#all the places that celebrate it are Catholic! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astonmartinii · 7 months

Text

nonsense... or is it? | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x fem singer!reader

face claim: sabrina carpenter

based on this request: sooo, anyways,,, i was thinking maybe a smau where Charles is playing the guy who Milo was and this obviously breaks the internet even more and this leads to them dating ??? idk, just like a really wholesome one where she was his celebrity crush and now they're dating bc of them getting know each other more bc of the music video. sorry if this is all over the place but yeah. - @whoreks

MASTERLIST | BUY ME A KO-FI?

yourusername

liked by taylorswift, charles_leclerc and 1,200,441 others

yourusername: holla babes !!! the feather music video is heading your way fast xxx if only my real boyfriends were like my music videos ones ...

view all comments

user1: MOTHER

user2: finally music videos are back baby !!

taylorswift: you can still make the whole place shimmer ✨

yourusername: thanks to you baby

user3: oh to be able to call taylor swift baby

user4: y/n's shade is so underrated - i too wish her boyfriends were as good as her mv ones

user5: she's got such a good eye for casting why can't she do this in her actual love life

user6: okay but he's hot based off a single shoulder i'm excited

user7: you got that from a SHOULDER?

user8: he's TALL?

user9: babe y/n is like 4'2 she makes everyone look tall

user10: say what you want about the catholic church, they got the aesthetic down pat

yourbff1: so we aren't asking the mv boyf out? boring.

yourusername: we have lil things called phones? USE IT HOE

user11: charles leclerc in the likes

user12: so true of him

user13: unless he's... the guy

user14: babe he's way too short lol

user15: have yall seen the sky ad? baby aint acting any time soon

yourusername

liked by yourbff1, charles_leclerc and 1,763,550 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: OMG you guys blew the feather music video up !! i'm sure it had nothing to do with this random guy i found off the street? jokes, thank you charles for being the perf mv boyf xx

view all comments

user17: HOLY FUCKING SHIT

user18: celeb crush inception no one touch me

charles_leclerc: thank you for my music video debut, maybe you can return the favour one day?

yourusername: i'll return any favour you want

yourbff1: dial down the desperation babe

charles_leclerc: what if i want her to dial it up please?

yourbff1: do NOT encourage her

yourusername: please encourage me :)

user19: Y/N STAND UP PLEASE

user20: actually y/n is so real have yall seen that man YUM

liked by yourusername

user21: y/n is a genius for fancasting her future bf in her music video

danielricciardo: THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT? SHARL WHEN I CATCH YOU

pierregasly: and me :( i thought our friendship meant more ....

charles_leclerc: it was a secret

yourusername: he doesn't kiss and tell xoxo

alexalbon: WHAT ??????

charles_leclerc: okay we can stop joking now

yourusername: fine...

user22: the way charles was defo typing that through tears

user23: y/n make the move we believe in you

user24: believe in her? she can get anyone she wants he's gotta STEP UP

charles_leclerc

liked by landonorris, yourusername and 2,099,441 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: had a blast filming for my first ever music video, thank you y/n !!

view all comments

user25: i'm feeling a new unhealthy attachment forming

yourusername: feel free to come back any time soon

charles_leclerc: or maybe you can come to me?

yourusername: is this my paddock debut?

charles_leclerc: make sure you're wearing red and it sure can be

yourusername: let me check the wardrobe

user26: i will pass away if we get y/n at a race... in the ferrari garage ???

pierregasly: let it be known i am still angry that you didn't tell me, especially after all the weird rants i've listened to

alexalbon: me too

georgerussell63: me too

landonorris: me too

danielricciardo: me too

carlossainz55: me too

maxverstappen1: me too

charles_leclerc: why is max here?

maxverstappen1: that's what you're taking from this?

charles_leclerc: yeah why are you in my business

maxverstappen1: you make it my business you talk about her all the time

yourusername: oh really ???

charles_leclerc: HE'S A BIG FAT LIAR HE'S ALWAYS BEEN A BIG FAT LIAR ALL HIS LIFE INCLUDING WHEN I MAYBE ACCIDENTALLY PUSHED HIM IN A PUDDLE

maxverstappen1: YOU DID PUSH ME IN THAT PUDDLE

yourusername: what is going on here?

user27: poor y/n being thrown into the grid drama

user28: poor charles with the grid trying to expose him

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and 1,334,661 others

yourusername: clearly was feeling myself this week

view all comments

user31: lol why is max here

maxverstappen1: doing my due diligence as an investigative journalist

charles_leclerc: choke.

user32: is that charles? are we in the soft launch?

user33: let's not get ahead of ourselves, we know charles doesn't dress that well

user34: consider this: girlfriend effect

user35: girlfriend effect is gonna have to do some heavy lifting when it comes to charles' wardrobe

yourbff1: you think you're so slick don't you

yourusername: maybe. maybe not?

yourbff1: you're so annoying

yourusername: annoyingly cute?

liked by charles_leclerc

yourbff1: keep your nose out of women's business leclerc

charles_leclerc: SLANDER

user36: i mean they seem to have the same sense of humour

user37: not to sound insane but they are perfect for each other and i will be passing away if they are not together

pierregasly: interesting

danielricciardo: add it to the folder

charles_leclerc: folder ???

maxverstappen1: leave us journalists be

charles_leclerc: can you even read?

yourusername: GET HER JADE

maxverstappen1: add that as well

charles_leclerc: why can't we win?

user38: what is going on in the house of commons

charles_leclerc

liked by pierregasly, yourusername and 2,331,663 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: i don't believe in soft launches

view all comments

user39: we been knew... but OMG PARENTS

user40: i am crying they're so hot

yourusername: hawt bf obtained

charles_leclerc: sexy gf in my inventory

yourusername: you're such a cute patootie

charles_leclerc: i cannot speak my mind or instagram will censor me

yourusername: ...oop hurry up and come back :(

charles_leclerc: about to break all US speeding laws xoxo

yourusername: not you in your charli xcx era

user41: he's with her ... in the US ... could we get y/n paddock debut in vegas ???

user42: would only be right i fear

user43: the scheduling just about makes sense before she has to go back to opening for taylor in south america

user44: now why did vegas not get in their bag and get y/n to perform at the opening ceremony?

pierregasly: way to ruin the investigation

danielricciardo: yeah we were in our sherlock holmes era

maxverstappen1: have to spoil everything don't you charles 🤨

charles_leclerc: i thought you guys wanted to know who my girlfriend is?

alexalbon: yes, but we wanted to expose it :(

yourusername: CORNY

pierregasly: oh no. he has someone on his side now

yourusername: damn right frenchie. i can hear your asshole twitching from here

pierregasly: WHAT ???

charles_leclerc: idk what that means but YEAH PIERRE TAKE THAT

charles_leclerc

liked by carlossainz55, yourusername and 2,114,762 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: gutted not to be on the top step but an overall great weekend in vegas. glad to have y/n by my side this weekend before she's off again to slay the stage xx

view all comments

user48: charles unironically using the word slay, the girlfriend effect knows no bounds

user49: the sky camera zooming in on y/n watching the podium

user50: i think we watched her fall in love in real time

user51: i mean look at the material... podium charles hits so different i think I FELL IN LOVE

yourusername: you're a winner to me babe

charles_leclerc: and that's all that matters

yourusername: NOPE STAY HUNGRY GET THEM POINTS AND DESTROY THE REST OF THE FIELD

charles_leclerc: okay :)

yourusername: good boy

pierregasly: never say that in public again

maxverstappen1: is this why he's blushing so much in the press conference?

charles_leclerc: NO. NO REASON

yourusername: you sure?

charles_leclerc: i am the unluckiest driver ever and am screwed over at every turn sue me if i like a lil praise

user52: charles is so real for that i also want y/n to tell me i'm doing a good job

alexalbon: enough time has passed. @yourusername can lily get some extra tickets for the eras tour

yourusername: of course. anything for my new bestie

lilymunhe: thank youuuuuuuuuuuuuu. charles you have amazing taste

charles_leclerc: i know :)

yourusername: i mean i got you, so who's the real winner here?

yourusername

liked by taylorswift, charles_leclerc and 1,667,982 others

tagged: charles_leclerc & taylorswift

yourusername: my leg of the eras tour has come to an end :( this was such an insane opportunity, thank you so much taylor xx but this also means i can go annoy charlie until he has to go back to work !!

one last nonsense outro:

i met this lovely boy named charlie,

he races round the world for ferrari,

giving it to me everyday like ari

view all comments

user53: i think y/n might actually be winning in life

user54: is she referencing everyday by ariana grande which is literally just a song about having constant sex?

yourusername: yes and what about it? f1 drivers have great stamina

arthurleclerc: DELETE ASAP

yourusername: no can do baby leclerc

user55: fave outro for real

charles_leclerc: i am blushing !!

pierregasly: she just told millions of people all you do is fuck and now you're blushing ???

yourusername: i don't think mr doggy emoji is talking right now

charles_leclerc: at least y/n did it in an artful way

pierregasly: believe me i know YOU WON'T STOP SINGING IT DOWN THE PHONE YOU MENACE

yourusername: you sing my songs :) ?

carlossainz55: ALL THE TIME

yourusername: i don't like your tone mr 🤨

charles_leclerc: i am just showing my love :(

yourusername: @pierregasly @carlossainz55 you made him sad APOLOGIZE IMMEDIATELY

pierregasly: sorry?

carlossainz55: sorry i guess?

charles_leclerc: thank you :) i shall continue to sing to my heart's content

yourusername: good.

taylorswift: you were amazing !! i'll see you soon my love xx

yourusername: i'm hearing double date ??

taylorswift: i'm sure that can be arranged

charles_leclerc: OMG

user56: charles and travis are really the top tier himbo bfs and i love them for that

fin.

note: i really loved writing this so i hope this was everything you imagined and more!! i'm just getting into sabrina's music but i was a girl meets world stan so... i hope i did the nonsense outro justice xxx

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc instagram au #charles leclerc instagram edit #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic

3K notes · View notes

najia-cooks · 5 months

Text

[ID: First image shows four small porcelain bowls of a pudding topped with slivered almonds and pomegranates seeds, seen from above. Second image is an extreme close-up showing the blue floral pattern on the china, slivered almonds, golden raisins, and pomegranate seeds on top of part of the pudding. End ID]

անուշապուր / Anush apur (Armenian wheat dessert)

Anush apur is a sweet boiled wheat pudding, enriched with nuts and dried fruits, that is eaten by Armenians to celebrate special occasions. One legend associates the dish with Noah's Ark: standing on Mt. Ararat (Արարատ լեռը) and seeing the rainbow of God's covenant with humanity, Noah wished to celebrate, and called for a stew to be prepared; because the Ark's stores were diminishing, the stew had to be made with small amounts of many different ingredients.

The consumption of boiled grains is of ancient origin throughout the Levant and elsewhere in West Asia, and so variations of this dish are widespread. The Armenian term is from "անուշ" ("anush") "sweet" + "ապուր" ("apur") "soup," but closely related dishes (or, arguably, versions of the same dish) have many different, overlapping names.

In Arabic, an enriched wheat pudding may be known as "سْنَينِيّة" ("snaynīyya"), presumably from "سِنّ" "sinn" "tooth" and related to the tradition of serving it on the occasion of an infant's teething; "قَمْح مَسْلُوق‎" ("qamḥ masluq"), "boiled wheat"; or "سَلِيقَة" ("salīqa") or "سَلِيقَة القَمْح" ("salīqa al-qamḥ"), "stew" or "wheat stew," from "سَلَقَ‎" "salaqa" "to boil." Though these dishes are often related to celebrations and happy occasions, in some places they retain an ancient association with death and funerary rites: qamh masluq is often served at funerals in the Christian town of بَيْت جَالَا ("bayt jālā," Beit Jala, near Bethlehem).

A Lebanese iteration, often made with milk rather than water, is known as "قَمْحِيَّة" ("qamḥīyya," from "qamḥ" "wheat" + "ـِيَّة" "iyya," noun suffix).

A similar dish is known as "بُرْبَارَة" ("burbāra") by Palestinian and Jordanian Christians when eaten to celebrate the feast of Saint Barbara, which falls on the 4th of December (compare Greek "βαρβάρα" "varvára"). It may be garnished with sugar-coated chickpeas and small, brightly colored fennel candies in addition to the expected dried fruits and nuts.

In Turkish it is "aşure," from the Arabic "عَاشُوْرَاء" ("'āshūrā"), itself from "عَاشِر" ("'āshir") "tenth"—because it is often served on the tenth day of the month of ٱلْمُحَرَّم ("muḥarram"), to commemorate Gabriel's teaching Adam and Eve how to farm wheat; Noah's disembarkment from the Ark; Moses' parting of the Red Sea; and the killing of the prophet الْحُسَيْن بْنِ عَلِي (Husayn ibn 'Ali), all of which took place on this day in the Islamic calendar. Here it also includes various types of beans and chickpeas. There is also "diş buğdayı," "tooth wheat" (compare "snayniyya").

These dishes, as well as slight variations in add-ins, have varying consistencies. At one extreme, koliva (Greek: "κόλλυβα"; Serbian: "Кољиво"; Bulgarian: "Кутя"; Romanian: "colivă"; Georgian: "კოლიო") is made from wheat that has been boiled and then strained to remove the boiling water; at the other, Armenian anush apur is usually made thin, and cools to a jelly-like consistency.

Anush apur is eaten to celebrate occasions including New Year's Eve, Easter, and Christmas. In Palestine, Christmas is celebrated by members of the Armenian Apostolic church from the evening of December 24th to the day of December 25th by the old Julian calendar (January 6th–7th, according to the new Gregorian calendar); Armenian Catholics celebrate on December 24th and 25th by the Gregorian calendar. Families will make large batches of anush apur and exchange bowls with their neighbors and friends.

The history of Armenians in Palestine is deeply interwoven with the history of Palestinian Christianity. Armenian Christian pilgrimages to holy sites in Palestine date back to the 4th century A.D., and permanent Armenian monastic communities have existed in Jerusalem since the 6th century. This enduring presence, bolstered by subsequent waves of immigration which have increased and changed the character of the Armenian population in Palestine in the intervening centuries, has produced a rich history of mutual influence between Armenian and Palestinian food cultures.

In the centuries following the establishment of the monasteries, communities of Armenian laypeople arose and grew, centered around Jerusalem's Վանք Հայոց Սրբոց Յակոբեանց ("vank hayots surbots yakobeants"; Monastery of St. James) (Arabic: دَيْر مَار يَعْقُوب "dayr mār ya'qūb"). Some of these laypeople were descended from the earlier pilgrims. By the end of the 11th century, what is now called the Armenian Quarter—an area covering about a sixth of the Old City of Jerusalem, to the southwest—had largely attained its present boundaries.

Throughout the 16th and 17th centuries, the Patriarchate in Jerusalem came to have direct administrative authority over Armenian Christians across Palestine, Lebanon, Egypt, and Cyprus, and was an important figure in Christian leadership and management of holy sites in Jerusalem (alongside the Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches). By the middle of the 19th century, a small population of Armenian Catholics had joined the larger Armenian Apostolic community as permanent residents in Jerusalem, living throughout the Muslim Quarter (but mostly in a concentrated enclave in the southwest); in the beginning of the 20th century, there were between 2,000 and 3,000 Armenians of both churches in Palestine, a plurality of whom (1,200) lived in Jerusalem.

The Turkish genocide of Armenians beginning in 1915 caused significant increases in the populations of Armenian enclaves in Palestine. The Armenian population in Jerusalem grew from 1,500 to 5,000 between the years of 1918 and 1922; over the next 3 years, the total number of Armenians in Palestine (according to Patriarchate data) would grow to 15,000. More than 800 children were taken into Armenian orphanages in Jerusalem; students from the destroyed Չարխափան Սուրբ Աստվածածին վանք (Charkhapan Surb Astvatsatsin Monastery) and theological seminary in Armash, Armenia were brought to the Jerusalem Seminary. The population of Armenian Catholics in the Muslim Quarter also increased during the first half of the 20th century as immigrants from Cilicia and elsewhere arrived.

The immediate importance of feeding and housing the refugees despite a new lack of donations from Armenian pilgrims, who had stopped coming during WW1—as well as the fact that the established Armenian-Palestinians were now outnumbered by recent immigrants who largely did not share their reformist views—disrupted efforts on the part of lay communities and some priests to give Armenian laypeople a say in church governance.

The British Mandate, under which Britain assumed political and military control of Palestine from 1923–1948, would further decrease the Armenian lay community's voice in Jerusalem (removing, for example, their say in elections of new church Patriarchs). The British knew that the indigenous population would be easier to control if they were politically and socially divided into their separate religious groups and subjected to the authority of their various religious hierarchies, rather than having direct political representation in government; they also took advantage of the fact that the ecclesiastical orders of several Palestinian Christian sects (including the Armenian Patriarchate of Jerusalem) comprised people from outside of Palestine, who identified with religious hierarchy and the British authorities more than they identified with the Palestinian lay communities.

British policy, as well as alienating Armenians from politics affecting their communities, isolated them from Arab Palestinians. Though the previously extant Armenian community (called "քաղաքացի" "kaghakatsi," "city-dwellers") were thoroughly integrated with the Arab Palestinians in the 1920s, speaking Arabic and Arabic-accented Armenian and eating Palestinian foods, the newer arrivals (called "زُوَّار" / "զուվվար" "zuwwar," "visitors") were unfamiliar with Palestinian cuisine and customs, and spoke only Armenian and/or Turkish. Thus British policies, which differentiated people based on status as "Arab" (Muslim and Christian) versus "Jewish," left new Armenian immigrants, who did not identify as Arab, disconnected from the issues that concerned most Palestinians. They were predominantly interested in preserving Armenian culture, and more concerned with the politics of the Armenian diaspora than with local ones.

Despite these challenges, the Armenian Patriarchate of Jerusalem came to be a vital center of religious and secular culture for the Armenian diaspora during the British Mandate years. In 1929, Patriarch Yeghishe Turian reëstablished the Սուրբ Յակոբեանց Տպարան ("surbots yakobeants taparan"; St. James printing house); the Patriarchate housed important archives relating to the history of the Armenian people; pilgrimages of Armenians from Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt increased and the economy improved, attracting Armenian immigrants in higher numbers; Armenians held secular roles in governance, policing, and business, and founded social, religious, and educational organizations and institutions; Armenians in the Old and New Cities of Jerusalem were able to send financial aid to Armenian victims of a 1933 earthquake in Beirut, and to Armenians expelled in 1939 when Turkey annexed Alexandretta.

The situation would decline rapidly after the 1947 UN partition resolution gave Zionists tacit permission to expel Palestinians from broad swathes of Palestine. Jerusalem, intended by the plan to be a "corpus separatum" under international administration, was in fact subjected to a months-long war that ended with its being divided into western (Israeli) and eastern (Palestinian) sections. The Armenian population of Palestine began to decline; already, 1947 saw 1,500 Armenians resettled in Soviet Armenia. The Armenian populations in Yafa and Haifa would fall yet more significantly.

Still, the Armenian Patriarchate of Jerusalem maintained its role as the center of Armenian life in Palestine; the compound provided food and shelter to thousands of Armenians during the Battle for Jerusalem and the Nakba (which began in 1948). Some Armenians formed a militia to defend the Armenian Quarter against Haganah shelling during the battle.

In the following years, historical British contributions to the shoring up of insular power in the Patriarchate would cause new problems. The Armenian secular community, no longer empowered to oversee the internal workings of the Patriarchate, could do nothing to prevent embezzling, corruption, and even the sale of church-owned land and buildings to settlers.

In 1967, Israeli military forces annexed East Jerusalem, causing another, albeit smaller, surge in Armenian emigration from the city. Daphne Tsimhoni estimates based on various censuses that the Armenian population of Jerusalem, which had reached 5,000-7,000 at its peak in 1945–6, had fallen back to 1,200 by 1978.

Today, as in the 20th century, Armenians in Jerusalem (who made up nearly 90% of the Armenian population of Palestine as of 1972) are known for the insularity of their community, and for their skill at various crafts. Armenian food culture has been kept alive and well-defined by successive waves of immigrants. As of 2017, the Armenian Patriarchate supplied about 120 people a day with Armenian dishes, including Ղափամա / غاباما "ghapama" (pumpkin stuffed with rice and dried fruits), թոփիկ / توبيك "topig" (chickpea-and-potato dough stuffed with an onion, nut, fruit, and herb filling, often eaten during Lent), and Իչ / ايتش "eetch" (bulgur salad with tomatoes and herbs).

Restaurants lining the streets of the Armenian and Christian quarters serve a mixture of Armenian and Palestinian food. Լահմաջո "lahmadjoun" (meat-topped flatbread), and հարիսա / هريس "harisa" (stew with wheat and lamb) are served alongside ֆալաֆել / فلافل ("falafel") and մուսախան / مسخن ("musakhkhan"). One such restaurant, Taboon Wine Bar, was the site of a settler attack on Armenian diners in January 2023.

Up until 2023, despite fluctuations in population, the Armenian community in Jerusalem had been relatively stable when compared to other Armenian communities and to other quarters of the Old City; the Armenian Quarter had not been subjected to the development projects to which other quarters had been subjected. However, a deal which the Armenian Patriarchate had secretly and unilaterally made with Israel real estate developer Danny Rotham in 2021 to lease land and buildings (including family homes) in the Quarter led Jordan and Palestine to suspend their recognition of the Patriarch in May of 2023.

On 26th October, the Patriarchate announced that it was cancelling the leasing deal. Later the same day, Israeli bulldozers tore up pavement and part of a wall in حديقة البقر ("ḥadīqa al-baqar"; Cows' Garden; Armenian: "Կովերի այգու"), the planned site of a new luxury hotel. On 5th November, Rothman and other representatives of Xana Gardens arrived with 15 settlers—some of them with guns and attack dogs—and told local Armenians to leave. About 200 Armenian Palestinians arrived and forced the settlers to stand down.

On 12th and 13th November, the developer again arrived with bulldozers and attempted to continue demolition. In response, Armenian Palestinians have executed constant sit-ins, faced off against bulldozers, and set up barricades to prevent further destruction. The Israeli occupation police backed settlers on another incursion on 15th November, ordering Armenian residents to vacate the land and arresting three.

On December 28th, a group of Armenian bishops, priests, deacons, and seminary students (including Bishop Koryoun Baghdasaryan, the director of the Patriarchate's real estate department) were attacked by a group of more than 30 people armed with sticks and tear gas. The Patriarchate attributed this attack to Israeli real estate interests trying to intimidate the Patriarchate into abandoning their attempt to reverse the lease through the court system. Meanwhile, anti-Armenian hate crimes (including spitting on priests) had noticeably increased for the year of 2023.

These events in Palestine come immediately after the ethnic cleansing of Լեռնային Ղարաբաղ ("Lernayin Gharabagh"; Nagorno-Karabakh); Israel supplied exploding drones, long-range missiles, and rocket launchers to help Azerbaijan force nearly 120,000 Armenians out of the historically Armenian territory in September of 2023 (Azerbaijan receives about 70% of its weapons from Israel, and supplies about 40% of Israel's oil).

Support Palestinian resistance by donating to Palestine Action’s bail fund; buying an e-sim for distribution in Gaza; or donating to help a family leave Gaza.

Ingredients

180g (1 cup) pearled wheat (قمح مقشور / խոշոր ձաւար), soaked overnight

3 cups water

180-360g (a scant cup - 1 3/4 cup) sugar, or to taste

Honey or agave nectar (optional)

1 cup total diced dried apricots, prunes, golden raisins, dried figs

1 cup total chopped walnuts, almonds, pistachios

1 tsp rosewater (optional)

Ceylon cinnamon (դարչին) or cassia cinnamon (կասիա)

Aniseed (անիսոն) (optional)

Large pinch of salt

Pomegranate seeds, to top (optional)

A Palestinian version of this dish may add pine nuts and ground fennel.

Pearled wheat is whole wheat berry that has gone through a "pearling" process to remove the bran. It can be found sold as "pearled wheat" or "haleem wheat" in a halal grocery store, or a store specializing in South Asian produce.

Amounts of sugar called for in Armenian recipes range from none (honey is stirred into the dish after cooking) to twice the amount of wheat by weight. If you want to add less sugar than is called for here, cook down to a thicker consistency than called for (as the sugar will not be able to thicken the pudding as much).

Instructions

1. Submerge wheat in water and scrub between your hands to clean and remove excess starch. Drain and cover by a couple inches with hot water. Cover and leave overnight.

2. Drain wheat and add to a large pot. Add water to cover and simmer for about 30 minutes until softened, stirring and adding more hot water as necessary.

Wheat before cooking

Wheat after cooking

3. Add dried fruit, sugar, salt, and spices and simmer for another 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until wheat is very tender. Add water as necessary; the pudding should be relatively thin, but still able to coat the back of a spoon.

4. Remove from heat and stir in rosewater and honey. Ladle pudding into individual serving bowls and let cool in the refrigerator. Serve cold decorated with nuts and pomegranate seeds.

#the last link is a different / new fundraiser #Armenian #Palestinian #fusion #wheat berries #pearled wheats #pomegranate #prunes #dried apricot #dates #long post /

364 notes · View notes

calicoheartz · 26 days

Note

Oh oh anddd...

Cait x wbbp!reader. Caitlin confesses to reader after their homecoming game because Caitlin realized that she doesn't want to hide her feelings anymore and possibly lose the love of her life.👀

-🦢

Hoco Hearts ; Caitlin Clark

꣑�� — summary | you and caitlin had been best friends since middle school , what happens when she decides to make you hers on the eve of your homecoming game? 💌

wc ; 805

— warnings | lots of romantic / sexual tension , a bit suggestive , mainly fluff (high- school au)

my master list ㇀♡

a/n : ugh ily anon. YOUVE BEEN KEEPING ME FEDDD W UR REQS! also sorryyyy its low-key kind of short :( Enjoy besties ◡̈

Caitlin stood beneath the glowing lights of the basketball court, the scent of popcorn and excitement lingering in the air, as the sound of excited highschoolers filled her ears. It was homecoming night, a night pulsating with anticipation and celebration, as everyone gathered to experience the last basketball game of their senior year. But amidst the anticipation and excitement radiating both on and off the court, Cait’s mind was a whirlwind of emotions.

Her eyes glanced across the eyes before locking them onto a familiar and distinctive figure. You were a dedicated member of the girls basketball team at Dowling Catholic highschool, and had been playing varsity since your freshman year.

You were always there, capturing every moment of the games with unwavering passion, and Caitlin couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves in her stomach everytime their eyes met.

Your history with Caitlin goes all the way back to middle school, with you two quickly developing and forming a strong bond, especially with your common interests such as basketball among other things. It was undeniable that you two had underlying romantic feelings for eachother, but the two of you never knew when the right moment was to bring these newfound feelings to light.

There had been a number of situations where you two had almost shared a kiss, whether it was behind the bleachers after an intensive game, or possibly alone in the bathroom at a halloween party; regardless, it was very obvious that the two of you were just more than friends.

But Cait was your best friend, she had been there for you when you got your first boyfriend, received your first heartbreak, and all the hallway crushes you had acquired over the years. And it pained her that you weren’t getting the hints she was giving you, the way she glanced at your lips constantly, or occasionally rubbing the inside of your thigh when around your friends, it was torture.

You knew Caitlin liked girls, she knew that you liked girls, so why weren't the puzzle pieces naturally falling into place?

That's why when their last homecoming game approached, Caitlin knew that this would be her last chance to confess her feelings before it was too late.

The game was intense, with both teams giving it their all. Caitlin played her heart out, her mind consumed with thoughts of you. Every time she made a play, she hoped you were watching, hoped you could see how much she cared, not just about basketball, but about you.

As the final buzzer sounded and the crowd erupted in cheers, Caitlin felt a mix of emotions. On one hand, she was thrilled that they had won, but on the other, she knew that the moment of truth was fast approaching. She had to tell you how she felt.

After the game, as the team celebrated their victory, Caitlin pulled you aside, her heart pounding in her chest. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and looked into your eyes.

"Hey, can we talk?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, concern etched on your face. Caitlin led you to a quiet corner of the gym, away from the jubilant crowd.

"I... I have something I need to tell you," Caitlin began, her voice trembling slightly. "I've been keeping this to myself for so long, but I can't hide it anymore. I... I love you, Y/N. More than anything."

You stared at Caitlin, stunned into silence. You had never expected this confession, never even considered that Caitlin might feel the same way you did. Your heart soared with hope, but you needed to be sure.

"Do you mean that, Caitlin?" you asked, searching her eyes for any sign of doubt.

Caitlin took your hands in hers, her gaze unwavering. "I do. I love you, Y/N, and I don't want to hide it anymore. I want to be with you, if you'll have me."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you realized that your feelings were reciprocated, that the person you loved felt the same way. Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Caitlin, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"I love you too, Caitlin," you whispered, your voice filled with emotion. "I've loved you for so long, I just never thought you could feel the same way."

"I've loved you since I was 14.." the brunette whispered back.

Caitlin held you close, her heart overflowing with happiness. She had taken a chance, laid her heart on the line, and it had paid off in the best possible way. She was with the person she loved, and nothing else mattered.

As you both stood there, lost in each other's arms, surrounded by the sounds of celebration, Caitlin knew that this was just the beginning of your love story. And she couldn't wait to see where it would take you.

ahhhhhhh omg wait I rlly wanna write more cc/pb high school au fics !!!! as always, thank you guys so much for reading <3

#wlw #wlw imagine #wcbb #my hcs #wcbb x reader #headcannons #paige bueckers #caitlin clark #caitlin clark x reader #iowa wbb #22 #caitmylove #iowa #uconn vs iowa #iowa hawkeyes

166 notes · View notes

britcision · 6 months

Text

So I’ve been thinking about cultural Christianity lately and how people tend to get very upset about it without really understanding what it is, so here is a primer

Cultural Christianity is not a choice you make. It does not mean you are Christian, or even that you remotely like Christianity; a lot of people who vehemently hate the religion do so because of their own cultural Christianity

It is not a shortcoming, or a moral failing, or a sin. It just means that the culture you were raised in was predominantly Christian.

Note: I did not say “majority Christian”. Christians don’t need to be a majority to have a dominant cultural influence

Cultural Christianity means you inherently understand and probably use swearwords like “damn”, “hell”, or a variation on the name “Jesus Christ”

It means when I say cultural Christianity is not a sin, you understand exactly what I mean without needing to have it explained - and you probably know the phrase “original sin” or “seven deadly sins”, even if not in full detail

It means hearing about Hades, god of the dead, wealth, and volcanoes, and assuming he’s the bad guy of Greek mythology… y’know, like Satan

(EVERYONE went to Hades when they died. The Elysian Fields, where the best heroes went, was in Hades’ underworld. The Eleusinian mysteries, a cult to Demeter and Persephone, was basically about asking them to tell Hades to give you a cool afterlife

And he would cuz he drank his “respect wife” juice if not all of his “respect women” juice. Did still kidnap her. But she is a major feature and often makes the decision herself or influences his when they’re mentioned together

Meanwhile, people try and cast Zeus as a good parent)

It means having to have a dreidel, a menorah, or a kinara explained to you at a time when you already knew about Christmas trees and Santa

(Yes, Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, major host of the Mass of Christ, is culturally Christian. Even though Coke invented his aesthetic - that’s the “cultural” part)

It’s when you go to make up a new non-religious or pan religious winter celebration… that is centred around a day with family and gifts which is obviously the 25 of December. Maybe counting down 12 days before

It’s defaulting to calling a place of worship you don’t know the name of a “church”

Cultural Christianity is not something people have a choice in; you don’t pick where you’re born, and there are so many other cultures in places like Canada, America, and Britain that are culturally Christian out the ass! But… you will catch Contact Christianity in any of these places

It’s damn near impossible to consume any American or most Western media without brushing across it; cross imagery is everywhere, Christian demons and devils sneak into media all around the world

Western (and some other) Gothic fashion leans heavily on gothic architecture and, yeah, heavily Catholic imagery

Now, brushing across the media in other parts of the world does not impart the same level of cultural Christianity as growing up in a city with four churches on a single block and a Santa Claus parade

And you can grow up heavily in an entirely different culture even in the Bible Belt (but you know what Bible Belt means); you don’t have to abandon all other culture just because Christianity has a chokehold on your home

But when December (or fucking November these days) hits and you hear Mariah Carey in 3/6 stores, yes, you probably have some cultural Christianity

You sure as hell don’t need to be able to name half the denominations (can you name more than 4?), you may never set foot in a Christian church in your life, and still have a cultural Christian influence

If your street names have “saint” in them

If there are crosses or angels on more than half the graves in a cemetery

If you know how to cross yourself but aren’t really sure when you learned; you didn’t look it up or do research to find out

Now note: none of these have an inherent moral judgement attached to them

It’s just about what the culture you live in has taught you about the world, and there’s no culture that is magically the Right One or better than the others

There’s no reason to expect even specifically Christian culture to be the same around the world; it isn’t. It has the same root, but what flowers from the soil is another matter entirely

There is nothing wrong with acknowledging that you have culturally Christian influences and biases; being human is 90% absorbing information from the world around us and half processing it at best - there’s just too much input, and intentionally filtering out Everything Christian Ever?

Well unless you started at 2 years old, odds are pretty good it’s not really a personal choice kinda thing

And you cannot compensate for these influences unless you acknowledge that they exist, that you did not choose to form them, and that you do get to choose how they affect your actions going forward

Christmas stuffed a bunch of other religious traditions into a single package to make itself popular, but if you learned them as Christmas traditions first… do I even need to say it?

#cultural christianity #especially at this time of the year #it just bothers me when people try and deny it #like they’re ‘too good’ to be formed by the society they grew up in #no friend #your deadass brain formation is affected by your first language

344 notes · View notes

farfromstrange · 4 months

Note

Sub!matt idea. Sensory deprivation.

It can be common as a way of control, heighten the experiance or even to help calm and sooth to blindfold your partner and make them rely on other senses. But for Matt he already has this to the extreme which can be distracting able to hear three blocks away when all he wants to focus on is you his world in this moment.

After a day of honestly tiring input he just asks for you to take over he somtimes does that wanting someone else to control him for a while and he trusts you. And trusts you enough to fuck you with his hearing either gone or reduced only able to feel, smell and taste you which is more then enough. Esspecially when you focus on the touch lavishing his body with sensory your hands never off him roaming, soothing holding. Your lips almost always on him kissing, sucking biting anything to elicit the sweet groans of him. He keeps a hand on your chest or throat not controlling but to be able to sense your rumbling groans and soft sighs feel the uptick in your heart rate as he focuses on you and only you

I am SO sorry that this took so long! And when I finally started writing it, I got carried away, so it took me two whole days to finish. But I wanted it to be good enough after I left you hanging.

On that note, your smutty thoughts make me feral!! Not gonna lie, I sat in my lecture the other day and I couldn't stop thinking about this, which is why this turned out to be over 4k words. On this page, we celebrate sub!Matt and all that comes with him!

Thank you so much for your request, and I hope I could do it justice <3

Sensory Deprivation | Matt Murdock x afab!Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!Reader

Summary: The world tends to get a bit loud, but thankfully, you're there to help Matt focus.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), sub!Matt, use of "good boy", oral m!receiving, swallowing, use of earplugs (sensory deprivation), Matt's catholic guilt, slight blasphemy, (almost) coming untouched, mention & use of safe word/action

Word Count: 4.4k

A/n: I'm so horny for this man, I can't function. Also, even though I did proofread this, I'm not sure if I missed any mistakes. My brain doesn't function as well as it used to. I'm sorry in advance.

More than anyone in this world, Matt believes he has to function, always, and without exceptions. He believes that he has to be useful, always doing something and never resting. His heightened senses make it impossible for him to turn his back on even the most minuscule cases of injustice, and he still beats himself up time and time again because he can’t be everywhere at once. He hears everything, smells everything, and feels the despair in the air, but in the end, he can’t take on the weight of the world all by himself.

Ever since he met you, you have become his reprieve. You’re the haven he returns home to when everything gets just a little too much. When his senses are flooded and his heart is heavy. He crawls to you when he’s wounded, and he would crawl to you if he only had a few more minutes to live. You’re the first person he thinks of when he wakes up, and the last person he thinks of when he goes to sleep at night, preferably holding you in his arms to make sure that you won’t slip away from him. In you, he has found someone who would never judge him for who he is. Someone who will always stand by his side proudly, and someone who will hold him when he’s at his weakest. And he has been hanging off the edge of his breaking point for quite some time, holding on for dear life.

You can tell Matt must have had an awful day from the second the key turns in the lock to your shared apartment. His feet drag over the wooden floorboards as he makes his way inside. You look up from your book.

Matt takes a deep breath, dropping his bag by the door. His shoulders are tense. He folds his cane, places it aside, and removes the red glasses you’ve grown to love—but you don’t nearly love them as much as his beautiful brown eyes, the green specks so distinctive, you could recognize them anywhere.

“Rough day?” you ask.

He opens the first button of his dress shirt with shaky fingers. “Yeah. I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says.

He hasn’t said hi to you like he usually would. Tonight seems to be one of those nights again. You know Matt well enough to pick up on the subtle clues in his behavior. He’s overwhelmed, possibly even anxious, and the weight he always carries on his shoulders is threatening to crush him. He’s walking a very thin tightrope, and he’s about to fall off.

You place your book on the coffee table and straighten up. He rounds the couch you’re sitting on, his unfocused eyes searching for you. Your heartbeat resonates in his ears. Your breathing is regular. You’re calm. You’re his rock. You won’t let him drown, no matter how strong the current is that is dragging him down.

Raising your eyebrows, you look up at him when he stops right in front of you. “No hello kiss?” you dare to ask. It’s a soft question, a little teasing, but he knows you mean well.

Matt shakes his head. As soon as he breathes you in, he’s done for. His brain cells fry on the electric chair of his mind. His heart starts beating up to his throat. You’re so close yet so far away. You smell incredible; you must have showered after work, and then you sat down with your favorite tea and read your favorite book while waiting for him so you could have dinner together. You’re so considerate, you even used his scentless soap so all he would be able to smell is your natural scent. You consume him. The city moves into the background, and the bricks are about to fall off his shoulders. He’s close to collapsing, falling on his knees and begging you to take control to just make him forget, but he isn’t quite there yet.

A car honks in the distance. The night is calling for him. His hand clenches into a fist at his side while the other rests flat against his thigh.

You slowly rise from your position. “Matthew,” you breathe his name like a siren. “What do you need?”

He sniffs. His fingers twitch. He has to go out, but he can’t. You envelop him in a bubble, and it makes him feel like he isn’t alone. Like he isn’t trapped. Like he can finally let go after holding on for so long.

“Talk to me,” you say.

His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “There was so much noise,” Matt whispers back. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t focus. I’m trying to stay in control, but I can’t focus, and—” He breaks off into a shaky sigh.

You chase his eyes; they’re glossed over. You reach out to tilt his chin in your direction. His eyes flutter closed. A stray tear slips down his cheek. It’s a tear stemming from months of exhaustion, physical pain, and emotional turmoil. He tried to push through, but he’s arrived at a point of no return. He’s breaking, and you’re the only one capable of catching him.

After another deep breath, Matt’s eyes open again. “You’re here,” his voice is still barely above a whisper, but the smile that starts to grow on his lips speaks the language of relief.

“I’m always here,” you answer.

“You keep me sane.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been distant.”

“I also know that, but it doesn’t matter. I know how hard it is for you. If you need to be distant for a while and then blow off some steam, I’m okay with it.”

He shudders when your fingers brush his cheek. The faint bruise underneath his eye has turned green. You trace the injury with gentle fingertips.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he says.

You smile back at him, knowing he can feel it, and you guide him toward your face. “You exist,” you tell him. “That’s enough for you to deserve me.”

His nose brushes against yours, but before his lips can meet yours, he stops. He inhales your scent. He feels your pulse under his fingers from where he’s wrapped them around your wrist. Your skin feels so soft against his. He’s no longer on fire. The world is no longer on fire. He can let go. He wants to know that it’s okay to let go, but the voice in his head is telling him to stop. The crossroads he finds himself at won’t let him leave in the direction he wants to go.

You can feel his inner turmoil. He’s holding back. He always does so. You’ve been together for what feels like forever, and he still doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. What he needs. What he deserves. You told him to be primal when he needs to be. You told him to admit when you need to take over. He never does it out of his own free will. He waits until you force him into submission.

Tonight should be the night he finally tells you. Matt needs to learn that his needs matter just as much as yours. His catholicism can go to hell for all you care.

“I need—” He swallows. “I-I need t—”

“Go ahead,” you urge him.

“Ugh,” the sound resembles a broken growl. And then, the barriers finally break. “I need you to take over,” he begs. “I need you to help me breathe again, sweetheart. Please. I need you.”

God, he sounds so wrecked.

“You want me to take control?” you ask to clarify.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Okay. Good boy. I can do that.”

Matt’s lips part in a weak whimper in response to your praise. Calling him a ‘good boy’ always has the same welcome effect. You don’t even have to look down to know that his cock is slowly swelling in his slacks.

All the blood has rushed from his head and his beautiful rosy, stubbly cheeks to his groin. It doesn’t take much to turn him on, especially not in his current state—especially not if it’s you.

Hearing him admit that he needs you like this makes you feel a myriad of emotions. You want to take care of him, you want to love him, and you want to give him a moment of peace amongst the constant chaos, but there is also something so arousingly erotic about the way he begs for you to take control that makes your thighs clench.

Often enough, he is the one taking care of you. Matt is a giver, not a taker. He always puts you first, but on some days, he just can’t bear it anymore. And you couldn’t possibly ask him to take charge in bed in his current state. It would break him. He’s a vulnerable man, whether he likes to admit it or not, and he can be as fragile as an ancient vase. You have to handle him with care on those days, which is all you intend to do as you guide him to your shared bedroom.

You gently urge him to sit down on the bed. “Do you trust me?” you ask.

His unfocused eyes flick from one side to the other. “Always,” he breathes out.

“Good. Lie back for me. I’m going to take such good care of you, I promise.”

He would never doubt that.

You climb into his lap, and finally, you kiss him. His lips part slightly in a desperate groan. Before he can slide his tongue into your mouth though, you pull away. His grabby hands are already resting on your hips, wandering, and wandering, and…

“Nuh-uh,” you tell him, taking hold of his calloused fingers and placing them on your upper thighs. “Patience, baby.”

“Please,” Matt begs. You love it when he begs. He’s completely putty in your hands. You could tell him to get on his knees and pray, and he would, no matter how blasphemous it may be.

He’s holding onto you for dear life. You place his hand against the left side of your chest, allowing him to feel your heartbeat. He isn’t leaving you cold. He never does. Alone the sight of him is enough to make your thighs clench with need, but straddling him, you can’t get the friction you need.

You reach for the nightstand to your right, opening the drawer. You know exactly what he needs. “Turn your head for me,” you murmur.

Matt follows your instructions without questioning them. Finally finding what you were looking for, you retrieve the earplugs from the bedside drawer. This isn’t the first time you have used them on him, or he has used them on you. The specific brand renders you almost entirely deaf and renders Matt’s enhanced hearing almost to an entirely normal level.

You gently put the first plug into his left ear, then the other into his right. Before you push it in though, you ask, “Do you remember our safeword?”

He nods. “Red,” he says.

“Good boy. And when you can’t speak?”

“Tap your wrist three times.” His lips curl up into a weak smile. “Usually, I’m the one asking you that.”

“Not tonight, you aren’t. May I put this in now?” You tap the earplug.

He nods again. It’s all the confirmation you need before inserting it, reducing his hearing completely. He lets out a sigh of relief. He closes his eyes, and you know he’s trying not to cry.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” you ask, cradling his cheek. His stubble scratches your fingertips, but it’s a welcome pain.

He can still hear what you’re saying, feel the vibrations in your chest from where his hand is resting, and he smells you so much clearer now that he no longer has to listen to the city screaming at him in the background. Your arousal gets stuck to the tiny hairs in his nose, and he inhales sharply. Every nerve in his body is on fire.

Matt moans. His tongue darts out, tasting the air. For a moment, he forgets that you just asked for his consent. Everything is so much more intense, yet it isn’t nearly enough.

“Matthew,” you nudge him. “Talk to me.”

“Yes,” he whispers. At least he thinks he’s whispering.

You smile, seemingly satisfied with his answer, and then you lean down to kiss him again. This time, you let him push his tongue into your mouth, tasting you, feeling you, and consuming all of you. He wants every ounce of you ingrained in his mind forever.

His hands slide under your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin. His focus is on you entirely. You help him take the pesky piece of fabric off, followed by his own. He’s suddenly so hot.

Your teeth clash when you kiss. His cock is hard as a rock, pressing against his lower abdomen. You can feel it between your thighs. It must be painful for him.

His kisses trail from your mouth, down your neck. He tastes the salt on your skin. Your pulse jumps as he drags his tongue over the vein. It’s a primal need. He needs to mark you. He needs to taste you, all of you, and make you his for all the world to see. An animalistic growl escapes his lips. His teeth dig into your skin. He nibbles just enough to make you moan, your chest vibrating underneath his hand. Matt doesn’t even hesitate to grab a handful of your breast, tugging at your sensitive nipple until it’s stiff enough to rival his aching cock.

You throw your head back, your jaw slack, and he uses the newfound space to kiss down to your collarbone. You’re going to be purple and bruised tomorrow, but you don’t care.

With a demanding grip on his hair that pulls at his scalp and causes him to groan against your shoulder, you push his head toward your chest. He isn’t in control, you are, and you know how much he loves to please you.

Like a man starving, he sucks your nipple into his mouth. No, it’s not just your nipple. He takes as much as he can into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub only momentarily before he moves on to the rest of your silky skin.

You moan. You have to let him know that you’re enjoying yourself. He feels the sound deep within your chest from where his hand is resting, and the way your breast moves slightly when you moan. Matt only becomes more eager when he feels and smells what he’s doing to you.

The scent of you is addicting. Your arousal smells slightly sour, sometimes slightly metallic, but most of all, it is you. And when he tastes your essence on the tip of his tongue without even licking at your slick folds because you are simply that wet, it makes him feral with this insanely primal need to have you.

He wants to spread you out before him and taste you until you’re coming all over his face. Though today, he is too weak to keep you restrained to the mattress. Matt takes what he can get, what you are willing to give him, and he does so eagerly, like the good boy that he wants to be for you.

With the world silenced, he can focus on you. The way your heart is hammering against your ribcage, right against his palm. The way your chest heaves with every labored breath you take as he sucks and sucks at your breast until your nipple is beyond swollen. He can feel how smooth your skin is, smell the remnants of your body lotion that he sometimes steals so he can smell you everywhere he goes, and the slight sheen of sweat that has started to cover your body from head to toe. And he can smell your arousal so thick in the air, his cock jumps at the mere thought of sinking into your tight walls—of being completely consumed by you, body and soul. He doesn’t need to hear right now, all he needs to do is feel you.

You know about his desperate urge to please. You know that, even while you’re in charge, he wants nothing more than to make you feel good. Matt is anything but selfish. But his selflessness doesn’t have a place in this bedroom tonight.

As crazy as his mouth on your breasts is driving you into an oblivion of pure ecstasy, your walls clenching around nothing, you find it in yourself to pull him away.

With his eyes hooded, he looks so delicious. His cock is still straining against his lower abdomen in his underwear. When you pull him away, his expression reads offense. You can’t help but snicker.

“Did you think I’d let you make this about me?” you say just loud enough for the sound to reach through the earplugs.

He exhales. “I was praying,” he says.

Praying. He is too far gone to realize. There are sides to Matt Murdock you love more than others, and when he becomes blasphemous, it does things to you. This good catholic boy turns into mush when you just touch him, and then you are his God. You’re who he wants to worship, and he would pray to you, worship at the altar of your body, and drink your essence like holy water if it meant being all over you and inside of you. And you take your position very seriously.

He trusts you. That is not a small feat. He trusts you with his body and soul, and he trusts you with the most vulnerable parts of him, be it in bed or merely a hug after a bad day. You know what he needs, and he trusts you to take care of him. He wouldn’t let just anyone do what you do to him.

“What were you praying for?” you ask him.

“You,” he whispers.

“You can have me, but first… focus.”

He told you he was losing focus because the world was far too late, so with the noise reduced, you will help him focus on something other than the world out there.

“Feel that?” You kiss his mouth, and from there, you move down to his stubbly jaw. “Focus on that. Focus on me.”

Matt sucks in another sharp breath. While one hand still rests on your chest, the other comes to rest around your neck, feeling your pulse, feeling you, and his eyes flutter closed at the feeling of your luscious lips all over him.

Your kisses trail down his neck. You pay close attention to the sensitive spot behind his ear. He moans. His hips buck upward. He’s so painfully hard, his cock has already started leaking pre-cum into his boxers.

Each scar, each indentation on his skin that reminds you of all the good he does at the expense of his health, you kiss. You trace your tongue over the healed wounds, feeling the warmth of his skin seep into yours. He’s so sensitive.

His fingers involuntarily clench around your neck, but you don’t mind. He’s not choking you, he’s simply trying to hold on. You have established a safe word for a reason, after all. He can get carried away the same way you can get carried away.

You wouldn’t dare push him too far though. Not tonight. Not when he’s already this wrecked underneath you. You purposefully leave his nipples out of the equation and move further down his body. His abs tense under your tender touch. You can’t help but smile.

And him? Matt feels like he’s floating. He can feel every kiss against his heated skin, your fingertips tracing his scars after you’ve so sensually pressed your mouth against them, and he can feel your every breath as you move downward. Every kiss leaves a series of shivers in its wake. He’s hot, yet he’s cold. He needs more, but at the same time, you are already close to driving him into overstimulation.

His balls tighten. He can’t believe that the feeling of you is enough to make him want to explode. He knows that if you touch his cock now, he might as well come right then and there. It’s so much more intense like this when he doesn’t get distracted by the world outside. You are his world, and you are all he focuses on.

You move further down until you reach his boxers. His arm is no longer long enough to keep his hand around your neck, so he moves it into your hair. It’s a silent warning, you suppose because he is close. You only kissed him, and he’s already so close to coming undone. You don’t blame him. He’s been so tense lately.

You press a kiss to his hip bone before murmuring against his milky skin, “It’s okay.”

Matt whimpers. Your words make their way into his bloodstream.

You pull his boxers down. The cold air hits his aching tip and the way his back arches makes you almost feel bad. You spit into your hand, but you make sure your palm is warm enough before you reach for his girth.

The moment you touch him, he’s done for. “Sweetheart, I can’t–” he chokes out, but you shush him by placing your lips against his tip.

You lick at the salty pre-cum. It tastes like him. You can’t deny that you missed this while he was so distant from you. This is as much for you as it is for him, that is something you can’t deny either. You’re a little selfish tonight. Just a little.

His words of protest get swallowed by a needy moan, and his fist tightens in your hair. He’s not going to last long.

Matt is not one to come early. The guilt swallows him faster than you can swallow his cum, which is why he always holds himself back. Tonight though, you won’t let him torture himself for your pleasure. You hate it when he does it.

“Ugh!” the moan comes from the depths of his chest. “Fucking–God!”

You take him into your throat as far as you can without gagging, and what you can’t take, you wrap your hand around. He’s so thick, and he’s so incredibly big—you can feel the tears forming in your eyes. But God, he is so beautiful with his head thrown back, brown eyes squeezed shut, and that little drop of sweat dripping down his temple. It’s lewd, it’s erotic, and it makes your thighs clench.

All of his reservations vanish when you take him all in. Your throat is tight, but you’re enthusiastic. Your tongue traces the vein on the underside of his cock, moving back up to the overly sensitive head. Your hands cup his balls. Every time you go down on him, Matt swears he can feel heaven reaching its hand out to him.

He grips your hair a little tighter, his other hand tangling in the sheets. He’s so close. He twitches, painfully so. And when he comes, he instinctively pulls your head upward so you won’t choke. His hot cum spurts down your throat, and you have no choice but to swallow.

You surprise both yourself and him when you fight against his hand and force yourself down far enough so that your nose brushes the base of his cock, and you gag.

Your throat is so tight and hot that it drags his orgasm on for eternity. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. His heart is racing out of his chest as if it has somewhere to be. The fire ripples through him, the inferno turning into a dangerous explosion that tears his nerves apart, putting them back together just to tear them apart again. He feels as though the skin is falling off his very fragile bones, and his muscles collapse in on themselves.

Matt can’t breathe. When he finally manages to untangle his hands from your hair, he lies there. The blood in his ears is obnoxious. He can’t hear. He can’t see. And suddenly, he can’t even feel anymore. He doesn’t exist. Reality slips away into a moment in time. Now, he’s dying. It feels like he is dying.

You pull off his cock, catching your breath. His cum trickles down the corner of your mouth. You wipe it away. Pressing a kiss to his hip bone, you look up through your lashes. At first, he looks blissed out, but his expression quickly changes.

He can’t talk. You take his hand. “Matt,” you coax him.

Not even his chest is lifting in time to accommodate his heavy breathing. His body is shaking as every ounce of stress falls off his shoulders, and his nerves fall victim to the inferno that is still wreaking havoc inside of him.

He taps your wrist three times.

“Okay,” you murmur. You quickly climb back up his body.

“Out,” he manages to tell you, weakly pointing to the earplugs.

“Okay, baby. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You pull the earplugs out as fast as you can. Matt’s arms wrap around you, searching for a lifeline, and he pulls you against him.

“Shhh.” You cradle his head in the crook of your neck.

You hold him like this for a while. You hold him against you tightly, gently, as if he is the most fragile thing you have ever held.

Eventually, his breathing returns to normal. His heart starts to slow down. His fingertips no longer dig into your back as desperately as they have before. He’s just content now.

You press your lips to the crown of his head. “You okay?” you dare to ask.

Matt takes a moment before he nods. He leans back slightly. “Thank you,” he breathes.

“For what?”

His lips curl into a tired yet satisfied smile. “For helping me focus.”

You smile back at him. “My pleasure,” you say, and you lean down to capture his lips in a loving kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs into the kiss.

“And I love you, Matthew Michael Murdock.”

“Oh, you love me that much, huh?”

You giggle, “Shut up!” before you pull him in for another kiss.

For now, he needs to catch his breath and pick up the pieces you shattered by giving him this orgasm, but you know that once he does, it is going to be a long night for you. And you won’t be able to find it in yourself to complain. Not that you want to, anyway.

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x you #no y/n #reader insert #daredevil smut #sub!matt #matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock angst #charlie cox #lizzi writes #request

336 notes · View notes

vaspider · 3 months

Note

Hi Spider, I hope you're well! I had a question about being Jewish and was wondering if you could give me some insight. All good if not!

Forgive me if I use the wrong terms here, I'm still learning and don't have any ill intent.

I'm a weird case, I think? I was raised Catholic, and I found out as an adult that my family past was hidden from me. Both my Babcia (great grandma, from Poland) and my Grandpa are descended from and were practicing Jews.

This information was withheld from me, so my knowledge of it is limited to what I've learned from my parents after they passed. And that's been like pulling teeth in and of itself.

How would I go about reconnecting with this part of my past? Are there resources available for the basics? I tried looking up various things online, but I think I'm looking in the wrong places- it's all super dense to me and I don't know where to start.

If you have any advice on this, or any thoughts of your own, I'd really appreciate it, no pressure. Thank you!!

My cat Princess says hello btw (:

Hello, Princess!

I would recommend finding a rabbi close to you geographically and starting there. Many places have a Judaism 101 class, which is required for conversion but doesn't necessarily lead to it.

Here's the list I gave @oldest-man-alive-blog off the top of my head when he asked for books to read to decide if he wants to convert

Essential Judaism by George Robinson Choosing a Jewish Life by Anita Diamant Here All Along by Sara Hurwitz The Jewish Approach to God, A Brief Introduction for Christians by Rabbi Neil Gillman To Life! A Celebration of Jewish Being and Thinking by Harold Kushner Becoming a Jew by Rabbi Maurice Lamm

And followed with this:

#image description requested #asks

155 notes · View notes

creedslove · 1 year

Text

BETRAYED - PART NINE

Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: Pedro invites you to be his plus one for the night but his attention is caught by another woman and leaves you with a broken heart

Warnings: fluff, like, a lot of fluff, implied age gap, mentions of death, and descriptions of a catholic wedding (I just wrote down how they go in my country, but no, it's not *the* wedding you're thinking about) and mentions of smut

A/N: Just one more chapter and we wrap up this story!!! I hope you guys enjoy this one because I know my heart melted while I wrote it!!!

A/N part 2: still can't manually tag people on the works because I use the app and it won't let me do it, that's why I don't have a tag list at all!

3.4k words

One year later

You stood at the altar feeling excitedly but also a little anxious. A bunch of familiar faces stared at you taking in all the details of the ceremony that was about to begin.

You could even spot Pedro among the guests, he looked handsome, as he always did, his hair was a little longer now, making it wilder in a way it made him sexier than before. He noticed your eyes on him and winked, as if he encouraged you in that situation

And that's why being a bridesmaid was so fun. While the focus wasn't necessarily you and your group of bridesmaids, you were all in the spotlight while the bride took long to arrive.

You could practically hear all the thoughts crossing people's minds, how they judged the dresses, the makeups and the hairstyles. It always happened and you wouldn't be any exception, but not that you cared very much about it, as you were so happy for your best friend Nat tying the knot with her dream guy, nothing would bother you at all.

As you felt Pedro's gaze on you, burning your skin, you thought of everything that happened this past year. It didn't even feel real, after you left his home that morning, you never returned. And he kept his word of not coming after you, which was all you needed in order to get your life back on track.

The first thing you did when you got home was to change all the locks to prevent anyone from breaking into your house. It didn't matter if it was Liev, a burglar or Pedro himself. You never wanted to walk into your home, a place you assumed safe and find someone uninvited there. Then, your second part of your action plan was to look for another gym, so you could train without having to change your schedule every single time you didn't want to run into someone in there. You wanted to exercise, to see people, to feel the endorphins flood your body and not step on eggshells all the time. Needless to say, it was a good decision.

Then, you just focused on yourself.

You finally finished your studies, you found a job that made you happier and paid well too. You took short trips here and there, getting to know new places and you also looked at yourself in the mirror and realized you were more beautiful than ever, and that was why you were loving yourself, you took care of yourself and you put yourself in the first place, just like it should've been from the beginning.

You still had feelings for Pedro, of course, but the distance helped manage it, some days you were able to go by without even thinking of him, and others you missed him deeply. You didn't know if his feelings for you changed, but you weren't as close as you once were. However, you weren't estranged either. It was just that your lifestyles got simply too different and your lives took different paths, making it so hard to be around each other.

After Pedro's career took off he became almost impossible to reach - physically at least.

He was already well-known when you two had all that story going on, of course, but now it had reached stratospherical levels. He was a big deal, he was a big celebrity, all your social media was flooded by videos, his interviews and his pictures. You began following his career, from afar, admiring him, how far he'd come, feeling your chest burst with pride every time he was nominated for an award or you saw him walking down a red carpet. It was still disturbing to you to see how much he was harassed by the media, how he couldn't walk down the street without being photographed and how they picked on the whole daddy thing. Sometimes it was a little funny though, seeing him blush and her visibly embarrassed at that. You often chuckled to yourself when you eventually saw his fans writing the sweetest things about him, how they called him their boyfriend or future husband, if only they knew your story, they'd call you crazy for turning him down. Because to them, Pedro was perfect, a prince charming. And to you, he was just a human being, with flaws and qualities, like everyone else.

You two didn't go the whole year without speaking, quite the opposite, your phone would buzz eventually, receiving a text or two from him. And you would often text him as well. Just simple things: birthday messages, wishing each other happy holidays or checking up on each other. Nothing too intimate, but enough to show you still cared and worried about each other.

He watched your stories and liked your pictures, and you did the same. Being there, even if you weren't there anymore. It was confusing, but it worked for a while.

When you realized you were able to see his pictures with fans, co-stars and women you had no idea who they were and your whole body didn't heat up in anxiety and jealousy and your heart didn't drop at your toes, at the mere thought crossing your mind of them being his lay for the night, you knew you were ready to let him in.

Not exactly let him in, you didn't know if he still cared about you like that, or if you would still have anything in common, or if he would even bother becoming your friend again now that he had met some many different people. But you still decided to text him, best case scenario he would reply and you would have a conversation, worst case scenario he would leave you on 'seen' and you would move on with your life, because you lived for yourself now, and not for Pedro.

Of course he replied to your message right away. He smiled big when he read it and couldn't even believe after all that time you were the one engaging in a conversation with him. God knows how many times it took all of his willpower to erase the gigantic texts he wrote you and just drop a 'Merry Christmas' or 'Happy Birthday, mariposa' he'd promised you he would let you live your life, and just like a butterfly, he let you be free but now you were flying to him again - maybe, that was what he hoped at least, so he allowed himself to daydream.

You'd sent a simple text telling him how much you enjoyed his new series, and if he had time next time he was in town, maybe you could go for drinks. He replied almost immediately, saying he couldn't wait.

And your conversation began.

Slowly, you would text through the day about many things, while he was away and lonely, he told you all about his shooting routine and what he did for fun so far away from home.

You updated him on everything knew in your life, seeing how proud of you and happy he really got. You briefly mentioned you were thinking of learning a second language, to which he quickly suggested Spanish.

But when your uncle died you didn't get a text from him. Instead, Pedro managed to get a short break from filming and hopped on a plane. He wanted to be there for you, it didn't matter to him if he was going to be there as a friend or as a possible boyfriend, he just wanted to hold you while you cried because he knew how important family was to you. He wanted to attend the funeral by your side, to dry your tears and tell you comforting words. And that was exactly what he did.

You couldn't believe your eyes when he showed up there, in black and pulling you into his embrace, which reminded you it used to be your favorite place in the world and at that moment, it became your favorite again.

You had no strength to discuss feelings with him, and he wasn't after that either. He just wanted to try and make that moment a little less miserable for you.

But the moment the funeral service was over, Pedro would have to come back to his work again. He apologized a hundred times for not being able to stay longer with you, but you assured him it was alright, not forgetting to thank him for coming all the way just to be with you.

He said goodbye with one of his warm hugs and a peck on the cheek, that landed way too close to your lips, it didn't matter if it was on purpose or not. The damage had already been done.

From the moment you realized he had left his job - the thing you assumed he loved the most in life - for you without expecting anything in return. That familiar warmth in your chest appeared after months and months of it being dormant. It was hard to deny how much you loved Pedro.

•••

You had always heard horrible stories about women who agreed to becoming bridesmaids and had to deal with the infamous bridezilla. You were sure it wouldn't be Nat's case, but those women were not exaggerating when they said you would have to put a lot of effort, energy and even money to a moment that wasn't even yours.

While all the guests were comfortably sitting down, you along with the other girls and the bestmen had to stand up the whole ceremony. You knew the priest was probably saying beautiful words about love and stuff, as you could see the emotion in some people's eyes and how some of them even sniffed and shed one or two tears, but you were just not paying attention. Church services weren't really your thing, you tried really hard not to get bored, but it was too late, you were already bored.

That's why your eyes scanned the whole place, not really focusing on anything in particular, you just hoped time would go by faster and you wished you would all skip to the reception, because there were other things you wanted to do and mostly other people you wanted to talk to. You looked all over the church decoration and though it looked very beautiful and elegant you thought about how you would never have a wedding in a place like that. Then you watched Nat's wedding dress closely. Of course you'd seen it a couple of times already since the early stages of planning and preparing the wedding, but at that moment it looked different and you couldn't stop yourself from wondering if you'd ever get married at all and wear a pretty dress like that. You shook those thoughts away from your mine and looked at the guests absent-mindedly, not watching anything in particular until your eyes locked with Pedro's.

He didn't even blink and sustained your look, he was completely oblivious to a wedding happening just a few feet away from you, as you were really the only thing that mattered to him.

After flying to you for your uncle's funeral, you weren't able to meet again, as he was more and more caught up at work and you also had your own life. So when he got the invitation to the wedding, he didn't think twice before confirming his attendance, though he didn't really care that much about the bride and groom, he was still thankful to them.

You blushed softly and smiled big at him, he wasn't too distant, just a few rows away from the altar, close enough for you to see when he mouthed 'hermosa' making you look down in shyness. You knew Nat and Pedro had seen each other maybe five or six times and the only times she talked to him was to tell him how much her boyfriend - and now husband - loved Mandalorian. So you knew she had only invited him because of you and Pedro had only showed up to the wedding because of you as well. It felt quite good, you had to admit and for that, you even forced yourself to pay attention to the ceremony again.

Once the reception started you thought the fun would start as well, but you were wrong. Now, the bridesmaids duty kept you busy each passing second. First you had to follow the bride and groom to the photo session, then you had to assist the bride to make her big entrance, and after it you had to help her go to the restroom, which was the most chaotic part: four girls helping another lift up layers and layers of cloth in order to be able to pee.

And when you realized, it was already dinner time. As the food was served people stayed at their tables, usually guests were starving after the whole marathon of sitting through a long and tedious ceremony, then endless waiting until the bride and groom showed up.

The whole time you and Pedro exchanged looks and smiles, he even texted you in hopes to talk to you, but you were way too busy to check your phone, at the same time as soon as some guests recognized Pedro, he was bombarded with requests for selfies, autographs and girls throwing themselves at him. And he was way too nice to decline those requests even if it bothered him - though he declined the girls right away.

You thanked the heavens when dinner was finished, you knew the dance floor would be finally open to the guests until you remembered a very tacky wedding custom.

The bride was going to throw the bouquet. You pinched the bridge of your nose in embarrassment, you've always hated that moment, ever since you were a kid and your parents dragged you to relative's weddings.

Just a bunch of women going all savage over a couple of flowers made you cringe to the core, so you stepped aside and waited for the small crowd to gather. You tried to brush it off at the insistence of some people, but when Nat cleared her throat and gave you accusatory eyes, you even tried to argue. But she motioned her head towards Pedro and you saw him waiting for you to get in the small commotion. He had his hands inside his pocket and a dirty smirk, he couldn't wait to see you pick the bouquet, he was sure you'd look gorgeous.

You on the other hand felt embarrassed and awkward to stand there, Nat got in position and showed all the single ladies the bouquet, making them all shout in excitement. She looked at you and winked softly, and you gulped. Oh no, there was only one thing worse than fighting over a bouquet of flowers in front of a crowd of people, and that was definitely receiving the bouquet out of pity.

So when she threw it towards you, you stood still, making absolutely no move and watched it as it flew right past you.

You turned around and saw when two women were almost on the floor, struggling to get the bouquet. Nat frowned at you, confused as to why you didn't get it, you just shrugged at her. You didn't want to get married, there was only one thing you wanted to do, and when you thought you were finally able to do it, the DJ announced it was time for the waltz.

You rolled your eyes, as annoyance spread through your body. It had been hours all you were trying to do was to exchange a couple of words with Pedro, but that seemed impossible.

The guests all gathered around the bride and groom as they showed their rehearsed steps, some people swooning over them but you just looked around, trying to find Pedro, needing to see him and talk to him. But he wasn't there anymore.

Had he gone home? You knew he enjoyed parties, but you weren't sure about wedding parties, especially the ones where he was harassed every five minutes by people who insistently wanted pictures or just goof around a movie star.

But he wouldn't just leave you without saying goodbye, would he? Over the months your relationship became stronger even if you weren't physically close.

You were deep in thought as you felt someone touching your wrist, making you jump a little at the sudden touch and turned around, seeing Pedro standing there.

And he looked good. Very good.

He was wearing a dark suit, all in black. It hung tight to the right places as he looked absolutely like sin. His hair was messy like always and you caught a few gray streaks on his beard and that made you weak at the knees.

You smiled big and held his hand "Pedro! I thought you'd left!"

He raised his eyebrow and chuckled "do you really think I'd sit through a whole wedding and then leave before talking to the only reason why I'm here in the first place?" He held your hand and eyed you up and down, not even hiding how much he appreciated your looks "I don't mean to be one of those bitchy people who come to the party and trash talk it, but when we get married we'll have a lot less church and a lot more party"

Pedro's words stirred something inside of you, even if it was a joke, you felt yourself blushing.

"Too bad it won't happen, I mean, I didn't catch the bouquet so…" you replied in a shy way and made him laugh as well

"Yeah, well, we can figure this out later, right now I'd like to have a dance with the most beautiful girl at the party?" He offered his hand to you, and you hesitated at first

"It depends, Pedro" you saw his confusion, finding it quite amusing

"It depends on what, hermosa?" He questioned curiously

"Where's your plus one?" You saw how he frowned not really getting where you were going

"What plus one, Y/N? I came alone…"

You laughed softly and nodded, taking a step closer and accepting his invitation.

"I was just making sure, you know, I was friends with a guy once and he pulled such a jerk move, where he invited a plus one to a party and ditched her to dance with another girl and ended up taking this other girl home and left his plus one really heartbroken"

A deep shade of crimson spread through his face as he was at a loss of words for a while. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard.

"H-he sounds like a real dick" he replied a little self conscious, not sure if you were joking or playing games

"He really was, but I heard he managed to change into a better person and his plus one even forgave him after all"

His smile was wide and the relief in his eyes was visible as he wrapped his arms around your waist and glued your body to his. It was a slow ballad and you wrapped your arms around his neck at the same time you swayed your hips together.

"Thank you for forgiving me, I really missed you" he whispered against your ear, your faces were inches apart and you closed your eyes, his cologne lingering on your skin. You took your hand to the back of his neck, stroking his hair and feeling it softly between your fingers.

"We needed this, Pedro… I guess now we could start things over" you said and welcomed his lips against yours, as they crashed in a needy contact. You moaned lowly at the feel of his tongue against yours. His hands squeezed your waist and if you could get any closer to him, you would have, because you could swear that was not enough.

His kiss was intense and unlike the other times, he wasn't trying to overpower you and make you accept him playing dirty with your hormones, he was kissing you, feeling you and taking you as his. And you wanted it as much as he did.

When you broke the kiss, he nibbled your bottom lip, caressing your cheek and not giving a care in the world if someone filmed or photographed you.

You danced as if there was no tomorrow, as the ballad was over, you danced with Pedro to any kind of songs that came in the playlist, you had fun and when sexier songs came up, you dance even more, loving how you rubbed your body against his and Pedro never spared any neck kiss or groping your body.

By the time you could feel a tent against your ass, you turned to him, kissing his lips again.

"I guess it's time to get out of here, princesa" he whispered into your ear and squeezed your ass. You moaned against his lips as you couldn't agree more.

_____

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did, it was just so easy to write I was really into it. I loved it so much and I can't believe this series is almost over 😞 also, if y'all don't go soft on Pedro now I don't know what to do, LMAO

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal headcanon #pedro pascal headcanons #javier pena #javier peña #joel miller

522 notes · View notes

useless-catalanfacts · 1 month

Text

Idioms in Catalan with a religious origin

There's quite a lot of idioms that we say in everyday life, outside of the context of religion, but that come from religious stories or events.

Most of them come from Christianity, and many of them are shared with other Romance languages or other languages from historically Christian countries. To keep this list accessible to everyone regardless of cultural background, I will include the literal translation to English and also an explanation all of them.

Let's see how many of these you can understand before seeing the explanation. Let us know in the tags!

1. Fer Pasqua abans de Rams = "to do Easter before Palm Sunday", meaning to get pregnant, have a baby, or to have sex before getting married. Nowadays it's used in a more general sense to mean to do something before it's time (like English "put the cart before the horse"). Palm Sunday is a holiday celebrated the week before Easter.

2. Per a més inri = "for more INRI", used to add a bad thing on top of something else, making a situation even worse or more humiliating. It's a reference to the sign that said "INRI" (stands for the initials of "Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews" in Latin) that Roman soldiers hanged on Christ's crucifix to make fun of him.

3. A la babalà = "in the babalà way", meaning to do something without having thought much about it. But what does "babalà" mean? This word doesn't exist in the Catalan language outside of this expression. It comes from the Arabic Alà bâb Allâh which means "in God's hands".

4. On Crist va perdre l'espardenya = "where Christ lost his sandal", or on Crist va perdre el barret = "where Christ lost his hat", meaning somewhere very far away and usually in the middle of nothing. I don't know of any story that has Christ lose his sandal or hat.

5. Perdut de la mà de Déu = "lost by God's hand", meaning a place in the middle of nowhere.

6. Ser un calvari ="to be a calvary", meaning that something is a cause of suffering. You can also hear quin calvari! = "what a calvary!". This is a reference to Mount Calvary, where Christ was crucified.

7. Endavant les atxes = "ahead with the candles!", meaning "keep going!", used to encourage to keep going in a negative situation with difficulties or a situation that you would have preferred to avoid. An atxa is a kind of big candle that the first people in a religious procession carry. This was the shout that would start a procession.

(Note: in recent years, Spanish media has used this idiom as supposed proof that Catalan independentists who said it are calling for violence, using a fake translation that assumed that "atxa" must mean the same as Spanish "hacha", meaning "axe" 🪓, because the pronunciation is almost identical. This is false, when people were saying "endavant les atxes" they did not intend any meaning related to "bring the axes". This was used to justify violence against Catalan activists, but has no ground in reality. "Axe"🪓 in Catalan would be "destral".)

8. Net com una patena = "as clean as a paten", meaning very clean. A paten is a kind of small dish used in Catholic mass, where the blessed sacramental bread in placed on.

9. Acabar com el rosari de l'aurora = "to end up like the dawn rosary", meaning to end very, very badly, usually in violence. The dawn rosary used to be a procession that was done in the early morning of certain holidays while praying the rosary. The idiom (which also exists in Spanish) comes from the year 1868. Around those years, there were many anticlerical riots, while the Catholic church kept doing the dawn rosary on the streets and often assigning it political meaning. In Barcelona and other cities, anticlerical protestors tried to stop the dawn rosary from happening, and it ended in violence and blood.

10. Plorar com una Magdalena = "to cry like a Magdalene", meaning to cry a lot and very desperately. This is a reference to Mary Magdalene, a character from the Bible's New Testament who cried when she met Christ.

11. Déu-n'hi-do! = "God gives!". This expression is difficult to translate because I don't think English has an equivalent (the closest I can think of are "wow!" or even "holy shit!"), but Catalan people use it a lot. It's an exclamation used to show surprise, awe or to mean a big quantity.

12. Ser més vell que Matusalem = "to be older than Methuselah", meaning that someone is very very old. Methuselah is a character from the Bible's Old Testament who is said to have lived for 969 years. This comparison is used for comedic value.

13. Rentar-se'n les mans = "to wash one's hands", meaning to say you're not responsible for what happens. This is a quote from the Bible's New Testament: when Christ is being judged by Pontius Pilate, the crowd is asking him to sentence him to crucifixion. He asks Christ to defend himself, but he doesn't. Pilate doesn't want to sentence him to death, but he sees he has no other option. Then, he sees his hands are stained with Christ's blood, and washes his hands as he decides that this situation will not be his responsibility.

14. Arribar a misses dites = "to arrive to mass [already] said", meaning to arrive late when something has already happened.

15. Ser com les palmes d’Elx, que vingueren el matí de Pasqua = "to be like the Elx palms, that arrived on Easter morning", this is used in the Valencian Country to mean to be late. Elx is a city with the biggest palm groove in Europe ever since the Middle Ages, and many of these palm tree leafs are used for making the palms used for Palm Sunday, the celebration that happens a week before Easter.

16. Va a missa = "goes to mass", meaning whatever is said is exactly what will happen, without complaining or second thoughts.

17. Endiumenjar-se = "to Sunday yourself" or "to Sunday up", meaning to dress up in your best clothes (same as "to wear your Sunday best" in English). Traditionally, people used to wear their best clothes for Sunday mass.

18. Alt com un sant Pau = "as tall as a saint Paul", someone who is very tall. Saint Paul was not tall, in his texts he describes himself as a "little man". The origin of this sentence is in Catalonia centuries ago. People used to celebrate the holiday of Saint Paul's Conversion (January 25th). In the Sant Pau del Camp church area in Barcelona, the tradition for this day had a man yield a huge sword. For this reason, the man had to be tall and strong.

19. Alegre/content com unes pasqües = "as cheerful/happy as Easters", meaning to be very happy and cheerful.

20. Discutir sobre el sexe dels àngels or parlar del sexe dels àngels = "to argue about angels' sex", meaning to endlessly argue heatedly about something insignificant where neither side will ever convince the other to change their minds. Also called una discussió bizantina="a Byzantine argument". This comes from the historical fact that Biblical scholars spent centuries arguing on whether angels can be male or female or not. Legends say that, when the Ottomans were laying siege on Constantinople in 1453 and getting ready to invade it, the Byzantine theologists were arguing about whether angels have sexes instead of doing anything useful.

21. Pagant, sant Pere canta = "if you pay, saint Peter sings". The person who hears it, might answer i sant Joan fa esclops = "and Saint John makes clogs". This means that money will get you anything, even the things that seemed impossible. It might be a reference to the Bible story where saint Peter was asked if he knew Christ after he was taken to crucify, and Peter lied three times and said he didn't know him. "To sing" in Catalan can also mean "to confess". Maybe, if they had paid him he would have confessed.

22. Perdre l'oremus = "to lose the oremus", meaning to lose control of yourself, or to get disoriented or lose memory. "Oremus" (which means "let's pray" in Latin) is the sentence that Catholic priests say during mass to lead a prayer. It's believed that this idiom comes from some incidents where a priest would start the sentence "oremus..." but then couldn't find the prayer he wanted to lead, which he might have misplaced somewhere else in his book. So he would say "oremus... uh... oremus..." while flipping the pages looking for the right one.

23. A bon sant t'encomanes! = "You entrust yourself to a good saint!", said with irony. It's said when you ask for help or rely on someone who is not competent.

24. Ser més papista que el Papa = "To be more Popeist than the Pope", meaning someone who is too dogmatic, too strict or extremist in following the rules, or who believes in or defends something in a more extreme way than the people most affected by it.

25. Qui no coneix Déu, a qualsevol sant li resa = "He who doesn't know God, prays to any saint", used to compare something very good to something worse that someone else likes, usually something worse but that is very popular.

And there's probably others that I forgot.

How many of these are shared with your language?

#llengua catalana #religió #languages #català #catalan #coses de la terra #religions #catholicism #language learning #langblr #polyglot #language #romance languages #cultures #culture

135 notes · View notes

precious-little-scoundrel · 8 days

Text

A Wedding & a Willy

Those Who Can - The Postwar Years

Summary: Cpt. Jack Brady’s freshly stateside wedding is understandably hectic, joyful and packs his childhood home to the gills with former Air Force buddies. But amongst the revelry and the guests are a few ghosts, as well.

Cast of characters: so many characters and so many dynamics and so many storylines, this is my magnum opus of Avengers assemble style fic. And they all made it to the wedding because I said so. We’ve got- Bradys and Bucky Egan, Blakely, the Hamilton’s, the Crosbies, Lt. Macon, Lt. Glen Graham, Charles Cruikshank, Douglass, Maureen, Tilly Brady, Eugene Brady…and Rosie Rosenthal on the phone but don’t count him out, he’s devastating

Warnings: 18+ mature and distressing thematic material. beyond innuendo and wedding night jokes there’s nothing very current in this postwar fic that should be bothersome. HOWEVER— many different duos have many different discussions about past traumas, including miscarriage, war, ptsd, sexual abuse both male and female, some rifts between the victims, general angst

“Howard, dance with me.” Ida had a firm hold on the scruff of his uniform, smartly fitted and bedecked with polished buttons, Howard Hamilton cut a fine figure even though she had just drug him off the drainage pipe leading to the upstairs bedroom.

…The bedroom where Ida’s brother and his little wife had recently absconded after a very raucous leave-taking at the foot of the stairs. The wedding party had swamped the landing and it was by fortitude alone that Johnny picked up his bride and made a run through them. Ida had been loudest amongst the well wishing hecklers as the two, pink cheeked darlings rushed upstairs to seal the deal and taste what they’d waited five years for.

But while heckling, teasing and rice-wielding-gauntlets were one thing in his big sister’s book, climbing up the outside drainage pipe to play a practical joke on his pilot while said pilot what was practically engaged in a sacrament, was another thing.

And this Ida informed Hambone of with a fist in his jacket and a stern order to dance. His ideas were always far less amusing even to himself once sober, and she was saving him regret by her actions tonight.

“I’d be honored.” Hamilton swore as he allowed himself to be dragged back into the Brady family’s crowded house by the lady Colonel, casting backward glances at his abashed co-conspirators -Hoer, Tallulah, Murphy and Douglass- as they trailed behind.

Only the most looney among them were still strongly celebrating, it was late and the house had become a red hot furnace of merriment that reflected in the many paned windows of the rural New York dwelling. Couches had been pushed to the perimeter and every surface was littered with cake and wine, confetti strewing the floor and out back on the wooden deck, there were tiki lights hung and the gramophone in full projection and Ida placed Hambone's hand on her waist out there and began a spirited Lindy.

It was almost enough to keep Ida from remembering how thoroughly she’d cried as Johnny disappeared upstairs to begin his new life. She had proven shockingly sentimental today and she tried her hardest to dance it off. When Hambone begged off the fifth song, Ev Blakely took over but he was too kind in his conversation, too astute to her bubbling nostalgia and so she accepted Douglass’ butting in, if only to be sharply twirled and kept busy with inane chatter.

Bucky Egan meandered about the outskirts of the frivolity, one conversation after another, the festivities were beginning to blur and the drink in his hand had stayed oddly full. How many was this one? He didn’t know, but that was the wonderful thing about stateside peacetime -there was no shortages of booze. Even at a Catholic wedding. But even booze couldn’t keep the sinking, gnawing feeling of boredom away. Bride and groom were off, most other guests were departing and the few who weren’t he didn’t doubt intended to crash on the couches or on the rugs. The Hamilton’s had been given the the office bedroom and Lieutenant Macon the guest room, for reason of being the bride’s cousin. Eugene Brady was bunked with some Air Force bandmate and Ev Blakely was already asleep on the nearest couch by the time of Ida’s third jive with Douglass.

Bucky should have asked her to dance, but he was drunk and she wasn’t fond of him that way and he was tired, too. Not fit for driving and not seeing much purpose in hauling off when Brady had specifically asked for him to be at breakfast tomorrow.

So, John decided to make himself at home.

It felt right, in a curious, childlike sort of way, to help himself up the stairs while everyone below was too spastic or sleepy to notice him slinking away. He climbed the stairs and passed the framed photographs of Mr and Mrs Brady, of Ida and Johnny and Eugene at graduation and also as cherubic little children. At the top of the landing he looked down at the party, happy havoc proving a testament to a good day. He paused on the landing and hazarded a guess regarding which door would be Ida’s blessedly empty room. Straight in front of him was a large door and with indefensible surety he assumed it belonged to their parent. He tiptoed past and down the darkened hall, staying on the carpeted runner to muffle the floorboard’s squeak. On his left was dark and silent, to his right a door with a chunk of light showing through. From further down the hall, at the very end by the bathroom came sounds of stumbling and furniture being abused and rearranged.

There were also…giggles.

Egan grinned to himself and whispered a fond commendation for Jack Brady before choosing the right door, bravely turning the knob and entering the cool, empty space.

The electric light flipped on at his batting touch and he was met with the sight of organza curtains and a patchwork quilt, a pastel painted desk and plush violet colored carpet. It reeked of feminine adolescence and was so very foreign to Ida as he knew her that his fingers tingled in anticipation of learning this part of her.

Seashells hung from ribbons on the wall, a poster advertising for a boating tour of the Miami Everglades, sheet music in a basket by the bed, her trombone case leaning against a very full bookcase. Classics mainly, a little history and some science, three large volumes on something called “baroque.” Her flight jacket was hung on a knob of the hat stand, a wide brimmed plum stained straw hat, too, and a silk scarf. He crossed the threshold to it and lifted the scarf in his palm, bringing it to his nose and breathing deeply.

It smelled like a man. Cologne, perhaps whisky, musk for sure. Crestfallen, Egan dropped the silk and spun ‘round to take in the rest of the room. Her dress from the rehearsal was lying on the bed, crumpled, worn, probably in need of washing from the heat. He was suddenly very hot himself and he tore off his already unbuttoned jacket and hung it on the peg next to her flight jacket. He wasn’t fit to drive, he insisted to himself, as he tugged off his boots and set them beside her pair of white heeled sandals.

He staggered to the bed and plopped himself face down in the counterpane, crushing the worn dress beneath him. This smelled of Ida, her sweat and her familiarity. She wouldn’t mind, she would understand -Brady wanted him for breakfast and he was too drunk to drive.

——

There was humorous endearment in the task of putting grown men to bed, Ida oversaw to it cheerfully despite sporting a limp from a blister on her heel worse than any she’d gotten on that forced march. It was worth it to clear glasses from an accidental spill onto the carpets in the middle of the night or an elbow into an eye, an offending socked foot into a nose. She had expected a crash of sorts after the festivities and the blankets were piled at the ready in the music room. She got her hands kissed about a dozen times by a dozen men as she draped the covers over where they’d collapsed and wished them a good night. It was closer to three in the morning but the sentiment stood.

Flicking off the last light after the Hamilton’s had made it to the guest room, Ida ascended the stairs, bone tired and genuinely pleased. The sudden stillness in the house was a little jarring, but if she listened closely there were snores below, and upon the upstairs landing she might discern far down the hall the sounds of activities far more indiscreet. Mildly disgusted, she hastened to her room and found the door adjar, lights ablaze, bed occupied.

Bucky.

Feet hanging off the end and his tie still choking him, his red and sweaty face was buried in the fabric of her recently tailored dress suit, navy wool and sensibly cut, she’d still been cat-called while crossing the street in it and she found she didn’t mind that, glad the camp hadn’t taken the charm of her legs, too.

Making a grimace tinged with dogged fondness, Ida closed the door behind her and sat down on the bed, tugging off her offending high heels. Little white sling backs, and there were terrible red welts along her feet from the straps. “Bucky?” she tried in a normal voice, fiddling with the zipper at the nape of her neck, her curls back there sweaty and thick.

He didn’t even twitch. “Bucky.” she insisted with a hand to his shoulder, trying to jar him awake with a shake. The space between his brows creased mournfully and a twitch of his hand balled it into a fist. He mumbled something and from his expression alone she knew he was incorporating her motions into his nightmare. “Hush sweet man.” she sighed, defeated, and bent over him instead, pressing a kiss to his damp temple.

The crease between his brows smoothed. Apparently they’d be bunking together tonight. She envied his ability to sleep at all, weary as she was she didn’t expect it. Not after all the excitement, not now with all the quiet. She let her fingers find the knot of his tie, pushing his face away so she might undo it, popping the top buttons of his collar lest he hang himself in the night.

Ida rose and undid her dress while facing her sleeping friend, having a deep seated conviction that were she to turn her back, some inherent masculine sensor of Egan’s would detect a stripping woman and rouse him to watch, just when she needed him lights out.

Pared down to her slip, Ida left her nightly routine at that, tossing her dress over the chair before repenting of such slovenly, peacetime carelessness and hanging it instead on the hat rack.

His scarf still hung there. Ida glanced back at Egan’s snoring face and, feeling safe, she lifted the silk and buried her face in it, breathing him in. That cemented it, the urge. It was inevitable but perhaps if Bucky had woken she might have proven to herself she could go a solitary night without it. Without him.

Ida isn’t sure when it came to this, curled up on the carpet by the window, phone cord dragging off the side table and entangling with the lamp wires, making sense of her day to him. When had it become a common, daily thing? It is troubling that his hums and murmurs are required for her to process normality, it is comforting to hear him answer, warm, just a hint of tired huskiness:

“Hello?”

“Hello you.” She’ll answer back each time and then he’ll say it: Robert will say her name and it’ll sound so warm and carmelly and relieved like he’s been waiting all day for this, too.

She doesn’t dare hope he has. “How was it?” He asks this time and he’s so jovial that a grin breaks out again over her weary smile lines; she’s been smiling so much today and ought to be pillowed and asleep. But dusty violet though the sky has gotten, she is awake and unsurprised.

“It was perfectly bonkers.” She replies honestly, “And they’re disgustingly happy and everyone else too, cooperative to the last and it couldn’t have been sweeter.” She processes it all as she tells him, and a satisfaction seeps in for today's goodness that wasn’t fully her’s until she relayed it to Robert.

Concerning. But then he’s humming happily on the other end, a buzz of warm static that she feels in her toes, “As it should be.” he sounds as satisfied as she feels, “Not a hitch?“

“Not a one. Except we’re all very hot.”

Another hum, this one pragmatically soothing, “To be expected in August. If they weren’t so loved there’d be less people and you could've held it indoors.” Ida nods to that, unheeding of the motion going unregistered on the other end, “Besides, they won’t need clothes for the job.” Robert’s joke lands so perfectly from the beyond that Ida is snorting before she can even think to chastise.

“They were very eager for that part.” she is afraid she’s giggling but then, he sounds close as well and Johnny had been very fidgety all day and his Tilly even worse. And now, down the hall, someone else, or two someones, sound very awake to keep her company at dawn, busy at being married. She blushes for them and it’s worsened by his voice come again:

“And you? Have fun?” Robert prods, not questioning her sleeplessness, she might ask him the same if they were new to this routine.

They are not.

“Very hard to see him off.” she admits, again, a revelation even to herself and then wants to snort at herself for being dramatic, he is not so far away down the hall making a holy racket of his new liberties, “I’m going to miss it, it being just us and Gene. First chink in the family. I know all the sayings about marriage being an addition to families and such- but I feel like I’ve lost him a little. But he’s very happy. You know how I like Tilly.”

“Yes, said you liked her ‘tremendously.’ Which is good, you’re gonna be related for a while.”

“She’ll be good for him. They’re horridly happy.” she emphasizes and her smile comes through, reaches him all the way in NYC and his own replies;

“Wish I could say the same.” he affects glumness, she knows it is an offered out and she takes it:

“Why? The hot jazz not so hot?”

They have a long-standing insult between them, big city versus upstate, they had been very stubborn about it while away in England. Now making an intimate go of being at home, they are both sleepless and melancholy in their once defended utopias.

“Nah, it’s good, it’s just me. I’m off. It’s just noisy without -“ Robert pauses and Ida is intrigued, he so rarely fumbles near her these days.

“Without?”

“Friends, I guess.” He decides and Ida wonders if she counts. “All my dance partners want to talk about what happened over there, and all their mothers want to talk about my practice. And the truth is, I can’t remember my clients names as it’s boring as hell in comparison, and over there is -I just want to dance. And I keep thinking about whether you’d like the arrangements. I’ve even thought about Johnny there, ya know?”

Dangerous, concerning, her cheeks are blushing for herself now. “You’ll have Croz there soon.”

“We really should get you into the city, Ida.” whenever Robert ignores her segues, whenever he says her name, she finds her throat dry. He is persistent tonight and her eyes have already shed a tear over the happy domesticity of her married-off brother, she's pliable and foolish, and he wants to dance with her in the big apple.

“I danced with Hambone tonight.” she tells him instead, fingers dancing over the cord, a squeaky and nervous motion but her tone grows in humor, “It was the only way to keep him from practical jokes after the happy couple had gone upstairs.”

“God! Wish I’d been there.”

“If it wasn’t him it was Dougie.” she lamented, recalling the rounds around the dance floor and wiggling her poor toes even now in chagrin, “I had hoped the presence of Mrs. Hamilton might have tamed him but I have been disappointed. She’s magnificently rabid.”

“What a relief.” Rosie rebutted, “Gives me a cold sweat to think of that man with a sweet little thing.”

“Good point.”

“How’s your go at it’?” Robert’s voice turns to teasing and she braces, he’s lethal at it and she is laid out on the carpet now, fancy dress cast aside and only in her slip as the room lightens, cold dawn breeze ruffling her curtains and she allows a hand between her breasts, to steady her heart, to imagine it is his. Bucky is snoring away in the bed above her, she fiddles with the dust ruffle.

“At what?” she’s gone raspy, too.

“At being a sweet little thing.”

The hand on her chest clenches and her belly, ever curious and bewildered when hearing him, follows suit. Down the hall there are giggles, something that sounds very like muffled begging, and Ida presses her face towards the window and its cooling breeze, “I’ll be lost when they all leave.” she admits, having felt very much a part of it all despite the frilly dresses and pinned boutonnieres and cloying flower sprays; the boys of the 418th and some from the 100th at large had been in town, packed into the Brady’s house for the wedding. While they were here she was still a Colonel, even if she was a colonel who liked to dance. “They’re pushing me out, you know that, right? It’s settled, just waiting for the discharge.”

There’s a lump in her throat and it’s pitiful to be so sad about it when she’d foreseen it for ages. But it’s more than ungrateful, for the upper brass to force her out after all the time she’s served. It’s worse as she’s given up all other life for it. She had no recourse and yet, not dead or even married, she is cut loose.

“I know.” Robert is angrier over it than she is, had fought harder against it than she could. It allows her room to feel the hurt of it. Concerning, unfortunate. “Come to the city. You might like the law.”

She’d be under him there.

It jars her, being a novice at something. She’d be under him, and at the cost of it she’d been near him and his smile at all times and then he’d find a blonde little secretary and marry her and Ida would be at yet another wedding and she’d be clapping at the foot of the stairs again as the handsome groom carried his bride up to bliss and Ida would have sore feet from dancing with Pappy too long and when the day ended she would have no one to call. Robert would be a married man, abed with his wife, not coming in to work for ten days, she’d have his case files and he’d have someone fit to love him.

“I’ll think about it.” she lies, but it is nice to keep one’s options open when faced with a life of rural placitude and spinsterly church duties.

“What did they decide on for the cake?”

Robert remembers everything, he remembers the debate between carrot and lemon. Even, she supposes, the way she sounds when she lies under oath but instead he asks about cake. He’s good for her, to her -concerning, dangerous.

“Lemon.” She informs him, her tone carrying the weight of that final decision.

“Do -do I hear snoring?” He asks suddenly, incredulous humor in his voice.

“Ah, that would be Major Egan.” She glances back at her bed and his sprawled form in the pale dark, “This place is crawling, bunked two a’piece to the couches downstairs.”

“They’re just stayin’ to haze the newlyweds before they leave for the honeymoon.” Rosie was laughing on the other end, the silliest sound in the world.

“They’ll have a new couple to plague next week.”

“Ah, yes, Major Cleven and Lt. Kendeigh.”

“Yes.” Ida is not sure why Gale Cleven did not manage to come to this wedding, or why beyond being busy with a honeymoon, her brother will not be attending his. There is a discreet intentionality about this remiss behavior that Ida and even Bucky have not dared inquire about, even as the rest of the guests lamented their absence, well meaning and ignorant. Ida supposes that when two men share a secret of a nature they do, an experience and a crime, it is not wise to continue the closeness their captivity once enforced. Perhaps instead of a show of solidarity to appear at each other's nuptials, it would instead be an unkind reminder of how unfit they were for such a peacetime endeavor. Ida wondered, in that case, who she should expect to not show at her own wedding were she to marry, by the logic of Johnny and Gale, that would be her own brother and Bucky and Rosie and Maureen and Smith and-. Ah silly men. They didn’t handle such things well, Ida decided then, only to snort at herself again, as Johnny was the one moving on and marrying and she was the one turning to an icesickle at a crowd of men. Perhaps she wasn’t moving on well at all—

“Where’d you go off to?” Rosie’s voice woke her.

“Mm, just-“ Ida shook herself, “Thinking of getting to heckle Maureen next week.”

“I have a feeling Buck may have accounted for that.” Rosie sounds smug and in the know and Ida does not doubt him, “You are going, aren’t you?“

“Of course.” she defends, “It’s Maureen! It’s Buck!”

“Right, right of course.”

“Aren’t you?” she hates the urgency that question hides.

“Yeah, for sure.” she thinks she tastes him playing at cool, but sure enough he adds an addendum that turns her into a puddle, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you at it for weeks.”

There’s barely been many “weeks” since they knew a wedding was on at all. But she does not argue.

“I should sleep.” She realizes.

“Yeah.” he agrees, “Well, good night Ida.”

It is light here now. “Good night, Robert.”

Ida climbs into her crowded bed, tugging the comforter from under Egan’s feet as best she can before slotting herself around him, arms over his chest and his back bowed to her belly. He responds like a house cat and curls in, shrinking himself to her big spoon and moaning something childlike and content as his hand reaches to hold hers in a firm lock over his chest.

Today, like most of her mornings, Ida is confirmed in her suspicion that she slept at all only by the fact she catches herself awakening. There is a furnace plied to the front of her that is clammy and broad, groggily Ida registers in disgust that between the heatwave pouring through the opened window and Egan’s natural temperature, she is actually wet from sweat. And yet, in perfect keeping with his nature, Bucky has not moved an inch from her and retains his grip on her forearm like she were some bouy for his dreams. Except, she feels the calloused pads of his fingers swirling up her forearm, up and back down, featherlight little paisleys and circles and mindless shapes that he is tracing, endlessly, as his other hand keeps her tethered to him.

“Bucky,” she accuses because he is awake and they are drenched and she firmly believes that upon waking he should’ve had the good sense to extricate himself for both hygiene’s sake and also their reputations, “you’re awake.”

There is a very thick and gross sounding snort beside her, morning stuffiness and hangover sludge stuck in his throat, “M’not.” he inelegantly protests and his voice is terribly thick and oddly weak.

Ida pulls at her arm but he won’t let it go, she tries to sit up, pry it out, “Ok funny guy, come on, let go, I’m supposed to start breakfast ahead of everyone waking up and-“ she yanks again but he just keeps hold and rolls her hand under himself a little more, effectively burying his face in the pillow as she strains to see his face over his massive shoulder “-and my mother is already convinced we’re secretly engaged.” It’s so preposterous she laughs but either his headache is too bad or something else, as he does not join in, “Bucky I need you up before someone sees.” she tries pleading this time, unsure of what mood she’s caught him in but desperate to get him into the hall before taunts can be made by any guests.

There is another thick gurgle buried into the pillow and a rough snort. The shoulder beneath her hand shudders.

That gives Ida pause. “Bucky,” she stops her attempts to pull away and instead exerts more effort in turning him over, out of the smothering pillow, closer and to face her, “Bucky are you crying?” it’s no accusation, only he would have a sob so ungainly it could be mistaken for hacking up a lugy.

“M’not.” Comes out after moments of silence and repeated prods by Ida. And he is most definitely crying.

Not wishing to jump to conclusions -there are, after all, an absolute endless supply of genuinely good reasons to cry- Ida simply stops her struggling and tries to temper her anxiety about their being caught with whatever tenderness he may need right now. Perhaps he’s crying over Johnny or even Buck’s impending nuptials, perhaps he sees in her what he will be in a week’s time: surplus love. Or maybe he is crying over his dreams. Or maybe his head is spectacularly throbbing. There are so many things, and Ida knows well enough that the man responds best to gentleness, however tenaciously he seeks out rough usage.

She manages to get her arm back, only because he is now so intent on hiding his face. She uses her liberated hand to thumb at his face, smudging tear tracks she was in no doubt were there. “Want to talk about it?” she offers even though he rarely takes her up on the offer, she owes it to him for how often he has made her speak of unspeakable things.

There is a stubborn silence in which she can hear his labored breaths practically repeating that he is not, in fact, weeping into her pillow mid morning on a Saturday in Victor, New York. She pats his arm -suit yourself- and pulls away to begin her day. She lights a cigarette, not having fully quit the filthy habit since camp, and grabs a pair of slacks and a shirt from the closet, needing a shower after his embrace.

“You kept your baby doll.” his voice comes muffled and stuffy from the bed, she glances over and sees he has barely moved, only turned on his side to stare at the threadbare doll propped on her bookcase.

“That’s Minnie.” she introduces them with a grin, “Don’t sound so shocked Major, I’d have thought you’ve been in enough boudoirs to know that plenty of women keep their dolls.”

Bucky keeps staring at Minnie morosely, not laughing at her tease. “Did you keep it for your daughter?” he asks.

Sometimes John Egan reminds Ida of a callously curious child, his sympathy sometimes as wounding as his barbs. She refuses to read into it, he is hungover and he is confused by her childish relic; she keeps pace in her routine and replies with honesty, “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well I do.” he mutters instantly, bitterly, accusingly.

“Beg pardon?” she cautions him.

“I think about your baby all the damn time.” he turns around in the sheets then, sits himself up in her bed, eyes raw and dangerous.

The frog from Egan’s throat now takes up residence in Ida’s, she thinks she might choke on her own breath. “Why-“ panicked, her chest begins to shutter, ears ringing, hands cold. Why would he say that? “Bucky!” she'd have taken a stab in the heart over this, why would he- “Why would you say that?” she begs hoarsely, forced to sit beside him on the bed as her legs are no longer steady.

“You really don’t?” he begs in turn, looking as wretched as she feels.

“I-I-“ Ida digs her fingernails into her thigh, willing the cacophony in her head to cease, to get a grip back on the lid of that tiny coffin, “I’m not doing this. Not this morning, not when I’ve got breakfast to make for a household of people and -my brother just got married, Egan! Is this really the time to bring it up? They’re going to make jokes about you being in here! God’s sake -can’t you possess a modicum of sensitivity.”

It’s not a question. It’s an insult and he takes it on the chin. He knows that his own question -asking if she even recalls her dead child- was one of his own. That doesn’t prevent one last building tear to slip the dam and join the mess on his cheeks, because his heart is nothing if not on the opposing team.

It does earn him a sigh from Ida and a very hoarse, “Or course I think of- of course, I do, you bastard.”

“Her.” he pronounces forcefully, he was looking back at the doll, “You should think of her. You know, it was always a girl in my dreams, had so many dreams about her and when we wrapped her up, it was a girl, Ida.”

Ida knew that, Johnny had told her after she’d insisted on knowing. “I know.” she muttered, placing her hand over his on his large thigh, crumpled slacks and red knuckles, “And I know you loved her.”

More than Ida did, goes unsaid. More than Ida could, is perhaps the more honest essence of it all. “I was gonna take such good care of you both.” he swore, looking for all the world like he was right back in camp with Ida’s swelling belly and filling chest beneath her layers making him grow more and more insistent and reckless to save her. “We were gonna get out and I was gonna take care of you. I was gonna manage it, I know you didn’t think i could but we were so close to pulling it off when- I was going to make it happen, Ida, and any future I planned for was always us three.”

She’d have been so loved, that poor lost child, she’d have thought Bucky her father. And in her wildest moments of foolish hope, Ida had imagined them as a trio, too. Camped out in the Polish wilderness, eating fish and berries and teaching her babe how to speak two languages, with never a clue how the war turned out. Ida knew this dream was the intellectual property of Bucky’s own zealously fabricated reality, she knew it and she had long ago left it behind. Maybe when the stalag burned and the grave was lost. Maybe when her brother didn’t offer condolences for a loss they’d both secretly hoped for, even if they prayed for forgiveness right after.

“Someday, you’re going to make someone a wonderful father.” Ida told him now.

“Can’t seem to plan anything else.” he shook his head , “That’s- I know it’s been ages but every dream about after the war had always been us. Mornings like this, you and me and sunshine coming through the windows just like this- and her between us.”

Ida watched his fingers fiddle from underneath her own until he was clasping hers and rubbing a thumb along her knuckles. “It’s a sweet dream, Bucky.” And that’s what it had to stay, a dream, a contingency plan never enacted. “We wouldn’t work now, you know we’d be a mess, we can’t get that back, it-“

“-Don’t worry, I’m not about to propose.” he huffed a laugh, turning fully to her for the first time and giving her a genuinely wide smile, freckles crinkling in his cheeks.

“I didn’t think you were!” she was flustered at the mere concept, despite talks of living ever after together with her daughter from too many fathers. “I’m just saying, now we’re here, we must go forward.”

“Yeah.” he smacked his lips, eyes flitting over her face, before his brows creased again, “What did you name her?”

Ida felt her heart break again, he was like a dog with a bone. She let her spine go lax and fell back into the covers, listless. “I didn’t even -I never let myself.”

Bucky just nodded, understanding. Even back then he understood. More than anyone maybe.

“It’s just as well,” she cleared her throat noisily, “I’d have named her Johnny. And she wouldn’t have stood a chance at being popular with that name.”

He barked out a laugh before his face fell sober. “Really?” he sounded almost scared.

Ida recognized it as that most fragile of things: hope. “Yes.” she swore, realizing she would have.

“For -for your brother.” he clarified, in check, reigned in.

“For the overabundance of John’s that God threw my way when I needed them most”

Egan’s cheeks went pink, his nose again too, and that likely heralded more tears but at least he was smiling, a shy, happy, satisfied smile. Her heart had never felt more broken and raw than it did lying on her childhood bed, naming her babe a year and a half after she’d lost her. Oh she’d have to have a word with Minnie for starting this all, but for now, she lay there and let the exhaustion of acceptance take over.

Carefully he laid down beside, on his side, cheek propped on a palm, looking down at her. “Well,” he drug it out in a huff that sagged him nearer, she lay there and wondered when or if she’d need to raise a hand and push him back, “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do for one day. This day.” he specified. “Will you give me that?”

“What?” she was too wary to promise Egan anything but the alarm in her eyes warred with the mirth on her lips.

“I wanna make breakfast with you,” he stipulated, laying one finger down on her arm, the next followed, “wanna ask Johnny if those tips I gave him worked as well as they shoulda-“

“-Bucky you didn’t?!”

“and I wanna -course I did doll, didn’t want him making a hash of that poor girl, we’re counting on him to break the baby tie- and I want you to promise that you’ll think about, really think- about trying the law.”

Ida snapped upright, turning on him aghast, “You were asleep! How did you-“

Egan just grinned. “I was.” He insisted, “But I don’t see any other scarves in here.”

Ida’s eyes raked over to the hatstand and Rosie’s white dotted momento. “That’s- that's not...” she groaned, “He gave it to me after I buzzed the tower. You remember?”

“I remember.”

“Stop smirking like that, it was my last mission, too. Last one ever, it seems likely now.”

“All the more reason to go to New York.”

“I’m not ready for that.”

“Kicking ass? I’d say you’re havin’ withdrawls, more like, Miss Brady.” Egan cheesed back up at her, tugging her shoulder until she fell back beside him one more time.

There were footsteps in the hall and a general hum of awakening guests. “All of it.” she settled for, because if they were being honest, New York would be far more than just the law. And Egan deserved to know that. “I’m not ready.”

Egan’s firm hand reached up from her shoulder and she felt rough knuckles against her cheek, along with the creeping closeness of him closing in, eyes sharp with purpose as the tickle of a mustache brushed against her face. He’d just clipped the corner of her lips. “I think you are.” he said as he pulled away. “Nothing to do but go on, right?”

Oh he was always so very good. It deserved a repayment somehow but she didn’t know how, so she lay there and patted his back, thinking of Buck’s wedding next week. She’d make him dance with her.

“How many eggs we crackin’ for this madhouse?” he asked, jerking his head at the door.

“Thirty nine.” she grinned back.

“Then let’s get on ‘em.” he rose and extended his hand to haul her up.

“I’ll let you know I’m very rigorous about eggshells.” she warned in a giggle.

“These hands?” he raised those massive appendages of his, wiggling his fingers like he were smashing out a piano concerto, “Made for dainty work.”

“Mm, sure.”

“Well,” he tucked his rumpled shirt back in with offended dignity, “I taught your wiggly fingered brother a thing or two in preparation yesterday morning-“

“-Bucky!” Ida swatted at him with her towel as they ventured into the hall.

“I did!”

“Of course you did.” they were vying for who could reach the shower at the end of the hall first, competitive shoulders bumping into framed photographs on the walls.

“Ten bucks says the little girl is smiling this morning.” he bet, “And that’s me she has to thank.”

“Don’t you dare-“

“I’m gonna ask him.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m gonna!”

“Keep your voice down!” they were right next door to the love birds now, an unavoidable consequence of the bathroom’s proximity to Johnny’s old room.

“I’m gonna.”

In the end, as the challenge to beat her to the bathmat was all he had really wanted, Bucky stepped aside and allowed Ida first dibs on the shower. She was as efficient as their army days and before ten minutes were up the door was opening again and she was coming out in a slightly steamy haze that smelled wonderfully minty. She was wearing slacks, a shirt tied up for she had not filled out again despite her mother’s cooking, and one of those fancy little head scarves that made her dark curls tuck round under her ears in a way Bucky often thought he’d like to arrange his own if he were a girl.

“Don’t let anyone crack my eggs, I’ll be right down.” he threatened as he took his turn.

“Alright, alright.” she rolled her eyes.

He had been home, home to Ma and let his sisters fuss and cook for him, he’d showered in Ma’s house and he’d slept in a bed he had once tossed in as boy -none of it felt quite this domestic somehow. Hot water, eggs to whisk, an olive green tub and the Brady kids’ sensible soaps, such is what peacetime was made of. Maybe it was Eugene’s razor, or one of Johnny’s forgotten ones, lying on the tub side, but Egan snagged it for some maintenance on the neck hairs and five o’clock shadow in the fogged mirror. He should have premeditated his crash here, he should have brought an overnight kit. But there was a spontaneous courage required for crashing on Ida’s bed and he hadn’t wanted to screw it up by being sensible and having a spare change.

Bucky wrapped the towel securly around his hips and flung his crumpled slacks and damp shirt over his arm, determining to seek out an iron before everyone heckled the living fuck out of his old drunken habits coming back to the fore. Couldn’t do that to Ida, he did have some sensibility, despite what she may have thought.

Upon opening the door, however, he was greeted by something far more pressing than hecklers and indeed, at least in his mind, something far more salacious than the drunken crashing into a friend's bedroom or roaming the halls in nothing but a towel: it was the newlyweds, caught betwixt their door and his with their goal no doubt the far off stair landing.

“Well, look who finally woke to the land of the living.” he clapped at the door frame, mouth wide in a guffaw.

Both of the young darlings looked like little cast ashore fishes, mouths open and eyes unblinking. Ah yes, he was a little scant on the clothing but, hell -he’d practically gotten to hear the girl’s cherry get popped, goddamn Catholics and their brazen prudery.

Sweet, freshly minted Tilly Brady belatedly let out a gasping little “oh Major!” at his naked state in a voice that suggested she was somehow to blame for catching him this way, before wheeling round to flee in embarrassment only to smack into her blushing groom’s chest. That proximity seemed to send another shudder through the poor thing which inspired Brady to soothingly lift his own arm and scoot her back under it into their room with a gentle press between the shoulder blades. A goddamn natural, that one, Bucky rocked back on his heels in pride.

“Major?” there was that tone again, asking what the damn score was, somber owl eyes with a flicker of something akin to devine rage in them. Oh, he was pissed.

“Need an iron,” Bucky gesticulated to his slacks, “there an iron in this joint?”

“Allow me,” Brady gritted out, hand outstretched, thoroughly unamused or maybe that scowl was just for show.

“Aww now, hell Johnny-“

“-no, really. Anything so long as it puts you back in clothes, you ape!”

“Now, now, not like you to be sensitive about somethin’ like chest hair, boy.” Egan slung the slacks out of the young groom’s reach, “Marriage makin’ you vain?”

“You’re embarrassing Tilly!” Brady hissed, always angry for someone else’s good cause and that’s why Egan found him to be a dear old thing.

“Well if she’s that skittish, how did she ever survive what you did to her last night?” he barked another laugh.

Johnny went beet red against his pale blue sweater but his mouth wavered into something like a sheepish smile.

“Tell me Johnny,” Egan leaned closer to him in the empty hall, “which one did it for her? This one?” he crooked his fingers in a suggestive gesture, “or this one?” he made a somehow even lewder one.

Brady suddenly began to cough, choked up on his own spit at the sight of the well rehearsed crook of the digits and the minty shower steam still swirling around them. “Knew it.” Egan grinned, slapping Brady on the back, “Good man.” and sauntered back down the hall to Ida’s room feeling a few inches taller. And whistling.

Damn the slacks. He had thirty nine eggs to crack.

Breakfast was a raucous affair, jubilant and perhaps the first time Ida felt that home was truly as it should be despite her late father’s absence. That morning, with a crowd of friends around the table and hanging off the couches and sat on the steps with precariously balanced plates and tumblers full of orange juice, the morning held a jubilant chaos that was absent of the melancholy nostalgia of the ceremonial day before. Bucky was not deft in his egg cracking as promised, but Jean Crosby was a genius at fishing out shell fragments, and he redeemed himself when it came time to whisk the gigantic bowl together.

“There’s no way you’ve got a pan big enough for all that.” Graham took great interest in the breakfast plans, and he held his tongue until it was time to cook up the mess. But his doubt was unfounded, and it did not take into account the sheer amount of potlucks Mrs. Brady had supplied in her time. The skillet Ida hauled out from under the stove was large enough to kill a man with one blow.

“I think you’ll find we do.” she grinned at her erstwhile copilot and he conceded with a wondrous look of awe at the cast iron monstrosity.

No amount of ribbing or cajoling at breakfast could extract from Johnny the intended destination for the honeymoon. Ida was well aware it was somewhere cozy, modest and utterly private in the Adirondack Mountains. She had been presented with two different brochures for two different cabins by her brother, and she didn’t need to ask to know the purpose of it. She had chosen the smaller of the two because it had a river in back, rather like the creek here at home, and Johnny had agreed that was his inclination, too. This morning he met her eye over sausages, not a warning or pleading look as he never doubted her discretion, but a small smug smile that filled Ida with a little ripple of happiness at their shared secret, that she had been his trusted advisor, one last time, in the middle of all these nosy little bastards.

Someone was trying to make a euphemism about how Tilly liked her eggs -scrambled, apparently. There was a great deal of emphasis put on the word scrambled, as if that somehow translated to something else, and Ida was about to shut that line of humor down, for her sister-in-law’s sake, when Jim Douglass and Harry Crosby burst in the front door, having taken their breakfast with Stevie out to the front steps to watch the horses. They informed them all in an unmistakably excited cheer that Buck Cleven and Maureen Kendeigh were coming up the drive.

“Driving seperate cars.” Douglass elaborated amongst the frenzy, “One’s a goddamn Willy.”

“Buck? Candy? -And a Jeep?” a repetitious chorus of surprise and happiness broke out as various men -and their children and wives- sprang from their seats and rushed out front.

It left Bucky and Ida and Tilly, and Johnny, with Mama, alone at the table, exchanging a series of wordless and half misinterpreted glances of communication about why Buck Cleven would show up now after having intentionally kept away from the big day. Of course Mama, like the rest of the men, didn’t know even the first bit about it. Ida wasn’t sure Tilly knew much either, if anything regarding the shared history there, and both she and Bucky were somewhat in the dark themselves, except for a vaguely ominous concern felt about the two men’s relationship. Truly, only Johnny knew what on earth was going on between himself and Cleven since liberation, and as he had been as reticent as usual, no one knew what he thought about the no-show, or if it had even been something agreed-upon amicably.

“A jeep.” the groom himself finally spoke up, a wry grin on his face and nudged Tilly until she giggled and it broke the tense silence. “Well come on, you gotta meet the legends.” he told his new wife and stood up himself, a cue for Ida and Bucky to follow.

Mama fussed around the table. “I’ll be right out, I’m just going to out covers on these-“

Bucky seemed to shake himself and turned to the door abruptly, striding out to see his friends, leaving Ida loitering back as Johnny pulled Tilly's chair out for her. She must’ve been wearing some sort of face because as her brother passed her, he sent her an exasperated look of reproof. Guiltily, Ida cleared her face of all perturbed speculation and followed the new couple out to the drive where Cleven was already in the thick of shaking hands while Maureen was alighting from the prettiest little civilian Jeep you ever did.

“Johnny!” Maureen cried over everyone's heads, vantage point gained from standing on the running boards, “Congratulations, foxy! Don’t you two look pretty in blushes? Well come on, do you like your present?”

She was gesturing in a showman’s arc to the Willy Jeep in question and Tilly glanced up at her new husband in bewilderment, trying to gauge by his expression if this was all some grand practical joke.

Apparently Gale Cleven didn’t joke much because Johnny stared at him in shock which only confirmed the gift as genuine. “Th-that’s your gift?” he did clarify, eyes skittering back to Maureen before taking his turn at shaking the Major’s hand.

“Yup.” Gale grinned back, gentle and mildly smug, “Part of a grand plan by Ida to keep you in the country. This thing could ford that creek you got in back.”

“No kidding.” Brady marveled, “Earnest?”

“Yeah it’s yours,” Cleven took his hand back and rubbed at his neck with it, a nervous gesture, “congratulations Jack.”

“Well fuck I-“ Johnny seemed stunned speechless before recalling the most important thing, “-Sir this is my Tilly.”

“Mrs. Brady, it’s a pleasure.” Gale Cleven took her in little hand in a gesture so chivalrous the only thing missing was a kiss to it, and that was almost done by the swipe of his thumb over her knuckles.

Maureen lovingly shoved her fiance aside to take the girl by the shoulders, an admiring assessment ongoing in her eyes. “Well, you look good for him.” she remarked with a beaming grin of approval before kissing the bride’s cheeks. “So? How was it? I’m never forgiving Gale for making us miss it, goddamn Air Force has some timing for their reports.”

“It was wonderful.” Johnny reported with pink cheeked simplicity that shied from Cleven’s observation, before adding for Maureen’s benefit, “You were missed.”

Something sympathetic and doubtful flashed over Maureen’s face before she leaned in once more to kiss his cheek, much to the amused chatter of those around.

“What’d ya do to get this thing? Rob a bank while you were in California?” Bucky was asking, interested thoroughly in the jeep’s dash and his body was half in the driver’s seat under the excuse of showing baby Stevie Crosby the wheel.

“Or are you already settling in to being a kept man?” Tallulah ribbed Maureen and her much touted pedigree.

“Uncle gave me the mine.” Cleven replied instead, simple and direct. “Deeded it and everything.”

Ida gasped, pleased at the news, exchanging a delighted glance with Kendeigh, “The one back in Wyoming, Gale? The one you worked at?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell, that’s wonderful!” Bucky cried from fully behind the wheel, a progression not unnoticed by Brady, “Coal Baron Cleven.”

“Oh leave off.”

“So we split this puppy, half and half,” Maureen slapped the hood, “anything to make sure you kids don’t forget us.”

“Compensation for knowing ya, more like” Murph grumbled and was smacked for saying his truth.

“You honeymooning with us, Bucky?” Brady asked harmlessly while apparching his gift, leaning over the passenger side and smiling at baby Stevie who was sucking on the knob of the gear shift, his babysitter thoroughly distracted by the dials.

“Huh? Nah just, lettin’ the little guy play.” Bucky assured, “S’all yours. You’re not thinkin’ of takin’ this on the honeymoon, are ya?” he suddenly asked.

“Course I am!” Johnny insisted, turning back to beam at his benefactors, boyish anticipation on his face, “Can’t just let a gift like this idle.”

“There’s not even a roof, John.” Jean Crosby gently pointed out to the excited groom, tactfully trying to remind him his bachelor days were over.

“Yeah, - I know.” he didn’t get it.

“So if it rains-“ Jean tried to supply.

“Then I guess we’ll just get wet.” Tilly Brady responded for him from her place by the headlight, a very wicked grin on her face. “Can we go now?” she begged her groom in a laugh.

“Hop in!” Bucky beckoned magnanimously and she rolled her eyes.

“Well if you’re taking that then you can’t go yet.” Douglass insisted, before explaining,, “We’ve got the cans hitched and have chalked up the windows on your Buick. We gotta move it all over to this one now.”

“Oh yeah, crucial.” Ida snarked while exchanging a look with her oddly complacent brother. By now he’d usually be exasperated with them all; it seemed marriage had a truly calming effect on him.

“You willing to wait?” he asked Tilly instead, smiling gently at his new wife.

“Of course, after all, I’ve just met Maureen!”

“Yes,” Maureen agreed, arm thrown back around the girl, “I have an evaluation to complete.”

“And Stevie wants to feel how it drives!” Bucky added hopefully despite Gale’s disbelieving stare.

Brady shook his head, grin unmoving, “Fifteen minutes for all it, cans, joyride, all of it. Don’t wreck the thing and Candy, be nice to my wife, she has very sharp fingernails.”

He ignored the ensuing chorus of “oooh’s” and the flurry of reiterated breakfast table jests and Ida watched him turn instead to the quiet presence of Major Cleven and ask discreetly, “Sir, I’d like you to meet my mother, if you’ve time. She’s just inside, at the dishes probably.”

Cleven’s face brightened considerably at the invitation, a typical yet rare look of deep seated pleasure softening his face. Ida found herself relaxing her fists for the first time since these two came up the drive: “I’d love that, Jack.”

Ida watched them disappear into the house, Johnny holding open the recently painted front door to usher him into their childhood home, and saying something with a nod to the Jeep as Gale passed him; they both shared a short laugh before the closed door hid them.

“Alright who wants a ride?” Bucky’s loud call jarred her.

“Please go and hold Stevie!” Jean Crosby was begging at her elbow, as worried sick over the attention Major Egan paid her small son as she was gratified by it.

“I’ll keep a grip of steel on him.” Ida assured her and realized as she climbed beside Bucky into the bench seat, this meant she was going for a joy ride with him. She wished she had her flight gear with her, a maywest and a parachute at the least. “Come here little guy.” she scooped Stevie off the floorboard and into her lap, Maureen settled afterward on her other side and it felt just like old times, wedged between her friends..

“That scarf of yours gonna stay on?” Bucky asked her, fiddling with it himself before she could reply, tucking a few more curls in.

“Just -keep us upright. Wheels down, Egan.” Ida begged with a laugh that was drowned in the rev of the engine.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

MOTA taglist, I only have one so ignore if this is not the universe you signed up for:

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

@justheretoreadthxxs

@bookotter01

@mads-weasley

@ka-ski

@darkestbeforethedawn16

@slowsweetlove

@richardslady121

@barbeygirl

@prfctplcsreads

@vaf24

@harrys-housewife

@claireelizabeth85

@pearlparty

@piastrinho

@sapienti0sat

@atrophyingaphrodite

@beingalive1

#those who can #integrated AU #masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mota spoilers #masters of the air oc #mota oc #john egan fanfiction #bucky egan fanfiction #john egan fic #gale cleven #Gale Cleven fic #John Brady

55 notes · View notes

ultratradmalewife · 20 days

Text

I fear I may have spoken too soon. I made a post thinking there would be a turn around in the attitude certain Buddie shippers have towards anyone who doesn’t validate their ship, but I just don’t think they quite understand what they’re doing. Some of them are downplaying their homophobia to only the cutting Lou out of the stills, but when I make claims about that it’s something serious, and not really about some stills. How they handle situations like this will and is affecting real life queer people who aren’t secure in their sexuality.

I’ve seen damaging words tossed around about not just a character but a real man, calling him predatory. I’ve seen real fans slinging the word fetish to other queer fans. These fans have almost always done nothing wrong, most of it only comes from one side (I would know I’m chronically online). And we have major accounts like that deranged Samantha girl (who only recently started celebrating Bucks bisexual journey, wonder why) on Twitter amplifying one single shipper who had a really bad take, and these fans know what they’re doing because they use that one take as a weapon to talk about a fictional relationship, a relationship that is currently in the spotlight with general audiences, and all that audience is seeing is that one rotten apple, that one rotten take, and they’ll form an opinion on not just the ship (I don’t care about the ship), but the community itself. That’s where the homophobia comes in.

Do you really think some still is what would cause us to finally be vocal about how our community is being dragged by these fans who can’t think beyond their ship??? We’re being tagged by these accusations and malice, and you expect us to be quiet about it? I defended my trans sisters all last year on Twitter because transphobes made the same accusations, and none once did I think I would have to see this repeated when entering the fandom.

If anyone is actually here for the right reasons I urge you please shut these people up. It’s getting more personal and more nasty now. Ryan’s racist past is re-emerging because Buddie fans are so hell bent on always calling a fictional man (Tommy) racist whenever they can. It’s not my place to forgive Ryan, but none of this would’ve happened if you gave a new character the same decency you gave an actor. Obviously the real human should always come first, but when it comes to race this is a situation that is too real. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s Buddie shippers actively trying to find something of Lou’s past to smear him, and if they do that’s on him, but this back and forth will only grow more intense by the minute to the point this show will become unenjoyable to everyone. The show brought us together for a reason and I will like to keep it that way, and I urge those bloodthirsty shippers to find that reason again.

(And Buddies what is it with you calling anyone who doesn’t like your ship racist? I’m a Mexican who doesn’t like Buddie because of the stereotype of a catholic gay. Does that make me racist?)

#I can’t lie I can’t see Ryan in the same light anymore but that’s not for me to forgive #and not for me to weaponize #you can dislike a ship all you want but those are the type of things you keep to yourself or a discord with close friends #just don’t hate to the point it affects the community #911 abc #evan buckley #tommy kinard #eddie diaz #bucktommy #buddie

67 notes · View notes

morallyinept · 5 months

Text

I mentioned on a previous Ask that I used to be a florist, (man, do I miss that job...) and lovely @doughmonkey suggested I should match the Pedro Boys with flowers... so, here you are! 🪻🌷🌻

Enjoy! 🖤

Jett's Pedro Boy Rambles Masterlist

Flora & Fauna Masterlist

The sunniest flower for our sunniest Pedro Boy, Javi. Sunflowers often represent the sun and Javi just beams like it, doesn't he? Sunflowers also bring good fortune, and represent a long life and lasting happiness. It is often seen as a symbol of faith and devotion, radiating positivity and hope. In some Eastern religions, such as Buddhism, sunflowers are considered sacred and represent spiritual enlightenment. Or, divine inspiration, as Javi would say...

Sweet Peas represent goodbyes and yearning. In Victorian England, for example, sweet peas were often given as a sign of departure or goodbye to a loved one. Considering Joel has lost Sarah, I'd say a Sweet Pea would be a good representation of a flower for Joel. Sweet Peas also can mean blissful pleasure, friendship and gratitude. They come in all sorts of colours too, such as shades of white, pink, coral, red, violet and blue, and some combining two colours.

More subtle than the bold traditional red rose, pink roses typically symbolise admiration, happiness, and love. Pink roses also symbolise sweetness, femininity, appreciation, and admiration - all traits that this handsome agent showers in abundance towards his love interest. I think receiving a bunch of beautiful pink, velvety roses from Marcus Pike would totally sweep you off your feet and totally convince you to go to Washington DC with him.

Red poppies are worn as a symbol of support for the Armed Forces community, and to remember our fallen military personnel. The poppy is a common symbol that has been used to represent everything from peace to death, and even simply sleep. Seeing as Frankie worked in the forces, he would probably tuck a red poppy flower behind your ear then kiss you sweetly, as he walks hand-in-hand with you through the local Veteran Day Parade.

In the language of flowers, wild heliotrope symbolises devotion and an everlasting love, which when you think about Whiskey losing his sweetheart and baby boy, this flower couldn't be more perfect for him. It has a delicious scent and the flowers follow the sun as it tracks across a winters day, hence the name "Heliotrope" which is derived from the Greek Helios meaning sun and tropos meaning 'turn' or 'direction'. Everlasting love is a journey that you rarely falter from the path, so I imagine Whiskey would choose this flower to place on the grave of his sweetheart and baby boy.

Passion flowers, not only look a little alien in their bloom, they also have healing properties, which Ezra could do with in abundance, right? Roman Catholic priests of the late 1500's named it for the Passion (suffering and death) of Jesus Christ. And Kevva, has this prospector suffered... Passion Flower can incite love and passion and help you attract companionship. A perfect flower to represent my main man Ezra, I think...

Colourful, fun and a little kooky looking, gerbera daisies are just flowers that make me smile in abundance. And so does Dieter Bravo. Yellow gerbera daisies tend to symbolize cheerfulness and celebration. Orange gerberas convey that the person you present it to is the sunshine of your life. Red gerberas represent an unconscious love or to be fully immersed in love. White gerberas symbolise innocence and purity. Pink gerberas are a symbol of admiration, adoration, or high esteem for someone. I imagine Dieter would love these because he would be attracted to the variety of colours and they would make him smile, even when high...

Black dahlias aren't truly black, but rather a very deep shade of crimson that appear black. They symbolise betrayal and sadness, so shouldn't be gifted lightly. It also represents inner strength, likely due to the plant's ability to tolerate such harsh conditions. Although a stunning flower to behold, the symbolism doesn't come without it's notoriety; they're associated with the infamous murder of Elizabeth Short (The Black Dahlia Murder) in 1947 in Los Angeles. Black dahlias and Dave York? Nuff' said.

A flower with a bite, just like Max. A carnivorous plant, this flower eats insects. They have simple nodding flowers and leaves modified as hollow pitchers, which function to passively trap insects, luring them with nectar, then digesting them or drowning them with fluids, later to be absorbed by the plant. So, although it looks pretty and alluring on the outside, beware whats hidden underneath - just like our feisty vampire, Max. Nom.

Anemones are my most favourite flower. It was believed that the flower sprang from the blood of the slain Adonis, who was a lover of the goddess Aphrodite. As such, anemones are often seen as a symbol of love and passion. And there's no-one more passionate a lover than Javi P, right? Anemone flowers are available in many colors with each symbolizing a different meaning. White anemone flowers symbolize sincerity due to their delicate appearance. Red and pink anemone flowers symbolize death or forsaken love. Purple anemone flowers symbolize protection from evil. I think Javi would be a purple anemone, due to the job he has... he'd definitely protect you.

With their vibrant orange, yellow and red petals, naturally marigolds are symbols of positive emotions, like joy and excitement. Marigolds also represent energy, good luck, warmth, creativity, prosperity and passion. Oberyn exudes passion in abundance so this flower would be prefect for him. Their vibrant colors and strong fragrance make them an essential part of various traditions, festivals, and rituals worldwide, such as Día de Los Muertos. A perfect flower to represent Oberyn, in both life and death.

The Ghost Orchid earned its name due to its ghostly white petals and the illusion of floating in mid-air when attached to trees, with no visible roots or leaves. The Ghost Orchid is considered one of the most elusive orchids in existence. Its scarcity and remote habitat have contributed to its mythical status among plant enthusiasts. Due to its unique growth habits and specific environmental requirements, sightings of the Ghost Orchid in the wild are extremely rare. A little like our Mandalorian here in the sense you never see his face, he, like the flower, is elusive and a rare specimen indeed. And when you do get an eventual glimpse of it, it is absolutely breathtaking...

Holding on to their shape and color long after being cut, strawflowers are said to symbolize immortality and are commonly known as 'Everlasting' flowers. Their endurance and strength is notable and we can compare this to our resident hero of the Pedro Boys, Marcus Moreno. Everlasting flowers symbolize eternal love, hope, and remembrance. They are often used in wedding bouquets, funeral arrangements, and other special occasions to express enduring sentiments and commemorate cherished memories. Considering Marcus is also a widower, this flower is a great choice to represent him.

The bird of paradise flower symbolizes joyfulness, freedom, anticipation, and excitement. Furthermore, it represents faithfulness, love and thoughtfulness while being the official flower of the ninth wedding anniversary. As someone who is often bogged down in the the dark gloom of investigations, a colourful, peppy flower such as this would brighten Tim's mood instantly after coming home from a long day of work.

Tiger lilies represent courage, strength, and confidence. The main red tiger lily meaning is passion. White tiger lily meaning can be described as purity. Pero would be of the red variety, considering he wields such strength, courage and confidence on the battlefield. Tiger lilies also have healing properties and the lance leaf tiger lily is native to China. Apt considering Pero fights there...

Giving someone one of these small blossoms is a pledge that you will never forget them and that you will think of them often. For this reason, they're also considered a symbol of fidelity and faithfulness. Forget-me-nots represent true love and giving someone this flower means you truly love and respect this person. Similarly to making a wish, if Max gifts you with these flowers, he's not likely to forget you in a hurry.

The most classic of them all, a red rose is a perfect choice for a significant other. This stunning shade most popularly stands for passion and communicates love. It's the rose of romance and deep feelings, but can also relay desire, beauty, victory, harmony, joy, luck, pride and martyrdom. Which if you're familiar with Silva and his traits, this flower is the perfect choice for him.

A flower that is not very common, Petunias display feelings of deep resentment and anger. Despite their amazingly striking appearance, they take people by surprise because of their shocking underlying meanings. And if you know a thing or two about Veracruz, you know he's just like a Petunia - beautiful on the outside, but sinister and resentful on the inside...

111 notes · View notes

bejeweledblondie · 8 months

Text

Just Like My Babcha

Sobiesław “Gromsko” Kościuszko x F! Reader

Summary: Y/N comes from a Polish-American family & learned from the best at making homemade pierogi catching the attention of a familiar Polish operator

A/N: I’m not from Poland I myself have polish ancestry & my own Babcha came from Poland but she never taught me unfortunately so if there’s any mistranslations I apologize in advance. For anyone who doesn’t know a pierogi is like a potato dumpling, but it can be filled with cabbage & other food

Warnings: potential mistranslations, traditional gender roles, thoughts of impregnating

Y/N’s hips swayed side to side to the song that was coming out of the nearby speaker. She used the back of her hand to brush some of her hair out of her face, & got flour on her cheek in the process. It was Easter, & she was making pierogi to celebrate the holiday. She was feeling a little homesick being far away from her family, & called her mother asking for the recipe. The smell of the dough was bringing back nostalgic memories of going to the grand Orthodox Church & coming home for a early lunch. Her babcha would help her little delicate hands pinch the edges to hold the cabbage & potatoes.

She was so focused on cutting the dough properly & to proportion that she didn’t even notice the shadow she was starting to acquire. Sobesław was returning from a mass at the local Orthodox Church when he was pleasantly surprised by the smell of pierogi’s cooking. He walked into the conjoined kitchen & living room area of the apartment he lived in. He was surprised to see their Human Resources Secretary standing there. She was also so kind to him, & was actually able to pronounce his name correctly. He was in utter shock when she was able to pronounce it on the first try.

He leaned up against the doorway as he watched her hum to herself while she started to fill each pierogi. This was a sight he could get used to. Growing up in a very traditional Catholic Polish household had instilled very traditional values. A vision of her with a small baby bump glowing from pregnancy making pierogi’s & other food played in his head. She was absolutely beautiful. Being a civilian, let alone a woman on a military base had to have been intimidating for her. Every time he’d walk into the office she worked out of her head would always been down, failing to make eye contact. Her shyness always intrigued him. He couldn’t imagine someone so stunning want to hide their face all the time.

Her delicate hands started to fold & pinch the pierogis creating the half moon shape. It took one accidental bump into the side of a table for him to gain her attention. A small gasp escaped her lips at the sound & a slew of polish curses rang out of his. A scarlet blush appeared on his cheeks as he tried to cough it off. She looked and smiled at him.

“Oh Sobiesław you startled me,” She started. “I’m assuming you got a good waft of the pierogis I already have cooking.” A small smirk danced on her lips.

“Tak (yes).” He replied. “Just wanted to know if you needed any help. My babcha, she used to make them with me.”

“That’s where I learned too.” She replied enthusiastically. “Well come in! Just make sure you wash up.” He walked into the kitchen & washed his hands in the sink. Once he finished drying them off he stood right beside her. “Hands.” She instructed. He held out his hands and she placed some flour in the them. Rubbing his hands together he spread the flour & got to work.

As he started to put some of the cabbage into the dough, he couldn’t help but notice how petite she was. The pierogis looked significantly larger in her delicate hands than his. She smiled up at him & he nearly melted into the floor right there.

“I can see our Babcha’s had very similar techniques.” She said. “How long have you been cooking them?”

“Ever since I was able to walk.” He replied. “My Babcha wanted me to know so I could pass down the recipe.”

“Mine too.” She replied smiling & continued to fill & pinch the pierogis. “Seems like they’d be close.” He could’ve dropped to one knee right there. She always had a reputation of being so kind, but she truly was an angel. It wasn’t very often that his teammates asked much about his life or his family. It was refreshing & comforting to talk to her about his life back home.

“How does a woman like you wind up in a place like this?” He asked. “You’re an anioł (angel).” She smiled at his compliment. Her life wasn’t the best back home, & the civilian sector of defense contracting provided her with a way out. Good benefits & there would always be work.

“I needed to get out. Home wasn’t the best environment for me to be in.” She replied somewhat solemnly. “Since I have personal health issues I wasn’t qualified for military service but I found employment in the civilian sector.”

A feeling of sadness washed over him. He couldn’t imagine someone as kind & beautiful having to experience something so tragic. It only triggered the instinct to protect & take care of her more. Once the pierogis were cooking away, she started to set the table for the two of them. Beautiful hand painted Polish pottery littered the table. Intricate blue & red floral designs created a kaleidoscope of colors that stood out on the white table cloth.

Sobesław admired her attention to detail even if it was just the two of them. He too was feeling homesick for his country, but seeing all the traditional Polish decor around him made him feel right at home. A timer went off alerting them the last batch of pierogis were done. Sobesław went to take the pierogis off of the pan & Y/N’s hand came down smacking it.

“You go sit down,” She ordered. “I’ll take care of it.” In pure shock he slowly made his way to the table & plopped himself down into a chair. Not long after she started to bring out the tray of pierogis. Soon followed challah bread, kielbasa (sausage), & potatoes.

“Kochanie (my darling) how do you plan for us to eat all of this?” He asked. Her heart fluttered at the term of endearment. She really did cook a meal for a family of ten.

“We’ll manage,” She replied as she poured him a glass of wine. “I’m sure some others will see the leftovers in the fridge. But don’t eat too much there’s still dessert.” She walked back into the kitchen to grab the opłatek (communion wafer) for grace. As she was walking back out she caught Sobesław almost taking a huge bite out of a pierogi.

“Tsk tsk, we still have to say grace!” She stated. A small blush crept onto his face, he had forgotten. She walked up to him handing the opłatek to him for him to break off a piece. Then she place a small kiss to his forehead. She walked to her place setting & sat down. A small prayer was said & they both each ate their piece of the opłatek. “Now you can dig in.” She teased.

He immediately started to pick up the pierogi he cut earlier. A small moan escaped his lips as the pierogi touched his tongue. He started to hear wedding bells the more he ate.

“I’m assuming it’s good.” She laughed. He nodded still speechless from the food that was in his mouth.

“They’re just like my babcha’s.” He replied after he swallowed. She smiled at the complimented & started to cut into her own food. “What are you doing next Friday?” He asked.

“Nothing.” She replied.

“I want to returned the favor, let me take you out.” He stated very bluntly.

“Sure! It’s a date.” She replied & started to eat the food in front of her. His heart leaped, & he couldn’t wait to tell his babcha he found the girl he was going to marry.

#cod imagines #sobieslaw gromsko kościuszko #sobiesław kościuszko #gromsko #gromsko x reader #ghost call of duty #call of duty #cod modern warfare #kortac #ghost x y/n #könig call of duty #cod masterlist

151 notes · View notes

autumnmobile12 · 11 months

Text

Can we talk about how weird the first episode of Ghost Hunt is?

It starts off pretty average: there's a creepy, old schoolhouse that students have been telling ghost stories about for years. Pretty standard for a ghost anime.

The faculty wants to demolish the building, but due to the haunted rumors and a series of accidents that continuously take place on the premises, no company will take the job.

So the principal hires a ghost hunter to settle the matter once and for all. Okay, sure. If the rumors and the stories are the problem and hiring an investigator will ease everyone's mind, even if it's a placebo effect, that makes sense. Only...he hires on five separate people:

A paranormal researcher

A Shinto priestess

A Buddhist monk

A Catholic priest

A celebrity medium

Bro hit three of Japan's religions and then some like a bingo card and administration said, "Well, this is an expense we're going to be okay with."

Bonus Round: If you haven't actually watched this show, try to guess who is who in the above picture. I dare you.

#ghost hunt #mai taniyama #naru #kazuya shibuya #houshou takigawa #ayako matsuzaki #masako hara #john brown #ghost hunt anime #2006? man this show's old

330 notes · View notes

farfromstrange · 4 months

Text

I Want To Fuck A Priest | Matt Murdock x AFAB!Reader

PART 6 of The Vault

See this post for more information on my Valentine's Day Special & Follower Celebration, but these fics can be read separately!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x AFAB!Reader

Summary: You have a thing for the priest you met at a farmer's market. Thankfully, he has a thing for you, too.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), porn without much plot, Priest!Matt, blasphemy (!!!), church setting, improper use of a priest's collar, improper use of a confessional booth, improper use of the act of confession, praise, prayer, oral afab!receiving, slight Dom!Matt, Catholic guilt, Fleabag reference, seriously if you are religious or triggered by the improper use of religion DO NOT read this!

Word Count: 2.8k

A/n: This is for those who watched Fleabag and then saw all the 'Imagine Matt as a priest' and 'Charlie Cox once played a Spanish priest' posts and thought, "Same!" when Fleabag said, "I want to fuck a priest." I see you, and I feel you. I wrote this after re-watching Fleabag one night, but I added a little poetic twist while editing because before, it was just completely plotless oral sex. While that isn't bad, I needed to add some vibes. You're welcome.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

The church bells ring as the clock strikes midnight. The night sky is void of dark clouds. In the darkness above the massive walls encasing the holy ground, the stars shine brighter than the city lights. New York City, the city that never sleeps, makes an exception for the house of God in the dead of the night, it seems.

It’s been…several years since my last confession.

The graveyard attached to the church looks threatening in its vacancy. It’s void of human souls except for the dead ones buried there. A raven claps its wings in the distance, following the gush of wind that brushes through the trees.

The bell rings twelve times before it stops, but the echo bounces off the stone walls and shakes the stained-glass windows, which seems to drag on for an eternity.

The last time I confessed my sins was before my communion. I don’t know if that makes me a bad Catholic, but lately, I’ve been having sinful thoughts, and I need to get them out of the way before I collapse under the weight of them.

You considered for the longest time whether or not you should come here. Faith has been your enemy for the longest time. You don’t believe in the Catholic Church, and yet you have found your way here, in the middle of the night, when everyone should be asleep in their beds.

This isn’t a normal night, by any means. You often lay awake at night and question your purpose in this life, but lately, you’ve been feeling like you’re drowning. Sins are subjective, and you never paid much mind to the term until now.

The thoughts you find yourself having late at night when you’re awake and lonely are far from holy. They aren’t ideal. They make you wonder just why you are thinking this way now.

But no man has ever been like him. And the worst part about it is that wanting him alone is an unholy train of thought you should have never submitted to.

You tried ignoring it, carrying it all by yourself, and trying to heal whatever complex you may have that could have led to this obsession in the first place, but your life has been a mess for long enough that it doesn’t even surprise you anymore, and no matter what you tried to do, you couldn’t stop fantasizing about him.

He is the reason you came to church tonight to confess your sins. But you’re not here to find your way. You’re not here to ask for guidance from God. You told yourself that the unholiness of your thoughts needs to be cured and that is why you came here—to make this situation better for yourself—but the thought is ancient; it’s the twenty-first century and you’re the kind of person who knows exactly what they want and how to get it. The truth is, you’re here to get what you want, even if it will land you in the pits of hell for all eternity. And even if it kills you.

“You don’t do this kind of thing often, do you?” the low voice asks from the other side of the confessional booth.

You shake your head. “Not at all, Father. When I went to Sunday Mass this weekend, it was my first time in a church in a very long time,” you admit to him, “and this is my first confession since I was a child. I…I’m not really a devoted Catholic, you understand. I’m merely struggling right now, and I…I am in desperate need of guidance.”

Your lip quivers. Your voice resembles a tidal wave that comes and goes as nature pleases.

He can’t see you. It’s not the curtain that is separating you and is starting to feel like worlds apart—he can’t see you. He can only hear and smell you, and that alone makes your thighs clench with need.

Should you be doing this in a church? Should you fantasize about a man of God and want to claim him, coming to his sanctuary to tell him the truth and mess with his head? You know that it’s wrong, but the wrong thing often feels too right to stop.

When you met him at the farmer’s market the other day, he was so endlessly kind to everyone, including yourself. He invited you to Sunday mass, and you went. You went on a walk with him afterward, and there seemed to be something there, but he couldn’t act on it because he is who he is and what he is. He made a vow. He can’t have you, no matter how badly he wants to, and one look into his unfocused hazel eyes when he took off those red glasses he always wears told you that he does want you. It led to another sleepless night among many, and now you’re here.

You’re so utterly selfish, but God, you can’t stop it. When you want something, you would do anything to get it. He makes you feel things you never felt before. It’s terrifying, but you have to allow yourself to jump into unknown waters if you want to learn how to swim.

He clears his throat, and you can hear the chair creak under his weight as he shifts. Is it possible that you’re doing the same to him that he is doing to you?

“I want to start by saying that you’re really brave,” he says. The sound of his voice is enough to make you shiver. “But God offers people guidance in a symbolic sense. I can take your confession, tell you how to repent for your sins, but I can’t tell you what to do.”

You sigh. “I wish you would though.”

A chuckle passes his lips. “Why don’t you start by telling me what’s weighing you down, sweetheart, and we will go from there?”

Sweetheart.

Yes, you think, this is your one-way ticket to hell.

“I’ve been having thoughts,” you confess.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

“Yes. Unholy thoughts.” Your breath comes in weak puffs of air. The booth seems to cave in on you. You wish he would step out of his booth into yours and stuff his cock into your mouth. For him, you would shut up. You would do whatever he tells you to do, and you would do so gladly.

Fuck. You want to fuck a priest.

But lucky for you, Father Matthew wants to fuck you too. He’s here, at midnight, because you were lost and he was still there—he told you he spends his nights at church sometimes because the city gets too loud for him. You couldn’t go anywhere else because any place where he isn’t doesn’t seem worth visiting.

Matt sucks in a sharp breath. You imagine him swallowing, his white collar constricting his labored airflow. You imagine him pulling at it to free himself, but he can’t. Those sinfully thick fingers of his would feel even better on your skin.

“Unholy thoughts,” Father Matthew asks, “about whom, sweetheart?”

He’s pushing your buttons with that nickname. It’s so not professional. The lines are starting to blur.

“A man,” you tell him.

“A man?”

“A man of God.”

The confession causes a bout of silence. You could have heard a hairpin drop.

His chair creaks again, and his voice reminds you of an animalistic growl right before an apex predator attacks its prey. “And what unholy thoughts have you been having about this man of God?” he inquires.

Your inner walls clench around thin air. Sweat drips down your temples, and the arousal soaks your underwear. Your nipples strain against your shirt. If you grip the seat any harder, you will soon find wooden chips under your nails.

You lick your lips. “I’ve been thinking about him touching me,” you whisper. “And I want to touch him.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“And in your thoughts, does he satisfy you?”

Your answer comes promptly, “Always.”

There is not a scenario in which Father Matthew could possibly leave you unsatisfied.

The chair creaks again. Something in the air shifts.

Your voice is breathless and needy, and so fucking desperate when you speak into the silence, “Just tell me what to do, Father.”

“Okay,” he says. His leather shoes drag across the floor of the booth and toward the curtain that marks the exit of his side. The next word out of his mouth knocks all the air out of your lungs, “Kneel.”

You don’t even have time to question his request. Within seconds, the curtain through which you’ve stepped into the confessional booth is torn to the side, and there he is, in all of his glory, right in front of you, and his thick cock is straining against his black slacks.

You pinch yourself, but you’re not dreaming. This is real. This is what you wanted, and you weren’t imagining the mutual attraction due to delusions. He does want you, and he is about to break every rule in his book—and the lord’s book.

You sink to your knees. The only thing you can see on his face is pure, unbridled lust and the ugly truth of Catholic guilt. He must loathe himself for wanting you.

Matt removes his glasses, revealing his beautiful eyes to you. In the dim candlelight, they appear almost black.

“What’s my sentence, Father?” you ask.

His hand brushes your cheek. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he breathes.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“No.” He steps into the booth and closes the curtain behind him. “Tonight, call me Matt.”

That is the last thing he says before he gets on his knees before you, and he captures your lips in a bruising kiss that is strong enough to make the angels howl.

His hand rests around your throat, feeling your pulse. He may not be able to see you with his eyes, but the way he touches you paints a perfect picture of your presence, and you feel every last ounce of his devotion.

He explores the depth of your mouth with his tongue, tasting you, loving you. His hands feel beautifully rough against your skin, just like you imagined they would be after years of praying. He sees himself as the hands of God. A messenger. His goodness makes your heart swell and your core flood with more than unbridled arousal—this is human nature in all its emotional glory, and you no longer feel ashamed. You can’t possibly when he is holding you like this.

He exhales into your mouth—no, he breathes life into your soul. “You’re the most sinful yet purest thing I have ever laid my hands on,” Matt says.

You gasp against his luscious lips. “I wouldn’t want to make you turn your back on God, or–”

He cuts you off, “I did that when I first thought about your body on mine and coming so deep inside of you that you’ll carry me with you for days. I don’t care about God because if having him means that I can’t have you,” he says, “I don’t want him anymore.”

You swallow his words with a kiss. Turning a priest against God was never your intention, but you are not in charge of his feelings, nor will you ever be. Matt wants you badly enough to abandon religion, and you will carry that with you until the day you die.

He lifts you back onto the edge of the wooden chair, pulling at your clothes and your undergarments. The moonlight hits his face as the cold air of the church hits your bare pussy. He looks ethereal like this, on his knees for you. His hazel eyes bore into your soul. He wears his heart on his sleeves and a collar around his neck.

Your priest crosses his chest. He asks God for forgiveness. And then, with one gentle tug at your thighs, he buries his face in your wet cunt, and he feasts as if your sex was the last supper. As God’s disciple, he is determined to eat up every last bite offered to him. Every last drop from your cunt is his, and your lips part in a moan that echoes through the church like the bells did when it hit midnight.

“Fuck,” you cry out.

He flattens his tongue against you, licking a long stripe over and then through your folds. He twirls the tip of his tongue over your clit, stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves with such precision, your walls clench at the sheer explosion of pleasure. You have never felt anything like it. He turns something unholy into heaven, and you’re drowning in the river to the Garden of Eden.

His lips suction around your clit. The obscene squelching of your velvety walls fills the booth. It sounds deadly noisy to you. You want to cover your mouth to stop the moans from traveling, but he traps your hand with his, guiding them to his hand, telling you to guide him.

Instead, one of your hands moves to his collar. It’s his turn to moan. You tug at the symbol of his priesthood, forcing his tongue deeper into your hole. He laps up your juices as though his life depends on it.

“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned,” Matt murmurs against you.

You moan again, louder this time. He is repenting for wanting to dive into your pussy until he gets swept away by the tide, but it is far too late to back out now. Your pleasure has become his priority.

“Lord God,” he repeats, “in your goodness have mercy on me.”

The pleasure is turning into a tight knot in your lower abdomen. You can feel it consuming you and your senses. You’re floating. The light at the end of the tunnel is not so far out of reach anymore. Every suck and every lick at your folds, and every thrust of his tongue into your tight walls pushes you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

In your goodness, have mercy on me.

He bites down lightly on your clit. Your toes curl, and his name comes out in a groan.

Do not look on my sins, but take away all my guilt.

Right now, you are his God. By drinking your arousal like holy water and pushing you toward an orgasm he is repenting. The symbolism makes your heels dig into his back as you buck your hips against his mouth, and when he adds one of those thick fingers, curling them up against that sweet spot inside of you, you can barely stand it anymore.

Create me in a clean heart and renew within me an upright spirit.

“God, Matthew!” your moan interrupts his plea for penance only briefly.

He swats your thigh. “No blasphemy when I feast at the altar,” he says. The vibration of his voice adds to the knot, tightening it, and threatening it to burst.

You’re almost there. Almost…

“Have mercy on me, a sinner,” he continues. His tongue slides between your folds once again, gathering your slit. His fingers curl upward again. He’s mixing different prayers, or maybe these are his own words, but you are not sure how much longer you can hold it. But he wants you to hold it. You don’t want to disappoint the man who is worshiping at your feet, your pussy, his altar, and you are his salvation as much as you are his saving grace.

“In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good,” he prays, “I have sinned against You whom I should love above all things—but fuck, I don’t.”

Does that mean he loves you? It is too soon to tell that, but he is devoted, and devotion can be just as sinfully sweet as the rawest feeling of love.

“Have mercy on me, God. Amen!”

His collar is starting to tear under your vice grip.

Matt thrusts his digit into you until it disappears, and he finally decides to show the mercy he was begging for to you. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he says.

Your thighs lock around his head as the knot breaks in two. You come, hard, and the wave tears him down with you, shooting his cum into his slacks like the good Catholic boy he is.

You let go of his collar when your orgasm has done its damage.

“No,” he stops you.

“No?” you ask, still breathless.

“No,” he says, lifting his head to grin at you, not like a man of God but the Devil himself. “I have not done nearly enough penance.”

As a priest, Matt is used to being on his knees until they’re bruised; until he can’t stand straight anymore, so he has to remain there, cowering before a God he more often than not does not believe in.

Before you can protest, he dives back into your endless ocean, and you have no choice but to lean back and take it.

He is not the only one doing penance tonight, after all—you both are.

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x afab!reader #pwp #afab!reader #matt murdock x you #no y/n #priest!matt #matt murdock priest au #daredevil #daredevil x reader #charlie cox #from the vault #reader insert #inspired by fleabag #because who doesn't want to fuck a priest

218 notes · View notes