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#Adopting your John
azulhood · 6 months
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John Constantine had a habit of picking up strays.
From half demons (like Raven) to demigods (like Billy Batson) to other extremely powerful magical children.
It was rumored among Justice League Dark that Batman's adopting problem had rubbed off on John.
So, it came a surprise to absolutely nobody, when John brought two tiny half ghosts to the next Justice league dark meeting and introduced them as his wards. The two could be seen flying around cities with Shazam and practicing magic with Raven. And John was also talking with Boston about Ghost culture.
But then Batman showed up on the house of mysteries doorstep and wanting to talk about Danny being his biological child.
Well, one thing was for sure..
Batman was not making the kid leave if he didn't want to, and if John had to fight the richest man on earth in a custody battle, then so be it.
He might have to cash in a few favors though.
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cryinginthevoid · 11 months
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I’m your kid now.
It begins (Part 1)
Little baby man/child Danny, but make it John Constantine with a dash of reverse surprise adoption.
So basically Danny is like the Grimm reaper of supernatural tax fraud or something, we’ve seen it before.
BUT.
Danny warns people of their impending death and/or debt in the stupidest ways just so he can get a laugh. His favorite is scaring people, what can he say, it’s his brand.
Plus, he has plenty of time to mess around, it’s not like he was getting any deader.
When he got around to Constantine, he made himself into a tiny lil’ guy and decided to haunt him for a while without him noticing.
What, the house of mystery was cool, ok?
He didn’t expect to actually start caring for the obnoxious mage.
It couldn’t be healthy to drink that much with only crisps to absorb the toxins, right?
And oh Ancients, don’t get him started on the soul selling.
He wanted to help the poor guy out but he wasn’t sure how, it’d been so long since he’d been human.
Human.
He could make himself look human.
But would the mage trust some random guy that showed up in his heavily enchanted house? No.
But some humans naturally let their guard down around vulnerable children, right?
Or: John doesn’t know where this kid came from, with his black hair, too blue eyes, and inability to keep a human form, but no matter how many times he kicks him out, he always gets back in! It’s like the house is helping him. But why in the world does the kid keep calling him his dad?!
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cod-dump · 6 months
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Price: *settled in bed*
Price: Fuck, what a day-
*CRASH*
Price: WHAT THE FU- NIK! DID YOU JUST THROW A FUCKING ROCK THROUGH MY FUCKING WINDOW?!
Nik, standing below the window with a rock in his hand: … No?
Price: You piece of shit! I’m going to beat YOUR FUCKING ASS! DON’T YOU DARE RUN AWAY-
(In teen!Ghost’s room)
teen!Ghost: *laying in bed, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes*
Teen!Gaz, peeking into the room: Si-
Teen!Ghost: Go back to bed, Kyle teen!Gaz: But dad just ran out through the garden after Nik- teen!Ghost: I know. And I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen
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ghouljams · 6 months
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To be honest, I would want to be Price and Witch’s kid instead of fuck them idk why. I have mommy and daddy issues I guess lol.
Yeah I can do that, Witch adopts a lot of people and Price... also adopts strays.
"Do you want some tea darling?" The Witch asks, crouching to be on your level, "or maybe some hot chocolate? Could perk you right up."
You think for a moment before nodding your head. You're not supposed to talk to strangers, but you've seen this witch in the neighborhood and there's something comforting about her. Her concern seems genuine as she fusses with the copper pots in her kitchen. And you really can't complain about the rich dark liquid she pours neatly into a mug for you. It certainly looks, and smells, like a melted chocolate bar. Far flung from the powdered stuff you expected.
She frowns at you for a moment, plucking at the space around you with purposeful fingers. You sip your drink, and try not to watch her too closely. She may feel warm, but her movements are alien to you, and strike at your stomach with a strange primal fear. You think it's fear, you don't quite have the word for this feeling. You're sure it will come to you.
The chocolate coats your tongue, thick and viscous, you think you can taste cinnamon under the cocoa. The Witch taps her finger against her cheek, watching you, she seems ill at ease. Obviously concerned over the strange child that's made themselves comfortable in her home. She seems to come to some conclusion, holding her hand over her mouth as she whispers something. It's inaudible and yet it fills the room, dissonant whispers echoing off the walls and collecting in a swirl of smoke.
A man steps out with a roll of his shoulders, and almost as quickly as he lays eyes on you, he's looking back at the witch.
"Where'd you get the changeling?" He asks with a raise of his brow. The Witch lets out a breath.
"Oh good, knew they felt fae," She goes to the kitchen while the man takes a seat next to you, "they just showed up, I assume they're one of the neighbor's kids."
"Is that right?" The man smiles at you, it makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, you smile back with all your teeth. He seems to like that, poking his fingers against your sides to make you giggle. "Where's your mum, hm? Can't have wandered too far off."
You shrug and the fae man nods. You like when adults don't make you talk, sometimes talking is too much. The witch taps her fingers together, thinking, while the man lets smoke swirl off his fingers. It makes little shapes and animals in the air, elephants and lions dancing around your head, butterflies flying over to distract the witch. You hold your hand out for one, and watch a lion burst into a flock of penguins to waddle across your palm.
"I can run a trace, I suppose," The Witch sighs walking closer, she crouches to be at eye level with you, "Can I have a pinch of your hair darling? I promise it won't hurt a bit."
You don't know if you want to give a witch your hair. It seems dangerous, that's how witches take control of people. You look at the man for help, surely he knows how witches work and won't let this one puppet you around. He chuckles, leaning his elbow against the table to rest his head against his fist. He nods at you.
"Go on then, I'll make sure she doesn't do anything nasty." He assures you. You look back at the Witch, who's glaring at your new friend.
"Don't make me sound so wicked," She scolds him.
"Don't need my help for that sweetheart," There's something warm in his voice, something that makes the whole house light up with warmth as the Witch bites down a smile.
She's very careful with you, pressing her fingers against your scalp as she twists hair around her fingers, plucking a few stray strands before pulling away again. She's right, it doesn't hurt. You rub your head, and she turns it back towards your mug of liquid chocolate. You think that's payment enough.
You don't watch what she does with your hair, but you feel the shiver of it. It's like a little zap of electricity, a stray shock from rubbing your socks against carpet. You wrinkle your nose at the feeling, it's not unbearable, but it's unpleasant. You consider peaking at what the Witch is doing, but you catch sight of your new fae friend first, and watching him watch her is much more interesting.
His eyes spark, and you mean that literally. There's a fire behind them that traces its way around his iris each time he blinks. A spark of gold against ice blue. A shooting star in a snowstorm. His eyes smile, and even though his fingers stop you from seeing his lips you assume they're smiling at well. You glance at the witch and see her hold up a vial of black powder to the light, her eyes studying it as she tips it one way then the other. It's not anything interesting, you don't see what's worth staring at.
"Can you make a bear?" You ask the man, he hums questioningly before looking at you. "They're my favorite," You explain.
"Can I make a bear?" He scoffs, swirling his fingers to collect the smoke. The wisps of it draw together and burst with a spark into the silhouette of a brown bear. It plods along the table top before sitting down to look around. It's a good bear.
"I know a good story about a bear," You tell him. He raises a brow, and doesn't stop you as you chatter away telling your favorite fairy tale. In fact his smoke seems to act out the scenes for you, stopping and restarting as you try to remember details. By the time you finish there's no more sound coming from the witch's work, and you're starting to notice the "lovely princess" and "handsome prince" smoke figures look a lot like your hosts.
"I called their mum," The witch tells the man, setting a cup of tea in front of him. "She should be here soon." The fae man snaps his fingers and the smoke disperses.
"One of the neighbors?" He asks, and she hums in confirmation. He tugs at her hand, pulls her down to perch on his lap with a quiet word.
"Are you alright to go home dear?" She asks you, and you think she means it. Sometimes people ask you things but they don't really want an answer, they just want to ask. You nod after a moment's thought. She looks relieved. "If you ever get lost again, you can call me,-" she hands you a little black card with gold lettering, it looks very official, "-I'll get you back home."
You turn the card over. There's no name on it just a phone number, an address, and one word, "Witch." You're studying one of the gold stars on the corner of it when there's a knock at the door. The Witch stands to answer it, and the fae man's touch lingers on her hip before she moves away. He gives you a wink as she pulls the door open, as if his affections are a conspiracy between the two of you. You hop off your chair and he catches your arm.
"Price," He tells you quietly, it feels like an important word so you nod solemnly. He smiles, "Go on back to your mum, and don't go spreading my name around."
You hold onto your mother's hand as you wave good-bye. She thanks the Witch profusely, though she waves all of them off. You watch the gold slip off of her like water, humans are so funny like that. They never hold onto heavy ties, kind only for the sake of kindness.
"Do you know how worried I was?" Your mother scolds you, "You're lucky someone dangerous didn't find you."
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wowifinallywatched · 10 days
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Listen I hear what some people are saying "But Hoffman murdered people" "But Hoffman's a bad guy" yeah but he's also COMMITTED TO HIS CRAFT
He went from telling John to fuck off to saying 'right I'm about to take over this whole mans legacy'
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haimatoloichos · 1 year
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azures-bazar · 1 year
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Arthur would have rather remained an only child.
(yes, this entire dialogue is from " The Addams Family Values ", please don't judge me, I found it too accurate for what would happen after Sean's arrival :') )
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(that blur effect didn't work well, sorry.)
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awheckery · 1 year
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DEATH TW and mentions of murder so if that is triggering for you don’t read, but if it’s not then i’d like to ask if you’ve heard of forensic genealogy? while i am uneasy at the prospect of using it to find suspects, it can also be used to find the identities of unidentified decedents, who die of accidental causes or are murdered, and often it’s the only hope to identify those who have been unidentified for decades. the dna doe project is a nonprofit that’s mostly volunteer run, and i think that your research skills could be useful there or somewhere like there. i know this is kind of a random ask to receive, identification of unidentified remains is my special interest but i don’t have the time or training to get better at researching beyond a few tricks here and there.
I feel like we've read the same articles recently; did you see the tumblr post (and linked articles) about Joseph Augustus Zarelli, the Boy in the Box?
Which is to say, yes, I am aware of forensic genealogy and the DNA Doe Project, because like many white American women, I'm a true crime junkie.* My big Thing is investigative procedure tho, so I'm also deeply interested in plane & train crash investigations, medical mysteries, archaeology, anthropology... basically 'what happened, and by which processes and methods do we figure out what happened?'
So far as getting into the game myself, I dunno. I assume there's probably some sort of required formal training, along with the expectation of reliability and sustained effort, and I'm a chronically ill autodidact with ADHD. I'm the research equivalent of a sprinter; investigative genealogy requires a marathoner, because there's so much exhausting, grinding work involved.
Something I've never seen brought up before in any investigation is how many extant family trees are just wrong. Genealogical sites make it too easy to crib notes from other users, and all it takes is one person deciding 'eh that's probably the right guy' for dozens of other amateur researchers to make the same mistake, and then somebody ties that erroneous information to their DNA profile. I don't know how the forensic genealogists deal with that.
You also have to take into account how many people throughout history have just gone missing, or otherwise fallen off the historical record. Just because someone's date of death is absent doesn't mean something nefarious happened to them. (Just because someone's date of death is present doesn't mean it's correct.) People emigrate. They marry. They change their names. They die alone and unknown in a ditch**, or they die somewhere that doesn't make those records public***. Paper records can burn or flood out, and family stories rarely make it down more than one or two generations. History is messy.
I've only done serious research into my family background for two years, in fits and starts interrupted by illness flare ups. Half the time it feels like I find more questions to ask than I get answers. I've found a pair of illegitimate daughters and a handful of adoptees. I've found some two dozen 'missing persons' who may as well have disappeared into thin air, for how suddenly they dropped out of the historical record. I've found a murder victim and a (maybe) would-be murderess.
And four months ago, I found the answer to another family's 150 year old missing person case, and it changed everything I thought I knew about my mother's family.
This is how.
Five months ago, I thought I knew everything there was that could be known about John Robert McDowell.
I knew he was born July 1st of either 1868 or 1869, in Belfast, Northern Ireland. According to his naturalization petition, he came to the United States in April of 1883, when the absolute oldest he could have been was fourteen, and at the time of his naturalization in 1896 he claimed his nationality was English, presumably due to anti-Irish sentiments at the time.
I knew John's handwriting was idiosyncratic: he wrote the J in his name with a rightward upper loop that scooped up again before curving back around the center staff, and his uppercase R was a mess of curlicues. I've never seen the like before or since.
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I knew that despite living in America for ten years longer than he'd lived outside it, John still had an accent in 1908 when his second son was born. Spelling is incredibly inconsistent across historical records because up until very recently, it was the practice of the record keepers to write down their best guess at what they heard, and in 1908 a midwife heard and recorded John's surname as McDoul.
John's life was actually remarkably well-documented, in comparison to his contemporaries. I bought myself access to Newspapers.com along with my Ancestry subscription, and he made semi-regular appearances in the Newport News Daily Press for the better part of thirty years as a Navy veteran, successful entrepreneur, and president of a labor union that later became the United Steelworkers Local 8888. (A seemingly throwaway notice in the Daily Press was the only record I've yet been able to find for his divorce, which eventually led me to find out whatever happened to his wife, which is another saga entirely. Pauline, you dirty rotten cheater.)
I knew that John was in and out of the hospital with thyroid cancer, but he was such a tough old bastard it took the better part of fifteen years to kill him, and he died in 1954 at the age of 86.****
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According to John's death certificate (and the U.S. Government records at the VA hospital where he died), his parents' names were Thomas McDowell and Isabell Rabb (or possibly Robb, the Accent strikes again.)
This is the only record linked to either of them on Ancestry.com at all.
I have most of a history degree, so I wasn't surprised. There are next to no records of the 1890 census of the United States, and that was down to a fire in the National Archives. Ireland was dragged backwards through hell by the ankles for centuries by a succession of British monarchs and governments, and Belfast was in the prime of especially conflicted territory for much of it. No census records from John's lifetime were kept, and the likelihood his parents would show up in the surviving fragments from 1841 and 1851 was slim to none.
There were transcribed indexes from birth and marriage records available, at least, and I scoured them through, looking for a John McDowell, and there wasn't a single damn one born to a Thomas or Isabelle McDowell in a decade on either side of 1868. There wasn't any record I could find at all of a Thomas McDowell marrying an Isabelle Rabb until well after John left Ireland.
Five months ago, as far as I knew, John Robert McDowell was probably a bastard, who'd either been left out of whatever records were taken at the time, or he was one of the unfortunate ones whose birth record had been lost.
Four months ago, I realized that the record indexes on Ancestry included film numbers, which meant there were pictures of those records to be found somewhere. If they were organized chronologically, I could try to find his birth registration that way. Googling "ireland civil registration records" brought me to the Civil Records search page of a genealogy site run by, of all things, the Irish government's tourism department.
Once again, there wasn't a John McDowell born to the right parents during the right time period, so I went looking for his parents' marriage. And found it.
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If they married in 1872, John would probably still technically be a bastard, but I had a point to start from. Once I clicked into the actual scan of the record I nearly snapped myself in half sitting upright in attention, because Thomas McDowell's father's name was Duncan, John named his eldest son Duncan, Isabella's father's name was John, I had to have the right two people, this couldn't be a coincidence.
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And then I noticed Isabella was a widow. Isabella was a widow.
Who was your husband, and when did he die, Isabella? I searched again, and found her marriage to a Thomas Logan July 30th, 1866. No men named Thomas Logan died in Belfast between 1866 and 1870, which meant he was probably still alive when John was born. It meant I had been looking in the wrong direction the entire time.
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John Robb Logan came into the world on July 1st, 1868, in the Ballymacarrett district of Belfast, the second child of four born to Thomas Logan and Isabella Robb. Once I knew what I was looking for the rest came easy.
John's early life was riddled with tragedies. His younger brother Joseph was six months old when he died in March of 1870. His father died of smallpox in December of the same year, exactly one month after the birth of his sister Mary. Three months before his fifth birthday, his first half-sibling Bella died, at just five months old. And in 1879, his older brother William died after a long, miserably drawn-out illness from spinal tuberculosis.
(As an aside, god, poor Isabella. She had four children with Thomas Logan, and a further nine with Thomas McDowell, and before her early death from a long respiratory illness she buried a husband, two sons, and two daughters. How do you go on after that, how are you not forever shattered?)
If I hadn't been sure I'd found the right family, I was after William died. Thomas McDowell was the person who reported William's death to the registrar's office after sitting by his deathbed. The registrar recorded William as a "child of [the] baker" that Thomas was by profession; Thomas McDowell claimed his stepson as his own.
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Duncan McDowell, John's step-grandfather, had a family burial plot in Ballygowan, and he named William Adam Logan as his grandson, with no qualifiers, when they buried him.
All the evidence suggests that the McDowells loved John Robb Logan and his siblings, and he loved them back every bit as much. You don't choose to take on the surname of people you hate, and it seems very much the case that John chose to go by McDowell when he came to America. I'm honestly not sure there was a way for Thomas McDowell to bequeath his name to his stepchildren, given John's brother William died a Logan and his sister Mary married as one.
John Robb Logan disappeared from history after his baptism, and John Robert McDowell made his first confirmed appearance in the historical record in 1883, but I was certain they were one and the same. The problem was proving it to my mother, because McDowell was her family name. She'd grown up with it, as had her sisters and her dozens of cousins and her father and his siblings and her father's father; I only had a paper trail arguing the name she knew didn't belong to any of them by blood.
So I went for blood.
I refuse to give my DNA to Ancestry.com on a principle born from paranoia and ethics concerns. It's absolutely not happening, ever, like hell do I expect a corporation to do the right thing with my genetic material. My mother doesn't share my concerns, either now or four years ago, when she bought an Ancestry DNA kit and then did absolutely nothing with her results besides marvel at the unexpected Swedish heritage in her 'Ethnicity Estimate' because doing anything else looked like too much work.
It took a few days to figure out how to hook my mother's DNA results into the tree I've built, and a few more for all the features to populate, but all told it took less than a week between learning the truth about my great-great-grandfather's parentage and proving it irrefutably with DNA, via several descendants of his full-blooded sister Mary and a grandson of his half-brother Wallace.
Ancestry doesn't tell you when new DNA matches are found, or when someone adds you to their tree (and thank god for that, my mother has somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty thousand matches). To those descendants of Mary Thomasina Logan, the handful of John's descendants who've shelled out for Ancestry DNA kits could be any random person. Frequently the relationships between matches aren't clear, because of all the folks like my mom who never add a tree to their results, or those who don't try to go any further back than their grandparents.
As far as Mary Logan's descendants know, the sons of Thomas Logan dead-ended his line, and when I do find John in their trees there's never more than a birth year and a blank space where there would usually be a year of death. (They all have the wrong Isabella Robb too, but I don't really blame them; apparently Isabella was one of the most popular names for girls for well over a century, and Robbs weren't exactly thin on the ground.)
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Someday soon, I'm going to reach out. People who study genealogy do it because they're looking for something: long lost relatives, answers to questions asked too late, or even a better, more personal understanding of history by learning about the people who were there when it happened. Every family has its mysteries and this one, at least, could be solved.
John's story doesn't end here. Here is where it begins.
~
*I'm aware of the problematic nature of White Lady True Crime Brain Poisoning, but I'm gonna have to pull the 'I'm not like other girls' card. I'm incredibly discerning about my crime shows, I hate the fucking cops, and I'm realistic about how unbelievably low my chances are of ever being the victim of a violent crime. I'm white, I'm broke as shit, I'm built like a running back and walk like the Terminator, and most importantly, I'm single and planning to stay that way for the rest of my life. The only way I'm getting murdered is if I happen to get caught in a random mass shooting, which isn't outside the realm of possibility because America.
**In case anyone's gotten this far and is still interested, there's strong evidence that the mystery of the Somerton Man was finally solved last year. At some point I'd like to take a look at the tree the forensic genealogists built tho, because I have some Doubts. There was only one person in that family that fell off the map in the 40's? Just one? I was lightning-strike kinds of lucky enough to find John's real parentage, but I dug up more unanswered questions with it, because two of his half-brothers dropped out of the records after 1901. Completely setting aside the possibility of infidelity in the Webb family and how common inbreeding has been (both historically and in recent memory) in populations of European descent, I have a hard time buying that Carl Webb was the only person who could be the Somerton Man. It's still cool as shit that they have a strong possibility tho.
***Maryland and Kansas specifically can blow me, if somebody died in either of those states I have to find an obituary or a tombstone to get the mcfrickin' date, and I have to either pay money and prove a relationship to see a death certificate, or show up to an archive in person to search on their intranet, MARYLAND WHY DO YOU NOT WANT ME TO KNOW WHEN MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER DIED. (Being fair, I don't know if she died in Maryland, that's just a great-uncle's best guess, because she ran away from her family in 1949 and nobody ever saw her again after the early 60's. Helen, where the hell did you go?)
****One of the big reasons why I got into genealogy in the first place was to see if I could find how far back the predisposition to early deaths and autoimmune disease went in my family. What I hadn't expected to find was a predisposition for extreme longevity on all sides. Longevity as in 'skewing the life expectancy bell curve' kinds of longevity. As long as someone didn't come down with a freak illness or make a looooooooong string of poor life choices, they were apparently immune to death, which honestly explains a few things about Crazy Grandma, god damn.
#genealogy#forensic genealogy#research throwdown#storytime with stella#long post#I'm seriously not kidding it's a long goddamn post#image heavy#all images described in alt text#I don't think I did a particularly great job communicating why I shouldn't get into this professionally#this took a long goddamn time to figure out#I think most people want answers quicker than *checks back of hand* seven-ish months?#fwiw my mother took it remarkably well#our big family mystery has always been What Happened to Helen?#that was probably the central question of my grandfather's life: not knowing what happened to his mother#so that was my mom's big question too#and luckily we had other weird familial circumstances as precedent#me: 'heyyyyyyyy uh so great news yr great-grandfather wasn't a criminal on the lam OR a bastard child. he was kind of adopted?'#mom: 'adopted??? huh. like your grandpa with the mudds?'#me: '....actually. yeah. almost *exactly* like that. but like if grandpa changed his last name and then never told you he'd done it'#tho I still have no idea why john changed 'robb' to 'robert'#my theory for a long time was that he was just REALLY leaning into the scottish heritage; the guy named his sons duncan & bruce#then I learned about irish naming conventions and while that answered some questions it just wound up leaving me with MORE questions#I went through all 8 stages of grief a year ago when I figured out john's presbyterian funeral meant the fam married into catholicism LATER#and thus were probably scots colonizers to the plantation of ulster instead of former gallowglasses#I don't love the idea of my ancestors being unionist kiss-asses#which the naming scheme kinda supports#but john was a LABOR UNION ORGANIZER#he left well before the clearances in the 20's but labor activism was synonymous with catholicism & nationalism for aaaaaaaages#he had to have picked that up from a parent. two of his half brothers (who also emigrated to the states) were union members too
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debtsunpaid · 1 month
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@asteritm / continued from here
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party pooper. oh hey clarice, it's nice to hear from you! how are you? how's life? i'm doing really well, thanks for asking! crunch anything tasty lately? party pooper. drop the first t in texting, throw in an s actually. and he's still getting the hang of it but he can't get better without practice you know. what better time to do it when he's supposed to be paying attention? party pooper. — on a scale of one to five, how bad is it? one being distracted but functioning and five being cannot carry a conversation to save his life? i have to know, for record keeping purposes, and then yes — i might give him some breathing room. do you know how fun it is to drive a man a little insane with a picture or two? i bet you do, one way or the other. party pooper. whatcha talking about? anything fun?
[sms] handle with caution. gods, you even text the same. no wonder you two fuck like rabbits, it must be like screwing a mirror for him. not to impugn your good looks by comparison, darling — and of course, i'm delighted that you're well. how goes your training in ... whatever it is he claims to be teaching you? CS.
[sms] handle with caution. yes, yes, i'm well aware of the context. and the contents. and his password, much to his dismay. artfully posed, by the way; what i wouldn't give to have your body. CS.
[sms] handle with caution. oh please, child. it's the easiest game in the world. with men, you'll reach the madhouse long before you could ever hope to reach the truth, every time. and no, i cannot think of anything i would rather do less than rate the depths of john constantine's lust, thank you ever so much for asking. CS.
[sms] handle with caution. business of course, what else? although that particular discussion seems to have effectively stalled, at present, thank you again. as much delightful nostalgia and secondhand embarrassment as i'm finding in the ... sordid details of your extracurricular activities, need i point out, to you of all people, that it would be far more professional to get it on on your own time? rather than, for example, mine? CS.
[sms] handle with caution. [IMG ATTACHMENT] besides, your man here is already averaging a 3.5 over little more than a tasteful glimpse of cleavage and a quarter-body shot — i'm sure you can do better than that. than him, for that matter. CS.
[sms] handle with caution. i know, i know, dreadful of me. and i did say i wouldn't pry. the heart wants what it wants, i suppose, regardless of such ... trivial hurdles as simple rational thought. i can relate to that, at least, but i do wish you'd let me set you up with at least one of the more ... lucrative matches on hand. after all, even if it didn't pan out, it couldn't hurt to keep up at least an appearance of availability, in your position, hm? CS.
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jeweljessec-fallout · 9 months
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RP inspo doodle dump
Also mod mentioned in tags! https://www.nexusmods.com/fallout4/mods/49501/
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cozy-fish-crow · 2 years
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sometimes i remember the first DILF blorbos i ever had and today me looks back and thinks, "...younger me has a point OvO"
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sleepy-achilles · 2 years
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Randy: *sweating nervously*
Shawn, staring him down: so... shithead, what are your intentions with our son?
Taker, exasperated: John is not our son, Shawn.
John: *teary eyed* I'm not?
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westernsunshine · 2 years
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I can never have kids because my favourite names for boys are Lucifer and Judas. My rational brain says I can’t do that to a kid but my lizard brain says “but they sound nice :(”
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bergamotmandarin · 5 months
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wait shit i was gone for two weeks and now this hellsite is going down to a bare bones tech crew? can they just let some diehard tumblr programmers adopt the site and just leave it as is?
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bagofshinyrocks · 4 months
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The Whole Bakery
Prompt: How will the boys respond to an S/O who slaps their ass out of nowhere? [Requested by @airghostlyfox]
Featuring: Task Force 141 (CoD: MW2) - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (separately) x GN!Reader
Word Count: 0.8k
Warnings: expletives; lightly suggestive content
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There he was. Making his morning cup of coffee. Comfortable sleep clothes and sluggish movement. Your handsome partner. 
He had finally freed himself from the blanket web and your comfortable arms, with the intent to go through most of his “honey-do” list that weekend.
And he was so unaware.
That your arm was winding up for a powerful smack to his ass.
John Price
The sound was not as impressive due to his sweatpants, but the way he jerked and slowly put down the things in his hands was reward enough. He did not appreciate it. And he did not turn around.
“Luv,” he said in an even tone. “What the hell was that?”
You rubbed the offended cheek with the same hand, deciding against pinching, as he would win any fight you started. 
“My darling John. Your ass is just so wonderful, I can’t help myself.” 
Both hands gently squeezed his ass. And you pressed an apologetic kiss between his bare shoulder blades.
“You’ve got the whole bakery right here, bubba.” Gentle pats. Still no movement of his neck. “All these buns.”
Finally, he turned around.
He was trying very hard not to smile. Trying not to encourage you. But goddamn, did you look pleased with yourself. Strong arms wrapped around your middle, pressing you to his chest.
“You are-” Kiss. “Such a flirt.” Kiss. “And absolutely shameless.”
You kissed him back and lazily threw your arms over his shoulders.
Behind you, his arm raised itself and smacked your ass as hard as he possibly could. You folded into him with a yelp.
“GOD FUCKIN–!”
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Simon Riley
The moment your hand left his cheek, he had turned on you and grabbed you under the armpits.
“Uh oh” was all you had the chance to say before he dragged you off to the nearest wall. He was smiling, but it was the smile that meant you were still in trouble. You chuckled nervously as he settled you against the wall, caging you in and leaning in close.
“You are a cheeky one,” he purred.
“Yessir.”
“Any particular reason we’re playful this morning?”
You wriggled your arms out of his grip, and settled your hands over his ass again. He let you, one of his fingers tapping your nose.
“Well, if you must know, Simon,” you said, adopting a matter-of-fact tone. “It is because your ass is just so delicious looking.”
He snorted at your blunt words and hid his eyes with his hand.
“Bloody hell.”
“I mean, just look at it, lover.” You firmly gripped his ass, squeezing ever so slightly. “All this cake.”
He sighed, but he was still laughing. You’re adorable. He loves you.
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Kyle Garrick
You didn’t smack too, too hard. A peace offering for walking around in his boxers and nothing else. Your favorite outfit on him.
But he still jumped and gave you a dirty look.
“It is 8 in the morning, you shit.”
You turned him back around and massaged his ass, humming a cheerful tune. “I’m just gonna knead this yummy dough, don’t mind me.”
“You a cat? Making biscuits?”
You giggled and kissed the back of his neck.
“Oh, have you got some biscuits on you, loverboy.”
He couldn’t help but laugh into his cup, turning himself around and pulling you into his embrace. Soft, coffee-flavored kisses. Then his arms snaking lower, and his own hands settling on your ass.
“I think that’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said to me.”
“Sweeter than ‘I love you’?”
He squeezed your ass and pulled you impossibly closer to him.
“Mm,” he sighed into your mouth. “Tied for first.”
You pulled back and narrowed your eyes.
“What? Oh, right. I love you, too, baby.”
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Johnny MacTavish
Of all the boys, he has no right to complain. A chronic ass-slapper. Repeat offender groper. Can’t sleep without one hand one you, be it your arm, your stomach, or your leg.
He was singing some song to himself, dancing a little. Background noise that kept him from hearing you until it was too late.
“Steaming bloody-”
You hit him too hard. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. You ducked out of his grasp and started pleading for forgiveness.
“Baby, I’m sorry, that was harder than I meant. I’m sorry. I’m sor- shit.”
A mad scramble around the kitchen island. Never had you run away from your bare-chested Scotsman so quickly.
“Get your arse back here!”
“Nuh uh!”
“Fuck you mean-” He vaulted over the island and you screamed. Like a bird of prey, he grabbed you and dragged you to the couch, falling on top of you with all his weight.
“I’m sorry, baby,” you wheezed.
He smothered your face and neck in kisses, and accepted your apology. He would get you back later. With less force but greater number of ass slaps. You were sure of it.
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Posted: 2023 Dec 12
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alienzil · 5 months
Text
DP x DC Prompt/notion # 4
So Danny has the classic reveal gone bad scenario and the Fentons try to capture him to "tear him apart molecule by molecule".
Danny escapes into the ghost zone with the help of Sam, Tucker and Jazz but he's in bad shape.
What Danny had never been told is that newly formed ghosts like himself are considered babies until they're at least a century old. Baby ghosts generally either have parents if they're born in the realms or get adoptive parents shortly after forming and are highly dependent on their guardians until their core is fully matured. Every ghost can sense a baby and has the instinctual urge to protect them (especially if they haven't been adopted yet). Every baby ghost has the instinctual urge to find a compatible parent or parents. A baby won't imprint on just anyone and will hide or run from most ghosts until they find one that they can imprint on. The majority of the ghosts that have met Danny never knew he was a baby, both because he already had his living parents and his emotional connection with them was close enough to satisfy his ghostly need for a parental bond and because, with his abnormally high power level, it never would have occurred to them to think he might be an infant. A newborn ancient is exceptionally rare and your average denizen of the realms will have never seen one. Basically, to your average ghost, Danny feels like he's eons old and any hint of "baby" they get from him mostly just ticks them off because they think he's mocking them and pretending to be less powerful than they know he is. The other ancients knew of course, but they also knew that Danny's human guardians were satisfying his needs for now and most assumed he would be adopted once they passed. Half a century or so isn't very long to wait after all and the new baby is half human so it's probably best to let these things happen naturally.
Knowing none of this, when Jack and Maddie rejected Danny it severed their connection and the backlash of losing that bond caused his Phantom self to naturally revert to a smaller form that more closely matched his actual age as a ghost. Still in shock and operating almost entirely on instinct and emotion, Danny started to search the Realms for what he had lost. He needed to find his parents.
*****
Meanwhile, John Constantine had a problem with an upstart cult that had summoned an interdimensional...something. He really didn't care. Whatever it was, was behind a barrier they'd thrown up that he couldn't breach. He'd be perfectly willing to leave them to their own mess except their whole damn town was behind the barrier so now it was his problem to fix.
Interdimensional problems call for interdimensional solutions so he'd called Bob. Bob wasn't really his name (nor was he really a he) but he hadn't objected to the moniker or the pronouns John had given him so Bob it was. Bob was an eldritch nightmare of a creature who kept the bulk of his true form politely out of this dimension and only just barely inched in for a quick visit every 20 years or so. Constantine had worked with him before, he was a pretty nice bloke for an unknowable monstrosity.
Bob fed on energy and his usual diet consisted largely of the background energy of the cosmos but he liked a special treat now and then (who doesn't?). So John made a deal with him. Bob took care of his little cult problem and John spent a very... ahem... "energetic" evening with Bob in exchange. Not really a hardship on John's part, Bob wanted more energy, not less, and knew a thing or two about how to get it.
*****
The creature known as Bob was preparing to withdraw the small portion of his presence that was currently on Earth with the human called John Constantine when another part of him noticed something. Bob smiled to himself (as much as Bob could smile that is). What a wonderful coincidence that the Constantine human's energy would be so perfectly matched to this other beings and that Bob was here at the exact right moment to assist with their meeting!
"I thank you again for sharing your energy John Constantine. It was delicious as always."
"Don't mention it mate. Look me up next you're in town and feeling a bit peckish. Always happy to oblige." John replied with a smirk.
"I will heed your words John Constantine and seek your presence upon my return. As a token of my affection for you, a small gift that you might enjoy until we meet again." Bob briefly opened a portal between the Infinite Realms and the House of Mystery as he left. He hoped his human friend would enjoy the gift. Bob had never spawned himself but he'd heard parenthood was one of life's great joys.
"Gift?" John had just enough time to say as he was hit in the face by a chirping, wriggling, excited creature.
"Oi!" John stumbled back a step as he reached up to try and pry the thing off his face. He managed to grab ahold of the damn beast and held it out at an arms length to get a look at it. Deprived of his face, it wrapped its body tightly around his arm and nuzzled its head into the palm of his hand.
John stared at the creature. It was the roughly the length of his arm, mostly black with white markings and white floating hair on a human shaped head and face, complete with glowing green eyes. It was vaguely snake shaped...or... one might say...tentacle shaped...
John gulped and pictured Bob. Bob's appearance, or what little bit of his appearance John was able to perceive, was a writhing mass of black tentacles that glowed a bright, luminous green.
So, the "gift" Bob had left him mostly had Bob's coloring and was kinda Bob shaped. Except it had small human arms and hands and a tiny mostly human head and face and... was that his nose?!
"Oh bollocks, I'm a dad!"
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