what matter could be discussed in a time like this.

“I… I'd like to try something else,” he announced, and you dropped your head back on the bed in a sort of defeat.

“Something else?!” you whimpered, still catching your breath from the last thing he had “tried”.  “What else could there be but making love?”

“That will be soon, I promise, I just… I can't resist such an opportunity,” he explained.  “Your scent is so erotic, and it's only grown stronger now that you’ve so generously covered my arm in your ecstasy.  And with anything that smells so delectable, one can't help but crave to taste it.”

You'd only heard about this before— sort of a dirty schoolyard secret, almost an urban legend.  The whole thing had always sounded odd to you, if maybe not as icky as you thought it was when you first had the concept whispered to you as a child.  You didn't realize it was actually something you might experience someday, assuming it was a practice reserved to the especially perverted.  Now that he was offering it, you found yourself biting your lip as you tried to imagine what it would be like.

“I'd like to pleasure you with my mouth,” he concluded, really spelling it out for you.  “Would that be alright?”

You weren't sure what to think of that, and yet you were already nodding yes.  This was your husband, after all— who else could you trust to do something like this?  Most of all, you did it because you wanted to please him.  Because he'd asked you for it.

He smiled a little when you agreed, and began to lean down between your legs.  Those deep brown eyes seemed to sparkle more than ever when he looked up at you, but his gaze couldn't stay with yours for long before he had to give a closer look to your cunt.  He carefully spread the lips with his fingers, humming at the sight.  “I wonder if it's even possible for you to be as delicious as you look,” he spoke quietly, and a needy whine caught in your throat.

It was just a gentle kiss to your clit first… then another, with his lips parted.  Then he started to ever-so-gently suckle at it, tongue softly petting it; he wasn't doing too much, physically, but you never could catch your breath while he was doing it.

You whined a bit when he broke away, looking down at him in search of an explanation but finding instead him looking back up at you with an indescribable look in his eye.

“How does that feel?” he asked, his voice rougher and darker than you'd ever heard it before, making you shiver gleefully.

“Wet,” you blurted out, making him smile a little, a small laugh on an exhale through his nose that made you feel a bit foolish in an unexpectedly pleasurable way.  “A-and warm… please don't stop, Laszlo, it felt so nice…”

He got back to it, a little more intensely than before, and your eyes rolled back when he really started to lap at you with his tongue— harder and wider each time, making you writhe from the intensity of it.

You couldn't even describe the sound you made when he pushed his tongue inside you.  He moaned against you in response to it, though, and thank God, he kept going.

He kept petting your thighs, even encouraging you when your legs clamped down around his head unintentionally; presumably that was his way of saying it wasn’t giving him any pain, which you were a bit concerned about, even if you couldn’t really stop yourself.  Sometimes you had the strength to meet his gaze, but most of the time you felt like you’d melt if you looked back at him— the way he was staring up at you was just too fiery, too intense, too beautiful.  

Just when you thought you were getting used to the pattern of his tongue’s movements on your clit, he gently pushed his two fingers back into your pulsing channel.  You were all tingly and sore inside, but a long, deep moan fell from your mouth as your back arched.

“Beautiful,” he praised, the word muffled by what he was doing— which he got back to more urgently than ever, twisting and thrusting his fingers inside you carefully at first.

“J-just like that,” you pleaded.  “Oh, Laszlo, I— I didn't know anything could… feel like this…”

You could feel the smallest smirk on his lips as he continued; even just being able to feel his smug smile there was such a lovely, erotic, totally novel concept to you.  

When he really buried his face in your legs, you could feel the roughness of his beard against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and buttocks, and god was it the most beautifully filthy feeling.  It was really an excellent metaphor for the whole thing: the symbol of his maturity, the well-kempt facial hair itself a balance between his wildness and his meticulous self-control, rubbing raw your delicate and untouched skin in such an intimate place.  If you weren’t too busy shaking and crying and seeing stars on this bed, you might have appreciated the beauty in those parallels, but clearly you weren’t capable of thinking about it to that level of depth.

The stream of helpless praises you'd been trying to hold back earlier?  There was absolutely nothing stopping it from spilling forward now.  “You're incredible,” you blurted out, your hand holding tighter to the sheets beneath you.  “Laszlo— my husband— you… you must be the devil, o-or an angel or prophet— or something. You make me feel things, such incredible things, that I didn't even know—”

He opened his mouth wide around you, breaking the seal of his lips so he could speak against your skin.  “I'm just a man,” he promised, “I'm just a husband becoming addicted to his new wife's pleasure, that's all, my dear.”

As he started to do it again so suddenly, you reacted suddenly as well: your hand found his hair and grabbed it, and your mind was too far gone to worry about it being too aggressive.  Not that he gave any signs of annoyance— if anything it was the opposite, as he lapped at you harder in response.  

This, of course made your hips jump up— until his hand slipped out of you, grabbing them and pulling them down, keeping you still as he continued.  The simple show of dominance affected you greatly, another heavy pulse of pleasure hitting you suddenly.

“I-I'm close,” you whispered.  “Laszlo, I'm so close— and it feels so different than before— I swear, nothing's ever felt so— fuck!”

He hummed encouragingly, and your whole body rocked in time with the growing pressure.  His fingers sliding back inside you, seeming to curl even more than before, certainly added to the sensation.

Just as you were teetering on the edge, his teeth grazed impossibly-carefully over you, a sharp and raw sort of pleasure jolting your entire body.  Of course, you couldn't fight against that, and the feeling inside you snapped as yet another flood of pleasure ripped through your body.  Your ears were ringing but you still heard how loud you must have been, how totally wrecked and helpless your moans had become.  

It wasn’t as… aggressive of a feeling as the one that had made you… you know… but it was probably the most powerful in its own way.  The highest, the heaviest, the most whole.  You couldn't hear him moaning against you through all that, but you could feel it: a deep and bassy vibration that only heightened the feeling even more.  Your moans turned to cries and then sobs; it was too much, the feeling was spilling over inside you— you weren't sure how much longer you could take it all before you broke.

It seemed, however, that he broke first; he pulled away and sat up, leaving you both panting, sweaty messes.  

“God, you're so beautiful,” he sighed, grabbing you by the neck to pull you up into a filthy, heated kiss.  You surrendered instantly, grabbing into his shoulders with hands that were still pricked with pins and needles as your high dissipated slowly.  “I can't wait anymore,” he mumbled against your lips, “I need to be inside you.”

“Please,” you gasped softly— you'd been waiting for this all night, at least.  You'd never imagined yourself so eager, so desperate for it, though…

He made quick work untying his robe, leaning over you as he held tightly onto his cock and guided the swollen, leaking head between your lips.  Yes, even with desire coursing through your veins, a touch of anxiety was still present.  You just couldn’t imagine what this was going to be like, you could still hardly believe it was happening to you— and, though it was a bit crass to think, you were a bit surprised by the brief glance of his cock that you’d gotten.  You wouldn’t really know what was big or small or normal or abnormal when it came to that… you had nothing to compare it to.  What you did know was that it seemed much… thicker, than seemed appropriate to go inside you.  Of course you knew that a young woman’s first experience could be painful, you’d heard that bleeding was normal (if not expected, but that seemed a bit barbaric and certainly not what a progressive man like Laszlo was after) — yet, you still weren’t properly scared.  It was just the sort of anticipation that made you shiver and let out a long breath to compose yourself.

He groaned a little as he continued to rub against you, and you noticed the arm that held him up over you was shaking.  You could only imagine how frustrating it must have been to be giving you all that attention and not getting any in return for so long, and you could only hope he might take a little of that frustration out on you…

“Please,” you said again, quieter, as you looked up at him.  Thankfully, that was enough to make him press forward and slide into you all at once.

While his fingers had stretched you in such strange, sometimes overwhelming ways, his cock… it just fit.  It filled you exactly the way you needed— not too wide or too deep… though you suspected it would've been had he not prepared you so incredibly thoroughly.  And while his tongue has made you feel such unimaginable things, though his lips had effortlessly sucked ecstasy from your shaking body, having him inside you felt so simple and natural and easy.  

He hissed in his breaths as he moved— slow at first, but each one just a bit faster than the last.  Every movement stimulated all the places he'd already awoken inside you, and your legs moved on their own to latch around his hips while your head fell back with a satisfied sigh.

“My angel,” he groaned, staring down at you as each of his thrusts rocked you under him.  “I knew I— fuck, darling— I knew I'd have trouble keeping myself together when I was finally inside you.  Yet you're… you're even more perfect than I imagined.”

You smiled proudly, reaching up to hold his shoulders; he seemed encouraged by that, becoming just a bit rougher in his movements until your nails accidentally dug into his skin just a bit.

“I won't be able to last much longer,” he grunted, “but I-I can't stop.  I can't even slow down, I never… I've never lost control like this before.”

A shiver ran up your whole body, even seeming to make you clench inside— and he moaned in return, a beautifully pitiful sound.  

“I'm sorry,” he offered between panting breaths, and you barely mustered the energy to laugh. 

“Beloved, what do you have to apologize for?” you teased through a grin.  “Surely you're not worried that I will be left unsatisfied.”

“I would rather bring you to orgasm again,” he explained, “but I'm so desperate for you, I'm afraid I lack the patience for it.”

“I would rather pleasure my husband, for once,” you replied, “but you couldn't possibly feel what I felt, I don't think I'll ever be able to really return the favor—”

“It's no favor,” he insisted.  “Your pleasure is what I desire.  And a good wife gives her husband what he desires, no?”

You whimpered desperately, pathetically even.  “I'll be good for you, Laszlo,” you promised weakly, “I want to be a good wife to you…”

“You're a very good wife, my dear,” he assured.  “Look how much pleasure you've let me take from you, look how you've soaked our bed with your lovely nectar…”

You weren't sure which part of that aroused you the most… but our bed was a serious contender.

“And you taste absolutely divine,” he added, before kissing you again to let you taste it, too.  It was a sloppy and needy kiss, not precise and careful like basically everything else he'd done to you so far, but you loved it.  You loved any sign that he might be just as desperate as you.

Once again his speed and intensity picked up, until you could hear his skin hitting against yours loudly, and your back arched a bit at how perfectly dirty it felt.  His cock hit a spot deep inside you, and you sucked in a sharp breath.  “Laszlo,” you blurted out, and he groaned as he moved his kiss to your neck.  

“Keep saying my name,” he demanded.  “Tell me who your husband is— who makes you feel this way you've never felt before.”

“Laszlo,” you said again, “I'm yours.  Anything you want from me, it's yours.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a heavy sigh.

“Your wife, always,” you continued, and it made your own heart swell along with encouraging him: he moved faster, rocked deeper into you, and breathed heavy against your ear as your back arched from the erotic perfection of the moment.

“My wife,” he repeated, making you whine and nod and bear down on him with your walls.

“Yes,” you gasped, “yes— yours, I’m yours—”

“I-I can't hold back anymore,” he moaned, “I don't… I don't even know if I can bring myself to pull out before—”

“Don't,” you begged.  “I want it inside, Laszlo.  I want all of you inside me.”

“Oh, darling, mein Schatz, I—” he choked, but he never finished his sentence.  He just moaned louder and louder and fucked you faster and faster— until you were nearly screaming from how hard he hammered into you.

It stopped all at once; he pressed himself as deep inside you as he could, so deep you felt like you were struggling to breathe, and hid his face in the curve of your neck as he came inside you.

And for a long, beautiful moment, you just laid together; you were sort of halfway between awake and asleep, your whole body thrummed with emotions and sensations you never thought you could fit within yourself.  Time passed, surely, but you wouldn’t have known the difference.  His weight on top of you wasn’t too heavy, though it did keep you pressed into the mattress and sheets— not that you were going anywhere anyways.

You only really came back to reality when you felt small kisses trailing your neck; you hummed and squirmed a little beneath him, making you both groan as it stirred where you were connected.  He must have been a bit sore, too, though you felt like you’d been through quite a lot more and had a better excuse.

He moved again, just barely, and you winced as you held onto his back.  “Don’t go,” you whispered, afraid of the pain if he didn’t just stay still inside you.

“I have to, sometime,” he breathed in return.

“But—”

“I know, my love,” he cooed, “I’d stay inside you forever if I could.  But I’ll hurt you more if I don’t give you time to rest.”

Resigning yourself with a sigh, you nodded a little and scrunched up your face as he pulled his hips back.  It did sting, but it faded quickly once he was out— and the feeling was replaced with a warm, wet feeling that you realized must have been his seed leaking out of you.  It made you feel a bit dirty, but wonderful, too.

He laid beside you with a deep breath, his hand coming up to your face and turning it so you would look back at him.  You had to blink a few times to really see clearly, and even still, everything seemed a bit blurry around the edges.  The whole world seemed a bit softer, really.  “I love you, darling wife,” he told you simply, his voice soft but no longer a whisper, and he pet your cheek as he leaned in to kiss the bridge of your nose.

“I love you too, husband,” you cooed in reply.  “You’re so wonderful— a-and you’re nothing like I imagined, sometimes.”

“Perhaps I should have been more careful,” he offered nervously.

“No— that was perfect,” you promised.

“I meant the very end, there,” he clarified, his hand running down over your body and resting on your stomach.  “You might have wanted to wait longer… if you had a child so soon, you might wish we had more time just the two of us.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized what he meant.  “Oh, that…” you mumbled, smiling a bit to yourself.

“I fully intended to have my finish elsewhere, to lower the chances— I didn’t think I would become so… impulsive,” he sighed.  “I hoped to still control myself, but I’m afraid I wasn’t quite able to, once I was within you.  But I couldn’t help it, with the way you feel…”

“It’s alright,” you laughed weakly, “it’s not as if I were acting rationally.  I never… I didn’t think I could be so… so—”

A thousand words came to mind.  Unladylike.  Animalistic.  Desperate.  Insatiable.

“I didn’t think I’d ever act like that,” you said instead, voice getting a little softer as you felt a bit shy again.

“I knew you would,” he responded, making you look at him with wide eyes and warming cheeks.

“You— but I— I was always—!”

“Yes, you behaved very well each time I met you” he recalled with a proud smile, “always so sweet and well-mannered.  But I knew you had so much need within you, so much hunger… a being of pure instinct just waiting to take over when the time was right.”

Your heart skipped a beat— you felt a bit… accused by that statement, yet you couldn’t really deny it.  Even if you hadn’t known it before, it was clearly true now.  “How… how could you have sensed that?” you wondered.

He raised an eyebrow as he looked at you again; you loved the way he looked in that moment.  His expression was familiar, but the total lack of composure— flushed cheeks, sweat on his brow, messed hair— was totally new and quite pleasant.  “If you didn’t have any desire to misbehave, my darling, you wouldn’t have been going out with me.”

[elsvenus]

𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍 ✷ 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐘

𝐬𝐤𝐚𝐧𝐤!𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐱 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✷ character study draft on quinn fabray at her skank era with compulsory heterosexuality, religious trauma and lesbianism loosely inspired by the song limerence by lucy dacus ✷ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k ✷ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: religious imagery, internalized homophobia, sexual content (?) and angst

your first reaction is a twist of the face—weed hits your senses first, bold and unapologetic, a slap to the air between you. you’ve smoked with quinn twice before: cigarettes first, her cough sharp and ungraceful as the smoke tangled in her throat. she’d spend days masking the scent off her hair with rose scented shampoo, the kind that lingered long after the smoke had gone. and herbs last—chamomile, lavender, a delicate rebellion crafted by cheerleaders who wanted to be bold without crossing a line. quinn wouldn’t touch anything stronger; it was her limit, her rule, carved into your understanding of her.

but this girl standing in front of you—she reeked of marijuana at seven thirty in the morning, amidst a high school hallway.

the pink hair caught you next, brash and unapologetic, leading her image like a challenge to the world. it looked sloppy at first glance, as if someone had botched the job, but you couldn’t look away, until you did, and it clicked—the tilt of her mouth, the sharpness in her gaze under smudged eyeliner—you used to write about those sea green eyes in your diary, call them a mirage, quote vita sackville-west, you’d recognize them anywhere, even under layers of black pencil. your quinn fabray, remade, defiant, and dragging you under like a riptide.

she doesn’t greet you, but her gaze does, dragging over you, unhurried and unrelenting, like a tide claiming the shore. those pretty intimate eyes catch on the familiar lines of your cheerleading uniform, and latch onto the heaving of your chest and its performance on breathing under her stare. then, lower, to the strip of skin left bare through movement between your skirt and top, where you feel her attention like a touch. her new shadow appears—a girl with hair as recklessly outrageous as hers, someone you don’t know but already resent—and presses forward, the blunt in her hand an ember threatening your seams.

it happens too fast: a spark, a flicker, a hiss—and then a shriek, sharp enough to pierce the thick, sodden air. she’s burned her way through your clothes, unprovoked, while quinn stands and smiles.

her grin used to melt on you like sugar cookies on the tongue. now it metamorphosed into a brick wall, cold and unyielding. the change is a violence you feel in your body, the bile crawling up your throat from whiplash, the bitter taste of something lost and unrecognizable.

when santana finds you, you’re out of breath. her hand grips your shoulder like a lifeline and she’s throwing insults like curses towards the once-blonde that ricochet right off her grunge outerwear. quinn was always stoic, you thought, and in that moment it seemed like it to a fault.

“let’s go” santana demands, sharp and certain, pulling you out of the moment like a hand yanking you from quicksand. she steers you into a bathroom stall for a change of clothes and a breather, her movements brisk but protective. you hallucinate the rose shampoo smell when the latina bumps into quinn on your way out, peeking through the pot. you don’t notice the way her jaw tightens at the sight of santana’s hand on you—a newfound proximity to her old teammate—or how she grinds her perfect colgate teeth so hard she figures they might shatter onto themselves and dissolve in a thick paste of white dust over her gums. you don’t see her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms, tiny crescents carved into her skin like some kind of self-inflicted penance. there’s a catholic upbringing still ingrained in the girl despite her changed exterior and it begs for condemnation at the perversion of her thoughts, you-shaped.

“well, she’s gone full psycho on us now,” santana quips, breaking the silence with a sharp edge of irony. her back is to you as you peel off the burned shirt, replacing it with one of hers—soft polyester, recently dry-cleaned, the scent minty and foreign against your skin. your fingers ghost over the reddened patch where the fabric scorched you, but something else hurts entirely. a hollow ache finds itself lodged in your chest, threatening to rise and choke you.

santana senses it—because of course she does—and keeps her voice moving, filling the quiet with a relentless stream of noise, as if the words could bury your unshed tears. “don’t even worry about it,” she says, tone breezy, though her eyes narrow when she glances over her shoulder. “britt and i will get her some decent hair dye and a captain role proposal tomorrow—trust me, she’ll cave. quinn’s always been a drama queen. it’s just another one of her crippling, depressive, teenage-baby-mama-cautionary-tale antics.”

her words tumble out fast and biting, meant to soothe you with their sharpness, to redirect the hurt. but they don’t quite land right, not when the ghost of quinn’s smile still lingers, cruel and carved into your memory.

she’s not at glee practice, and the absence feels heavier than it should, a weight that settles on your chest and refuses to lift. you’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this—her spot on the risers vacant, the energy in the room a few shades duller. it’s as though you’re being haunted by a ghost, the spirit trailing you through the period with an uncanny familiarity.

you can almost feel her—blonde hair swishing in a neat ponytail, strands brushing your skin in phantom movements, like the first time you choreographed together. sing a little prayer floods your thoughts. quinn standing just inches away, mirroring your every step with precision and poise, her concentration softening into a smile when she got it right. her laughter—melodious, unguarded—had filled the space between you like sunlight breaking through clouds. you’d taught her what brittany had shown you just hours earlier, the steps clumsy on your own feet but effortless when quinn picked them up.

practice goes on without her. voices rise in harmony, but your own feels caught in your throat. every time you close your eyes, she’s there—remade and unreachable.

you know she’s there when you’re walking toward your car because you know the intensity of her gaze on you like you know the frequency of your favorite radio station—familiar, tuned perfectly to you. you wonder if she’s bathed or if the outside air is just muffling the smoke from your senses. you wonder if she’s accompanied this time, again.

when your hand reaches for the door handle, she closes it from behind you, her palm pressing over yours against the cold metal. her touch is firm, unyielding, and her breath is on your neck, warm and intense, sending a jolt straight down your spine.

you’re brave now that you can’t see her straight on, you think, so you say “what the fuck do you want quinn?”

the answer is simple, really, but it never slips past the tight grasp of her self-forged cilice belt—her punishment, her restraint. and does anything ever? you’ve never been harsh to her before, so the words land like spit. and oh, they land where they shouldn’t, but she doesn’t flinch. she’d swallow anything you threw at her, though you don’t know it yet, the hidden truth of it—that she’d take it all, every barb and every wound, just to stay close. that she’d cause it too, because maybe being your scar was a good thing, meant you’d keep her memory around.

your hand stays frozen on the handle, hers still pressing over it. it isn’t harsh or cruel, but the weight of her palm traps you there, stalling your escape. “what do i want?” she repeats, low, almost mocking, like the answer should already be obvious. her voice is still a cherry blossom, no rebel costume changed it.

“yeah,” you say, turning your head just enough to catch her in the corner of your eye. her hair, pink and uneven, falls forward, brushing against your shoulder. you notice then, for the first time too, a sparkling glint by her nose that would later come into focus as a nose ring. “what the fuck do you want from me? another one of your friends is gonna jump me now?”

her lips twitch, almost like she’s trying not to smile, but it’s not the kind of smile you remember—not the princess one from last semester, not the cruel one from earlier either. something sadder. “i don’t know,” she says finally, her voice quieter now, almost introspective. “what do you think i want?”

her eyes meet yours fully then, and the look in them—sharp, unapologetic, something like hunger—makes your stomach twist. she wants you to say it so it’s only half a sin, then. half your fault, you, this full temptation. she thinks to herself if this perversion—lovesick lustful virus—would find its way to infecting you too, she’ll pinpoint its spread and keep it from possessing her. “quinn, just stop,” you say, your voice breaking.

but she doesn’t stop. she leans in, just enough for you to feel her presence in every inch of your body, her hand now covering the spot on your waist you watched her scrutinize earlier. “i think,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “you already know.”

her words settle over you like a weight, impossible to ignore, harder even to deny. and for a fleeting moment, overwhelmed by her lingering, you wonder if she’s right.

you pull away. it’s instinctual, automatic, the only defense you have against the weight of her hand and the look in her eyes that makes you feel like she could split you open with just a glance, and the air between you snaps like a rubber band, taut and stinging.

“fuck off, quinn,” you mutter, harsher than you intended, but it’s the only way you know how to breathe again. you shove her hand off your body and slide inside, slamming it shut between you. her face remains unchanged, a lifelong practice of being yelled at and ridiculed, first by her ‘lucy caboosey’ peers, later by her parents after the teenage pregnancy fiasco, constantly by coach sylvester... there’s no flinch, no anger—just that infuriating stillness, like she expected this all along.

you sit there for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turn white. through the windshield, you can see her reflection in the rearview mirror. the engine growls to life, but you don’t pull out the parking lot right away. you can’t—not when she’s still there, pink hair catching the dim light like a warning flare.

“fuck! just leave,” you whisper to yourself, a command more than a thought. but you don’t move.

and then, as if sensing the crack in your resolve, she steps forward. the sharp rap of her fist on the glass makes you jump. you roll the window down an inch, just enough for her voice to reach you, the coward you were.

“you want me to stop?” she asks, her tone softer now, the edges sanded down just enough to make it hurt differently. “are you completely sure about that?” and you hate her for it—the way she can turn her voice into a weapon, disarming and cutting all at once. handcrafted knife just for your plunging.

“go home, quinn,” you say, but the words lack conviction.

she leans down, close enough for you to see the smudge of eyeliner beneath her lashes, the faint shadow of freckles on her cheeks that no amount of rebellion could erase.

“i can’t,” she says simply, and it feels like both an admission and an accusation, her words sinking their claws into the air between you. the weight of her gaze is suffocating, and this time, you don’t look away. “this is all your fault,” she breathes, low and cutting, like the words have been festering for too long to come out clean. “everything. i can’t fucking breathe. the perfect girl, with the perfect grades, the perfect cheerleading captain, with a dazzling future as prom queen—everything neat and pretty and laid out for me—until you.” quinn’s voice breaks, sharp and jagged, and it feels like the ground is shifting beneath you.

“you come crashing onto the scene, and it’s like you’ve got your hands around my throat, suffocating me. i tried finn, i tried puck, i tried burying it so deep i’d forget my own fucking name. and there you were, always there, knocking the air out of my lungs like some kind of goddamn traitor.” she continued, her words hitting like punches, each one landing harder than the last, every syllable dragging up pieces of her you didn’t even know were there.

“you’re moping around glee club, and the hallways, and trailing after santana like some lost puppy about how poor you, your best friend quinn fabray has changed.” she spits the words like venom, like she’s been waiting to say them all her life. “newsflash: we were never friends. never.”

her voice drops then, quieter, almost bitter with disbelief. “i was your hostage. from the moment you smiled at me, i was fucking doomed.”

she almost wants to talk about beth. almost. but the thought of it feels like swallowing glass. it sticks in her throat, sharp and jagged, tearing at her resolve. still, she considers it, turning the words over in her mind, bitter and unspoken: did you know i slept with puck the day after you slept over for the first time? a stupid, desperate attempt to erase the way my skin burned from the brush of your arm against my side in your sleep. did you know i still feel it there, like you’ve branded me, and no shower, no scrubbing, no fucking absolution can rid me of the trace of you?

quinn’s fingers twitch, restless, aching to grasp something solid, something real, but instead, she clenches them into fists to keep herself steady.

did you know i watched your thighs flush against those stupid pink pajamas? watched the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way it outlined every inch of you? did you know i traced it all out in my mind—mapped where i’d leave my teeth, where i’d bite down, where i’d bruise you, places no one would ever see because the cheerios uniform would keep it hidden?

don't you remember when we kissed at that party? the words buzz beneath her skin, electric, unsaid but too loud to ignore. when it was just a game, a performance, because we're pretty girls, and that's what pretty straight girls do when they're playing attention whores for teenage boys. only then is it okay. only then does it mean nothing. don't you remember how i tasted? strawberry lip gloss, even though i always wear cherry. you hated cherry, and i knew that. doesn't my taste keep you up at night, the way yours keeps me awake, haunting my tongue like a phantom i can't escape?

quinn bites the inside of her cheek, the copper tang of blood grounding her, keeping her from letting the words spill out. because if you admit it—if you dare to nod, to confirm that the memory burns you like it burns her-it will ruin her. and yet, some sick, desperate part of her wants you to. she wants to ask: doesn’t my taste haunt you too?

the confession festers, clawing at the walls of her ribcage, begging to escape. but she swallows it down, presses it into the hollow space between who she is and who she pretends to be, the weight of it a familiar ache. instead, she stays silent, biting back the truth until her jaw aches.

[melanated-writersblock]

Confessional - A Yunho Series: Prologue

Seminarian!Yunho x Black!Female!Reader

~ You and your childhood friend Yunho promised to do everything together. But as you got older, things shifted, and you began to feel differently towards each other. Now, Yunho’s joining the church and any emotions you meant to share with him will have to be disregarded. Or will they?

A/N: I'm genuinely struggling because I have so many routes I can take this story and there are so many things that I've thought about including but idk. I don't want it to be all over the place, I want to make sure the story makes sense and reads well. If there's anything you'd like to see happen, I'm always open to suggestions, my asks are open and you can always post a comment! Written with a Black Fem reader in mind but anyone can read!

Content Warning?: Nothing going on this chapter, angst if you squint? A bit of humor, a bit of wholesomeness, BUT you do have a potty mouth🤭

(Disclaimer: I do know how the hierarchy of the Catholic church works irl and this fic DOES NOT reflect that. And if you’re a devout Christian reading this and you’re mad: 1. I’m also Christian (I kinda suck at it though unfortunately) and 2. What are YOU doing reading this? That’s not very Proverbs 31 woman of you🤫)

ANYWAYYYYY LIKES ARE COOL, BUT COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE BETTER! PLEASE LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! ALSO DON’T COPY MY SHIT. I WILL KNOW.

TAGLIST!!!: @starboyyoongi @woosmaid @atinytinycat @kyeos4ng LET ME KNOW IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

How does a little boy who would spend literal hours laying in the grass stargazing, sharing dreams of traveling the world, living life unapologetically, meeting new faces and doing any and everything all at once, turn into a man who’s shut himself off from it all?

With your head bowed, you steal a glance at a praying Yunho in the adjacent pew as your Pastor leads the church congregation in a closing prayer. Your lips curve upward at Yunho’s form. His hands clasped against his chest, body hunched over, forehead resting against the back of the pew in front of him. The same way he’d always pray when you both were little. A creature of habit.

With Sunday Service concluded (finally) you make a b-line for the door as subtle and polite as you possibly can, but the endearing nature of church family wanting to see how you’re doing and what you’ve been up to stops you dead in your tracks, much to your dismay. You rush through your interactions, finding yourself more invested in how natural Yunho looks as he speaks with the Pastor, both laughing at a funny remark one of the Deacons say in passing. Damn him for being so good at this shit. You hug your last inquiring church sister and slip out before someone decides to start asking about your dating life.

The drastic change of temperature from the inside of the warmed church to the frigid December afternoon seizes your body for a second as your common sense and critical thinking comes flooding back to you in an instant…You left your coat on the fucking pew. “You’re shitting me.” your annoyed words of condensation visible in the cold air. You stare blankly between the ground, and up at the overcasted sky, your internal battle deciding if walking back inside to face the music is even worth it.

“Fuck no.”

You straighten yourself up with what little defense you have against the cold, folding your arms across your chest and nuzzling your face deeper into your thick slouched turtleneck as you make your way towards you car near the end of the parking lot. The faint sound of fast approaching footsteps get louder as someone gains up on you from behind. You feel the welcoming weight of your coat cover your back, slipping your arms in to get acclimated to the warmth of the garment as quick as possible.

“Now, you and I both know that wasn’t a good idea.” Yunho now joins you, walking in step but still a little winded from the run. “I wasn’t trying to go back in there to get bombarded by them.” You both continue towards your car, “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” “Yeah it kind of is.”, “How so?” “Really?” “Well, I know but I was just wonderi-“ “Look babe, my relationship with God isn’t as tight as yours, and I’m sorry that I don’t get as much of a kick from being in church as you do” you fish your keys out of your bag to unlock your car, “not like I used to, at least.” Yunho opens the driver’s door waiting for you to get in, his eyes downcast in thought. “Then, why do you come every Sunday?” you sigh, defeated, “Not every Sunday, I only go when you’re back in town.”

You don’t know what inspired him to do it, but there was some sort of paradigm shift when you both hit puberty that made Yunho change the trajectory of his life. One minute you’re up all night watching tv and playing video games, doing each other’s class work, planning to go to the same university, get matching tattoos, share an apartment together, get careers in similar fields so your jobs can line up that way you probably end up at the same workplace, use your paid time off and sick days at the same time so you can travel and go on vacations together…he even bought you a fucking bracelet.

He bought matching fucking bracelets.

He said gold compliments the warm glow of your skin.

He got his in silver.

He never told you how much it cost, anytime you asked, he was always avoidant.

Feeling a familiar sting in the brim of your eyes, you steal yourself for a moment.

One minute it’s all this, the next, he’s going off states away to some Christian University bible college. Then when you think the war is over, he turns right back around and goes to fuckin’ seminary school to become an ordained priest. You didn’t quite understand it, but whatever makes him happy you guess.

“Whenever you tell me you’ll be back in town I come to church to see you.” “But we still hang out even outside of church? I don’t get it.” “Oh my God Yunho, just don’t worry about it.” somehow, he got you to laugh at the situation. You put your keys in the ignition as the car hums to a start. Yunho finally closes your car door, leaning on your newly rolled down window. “Do you still want me to come by later?” He earns another laugh from you, “Why do you keep asking questions that you know the answer to?” “You’re acting like plans can’t change, what if you actually had to do something!” “You know I’m not doing anything later though!” “Okay but what if you-“ “Don’t piss me off.” “Alright,” he smirks, backing away from the vehicle as you reverse out of the parking space. “Text me when you make it home safe.” He calls out as you pull out of the church parking lot, the rest of the congregation finally starting to file out of the sanctuary. Yunho smiles to himself, heading to his vehicle to leave for the day.

To be continued…

YALL OMFG the way I STRUGGLED just to get this out!?!?! Anyway I’ve decided the interactions will happen in time jumps and the tag I use for Yunho and what he’s been ordained as will reflect that.

Also, please be active. If you like the story (and you would like the other chapters to see the light of day) please let me know. Share your thoughts and stuff, you can comment and my asks are always open! And reblogs do a whole lot more than likes!

- Lai✨

⋆˙⟡♡₊˚⊹.Masterlist.⊹˚₊♡⟡˙⋆

⋆˙⟡♡₊˚⊹.Blacktiny Writers Hub.⊹˚₊♡⟡˙⋆

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep8 Musings - LDPDL: Burning Questions

I was reading this Variety article, and they mentioned something that made me think of fan critiques of Louis' opaque motivations in the finale, and the fun laughs we've shared over how he's so unbothered by vamp nonsense that he never seems to ask important questions.

I'm drafting a separate post specifically about "Vampire Grace," but I wanted to focus here on only one point in particular:

PAUL.

We always talk about whether Louis chose Lestat over Claudia; "you take him with you, in HERE!" But I haven't seen talk about how Louis chose Lestat over Paul, and how that factors into Lou's habit of not asking HELLA important questions that could've saved Loustat DECADES of resentment.

Paul's suicide "opened the series," setting this whole thing in motion. Florence blames Louis for his death, making Lou feel like a failure.

--the first time we see Louis outright say to someone's face "I love you," it's mere seconds b4 Paul jumps off a roof. (The only other person we see him say it to is Armand, right after saying they're not companions. 💀)

Paul's memory is wrapped up in Louis' love of Lestat, cuz until Les showed up, Paul had been Lou's one and only companion--the sole person he could TALK to. As a closeted gay man, Lou was desperate for MALE companionship: understanding, acceptance & love.

Sure, he had Grace & Lily (& later Claudia)--all WOMEN--but:

his daddy's dead, and who knows what their deal was, but it couldn't be worse than effing Florence. So there's a lingering want of a father-figure; someone older/wiser who could teach & guide Lou when he was feeling "lost...in a dark way" (*cough* Armand *cough*)

a father or brother is still not the companion Louis REALLY wants/needs, so ofc there's things Lou can't tell Paul, or have with him. Les's an upgraded Paul-- a HUSBAND, not a SIBLING (*cough* Claudia *cough*).

(deep down) Lou was jealous of how candid & honest Paul was; regardless that Paul's lack of a filter was a side effect of his mental illness & religious fanaticism (cuz vampirism's an allegory for sexuality--and even in gay mecca Paris & SanFran Lou was still tryna "find himself" as the Zodiac Killer *cough Daniel *cough*)

Paul's dying wish was for Loustat to never be together

and Lou felt he'd betrayed Paul; that he'd lied/hadn't kept his word

folding like a leaf rather than saying NO, or killing himself like he'd implied (suicide by vampire instead of cane-sword/alcohol poisoning)

(and Queen Claudia called Lestat the "Father of Lies" (aka The Devil), and she ain't never lie a day in her life, either)

So the Catholic guilt was extra strong, cuz Saint Paul was right about Les; but Lou chose Les anyway--in the church, on the altar--after Paul died trusting that Lou WOULDN'T take him back.

Instead, we get this boatload of excuses from Louis about the "vampire bond," when the only bond that matters is LOVE. But this is the crux of Louis' personality/problems, and why the interview took so long for him to attempt either the 1st or 2nd time around. Cuz Louis is a hypocritical coward stuffed to gills with self-loathing & GUILT. He runs away from the truth, he runs away from his issues, and he hides from himself and everyone around him.

So OF COURSE Louis doesn't ask important questions. It's not that he doesn't care--it's that HE'S SCARED of asking, and terrified of what the answer is. So it takes him forever to even BEGIN addressing the elephants in the room.

Louis ALWAYS suspected. But he was:

Scared of the answer/truth

Scared that Les would LIE

Scared he'd forgive Les regardless

Paul died in 1911. It had been 26 YEARS until Lou finally piped up in 1937 (the end of Les's Grovel Era). But this was the PERFECT chance to call Les' bluff & get some honest answers out of him for once, cuz:

If Les (unapologetically) caused Paul's death, he can just stay gone

It's in Les' best interest to tell the truth regardless, cuz he's been desperately tryna get back in Lou's (& Claudia's) good graces for 6 years, and being sincere will earn him more cookies (he'd also be banking on Lou forgiving him regardless, cuz he's been missing Les so bad, even after being beat into the next decade & dropped a billion miles in the air)

If Les IS lying, how would they even frikkin know if they can't read his mind? Lou just wants to see what Les will say

(In 2x6 he waited to ask Madeleine if she only saw Claudia as a replacement for her dead sister--a question he should've asked BEFORE he Turned her, but... 🤷 Moot.)

So in the finale, there's 2 painful truths Lou has to contend with:

WHY is he doing the 2nd interview?

WHO saved him during the Trial?

It takes Louis 77 YEARS to reclaim the "pieces of myself" he'd lost/forgotten. He ALWAYS knew things weren't adding up with Armand. He KNEW there were things missing. Even in SanFran, BEFORE the mind-wipe, he was already losing his mind/memories--PTSD from all the awful things he'd been through.

Even book!Louis knew about Claudia's diaries for a decade b4 he finally got the courage to ask the Talamasca if he could read them & speak to her ghost.

Although Lou's naive AF, he's not an idiot--he HAD A HUNCH that Armand knew more than he was letting on, which is precisely why he kept ignoring Armand every time he asked to stop the interview.

However, for once, Lou actually wastes VERY little time with this one:

As soon as he learns the truth about "Banishment," he divorces Armand, and runs back to NOLA to find Lestat. Memory is a monster Lou'd been running scared from all this time. He's tired of running away, wasting so much time, wasting the gift, when he could be actively tryna solve his problems to make life bearable/better. The hellish prison he'd lived in was by his own design--only he could chose to stand up, take control of his life; and finally ask the burning questions. "Truth and reconciliation."

Lou could finally make peace with the memory of the two people he'd been avoiding for so long; whom he felt he'd let down the most:

For once Lou chooses to be "companion enough for myself," and live with/for himself, not relying other people to save/fix/determine his life for him anymore. That's really the only way he'll be able to be with Les in a healthier, guilt-free relationship in the future.

[hoverboards-and-dragons]

How does God and Lucifer’s siblings view the sins? Are his siblings jealous they have been replaced or are some of them glad that Lucifer has found others who he can be a family with?

Also, do Asmodeus and Lucifer ever indulge in bird like behavior together?

God is very pleased Lucifer has them, He intended for it and a lot of the needless cruelty of the fall was to ensure Lucifer was found, endeared and open(desperate enough) to accept the help of the demons princes.

A full power emotionally destabilized Archangel wasn't going to be quick to make friends in hell. And Yes, I am very much looking forward to unpacking God's 'Ends justify the Means' mentality and 'Father knows best' approach to making decisions that affect other people without their say.

He likes them if only cause He's less guilty for losing Lucifer's original family if he ends up with another one.

However they as individuals are very foreign, while nothing is like Him, He has an understanding of creatures that strive for His perfection. He does not know what to do with those that have no interest in His order. Especially those created outside His will.

He skittish around Fat Nuggets as He is the Sins its very amusing

He's immune to Fear of Unknown by nature of being All knowing, they aren't Other to Him - He's perfectly aware they are complex people with depth and value. Which has unlocked some other, far stranger emotional response that like a morbid intrigue.

The sins and archangels' dynamics do have some posts here and here but im always up for an excuse for a proper mindset deep dive!

Because of implicit and explicit bias his brothers think of hellborn demons as lesser, Heaven is just like that, not necessarily bad just insignificant in the wake of God's Will and Order.

They see them as pets Luci is using to fill the void they left behind, the best he can do, while they're not necessarily upset at the situation by itself...

They are absolutely affronted at Lucifer being closer and more comfortable with the sins than he is or really ever was with them.

All he does is complain about the sins and how he has to manage them! (context) They were under the impression he barely tolerated them what do you mean he finds the demons' company preferable and there's a undercurrent of unbreakable trust and unconditional love in all that taunting and banter.

His siblings aren't jealous of being replaced however they are extremely jealous of being superseded.

They also... see the sins as bringing out Lucifer's 'worst traits', (mainly, Pride) because Christianity Heaven runs on shame and repression so nothing's more terrifying to them than someone being unapologetic in themselves

It's like, the worst parts of Catholic guilt and Protestant evangelical beliefs mixed together.

He has to miserable in hell in every way because if he was even the least bit happy away from the church Heaven that would have to mean something was wrong with him... or it. They don't want to see their brother like that but they're unwilling to compromise their worldview either, for who are they without God? Who is God if He's wrong?

Lucifer is cringe(and damned) but he is free etc etc

I'm so glad that near decade I spent studying Christian dogma and culture is coming in useful, there's so much texture and potential in this family dynamic

Yes, YES!!! I have waited my whole life for someone to ask about this, Bird solidarity!! Asmodeus unfortunately doesn't have a beak (it's different from claws or fingers and not even other angels can replicate it, fuck he misses his Dad) but still mutual preenings!! Billing!! Nestling!! Headbutting!! Wing tucking!! Someone who gets it!

I think Lucifer feels way more fondness for the Ars Goetia than he has any right to just cause a lot of them are birds.

Yeah they're pompous arrogant pricks but, those are endearing quirks to him if it's birds (okay he sees these as basically pets)

Paimon is still around despite his everything because he has a beak and is one of the few Goetia to truly prioritize ass kissing over dignity or prestige and will groom him without acting like it's weird.

[falloutnewnobody]

as weird as i am about sex (trauma reasons and catholic upbringing lol) i love how unapologetically horny bg3 is. even outside the (very respectfully done imo) sexual trauma stuff, the approach to sex and sexuality in a world building and character building sense just feels so refreshing.

like i really appreciate how larian was able to say, "this is an adult game for adults with mature themes like cycles of exploitation and abuse. our audience can handle characters talking about and having sex in a way that adults tend to do" and the way the characters engage with sex and sexual topics says something about them (i could talk for hours about the significance of astarion's +5 approval if you do the neck thing during his tiefling party scene for example) which i know is a very basic concept but the bar is on the floor.

while i wish there was more opportunity to rp as an ace character it's just nice sitting down to play a game and the role of sex in the universe going deeper than "if you're a female character you can fuck this guy for free car repairs and also this faction has slaves that they sexually abuse. your character cannot mention sex unless it's veiled in eight layers of innuendo or a joke,"

[saintmachina]

I don't talk about Constanta's (A DOWRY OF BLOOD) faith much but it's a cornerstone of the text and I will never regret making an unapologetic vampire an unrepentant Catholic. She lives balanced on the knife's edge between good and evil, day and night, darkness and light, and she never once considers herself a contradiction.

Because no matter what state my belief is in, no matter if there are times when I cannot hold space for my own faith much less the faith of others, she can keep that candle burning. She believes even on days when I find it hard to.

[cels-not-so-secret-love-affair]

o mary of mine (marylily)

a/n: irish catholic lily evans! and playing about with a sapphic angle for her. i’m neither irish nor catholic, but i am gay as hell, so hopefully that pulls through for me. very slight implied nsfw near the end. lots of christianity.

The fact that this is not the Mary Lily wants to be kneeling before most right now is precisely why she’s doing it.

It’s quiet in the cathedral. An awful, echoey, hollow quiet that reflects its nothingness back onto itself into infinity like a great big hall of silent mirrors. The sort of quiet that makes your head scream and your muscles tense because it feels like nowhere should ever or could ever be so deathly empty. It’s cold too. The tips of Lily’s fingers are almost freezing off. She tries to warm them by clasping her hands together tighter in prayer, but to no avail. Maybe never quite being able to rid the prickly chill from her bones is just God’s will. She keeps her eyes firmly shut and attempts desperately to ignore the impending sense of nausea brewing stormily in her stomach.

Everything’s just right. She’s confident about this - she could do this in her sleep, in death, even if she were ninety odd with a memory threatening to fail her. It’s ingrained in her bones by now, whether she likes it or not. But everything is also wholly, wholly wrong. Her head is bowed like it ought to be, but it’s not really in reverence. More because she can’t seem to bring herself to look her Blessed Virgin in the eyes when she’s like this. It’s strange. She always used to feel comforted by Mary. When she was very little she used to call her mammy. Mother. Something about such a beautifully holy woman had always resonated with her, beyond the many boring hours spent kicking her feet in mass and yawning her way through the hymns. In hindsight, she supposes bitterly, that was probably just another fucking warning sign. The comfort she used to bring Lily is absent now though, here in the cold and the quiet. The statue in front of her is just that, a statue. Lifeless and unfeeling and dead in the way that only things that have never quite been alive can be.

Her mind wanders. She doesn’t mean it to. She means to be disciplined. She means to pray properly and perfectly like she always has and ask God to guide her, or else simply do away with the whole wretched business and let her just return to how everything was before, before she’d let herself become sullied by feelings of all fucking things. But the brain is a traitorous bastard. And it is cold, and it is quiet, and not for the first time since Lily met her the girl proves to be far greater than her eponym. Mary. She slips smirking into Lily’s thoughts with alarming ease, the ghost of her touch sending shivers down her spine and electrifying every cell in her body. Images of her shift and swirl. At first they are innocent and true, memories of her unaltered by fantasy. The softness of her skin, her glossy brown ringlets, the warmth and unapologetic vivacity of her laugh ringing out like church bells across the morning dew. One moment she is speaking animatedly and bright-eyed about something she’s read in a magazine, the next, applying lip gloss before her compact. It’s that one that tips it. Suddenly, Lily’s mind swoops viciously into the realm of imagination, and against her will Mary is looking directly at her, tilting her head, advancing towards her. Her lips are pretty and plump and perfect and Lily wants nothing more than to try, to taste, to touch, to take. It’s no time at all before figmental fingers are feeling their way down between her thighs, and she can practically hear Mary’s sweetly melodic voice low and breathy in her ear, and the sensations are all impossibly real, and magical, and heady, and everything begins to edge terrifyingly into overwhelm and-

Lily counts three steps from the cathedral door before she is sick in the grass.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Ava Gardner (The Killers, The Barefoot Contessa)— She's so goddamn hot. Her and Frank Sinatra could've sandwiched me and I would've thanked them for the privilege

Jean Seberg (Breathless, Saint Joan)— Some of us watched À bout de souffle as a lil French undergrad and had the trajectory of our lives changed by Jean Seberg. She IS French new wave!! She is the moment!! She sadly had to work with a lot of shitty directors in her career but even so, she has this magnetic energy whenever she’s on screen. In her personal life, she was also very supportive of civil rights causes, and was even targeted/harassed by the FBI for financially supporting the Black Panther Party.

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Ava Gardner:

Ava Gardner is one of my favorite actresses of all time. Although a lot of her roles in movies are about her being beautiful and nothing else, there are some films where her acting truly shines.

Gifset: https://www.tumblr.com/pelopides/721438308726603776/ava-gardner-as-pandora-reynolds-pandora-and-the

Gifset 2: https://www.tumblr.com/portraitoflestatonfire/731899355804598272/if-the-loustat-reunion-doesnt-look-like-this-then

HER FACE. LOOK AT IT. Also was a life long supporter of civil rights and a member of the NAACP, had lots of fun love affairs with other stars, bullfighters, married several times but was also happy in between to just have lovers and was unapologetically herself.

I literally gasp every time I see her.

Between 1942 and 1964, Ava Gardner was credited in no less 50 films, and is still considered by some to be the most beautiful actresses that ever graced the silver screen. Despite life-long insecurities regarding her talent as an actress, she weathered public scandal, industry hostility, and outright condemnation by the Catholic Church with fearless grace. She would later in life talk candidly about the reality and pain of living through two (studio approved!!) abortions during her short marriage to Frank Sinatra, and while the two of them could not make their relationship work, they remained in each other’s lives for nearly 30 years. She would forever describe herself as a small-town girl who just got lucky, but always felt like a beautiful outsider.

Really genuinely one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever seen. An autodidact. Had amazing chemistry with Gregory Peck to the point where I do think about watching On The Beach again sometimes because they're so good together even though that movie did destroy me. Was a great femme fatale in many movies.

Jean Seberg:

anyone who plays Joan of Arc is kind of hot by default tbh

she's gorgeous, she's cool, she has the original blond pixie cut

She donated a lot of her money to civil rights organizations such as the NAACP and the black panther party as well as Native American school groups, as a result of this the fbi ran a smear campaign against her and a surveillance campaign which is thought to have led to her suicide tragically.

idk if this is propaganda but the COINTELPRO and the FBI are widely blamed for her death. If the FBI was after her for supporting the Black Panther Party you know she was good

[fellow-travelers-fic-recs]

Fellow Travelers Fic Recs | Monthlyish Recap (Part Two)

Some of the favorite fics read by FTFR and/or newly posted in May and June! This is a big one, friends... So, I'll be breaking it up into two parts. (Part One: Here)

😇 🍕 This time around, we have not one, but two very special afterlife AU’s, a pizza delivery driver AU and a few other fantastic recent updates in some ongoing WIPs you might already be keeping track of. You can the most recent chapters posted here: Featured WIPs Rec List

💦 May wasn't so much of a collection as it was a trio of prompts, with “missing years”, “May I…” and “International Wankers Day” being on May 28. You will find them mixed throughout this month's rec list.

🧁 Of course, June 6 was our beloved Catholic boy from Staten Island’s birthday, and there were a couple of fics to celebrate! 🎄 Mary and Tim celebrate Christmas in the 1950s, while 1980s Hawk makes good on a special wish Tim made long ago. ✍️Hawk breaks his promise not to write… While Tim breaks his vow not to give into unholy temptation. 🙏 ☀️ Kenny and Leonard forge a summertime bond before the war ... While Jackson reconnects with dad’s special friend from the cabin, out in San Francisco. 🚗

These are just a few of the many great new fics posted in the past two months. It's been hard to keep up with them all! Check out the links below.

📚 More fic recs can be found at the fic register, here.

Not quite what you're looking for? Tell us what you had in mind, here! → 💌

✨ Show our amazing authors some love with your comments and kudos on the fics you enjoyed after reading! Likes are lovely, but please reblog this post to share this content with your mutuals! ✨

Happy Reading!

🧁 A Wish Your Heart Makes [G, 1K] @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) “Happy birthday,” she wished, the final notes of the traditional song sounding in his ears. She set the cake on the cleared table, unapologetic about how much she had to have spent on making it. "Make a wish."

Tim stared at the trio of flickering candles marking his twenty-fifth birthday. Maggie's patient gaze rested on him, as knowing as they had always been. She knew what Tim's heart had automatically wished for, what he knew was impossible. But this was his birthday, and birthday wishes were magical.

A snippet of Tim's birthday.

🧁 Happy Birthday, Mr. Laughlin [E, 1K] by @beyondxmeasure | Cyantific Hawk tries to make it up to Tim for missing his birthday. Tim's only wish is a gift they can both enjoy.

A missing scene, of sorts, of the Rehoboth Beach weekend getaway.

🧁 Bring Love's Dreams [G, 3K] @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) The morning and evening of Tim's birthday in San Francisco, 1957

Canon divergent fluff.

☀️ Only The Lucky Ones Come Home [M, 1K] by @jesterlesbian | captainquint It didn’t make sense. Kenny wasn’t in Italy, he wasn’t in Europe. He was sent somewhere in the Pacific, Hawk wasn’t quite sure. That was the last he had heard. So how could Kenneth Willard be bleeding out at his feet in Velletri?

“You did this.”

The blood in Hawk’s veins turned to ice at Kenny’s words.

Or, Hawk has a nightmare about his time in the war.

⛱️ My Composure Sort Of Slips [E, 4K] by @bre1995 | bre_thomas, @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar)

It all started at the Nomad Bar when Hawk left Tim on his own.

Based on their weekend getaway trip, with a filler scene of what happened in the hotel room before dinner.

☀️i'll set fire to the whole place [G, 500] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup Lucy sat at Hawk’s desk, looking at the envelope, signed with a painfully familiar handwriting. She swore to herself she will never repeat a mistake of reading letters from that man, but with years passed she began to suspect that in that marriage she was bound to make the same mistakes over and over.

⛱️ Nobody gets to heaven if they don't go through hell [E, 5K] by @doodlingawaits | DoodlingAwaits In the past, I held two truths. My love for you and my love for God. One was real and one was a fantasy. It's 1968 and Tim is hiding out in Hawk's hunting cabin. He struggles to reconcile what he truly feels as he finds himself surrounded by reminders of Hawk's betrayal and his love. All the while, he cannot control his more primal desires... and neither can Hawk.

Part 1 of Man's Second Best Friend

☀️ritual and liturgy [M, 525] by @redmyeyes | redmyeyes It’s stress relief, nothing more.

Part 8 of Fellow Travelers 

Part 2 of Man's Second Best Friend

⛱️i'm only alive when i'm dreaming of you [E, 918] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup Hawk spends the afternoon picturing Tim kneeling, but not exactly in prayer.

Part 3 of Man's Second Best Friend

☀️ in the night when I start to miss you [E, 2K] by @alorchik | alorchik One night, a shared fantasy, and two souls, entwined across time and space.

Part 4 of Man's Second Best Friend

⛱️ Don’t Pull Your Love Out [E, 5K] by @beyondxmeasure | Cyantific Hawk visits Tim in prison, and it stirs up a lot of feelings, and a lot of memories.

Part 5 of Man's Second Best Friend

☀️ Five Tim Laughlin Recipes by Hawkins Fuller [E, 3K] by @alorchik | alorchik After 35 years together with Tim Laughlin, Hawkins Fuller unveils his collection of recipes.

Or, Hawk shares his notes (written mostly for himself because he would never let anyone touch Tim)

⛱️ Might Drive Me Crazy [NR, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Hawk helps Tim get ready for a party. More or less.

☀️that light was too alluring and in your radiance i shook [E, 1K] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup A missing scene between the undressing and the hand job parts.

⛱️ Life Is Just A Memory [T, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Sometimes, Hawk remembered the small things. Flashes of memory, impressions. Sweetness. Gentility. Tanned skin and a bright grin across the tennis court. The shine of the sun in his hair and the way it had lit up his eyes just right. The curl of his smile. The flush on his cheeks as he held their trophy. The way he felt under Hawk's arm the only times Hawk could risk touching him in public.

Hawk lets himself remember Kenny.

☀️ look at me, i'm too far gone [E, 765] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup “What is it?” Tim nods at the dark fabric in Hawk’s hands.

“A blindfold,” Hawk answers, enjoying the way Tim’s face goes from confused to excited as it clicks in his head.

Or, a blindfold smut we all deserve.

⛱️ Together As One Let us come [E, 1K] by@ jiuselvtizidaren💠 What happened in the hotel room, in this temporary sanctuary enclosed within those four walls? Hawk had his own plan, but improvisation is the spice of life.

☀️ It's Rude To Speak With Your Mouth Full [E, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Hawk was playing with fire, he knew, but the minute Tim had walked into his office, eyes lighting up just from the sight of him, Hawk had been powerless to resist. Whatever his boy wanted, he would have. And when Tim stepped between Hawk's legs, dropping to his knees with the grace of a lifetime of devotion - well, there were definite perks to working late.

Yet another office sex fic.

⛱️ The People who Loved Hawkins Fuller [NR. 2K] by SourLeminade💠 The conversation between Tim and Lucy goes longer than what the show aired. Lucy needs to know what happened and Tim knows he only has so much time left to give her that closure.

☀️ i'll set fire to the whole place [G, 500] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup Lucy sat at Hawk’s desk, looking at the envelope, signed with a painfully familiar handwriting. She swore to herself she will never repeat a mistake of reading letters from that man, but with years passed she began to suspect that in that marriage she was bound to make the same mistakes over and over.

⛱️ And in a dream I'm a different me With a perfect you, we fit perfectly And for once in my life I feel complete And I still want to ruin it. [E, 404] By @in-our-special-place | Cupping_Cakes “That's not what I'm afraid of.”

☀️ Never be enough to fill me up [E, 537] By @in-our-special-place | Cupping_Cakes He'd been everything a lover should be but never loved the way he should have.

I come along, but I don't know where you're taking me. [E, 551] By @in-our-special-place | Cupping_Cakes But when the tremors subsided and she lay there smoking her cigarette, she was left feeling empty and hating herself for the weakness she felt—for needing Hawks touch so desperately. She knew she should have left him and found someone else who could truly love her, but the thought of losing him, even with everything, was too much for her to bear.

⛱️ It Can Wait 'Til Morning [M, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Hawk calls Tim late at night.

1950s era almost phone sex.

☀️ god bless all petty thieves [G, 2K] by @thewindyoubargainedfor | thewindyoubargainedfor Tim meets Jackson at the hunting cabin. Years later, he gets a call.

⛱️ stay awhile (baby, you won't regret it) [E, 1K] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup “It’s something I work on,” he says, for some reason sounding apologetic. “I said it’s not a good time.”

“I can help you with that,” Tim offers. “Or, I can do something that will help you focus.”

“You’re not helping me focus on work, for sure,” Hawk murmurs, stepping closer and putting his hands on the desk, bracketing Tim between it and his body.

Or, an inappropriate use of the desk in Hawk's apartment.

☀️ with your hand you kept the real world outside [T, 964] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup “I’m sorry,” he hears himself saying. Tim's eyes open wide, like doesn’t understand what Hawk is sorry for, either. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want. You want to be able to kiss in public, like that couple in the restaurant. You want to stay the weekend and leave whenever you want, not afraid that people will see. Maybe you even want to live together, so you don’t have to leave at all.”

Or, a little fantasy after the "Hit me" scene.

⛱️ No more hiding, Hawkins Fuller. Not today. [T, 1K] By @carnivalrow | nightfall_in_winter Hawk can't bottle up his feelings for Tim any longer...

Check out the May/June Recap Part One Here

💠Authors: If your tumblr (or other socials) isn’t linked, and you'd like it to be, let me know and I'll be happy to add it! Or, if you’re linked already and would prefer not to be, please contact me to remove it.