James And Sirius, Who Are So Not Normal About Each Other, So Viscerally Attached To And Enamoured With

mark looking at eduardo and saying a million things without uttering a single word

crossaint emoji (also up on youtube)

song: mixed messages - tom cardy

hoodie - brian headcannons

(because i yearn for a man who is a.) not real, and is b.) cruel,) + minor mdni implications 🔞

i. brian has never raised his voice at you- and yet, the world quakes in his wake. there is a tenderness in the way he kneels before you, pressing his lips to the back of your hand like a knight bent to his sworn lady. he is a thing of patience, a quiet storm, a wolf that does not bare its teeth unless provoked. and when he is provoked—oh, how the heavens weep.

“my sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice thick as honey, slow as a southern summer. “d’you know what i’ve done for you?”

the answer lies in the bones buried beneath your feet, twisted earth dirtying fresh shoes. “if i could tear the whole world apart for you,” he breathes, dragging his lips along your knuckles, “i would.”

i.ii. brian kills because he has to. hoodie kills because he wants to. brian's hands are steady, efficient. hoodie’s hands linger—dig in, snap, and break. hoodie doesn’t just get rid of threats—he makes an example of them. if someone dares to insult you, he makes sure their tongue never works (right) again. he leaves bodies behind like shitty censure. doesn’t bother with discretion like brian does. if someone crosses you, he wants them to be found. wants the world to see.

•sometimes he kills over things you don’t even notice. a wrong glance, a murmured insult—things brian might let slide, but hoodie? oh, hoodie is taking their fucking teeth. he is your bonekeeper. brian just deals with it.

ii. you are a thing he does not deserve, but you are a thing he cannot live without. the first time hoodie touched you, it was not with love, but with hunger. his hands gripped your waist as if he could break you apart, press you into the fabric of his coat and stitch you there, keep you pressed against his ribs where his heart once beat.

“you think i don’t know?” he breathes, laughter curling in his throat, cruel and sharp. his fingers dig into your skin, pressing, demanding. you were made for this. made for him. “you like this,” he whispers, knows it, drinks in the way you tremble beneath him. “you like it when i take.”

and he does.

iii. he loves it when you whisper his name like it is something holy. and perhaps it is. brian does not believe in god. but if he did, he would believe in you.

he would kneel at your altar, mouth at your feet, hands shaking as he prays. for you. for the softness of your touch, for the mercy of your love, for the gift of your breath. and when he presses his lips to yours, slow and aching, it is not a kiss—it is a vow. for better or worse. in sickness and in health. in blood, in bone, in eternity.

"my lady," he murmurs against your lips, voice breaking, devotion etched into every syllable. "my darlin'. my love.."

iv. hoodie is not kind. but with you, he almost is.

"you're lucky i like you," he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your ribs, counting them like beads on a rosary.

his breath is hot against your ear, his lips ghosting over your pulse. he could tear you apart. he could ruin you. he could do worse. but he doesn't. he presses a lingering kiss to your throat. "don’t make me prove it, sweetheart."

v. the sleeves swallow your hands. brian (hoodie) likes that. reminds him he's something bigger, stronger. "you know that’s mine, don’t you?" his voice is quiet, warm, curling around you like the fabric itself. he watches as you roll up the sleeves—his sleeves. you glance up at him, half-smiling. "yeah?".. "yeah."

his fingers skim your wrist, tracing the edge of the jacket—his jacket. his hands are big, rough with scars, but so gentle as they tug the sleeve down over your hand again. "you look better in it, though," he murmurs, his voice low, soft, reverent. you swear you see the faintest smile when you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

vi. reflecting: brian doesn't believe in god, but sometimes, when he looks down at the cross around his neck, he cant help but feel like its the last thing that connects him to a world that isn't full of blood and fear. the church will never be his answer- but he believes you were sent to him. and that is the closest thing to salvation he knows.

vi.ii hoodie doesn't care about the cross. not really. but when he wears it, it becomes something beyond a piece of jewelry- it's a challenge. a mockery of anything holy. the fact it swings around his neck when he's sunk into you, and he's got your face in the pillow? sinful enough to get him stiff for another round.

• the cross presses against your back as he holds you in a grip that makes your pulse race. lips, curled into a mischievous grin as he gets his fingers nice, and comfortably nestled against your scalp. "you feel that? god's watchin', baby.. don't know if he's pleased with me, but i'm sure as hell havin' fun."

vii. he does not ask- brian insists. a quiet, unshakable thing, like the tide knowing its pull, like the sun knowing its rise. if you reach for the door before he does he's already there- undoing your mistake.

"try that again, sweetheart." his voice is soft- teasing, but there isn't much room for argument. it's his devotion- his way of telling you, you are worth more than rushing hands and thoughtless exits

viii. hoodie does not take off his mask. if brian removes his hood around you, hoodie does not. you will never see his face, not fully, not unless he lets you. the mask is his skin. it is what allows him to move through the world unburdened by conscience, by identity (by the fragile remnants of brian’s past life.)

-> there is something horribly intimate about the fact that when he is hoodie, he is more real than brian has ever been.

xi. brian is the type of man to undoubtedly shove his hold hands up your shirt to warm them up- and he does it every time- without fail, without mercy. the chill clings to him like a second skin, his fingers stiff and aching from the cold. and you should know better than to let your guard down. but he's patient- and he waits until the moment you are relaxed to do it, like an asshole. the shriek you let out is enough to make him grin- a big wolfish smile that is shameless as you flail against him. he's laughing, burying his face into your shoulder, breath warm against your skin while his hands remain quite literally frozen in place.

"aww, c'mon now, darlin'." he drawls, arms locked around you to keep you from escaping, "s' just a lil' cold. you want me to freeze?"

Guide on how to keep a friend warm

im all for "sejanus deserved better" (because he DID), but i think we all collectively know sejanus would never pick someone better. he is head over heels and staying that way. if he had been in lucy gray's place, do you think he would've run? really?

“I’m gay” “I’m straight” …..okay?? I’m nothing in my soul if not obsessive

Wallace crazy as fuck for fucking a guy dressing up as his roommate after he thought said roommate died, and straight up told him once he was done acting as his roommate, they wouldn’t hook up anymore. No one is doing it like him

just be home by 8:00

Tiktok frames I didnt want to waste

Cryptid sighting

Text:

Tim: …I can explain

Jason: Then explain

Tim: I can’t actually explain

Jason: Then why did you say you could

Tim: I didn’t think you’d take me up on it

Jason: Why are you in my house