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#poems about the death of my childhood

ipcearn · 2 years

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love is conditional it is based on your body size it is based on your achievements

love is conditional i remember begging a god i didn’t believe in for someone that would love me

you overheard, i know you did because you sent dad up to hug me and tell me that he loved me

after another of your comments cutting me down reducing me to nothing

(I remember you hugging me I remember me flinching away I remember my guilt for your hurt)

now you are gone and we have to deal with the trauma you left behind

dad didn’t want a child i only learned now until you convinced him

love is conditional love is earned love is not handed out

no wonder i break down crying after someone else observes how great my father’s love for me is

when it was never given to me unless asked or forced by someone else that is now haunting us

(no wonder you started arguing with me when i said i never want to have children when you won that argument once before)

- childhood lesson

#shut up ip #my poetry #my writing #i was watching encanto and mulan and i #i don't know #childhood trauma will just haunt you #and i was rereading amanda lovelace and her poems about her mother's cancer and death #i was adding stuff to my depression journal and i am just #caught in my own troubles of what i am doing in my life now #faced with the problem of not having to earn my mom's love via academics but also not knowing what else to do #'i will never be good enough will i?'#and #'the greatest gift is having you for a daughter'#i guess some movies will now just permanently end up with me in tears

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coco-loco-nut · 23 days

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Look for the Light

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Best Friend!Reader

Summary: You are Oscar’s best friend, but when you get sick, how is he going to cope

TW: cancer, death, grief

You will probably cry, I did while writing it at 3am

Based off of the song from Only Murders in the Building

requests are open! masterlist

———————————

Being Oscar’s best friend was the best thing you had achieved in your life, and you made sure the both of you knew it. You grew up a few houses from each other and from the moment you both met, you were inseparable. Spending your childhood on the beach, playing and having adventures of a lifetime. He never minded going to explore with you, especially the lighthouses, they fascinated you. The silent call, the notion of looking for safety, looking for the light. Oscar adored that about you, it’s why he always wanted to spend time with his best friend.

That didn’t stop when Oscar started karting, in fact, you were his number one supporter. As his career took off, he never missed a chance to hang out with you, nor you with him. Some of his friends back home throughout the years teased him about your relationship, but both of you knew that there was nothing more to it other than the tight knit bond, once that was more akin to siblings than romantic.

It was one early fall weekend that you both were on the beach, near your favorite lighthouse when you collapsed. It shifted your worlds forever. Oscar became more reserved and you spent more and more time in the hospital for treatments.

It was cancer, caught early and quickly curable, plus, you were young and healthy, at least that’s what the doctor said. That’s what you all thought. The doctor was right, at least the first time.

You stopped going to his races, falling out of the racing world’s eye, but the bond between you was stronger than ever, especially as his career took off even more. When you ended up in treatment for the second time, he was even more determined to spend time with you. Even now, he sits by your bedside watching a race. He looks at you closely, your skin losing some color and the adventurous spark dimmed in your eyes.

“I love you, Y/n. I’m scared, I can’t lose you,” Oscar admits one day. You both knew what he meant. You are basically his sister.

“Os, it’s ok. I am too, but we gotta be brave,” you choke a little, tears welling in your eyes. The spark in your eyes has all but dimmed out, you find it harder to get through each day.

Oscar is getting his first real shot at F1, but he doesn’t want to miss a moment with his best friend, the one who he has vet every girl he’s dated, because if anyone knows him best, it’s you. The one person he can keep private from his public life, he can hide your pain and suffering from his crazy world.

“It’s not fair,” his eyes well up. The air is thick, the looming darkness has been settling in, the both of you don’t want to acknowledge the truth of it.

“Oscar,” your frail hand grabs his. “I love you, you are my brother, my closest friend, and I am incredibly grateful that you are in my life. Now, adventure is calling, so go and be brave,” you give him your best smile, not wanting to waste his F1 Australia debut, in Melbourne nonetheless, worrying.

“Y/n, I’ll wait by the shore for you,” he says, and you squeeze his had tighter.

“My love is a lighthouse, look for the light,” you whisper. He glances at the clock and with a heavy heart leaves the room to go to the track. Socials think that he is just going charity visits this week since he is home, but the man is so reserved even Lando can’t get him to talk. He calls every night, and you demand to have the races on while you write in your notebook.

Your family is in the room with you, you had taken a turn for the worse overnight but you didn’t want to worry Oscar, not when the race in Melbourne was today, not when you knew what it meant to him. You finished the poem you were writing as there were ten laps left, the strength to write leaving you.

Your mom tried not to cry as she took the notebook and pen from you, your dad slipping beside you in the bed, holding onto his baby. Your mom called Oscar’s mom, who immediately picked up, knowing what the mid-race call meant.

“It’s time. She wrote to Oscar, and I don’t think she will make it past his media right after the race,” your mom chokes out, tears flowing as she hangs up and gets on the other side of you.

“Look Mom! Oscar is in the points, he made it to P8,” you smile at her weakly, your dad filming your reaction to Oscar crossing the line, but he quickly stops it when your monitor blinks irregularly. A nurse rushes in, having talked with you and your family about this moment earlier in the morning. She pushes medicine so you will be able to step into the light without pain, without suffering.

“It doesn’t hurt, I promise. Tell Oscar I love him, and thank you for every moment. I love you both, thank you for choosing me as your child and loving me forever. I will love you beyond my last breath. Look for the light. Will you sing the song to me?” You ask your mom, tears streaming down your face with a small smile.

“Hush little one, let me sing you to sleep. Moonlight has come so drift off to a dream. Sail from the day to the wonders awaiting you out there, in the deep. Off little one, chase the wind on the wave, adventure is calling so go and be brave. But if you get lost as your tossed in the dark of the sea, look for me,” your mom sings the haunting lullaby, watching your breathing slow. On the TV, the camera pans to Oscar celebrating with his team. Your eyes glimmer with happiness for the last time.

“No, baby, no,” your mom pleads, your dad pulls you tighter into him. With the last bit of energy you can muster, you squeeze their hands as your eyes close and a shuttering breath leaves your body. The screams of a mother can be heard over the flatline. The nurse unplugs your machine as another makes a phone call to Oscar’s mom, something you asked a while ago privately, knowing your parents would be too distraught. The nurses follow your wishes with heavy hearts.

———

Oscar gets back to his driver’s room with a large smile on his face, having just celebrated with the team and gone through media. The first thing he sees is his Mom’s tear stained cheeks and he drops his helmet.

“No,” he whispers.

“She’s gone, Os,” his mom cries, pulling him into a hug. His body wracks with sobs. Lando sees the two and quickly leaves, having intended on congratulating his teammate, but now going to inform the team that Oscar won’t be doing press. Lando wasn’t sure what happened, but he knew it had to be personal and that was enough.

“She’s not gone, she’s not,” Oscar says after a minute. His mom wipes a tear off and looks at him with a mix of pity, sorrow, and compassion. “NO,” Oscar yells, his grief taking over, he slumps on the couch, sobbing more. The light house trinket you gifted him years ago sits on a table, a glint of sun shining off the top, as if to provide a comfort, a goodbye.

“I’m sorry. She asked me not to talk you it got worse last night. Her mom called during the race to let me know,” his mom says gently a few minutes later. Social media buzzes as pictures of Oscar’s tear stained face as he left the paddock spreads and speculation grows, but he stays silent.

The funeral is quick, small, near the beach that is home to your favorite lighthouse. It’s more of a memorial, your family having chosen to go with a closed casket burial because you didn’t want to be remembered in that state. So here Oscar is, outside Cape Otway, sitting on a rock, your unopened letter in his hand. It’s two pages, and he hasn’t had the strength to open the folded pages. He looks at the sunset, it’s rays washing over him. The ocean seems to tell him to open the letters.

Oscar,

Words cannot describe how proud I am of you. My best friend achieved his dream, what more can I ask for? More time? No. It’s odd, writing a letter about my own death. I can only assume how you feel. I’m sorry that I left you, but I never truly did. I’m in the light, I went peacefully and painlessly, surrounded by love. The sunset you see, the stars shining on you, a ray of sunshine bouncing off of something, that’s me. Don’t wait forever by the shore for me, you don’t need to weather each storm, standing by until I return. I will always be with you. Don’t be afraid to grieve, share my light wherever you go, keep me with you and alive in spirit. I love you, my best friend and brother.

Your lighthouse, beyond my last breath,

Y/n

Oscar moves your letter behind the next, his eyes looking at the poem, this one’s writing significantly harder to read. Your weak state evident in the messy lines, but it’s perfect to him.

Os- I finished the lullaby, find comfort in it when you miss me. Look for the light

Hush, little one, let me sing you to sleep

Moonlight has come, now, drift off to a dream

Sail from the day to the wonders awaiting you out there

In the deep

Off little one, chase the wind on the waves

Adventure is calling, so go and be brave

But if you get lost as you're tossed in the dark of the sea

Look for me

I will wait at the shore for you

I will weather each storm standing by 'til

Safe, you return from the night

My love is a lighthouse

So look for the light

The light

I will wait at the shore for you

I will weather each storm standing by 'til

Safe, you return from the night

My love is a lighthouse

So look for the light

The light

Oscar sniffles, carefully pocketing the papers. He pulls out his phone and watches the video he hasn’t dared to open until now, the one your father sent to him, a smile gracing his face as he sees you cheer as he crosses the line, but it drops as he hears the beeping before the video cuts. He looks up at the lighthouse for a minute, taking a picture for his personal memorial, before returning home. He changes his helmets to include a lighthouse, refusing to put one on that doesn’t.

The drivers and the McLaren team notice a shift in the driver when he appears in Baku. Lando takes it upon himself to try and get information from Oscar but fails. Instead Oscar turns to Pierre, Mick, and Charles.

“Her name was Y/n, she was my best friend, my sister. She died shortly after I crossed the finish line in Melbourne,” tears sting the young drivers eyes as he lays out his grief to the two drivers who know his pain better than anyone. Mick encourages Oscar to share the good, not the illness. It isn’t much, but the driver’s spirit has lifted a little bit, and the four agree to share their grief with each other more often, finding a healthy outlet with each other.

Lando only praised his teammate for his strength when asked about that Melbourne day, and reiterated that private matters were just that, private. Shortly after talking with the other three, Oscar sat Lando, Andrea Stella, and Zak down and let them know the basics of what happened.

“I’m sorry man, I didn’t even know you had someone that close to you,” Lando put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar looks at the sunset with a sad smile.

“It’s ok, she’s here,” Oscar says, a hand over the lighthouse on his helmet.

oscarpiastri 2 April 2023 • I will wait by the shore for you, look for the light

comments are turned off

#oscar piastri x reader #f1 x reader #oscar piastri imagine #f1 imagine #you will cry #i sobbed #why did i make this #writing at 3am should be illegal

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sashi-ya · 7 months

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𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟑 DAY 9: BANKAI Kuchiki Byakuya 𝘹 𝘍! 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Requested by: anon ➡ sashi my love! can we please have day nine with Byakuya with an afab reader, she/her pron? you are an amazing writer, we love u! 💗💗 tw: mdni. a first part of an old idea I had. If you all wish me to keep going with the story I totally will! I based this fic in an old poem I wrote called 𝑨 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝑭𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝑯𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏. shower sex. sex with a "stranger". maybe confusing and romantic too. 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It has been the same since you can remember; running away from those things. Monsters with white masks and a ravenous desire of swallowing you in just one bite.

You can also see ghosts. And sometimes, even some strange beings dressed in black uniforms with swords here and there.

However, your childhood hasn’t been easy. Being scolded for lying, and sometimes taken to the doctors because of your “wild imagination”

So much you’ve been scolded and bullied that you simply stopped alerting others about that “invisible” menace and kept it secret for yourself… you got used to, after all, to those monsters and how to avoid them… Soon, however, you learnt you can’t always win by yourself…

You feel it. You know it must be closer to you. At least one or two. Maybe a bigger one? Maybe a lot of them?

You grab your bag and start walking faster. With all your senses alerted, you think of the better way to get to a certain place in Karakura town; the Tsubakidai park. Somehow, when you get to a little old shrine, hidden behind tall grass you feel safe. It is always the same, you feel like you are lacking air and then pass out. By the time you wake up, there isn’t any monster following you no more and you are safe to go back home where somehow you sleep soundly feeling a warm mantle of protection falling upon you.

You can feel their stomps getting louder; you can’t act calm now; you should run to the park, as fast as you can. There are no taxis available, it’s cold, it’s dark, the night has already engulfed the lives of the citizens of Karakura.

Crossing the river, just a little bit more (Name)… you will be safe is you run through the bridge. But there is no time to do so, so your legs should get wet. The river isn’t deep, it only gets up to your ankles.

You keep running, taking a brief look behind you. Is not one. Is not two. There are at least, ten of those monsters. As if someone had put a bait to call them all to this damned town.

The slippery river bottom and your shoes aren’t compatible, and your knees hit the ground the moment you slip. You pray it should be enough, you are just a few meters away from the little shrine. Whatever keeps you safe will help you… right?

The claw of the biggest of them, with a scary white mask covering mostly of his “face”, seems to be moving in slow motion as you finally close your eyes waiting for your death.

“Scatter, Senbonzakura”

You open your eyes to discover the most beautiful pink rain of shining petals. However, those alluring sakura flowers cut the monster in pieces, with a violence so unproper of a blooming sapling. How could something so pretty be so deadly?

In between the blushing glow, facing the creatures, stands a man of long hair and white haori covering his black uniform. His hands hold what seems to be the hilt of a sword with no edge, and his impassible attitude before those scary monsters is at least admirable.

You realize that soon, your lungs are begging for more oxygen as that crushing feeling you always experience reaches you again. It’s both torturing, but also calming. This means, you will be safe...

But you were far from it, just yet.

The man turns around with a velocity your eyes can barely follow. His arm suddenly passes around your waist, pulling you so closer to him it even feels disrespectful.

When you finally catch up with the events happening, your eyes ease the blurriness to focus on the finest features you ever came across with. His sharp mandible, his deep blue eyes, the delicacy of his traits equals the fearless sight during battle.

“I am not sure how you are able to see me, but you must stay exactly this way. Or you will die” he tells you, pulling you even closer to his body to the point of almost nuzzling on his chest. With a big jump back, he gets out from the river and now both lay on the shoreline right under the bridge.

You blink repeatedly, you are probably dreaming. This can’t be happening, there is no way such a prince has come to rescue you.

His free hand have no rest, as uncountable numbers of monsters keep appearing. That’s why, you can see in his eyes he has determined something.

“BANKAI… SENBONZAKURA KAGEYOSHI”

The sword in his hand is now sliding down, as if he had let it fall. But instead of hitting the ground, the edge pierces the floor with no effort. Around you, enormous blades stand still, forming some kind of structure built of thousands of them.

Explosively, they turn to million of pieces. And now you understand that what looked like uncountable cherry blossoms were the pieces of those swords.

“I have a safe zone around me, and only me. Should you move away, and the blades will cut you with absolutely no mercy” he informs you, calm but dominantly. Perhaps there is too much of arrogance in his voice, but he is definitely saving your life now, so you must obey.

“I am not moving away from you a single inch, sir” “Very well. This hollows keep coming and I’m not exactly sure why. It won’t take much, though”

You hug him. You need to be sure you won’t move -or maybe it is because he is too irresistible not to do so-. And when you do, he gasps. It is as if both of your skins reacted in different ways than none of you were expecting to.

His gloved, refined hand, moves up and down in swift delicate motions guiding the petals and cutting the “hollows” that violently try to trespass the protective curtain of flowers around you two.

One of them seem to be strong enough to take the cuts, coming as close as possible to you two. Your protector, quickly covers you completely, as his eyes seem to have telekinetic control of the petals. He creates a wave so strong that a blinding pink light explodes, destroying everything once and for all.

When everything is over, the roaring sounds disappear. There is only the music of the river bubbling next to you and the panting of both of you.

You feel your shoulder wet, thinking it must have been due to your fall in the river. But a sweet look confirms it’s blood.

“Sir! You are hurt! Let me help you!” you desperately chime, when you realize his arm has an opened bleeding wound.

“How are you? Are you hurt?” he asks, calmly, brushing your question off. He is strong, surely. But you can’t leave him this way.

You realize none of you have stopped hugging the other. It feels comfortable, as if you have always belonged to his arms.

“I am… ok, sir… Thank you for saving me” you murmur, wondering if he is going to tell you his name some time.

He closes his eyes, and nods. He sighs in relief. “I’m glad you are fine. Where do you live?” he asks, letting you go for the first time since he arrived.

“I can walk by my own, sir. I don’t mean to bother you… however, being hurt… uhm there is a pharmacy nearby I could buy some stuff to cu-“

“I am not a human, miss. Don’t worry about me” he cuts you short, stating something that’s pretty obvious by now.

You nod and start walking back home, you are cold, trembling. You are completely wet, and the night breeze detrimentally makes it worse.

The finest white fabric covers your shoulders. Golden details hanging on each side and your eyes meeting his.

“Sir I… this is…” you try to give him his haori back, but he is not taking it.

“It’s just a cheap garment. Cover yourself”

You silently walk towards your home, with the scent of his clothing engulfing you in a delightful experience. It is soft and manly, and for sure expensive. You wonder what kind of being he might be, even if for you he could be considered an angel, a knight.

“Mh, you live by yourself right?” he asks, all of a sudden a few meters away from your home. How does he know? Was it him who protected you all the time when you ran to the tori?

“Yes… how- never mind. My name is (Name). What’s your name, Sir?” you ask, you at least wish to know who saved you.

“Kuchiki Byakuya. Captain of the sixth squa…” he stops himself from further talking. He realised you are just a human and shouldn’t know about it.

You smile. Of course, he is some kind of captain or important person. You, however, don’t mind. He is coming from another dimension, that’s for sure. No man looks as perfect as him in this world.

“Thank you so much for saving my life, Kuchiki Byakuya. Would you like to come in? If it’s not too much to ask, I would like to cure your wound”

Byakuya seems reluctant to say yes. Yet, he nods and follows you inside your little house in complete silence.

You immediately show him where to sit on your living room as you quickly go grab some gauze and some antiseptic.

Soon enough you find him looking at your television. He seems to be inspecting the appliance with great interest.

“Do you like me to turn it on for you, Mr. Kuchiki?” “Honestly, I have no idea what this does so I’d much rather prefer not to”

You giggle sweetly. Of course televisions aren’t a thing in his dimension or wherever he comes from. He is dressed as if he lived during Edo period, you highly doubt there is such thing as satellite television…

“So, let me see your wound please” you murmur, a little shy, with the curing supplies on your hands.

Byakuya nods and uncovers his shoulder, letting his black shihakusho fall down. Half his chest and lean arm flash beautiful pale skin with a scratch on it.

It’s no time to lust, but to act. He needs attention now.

With utmost care, you pour some drops of antiseptic solution over his shoulder. The liquid runs in form of big drops down his arm and chest, and he flinches before the subtle burning sensation.

“I’m sorry, Byakuya. I know it’s a little bit uncomfortable, but I’ll be quick I promise” you inform him, as diligently clean the scratch and the dried blood all around.

“This doesn’t hurt. I don’t need you curing me, I can do it. I am staying because I am still wondering why so many hollows were following you… and why you are able to see me… you are loaded with heavy spiritual pressure” he spits. He is for sure not a very friendly pal.

He keeps insisting with the fact you are able to see him, and soon you realize why.

“Sir, are you a ghost?! I’ve seen ghosts all of my life, but you- I can touch you and talk to you and… the scent of your sk-“ you stop. That’s embarrassing, but also true. You were never able to touch one of the ghosts you saw before.

Byakuya grabs your hand. You widen your eyes.

“I know you do. But I don’t know what changed for you to see me now and not before” he confesses, pulling you even closer to him. He is somehow inspecting something in you, you can’t quite see.

So, he is indeed the man saving you from the monsters then… what’s his motivation? Why he protects you?

“I am honestly glad to be able to see you at least Mr. Kuchiki. I owe you my life, not once but uncountable times. How should I repay you?” you ask, coming even more close to him.

Byakuya keeps pulling softly from your arm, his soft fingers tracing paths on the inside of it. Your legs hit his knees, it’s difficult to maintain yourself standing.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, (Name). You don’t need to repay me. Please be safe until we found out what’s the deal with your high spiritual pressure… but I need you not to tell anyone else about this. Even if other people dressed as me come to talk to you, simply ignore them. Promise me you will”

You swallow. How many invisible threats have you been put under throughout your life?

“So, are you staying the night… Byakuya?” you ask, sincerely and shamefully. You don’t want him to go, and now you begin to think that every time he saved you in silence he probably stayed by your side all night…

Byakuya nods. He knows you are not stupid; he knows you know. He understands that tonight, more than any night, he must stay right by your side.

No words were said. He followed you to your bedroom. Because both knew that this haven’t been the first time…

“I bet you sat there all night, Byakuya…” you laugh, pointing at a chair you found warmth every now and then without nobody sitting there. “Or maybe in my closet…?” you joke.

“No, the closet is not my style. My sister’s, however…” he mumbles, with a soft smile showing in the commissure of his mouth.

A smile; this man knows how to smile?! Oh, how beautiful was that.

You giggle sweetly, as you scrutinize some comfortable clothes to offer him. He is still wet, he shouldn’t be.

“Here, this should fit. It was going to be a gift for my brother. But… anyway. You can take a shower, I will give you towels… you- can use my hairbrush too” you tell him, while lending him a pair of grey jogging pants and a white shirt.

His hands graze yours, and a simple touch makes you shiver; weak.

You indicate him to follow you to your bathroom. “Here. I’m sure you know how this works” you point towards the shower tab.

“You should take a bath first. You are absolutely wet. I just have my feet a little cold” Byakuya insists, almost whispering behind you. There isn’t much space in your tiny bathroom.

“Then we should bathe together” you joke, taking your hand to your mouth and laughing happily while opening the tab for him.

However, Byakuya has some trouble catching which sayings are simply jokes and which ones are serious propositions…

His delicate hands land on your waist. A jolt of electricity runs through your body, ending in a gasp coming out of your mouth.

He slowly turns you around to face him, committing a sin that nobody should learn about.

“I’d like to do that” he murmurs, as your back hits the acrylic shower screen and Byakuya approaches your lips with his.

You look up at him. He might have been watching you for a long time… but this is the first time your eyes see his face. Even if you tried to deny his presence every time you felt it around you.

Almost instinctively your hand reaches for his cheek, and somehow all of your doubts suddenly fade away. Whether this is real or not, safe or not you simply don’t know.

His lips crash with yours in a soft but needy peck. Byakuya’s body sticks to yours. Soon you two begin kissing desperately, lustfully, sexually.

It seems to you that the kiss turned liberating for him. Who knows how many nights he spent wanting to join his mouth with yours…

It doesn’t take much for his hands to finally undress you. Your dampened clothes falling to the floor, tangling a little around your ankles. His clothes, also falling to the floor. Those baggy clothes can’t hide the perfect anatomy before your eyes.

“You are beautiful” Byakuya mumbles, as your body presents in full display once and for all.

“I’m sure you already knew how I looked…” you murmur, thinking he could be capable of peaking through your shower during those nights where he cared for you in secret.

“I would never, ever, disrespect you. I never once tried to peak through” he confesses, perhaps even feeling “stupid” for not doing it.

On tippy toes, you plant a sweet kiss on his cheek. “I know. For some reason, I feel like I’ve known you since the very moment I was born”

Byakuya’s eyes get instantly coated with a glossy mantle of tears. Even if he tries to hide it, he is not really able to do so. And instead, he lifts you up from your thighs.

Kissing you more and more deeply, with the steam of the shower already replacing the oxygen in your lungs, he gets inside the shower with you.

The hot water rains on both of you. His raven hair, falls gracefully on his shoulders and wide back. It tangles in between your fingers that rest on the nape of his neck.

“I wish to make love to you” he moans, with lingering lips.

You sigh in response; you can’t even talk. He is a stranger and still feels like your soul is bounded to his… why?

You hug his waist with your legs, feeling his sex graze yours from how hard he is getting. He is holding back, just not to penetrate you right away… even if that’s exactly what you two are desperate to do.

“Please… do it now” you beg, kissing the scratch he got on his arm earlier.

Byakuya moves your hair out of your face a places a soft kiss on your forehead with his eyes closed.

“Yes… after so long…” he grunts, allowing his hips to finally impale you. While you didn’t have to wait, he did. But when he begins to move in and out, it feels as if you were pleading for this for an eternity.

The back of your head hits against the wet tiles of your shower. Byakuya’s sharp teeth bite your neck, your skins slap against the other while there is no space in between your bellies.

The more he rams into you, the more you carve your heels on the small of his back and pull from his beautiful black hair.

Byakuya grunts. You moan, loudly. As if it might be the last time your bodies will join, you keep connected until the hot water runs out. Orgasming, one, two, three times. And who knows how many more times.

Dripping, full of his release, he carries you in arms to your bed. “I can’t get enough of you…” he whispers, as he deposits you over the mattress.

“Then don’t go. Stay and love me more. Protect me, with those sharp petals…”

“This is gonna be the death of me, (Name)…”

(to be continued)

taglist: @miabiaria @carmenthedreamer @stygianoir @electronicwitchcollection @aizenwifey @deputy-videogamer @efrodd17 @mizugami @uzxotic @cyberdazetragedy @bookandyarndragon 💖

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netherfeildren · 1 year

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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

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strobichie · 9 months

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just sae.

♡⸝⸝ summary: poor you decided to replay ddlc, but something seems wrong... why is monika sae?

little note: bachira is sayori, rin is natsuki, and isagi is yuri!!

your perspective:

i had recently gotten a new computer, there are so many things i still need to work with and customise to my liking.

so, to cure my boredom, i'm installing ddlc again and replaying it!

my favourite character is natsuki, i absolutely loved how adorable and relatable she just is. she reminded me of one of the kids i babysat.

after installing the win files i extracted them all and started the game up, as usual, i see the 4 dokis on the main screen on startup.

i entered my name of choice and started the game ---

wait, bachira??? FROM BLUE LOCK??

why was he sayori? not gonna lie, his sprites are really cute, but how..??

i re-checked the website i downloaded the game from but it displayed the 4 dokis there and there was nothing wrong..

huh, why am i being scared?

i should be grateful, honestly.

i've been blessed by the gods above!! for once i'm fucking lucky!

no way was i gonna pass up the opportunity to interact with my favourite anime characters especially since they somehow ended up in my favourite childhood game..!

i wonder who natsuki, yuri, and monika would be, though?

this is interesting! as i progress even more reading the dialogues and clicking on the chat box, after a few minutes of suffering i finally got to the literature club with bachira!

"seriously, a girl? way to be a killjoy." rin... RIN?!?!?!?!?!

OH MY GOD RIN IS SO HOT? HIS ATTRACTIVENESS SCALE WENT TO 100 TO 1000 SO QUICK!!

wait.. could that mean ---

ISAGI IS YURI!! YES!! MY FAVOURITES ALL IN ONE ROOM!!

i hope monika is kaiser or even better, anri..!!

gosh this got me feelin' so giddy and chipper in the early fucking morning..

i skipped a few of the dialogues, and abruptly stopped when a certain person came into view.

...sae? really?

what an eyesore. i hate sae, of all people, why sae?

sure he was similar to monika, but only in appearance. kaiser or anri could have been able to fulfill this role.

i sighed in annoyance, at least i have rin and the others...

i continuously skipped many dialogues and had finally gotten to the part where sayori, or in this situation bachira, hangs himself..

right, this was a horror game after all. did i really forget about the main plot?

i stared at the screen with an obvious frown. rin and isagi are next..

and the person behind all this was saeshit. ugh, seriously... well, good thing i can just delete his files at any given time.

progressing through the story even further, i got a special poem and cringed at the 'drawing'. it was bachira hanging in a humorous manner.

this was unfortunate.

i clicked on the chat box endlessly, wanting to speedrun to the moments of all my favourite characters deaths..

seeing rin crack his neck and isagi stab himself looking like a crazed maniac broke my heart. good things don't last.. this will probably be the last time i'll ever be able to play this version of the game.

then, here sae was, fuck was he smiling for?

"let me take a quick one of rin's cupcakes, these such are really good for a brother so shitty and nasty." i scoffed and gritted my teeth in anger, sae was clearly the asshole in their brother-ship.

i was met face-to-face with sae, i pursed my lips and stared at my computer screen.

"it's nice to talk to you even if it's by a dialogue box." is this even real?

"i know that you're thinking: is this legitimate? to answer your question, yes it is. i became self aware after everything in that god damn manga and anime called blue lock, i felt sick and tired of not being able to show up in the manga after a long period of time. somehow, i found a way to break the barrier between the fictional animanga world and reality as you call it." that was a mouthful. he was pretty talkative now. my burning hatred for sae cooled down a bit as he spoke more ---

"i found this 'cutesy romance horror' game and it had all the things i needed in order to cross over to the real world. this version of the game only exists on your desktop, {user}. is {user} even your name? are you even a girl?" he shot me a confused expression.

"honestly, i don't care anymore. even i started falling in love with you. i thought i wasn't capable of love, just like the original character monika, i fell in love with you." this sent a shiver down my spine, i sweat-dropped and continued reading his dialogues.

"you read that right, i love you. even if i'm not real, i love you. i won't ever let you leave me. i'll kill you even if you think of it." he coldly stated and i opened my file explorer, ready to delete his character file --- huh.. why couldn't i delete it?

"i'm disappointed, why would you wanna try to delete me? i love you, you should be grateful i love you." but i hated sae, i hate him!

"i've been practicing for a while, i think i can finally break the laws of physics and rules of nature between our worlds." uhm, does he even know what the fuck's he saying?

"i'll see you soon, goodbye {name}. i love you." HOW DID HE GET MY NAME? DID HE HACK INTO MY COMPUTER BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK..?!?!?!

i was scared shitless, jesus christ, just what did he mean by all that? i force shut down my computer and rolled to my bed covering myself in my blankets. time to go back to sleep after that eventful experience.

short little fic, should i make a part two?

finally made a part 2!

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garadinervi · 6 months

Text

Mosab Abu-Toha, Younger Than War, «The Atlantic», November 9, 2023

Younger Than War Mosab Abu-Toha Tanks roll through dust, through eggplant fields. Beds unmade, lightening in the sky, brother jumps to the window to watch warplanes flying through clouds of smoke after air strikes. Warplanes that look like eagles searching for a tree branch to perch on, catch breath, but these metal eagles are catching souls in a blood/bone soup bowl. No need for radio. We are the news. Ants’ ears hurt with each bullet fired from wrathful machine guns. Soldiers advance, burn books, some smoke rolled sheets of yesterday’s newspaper, just like they did when they were kids. Our kids hide in the basement, backs against concrete pillars, heads between knees, parents silent. Humid down there, and heat of burning bombs adds up to the slow death of survival. In September 2000, after I had bought bread for dinner, I saw a helicopter firing a rocket into a tower as far from me as my frightful cries when I heard concrete and glass fall from high. Loaves of bread went stale. I was still 7 at the time. I was decades younger than war, a few years older than bombs.

«I wrote this poem last year, reflecting on my childhood under Israeli military occupation. I'm now staying in Jabalia, a United Nations refugee camp, with my wife and three kids. I'm reading this poem to myself and wondering if my children will be able to write poems about the bombs and explosions they are seeing. I was 8 the first time I witnessed a rocket. Now my youngest child, born in America in May 2021, is living through the third wave of Israeli bombing. Not only are he and his older brother and sister smelling death around them, but they have also lost their house in Beit Lahia 10 days ago. Luckily no one was at home. My son Yazzan, who is 8 years old, asks me, "Are our toys still alive?"» – Mosab Abu-Toha

#poetry #magazine #mosab abu toha #the atlantic #2020s

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splishsplashyouropinionistrash · 10 months

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hello hello my loves, it's been a while since I've done a fic rec list and I'm feeling *inspired*

my qualifications are that i'm a loser and have read over a thousand fics so far in 2023

Was Sorta Hopin' That You'd Stay by jaydreamz (8/8)

Minyard Josten rivalry but they actually hate each other. They have a prank war. It's beautiful.

Eighteen Wheels And Three Beating Hearts by Autumnalpalmetto, IKnowWhoYouAre_Damianos (21/21)

Small town AU, Neil is a trucker with a son and Andrew runs a diner. So many found family feels, was giggling like a child the whole time. Connor owns my heart.

Die Free Or Die A Failure by Mickey_99 (54/54)

This one. This one!!! It's so good. Like, so good. It's a Raven!Neil fic, where Neil escapes the Nest and joins Kevin at PSU. It's super dark at times, but so lovely? The found family in this one is just *chefs kiss*

I Guess This Is Where I Say Goodbye by Artificiosus (2/2)

Listen y'all. I bawled like a baby reading this one. Full on ugly sobbing. It was amazing. It's MCD, so be careful. Neil gets in a car crash and calls Andrew, but Andrew doesn't pick up. The whole fic is Neil's voicemail and Andrew's reaction. It's so beautiful and so so sad.

Here And Where You Are by pentagrammed (1/1)

This one!!! It's almost sort-of MCD? But not actually. Read it, I'm begging. There's not much I can say about it without spoilers, so just... read it.

Dating & Other Disasters by lolainslackss, moonix (12/12)

Okok but this one. It's fake dating, the Foxes all go to a fine arts school. Neil is an actor and Andrew is a writer. It's so good !!! Andrew's poem lives rent-free in my head.

Murder Boyfriends by justadreamfox (3/3)

Heathers AU!!! It's beautiful, I'm in love with it. Go forth and read.

Better Than A Night Light by Ominous (1/1)

Literally 7k of fluff. Neil watches one of those alien horror movies and gets scared by it (but Drew is there to help, ofc)

Small Angry Gardeners by SensationalSunburst (8 part series)

Neil and Andrew's adventures in homeowning, gardening, meeting neighbors, owning animals, and other domestic bullshit. So fluffy, so sweet, so fun. Simply adore.

Heimkehr Means Homecoming by This_Witch_Writes (2 part series)

Cass is good! Andrew gets a mom! Family !!!! Literally so good, I cried a lot.

What Does 'Viral' Mean? by darkbluebox (1/1)

Kevin is a sports commentator after retirement, and Neil joins him for a game. So much bickering. Fucking hilarious

In Reel And Rout by maydaykevin (10/10)

Fantasy pirates AU. Vaguely Pirates of the Caribbean? So good though, oh my god. Andrew has water powers and shit. Neil is a pirate captain. I'm in love.

The Exy Team Is Nuts: A Survival Guide For The Uninitiated by Cute Negativity Cloud (Ofelia) (1/1)

The Foxes from the perspective of the other sports team. They have a whiteboard with rules for how to deal with them without being murdered/beaten up/insulted to death. It's fucking hilarious

Kill My Mind (Raise My Body Back To Life) by r3mus (1/1)

Ghostface!Andriel. They're murder boyfriends who kill bad people. It was such a fun read tbh

Queer Eye For The Demi Guy by neilwrites (13/13)

Neil goes on Queer Eye. The Monsters + Allison are the fab 5. it's wonderful, I love it.

Baby I'll Bleed You Dry by priorwalter (2 part series)

The Twilight AU this fandom desperately needed. In which Andrew is Edward, Neil is Bella, and many jokes are made. I spend a solid half an hour cackling

The Gaslights Burn Brightly by This_Witch_Writes (8/8)

Okok so Andrew and Neil were childhood friends, but Neil disappears one day and everyone convinces Andrew that he never existed at all. Eight years later, they meet again at PSU. It was so. Amazing. I love this author sm

A Dad By Any Other Name by SensationalSunburst (2/2)

Coach Wymack being a dad for 5k. That's it. That's the fic. (5+1 Wymack being a dad)

Called It Home by jingerhead (1/1)

Neil is spiderman. Spoilers for No Way Home. Guys it's so good !!

What We Ask by constellationqueen (40/40)

Neil gets hurt. Andrew helps him. SUUUUPER dark guys, like. Super dark. MCD too, so watch out. Really sad but so so beautiful, I sobbed so violently my sibling thought someone had died

The Suit Universe by marie_pothos (17 part series)

Ohhhhhh my god THIS ONE!!! My all time fave series. It's a popstar AU, but Neil is basically Taylor Swift. It's all based off of Taylor Swift songs. Absolute must read, even if you don't like TS that much. It's so beautiful, and funny, and so so sweet, and just- I could go on forever about this one.

Shake My Tomb by exactly13percent_OLD (hymbeaux) (10/10)

Butcher!Neil (sorta). kevin goes to Neil for protection from Riko, so neil goes to PSU. So beautifully written, I just re-read it today. It's so good guys.

Take To The Wing by iceEckos12 (20/20)

Neil signs the contract during his Christmas at Evermore. Surprisingly fluffy for a Nest fic, and there are some absolutely wonderful OCs. I would die for Joshua.

Something In Return by reaching_my_summit (10/10)

Neil and Andrew go to Disney World. That's the whole fic. Tooth-rotting fluff, it's amazing

Funky Happenings With The Fox Family by dobbypussypopper (27/27)

THE Fox group chat fic. It's fucking hilarious, I laughed so hard I started crying.

The Marks We Make by Fortheloveofexy (11/11)

Soulmate AU. Guys, this fic. It's one of my favorites. I reread it all the time. It's so good, and so sweet, and just UGH. I adore it so much.

Falling. by Idnis (16/16)

Art School AU where Andrew is a photographer and Neil is a painter. It's so poetic and beautiful, I'm begging you to read it.

Too Gay To Function by gluupor (1/1)

Mean Girls fusion. Andrew is Regina George. Enough said.

And there you go! This is a very very small fraction of the fics I've read this year, so obviously I have more if anyone's interested.

Go forth and read !

#aftg #tfc #all for the game #the foxhole court #andreil #aftg fanfic #aftg fic #aftg fic recs #splishsplash originals #splishsplash recs

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luciftixs · 10 months

Text

the yi sangela post

I’m having autistic zoomies right now

I want to talk about Yi Sang and Angela because I like them both A Lot and I just think it’s fun to do comparisons. My partner made this lovely checklist with a few similarities I jotted down in a notesapp on my phone before I passed out and I will be cooking a meal thats geared solely to me but ur welcome to try and eat it if u want

Let’s get into it. There is no structure here but maybe we will find it as we go along!

I wanna start w a disclaimer that this is FOR FUN its not actually that serious and ALSO its obviously not a 1-to-1 comparison because these two are also so starkly different in not only their circumstances but also their overall personality when it comes to having deal with said Issues. I feel like tumblr users are more chill these days but after some shit ive seen on projmoon twitter I am covering my bases this is just a Post by a Stranger Online LOL

Let’s take a look at our first point on this silly little chart. That point is:

Bird

Angela’s black dress heavily resembles the feathers of a bird; specifically that of a corvid like a raven or even crow.

Even her head librarian outfit has some bird motifs to it. I’m going to get into corvid symbolism in a second but first

Yi Sang also leans heavily into the bird motifs. His base EGO is named Crow’s Eye View after a poem by the RL Yi Sang, and the narrative draws some inspo from the short story The Wings by the same author.

Wings show up often in some of his EGOS and CGs

Now, it’s not simply generic birds either of them are inspired by; Angela’s black feathers, Yi Sang’s EGO title, they are specifically invoking corvids. Corvidae include many different species of birds, such as magpies and jays, but the most commonly thought of corvids would be the ones with black feathers; ravens and crows. Corvids are incredibly intelligent birds, and they are rich in symbolism and meaning.

Specifically, crows have a heavy association with death and the afterlife. Both Angela and Yi Sang are impacted by heavy losses; Angela is made from a woman who took her own life and is forced to oversee countless loops of people suffering and dying; Yi Sang witnessed his friends being driven apart in a violent manner. His two childhood friends die before him, he wishes he could kill himself and die, and is trapped in a purgatory state with his current coworkers where bloodshed is as common as breathing. Death has marked both of them.

But! That is not the only thing corvids symbolize! In more modern times the birds are said to also symbolize transformation. In a way, that ties into death, as what is death if not the final transformation in life? But neither of their final growths end in their deaths; rather, both learn to find a way to free themselves from the shackles of their past, and to push forward.

THEN WE HAVE

Book as weapon

This one is just silly.

*beats you to death with a book beats you to death with a book beats you to death with a book*

Next point

Narrative haunted by a female figure

This one is in that “not a one-to-one comparison” territory, but it’s still just fun to poke at imo. In Angela’s case, she can never truly escape Carmen’s influence over her. For Yi Sang, Dongbaek is a ghost from his past. Both these women are integral to the overall narrative at hand.

Not only do these women haunt the narrative, but they also mirror the person they haunt. Angela’s desire for life is so strong because, in the end, Carmen wished to live. Dongbaek admired Yi Sang and his dream of flying. She yearned to bloom in a way not dissimilar to a bird spreading it’s wings for the first time. Angela’s Lobcorp design invokes Carmen- her hair color is Carmen’s inverted. She wears the hair time Carmen wore. Dongbaek’s hair has become white from the trauma- the inverse of Yi Sang’s black hair. Yi Sang takes up a Dongbaek identity in a mirror world to further drive home the similarities. These women play a major role in the overall identity of these two characters.

And this is just my brain going “hehe neat” but Carmen’s whole like. Brain stem mimicking a tree and its roots. Dongbaek becoming flowers. Visually very similar vibes.

Onto the next point

Loomed over and controlled by a male figure

This one probably seems second most self explanatory. Ayin meet Gubo Gubo meet Ayin ect.

The deal is simple: you do what we want you to do, and we have employed dubious methods to ensure that you do what we want you to do! Both Ayin and Gubo are self serving when it comes to the end goals. The levels of agency at play here are different; Angela truly had no choice, but Yi Sang’s mental state is not Great and that is being capitalized on him to help perpetuate his isolation and dependency.

Another thing: Ayin and Gubo are just really fucking mean to Angela and Yi Sang. Ayin actively dehumanizes her and neglects her; Gubo verbally and mentally abuses Yi Sang. Fun stuff.

Now, the penultimate point:

Yearning for freedom

This naturally comes with the territory of being a bird. Angela longs to not be confined to a place (Lobcorp or the Library). She wants to experience the world and be free. Yi Sang is similar; that desire to spread his wings and fly. For both to accomplish this, they have a talk with the ‘self’. It’s only by confronting their pasts, and themselves, that they can finally get that push to live life on their own terms.

MY FINAL TALKING POINT

SEXY

Like wow hot a what? And yes I chose fourth match flame because it ties into the whole post like they’re sharing an EGO that’s basically having your hopes burnt to a cinder and also an intense longing for a better life whoa thats crazy

Concluding thoughts

I just like them both a lot. My little caged birds getting out of the cage and mending their broken wings in order to take flight. Very kino. I love them.

If u actually read this thanks ur pog

#project moon #library of ruina #limbus company #not spoiler free #yi sang #angela #long post #perhaps they should... no i shant say it

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tarotphil · 22 days

Note

Bestie I need to know what answers corresponded to Dan or Phil

oh my gosh I’d love to share :)) take the quiz before reading below the cut!!!!! also take this as the performance art it is, I’m not genuinely assuming very specific things about dan and phil’s internal worlds lol

for Dan: love like a dog as in loyal, eager to provide a service, full blown adoration. love like a leaky faucet as in always present even when the sink is “off”. but also as in sporadic, unexpected, unavailable. (this is not a dig at dan, that is the option I would choose)

for Phil: love like an archaeologist as in dedicated to craft of discovery, careful, curious. love like a snowstorm as in all encompassing, obscuring, hungry

for Dan: Catholic guilt yeah, but also thinking on the past in a “I wish I had done it different way”

for Phil: mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. among other things his commitment to nostalgia is a type of grief.

for Dan: peeling fruit as an act of service has big dan energy. he would pass tiktok clementine theory. cannabalism bc i think he’d enjoy himself on yellowjackets Hannibal hunger as love tumblr. angels is his for a lot of reasons. I was thinking about angels as machinery, which meshes with his clean brutalism aesthetic. also angels as fallen from grace, as a subversive queer symbol

for Phil: time loops, we are back to the grief and nostalgia. but I’m also appealing to his brand of creativity here. glitch theory, fantasticalism. ghosts….. we are back to grief, but also his understanding of horror. the ocean is something I associate with phil a lot for some reason. I think it’s the mystery of it

for Dan: he’s a teddy bear, he’s so soft. he has his childhood teddy still. glowing globes for mystery, matches the aesthetic of the moon room. kiss me lollipop…… must I say more

for Phil: I was so captivated by him going “I think that’s what god looks like” in relation to the golf with friends structure. so, for phil, interesting lines and lights that evoke a feeling of reverence <3 icy stag bc I associate him with snow and the fantastical. surreal spotlight sky… I can’t explain it just is

for Dan: A Boat is a poem to me about navigating depression, I think dan would love it. Dan is SO this too shall devastate coded, I don’t think I need to explain.

for Phil: the Kyla Jamieson poem for a few reasons. Love of the natural world, but also I think it carries a sense of creative frustration? The Athena Davis poem because of how gentle it is. meditations on death, meditations on kindness

Dan and Phil: this is the only option on the quiz that gives points to both outcomes…. I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees. That’s so them

I actually think these kinda speak for themselves

for Dan: he’s such a sensitive soul, which is why he got the heart hurt option. he puts so much of his heart into everything, so this is an acknowledgment of him not being as cerebral as he thinks. for the bones, an ache in my bones is one of the ways I visualize my depression. a bone deep heaviness

for Phil: hurt in your hands because of hands as a symbol for creativity. to me this meant an itch to create. hurt in your lungs I can really only justify by vibes. the hurt of running too hard maybe? Of a body meant to house you doing a bad job of it?

for Dan: mmm realizing I said I associate phil with the ocean which is true, but I associate Dan with whale falls. that’s all I got for that lol. for the microbiome, I love love love the human microbiome, it’s fascinating. I think dan would have a heck of a time with the idea that we’re mostly made up of non self organisms

for Phil: beauty in the small things and beauty in natural system we’re not at all a part of. nod to his love of birds, love you Steve

these are mostly all vibes, except for Phil’s sense of otherworldliness and Dan’s commitment to forward growth

for Dan: the wooden overcoats quote…… sorry not get 2009 on you. The Beatrice letters quote is a little bit “it’s awful work” “not to me, not if it’s you”. as a doctor loves his sickest patient for real

for Phil: the Mabel quote is a little bit about love as a creative I think, and a private creative at that. The love exists even if you destroy the art. the locked tomb quote, they are so dependent. he dyed his shoes green

#asks #it’s like a gag quiz but I’m also unwell about them and thought about it A Lot so #phan #Dan and phil #amazingphil #daniel howell #robin 📢#absolutely normal uquiz

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relax-and-read-on · 1 year

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I finished my session!!! To celebrate....

Primarch, and what they would have written in my literary creation class

(yes this is highly specific, no idc)

Lion: minimalist poetry done so that no one can say that he didn't do the assignment. There is 109 words spread on 8 pages. One of said page literally just say "I am Myself."

Mortarion: write a short story about a lil robot being basically condemn to die by an evil all powerful ai. Everyone miss the metaphor and start arguing about who the narrator is.

Roboute: Report a series of incidents of people seeing a black monolith ovni in the shape of Ohio, of all thing. Actually based of a real incident

Horus: Explain how many daddy issues he has. Pretty funny text, the 3 way in the middle of it was highly unnecessary.

Ferrus: the worst scifi short story of all time. Zero talent. One sentence goes on for 11 lines. Get called out for making a teluric planet the size of a gaseous one and walk out.

Fulgrim: poorly hidden self insert recounting his sexual exploit. Has the most graphic scene ever involving masturbation and a vacuum. Read it out loud to all.

Rogal: Describe a trip he took once. It's 8 pages long of beach descriptions. Seem to have a slightly weird obsession with crabs, and describe in great detail the battle between two.

Angron: write a scene where he basically explain how he day dream of a murder plot against an old colleague. Suspiciously well written, will avoid the police.

Sanguinius: a 3 part non-linear story about live, loss and death, beautifully written, that hint at a secret. Forgot to put the big reveal in the fucking final text.

Perturabo: write a story about childhood trauma and daddy issues. Violently infodump on everyone. Someone ask if the "I" instead of "he" in the middle of the text was voluntary. Refuse to answer. ,

Jaghatai: Write a long form prose poem that turn out to be the lyric to an instrumental only piece. Said piece is 6 minute long. He insist to play it in full for class.

Konrad: Write a self insert isekai fanfiction into Age of Sigmar. Surprisingly violent and sexual. Terribly written. Will probably become a succesful YA author.

Leman: Write an essay about his dog and how much he love him. It's actually quite touching. Even put cute pics of his dig at the end.

Alpharius Omegon: wrote a fake wikipedia page about a species of carnivorous lamppost walking around and eating people.

Corvus: Write a poem so completely confusing, there is a 20 minute debate on the subject. Ideas are: Death, sexual assault, prostitution, religious cults or drogues. The poem was actually about autumn and migratory birds.

Lorgar: write an in dept essay about the history of the first Rabbi in town. Somehow trackdown the surviving family member for an email interview. Completely bust the page count.

Vulkan: a very cute memory piece about being born in a large family and the hardship of it. Casually mention an unsolved murder. Everyone is disturbed.

Magnus: that 25 pages, 3 part essay/poem/experimental narrative text on the myth of the minotaur, feminism and the importance of myth. It was borderline unreadable.

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mahiiimahiiii · 3 months

Text

Ok hear me out: once the crew gets to bauldurs gate they have mini funerals ala good place.

(part 1)

I'll give you a taster (+ my beautiful redeemed bhaalspawn):

Gale:

Gales "funeral" would be at a library. He would pile books together as a makeshift coffin and wear a bright pink night robe with fuzzy slippers and curlers in his hair, as well as a dusty pink eye mask. Everyone would be wearing some sort of robe, his flowers of choice for the event would be lilly of the valley.

"gale died doing what he loved, learning."

"some might say this would be the ultimate fate for gale"

He would interject, eating the cucumber on his eye, "I do not think the best outcome for me would be turning into an ilithid. But I must admit- it is fitting."

Later events would be a wine tasting and going shopping for new books.

Shadowheart:

I feel like hers would be a moonlight bonfire, lots of ring dancing and setting her old sharran armor on fire.

"I think-" karlach would start up "a lot of us would be dead if we didn't have our cleric. So shadowheart has earned her props.. not only is she reliable- she is resilient, she is strong."

"despite our quarrels, I am glad to fight with you. I have watched you bloom into a magnificent warrior, for what force? We will see soon enough. May your death be glorious." La'zel quipped.

Her flowers of choice would be night orchids. she would then insist on learning how to swim and manage a doggie paddle.

Karlach:

I feel like hers would be on the beach with a fruity drink in hand as she floats around in the water. The fish around her have probably boiled, which is more incentive for a fish fry.

Everyone gets like a back breaking hug. Lots of physical activities party games wise, be drunk and merry. Most likely people get a bit sunburnt and burnt burnt.

There is no speeches as Karlach is too busy expressing her gratitude about everyone else.

She gets withers to do limbo with her

Her choice of flower is sunflowers.

La'zel:

She would like to opt out of this. a simple "thank you la'zel, may you die horribly in battle. May your wounds bleed out and may you suffer immensely" will suffice.

(her choice of flower is snap dragons)

Jaheria:

Hers would be a touristy walk of bauldurs gate.

She talks about her life, a sense of oral history to pass onto others. The night ends with root veggies chips and cheese, and a generous donation to animal sanctuaries within the cities from the Harpers.

Her idea of fun is bastardizing the ballads that volo wrote via mad libs. Which immature humor ensues.

The mighty _____ o' noble _____ (noun *x2)

Found ___ and sent them back to ____ and ____ (noun, adj*x2)

She would rest in a fainting couch in a puddle of sun in the wildshape form of a big cat, tail swishing idily as people read off their bastardized poems.

Her choice of flowers are jasmine blooms.

Wyll:

His would be a picnic in the park, as people read their speeches to him in comfortable sun dresses and loose cotton clothing, he would hold a little bouquet of daisies resting on a soft gingham sheet with a crown of flowers.

He would insist of going to his favorite pastry shops in the city. Sweet wine, tarts and small cakes. A day of sweets to remember the sweetest person in the camp.

His whole funeral was about allowing everyone to experience the childhood he knew, which wasn't much, but was something he knew they needed.

The look of pure joy in everyone's faces was enough to sustain him for the rest of his days.

The goals were, teach karlach hopscotch, double dutch with Wynne, climb a tree with astarion, and show la'zel some human dances. The older people in the group were less inclined to indulge, taking the roll of the gossiping parents to the 20 something aged other members in the band.

The night ended with dances and fiddle music.

His choice of flowers are thistle blooms

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emyn-arnens · 27 days

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Andreth Rec List

If you know me, you know how much I love Andreth. I’ve put together a list of some of my favorite Andreth-centric fics, mostly focusing on who she is outside of her relationship with Aegnor and on her relationships with her family and Finrod. (But if you’re in the mood for Aegnor/Andreth, I have a rec list for them here.)

As always, if you enjoy any of these, please leave a kudo and comment for the author!

A flickering flame by @camille-lachenille (G, Andreth & Finrod, 1k):

She looks at the babe in her arms, blissfully asleep and unaware of the world he just entered. This little boy who shouldn’t be, her miracle and her curse.

Blood on Bone for a Lover’s Burial by heget (T, Andreth & Baragund & Belegund, 4.7k):

After the Dagor Bragollach, Wise-woman Andreth demands that their dead be buried. Her great-nephews, Baragund and Belegund, escort her to the ruins of Barathonion, to search for bones.

The Brides of Death by heget (G, Andreth & Finrod, 2.3k):

"Nóm has many questions, but he never asks about the wreath Andreth wears in her hair." A story of the Edain and their first interaction with the elves, of courage and defiance and most of all the Gift of Men.

Chrysalis by @cuarthol (G, Andreth & Bregor, 1.3k):

Andreth grieves.

For We Remember by ncfan (T, Andreth & Morwen, 7k):

Morwen, in childhood.

The Ring by heget (G, Andreth/Aegnor, ~600 words):

Andreth reunites with Aegnor.

Stitch. by Zimraphel (G, Andreth, ~400 words):

The sentence ends in silence halfway through. - the author once again uses poor Finrod and Andreth to vent halfheartedly about her own issues with Meaning, and Life, and Death as defined by elves. As one does! But really; how infuriating to hear someone say your life is part of a greater harmony when none of yours forms much of one, Finrod.

The north-march by losselen (G, Andreth, ~400 words):

A poem of Andreth in Ladros, who lived in the long years of the Siege of Angband.

Watcher Of/In the Woods by ncfan (T, Andreth, 2.4k):

"Outside, the world was changing." Andreth, in the time following the Dagor Bragollach.

Words by @hhimring (G, Andreth & Finrod, ~800 words):

Finrod and Andreth discuss matters of language. A short extra scene in the "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth".

#the silmarillion #athrabeth #andreth #fic recs #rec list #.txt

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flimflamfandom · 2 months

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Flimflamuniverse Character Breakdown!

Have you ever been reading one of my fics and asked something like-

"Whaddya MEAN Freckle has an accent?"

"Why do they end up in Hollywood?"

"Who's Rocky dating, anyway!?"

Well WONDER NO MORE! This post is the comprehensive list for all yer Flimflamfandom character quirk questions!

Essentially all of the changes are character based, but we will be talking about slight setting differences as well.

Let's dive in!

THE SETTING:

Most of the setting is exactly the same - late 20s St. Louis!

HOWEVER -

During later period stuff (anything from 1929 onward) several of the characters have taken up roots and gone to Hollywood! This has to do with various career moves that take place over the duration of the AU

Significant parts of Calvin's story now take place in Cork, Ireland - this will be explained more in depth later.

IT SHOULD BE NOTED that by the time my AU takes place, the Daisy has picked up significantly in business.

THE CHARACTERS:

It's important to note that NONE OF THE CHARACTERS' CRIMINAL ATTRIBUTES WERE REVEALED UNTIL AROUND THE MID 70S, and by then, the shock and horror of this sort of thing were replaced with fascination.

CALVIN MCMURRAY:

1909-1939

Calvin's childhood is the same, up until the nebulous "incident" that gets Rocky kicked out of home. Because of this, Nina gets a bit spooked, and sends Calvin to finish his basic schooling in County Cork, Ireland. He completes his schooling, and comes back home just in time for the "event" at the police academy.

During his time at the Daisy, Calvin becomes very interested in writing, and begins writing for the Times Dispatch about baseball games. He eventually begins writing screenplays when he moves with Ivy to California. He writes 3 novels, 2 short story collections, and 3 books of poems, on top of 4 screenplays. He's a busy guy!

Unfortunately, sometime around 1936, he develops a form of tail cancer. He dies in 1939, just 10 days shy of his 30th birthday.

QUIRKS: -Calvin has an accent! He's a cork boy. He sounds like a Cork boy. -By the time of his death, Calvin has a son, named Finn.

IVY PEPPER:

1909-1999

Ivy's childhood and such don't change much at all. 'Cept a secret that has to do with Mitzi, but shh! It's a secret!

Ivy is majoring in mathematics at college, and she's MAJORING majoring in it. her specialty seems to be advanced algebra - ring theory, nonlinear algebra, stuff like that. She slowly starts to see herself doing less and less in the field, but she always keeps an interest in it, attends conferences, etc.

The thing that REALLY interests Ivy, though, is her theater course. She takes one as an arts credit and LOVES it! She turns out to be kind of a prodigy on stage! She does some more acting here and there, and happens to meet a producer of films in 1929, after she's changed names to Ivy McMurray. She drags Calvin out to Hollywood with her, and stars in at least a dozen films, winning awards for quite a few of them!

By her retirement from acting in the 1960s, (her last picture netted her an award, by the way) she began to help get all of her old things from the Daisy together, and turn them into a museum, called the Daisy Club Museum. She helped run and fund the museum until her death in 1999, just 2 weeks into the age of 90.

QUIRKS: -Won 5 Oscars - 3 best supporting, 2 best actress. -Contributed her skills and research to at least 3 Algebra textbooks, -Never remarried after Calvin - she was quoted as saying "He'll love me when I get where he is, too."

ROCKY RICKABY:

1904-1989

Rocky's time at the Daisy is marred by his failed romances. He swears he must be the most unlovable person on earth! In the AU, I used to have an OC set aside for him, but nowadays I keep it vague and just say he has a wife and kids. ANYHOW, after the Daisy, Rocky manages to recover a tad from his head wound, and, get this - became a comedian. He even had a circuit of all the speakeasies.

Rocky did need a job after all of that though, and ended up, eventually, in broadcasting, which turned into being a comedian, which turned into his own radio show, which turned into a television show in the early days of TV. Rocky moved out to Hollywood and accidentally bought the house right next to Ivy and Calvin's.

A man with a good reputation, even AFTER it came out that he was a serious gangster, Rickaby died peacefully in 1989, at the age of 85.

QUIRKS: -Rocky was a staunch civil rights, woman's rights, and gay rights activist up until the very end. This would often get him in trouble with networks and producers. -Really liked the Beatles when they crossed over to the US -There is a very persistent rumor that he was in the OSS during World War 2 - in fact, he was not, but he did do work for the Signal Corps making mildly funny training films.

MITZI MAY:

?-1980

Little is known of her childhood, or her adolescence before the Daisy.

Plenty is known AFTER it though!

Mitzi, unlike the others, was not headed for entertainment afterwards. She, instead, lived with Sedgewick Sable, and indeed remarried, but never took his last name. As the pressure from the depression started to ease, she managed to turn all that Daisy property (and all of the hidden away stash money) into a hotel! Mitzi became an incredibly successful hotelier, owning and helping to operate no less than 5 luxury hotels by 1956.

By 1970, she had gotten in touch with Ivy Pepper again, and asked about the Daisy Club Museum - she was instrumental in getting it started, as she still sorta owned the caves down there. She had the diea of making it a living history museum, and she also had the idea of making it like a sort of themed resort.

She died in her sleep in 1980. No one was precisely sure of her age.

QUIRKS: -No one really knows her age -She has a secret about Ivy that she's never told a soul, and it went with her to her grave -Mitzi had one known child by Sedgewick Sable - Minerva, born in 1934. Minerva became a costumer.

SEDGEWICK SABLE:

1895-1985

After the depression hit, Sable was distraught and destitu-JUST KIDDING, that paranoid buffoon hid cash in the walls. The WALLS, I tell you! It wasn't a ton, though, and they coasted by until the New Deal came around.

Work projects need work materials, and Wick was able to help provide them. With a new purpose, new drive, and tons of resources, Wick managed to get the company going again, renaming it to Sable Construction Materials, later just SCM. He even had to buy 3 Lake Freighters - the company still operates lake freighters today!

At the age of 90, Wick passed away in his sleep.

QUIRKS: -While Wick and Calvin were never close, both were HUGE baseball fans - Wick was obsessed with the Red Sox. -Wick was a surprisingly involved boss - most employees knew him personally.

MORDECAI HELLER:

1899-1983

At some point, Mordecai returned to the Daisy, to work with Calvin McMurray as a 'fix it' man. Mordecai admired the work, and stayed put until the place stopped being illegal.

After bouncing from job to job, thinking he would end up back in organized crime, Mordecai settled down in New York after finding out the man who wanted him dead had been killed in a car accident. Mordecai became an accountant and theater manager on Broadway - not a STAGE manager, mind you, just the guy who runs the theater. He really quite liked the work!

Mordecai Heller died in 1983 at the age of 84, of lung cancer.

QUIRKS: -Mordecai was a homosexual, and was well known as such. -Mordecai, a seemingly ice hearted man, actually kinda liked musicals...well. Good ones, anyway. -His least favorite show up there was Seesaw. His favorite was Pacific Overtures

VIKTOR VASKO:

1886-1978

After the Daisy became a legal operation, Viktor just...kept working there. You still need someone to lift boxes and tend a bar when it's legal, too! Viktor was actually a loyal employee of Mitzi until 1943, when he left to run a construction firm in St. Louis. He did that, and had a fairly uneventful life, dying in 1978 at the age of 92.

QUIRKS: -Viktor never remarried - but he did reconnect with his wife and daughter sometime in 1935. -Viktor's daughter went on to become a famous operatic soprano, and even served at the Met for a time. -Viktor never outed any of his former associates, even when talks of the Daisy Museum were beginning. He refused, worrying that he'd sully people's reputations.

DORIAN ZIBOWSKI:

?-1954

After the depression, it became harder for clubs to keep full time musicians. Zib was still at the Daisy until about 1932. Fortunately for him, in 1933, his old...work acquaintance? Rocky was running a radio show out of Los Angeles and was asked to help find a band leader.

After a brief stint on this show, Zib began to lead bands at the cutting edge of Jazz music - he considered becomeing an academic, but he never found the time to think too hard about the option.

A lifetime of smoking and drinking caught up to him fiercely, and he died of Lung Cancer in 1954.

QUIRKS: -He's still made outta triangles! -Zib learned to play every saxophone, and every reed instrument he could get his hands on. -Zib's final record was a live recording at the Pershing Lounge in Chicago, Illinois, 4 years before Ahmad Jamal made it famous.

THE SAVOYS:

Nico: 1900-1978 Serafine: 1902-1983

Little is known of the Savoys after their return to Louisiana in 1931. Some say Nico got back into boxing, or that Serafine was responsible for a rash of killings.

The two died peacefully in their homes, and lived to perfectly normal old ages...and yet, it seemed so suspicious when Nico died. He was just...on his back porch. With a note that was written in code...

QUIRKS: -Nico did, in fact, go back into boxing, but left for professional wrestling - the fictional kind. Serafine was, for a time, a voodoo practitioner for hire, who was well regarded in her community -Neither married, but both had several relationships

THE ARBOGASTS:

Abelard: 1886-1987 Bobby: 1898-1975 Elsa: 1900-1975

The Arbogasts lead a quiet, mostly obscure life, save for Abelard, who becomes quite the lit up theologian. He starts a cult in the woods of Missouri, and is found dead after his 101st birthday. The cult, as many do after a leader dies, fell into disarray and eventually splintered.

Bobby and Elsa dropped the funeral routine and moved closer to the city - Bobby became a school teacher and Elsa became a nurse. The two died months apart in 1975.

QUIRKS: -Elsa and Bobby were just about as in love with each other as Calvin and Ivy. -Bobby had severe PTSD from the war, and would often have episodes. Elsa hated seeing him that way, but helped him. -Abelard's Cult, "the new Thinkers", was bizarrely peaceful as cults are concerned. They never ate Fish, though...

LACY HARDT:

1904-1994

Lacy was a loyal employee of Sedgewick Sable for the first year after the depression. Eventually, though, she married Arthur Keane (an OC you can read about here), a guitarist, and moved with him to his hometown of Virginia Beach. There, she lived with him as an assistant to many prominent locals.

Eventually, the two moved again, back to Peoria, to take care of Lacy's ailing mother. This was around 1934. After Lacy's mother passed in 35, she was distraught. So, she decided to find a new hobby - writing and illustrating children's books. She got onto the idea after a phone call with Ivy, who handed over Calvin's agent's information.

When she retired, Lacy moved back to Virginia Beach with Arthur, who died a year before she did. QUIRKS -Lacy won a Caldecott Medal, and displayed it in her home office until her death -Until after her death, it was kept a secret by the McMurray family that Lacy, who was close with them, had been writing Finn (Calvin's son) notes as Mrs. Claus, as well as little stories, which eventually became her 'Rudy Sees the World' books.

THAT'S ALL I'M WRITING FOR NOW!

Again, pretty much all the changes are to the characters - the setting is, for the most part, untouched! I will be writing more about the AU when I get the chance, though!

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drivinmeinsane · 1 month

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In case you're not tired of them yet- I've got some character asks :]

For Holland; 8, 16 and 27

For Julian; 15, 17 and 28 (Driver)

For K; 2, 17 and 47

Thank you for the message! I appreciated the opportunity to talk about these guys some more!!! <3

Holland

8. Unpopular opinion about them.

Holland loved his wife dearly, but Jackson Healy is the unexpected love of his life.

16. Deepest darkest secret they won’t even admit to themselves.

Holland is worried that Holly hates him. He thinks he genuinely might be a bad father. He couldn’t fault his daughter if she blames him for the death of her mom, he certainly does.

27. Their guilty pleasure.

It would be easy to say alcohol, smoking, or self-flagellation, but really? Holland likes all those cheesy family activities (this includes Jackson of course). He didn’t get to spend enough time with Holly and her mom together, so he tries to put in the extra effort these days for family game nights, dinners, movie trips, anything they can do together. He also gets the bonus satisfaction of seeing Healy’s face flush every time he’s included as part of the March family.

Julian

15. Worst thing they’ve ever done.

Julian has done plenty of terrible things in his life. He is a product of his upbringing. As gently as I can put this with the understanding that he was victimized, the worst thing he did was not love himself enough to save himself by cutting ties with his mother and his brother. Without them in the picture, he very likely would not have been engaging in the destructive (both to himself and to other people) behaviors to the extent that he was. Crystal truly was an epicenter of bad.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them.

Off the top of my head, here are some of the songs that remind of Julian » I Bet on Losing Dogs - Mitski » God's Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash » Afraid - The Neighborhood » Knives Out - Radiohead » Grip - Seeb x Bastille

28. How they feel about Driver.

I feel like Julian would find common ground with Driver. Neither of them had a stable childhood, however Driver was able to come out of his experiences being able to connect with others, to love, despite everything. Julian might be able to let him in. Perhaps he could heal.

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on.

I firmly believe that Deckard would have left that upgrade center with two kids, Ana and K, if he had truly known what was going on from the start. By all rights, they were siblings. K had found his family. He just would not -could not- consider himself human enough to deserve it. By the time Deckard realized, likely when Ana explained the circumstances of K visiting, it would have been too late for him to claim K in life. In a happier story, he would have pried K off those steps before he succumbed to his wounds and the thought that he wanted to die. Maybe he could have been saved. Deckard had loved a replicant as a partner, he could have easily loved a replicant as a son.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them.

Here's just some of the songs I associate with K. We'll go ahead ignore that I'm pulling some of these off my Six/K playlist... » Like Real People Do - Hozier » Star Hopping Lover - Chance Peña » Take me to Church - Hozier » Achilles Come Down - Gang of Youths » Way Down We Go - KALEO

47. Their dream job.

I think that in another life, K would have really liked to do something involving agriculture. As we see in both the script and in the movie, he has a genuine interest in Sapper’s occupation. He wants to know what he farms. He wants to know what’s bubbling on the stove. He’s intrigued by the cowslip he finds on the ground. Anything involving the creation of life and the tactile use of his hands seems right up his alley. Personally, I specifically see him as keeping bees if he were not… leashed by the LAPD (if he were to survive defection or were allowed to openly have his own interests). They captivated him from the moment on landed on his hand. As he is, they’re part of a system working for the betterment of a colony. I also think that in keeping bees, he would feel closer to Deckard given that he has his own. It might feel almost as if it were a family business, and we all know how desperately K wants to belong to a family. I’ve included some of my notes on the script and some shots of K finding the hives. I have too many feelings. :(

#.character ask game #.from you #the nice guys (2016)#holland march #only god forgives (2013)#julian thompson #blade runner 2049 #officer k #.my thoughts #.my posts

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companion-of-the-dragonmark · 3 months

Text

HTTYD Books Fanfic Poll

Hello, my fellow Dragonmarkers! Today, I've decided to make a poll. There are several ideas I'd like to work on, however, I'm struggling to choose which one to start on first. Granted, I have a feeling I know what you guys want me to work on first, but I still want to ask anyways. 😏

So before you vote, I'd like to list down the options below and a little summary as to what each choice will be about.

Poll will end on Hiccup's birthday on February 29th. So spread the word. 🙏🏻😉

『 All of these story ideas will try to cling to canon events as much as it can, or at least be loyal to it as canon-inspired. 』

<><><><><><><>

Thuggory's Saga

This story will be on Thuggory's POV throughout the Books and what was going on behind the scenes when Thuggory wasn't around.

Thuggory Name Parody Series

This work will be a one-shot series consolidated into one story that has Thuggory doing various things based on what his name is (i.e. Thuggory will be thuggish, Muggory will be drinking a mug or mugging somebody, Chuggory will be chugging ale, etc).

Fishlegs' Second Impossible Quest

(Post Book 12) Fishlegs drags Hiccup into yet ANOTHER Impossible Quest when Fishlegs seems to have forgotten his lesson and was caught sending love poems to Barbara the Barbarian. Suffering scallops, Fishlegs! Didn't Hiccup just say to NOT do this again?! 💢😠😒😑🙄🤦‍♂️

Actually, wouldn't it be hilarious if that's how Hiccup got married because everyone thinks that the love letters were HIS and not Fishlegs, causing him to marry Barbara or some other chick. lol 🤣

Exile on Cannibal Isle

(Book 1) What if the adults had decided to banish their youth that evening after their failure, regardless of the thunderstorm? Our hapless youths end up becoming Outcasts — not on the Mainland, as planned, but on Cannibal Isle instead: an island filled with natives and Outcasts who had a fondness for human flesh. How will Hiccup, Thuggory, and Co. escape their current predicament? And will they return in time before the Green Death roasts their Tribes to well-done human kabobs?

The Tale of Two Swords

Told from Endeavor's POV (and sometimes from Stormblade's), this story delves into their respective origins, how they came into the hands of their respective owners, and the events leading up to the conflict between Alvin the Treacherous and Hiccup the Third. Two swords, two grudges, two wills, two forces, and two ideologies will clash for supremacy!

Hiccup's Saga

(Post Book 12) This story will focus on Hiccup's story AFTER his ascension as the 13th King of the Renewed Kingdom of the Wilderwest. As well as his achievements, his experiences, his struggles, and his life milestones. This will try to stay loyal to the books and to the books' epilogues.

Hiccup the First's Saga

Told from Hiccup's POV until he meets Wodensfang, which will then transition to Wodensfang's POV ever afterwards. This will get into the details of his birth, the war with the Uglithugs, the Hooligans getting ousted from the Mainland and their migration to Berk; it will get to Hiccup's childhood and adolescence, the start of the brutal Human-Dragon Wars, and how he eventually meets Wodensfang; then his defeat of Merciless/Green Death, the founding of the Kingdom of the Wilderwest, and his achievements and milestone events as King, until his death.

Hiccup the Second's Saga

This will focus on Hiccup the Second's life from birth to the time of his death, including his life with his adopted draconian family, and his reunion with his father and family, and his struggles ever afterwards. I plan on this being told from his POV. Not sure whether to have this be a third-person narrator like what the Books were, or to have it be in the first-person in the manner of Hiccup writing an autobiography.

What do you guys think?

Hiccup's Young Chief AU

This story idea dives into what would happen if Hiccup had to become the new Chief of Berk early on in his youth. From this point, we have several options to choose from.

1) Have this be a sequel to "Exile on Cannibal Isle" if the ending ends up being tragic for the adults, and Thuggory and Hiccup are left to pick up the pieces after slaying the Green Death.

2) Have this set in Book 2, if Stoick dies in the fight against Alvin, as a consequence of the curse of Grimbeard's treasure.

3) Have this set in Book 7, when Madguts the Murderous was about to execute Big Bertha and Stoick in revenge, and Hiccup failed to return on time.

4) Have this set in Book 9, when Stoick is missing (via Excellinor the Witch), and Hiccup never finds him again.

5) Have this set in Book 9 when all the adults are missing or perished, and the Warriors-to-Be are the only ones left in the School (aside from the Outcasts, obviously), and so everyone has to fight together in order to escape.

6) Have this set in Books 10/11 when Stoick dies in battle and Hiccup is forced to lead his Tribe in their fight against both Alvinsmen and Dragons.

Old Wrinkly's Saga

(Pre-HTTYD) This focuses on Old Wrinkly's POV, from his origins, to his life, to the events of Humungous Hotshot and his daughter, to her eventual marriage to Stoick, to how he came to live with the Hooligans, aaaaaall the way to Hiccup becoming King.

Valhallarama's Saga

(Pre-HTTYD) This story focuses on Val's POV from her birth, to her romance with Humungous, to her marriage to Stoick, to her son Hiccup's birth, to her many MANY Quests, aaaaaall the way to her death.

Alvin's Saga (or Saga of the Outcasts)

(Pre-HTTYD) This focuses on Alvin's origins: from his birth, to his upbringing, to how he turned his Tribe into one of the most "modern" and dangerous Tribes in the Archipelago, how he came across the Legend of the King's Lost Things, his fateful encounter with his future arch-nemesis Hiccup, and his gradual elevation to ultimate power. I might have this story end once he meets with Hiccup. Or maybe I end it with his death. That's up to you guys.

Snotface Snotlout's Saga

(Pre-HTTYD / HTTYD) This story focuses on Snotface Snotlout's origins: from his birth, to Hiccup's birth, to the origin of his rivalry with him, and so on — right up to his death! (Or I could keep him alive instead?)

Norbert the Nutjob's Saga

(Book 4) This story is about Norbert's origins: His birth and childhood, his father's death, his dream to go to the New World, and turning the Hysterics into the greatest Viking Tribe in the Archipelago; his fateful encounter and feud with Hiccup the Third, and his eventual downfall. And then his return!

Deadly Shadow's Saga

(Book 10) This story is about the Deadly Shadow's origins: From birth to hatchling, to their fateful encounter with their mistress, Fishlegs' mother; her meeting Alvin and giving birth to his child; the death of Termagant and the Disappearance of her only child; of their eventual conversion to Furious' rebellion, and of their reunion with Fishlegs; and much more.

Furious' Saga

(Book 8) This story is on Furious' origins: His birth, to his meeting with Hiccup the Second, his life with him, facing his 'brother's' death, imprisonment, his meeting with Hiccup the Third, his escape, his rebellion, and finally his departure.

The Viking Tribes of the Barbaric Archipelago

This is a nonfiction fanfic that dives into the geography, history, culture, and customs of every Viking Tribe in the Archipelago (in the Books). You can look at this as a Guide to the Archipelago (an All You Need to Know About X book), or as a history book composed by a future historian. Take your pick.

<><><><><><>

Thank you very much for your support! I look forward to the results of your votes, and I'll let you guys know what the top 3 choices were by the end of February 29th.

Long Live the Wilderwest!

— Companion of the Dragonmark

#companion-of-the-dragonmark #httyd #httyd books #httyd book fandom #httyd book fanfics #blog update #tumblr polls #fanfics #httyd fanfics #httyd fandom #httyd fanfiction #httyd book series #blog poll #httyd characters #httyd book characters #underappreciated httyd book characters

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