#historically there has been too much fucking around. and some people. are about to find out .

[altarcup]

i've been watching him for my entire life / i hate the air he breathes, his foolish decrees / his words so contrived / and i hate the way the townspeople gather outside / they hang on every breath, cling to his chest / home to his heart full of pride

the oracle told him to beware the ides / and i'd be lying if i said i wasn't wishing / for untimely death or demise / or am i just wishing i could be like you? / that the people would see me too as a poet / and not just the muse

oh, it's not true, i don't wish harm upon you / from birth we've been like brothers of different mothers / within the spirit of the same womb / may the gods strike me down if i forsake you / frater meus, you're beautifully made / and to you i'm forever grateful

i'll never forget that you showed me to make art / and i know the love you showed me came / from a pure and noble heart / i love you, and if you want, i'll call you king / but why do i lie awake each night thinking / instead of you, it should be me ?

something wicked this way comes / and as i set to face it, i'm unsure / should i embrace it, should i run? / what motivates me? hatred? is it love? / what's more wrong; that i too wish to be great / or my mother wished she'd had a son?

and even if i can't be the one / maybe i could at least help make way for him / until the day that he comes / maybe my name could also be known / that i helped return good to the people / and restored greatness to rome

my name is brutus and my name means heavy / so with a heavy heart / i'll guide this dagger into the heart of my enemy / my whole life, you were a teacher and friend to me / please know my actions are not motivated only by envy / i, too, have a destiny / this death will be art / the people will speak of this day from near and afar / this event will be history, and i'll be great too / i don't want what you have, i want to be you

i always knew i could be the one / though i feel the endless pain of being / and i am scorched by the sun / of humble origins and born of the cursed sex / my name is brutus, but the people will call me rex.

#﹙ &* R. TARGARYEN ﹚ #long post // #ugh. throws myself into the trash. fully THROWS myself away. #something about r/haenyra always being pitted against men (be it dead or nonexistent or conceptual or dot dot dot) #historically there has been too much fucking around. and some people. are about to find out . #did i just spend an hour on this web weave only to now lay down and writhe in pain as i listen to this song. the answer is yes

[thepunkmuppet]

thinking about an alternate season 7 wherein instead of every potential slayer being hunted and then activated, every past slayer gets brought back to life. I don’t really like post-chosen content anyway, but when I do read / look at it the whole slayer academy, everyone’s a slayer thing is really stupid to me ngl 💀

previous slayers, though… nikki wood and xin rong interacting with spike, actually finding out about the slayer before buffy, slayers with different backgrounds and situations and personalities, KENDRA?! I just love it so much.

you’d be able to focus on a relatively small cast of slayers, much like the potentials, throughout the season. this would include buffy, faith, kendra, nikki, and some other american slayers from varying time periods with a couple interesting international characters too (maybe a slayer from ancient greece / rome / egypt, or an anglo-saxon one or something). these are all experienced slayers, so no need to focus on training - it would be more about lore, history and their personal character journeys, assimilating them into society (creating some fun bottle episodes, maybe a day out on the town with dawn and a historical slayer) and trying to figure out why they were all brought back. also, if you want to keep the first as the main villain, then it can look like any one of them because they’re all technically dead, which means you can still have that episode with the dead potential revealing herself as the first and all the mistrust that’s threaded throughout the season.

plus with nikki back, there would be no need for the stupid sleeper agent thing with spike or the ridiculous fight between him and robin. all the same ideas (and the flashbacks to spike’s mum) could still be explored, and in a way better way imo.

I reckon the reason they were brought back would probably be the powers that be (tying nicely into angel ofc) trying to defeat the first. and of course the ending would be this huge battle, as all the slayers from around the world come to sunnydale, and maybe to add some drama they would all disappear and die again when the battle’s done as they have fulfilled their purpose (a classic finale knife to the heart that would have everyone sobbing, especially over nikki and kendra).

there’s also the added thing of like,, I appreciate the show was leaning towards a theme of “hope for the future” with the potentials angle, but literally every other aspect of the season is about harkening back to the past. faith, robin, the first taking the form of previous characters, the high school, the slayer origins, etc etc. so I just think this idea would work so much better with the themes of the season, and tie in really nicely.

and the most obvious perk of this concept is kendra! she was forgotten about so quickly, and this season would really give the writers a chance to redeem themselves for the terrible way poc characters have been treated throughout the show (ignoring what they did to robin. FUCK that but that’s another conversation). I think the show really downplayed how much kendra’s death would have affected buffy, and seeing the two of them interact after buffy has changed so much and kendra’s still the same would be amazing. there’s also the interesting concept that, having been brought back from the dead, kendra still be 17, and therefore closer in age to dawn than to buffy, which could make for some really nice interactions between the two of them. also of course the biggest most exciting thing is having buffy, faith and kendra all interact. they all represent places on a spectrum in terms of personality, and I would LOVE to see kendra and faith interact and how much of a unit they would likely become as a trio.

there’s also the theme of buffy feeling (and being) alone in this season that would hopefully go away, as she would now have dozens of people who truly understand her, giving her a proper support system which I would love to see (season 7 scoobies can actually eat shit btw <3)

so. was this born out of my hatred for insufferable kennedy and the annoying potentials? yes absolutely. do I now want them to rewrite and re-film the entire last season 20 years later? yes absolutely I’m so glad you understand

side note wouldn’t it be sick if in the final battle there’s just this one slo-mo shot where buffy stakes a vamp and through the dust she sees the first slayer looking at her from across the battlefield before she disappears amongst the fight. WHAT it would literally be awesome hello?!

also also other side note sorry but Mother(TM) nikki wood would NEVER kick buffy out of her own house. fuck them kids fr

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #btvs season 7 #buffy season 7 #btvs s7 #nikki wood #robin wood #kendra young #faith lehane #buffy summers #dawn summers #btvs spike #the first #the first evil #btvs meta #buffyverse meta

[netherfeildren]

Forfeiting My Mystique

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Summary: You're a girl made of golden gossamer, a work of art come to life, and Ezra, well he's dedicated his life to collecting beautiful things.

-OR-

An Ezra Art Collector AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: voyeurism; kind of objectifying? (not sure how to tag the strange shit going on here); ezra’s weird; mommy issues; references to past childhood abuse; touch aversion/touch starved (at the same time); sugar daddy vibes; size difference; oral sex (f! receiving); butt stuff lite; dom/sub undertones; power dynamics; self esteem issues x2; panty thieving; masturbation; obsessive behavior; possessive behavior; brief mention of recreational drug use; brief discussion of parent death

A/N: This is extremely self indulgent - basically I wrote it for me, but you guys can read it too. I know I took some liberties with Ezra's characterization but whatever.

Inspo (and some of the dialogue) pulled from Lenny Kravitz’s Paris town house Vogue tour, Jeremy Strong’s favorite things GQ interview, and “Marianne” from Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin.

Title is from the poem by the same name by Kaveh Akbar.

Word Count: 12K

Read on AO3

Ezra has always loved beautiful things. Since he was a child, his mother taught him to instill an appreciation for beauty into all facets of his world. She herself, a gorgeously beautiful creature, was well versed in such a life. But beautiful as she was, she was also cruel, selfish, capricious to her very core, and she’d turned him into a strange amalgamation of a man by proxy. At once also cruel and selfish and capricious, but hurt and soft and gnarled, as well, so that he was also made gentle and aware and hopeful. That above all else, his greatest weakness, always hopeful. Perhaps, to the point of naivety, the point of peril. For he looked for beauty in all things, and to do that, he was forced to bestow his hopeful eye upon even the ugly and harsh things of the world. 

And so he’d dedicated his life to finding those beautiful things. An art collector by virtue, they called him. A vulture, a scavenger, a treasure hunter. A man full of greed and pride, demons and too much money. All he thought of himself as, was hungry. So yes, perhaps a scavenger, a morsel of greed within the marrow of his bones, always looking for the next sublime artifact, painting, statue – person. But he also liked to think of himself as a protector of those beautiful things, of historic things. Things that changed the very face of humanity, shifted the tide of the world. A collector – always in search of the next life changing sight. Always certain the world was filled with endless possibilities for beauty, for loveliness, for sensuality, for something to captivate, to overwhelm him.

-

The first thing he sees are your feet. Standing in the gallery over from the one you’re inhabiting, people he doesnt know or give a fuck about talking at him, schmoozing and preening and prostrating themselves. Probably hoping he’ll cough up a couple million euro for whatever cause they’re pretending to crusade behind at the moment. He can see only the quarter bottom half of the famed performance artist he’d heard so much about. The entire exhibit tonight had been built around you, and it had the whole of Paris raving and ravenous for a piece of the lovely morsel they so claimed you posed as. Shallow and vain creatures that the peers of his echelon were, they were easily amused and easily bored by the smallest passing fads. At once desperate to be the first to see or speak of a thing, and consequently, the first to discard it as dépassé. 

He’d made the trek all the way to the Left Bank from his townhouse in the 16th arrondissement, to see the performance of the woman whom his associate, Oruf, had said would change the way he thought of a living creature forevermore. Big words from a little man, Ezra had no real inclination to believe. 

The angle of the wall blocks most of you from his view – granting him the sight of only your knees down. Your feet are small, he can see the tiny square shape of your nails, the gleam of them under the soft warm overhead light – lying on your side, one slotted above the other. The fine architecture of your ankles – delicate, the blue hued veins crawling like vines up the top of your foot, lost to the pale of your skin. The smooth, glossy slope of your calf, up to the flat round of your patella. It’s all he can admire from where he stands. Pretty legs, but nothing to lose one’s head over so far. 

The person talking at him is interminably long winded. Ezra would like nothing more than to beg them to shut the fuck up and be on his way. He wants another drink. He wants to see you in full. He’d heard so much about the woman sitting for the live art exhibit. You’d been heralded into a creature of myth by the wagging tongues of Paris. He wanted to discern for himself the level of sanctity you deserved. He wanted to see your face. 

Finally, he’s able to demure from the conversation, the promise of ten million euro for the charity of the sycophant’s choice, promised off-handedly – any amount of money would’ve been too little to get the gaping, begging maw to quit it’s yapping. 

He slinks along the shadows of the walls, a vulture in its natural habitat. The lights brought down to a low warm hue, meant to shape itself along the contours of your skin, bring out the soft gleam within you. Surely the oldest trick in the book, that of light and shadows. He moves further into the room slowly, your back to him. The plush round of your bottom comes into view, two little dimples gracing the low of your back, the notches of your spine, up, up, to the heavy mantle of your hair. You’re resting on your hip, your torso twisted so your chest is pressed to the chaise you lounge on, your head laying cradled in the circle of your bent arms. There is a tiny, delicate outline of a sparrow tattooed at your shoulder. He watches the slow rise and fall of your back, the shadow of your ribs – he’d feed you more if you were his. The thought comes unbidden – a little shocking – a lovely bottom, beautiful, long hair, but for a man like Ezra – one who so wholly avoided any sort of ownership by another or over another, the thought of such intimacy, something to cause revulsion, not desire, coming from his own psyche, it’s almost distressing to acknowledge as his own. 

The crown of your head gleams like a halo in the soft overhead gallery light. The room is muted, voices hushed, and the patrons rove around your unmoving body, the rhythm of your breath the only discernible sign of life on your form from back here. Oruf had claimed that you did not move a single millimeter during the entirety of the three hour long performance. He sure as fuck didn’t believe that. He was having a quite, self proclaimed, contrary and bitter season, by his own choosing, and was prone to bouts of obstinance and general disagreement at anything and everything that presented itself to him. He was choosing, as of now, to not believe in your myth.

He moves further around the center where you lay in repose. He needs to see your face. That will give him the answer he’s come here for. 

There’s a large group standing right in front of you – rudely pointing, whispering, and he feels a surge of annoyance at the sight of them. You were here to be observed, appreciated, not fucking ogled like some cheap attraction, and he was here to see you – they needed to get the fuck out of his way. 

Finally, they shuffle off, leaving the space directly in front of you open. He makes the final round above your head, comes to stand before you. Oruf had said the only part of you that moved were your eyes.

They fall on Ezra now. 

It could have been as if, in that moment, you’d gotten up, naked as Venus, to shriek directly in his face. That powerful was the force behind your gaze – a punch to the gut, his mothers handbag swinging unexpectedly, purposefully into his stomach as he scurried meekly behind her as a child. 

He pulls his Jacques Marie Mage frames from his nose. He needs to look away from the searing power of your attention. He needs a moment to collect himself, taking deep breaths as he studies the glasses, runs the tip of his finger over the bridge. He’s held frozen in place by the feel of your gaze still upon him. 

He decides in that very instant he has to have you. 

When he looks back at you, your eyes flit away. He is dismissed – made ravenous. On the verge of tears, perhaps. Look back at me, look back at me, look back at me. What sort of reaction is this to a woman whose name he doesn’t even know? Nonsensical. Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation – the edibles he’d downed before coming, maybe he’s having a bad reaction. 

But the gift of your slow, lazy gaze roves around the space he inhabits now, everywhere but directly at him, almost like a punishment for having looked away from you first – even for a second. 

He’s never considered the prospect of trying to buy a person. The moral question or dilemma of it. He decides he doesn’t necessarily care. Whatever he has to do to get you to leave this place with him, he’ll do. What he’ll be able to bring himself to let happen after that,  if he’ll even be able to touch you, be brave enough to let you touch him, remains to be seen. Inconsequential too, he finds. 

He circles the gallery for close to an hour before he can no longer help himself, can no longer feign casualness. The rest of the art here is pale and dull in the light of your luminescence. He finally comes to a stop in a corner diagonal from where you face, in the shadow of the sculpture of Paolo e Virginia. At this moment, he feels certain Puttinati prophecised your existence, to so depict the vision of reverence he’s feeling for you in this moment. 

The performance is three hours long. In that time you don’t move your body at all, Oruf was right – lying with the stillness of marble. The only thing that moves are your eyes, and you watch the patrons closely, examine them. Your gaze is part of the art, part of the power of it. 

The visage of you is shocking, not for your nudity, but because in a lifetime filled with unimaginably lovely things, you are, by far, the most magnificently gorgeous creature Ezra has ever laid eyes on. It is like a recurring bullet to the temple over and over again for the visceral shock you pull out of him. 

Finally, finally, your gaze falls on him again. The meeting of your eyes, like the strike of lightning against the earth. He can feel his cock thicken, grow heavy, just at the touch of your gaze. It’s voyeuristic – unexpected – he can’t remember the last time he got hard. He feels almost perverted, sporting an erection at the mere sight of you, surrounded by all these people in this crowded gallery.

He can’t see your breasts entirely, pressed to the chaise as they are, only the full, pale sides. He wonders desperately at the color of your nipples, the shade, the hue. He’d like to imprint it in his mind. Know the taste of them, as well, of all your skin – wonders if the color there matches that of the skin between your legs. The thought causes hunger to climb like fire up his chest into his throat, saliva pooling heavy in his mouth at the mere suggestion of your cunt in his mind.

His eyes leave you for a moment, to cast the wide net of his gaze around the room, at the other men. He wonders if they’re hard too, if only your naked skin, lying still in repose, has the power to make their blood rush, their muscles thicken. He is not pleased by the thought of that. And when he comes back to you, you’re still on him. Gaze roaming down his body, taking in the fine cashmere sweater, his perfectly tailored suit, built to hang in a precisely designed loose cut over his shoulders, down his long legs, the incongruous sneakers, back, back up to his face, the spot of blonde at the front of his hair. A single delicate eyebrow crooks in a minute arch at him. It is all the answer he needs

You are looking back at him. It’s all he needs to know. 

As the three hour mark comes to a head the lights dim even further until only a singular overhead spotlight falls upon your form. Your skin glows, seems to flare brighter for a single moment, and then a golden sheet of gossamer begins to slowly fall from the ceiling, and right before it lands upon your body, you finally move. Your body stretches, toes pointing and curling, long arms stretched in an arc over your head. The fine lines and slopes of your body coming into startling clarity for one moment, and then you turn over, away from him, where he can’t see your face anymore, and curl in on yourself. The golden gusset falls upon your coiled form, as if you’ve finally been put to rest. The lights dim until all that’s visible is the luminous gleam of the shroud over your curled body. 

You are a girl made of golden myth and gossamer, and he must have you. 

-

“Hello, Sparrow.” He steps into the small, warm space of your dressing room.

You turn to face him, you’ve been waiting for him. “Hello,” you say slowly. “You were watching me.”

“Everyone was watching you.”

“Not like you were–”

“No… not like I was.” His accent is some strange sort of concoction of eclectic European – at once French, but also slightly Germanic, with an inflection of deep American South at the end. The vowels and consonants rolling off his tongue, smooth and hypnotizing like the warm pour of honey, and then, suddenly, inflected with a bout of sharpness. Something that snaps you awake, forces you to come to attention, to pay attention to him. That was all it was really, you could tell, a forceful, demanding grab for attention at all times. He called it to himself, seduced the people around him into ardor. Whether they knowingly chose to be entranced or not, was not up to them.

“Ezra,” he gives an imitation of a little flourished bow. You give him your own name in return. “You were watching me back.” 

“I couldn’t help it.” He had demanded it of you, after all, no need to lie now. 

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” You turn back to continue packing your bag. 

“I’m not very hungry.” You feel him come closer, hear the subtle hint of pleading desperation in his sensual voice that has pleasure coiling deep in your belly. 

“A drink then.”

You’d like to be on clear ground with this man who you can see, even now, is an enigma not to be trifled with unconscionably. “Where? At your house?” you turn to crook a sardonic brow at him.

“Would you like me to take you to my house?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want too.” You’d already decided, didn’t see the point in prolonging the game. 

-

His security takes you out the back of the gallery, dark Maybach rolling smoothly up as soon as you reach the curb, and you feel the searing phantom  heat of his large palm hovering over the small of your back. 

He hasn’t touched you a single time yet, and everything within you is coiled tight, waiting for that first graze. 

He pulls the car door open for you himself, and then his driver is there, smoothly offering you his hand to help you step into the sleek interior. The leather beneath you is buttery chocolate brown and you press your thighs together. His security had taken your bag from you, and you felt bereft and listless without the protective clutch of it within your hands now. 

He follows after you, sliding gracefully onto the seat across. You can see he’s wearing two gold chains around his neck that rest in the dip of his collarbones, and your mouth waters at the sight. The car pulls quietly away from the curb and then you’re merging into the busy city traffic, ensconced in the quiet of this liminal space he’s stolen you into with him. 

He crosses one knee over the other, one thick arm thrown languidly over the back of the seat. You can see a small gold signet ring gracing his pinky – some sort of crest emblazoned on it. 

Fucking family crest kind of rich. God. You don’t know if you’re prepared for this. 

You cock your head to the side, the muscles in your neck are a little stiff and sore from holding your pose for so long, and you let your neck roll back on the head rest. 

He’s quiet, still observing, as if you’re still existing within the walls of the gallery, and not being spirited away to his home so that he might have his way with you. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” Might as well be blunt, you think, now that you’re here. He was so gorgeous in that room, watching you, circling you like a beast hunting in the wild. There was really no other way this night was destined to end, but with you beneath him, taking him into your cunt. 

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t respond, only gives you a melodic little non-committal hum, continues to look at you from the seat across with those deceptively guileless eyes. You want him to snatch you by the chin and spit in your mouth.

-

The drive ends in front of the grand façade of a pristine Parisian townhouse on a secluded street in the 16th arrondissement – flanked by national embassies, no less. 

You are very, very far from home. In a Paris you’ve not ventured into in all your years of living here. 

He helps you from the car, finally, finally, finally, thick palm wrapping entirely around the thin of your wrist. Everything within you coils and pulses, tight and wet. His skin is warm and dry, you can feel the pull of rough calluses on his palm. You’re sure he can feel the hammering staccato of your pulse through the thin membrane as you stare at the way his fingers overlap completely around the circumference of your limb.

He lets you step into the foyer ahead of him as one of his staff sweeps the door open for the two of you, ready and waiting for their master to return with a respectably quiet, monsieur, mademoiselle, in greeting. There’s a huge Basquiat in the entrance hall, across from the sweeping staircase.

“Lots of his art came my way,” he says at your obvious admiration, shock, desire to tuck tail and run back home. “We weren’t friends, but I was roommates with a guy he’d lived with. His last girlfriend was best friends with my girlfriend at the time, so when he died we had one of the first calls.”

“It’s wonderful–” Your voice is full of awe, eyes taking in a type of home you’ve never seen before up close like this. Something out of a picture book that sits on the coffee table of someone wishing for more. 

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Well… they get used for different things – so I’m not sure. Let’s call it eight.”

You huff a small laugh, run your finger along the keys of the opulent crystal Steinway. “Let’s call it eight, sure.”

Now that you’re here, that he hasn’t overtly said he’s brought you here for sex, you don’t really know what it is he wants from you. A bad thought, but an honest one. 

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He leads you into an elegantly lush reception room, hovering hand again at the place above the small of your back. There’s a gargantuan crystal chandelier hanging at the center of the room, two enormous elephant tusks flank the elaborate mantelpiece. The room is a mix of eclectic eccentricities, both neutrally elegant and demure in its obvious wealth, but inflected with touches of vibrant color and idiosyncrasies to bring the room together in a way that you think must reflect the house’s owner. 

He moves to the bar, choosing the green bottle of twenty year Laphroaig and pours a knuckle into two crystal tumblers. He’s quiet, subdued, and the lack of small talk to fill the silence has the backs of your knees itching and sweating. 

There’s a glossy red panther sculpture prowling across a gold and ivory lacquered coffee table. He comes to hand your glass to you. “That’s a museum piece. I can’t remember where I got it, but it’s rare.” You can’t tell if he’s trying to boast, to impress you, or merely share his satisfaction at owning a piece of art worthy of a museum's gallery. You’d already discerned that at the Basquiat’s first glance, shit, at the first sight of the house. It was a veritable museum on its own. You were sure the number of museum pieces in every room were too many to count in a single night, nay week. 

You don’t sit as he goes to do, but start to slowly circle the room. An imitation of his slow roving of you earlier at the gallery. The peat whisky is bold and smoky, a surprising hint of something akin to seawater, but also mellowly sweet. You think that this must be what his skin tastes like, his come – an amalgamation of all the different flavors on the wheel. Saliva pools heavy on your tongue and you take a deeper sip, eyes flitting to him. 

“Three hours is a long time to lay so still,” he says. 

“It is. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not particularly – perhaps a bit stiff.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not so long, but not so short, either.”

“So just the right amount?”

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment then, still watching, watching, watching. His gaze upon you feels like the drag of a specter’s fingers along your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. You wonder if this is how he felt while you watched him in the low light of the gallery. Hunted. But no, you imagine there isn’t anything that could make a man such as this feel like prey. 

“Can I draw you a bath?” You pause at this – firmer, more familiar ground, finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. His request for you to get naked for him, to let him into your body. It’s what you want also. He’s not rushing this, and it’s making you feel unstable, unsure of the ground you’re treading here together. 

“Yes, I’d like that.”

-

He leads you upstairs, to one of the guest bedrooms. The en suite, one of his favorites in the house – dark marble tub in the center of the room under a low hanging crystal chandelier. The French windows let in the soft glow of the moon outside, and he draws the bath for you as you peer through the glass. The reflection of your face in the windows, eternally distracting. 

When the water is warm and ready, a splash of Neroli Portofino Body Oil poured under the stream, he turns to you. He’s hesitant – both of himself and you, equally. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a body not his own, and he feels the slight anxious tremor of his hands. Although he can’t be sure if that’s strictly attributed to nerves, or all the blood in his body pooling in his cock at the moment. 

“Can I take your clothes off?” said as gently as possible, so as not to spook you.

Your gaze is as direct as it was while you lay watching him, surrounded by half of Paris. “Yes.”

He starts at the tiny bow holding the front of your soft silk blouse together – the weave so fine, it’s almost translucent, and he can see the outline of your evasive nipples he’s been so desperate to see. He pulls on the string letting the neck of the blouse fall open, then down to the tiny pearl buttons holding the rest of it together. All without touching your skin. 

You’re panting, face already flushed, eyes bright, almost fevered. His balls are tight and heavy, ready to come, just with this. Just at the mere fucking vision of you ready and panting for him. His belly clenches and then he pushes the silk off the fine bones of your shoulders. The wings of your collarbones, the shadow of the dip in them the most tempting image he’s ever beheld in his entire life. He wants to dip his tongue into the tiny pool, fill them with ambrosia and drink directly from your skin. 

He feels his cock begin to leak. 

The zipper at the side of your skirt is next. He watches the rise and fall of your ribs, the tremble of your throat as he pulls it down slowly, revealing the rest of your skin to him. There’s a tiny lace thong around your hips, robin's egg blue. Oh, he will be stealing that for himself. 

He finally lets himself touch your skin as he pushes the scrap of lace down your legs, crouching smoothly to his knees to help you step out of it. He takes in the sight of your small feet up close now. The fine tendons of your musculature entirely too fucking beguiling. He ghosts the tip of a single finger over the top of your foot and you moan for him. So goddamn sweet and wanton. 

He unfolds to his full height and pockets your panties. To be inspected at a later time, pressed to his nose and mouth so that he might drink the scent of you down into himself. He tips his chin at the tub now, holding your wild gaze, breaths coming in short little gasps. Your cheeks are flushed the color of your nipples. The tiny wisps of hair at your neck and temples beginning to curl deliciously in the humidity of the bathroom. He could spill his seed just at the look in your eyes, he’s sure of it. 

“In,” he orders, crowds you towards the edge of the tub and grips the bend of your elbow between his thumb and index finger – as little contact as possible – to help you into the water. “Sit.”

You immediately obey, and that fills him with more pleasure than the sight of your naked skin. The control you’re granting him right now, allowing him the privilege of ordering you for the sake of his own comfort – he’s going to reward you very well for being so good for him.

He bends over the edge of the tub, hovering over your beseeching upturned face. He brushes his thumb softly over your full bottom lip. “Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut, you look down into the water, a lovely pink blush blossoming over your cheeks. “Relax. Soak for a while.”

He can tell you want him. Badly. The flush of your cheeks down to your breasts, rosy little nipples peaked, your quick breath. That want, compounded doubly by his refusal so far to really touch you — his inability. The more he stays his hand, the more you want him, and the more you want him the harder his cock grows, the more frightened he becomes. He thinks it’s very true, that old adage, the harder you try to push a woman away from a man, the closer she will go to him by virtue of rebellion.

You sit in the warm bath for close to an hour, and he watches rapturously, hypnotized by the slick wet of the water rolling over your skin, from his seat on an ottoman at the center of the room. The weight of his gaze on your skin, almost violent in its intense desire. He wants to lick every single droplet from your body and then bite into the heavy lush weight of your tits until his teeth are imprinted in the soft flesh, bruises sucked into the pale globes. He hopes you’ll let him. He hopes he’ll let himself. 

Your returning look is equally wanton. He watches your gaze trained and hungry on the heft of his cock hiding beneath his trousers. You spread your legs for him beneath the water as you wash yourself, putting on another show, private, just for him. An unjustly jealous wrath stirs within him, coiled and hissing, at the thought of any other human on earth ever getting to see you the way he is now. Largely a passive man, the violence that surges within him has him surprised and not, in equal measures. For he thinks that no being ever having beheld you, could ever possibly be driven to feel any other way than obsessively possessive over such a creature as yourself. You’re like a siren in this moment, languishing in the warm water of his bath, in his house, where you agreed to come with him tonight. A nymph willingly slinking into the depth of Tartarus, knowing she’s in peril of being wholly devoured by the beasts that lay at its depths, and still going anyways. 

He helps you out after a while, tiny little fingers and toes soaked to wrinkles, elbow once again caught between his two fingers, and the heat rolling off your skin sears him. Has a violent tremble running jaggedly down his vertebrae. 

He wraps you in a plush white towel, pulled from the warming rack, helps you dry your long hair. Then goes to his room for one of his shirts to put you in. He pulls one he’d worn a few days ago off the pile from the chair in the corner. He wants to know you’re sleeping in something that’s already been on his skin, that smells like him, that you’re soaking now in his own scent. 

As he pulls the towel from around your body to once again reveal your bare form to him he presses a soft kiss to your naked waist – can’t help himself, the soft slope entirely too beguiling. Overtaking any apprehensions he may have, and his gut clenches with fear and desire. He can feel the weeping of his cock dribble down his thigh as he presses his lips to the warm, fragrant skin. 

You’re quiet, watching him, letting him do with you as he wants. His own little sentient doll, created for his pleasure only. “I have a farm in Brazil,” he says. He rounds your form, starts to braid the long strands of your hair into a single plait. You put up no protest – it feels like water, slipping through his hands.  “We grow organic fruit and vegetables and there’s cows, lots of cows. We never kill them, they just live there, graze.” One of his favorite places in the entire world, but perhaps, second to the place he resides now, staring at you, dressing you, touching your hair. “I love it there, I’ll take you.”

“Okay,” you say easily. “I’d like that,” the gift of the gentle curve of your smile. He wants to lick into your mouth, fuck you with his tongue, slap your pussy and watch the blood rush to the surface, feel the tight clench of your asshole as he fills you with his come. 

“Will you let me watch you play with your cunt?” he asks gently.

“Won’t you do it?”

“I’m scared to touch you yet – to find out if you’re actually real.” He feels an uncharacteristically self conscious blush mar his cheeks. “I–I’m not ready. I want to watch first.” He comes to kneel between your parted thighs that dangle off the high bed. “Pet your cunt for me – show me how you like it, sweet girl. Please.” He is not above begging. Not for this. Not for you – for the sight of you playing with your wet, pink pussy. 

You spread your legs wider, give him the tantalizing peak of your bare sex, your glistening folds. You’re already fucking wet for him. He feels an unrestrained growl claw up his throat like fire. His mouth goes dry, parched. The only way to sate himself, to drink straight from the source of your glossy slick. 

You press your fingers to the pearl of your clit, swollen and needy already, he can see. You start to swirl little circles over your slippery flesh, your wet mouth falling open in a gasp. “That’s it, yeah–” he whispers, bringing his face in closer to the apex of your thighs so he can smell you directly from the source. His eyes flutter as he breathes in the scent of you, the deep amber and citrus from the bath oil, but beneath that, entwined in the rich notes, the musky scent of you. Fucking mouthwatering. He hears himself moan, the sound pulled almost unconsciously from his body. 

“Inside– put your fingers inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” You press a single finger in, all the way to the last knuckle, and start to rock your hips. He can feel your gaze on his face, the weight of it heavy and pleading.

“Ezra– p–please, please, you do it,” you beg, let your head roll back as you press another finger in and start to rock your clit against the mound of your palm in earnest.

“But you’re doing so well, sweet girl. About to make that little cunt come for me. Look–” He gives you the weight of a single palm on the bend of your knee and you moan deep and ragged at just that compact touch. He can’t help himself – he pulls the edge of the t-shirt up to bare your tits to him and holds it up against the base of your throat where he cradles the delicate column in his hand – the entire large span of him completely engulfing your smallness. “Your thighs are trembling, treasure. You’re going to do it just for me, aren’t you?.”

“Y–Yes, yes–” 

He pushes your knee in his grasp wider, opening you more for the fileting of gaze. “Make yourself come – I want to see it. Fucking come,” it’s a demand you answer, just the sound of it causing the heat of your skin to seemingly ricochet even higher. You start to come – he watches the clenching of the muscles in your stomach as you grind your fingers deep. He can hear how wet you are, the sopping wet squelch of your pulsing cunt, and he worries for one second that he’s about to come in his pants. 

You let out a reed high mewl, like you’re singing just for him. “What a good, good girl you are,” he praises, and your eyes flutter shut, pulling your fingers away so that he’s left to admire the clenching of your stretched hole. He can see the glossy shine of your slick sliding down the crevice of your ass, and he wants to lick through your sticky arousal so fucking badly he bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood. He bends his head to press his brow to the edge of the bed between your spread thighs, tightening his grip around your knee until you whimper in pain. He loosens his hold immediately, thumb brushing soothingly over the bend before he stands, lets out a long breath. He stares down at your panting, flushed form. Wet and sated after your orgasm. Fuck all the art in the world. He’d set fire to every single masterpiece he owns in this very moment if he was granted the gift of getting to watch you come even one single time more. 

He passes his palm over his mouth, feeling the soft bristles of his scruff. He’d like to see the smooth insides of your thighs rubbed raw with it, he’d like to see the stretch of your cunt as he stuffs you full of himself, the milky white of his spend leaking from all your holes. 

“It’s time to put you to bed,” he says instead. 

Your brow creases in the sweetest little frown, red mouth puckering, still panting. “You’re not staying?” 

“No, sweet girl. I think it’s best if you sleep here tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But–”

“It’s alright. There’s no rush.” He leans over you to press a lingering kiss to your brow, pulls his shirt down to cover your breasts. You give him a little whimper, and he allows your hand to come up to clutch the thick swell of his bicep, the heavy muscle there bunching at the feel of your grip. He moves to help you settle beneath the silk duvet, pleased beyond belief at the sight of you tucked into a bed in his home, wearing his clothes, flushed and wearing the sated look of a recent orgasm. 

“Goodnight, treasure.”

“Goodnight, Ezra.”

-

You find his room later. You can’t help yourself, following the glow of the soft light spilling between the crack of his slightly open door, like he’d left you a bread crumb trail to follow, like he knew you’d come searching. You can’t sleep knowing he’s so close, this dazzling creature come straight from a dream. Twisting and turning in the plush monstrosity of a bed he’d left you in. His shirt, butter soft, the dark, gray blue swimming around your much smaller frame. It smells like him, his cologne – you recognize the scent of Le Labo Another 13. Musky with the softest most subtle hint of jasmine, paired with something earthier – greener, and folded between all that: the soft saltiness of his sweat.  Why would you sleep when a figure from your very fantasies was right here in the flesh. Your cunt clenches, wet and aching, even after he’d watched you make yourself come. You need more, want to feel the press of his cock inside of you, the heavy weight of it. 

He’s sitting up in bed, reading something on an iPad, glasses propped low on his nose. He looks up at your small knock, not waiting for his permission to slip inside. 

“I promise, I’ll be good.” You hold your hands up in surrender. “I won’t touch you. We can put a pillow between us if you like.” You move towards the bed.

There’s a large stack of books sitting on his bedside table, flooded by the warm moss stained light of the antique Tiffany lamp. A single idiosyncrasy of old world charm in a room made stark by its bright modernity. The pile is made up of a book of paintings by Howard Hodgkin, the diaries of Alma Mahler, The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner, the fourth volume of In Search of Lost Time – you appreciate his excellent taste – and at the very top, laying open, facedown, as if he’d just put it down a moment ago, My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard. You find it fascinating to see a book that spoke of life in such a granular way — realistic, simple, a normal man in a normal world, speaking in such extensive, caring detail on the small things in his life — on the bedside table of this enigma, this person who seemed to be, by far and large, a different species to all other men you’d ever met before. To see the spine so cracked and worn — as if he’d read it over and over again, in search of the equation for that simplicity, to thus inject into his own existence – a way to embalm his own world in such appreciation for the small but infinitely significant moments. You wonder if it’s taught him much— if he’s been able to find and implement whatever it was he’d searched for through so many reads. 

“Alright,” he says easily, but the look in his eyes is slightly wary. You recognize Glenn Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations playing softly on the surround sound as you crawl into his bed – under the silk smooth sheets, bringing a pillow to blockade you from him, protect him. You don’t want him to be uncomfortable, but you desperately want to be close to him also. The two of you have barely talked tonight – too caught up in the observation of one another, like two animals circling in the wild. You want to talk to him. Want to hear the sound of his deep voice vibrate through your nerve endings. 

“Intimacy is… difficult for me,” he says slowly, swallowing. “It’s hard for me to get close to people… emotionally, physically. I need time to — I suppose, to warm up to them.”

“That’s — that’s okay. I understand,” you say, because you do, because you’re the same in many ways. 

“It’s why I love art,” he continues. “You can be close to something, feel its warmth, beauty – whatever feeling it is the artist intended to pull out of you, from a distance. Untouched – it’s untouchable. That comforts me for some reason.”

“I think – I think I understand that as well. Something, perhaps, about the idea of a thing remaining as it was initially conceived as, for all time, undisturbed by outside influences.”

“Yes – yes, exactly.” His eyes are alive with the fire of being understood.

You look down at his straining erection. You can’t help it. “You’re hard,” you say. You want to touch him so badly it’s a physical ache inside of you. 

“I’ve been hard since I first saw you.”

“Let me help.”

He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“I was embarrassed that the other patrons would be able to tell how wet my pussy was lying there staring at you.” Shocking words. His eyes flutter shut, fuck, he murmurs under his breath, brings his hand up to rub at his jaw. You’ve noticed he does that a lot – a tell of sorts. He takes several deep breaths, the tension seeming to seep out of his body by sheer force of will. 

You take him in as he settles back into the pillows, relaxing, or at least pretending to. His face, smooth and serene, laying there watching you, despite his heavy erection, but the look in his eyes – it’s also slightly provoking. As if he wants you to challenge him, question him, but also afraid, perhaps, that you’ll force his hand, that he’ll be forced to give in to what you both want before he’s ready. You decide to choose mercy – change the subject. More curious to see how he chooses to play this out.

“Let’s play the question game.”

“The question game?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he turns to lay on his side, facing you. Both of your hands are tucked beneath your cheeks. He’s wearing a soft, worn sweater, a tiny hole at the collar, the sleeves stretched and overly long. Oh, this may just be too much for you to handle. 

“We’ll start with something easy – what’s your favorite color?”

“That’s easy?”

“Yes.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing.

“Depends on the day,” he says very seriously. His blinks are slow, his pupils huge and dilated in the warm light of the lamp. You wonder if he’s taken something. Every time he blinks the thick fringe of his lashes fans over his cheeks, the pause of his languor allows you a moment to appreciate them.

“That’s not an answer – you have to give a real answer.” You want to reach your finger out and brush along that thick fringe, through the patchy hair on his face, threaded through with the smallest hint of silver, stick your nose in his hair and smell him right at the source. 

“It’s the only real answer there is – no one’s favorite color stays their favorite color forever.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Make things purposely difficult.”

A flash of his brilliant white teeth, “Oh, always.” You want very badly for him to bite into your flesh. 

“Okay, fine. What’s your favorite color right now?”

Without hesitation: “The color of your eyes – they’re very strange,” you can tell it’s a compliment, and he finally touches you again. A single finger, just the tip, to the point of your chin, tilting your head back slightly for his inspection, as if you were one of the pieces in his collection. You think you may become one by the end of this. You think you’d like that very much. You can feel the slight edge of his fingernail dig into your soft skin. 

“I already agreed to fuck you. You don’t have to woo me,” you breathe. You realize that, as of yet, he’s not overtly asked you to have sex with him – you throw the words out anyways, hoping to provoke him. This is too much. This man is too much. You don’t know what it is about him, but you want him desperately, like no one you’ve ever wanted before. You want him to overwhelm you – to take you by force. To take all choice and will and autonomy from your hands. You don’t care what will come of this, what will become of you after he’s done with you, if he discards you, forgets you –  none of that matters. All you care about, in this moment, is that he finally decides to take you, that he gives you the opportunity to let go, to relinquish control. To unfold from the pose for just a moment. A slightly deranged spark fizzes in your belly. Your heart pinches a burning little pain at the thought that he hasn’t kissed you yet, that you still don’t know the taste of his mouth. 

“None of my answers satisfy you. And yes, I do need to woo you. I find it very necessary.”

You try and emulate an unaffected scoff, his finger is still on your chin, but you feel your brow unwittingly fold into a confused frown. There is a tight knot of want coiled at the very center of you, burning hot and smoldering, and you need him to pick it apart with these strong fingers. He takes his hand away. The look on his face is very telling. He can read everything going on in your mind, you can tell. He looks like the cat that ate the goddamn canary. You try and take a deep, calming breath. “Alright, now you have to ask me one?” you divert. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you – that’s how the game works. I do one, you do one.”

“Alright,” he’s quiet for a second, contemplating, “Do you have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child. Do you?”

“I had a brother, Damon. He died when we were younger.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well– it was a very long time ago. But thank you. His daughter, Cee, is my ward now. ” Not his niece, not someone mentioned in any capacity as his family. The connection, maintained as if at a distance — his ward — cold. But he gives himself away, his tender vulnerability made transparent, with the sudden flash of bright fondness in his eyes at her name, despite his trying to remain aloof. You are not so easily fooled. You see him despite his attempts to deflect from the true core of himself. 

His gaze is so mercurial – at once relaxed, uncaring, and then flaring into something bright hot like a flash fire. But remote, remote always. Like the very center of him, his true gaze is very far away, very deep within him, and this gaze, the one he presents to the world, is merely a farce, a mask. A shroud he pulls over himself to keep others out. His own golden gossamer. You’re shocked that he’s shared this with you. 

“My parents died when I was very young,” you offer, your own morsel of ragged soul in the face of his sudden vulnerability. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

“It wasn’t so bad, after the fact. I went to live with my aunt – my mother’s sister. She was a dancer. My childhood was… unconventional, but wonderful.”

“What about it was unconventional?”

You laugh a little, looking up at the coffered ceiling above you, the thick beams a rich, glossy mahogany. You feel his gaze on your face like a brand. He has not stopped looking at you since he first started. In a sea of years being observed, his gaze is singular in the pleasure it brings you.

“She was a dancer. I mean—” you hum, “What wasn’t unconventional about it? We lived in New York for several years, then Budapest for a time, and then she brought us here, to Paris, where we stayed until her death – where I’ve stayed since. Her girlfriends were always around – fellow dancers, costumes and makeup, drinking and men. They taught me how to smoke when I was eight — Gauloises like a fucking chimney, at all hours of the day, after that — I forced myself to stop a few years ago. Now I only have one on special occasions, sometimes.” He looks at you like he knows you’re the sort to make a special occasion out of a trip to the market. “She had many lovers. Parties… disaster everywhere, but the riotous, happy sort – not the tragic kind.”

“No?”

“No. Perhaps, to the outside eye it may have appeared different… I don’t know. No life for a child, I think. But it was wonderful. She always protected me. But– but never like a mother. She was never like a mother – more like – a friend, or an older sister.” You laugh fondly at the memories, but also a little sadly. In the eyes of an adult now, you’d never want such a life for a child of your own, as exciting as it was at the time.

“One time someone told me I ended up as I did, naked for the world to ogle at, as a means to earn money, because of her. Because of how she was. And perhaps they were right, but… but not in the way they meant —  to insult me. She taught me what art was, gave me the means to turn myself into it.” 

“Who the fuck said that to you?” His tone makes you look back at him now. All the mystery in his gaze is gone, only fury burns now – very clearly. If he’d let you, you’d cup his cheek, soothe him. 

You can see he isn’t ready yet, though. So all you say is: no one that really mattered – the truth, but you can see that it does not soothe him. 

 “What about you? What was your mother like?” You can appreciate how easily distracted he pretends to be, the deception of it, merely another shroud. 

Another one of his long pauses, filled with his eyes on you. He gives you the gift of his touch again. Thick fingers picking up a strand of your hair, running it between his grasp. You feel the slight ghost-like tingle of the tug along your scalp, there but also not, and a jerking shiver moves through you. All the hair on your body standing on end. Fuck, this man. 

“She was very beautiful – very cruel,” he says slowly, mesmerized by your hair sliding through his fingers. 

“Cruel to you?”

“To the world.”

“Why?”

“But also me.” Succinct in its truth. The thought is a terrible one – for anyone to have been cruel to this magnificent dream of a man. The backs of your eyes pinch. Another long pause. “Hmm,” he tilts his head side to side, still sliding your hair through his fingers, twisting it gently around his hair. He gives it a tiny tug, and you want to scoot forward, even just the smallest bit, just to be a little closer to him, to feel the brush of his belly against yours with the movement of his breathing. “It’s difficult to say – unhappiness, bitterness, boredom. A great and complicated concoction of things that made her into the eternally complex creature she was.”

“She died?”

“Yes. She killed herself.”

“Ezra– I’m so sorry,” the words leave you choked and breathless. 

He says it so plainly, starkly, like a slap to the face, one not meant to cause pain or harm, but shock. One meant to cause fear, something to say, look at how fucked up I am, stay away or I’ll infect you with it too. You scoot closer now, you can’t help it, and he goes immediately still, frozen – eyes wide, hesitant, but you don’t touch him. Your hair is still clutched in his hand, and his eyes move back and forth between your own and his hold on you. You’re close enough now, though, that you can feel the heat rolling off his body. Your eyes flutter shut, you say again: “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“She was too vain to grow to old age.” You feel him relax, comforted by the indication that you’re not going to touch him just yet. “I think she felt it was the only recourse for her.”

You open your eyes again, and he’s still staring at you. You so badly want to know what he’s thinking, to feel the press of his mouth against yours, to know the taste of his tongue, the feel of his incisors pressing into your skin. 

You pivot three-sixty again: “Do you want kids?” He lets out a loud barking laugh at that, head thrown back so the tendons in his neck jump out starkly. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Wet and jealous. 

“This is a very difficult game,” he says, giving you a sly look. 

“We don’t have to play anymore, if you don’t want to.” A great lie – you never want to stop playing with him. 

“No, I want to keep going.” He slides his whole hand into your hair now, palm cupping the entire side of your head in its broad expanse, and you can’t help the desperate moan that claws out of your throat. His responding hum is all-knowing.  “I don’t know. But I love being… I like being able to imagine it.”

Your mind has been lost to a daze induced by the heat of his palm. “Children?” you murmur.

“Yes.”

Your fingers are twisted into the front of your shirt, clawing at yourself to maintain respect for his boundaries. “I want them. Lots of them. I hated being an only child. I always felt alone. I want to have lots of babies.” And his eyes flare with heat at that. The first blazing sign of lust in them tonight. Everything else before this, you realize, was merely a low simmering boil. The fist in your hair tightens so that your head tilts back slightly, the line of your throat exposed for his eyes to follow. 

“Lots of them?” You nod your head minutely, wide eyed, equally ensnared by that look in his gaze as you are by his hand. 

“Then you shall have them, Sparrow.” You let out a shuddering breath, turn your face into the pillow, enjoying the slight pull to your sensitive scalp as his hand follows, try to breathe deep, temper your racing heart. You’re so wet, you can feel it seeping out of you in a constant throbbing stream. The conversation serving as a more intense form of foreplay than anything else you’ve ever done with a man. 

“It’s my turn again. When was the last time you fucked someone?” Blunt – thrown at your face to throw you off kilter. Oh, he fucking loves this. A broken little whimper claws out of your throat at that. Your cheeks are flushed, you can feel them burning, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. The smug look in his eyes taunts you, tells you he knows just how soaked you are. But it is also wild, as wanting as you are. 

“Hmm?” he presses.

“Three years ago.” It’s his turn to be shocked now. You see the pause of surprise in that bright light within his gaze. 

“Three years? Why?”

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to be close to people.”

“And yet you agreed to come here with me?”

“And yet I agreed to come here with you.” You don’t return the question. You wouldn’t like to know, you don’t think. And you can tell he sees that in your gaze, for he doesn’t offer up the information either. You like the mystique of him. Like some eldritch beast, a deity of old, something amorphous, not to be contained or understood. The unknowable aspect of him is appealing to you for reasons you haven't quite figured out yet, despite this game of questions you’re flirting with. 

You go next: “Are you lonely?”

“Yes, very.” A pause, and then: “You are too.” This is no question. He can see it, recognizes the same scent of it that permeates the air around him, following you. “You seemed it, laying in the center of that crowded room, naked – bared for everyone to see.” It is not said cruelly. He is only telling you that which you already know about yourself, that which is plain for the whole world to see. “And then shrouded in gold, as if you wanted to hide that vein of aloneness that flows through you – it didn’t work very well.”

“Do you think everyone could see it?”

“No.” Good. You only wanted him. 

You take another turn, you can’t help but break the rules with him. “Have you ever been with someone who– who you didn’t really want to be with, but you were– you were so lonely and needed… something… or someone?” All the surety you’d posed your previous questions with is gone now. He’s already discerned so much of you, what’s a little more bared skin? “So you just– you just settled for being with that person even though you knew it was wrong, and the only thing on your mind was the other person you really wanted to be with?”

Without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I think that’s the only type of relationship I’ve ever had. Although, the other person hasn’t really existed – just – just something I’ve thought up in my own head.”

“I accidentally called her by the other person’s name. She never spoke to me again. It was terrible– terrible of me.”

“I want to touch you so badly,” you plead suddenly. Unable to hold it in anymore in the light of all he’s shared with you. Your voice cracking and begging. “I want you to touch me, so badly.”

“I know.” Yes, he does. “You want me to fuck you.” All you can do is let your eyes flutter shut, try to continue to breathe, nod your head. 

“Why was your mother cruel to you? What did she do?” You feel like crying now. 

“Many things… I had terrible night terrors as a child. Scared her half to death. I’d scream and cry and sleep walk. For years. She didn’t know what to make of me. Some sort of demon come from her very womb to possess and haunt her house. She hated me – would lock me in a closet furthest from her bedroom to keep my howling away from her.” 

The blazing heat of anger floods your cheeks, your eyes filled with tears, and he clicks his tongue, smoothes his thumb over the slope of your cheek. “None of that, sweet girl.”

“You were just a little boy – she should have– she should have comforted you. Helped you.”

“It wasn’t in her nature. You cannot fault a thing for not being what it was never made to be. She was a killer of soft things – within herself, within me too, I think. Or she tried, at least. She tried to kill everything soft she came into contact with. But she did love me. In her own way – a wrong way, but she did. That comforts me immensely.”

“That she loved you even if it was the wrong way?”

He nods, “And that I loved her – despite all her flaws.”

“Why?”

“I… I appreciate the idea of being a bad person, and still being able to find someone to love you.”

“You’re a killer.” It is not a question for you already know the answer – you can see it in his eyes, it is his inheritance. You know that either way, it won’t make a difference to you. 

“I am, indeed. But, are you?.” The soft curve of his cunning smile is so incredibly beguiling. The most tempting thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life. You shake your head, you’re not, you never have been. You think it must be very obvious at first glance, for the patronizing look he gives you as he asks anyways. 

“Sometimes I can be very bad,” he whispers slowly, drags the tip of his finger over your shoulder, down the swell of your breast, stopping just shy of your peaked nipple, circling the point. 

“What do you do?” your voice is breathless, beseeching. 

He smooths his thumb over your bottom lip, pushes between to get inside, presses down on the hard edge of your bottom teeth to inspect the wet gleam of your tongue. “I steal beautiful things for myself–” His voice is like smoke – his confession fortuitous, on the verge of disappearing. His mystique enshrouds the both of you. You hope you disappear alongside him. 

“Is that what you’re doing now? Stealing me?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like being stolen.”

-

He wakes, very late into the night, or very early in the morning, the confounding blue hue of the outside world seeping in through the heavy drapes over the tall windows. Shielding the two of you from the real world.

Your body is entirely draped over his own. You’ve invaded him in your sleep, taken over all the space and air and thought he’s ever possessed. The soft weight of your breasts presses into his chest, your head tucked in the hollow of his clavicle so that he can feel each pass of your damp breath wash over his throat and chin. He expects to feel overwhelmed, uncomfortable, perhaps even disgusted, so much skin, so much heat, your legs intertwined with his – but all he can focus on is the fullness of your tits pressed up against him, the hot wet apex of your cunt against his thigh. You’re wet in your sleep for him – he can feel your dampness seeping through the silk of your extra panties. 

One of your hands is curled over his shoulder and he brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to the soft, small palm. His hand dwarfs yours, swallows it whole. He sucks each one of the tips of your fingers into his mouth, bites down as gently as he can. Your hips start to shift over him, needy cunt trying to unconsciously rub up against his thigh. 

He’s going to fuck you now. His cock is hard, aching, leaking, balls heavy – has been for ages, but finally, finally his mind has caught up. Thank fuck. 

He passes his palm down the smooth line of your back, pushes his t-shirt you’re wearing up your back to get to your skin. This lovely smooth back he’d spent almost an hour staring at in that gallery. He feels a terrible, unfounded curl of jealousy, once again, that anyone else in the world has ever gazed upon the magnificence that is your skin. He wants it to be only for him, he wants you to be only for him – to own you.

His hand moves down to clutch the full swell of your bottom, pushes under your panties to take a handful of your bare flesh. He bends his knee slightly to put more pressure on your core and starts to roll your hips over him. You let out a soft little moan, sleepy, so sweet. 

“It’s time to wake up, Sparrow. I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Ezra–” you murmur, coming to. Your body seems to take stock of the situation before your mind does, little cunt suddenly grinding down more firmly onto his thigh. You let out a moan that goes straight to his cock. He grips your hips and flips you over, settling between the spread of your thighs, slotting his length into your wet cleft, he starts a slow rock that has his head pressing up and into your clit. 

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.”

Your eyes are glassy, dazed and confused. He says again, “Tell me how you want to be fucked, or I will decide for you.”

And then your soft little voice, grabbing him by the balls and showing him that as sleepy or drowsy or small as you may appear, you’re still aware of the power you hold over him: “I think I’d like you to decide for me, please.”

Fuck– he deepens the pressure of his thrusts so that his tip presses into your opening over your panties. Your jaw is hinged open, panting wet breaths as you moan for him. 

He sits back on his heels then, pulls his t-shirt up over your head and then slides your panties over your hips and down your legs, grips your knees to spread your legs wide for him. 

He was right, your cunt is the same color as your nipples. Beautiful. 

It’s drooling, begging for him, and oh, how that fills him with pleasure – for such a beautiful thing to desire him, as much as he desires it. He ghosts the back of his knuckles over your slit, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide – he bends for a taste, moans deep and long from his chest. 

“Fuck, you’re so sweet. Do you want me to feed your cunt, baby?”

“Ezra, please – yes – I want it so bad.”

“I know, I could see – all night, I could see how hungry you were. I’m going to eat you now.”

Please, please. 

He settles between your thighs. Soft little licks to your swollen clit, then down to thrust his tongue into your hole. He grips the back of one thigh to press it up and back into your chest, uses his other hand to press down low on your pelvis, gives you more pressure as he sucks your clit back into his mouth. He can feel the clench of your pussy around his tongue, the shake in your thighs. Your keening moans move through him, have him grinding his aching cock into the mattress. You’re going to come in his mouth, he can feel it, taste it, your slick running from you, sweet and musky, all for him. 

Your hands clutch at his curls, pulling and tugging hard as you arch your back and start to orgasm. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra. It’s a litany, a benediction. You are a work of art come to life to sing into his ear. 

He gentles his mouth over your quivering sex, laps slowly at your pulsing entrance. He wipes his mouth over the tender slope of your inner thigh and goes back to his knees, licks his palm of your wet as he watches your gaze on him. 

He cradles your small foot in his hold. He likes the thought that he can grasp that which has carried you through your life, in his hand. For some reason, it fills him with immense pleasure, the feel of your soft foot, the thought of you walking through life, walking through the world, towards him, to find him. Always him, only him. 

There is a wound in him, dark, and putrid, overwhelming his existence always. It was only through the cathartic fulfillment of holding a beautiful thing in his hands that he felt reprieved of the terrible thing. He feels that reprieve in this moment, with the delicate weight of your small foot cradled within his palm. 

He brings it to his mouth and digs his thumb harshly into the elegant arch, forcing a moan out of you, deepening the curve of your spine, then drags his teeth along the instep, presses a soft kiss to your first toe. He can see the clench of your little hole at his ministrations, the flush of your skin from the peaks of your breasts to your cheeks. 

Your breath is hitching, breasts quivering with your gasps. He bends to lick into your mouth, thin ankle still held in his grasp, finally, finally taking the taste of your tongue onto his own and you moan, wanton and desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist to bring him closer. 

“I’m going to give you my cock now,” he presses into your skin, open mouthed kisses to your throat, your neck, your breasts. He nips a gentle bite to one swollen little nipple. 

He grasps the base of his cock, passes his hand slowly from root to tip once, twice, and then presses the flushed head to your clit, grinds there for a moment, you jerk, then moves down to your hole, feeds you just the tip. You cant your hips, try and take him deeper, but he holds back, pulls out and moves back up to circle your clit again, and then back down again to press inside. “No, no, no, Ezra, please – I need it so badly – so badly.” He watches a tiny tear, track down your temple and back into your hair, and he gives you the entire thick length of him at that, fucks inside, all the way to the end of you. 

“There? How’s that?” He presses a kiss to your breast, sucks it into his mouth. The taste of you is godly. “Is that better, needy thing?”

“So good – so good,” you sigh. Stretching your arms high above your head, arching your back to let him in deeper. 

“Fuck, yes–” he groans. He sits back on his heels, grips your hips and starts to give it to you hard. The strong swing of his hips causing the soft jiggle of your tits with every thrust. Your eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, soft mouth open and wet. So fucking beautiful. 

“Will you let me fuck your ass too?” Your head is already nodding, all rational thought currently being fucked out of you. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes – anything you want.”

“Good girl.”

He changes the angle, fucks up into that spongy devastating part of you he plans to own after this is done, and he starts to feel the tight pull of your inner muscles working to suck him deeper. “That’s it, beautiful, just like that. Taking me so wonderfully.” 

“God– I– I’m–” you press your palms to his belly and he brings one of your ankles up to his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bone. 

“God isn’t here right now – just me–” He grits his teeth, gives it to you harder. He can feel his orgasm start to pool, hot and liquid, at the base of his spine, balls drawing up tight. 

“Give me another, Sparrow, one more. Need to feel it around my cock,” spit through clenched teeth. 

“Oh, fuck – that’s so good,” you moan, and then you’re milking him, pulling his come out of him with the tight wet clutch of your muscles. 

“Fucking perfect, yes – just like that.” He lets his head roll back on his neck, hand grasping your ankle as he fills you. 

-

He watches you eat your pain au chocolat. Sitting in the warm morning sun of the observatory. Tiny bites of the flaky sweet bread, dollop of chocolate sitting at the corner of your mouth that he plans to lick off in a second. He is mesmerized. He knows, empirically, he probably looks like a fucking creep, staring you down as he is, but he can also see the subtle preen in your gaze when you glance up at him every so often. You enjoy this part of your play as much as he does, so it seems. The watching. 

“Will you let me take you somewhere today?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Brazil? I’d show you the farm.”

You swallow, the most guileless eyes he’s ever beheld, shining in the light. “Brazil? Really?”

“Of course, treasure. Or anywhere you want. Your happiness is mine to watch over now. I would do anything for you.” As he says it, he can tell, you did not lie when you said you’d like to be stolen. 

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect fic #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect fanfiction #prospect 2018 #prospect fic #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #ezra prospect smut

[anthurak]

So this is almost certainly going to be an unpopular opinion for some, but for a long time now I’ve been feeling that the RWBY fandom puts just a bit TOO much stock in the various fairytale/mythology/literary allusions of the characters when it comes to theory-crafting. It feels like people find out that a certain character A is an allusion to another character B from an already completed story and go ‘Well that must mean that Character A is going to turn out just like Character B!’

Which of course completely ignores that these are allusions and references. Ruby Rose might have strong parallels and similarities to Little Red Riding Hood, but that does not mean she IS literally Little Red Riding Hood. Just as Weiss Schnee is NOT literally Snow White, Penny Polendina is NOT literally Pinocchio and Oscar Pine is NOT literally the Little Prince. Ultimately, whatever allusion a character might have comes SECOND to who they are as an actual character, NOT the other way around.

Whatever allusions a character has might inform what could happen to them, but that should still be treated as secondary to what we actually see them do in the show.

For example, I see a LOT of ships in the RWBY fandom that people seem to largely use interpretations of the characters’ allusions as ‘evidence’, rather than what the characters actually DO in the actual SHOW. Like has anyone noticed that discussions of ships like Bumbleby, Renora, Nuts and Dolts or White Rose have historically not involved much interpretation (relatively speaking anyway) of the potential ‘complimentary allusions’ of these characters? Because there is no NEED to, because all the evidence for these ships is right fucking there on the screen. Meanwhile we’ve got ships (and I am NOT naming names) that people will swear up and down are TOTALLY going to be canon for really-realsies where most or even all of the ‘evidence’ consists of people effectively playing some kind of matching game with their allusions. Or saying nothing more than ‘Character A kinda-sorta resembles the love-interest of Character B’s allusion’.

And ALL of this doesn’t even take into account the biggest factor which I keep getting the impression that WAY too many RWBY fans still having gotten the memo on:

The fact that RWBY literally NEVER plays its allusions STRAIGHT.

All the way from minute one when we saw an allusion to Little Red Riding Hood cutting down a horde of Big Bad Wolves, RWBY has ALWAYS been subverting, inverting, flipping, twisting and otherwise playing it’s allusions, references and archetypes literally ANY way but actually STRAIGHT.

Little Red Riding Hood hunts the Big Bad Wolf. Snow White is equal parts Princess AND Knight in Shining Armor. Cinderella is a tragic villain origin story. Pinocchio was always a real girl. The Great and Powerful Wizard Oz is far more powerful than anyone thought, but is ALSO far more of a fraud than anyone thought.

So when people use these characters’ allusions as some kind of rigid road-map to theorize what might happen to them, it’s not just that this detracts from their identity as their own characters; the story itself isn’t even using that map!

I mean speaking personally, that’s what has always made RWBY theory-crafting FUN. Trying to guess how the writers might twist and flip the allusions they’re using. But that also means that the allusions of the various characters simply DON’T actually provide ANY kind of accurate ‘road-map’ for where they might be going. Instead, the best we can do is use what the actual show has actually shown us to get any kind of idea where the characters are headed.

Ultimately, I feel like too often I see that when people are making theories about RWBY characters, they are treating them more like the characters they are based on, instead of the characters they actually ARE.

#rwby #rwby theorizing #rwby theory-crafting #rwby allusions #rwby analysis #rwby fandom #fandom criticism #the only way rwby won't play its allusions is STRAIGHT #i'm amazed there are so many people who seem to have NOT gotten that memo yet

[natimiles]

RANDOM HEADCANONS ABOUT ISAAC

Platonic/General:

★ Huge urge to protect you, even though his two responses are “run or flight”. He tries his best. He attempted to bite you on your first night, so he made it his personal goal to never do it again and to protect you from anyone (Arthur) who tries to bite you (Arthur), even if it’s just teasing (Arthur).

★ He loves it when you protect him too. He will come to you when he needs advice on something or needs to hide from Arthur and Dazai. You’re scolding the two writers, and Isaac is behind you, hugging you around your shoulders, a huge pout on his mouth, and glaring at them too — it’s not as threatening as he thinks.

★ He listens to your every trouble without judging (much). Be warned that if you mention liking someone he believes is not worthy of you, he will say his piece about it.

★ He can draw and you can’t convince me otherwise. He might not be as talented as Vincent, but he can do some sketches. He tells everyone he’s busy with work, but he’s drawing some random scenery to relax. You’re the only one who knows about it. He will draw you, but never show it to you — unless you accidentally find it and now he’s a shy mess.

Romantic:

★ He’d go to the future with you, if only you asked. He has new friends in the mansion, even though he denies it, but they’re not really keeping him there. He’s been there for only 5 years. And you can’t convince me that he wouldn’t be curious about the future and all the technology. 

★ If he goes to the future, he’ll use his real name without problems. It’s not like people would suspect he’s the real Isaac Newton. Modern people tend to name their kids after historical figures and celebrities, so it wouldn’t be a big deal. And that would make you Mrs. Newton.

★ Although he’s comfortable living in the mansion, he wants to live with you when you get married (contrary to the wedding event). I mean, you two are starting a new life and a new family together (even if you don’t have kids, it’s still a family!), it doesn’t make sense (to me) to continue living with 11 other men that want to fight for your attention. You’d visit them often though, and have nice family lunches together on Sundays.

★ His love language is undoubtedly ‘acts of service’. Whatever he can do for you, he will. Whether it’s splitting all the house chores with you or cooking something to cheer you up, he’s always ready to lend a helping hand. He can tell when you’re too tired, and he won’t let you do anything besides resting. Don’t even try; it’s a lost battle for you.

★ I’ve searched everywhere and didn’t find a pet name he uses. So, here’s a list I think he’d call you: dear, darling, my little apple pie and apple of my eye. For obvious reasons (Arthur and Dazai), the last two are only used in private.

★ He’d look ravishing with his ears pierced, something like the ear cuff the van Goghs have or a hoop like Arthur. And that’s just me simping.

NSFW:

★ He likes your breasts/nipples, so he might be into you playing with his too.

★ He’s shy the first time you bring up the idea of trying new things, but he really likes it. In the bath? Check. Temperature play? Check. Blindfold? Shibari? Mirrors? Impact play? Check, check, check, check! Wherever your imagination takes you, he’s following you with a furious blush. Hello, Mr. Wolf!

★ What I think he ends up liking: shibari or simple handcuffs, edging and begging, mirrors (he loves looking at you), blindfold (for you, same reason), nipple play (duh), dirty talking and biting (yup, for both).

★ He has a praise kink and nothing changes my mind. Don’t even try degrading him.

★ He is a switch. He likes it when you make a mess of him, edging him until he can’t take it anymore. But be warned: hello again, Mr. Wolf! He will tease you and he loves to hear you asking, begging. Light touches that only make you more horny, squirming under him; he shoots you a smirk and tells you to use your words.

★ He is loud as fuck.

Countdown to Isaac’s Birthday: random hcs | 4 days!

#countdown to isaac's birthday #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp hcs #ikevamp headcanons #ikevamp isaac #isaac headcanons #isaac hcs #ikemen vampire headcanons #ikemen vampire hcs #ikemen vampire x reader #ikevamp x reader

[witchsickness]

steve doesn’t really get what hargrove’s deal is.

he’s just, like, waiting for him in his car after school, doing absolutely nothing wrong at all, when hargrove wrenches the door open. almost pulls it off its hinges, fuming like he picked a fight with the world and got knocked down before the first round was over.

and to think that steve went as far as throwing a foreigner tape in the player, because it’s the only music he owns that hargrove barely tolerates. barely.

point is, steve’s done nothing wrong, but hargrove still growls at him, the second his back hits the seat, ‘we need to talk.’

‘oh. right,’ steve says, because he knows exactly what we need to talk means. he’s already calculating all the detours he’ll have to take from now on to avoid every memory-stained spot.

it’s a bummer. hawkins isn’t nearly big enough for a heartbreak.

nothing happens for a bit. hargrove’s silent next to him, eyes fixed straight ahead like he’s hoping for some divine intervention to get him out of this particular pickle. it’s almost funny, how uncomfortable he looks. deserves it, though. that’ll teach him to go around breaking people’s hearts.

eventually, he barks, ‘not fuckin’ here, obviously,’ and then adds, softer and a beat too late, ‘just. drive, will you?’ and spends the rest of the drive gripping the edge of his seat.

it’s a shame. steve really loves that tape. too bad he’ll never listen to foreigner again.

the second steve pulls up by the lake he’ll spend the rest of his life avoiding, hargrove fishes his pack out of his pocket. he plucks a cigarette out, but his hands are shaking so much it gets sucked into the black hole under the seat. maybe steve will find it, months later, and store it away as a keepsake of the day billy hargrove broke his heart.

‘jesus christ,’ hargrove mutters, fingers drumming a wild rhythm on his knees. ‘let’s make something clear. i’m being real nice, telling you this. i don’t have to.’

the alternative would be to get cold-shouldered without a heads-up, presumably. honestly, hargrove’s being very honorable, breaking up with him face to face. steve should be grateful.

plenty of time for that. he can be grateful after tearing the shirt hargrove left at his place a month ago to ribbons.

hargrove, who mumbles something, and rolls his eyes when steve frowns at him. then. then, he says, quietly, ‘okay, fuck. okay. i’m gonna be in love with you. real soon.’

the screeching sounds must be in steve’s head, because the engine’s off. can’t have a crash if the car’s not moving, right?

blinking at hargrove, who’s currently chewing his thumbnail and avoiding steve’s eyes, steve says, ‘come again?’

hargrove scoffs. ‘absolutely not. god, why did i think you’d be even remotely cool about this?’

steve would genuinely like to know, since, historically, he’s never been cool about anything, ever. ‘you—what,’ he says instead, ‘what the fuck, billy. who announces they will be in love with someone? nobody does that.’

‘i do,’ hargrove snaps back, defensive in a way he has no right to be. ‘and it’s a warning.’

things are moving at breakneck speed, and, honestly, steve just needs everything to stop for a second, so he can start catching up. ‘a warning,’ he repeats, ‘what for?’

‘so you can get out,’ hargrove mutters, shrugging, and suddenly. steve knows exactly what’s going on.

‘before it’s too late, you mean. before you. before you fall in love with me.’

hargrove shrugs again, staring at the lake ahead. ‘’s only fair.’

‘right,’ steve says, nodding even though hargrove still won’t look at him. ‘in this scenario, do i dump you before or after telling you i’ve been in love with you for a month?’

at that, hargrove whips his head up. finally. ‘what the fuck, harrington. why didn’t you say anything?’

‘uh. you just kidnapped me to tell me you’re not in love with me yet.’

‘means i will be.’

it’s infuriating, actually, that he’s got a point. steve rolls his eyes, and then shuts hargrove up with his mouth, objectively the most effective way to keep him from doing something stupid. when hargrove whimpers at the back of his throat, steve swallows it. all in all, it’s a good kiss. a really good kiss.

‘how long will it take, do you think?’ steve asks, when hargrove lets him pull back. they’re both skirting breathlessness, and smiling like idiots about it. ‘like, how soon are we talking here?’

hargrove blushes up to his ears. ‘shut up, okay?’ he says, and then, ‘soon, like, a couple of months ago.’

#harringrove #harringroveweek #confessions isn't today's prompt but i wanted to post sth! #billy hargrove #steve harrington #my stuff

[sizzleissues]

So here’s what I think the reverser world looks like (can’t wait to see I’m wrong or have thought about this too much)

Origins

The guardians and Master Fu are a malicious organisation that controls and deals the miraculous. Whether the kwami’s agree to this I’m not sure but historically the miraculous were used for personal gain and power, with occasional blips of heroic holders but their miraculous were always eventually reclaimed by the Order through bloody means.

The organisation and thus the havoc it wrecked on the world disappeared in a fire (Master Fu still fucks everything up but on purpose this time). Most miraculous housed there were destroyed and the miracle box (the most powerful) was stolen as Master Fu escaped. He lost two on the way. The Butterfly and Peacock.

He thought they were destroyed until where Origins would have taken place, a champion appears.

Master Fu immediately finds two souls to take his most powerful miraculous in order to retrieve the lost pair. He selects two people with a bone to pick with society and no problem causing some mass destruction to lure Hesperia out.

Gabriel

Gabriel seeks out the legend of the miraculous in hopes to use their powers for good. Tales of them being heroically used are rare but he believes that the miraculous are neutral, they aren’t inherently evil things. A book on them had been passed down through his family so he knows of their powers. He finds the lost two and decides to study them with his wife before using them on strangers.

They find the peacock is broken but Emilie becomes enchanted with its power to create life. She cannot do the same. In a fit of despair she uses the miraculous to create a son. She soon falls ill. Their son has always been strange due to the circumstances of his creation. Gabriel focuses on raising him for the time being and caring for his sickly wife.

Upon her death she instructs Gabriel to use the Butterfly for good. To create a better world for Adrien. Soon, Gabriel creates his first champion.

Marinette

A Marinette that did not have the same resilient kindness as her normie counter part (though under all that eyeliner there are the kindlings of what she could have been). She soured from Chloe’s toture and became jaded with society.

Her parents are never around, too busy working too many jobs after Chloe has their bakery shut down. They are still good people but they are tired and can’t support Marinette the same. She’s allowed to fester hate while putting on a pleasant face at home.

She blames the system for no supporting her family. For allowing people like Chloe to wave her hand and ruin lives. She wants revenge.

A perfect candidate for Master Fu’s plan.

Adrien

He can’t help but know he’s the reason his mother is sick. He realises this in her last years and spirals because of this

His mother was always distant with him - afraid of her creation and thinking him the curse affecting her health.

Gabriel is overly optimistic - never admitting the obvious and avoiding the problem. This infuriates him. Gabriel never blamed Adrien from what Emile did. He loved his wife but the decision to create Adrien and cause her downfall had been her decision, Adrien was the blameless product of a power he’d warned her was dangerous.

He’s Adrien was even less self-esteem and his mother never gave him a loving streak. Gabriel may be good but he’s still emotionally constipated. He spoils Adrien to make up for it but it does nothing to help.

Adrien’s self-hatred turns outward in a violent rebellious phase. As son of the philanthropist and fashion designer, Gabriel Agreste, his misbehaving is on a world stage. Gabriel attempts to uphold the brand image but it only makes Adrien hate him.

(Adrien does love his father. Deep down… very deep down)

Another perfect candidate for Master Fu.

They both take the power willingly, doing as Master Fu instructed even before he tells them what to do.

That’s a wrap

#sizzle rambles #miraculous ladybug #ml paris special #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste

[former-leftist-jew]

i’m a little anxious to send this not on anon but i saw one of your posts where a comment mentioned jewish conversion and you seemed to support it. my boyfriend is jewish and i would like to convert to judaism but a lot of the research i’ve done says that you can’t convert, you have to be born into it since it’s an ethno-religion. i know everyone has different beliefs about this but i worry i won’t be accepted

Hello tyblackthornsheadphones, welcome!

"my boyfriend is jewish and i would like to convert to judaism"

Oooh! Mozel tov! I'm always so happy to meet new people who want to join the Jewish community! <3

"a lot of the research i’ve done says that you can’t convert, you have to be born into it since it’s an ethno-religion"

Oh dear, I'm so sorry to hear that! D: There's so much misinformation being passed around online. :( Thankfully, I'm happy to report that those sources are incorrect: It IS possible to convert to Judaism. ^_^

Like any group, though, how friendly any given Jew is to potential Jewish converts depends on the individual and/or the group they belong in. Just as there's elitism and gatekeeping in every group of people ever (like high school cliques and video game circles--"you're not a REAL gamer unless X"), unfortunately you'll also find some snobbery, elitism, and gatekeeping in Judaism. :(

Though I think Rabbi Friedman has a very loving and accepting view of Jews by conversion. ^_^

The way I see it, the differing experiences of a "Jew-by-birth vs a Jew-by-conversion" can be comparable to an American citizen who was just born on American soil vs an American immigrant who had to go through a long and rigorous bureaucratic process to become an American citizen--they have to learn everything there is to know about American history, presidents, laws, customs, the legal system; spend a "probational period" living in America to become a naturalized citizen, etc.

(The Jewish religion used to be very conversion friendly, but that came to an end when Christianity and Islam became huge world powers who outlawed the Jewish community "tempting" good Christians or Muslims away from the One True Faith.

Jewish identity also used to be passed down from father to children in ancient times--as you'll see in the Torah--but that was changed by Hillel the Elder during the tyrannical reign of King Herod--yes, THAT King Herod! Hillel did this partly to give the children of Jewish mothers who were abandoned by their non-Jewish fathers a place in Jewish society, and he did this partly as a big old political "fuck you!" to King Herod, whose father was only nominally Jewish and his mother was a foreign gentile woman.)

Chabad is an Orthodox Jewish organization.

And here's a link from a Reform Judaism POV. ^_^

In my experience, Reform Jewish synagogues and organizations tend to be more accepting of and friendly to Jewish converts. (Though it's not universal! Sadly, there are snobs everywhere. D:)

So if I were you, I would just start with checking out some books on Judaism from your local library, attend Friday night or Saturday morning Shabbat services with your boyfriend (that's usually a time when non-Jewish guests attend).

If your local college has a Hillel or Chabad Jewish student organization, I would visit that too! They usually host fun events that are free and open to to all, especially students who're just interested in connecting with other Jewish students, and learning about Jewish identity. ^_^

In the meantime, I'd just take time to study and learn about Jewish history and culture just for fun.

I think Sam Aranow's "Jewish History" Youtube series is a very entertaining way to learn about Jewish history, from ancient to modern.

Unfortunately I have to go to work now, but if you have ANY other questions, please reach out to me! I LOVE sharing knowledge and resources about Judaism, especially to potential converts who show a genuine interest and curiosity.

(Jewish culture can be, in my opinion, not as accepting and welcoming of potential Jewish converts as they should be, and I want to make up the difference. ^_^ )

#jumblr #judaism #jewblr #jewish #jewish convert #jewish conversion #welcome to judaism! #we're happy to have you ^_^ #jewish history #jewish culture #jewish positivity #jewish joy #jewish tumblr #am yisrael chai

[nerdyqueerandjewish]

obviously these things are not all on the same scale but the compounding of personal, communal, and global events just have me 🫠

- End of Sept my beloved childhood dog had to be put down

- October 7th, Hamas attack

- October 9th, get a call from my dad that he’s flying in because grandma unexpectedly took a downturn

- October 10th, nervously waiting for my dad’s update all day. Finally get it and hear that things are critical but stable. He feels optimistic after talking to the doctor. He was able to talk to her too. She’s too tired in the evening because dialysis is tiring,but I should visit tomorrow.

- October 11th wake up early and can’t go back to sleep. Go get coffee just for something to do. Gets call at 6:58 from my dad and I know it can’t be good. Go to the hospital. See her. Give the doctors permission to start palliative care so she’s more comfortable. Hold her hand. Give her so many forehead kisses. She cant talk, but she tears up when I tell her how much I love her and my future plans. My dad is wearing a stupid fucking pro-cop shirt and I can’t help but be angry about how clueless he is and for adding this stupidity to a day that’s going to be etched into my brain for the rest of my life. Every 15 minutes or so when the nurse checks in, they remind us that there no rush, but we can take her oxygen mask off whenever we are ready. When are we ready? How are we ever ready? We know she doesn’t want to be kept on life support. Are we ready? We know she is experiencing some discomfort all hooked up like that. Are we ready? Let’s wait for one more person to get here. Are we ready? We wish she could tell us what she wanted. Are we ready? After everyone got to say goodbye. I think my partner was the one to finally suggest that it was time and I agreed. Or was it me who said it? My dad was looking for any input. An only child, not wanting to make these decisions alone. I slip into my historic role of eldest daughter, not even much younger than him anymore, knowing a decision is better than no decision. My sister and I each have one of her hands. As soon i can no longer hear her last exhale, the doctor comes in to declare her time of death. People spend different amounts of time after. My sister has to go back to work. My dad stays around, then says he’s going to grab his sweatshirt from his truck, then texts and says he’s going to find somewhere for us to get brunch. I spend about an hour with her after she was gone. Holding her hand, kissing her forehead, rubbing her arm until it’s completely cold. It takes longer than I’d thought. I keep a lock of her hair. It’s hard to leave her bedside. Next time I touch her body it will be pulverized bone that I’m trying to scoop into a locket. My partner and I get brunch with my dad.

This grief is by far the most difficult thing I’ve had to deal with in my life, and I don’t think my life has been particularly easy. She was the source of unconditional love I could depend on in my life. She was only 68 so I took for granted there would be more time. I’m able to cling to knowing that she was ready even if I wasn’t, that she had a peaceful death with people she loved. Meanwhile I’m seeing headlines every day grief multiplied over and over again, learning more about the attack, learning more about the Israeli military response escalating, bombings, bringing more and more death and grief. Violent deaths with last moments that haunt and terrify me. Deaths where the mourners do not get the comfort that I’ve been clinging to. Grieve for Jews and I have people who I consider my peers deciding that this means I’m some sort of right wing nationalist who doesn’t give a shit about Palestinians. Grieve for Palestinians, and people in my community think I’m some sort of self hating jew who believes terrorists attacks are justified. Feeling rejection on multiple fronts when shit is real. Even writing it I can hear a response of “really, feeling rejection is hurting you? People are dying!” And it’s like YES- people dying doesn’t mean that suddenly we no longer experience the human need for connection AND the thing that’s causing this rejection is seeing people’s humanity and CARING ABOUT THOSE DEATHS.

Really I just don’t know how a person can’t see their own grief and pain reflected back again and again in other people.

Don’t really have a point to this aside from the fact that this is definitely warping my brain in new and exciting ways but just shout out to people who are dealing with Major World Events and Major Life Events at the same time time. It sucks ass.

#tw grief #death tw #do not clown on this post or I will go insane

[mermaidsirennikita]

ARC REVIEW: You Should Be So Lucky by Cat Sebastian

4.25/5. Releases 5/7/24.

Vibes: New Yooooork, romance so sweet you have to smile, love after loss, and like... I don't know how to put this... the feeling Bull Durham gives me but gay and less toxically masculine?

Heat Index: 4/10

Reporter Mark Bailey doesn't want to cover baseball, and he especially doesn't want to cover Eddie O'Leary, a former rising star who's been playing the worst ball of his life. But it may be better than staying at home and mourning the partner he never got to claim while he was alive. Eddie, on the other hand, is a bit perturbed about giving a personalized account of his current losses to an apparent snob. But as they travel around New York together, Mark finds himself giving some of his own story to Eddie... and falling in love in the process. It's impossible for Eddie to be out, and Mark doesn't want to be someone's secret again--what could their future possibly be?

I love Cat Sebastian, and this book gives me what I want from her: humor, swoony romance, and a richly described, fleshed out world. I've been really impressed by her ability to weave in a setting that really doesn't have a strong "background" in historical romance--midcentury NYC. The way she writes it feels both nostalgic and tangible; and it's not easy for historical romance authors to step out of the settings readers are more used to (Regency, Victorian).

There's something cozy and wry to the way Eddie and Mark fall in love, and I frankly adored their contrasting personalities. Young, somewhat bewildered Eddie, trying his fucking best all the time. Picky, somewhat pretentious, jaded Mark--just unable to stop himself from falling for Eddie's puppyish eagerness.

If you loved We Could Be So Good, you'll love this. If you're less familiar with Sebastian, I suspect you will, too.

Quick Takes:

--There's a rich history of baseball movies, right? Many of which are enjoyed by people who don't get baseball. As referenced above, I personally love Bull Durham (even if the stars are............................... hmm). I have no idea what goes on during baseball, but I do. This book works similarly. You can tell Sebastian knows what she's talking about, you don't have to understand baseball to get the book. It's portrayed in that kind of shorthand that's really about creating a vibe and a setting for the love story, which is so smart.

--I loved the way Mark's grief was depicted. It's arguably harder for him to move on with his life because so few people know that he is grieving, that he did lose his partner. And it's not treated as something that has to compete with his new love for Eddie, and it's not treated like something that's just going to magically go away. It's always going to be there; and it can exist beside his love for Eddie without invalidating it.

I find that a lot of romance novels involving widows and widowers downplay the previous spouse, and I get that. It's difficult to tell a love story that could be accidentally overshadowed by a previous one. However, that can be a little repetitive for me, and it was nice to read a book in which the romance was so tender and so REAL and so centered (there isn't much PLOT PLOT here--it's two people falling in love, there ya go) that also acknowledged that there was another tender and real love story beforehand. Plus, Eddie's understanding and lack of insecurity makes him even more lovable.

--In a lot of ways, this book is low stakes. It's mostly character, there isn't a lot of drama in the romance, they get along, and so forth. However, on the other hand... it does have very high stakes, right? Eddie cannot be a successful professional athlete while being out. Mark, who's kind of quietly out (and works at a newspaper that is pretty much aware of this and okay with it, through some stuff that has to do with WCBSG) understandably doesn't want to be hidden in the shadows. How do we address that?

Personally, I really liked how Sebastian did it. Balancing realism and romance is challenging, and I think she handled this without sacrificing either aspect.

--Ooooh I love people falling in love without realizing it, and damn, Mark does that. But you as the reader also kind of slip into them being in love, too. It feels totally natural. There's a real "that's the summer I fell in love" to this one, and I don't really know if that's going to make sense to a lot of people, but it does to ME.

The Sex:

The door isn't CLOSED, but it's kinda close to being there. You know exactly what's happening, and there are several scenes, but it's all sort of... implied. Even though you're there with them. It's all very romantic (and kind of titillating at points--it's so fun to see Eddie and Mark talk around sex and then get very blunt about it at points) but I would be lying if I said I didn't miss the heat level Sebastian wrote in The Queer Principles of Kit Webb. It's not ridiculous level of heat, it's just a bit more explicit.

Read this and get lulled into love--while also kind of wanting a hot dog? (Literally, not figuratively.) And to walk down a sidewalk in a sort of warm and nonexistent yet also very existent New York City? Talking to someone you're falling for, knowing that they're falling for you, while imagining kissing their mouth?

It's that sensibility.

Thanks to NetGalley and Avon for providing me with a copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

#romance novel blogging #romance novels #arc reviews #netgalley #book recs #books #book reviews

[antonio-chandranis-dream-blog]

TODAY'S DREAM. EARTH YEAR 2005 A.D.

Um.

My name is Antonio Chandrani-Rivera. I’m 15 years old and my alchemy has been fluctuating, so I somehow. Can be. Here.

Via my gorgeous abode!

Yes. Through that. Shut up. Why do you sound more girlish than usual?

Though… I think I’m dreaming. I must be.

Oh, darling! You certainly aren’t.

So I am… Only in a dream would I worry this much over Alejandro of all people. I could be with Diego right now. Or doing oceanic combat with Layla or Raj. Even if I’m in the [UNKNOWN COORDINATES], isn’t it better just to find Leo?

I read in my history books that Earthians in the year 2005 “blog.” I guess we have something in common even after 100,000 years… Weird as shit.

I need a private place to talk about this one idiot. As far as I understand about the more emotional(?) humans in the year 2005, they love “comms” and hate “epic fails.” But this place seems like it has no comms and has a lot of epic fails.

Historically, in the year 2005 A.D., when elemental prowess among humans was still burgeoning, the renown dumbf*ck of 100,000 years ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ fell in love with a beauty. ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ kept hanging around that annoying beauty and the two along with L̶͉̹̩̞͗̔͆̀͐͌͐-̸̡̞͇͍͇̼̬̪̤̘͖̗̪̟͆̀̀̽̐͋̐̒̓̏̌̐͂͠ͅ-̵̛͈̲̲̹̩̩͒̎̌̈́͑̈́̓̉̈́̆͑͋̀͝ĺ̴̟͍̟̘͚̼̿̃͆̄͑̉͒ą̴͇̩̫̮̮͈͍̰̊̾̐̑͆̈̈́͝͝ simply ACCIDENTALLY protected the fated child. I can’t stand it… Thinking of them.

But I’m not ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒… I’m Antonio Chandrani-Rivera from 100,000 years in the future. I’m alright. I’ll be fine.

The truth is, I can’t remember.

What was I thinking about? That’s right.

Alejandro Caldera gave me a historical artifact. Not anything from 100,000 years ago and especially not from Earth, and instead from our own planet. Obviously. Still, it’s something quite old.

He said I give him too much. Too many…gifts. I can’t believe he even called them that. Is he stupid? The last thing I gave him was a nail clipper.

It’s a gorgeous book. A pretty green even with the glitzy gold. It’s from his own family’s archive. The family that despises me…

Don’t you even worry, young Nasir. If you have trouble, I can ascertain you might get some answer… Or zero. I have to admit, it’s a bit spotty for me here. Only that one’s very over-besotted over your potential in that era… In a timeline like this.

What the fuck are you talking about? Why are you able to interfere with my posts to this level? This wasn’t worth it, was it…?

It’s never worth it with Alejandro Caldera. What should I do? Can people on Earth decode runes yet? There’s runes all over this thing… Alejandro says he hid something for me in this book. He was too playful…! Whatever it is, it seems like such a gentle thing.

You should avoid someone that gentle, Nasir.

I will never listen to you, djinn. And like usual, my name is Antonio.

What should I do…? Ugh, I’m so annoyed…

This odd dreamy blog has a poll function, so I’ll let someone else decide! If no one decides, I guess I’ll have to figure something out on my own.

#antonio cant see this so i his beloved djinn shall tag it for him :3c #character blog #artists on tumblr #gay people #dumbass child #he should probably go cool off under a waterfall #Blue Horizon verse via Naila Moonsi

[aronarchy]

https://twitter.com/butchanarchy/status/1490789517812551685

Anarchism doesn’t rely on the idea that there just won’t be any harmful people in an anarchistic world. Many of us recognize there will likely always be some harmful people, so it’s best not to keep around apparatuses of control that allow them to do that harm on a massive scale.

Truly, if you believe “there will always be bad people” then the logical conclusion of that is “so let’s make sure the harm they can do is limited and challengeable,” not “so let’s build a huge social structure that allows us to control them and hope 🤞 none of them take power of it!”

You don’t need to have an optimistic view of how much better humans will be without systems of domination to be an anarchist. You can just be like “yeah a lot of folks are fucked up so it’d probably be better if we didn’t have a system that gives some the power to kill thousands.”

I do hold that optimistic view, but it’s also secondary in terms of why I’m an anarchist. I’m a survivor of several different kinds of violence that were made possible by structures of domination. I know people have the capacity to do so much harm and I want to limit that capacity.

If people will continue to be harmful regardless of the system they live in, then it would be a profound improvement to make sure that the people they hurt have the capacity to respond and to challenge them, rather than being restricted by that person’s system-granted authority.

Ex: Would the abuse I experienced as a child not have occurred if I had grown up an anarchist world? Quite possibly. The values they had were in many ways the products of the historical and social context in which we lived that validated and encouraged that abuse.

But what’s more important to me is not the idea that my parents just would have been good and not abusive in a different world, but rather I would have had the agency to leave or to find allies in challenging that abuse even if they had still been abusive people.

I experienced harm from my individual parents, yes, and we can talk all day about the social/historical context that made them abusive. But the point is that the larger system of control that gave them total authority over me is what made the trauma I experienced possible.

This goes for so so much of the violence and harm in our world. It is astronomically compounded by structures of domination that make it incredibly easy for people who want to do harm to take advantage of and advance their own power.

My view is, if there truly are always going to be harmful people, I’d much rather encounter them on equal terms than have social systems in place that make it exponentially more dangerous to resist or challenge them.

And that’s anarchism, too.

https://twitter.com/butchanarchy/status/1490811884848783361

Comments limited now because I have little patience for liberals today but since this is the second version I’ve gotten of this question since posting I’ll try to answer shortly below.

https://web.archive.org/web/20220207215801/https://twitter.com/Variant_Scott/status/1490805788452941825

What’s going stop the harmful people from creating their own apparatuses of control?

Anarchism is not simply a process of negation, nor has it ever been. Destroying systems of domination also requires building collective and ongoing practices of anti-power, which includes building the capacity to attack new systems of domination as they arise.

Anarchism is not only about removing or reducing people’s ability to do harm, but also increasing people’s ability to address and challenge harm when it happens. It is an ongoing process, not an end of history.

#repost of someone else’s content #twitter repost #butchanarchy #FAQ #anarchism #youthlib

[usergreenpixel]

JACOBIN FICTION CONVENTION MEETING 32: DANTON (1983)

1. The Introduction

Hello, fellow Citizens!

(Insert the “fellow kids” meme)

I’m back with a freshly made review for today’s meeting of the Jacobin Fiction Convention! I apologize for all the delays but a series of unlucky events in my personal life made everything too much of a shitshow.

Anyway, luckily I’m doing better now so let’s proceed with the meeting. Grab drinks and snacks and enjoy yourselves while we begin.

Before we get to the actual review, I have to say that reviewing this movie had been on my list pretty much ever since I joined the community and saw those lizard cake memes. Luckily, the entire thing is on YouTube, in French but with English subtitles as an option in the settings.

However, I also kept avoiding it because I wanted to dip my feet into the world of obscure media and also because I was afraid that this movie would idolize Danton (who was a fucking creep historically, even by the standards of the time).

Unfortunately, upon watching the movie itself I realized that my fear was more than justified. Not only that, but I believe it’s supposed to be some kind of political commentary on 80s Poland… a commentary that completely flew over my head because I didn’t live in that time period and it’s not my forte at all.

But, since it’s a Polish movie and half the cast is Polish, I dedicate the review to @edgysaintjust and to all the other Polish folks in my audience. Perhaps you guys can enlighten me on the political context while I voice my opinion on the movie as a work of fiction.

Okay, let’s fucking go before I bore you to death.

2. The Story

The movie is about Danton’s fall from grace, trial of the Dantonists and their execution. I believe @frevandrest made posts about the trial but it was very much a sham and a mess hotter than dog shit in summer.

Personally, I found the storyline quite easily digestible but it takes a more black-and-white approach that, in my opinion, does the real event a disservice.

Danton and Co are portrayed mostly in the positive light (more on that later) as the real advocates of the people and are juxtaposed with the tyrannical and radical dictatorship of Robespierre and the Committee, even though here Robespierre is a more complex character than in some other works of fiction.

Thankfully the plot is very much to the point with very little filler that felt unnecessary so props to the crew for doing an overall good job and not even thermidorizing everything as much as I feared they would!

For instance, we don’t have Robespierre actively gloating as Danton is being led to the guillotine or watching everything (because he didn’t watch and gloat in real life either) and there are hints that he actually has less power than other media ascribes to him.

Unfortunately, there’s still the idolization of Danton and other instances of thermidorization with a serving of homophobic subtext on the side, which left a bad taste in my mouth.

3. The Characters

Okay, let’s get one thing out of the way. Danton was too perfect for me to find him likable, especially knowing what I know about his historical counterpart. And when I say “too perfect”, I’m talking almost Gary Stu levels. Luckily not quite there, but the movie lets you know that it was probably sponsored by Dantonists.

Danton is the advocate and friend of the people who defends them and doesn’t want to be at odds with Robespierre, no matter how much a few of his supporters may attempt to provoke him to overthrow Robespierre (which wouldn’t do much irl, but oh well).

There are instances of Danton being a womanizer, but his creepy side is REALLY glossed over and on the poster the light around his head reminds me of halos of Catholic saints. That’s all well and good, but I didn’t sign up for an attempt at hagiography.

Robespierre, as I mentioned, is surprisingly complex. Despite being pressured into having Danton executed, he does resist as long as possible and really doesn’t want to take such measures. He’s also very accurately portrayed as sickly and he tries to make peace with Camille Desmoulins.

Oh, and he really regrets that the executions took place and it seems like he believes that he betrayed his ideas and the people of France.

Honestly, not the worst take on Robespierre but my feelings are complicated.

Eleonore Duplay is… something else.

She is an ardent Republican with a dash of the “jealous girl” trope. Her first scene has her forcing a boy to recite The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen and smacking him for getting it wrong (I think it’s supposed to be her younger brother?) but she also slaps a housekeeper for looking at Robespierre.

Eleonore does have a caring side though. She genuinely cares about Robespierre and supports him, so I kind of liked it but the character assassination is still unforgivable. *screams into the void*

SJ is portrayed as a stereotypically effeminate man and there’s a lot of gay subtext between him and Robespierre. Oh, and he’s also the one who pressures Max to be more radical which gives me LRF vibes. Fantastic… SJ can’t catch a break yet again. Excuse me while I’m going to bash in my damn skull.

To sum up, I didn’t find any character likable and a lot of portrayals were bungled to fit the political message.

4. The Acting

Some actors get really hammy, like the actress who played Lucille Desmoulins. Linda as SJ has his moments as well, but I liked the acting overall, especially in Pszoniak and Seweryn’s cases (Oh look, Seweryn is in Frev media yet again!).

Depardieu was fine as Danton. Just… fine. I don’t like him as an actor much but he was a good choice.

Unfortunately, the casting choices are hit and miss because at times the actors look NOTHING like the people they’re portraying. Other times the fits are great.

5. The Setting

Luckily there’s no mullets like in LRF and everything looks more or less accurate. I genuinely liked the settings. But the food at the restaurant scene… let’s just say I wouldn’t eat it… it looked weird.

6. The Soundtrack

Nothing outstanding, unfortunately. I don’t have much to say here though.

7. The Conclusion

My feelings are complicated. I did like some casting choices and the setting, but the movie idolizes a corrupt creep and dips its feet into homophobia and inaccuracies. Plus the political aspect is just too in the face and the character assassination makes me want to pull my hair out.

But hey, at least we have lizard cake memes! Still not enough to compensate for my wasted time though. I don’t recommend this movie. Read about the actual trial instead please.

Okay, with that out of my system, I declare today’s meeting officially finished. Thank you for your patience and support and stay tuned!

Love,

Citizen Green Pixel

#frev #french revolution #frev art #jacobin fiction convention #robespierre #maximilien robespierre #art #history art #frev media #frev movies #eleonore duplay #camille desmoulins #lucille desmoulins #danton #danton 1983 #wajda’s danton #maximilien de robespierre #georges danton #antoine saint just

[stawpny]

Hii! What are some of your favorite places in New York? I'd like to visit the state one day and I'm curious about what cool places there are besides the city's skyscrapers :D

(happy birthday again!! 🎉)

oooh!

so honestly, I don’t know many places, but I have some cool ones, especially if you like history or exploring

1: Montauk Lighthouse or Montuak in general: Montauk is like the farthest point out east on LI and it’s so pretty. If you like beaches, you should def go. The lighthouse was owned by George Washington too, and you can go inside and see all historical stuff.

2: Psych Centers: I know I’m not allowed to go in them, but it’s cool to walk around and look at all the old buildings. Atleast for me. Fun fact, one of the psych centers on LI was one of the first places were lobotomy’s were available 😍.

3: Fire Island: Also a very beachy area, but it’s a very nice island that kind of borders LI. Has very nice beaches too. (Robert Moses is the one I go to)

4: Port Jefferson: I love going there and the ice cream from that place is bomb. Has some history stuff about them building boats and things about the harbor.

5: Liberty Island and Ellis Island: Both very cool places, visited them twice so far! I love history and if u like history you need to go to Ellis Island. It walks you through the journey of an immigrant from Europe coming into the US from that Island.

6: The Oculus: I’ve been there once and Jesus, it’s pretty big. It has many layers of like a mall-like building and I think a train or subway does down into the building, but idk. all I know that it’s fucking cool and huge.

7: THE BIG FUCKING DUCK: ok, so I’ve never been in it, but basically it’s a huge fucking duck that’s kinda like a mini gift shop but it’s so cute and big ajmwhajanwnw.

8:Nature Trails: Trust, you can pretty much drive anywhere on LI or maybe anywhere else, and you could find a trail somewhere. Especially around lakes or beaches. love walking around especially in the fall.

9: WTC: alright, ik u asked for things other than skyscrapers, but still, the World Trade Center is literally so cool. people seem to underestimate how big those buildings are and the memorial footprints are. Those huge pools of water are very pretty, and I like how they made the memorial different from others so no one would forget.

10: Murals: All over this beautiful state, there are murals EVERYWHERE. especially in the city. I loved walking through China Town or Little Italy seeing all the cultural murals- also, Definitly visit China Town and Little Italy, they are so different but so cool! B)

—

okay, so ik all of these are about Long Island/NYC, but those are really all the places I go to😭

anyways, I hope you liked this

thanks for the ask!! <3

#wttt #wttt new york #wttsh new york #New York State #new york city #long island #my fav places

[genderkoolaid]

Honestly, I was not expecting that kind of a response, thank you. And yeah, I guess I am just kinda hurting, when I was a small little trans boy in a small little Christian town, online trans spaces were the only place I could go and so many of them were filled with transfems putting down transmascs. And I guess it’s just kinda like, after you see enough of that shit you just kinda give up on having an ally in that group. Because yeah one or two isn’t bad, but when it’s constant like it is in a lot of Reddit/twitter spaces which was where my trans ass was, seeing people saying we should all just band together and forget our differences, idk, it just kinda hits me as naive. Obviously this isn’t to put down transfems, no group is a monolith, there’s just a very vocal minority of transfems who I had my first experiences with and it was like, okay, what the fuck am I trying to do allying with these ppl. Idk, it still seems a little bit fantastical to all band together. Plus pretty much (especially white) transfem I’ve met believes they are in some way more oppressed for being trans even if they acknowledge trans men “kinda face oppression too”, idk, it just seems like lumping us all together is like putting us in a get along tshirt and not realizing that some ppl don’t want to be around ppl who have historically hurt them a lot. Idk.

It makes sense that when you hear transunity your first thought is of the people who have hurt you the most, and that must have been traumatizing. The online community in general tends to emphasize the most divisive opinions & also tends to be dominated by the more privileged and sheltered people in the community, which is why many people find that people they meet in physical spaces tend to have much more diverse and open opinions. When that's the dominant way you experience the community, it definitely leaves you feeling like community is doomed to fail. This (both intra-community violence in general and transandrophobia specifically) has been allowed to fester in trans spaces for far too long. I get how while you logically know its a small minority your view of trans solidarity has been stained by that & that can be really hard to change, especially when that kind of thing is still a problem in the community.

If you want my opinion: taking care of your own mental health, especially as it relates to gender, and exposing yourself to transfems & other trans people who are openly supportive of transmasc activism, is vital. Running this blog I've found a lot of transfems who support the conversation around transandrophobia, including people who are extremely supportive and vocal about it. When you see people like that more and more, you start to focus on the ways we can help each other more than the ways we harm each other. I see other trans people talking about transandrophobia and transunity and it affirms to me how they are people who take this seriously and want to build a safer community for everyone. cipheramnesia is a pretty big transfem blogger who's been vocally supportive of transmasc activism discussing transandrophobia, and the reason I got into this discussion in the first place was through seeing a trans woman talk about it and insist that it wasn't inherently transmisogynistic and that transmascs do deserve to be heard about the details of our oppression. I may have never made this blog at all if it weren't for transfems being vocal allies of transmasc activism.

I've also seen a lot of trans people with awful, divisive, and bigoted takes; I know those come from people who are also hurting, who are lashing out at people they have biases against because it lets them feel some kind of control and release. Its tempting to step back and leave the whole thing behind- and if that's what you need to do for your mental health and safety, that is your right. But to me, the hardest and most important thing about activism is acknowledging how real change has to come from opening up and making connections and risking pain and rejection for the sake of transformation.

Transunity is, fundamentally, about taking that risk because we know its the only way we can unwork the thing that keeps all of us oppressed, the only thing that truly and consistently benefits from the infighting. Transunity is a direct response to the behavior you describe, created by trans people from multiple different groups. Its still very, very young as a movement but the more it grows, hopefully, the more people who will be vocal about the issues in our community and how open discussion and active solidarity are vital to our liberation. There may always be discourse and assholes lashing out, but there will also always be people putting in the work and showing compassion, so those people will find each other and work for the betterment of everyone, including those trying to tear each other apart.

Like I said, its also important to take care of your mental health. Alienation from your community is traumatizing (as plenty of aspec people can tell you), and that leaves you with defense mechanisms meant to keep you safe that can be hard to get rid of. I think transmasc-focused spaces can be really, really helpful in healing that kind of trauma and help you feel much more stable and supported in your transness & as a person, which in turn makes you more willing to take that risk and open up for a chance at solidarity and community. A lot of times, you need to take care of yourself and get in a good place before you can really engage in community activism, so I don't blame you at all for being wary of transunity when you are obviously still hurting. Healing is fucked up and messy and its alright to have complex emotions about people and things while you are dealing with that pain. Like I said, at the end of the day I wish you the best, and I hope you find yourself a community that supports you like you deserve.

#m. #ask box #transunity

[greypetrel]

*peeks* *runs away, just to return with TEGLIA DI LASAGNE*

What's Alyra's unfiltered opinion on the other blorbos? And most importantly, on their crushes 👀 Also, if Max had to feed Liara a typical dish from Earth, what would it be?

*corre dietro alle lasagne* Offro panettone in cambio! *apre un trench pieno di panettoni*

Oh LOL, Alyra's opinions are FUN.

Alyra on the other blorbos:

Raina: "Bat-shit crazy. A wild card. I don't know how is she even alive eating what she does. Useful, but an asset you can't direct. Perfect for Kirkwall. How is she alive eating how she does, tho. Note to self: never EVER accept an invitation to drink with her, the tavern she seems to favour is the one place you will catch your death by germs." Garrett: "Reliable, if you need the Hawkes, ask him and not his sister. Questionable humour, makes Alistair's seem refined. Not swayable if you touch his family. Jovial, friendly, potentially dangerous." Aisling: "Clever, very fit for politics, reliable as an ally. Do not ever admit that to her face, she'd be even more annoying than she is. Irritatingly unsure of herself and to have around. Good ally, dangerous as enemy, the People needs more like her. Morrigan likes her, so it's fine, can entrust her with them." After Trespasser: "Can't see why she disbanded the Inquisition and went stealth. Fucking Teagan ruined another good thing." Radha: "A grudgy spy. Never cross her if not to impart the killing blow. Good as an asset, too impredictable as an ally. Keep your cards to your chest when she's around." Max: "Reliable, good at her job, but I'll take that playlist and shove her where the sun doesn't shine."

Alyra on the crushes. But taken as a unit because it's more fun:

Raina+Merrill+Bela: "Merrill seems happy so it's fine, I'm glad she got away from fucking Merethari. Isabela? Good taste, nothing to say. Luckily Alistair told no to the threesome, it would have been awkward. Remember to thank him without explain exactly why lest he becomes annoying. The raccoon seems more manageable." Garrett+Fenris: "Do not cross one if you don't mean to cross both. Give money to Fenris to counter slavers, whatever he wants. The Blue Wraith? Suggest him a better name. Or a lack of one. Nothing to say, they're a fine couple, both good people." Aisling+Cullen: "Good for him to having got his head out of his ass. Sappy, horribly so. What could have been with Alistair. Finance their clinic, why not. But invites to dinner? Once in a while, too sappy otherwise." Max+Liara: "No, god, no. Good for each other I guess, do not approach. She's clever, reminds me of Merrill. Can tone the crazy engineering down. Why her cabinets sounds when she opens them? WHY. Run."

Liara's menu for Max, taken from the most renowned historical source on Italian cooking: GialloZafferano

Shrimps in pink sauce (Max likes rock music from the 80s. She searched a fish recipe from the 80s and that's what she found. Doesn't really understand why mixing mayo and ketchup is considered a think to do, but she won't question it, maybe it'll be another genius idea of Joey Tempest and she'd like to talk about other things this evening thank you.)

Gran Fritto Misto of fish, zucchini and zucchini flowers (of course, she has to conquer the girl.)

A very special place bought directly in Livorno Max won't shut up about and will be the piece de resistence and actually get the girl:

Caramelized figs crostata as a dessert.

Honestly this was an overkill, Max would have been conquered by a bottle of spuma alone. The expectations over her liking the cinque e cinque (it's a sandwich filled with a thin pie made from chickpea flour, a typical streetfood from Livorno) would be sky-high, but she will like it a lot, Max won't cry. They need to talk about her problem with spuma (a fizzy drink you only find in Tuscany. Much to my chagrin because it's so good and I'd like to drink some, right now), Max, honey, you have to drink water, not only fizzy drinks.

#petrel replies #alyra mahariel #max shepard #shiara #I hope it makes sense because I was laughing while writing. #*Max starts speaking in heavy tuscan accent without pronouncing the K sounds for too much emotion*