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mochi-marmalade · 4 months ago

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The Love of the Princess

a/n: i stayed up until 2am writing this :') possibly one of my favorite works i've written?? the title is from a song i listened to while writing, very dreamy vibes. NOT proofread, might proofread later. BIG thankies to @lillisummers for the inspiration!! reader is the daughter of elrond & celebrían :)

Legolas x female elf reader

3.8k words

warnings: none i think....

“My dear, you look wonderful.” Lord Elrond, says as he places a gleaming silver circlet on your head. “Thank you, father.” You reply, smiling. Truthfully, you are hesitant and unsure of what the future holds for you. Soon you will be traveling to Mirkwood to meet your betrothed, away from your family and the place you have called home your entire life.

A short time ago, your father brought you on business for a diplomatic meeting with King Thranduil. While there, you slipped away to explore. Though you had been in forests before, Mirkwood had a certain air about it, veiled in mystique. “You,” A voice cut through the silence. “I have not seen you before.” You turn around and come face to face with a pale elf. He is fair as the moon and moves nimbly as he walks towards you. “I am the Lady of Rivendell, daughter of Lord Elrond.” He looks you up and down, then slowly nods. “Where is your father?”

“He is… Meeting with King Thranduil.”

The blond elf cocks an eyebrow, wondering aloud, “Should you not join him?”

“I am on my own business to meet handsome strangers.”

He smiles and asks in a sing-song voice, “Is that so?”

You return his smile, but before you can ask him for his name, another voice echoes through the trees. “Your father calls, my lady.” You look between the elf and the passageway to the Elvenking’s Halls, and he dips his head to bid you goodbye. “Farewell, fair sir.” You say before hurrying away. Thankfully, you received only a light reprimanding from your father for sneaking away that day.

Perhaps life in Mirkwood wouldn’t be so bad, if only you could see that elf again. Then you remember that you are already meeting none other than Legolas, son of Thranduil, and it would be most inappropriate to have relations with others. You hope Legolas is a kind, reasonable person- you don’t even know what he looks like! However, if your father suggested you marry him, then Legolas must be an honorable elf. “We must go.” Your father states. Soon, you are on your horse, traveling once again to Mirkwood for a feast. Here you will meet Legolas.

After nearly two weeks’ journey, you arrive at Mirkwood. Though it is nearly midnight, you are greeted by the King’s stewards, who lead you to the chambers you will sleep in during your visit. You thank them and quickly close the doors behind them. After a few moments, you decide that the halls are empty enough to quietly creep out of your chambers. You take the same path that you found the elf on during your last visit, hoping to see him one last time. “My lady, it is hardly safe to be away from the Elvenking’s Halls at this hour.” You know that voice. You swivel around to find the stranger smiling from behind you. “It’s you.” Your worried face morphs into a grin, and you step towards him. “I was hoping I might see you.” You tell him.

“Oh? And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I… I am here to meet King Thranduil’s son. My father and the king have agreed a marriage would be most practical, so we are to meet tomorrow before the feast.”

It doesn’t take long for the elf in front of you to notice your troubled demeanor. He places a hand on yours, and reassures you, “Do not fret, my lady. I think the prince will take a liking to you.” “Do you know him?” You wonder. He chuckles and mutters, “You could say that.”

“What is he like?”

He looks up at you confused, as if the question was completely surprising. “Well, let’s see,” He begins. “Our prince is a skilled bowman, very attractive, loyal beyond compare, wise, and personable.” You suppress a laugh, and share, “It almost sounds as if you should be the one marrying him.” His eyes widen and he laughs, a sound that rings like chimes in the wind. “I think not.” He says matter-of-factly. You smiled amusedly before yawning. He advises, “I should think it is time for you to retire to your chambers.” “I suppose you are correct.” You agree.

“Shall I escort you?”

“I would like that very much.”

You hook your arm in his and he takes you through the great halls to your room. You release your arm and he says, “This is where I bid you goodnight.” You press a kiss to his cheek, and say, “Goodnight.” You hope for the sake of your arrangement that this is the last time you’ll see him, but at the same time, you hope your paths will cross again. You settle on your bed and drift into sleep.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ☼ ﾟ｡ ⋆

The next morning, you are awakened by elven servants. They bring you food, draw you a bath, and lay out your clothes. After preparing for the day, your father comes to collect you and take you to King Thranduil’s throne room. Lord Elrond seems to sense your anxiety, murmuring, “Do not worry, child. I will be here with you the entire time.” His words soothe you a bit, and you swallow thickly as you near the throne room. Lord Elrond announces your presence as the two of you enter, and King Thranduil eyes you from his seat. The blond elf from your encounter last night is present as well, perplexing you greatly. Perhaps he is a servant, a guard, or a steward of the king. Thranduil rises, beckoning to the elf and declaring, “This is my son, Legolas.” “You are Legolas?” You ask, shocked. He bows his head in respect, saying, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.” For a moment, you are speechless, but you manage to respond, “As am I.” Legolas takes your hand and asks you if you’d like to walk. You nod and he asks your father, “May I?” Lord Elrond and King Thranduil both look puzzled, but Elrond responds, “You may.” With that, you and Legolas take your leave, walking out of the grand room and into the halls. Once you are out of earshot, you retract your hand and turn to Legolas. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! This entire time… You played me for a fool.” He reaches for your hand again, explaining, “No, I don’t think you’re a fool and I didn’t mean to lead you on. My intentions are honest, and I meant to tell you my identity, I swear. Once it became apparent I needed to tell you, I just didn’t know how. You seemed so interested in me, I was afraid you might change your mind if you knew.” You look at him, still hurt and reassured at the same time. “Legolas, you should have said something. I don’t care if you’re the prince. Even if you were the king, my feelings would not change.” You allow him to hold your hands and he lifts one to press a kiss against your knuckles. “I am glad. I look forward to getting to know you better.” You feel heat rise to your cheeks. You spend the day with Legolas and you find he is everything you had hoped he would be- and more. “The time of the feast approaches, shall we return?” He asks. You tell him, “The feast is for us, is it not? Could you imagine a feast without its honored guests? I think we must go… Unless we convince others we are already there by replacing ourselves with remarkably lifelike replicas.” He laughs, then places a hand on the small of your back to lead you to the mead hall. The feast is merry and all who attend appear jovial. There are many elves dancing and singing and, of course, eating. You can’t help but look at the attendees and smile, as if the cheer were contagious. Legolas comes up behind you and notes your smile, asking, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, very much. I have never attended a feast in Mirkwood before.”

“Is it everything you had imagined?”

“That and more.”

He places a hand on your shoulder and draws you near. His heart warms at the way you look up at him, mirthful and kind. As each moment passes, he can almost feel his affection for you growing. “Legolas, would you like to dance?” He raises his eyebrows at the unexpected question, but before he can answer, you take his hand and drag him into the middle of the floor. Laughing, you take his hands and whirl to the sound of the music. He can’t help but watch the way your dress flows and how happy you look to be here. Heavens, the look on your face- he could stare at you forever if you’d let him. The two of you dance for a while, then take a break to drink and converse. You look at Legolas’s flushed face and can’t help but ask, “Are you liking the feast?” “Yes,” He replies. “Truthfully, there are very few times I’ve had more fun.” You beam at him and tell him you are very glad. He murmurs, “Come, I should like to show you something.” You both steal away from the feast and you follow Legolas until you come to the large doors that lead to the rest of Mirkwood. “Legolas, we shouldn’t.” You warn.

“Do not worry. It will be worth it.”

You creep past the doors and run into the woods together, where he signals you to stay close to him. He says, “I know these woods well, but there is no doubt that danger lurks hidden from sight.” You are no fighter, versed only in combat with weapons. Here, however, you have no bow nor any sabre. Legolas looks back at you and it’s as if he read your mind. “I do not leave the halls without a weapon. I will make sure no harm comes to you.” He says, spinning a small blade in his hand. He begins to climb a tree, and, though you are wearing a particularly elaborate dress, you follow suit. Once you reach the top, you draw in a sharp breath. Naturally, you have seen the night sky innumerable times, but it still leaves you awe-stricken. “Gil-Estel,” You say breathlessly. “It is so bright.” You examine the dark blanket of the sky, peppered with glittering stars. Turning to Legolas, you can’t help but tell him, “It is beautiful. Thank you.” He gazes at you with such tenderness, you wish that he may be yours for a short while. Even if just for this night, you wish that he will stay by your side and grace you once more with his smile. You tell him, “I made a wish.”

“What?”

“I have heard that some men make wishes to the stars. I am not certain of the merit of this belief, but I made a wish myself just now.”

“I see. I only wish that I may be worthy of you one day.”

His response leaves you silent. You want to say, “Oh, Legolas, hûn nín, you already are.” But you cannot speak. His eloquence and timing leaves you dumbstruck every time without fail. His expression is unreadable, and you’re afraid he might think you don’t care for him in the same manner. Just when you open your mouth to speak, he says, “We should return. Too much time has already passed.” Trying to conceal your disappointment, you agree and climb to the ground. He helps you slink back into the mead hall unnoticed, and doesn’t stray far from you for the rest of the night. As the sun rises, elves begin to filter out of the hall one by one. Legolas is talking to King Thranduil, when your father says, “I hope you enjoyed your escapade.” You look at him embarrassedly, and he asks, “Did you think I would not notice? I admit, I still worry for you as if you were a small child, feeling the need to guide your every step. However, I have trust that you are capable of making wise decisions. I only hope that you will be happy.” You tell him, “I am very happy. Legolas is a good man.” Lord Elrond smiles and walks away as Legolas returns to you. “Are you fatigued at all? Do you wish to rest?” He asks. You laugh, “No, Legolas, I feel quite alright.”

“Your hair… It must have come undone in the woods.”

You touch the back of your head to feel that your braids either have unwinded or are tangled. “Would you help me with it?” You ask. Legolas looks at you wide eyed. “Me…? Are you sure?” He questions. You consider it for a brief moment- are you certain you want to take that big a step? When you look at him, though, your concerns melt away. You trust him, wholly and completely. “Yes.” With your answer, Legolas brings you to your chambers and has you sit at the vanity. His fingers are hesitant and hover over your hair for a moment before he deftly begins to detangle your tresses. His fingers are slightly cold, but it doesn’t bother you. He works quickly and skillfully, neatly setting your hair into pleats. You can’t tell exactly how many pins he uses to secure your hair in place, but his gentle hands make them nearly unnoticeable. After a short while, he proudly declares, “I am finished. You may now tell your friends that your hair was pleated by a master.” “Oh, really? A master?” You quip. He nods enthusiastically and you can’t help but laugh. Your smile slowly fades as you realize you must leave within the next few days. “Is something the matter?” Legolas asks sweetly.

“I must leave soon.”

“Don’t go.” He urges.

“I cannot stay here. I must go home.”

“Must you?”

“Legolas, I… It is hardly appropriate to stay with you given the circumstances.”

“Then I shall ask to court you.”

Again, you are taken aback. Legolas, though not always reserved, is acting uncharacteristically bold. You feel his forehead, wondering, “Are you sick?” He huffs in amusement, but takes your hand from his forehead and quickly regains his serious look. “I am being sincere. I would like to stay with you longer.” He says. Your head is swimming with thoughts of him, and your heart is racing in excitement. He calls your name softly, and you bring your gaze to him. He looks earnest, nervous, and enthusiastic all at once. “I would like nothing more.” You answer. He laughs and embraces you, his warmth enveloping you. It is caring, inviting, comfortable and unlike anything you have ever experienced. He lets go and straightens his tunic, uttering, “I do not know what came over me. I apologize if I was too forward.” You hold his hand, telling him, “Legolas, it is okay. I am happy too.” He grins and ushers you to follow him to ask your father. Lord Elrond looks surprised, but grants Legolas permission nonetheless. King Thranduil’s face is unreadable as ever, but he does not object, which you suppose is good. Your father then takes you aside to speak, saying, “I did not expect to return to Rivendell without you.”

“I am sorry.”

“Do not be sorry, I only mean that your presence will be missed.”

Tears well in your eyes as you realize you do not know when your next visit to Rivendell will be. “Do not cry,” Lord Elrond says softly. “Your journey has only begun. Your family will be ready should you need us.” You nod, suppressing tears. “And,” He adds, peering at Legolas. “You are not alone.” You turn to see Legolas waiting for you beyond the large doorway. “Thank you, father.” You give him one last embrace, and Legolas joins you to see him off. As you watch the horses gallop away, you sigh deeply. Your life will be different from now on, but you’re glad.

°•. ✿ .•°

You spend much of your time with Legolas, and he quickly learns that you are a woman of many interests. You are skilled with both a bow and a sabre, your fingers move expertly to weave baskets and plait hair, and you enjoy several forms of visual art. He praises your abilities- you are multifaceted and so resolute in your beliefs. He goes so far as to request paper and a utensil as a means for you to draw. Day by day, you explore with Legolas and occasionally stop to sketch the scenery or a species you may have never seen before. During these times, Legolas likes to watch you with deep admiration. Your reverence and appreciation for nature are other things he likes about you. Being the simple creature you are, you find solace just being with Legolas. He provides comfort and care you didn’t know you could have.

Then, perhaps months later, Legolas is called to Rivendell. “I must go.” He states apologetically. “Take me with you.” You plead.

“The journey will be dangerous. I do not wish to place you in peril’s way.”

“Legolas, you know I can hold my own.”

He seems to consider it for a moment, but concedes, “I feel you will be safer here with my father and the guard.” “Legolas, who better to ensure my safety than you?” You reason. That seems to have been more effective, as he sighs weakly before saying, “Fine. You may come with me, but we must return to Mirkwood.” You agree, and he hastily prepares extra supplies. King Thranduil emerges, but only to stare at the two of you coldly as you venture into the distance.

Traveling with Legolas is like a dream. Both of you are often alone in Mirkwood, but there is something to be said about journeying with him. It is truly just the two of you, with no chambers to return to at the end of the day and nothing keeping you confined within one area. You banter with Legolas often during the trek to Rivendell, and at night you bring your head to his chest. You gaze at the stars together as you did that night many moons ago, and you slumber peacefully drawn close to Legolas. He offers you lembas, which you graciously accept each time, and is careful to wipe away any crumbs left on your face. You almost prefer this life to the one in Mirkwood, but it is cut short when you finally arrive in Rivendell.

Your father greets Legolas at the entrance to the great valley and is especially glad to see you. “My dear, it is always a delight. I would talk with you longer, were it not for a pressing situation.” “Yes,” Legolas begins. “I offer my deepest apologies to you.” Lord Elrond looks at him for a moment, then begins, “Oh, no, it is not that. There is… something else that has come up.” You and Legolas look at each other with confusion on your faces, but Lord Elrond is already bringing Legolas further into Rivendell. “Am I not to come?” You ask, feeling a bit dejected. Father turns to you, and says, “My daughter, you must not attend this meeting. I apologize but the magnitude of this is far too great; it will not be safe for you.” You nod your head slowly, and make your way to your sister’s quarters. Arwen embraces you with a wide smile, and you each share what has happened in your lives since you last met. Eventually, your father returns and informs you that you may want to speak with Legolas. You look between Lord Elrond and Arwen worriedly at first, then heed your father’s suggestion. You arrive outside and there are several strange men gathered near the entrance of Rivendell. Legolas turns to greet you and, for the first time, you can see fear on his face. “What ails you?” You ask him as you rush to meet him. “I have been appointed to a task, which will be great in time and distance. It will be treacherous and… I fear I may never see you again.” He explains. “Do not say that. You are steadfast, both in will and in strength. I am sure we will meet again.” You try to convince him. He nods and holds your face in his hands, then presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Meleth nín.” He mutters, still holding your face so you cannot see him. Carefully, you raise your head to meet his eyes, and say, “I love you.” You can see in his eyes he is unbearably upset, as if he cannot bear to leave you. “Go. I will wait here.” With those words, he turns and leaves.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

It is many months before you see Legolas again. You see your people leave, and it pains you to watch the very life of Rivendell leave the place you once called home. Arwen and your father spend many moments together, discussing something that is beyond your knowledge. However, they also spend many moments attempting to comfort you. You have faith that Legolas will return, so you wait patiently, always watching the horizon for his lean figure. It isn’t until you travel to Minas Tirith with your father and sister that you finally see Legolas again. Arwen weds Aragorn in what seems to be a human ceremony. There you see him: Legolas, casually conversing with some people that you think you saw him set out from Rivendell with. The stout dwarf next to him sees you approaching first and gently elbows Legolas. He looks up, and with a grin opens his arms to greet you. Breaking into a trot, you launch yourself into his arms and he wraps his arms around you in a tight hold. “Legolas…” You sob softly. He quickly leans back to brush your tears away, saying, “None of that, love. I’m here now.” He holds you to his chest pressing kiss upon kiss to the crown of your head. “My lady.” The dwarf grunts, bowing slightly to you. Then he turns to Legolas to ask, “Is this…?” Legolas laughs, “Yes, this is her.” You sigh at the feeling of being in Legolas’s arms again, but you are interrupted by Legolas saying, “Actually, I have something.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a silver ring. “Legolas…” You gasp, eyes welling with tears once again. You nod your head vehemently, and Legolas slips the ring on your right index finger. Legolas doesn’t waste any time kissing you, in response to which you place a hand on either side of his face. When you pull away, tears of joy stream down your cheeks. “What’re you making her cry for now?!” Gimli reprimands Legolas. The elf simply replies with a smirk, “Gimli, have you ever been to an elven wedding?”

#x reader #legolas #legolas greenleaf #legolas x reader #lord of the rings #lotr #gimli #elrond #arwen #aragorn #thranduil #jrr tolkien #im in love #with him

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redfoxwritesstuff · 24 days ago

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CW: Titty fucking, large breasts, Adam being adam, oral, cum shots, facial Rating: Adult Summar: Adam and his new, large breasted lover have been fucking like rabbits but you're tired and sore. Adam though, in love with your curves will gladly take the chance to lavish your chest with some affection.

Adam was a woman’s man. That was for sure. He loved every part of the form of women. How could he not? They were shaped with him in mind. That was why he named his warriors after parts of the female body.

That was why as he took his time, when he had the time, to enjoy the bodies of his partners. If someone grabbed him by the balls and demanded he pick a favorite part of the woman’s form, though, he’d have no choice but to pick their breasts.

He was a father and remembered well how they would swell when seed took root within the womb. He remembered how they fed and supported life in a way nothing else could.

And he remembered how fucking good they felt pushed together, wrapped around his cock.

Look, Adam wasn’t always a bad motherfucker he was now, but he was created with the single goal of going forth and making babies. With that written into your very soul, how could he not think with his cock?

“Adam?” you asked, standing in the middle of his living room, bathed in the bright sunlight of Heaven.

“Fuck, babe,” he let out a long breath, coming back to reality as his eyes ran over your form, taking in the way his silk robe clung to every generous curve. It strained to cover the massive swells of your breasts. “You look so fucking good like this. I’m getting hard again.”

You rolled your eyes, paying more attention to trying to put the mess of your hair to rights than the man that you had spent all morning and most of the afternoon rolling around the sheets with.

Your body was sore, satisfied, and you were ready for water and some food before you were even going to consider sixth round. Or would it be the seventh? In Adam, you had met your sexual match, and you were thriving.

Adam walked up to you, hands eagerly running over flesh as soon as he was close enough to reach out to you. Palms smoothed over curves and worked their way under the fabric covering your body, slipping it off your shoulders. You stood naked in the bright sunlight.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Adam said in a voice as close to a whisper as he was capable of.

“Seriously, Adam.” You tried to sound stern but lost any resolve as his large hands cupped your heavy breasts. The buds of your nipples poked out between his fingers.

“I fuckin’ love your tits,” Adam’s voice was full of greed as he pushed you back, guiding your body to sit on the couch by your tits.

He hit his knees, lips peppering the large mounds of your breasts with open-mouthed kisses. His tongue swirled around flesh, pulling your nipple into his mouth. Adam suckled as your breasts, kneading the handful of tissue in his other hand.

Your head fell back, a soft moan falling from your lips as he worked over the already sensitive and bruised tissue. Your breasts, hips and thighs were covered in purple love bites, red marks from where fingers dug into soft skin. His tongue ran over skin as if you were the last meal on earth.

“Adam,” you gasped as he slotted himself between your thighs, fist pumping his cock. “I need to rest. I’m sore.”

“Babe,” Adam whined, looking up at you from where he seemed to be putting a solid attempt at getting smothered by your breasts, “I want you again.”

“I can’t,” you sighed, his mouth kissing your nipples.

“I got an idea.” He leaned back, hands gathering up your tits as he stood. “Lean back.”

“What are you doing?” you asked, even as you leaned back on the couch as he asked.

Adam straddled you on the couch, one knee on each side of your hips. He was careful to avoid crushing you as he held his cock in his hand. He pumped his fist around it a few more times before letting go and instead grabbing your breasts and thrusting his cock between them.

“Fuck, babe, they swallow my cock up.” He moaned as he thrust his cock up between your breasts. “Fuckin love your tits.”

“Are you going to fuck my breasts?” Your laugh died in your throat as Adam looked down at you with pure lust.

“Fuck yeah, I am,” Adam moaned, thrusting into your chest again and again. “If you’ll let me.”

“Alright,” you whispered, watching his face as he fucked into you.

The way he looked at you, the pleasure on his face, made you feel powerful. While the act of having his cock between your breasts didn’t feel particularly pleasurable, the sound of his moans was.

“Fuck, this is amazing.” Adam was panting, body tired from the rounds of sex earlier in the day.

Looking down, you watched the head of his cock pop in and out of the space between your breasts. Curiosity won out, and you opened your mouth, pushing your head down. The head of his cock pushed into your waiting mouth.

Adam moaned as your warm, wet mouth wrapped around the head of his cock again and again. You stuck your tongue out, giving his shaft something to guide into your mouth.

“Babe,” Adam moaned, “That’s so fuckin’ hot. Keep doing that and I’ll blow my fuckin’ load.”

Your eyes flicked up to him, daring him to. Asking him to. You felt so wanted, so desired, as he fucked your breasts faster and faster. Your saliva smeared between your breasts, dribbling onto your chest as he moaned.

“Going to cum,” Adam moaned deeply as his rhythm became uneven.

You moaned with him, not from sexual pleasure, but from the way Adam’s lust and desire made you feel. His cock twitched as he fucked harder through the space between your breasts.

He came with a deep curse, cock shooting ropes of cum up between your breasts. It splattered into your waiting mouth. Ropes coated your face and landed on your breasts as he fucked his way through his orgasm. Seed smeared between your breasts, lubricating his passage.

Legs twitching, struggling to support his tired body, Adam fell back. Wings fluttered as he realized there was nothing to catch him. It was too late to stop his plummet to the floor, wet cock slapping against his stomach as he landed.

“Are you okay?” You asked, leaning forward while looking for something to clean the cum off your body.

“Yeah babe, just almost had a second death due to your titties…”

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

#redfoxtober 2024 #redfoxtober2024 #Adam x reader #Adam x you #Adam x y/n #hazbin Adam x reader #hazbin Adam x you #hazbin Adam x y/n #hazbin hotel Adam x reader #hazbin hotel Adam x you #hazbin hotel Adam x y/n #Adam hazbin x reader #Adam hazbin x you #Adam hazbin x y/n

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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With Mercy for the Disturbed

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: He's a father and then he isn't, and then he's in the perfect place with the perfect girl, and he's done so many bad things that terrify the both of them. And then, finally, he's saved and there are dancing bears and doors newly opened, and everyone's a little mad at the end of it all.

-OR-

the Hannibal/Alice in Wonderland AU wherein Joel loses his mind

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: AU; Dubious Consent; Dark Fic; Doctor/Patient Relationship; Forced Orgasm; Rough Sex; Face fucking; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Bondage; Power Imbalance; Exploration of Power Dynamics; Unreliable Narrator; Memory loss; Blasphemy; Discussions of religious disdain; Discussions of morality; References to suicide; Beware of the old man who’s crazy and lets all his intrusive thoughts win; Older man/Younger woman; Creampie; Light breeding kink; Like very light for the likes of me promise; Possessive Behavior; Kidnapping; Joel POV

A/N: Hello and hallelujah, I’m so happy to be posting this!! For a minute after I finished Pink I felt like it would be impossible for me to write anything else ever again, and felt so weird and without anything left to say. I struggled so much just getting these words down, and it was supposed to be something very different initially compared to what it turned out to be, but I think I quite like the final product. I hope you do too.

And one million kisses and thank yous and all the praise in the world to @frannyzooey for giving this a little looksy over before posting. You’re the greatest and the bestest, Kelli, thank you so so much :)

Please heed the tags carefully and err on the side of caution!!! The goings on in this are very strange and this is probably the darkest thing I’ve written to date.

Word Count: 8.8K

Read on AO3

He can’t remember her name anymore, but he remembers the number. It’s been seven hundred and thirty eight days since his daughter died.

Sometimes, he’s not sure if he even remembers his own name. He thinks it’s Joel, and the sound of it brings him comfort in a way, when it’s especially dark and confusing in his mind, and so he tells himself over and over again that that’s what it is. Joel. Joel. Joel. I am Joel. That that’s what it’s always been. That that’s the name she knew him as.

Sometimes you call him that too.

He used to be a father, and then one day, so suddenly he can’t recall how it even happened, he lost everything. Like dominos falling over in his mind – the girl, and then his memories and then the man with the face like his. He plays dominos all the time now.

In his spot in the sun in the big blue room, wearing his whites and his soft socks and taking the pills they force down his throat. He plays dominos, and he does his exercises, and he thinks of that daughter whose name he can’t remember. He says his own name over and over and over again so many times until it’s not even a sound anymore, only a buzz or a hum or a scream.

His beard is thick and his hair is long, and he does not recognize his own face in the mirror. All he sees are ghost green eyes and dark hair and a fathomless sort of failure. A father, no longer a father. He goes for walks in the garden, he eats the food they give him even when he doesn’t really want to, even when it tastes like ash or greater madness than the one he’s already swallowed. And he waits for you. All the time he waits for you to come to him, he watches the big doors that go out into the world he’s too frightened and broken to step foot in now, draws his fingertip over the gristle of scar tissue at his temple mended over invisible fracture, and he waits and waits, and he says his name and he thinks of that nameless daughter and he waits and he thinks: the morning after I killed myself, I woke up in the perfect place with the perfect white walls and now all I do is wait.

He sits in his chair in the corner now and counts the seconds for you to come for him. Always at this time, always when the sun is at that spot in the sky. When it rains, and he can't tell where he is in the world, and the clouds are swollen purple gray verging on melancholy and anger, he feels something like despairing. Something like the sort of insane they whisper he is behind his back now.

He watches the puddles filled with dark mercury grow and grow like the ocean rising out of concrete, and the orange tree that drips and weeps and sags and he thinks he feels very much that way inside too. Sometimes, when the sun shines and there are no clouds and he doesn’t feel so terribly downtrodden, or maybe worse than usual, each orange blossom opens like a hand reaching out for him. Begging him not to do it, not to think of it, not to go back to that bad place. Focus only on me, she says. Focus only on the blue walls and the perfect room and the place where the sun sits in the sky, she’s on her way, she’s almost here.

The first time they’d told him he was ill – or dead – the first morning in the perfect room, he’d been angry, affronted or offended, and he’d howled and fought and said I’m not fucking crazy, it’s only that my daughter is dead. But as much as he’d fought or kicked or screamed, wept until he was brittle and dry as a whale bone, they’d not believed him. And so, he’d come to appreciate the peace of the perfection surrounding him, the perfection of a lie, or the perfection that comes to visit him in the shape of a woman, soft and round in all the right places and pretty. Fuckable. He tries not to think of it. He swears he does. But there’s little else to consider in the perfect place. So really, he thinks of little else.

You’re almost here, he knows it’s almost time.

A few more moments of the sun in the place where it is until it’s in the place where it should be, and then you’ll be here, and he looks down at the stone in his palm, held for so long it’s turned dark with his sweat now. I shouldn’t have, but I brought you something, placed it in his hand, done that thing with your eyes and your mouth that told him secrets he wasn’t sure you were even aware you were telling him.

He knows that it’s November now because you’d said it was, and he doesn’t know why, but when you’d told him, he’d wept and wept and wept. Become inconsolable which had sent you to worrying, put the different sort of look on your face, in your eyes, the one that vibrates, that screams instead of whispers. And he’s positive you don’t know you show him that one, but he sees it anyways, you’ve got a shit poker face. And he’d told you between sobs and chokes, it’s November and it’s terrible and I can’t explain why except to say that it’s as though the earth has suddenly realized that she’s grown old and cold and there’s nothin’ she can do to prevent it except weep, and I feel very much like this in my own heart too. And when he looks back up at the sun, it’s finally where it’s supposed to be, and when he looks back at the double doors that lead away to all his fears and all the bad, there you are. You walk towards him slow and measured, and you’re perfect, perfect, perfect. Precious, impeccable, absolutely exceptional in every way. He wants very much to ruin all that pure magnificence.

He knows that he did something very bad after his daughter, after they took her, lots of very bad things to lots of very bad people. He knows this, he remembers this vividly, enjoys the memory of it, savors it like something sitting sweet and light on his tongue.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love with the idea of a girl who was gone who’d come from me who is never going to be again. Who I never made enough time for when there was still time to be made.

You always wear beautiful clothes, and it makes him appreciate the blandness of his own. That you stand out, that he’s merely a blank canvas for you to inflict yourself on. Wool skirts and silk blouses and sheer pantyhose he wants to rip to ribbons with his fingers. Makes him appreciate the beauty of you, faultless, guileless. Sweet in a way he’d never witnessed before like a kitten that’s so adorable you want to squeeze and squeeze and smother until it bursts. Big eyes and a full, soft mouth and breathy voice, and then you’re right there.“Hi, Joel,” and yeah, that’s right, he does know his name, you remind him of it all the time.

“Mornin’.”

“Ready?”

“As ever.”

The room you usually sit in to talk has a big painting of a field in it, a bear in the far off center up on its hind legs, somehow, appearing as if it’s dancing away. Even the paintings are mad here, but he likes it, wants to dance away into the far off unknown like that too.

“The middle of the day’s not the best time for fishin’ usually.” Sometimes, you let him start where he wants. Silent until he chooses to break. He pulls the thought out of nowhere. “Bein’ out there’s just the excuse, I suspect, in the sun and the water.”

He listens to the scratch, scratch of your pen. You write with one of those fountain types with the sharp point, and he wonders if you’ve ever considered how easily he could turn it into a weapon. How smoothly it’d pierce the soft, satin skin of your throat he likes to fantasize about. He would never. But he does like to think about it, pretends it’s a show of your trust, wonders if the guards and higher ups know you bring something like that in here with him. Scratch, scratch, scratch, and it makes his brain itch.

“You used to fish?”

“Think so.”

“Are you remembering?”

“Nah.” The morning after I killed myself, I lost my memories – it’s only that they’d hurt everywhere I’d touched them, and so I’d had to let them go.

“No?”

You’ve got the loveliest voice, and sometimes he wishes he could tell you to stop asking so many stupid questions about him and talk about yourself. Endlessly. He chooses a new route. “What is it about empathy that people find so difficult to be generous with?”

That soft hum in your throat he loves, the one he feels soothe that itchy brain of his. “Humans can be inherently selfish. We’re born with only ourselves, we die with only ourselves, sometimes that gets in our way.”

“No… Don’t think that’s true.”

“No?” He knows you like to lead him sometimes, like a game he doesn’t want to enjoy. “You’re the one saying we’re greedy with our empathy.”

“Forgiveness too,” he adds.

The click of your tongue, “Do you think you’re forgiving?”

“Not at all.”

Scratch, scratch. Once he’d asked what it is you write about him during these talks of yours, and all you’d said was notes. It’s the only time he’s ever been angry with you, refused to talk to you for three days after that. Only because if you wouldn’t tell him things, then he wasn’t going to tell you anything either. “Then what’s the point you’re trying to make? What’s your question?” But then he’d missed the sound of your voice too much, had felt the burn of your gaze on his skin too intensely, had masturbated too many times without satisfaction to the memory of your eyes on him that he’d been forced to relent. He needed the sound of your voice in his head also to be able to come.

“Why is it so difficult?” He asks again because he has to understand. Because he needs an answer desperately.

“It’s hard to see someone as simply themselves, simply human – a sentient flaw, so to speak – when they make a mistake. And yet, as grievous or offensive as something can be, we all do it eventually. Some people have no patience for that.”

“Even though they themselves will eventually, inevitably, do it too?” He can feel himself getting upset, his heart beating too fast, a cold sweat sprouting at the back of his neck while his face flushes hot and red.

“Yes.”

“That’s bad.”

You shrug, “Perhaps.”

“Selfish.”

Again, “Perhaps.”

And then the true source of his anger, “I think I’m like that.”

You nod like you understand, and he wants to shake you and make you see that there’s no way you actually could. “Would you like not to be?” It pisses him off when your voice goes all even and patient like that.

“Yes. I hate people like that. I hate people that can’t find it in themselves to forgive – to give someone a second chance.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He can’t help himself when he vomits the words, not fully expecting them to come out so slicked in truth as they do. “Because I wish someone would give me one, even if I don’t deserve it. F– forgive me– But even then… what does it matter? What does it matter if I’m forgiven, given a second chance, absolved of all my sins? Look at where I am. Look at what I've become. I’m entirely lost to myself. You know, sometimes I can’t remember my own name if you don’t remind me of it.”

“You’re Joel. You had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.” He flinches at the sound of it, wants to bare his teeth at you like a rabid animal. “Your brother is Tommy. He calls every Friday at three o’clock to ask how you are. You’re Joel Miller.” That’s right. The morning after I killed myself, I met my brother for the first time. The real him. The him who’s afraid of me. The real Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Sometimes the name rings familiar in his mind, again, when you remind him of it.

He shakes his head, swallows a gruff sound, tries to shutter the manic look he knows floods his eyes, reverts back to his initial thought, “False senses of moral superiority disgust me.” The sun’s shining in at an angle so that there’s a single tendril of sunlight wrapped around the slim of your crossed ankle, gripping the nylon covered limb in its light. Joel’s eyes shift jealously from that held piece of you to the shadow of far off rain he can see in the distance through the window, trying to find some measure of peace in the sight. It’ll reach here eventually, and he tries to ground himself in the inevitability. “Yes, there’s right and wrong. There’s also humanity. There’s also the right to grow and learn, and to make mistakes that, in the end, make you better. Who are you to condemn me? Is your glass house so pristine not a stain mars it? Grace, forgiveness, empathy… I find those infinitely more valuable than whatever false sense of good and bad you’ve decided makes me worthy or not,” he says, eyes cast towards the coming rain. He can feel your gaze on his face, and he does not want to acknowledge it.

“But the things you did were bad, Joel. You hurt people. You killed people.”

That makes his eyes snap back to yours for the way you say it. As if you’re sharing a bit of inconsequential news with him. The weather is about to hit, the rain is almost here. Can’t you see it, just there, in the distance? Voice so even and soft. Sometimes he calls you angel, when he knows he’s charmed you enough just to get away with it, when he’s said all the things he knows you want to hear from him and smiled all the right smiles that cost him so much. Voice like a goddamn angel, face like a goddamn angel. Everything else… like something come straight from Hell to drag him down to where he really belongs and never let him go.

He eyes you suspiciously. “The Bible says an eye for an eye. They killed my daughter so I took their eyes.” And then other parts.

“And then their lives…” And then their lives. He nods once, succinct. “You ascribe to the scripture?” You snap that little leather bound book open again, red, scratch in it once again, all your secrets about him. That itch returns, stronger than before. He bites down on it, chews it away within himself.

“What? Like I believe in it? Fuck no. Fuck religion. It isn’t real. A weak construct made for weak men in need of comfort. And– and… like what – it’s going to save my soul? I ate that a long time ago, angel. Look at where I am…” He shrugs, letting his head fall back in a circular motion, coming to rest on his shoulder. He can’t help but smile at you, he knows you hate it when he gets like this, all ornery and heretical.

You purse your lips, shake your head at him gently, and he wants to eat the lipstick from your soft mouth. “You believe in angels though… you call me–”

His smile cranks up another notch for a single beat. “Gotta believe in somethin’ that’s right in front of my eyes, don’t I? What d’ya think, that’m crazy?” And his eyes slide to the window again, smile melting off his face. “‘Sides they told me so–”

“Who told you what?” Voice slow, measured, all serious-like. He rolls his eyes, feels the stone of anger in his belly heat, spin, jump to his throat.

“They killed my daughter,” he spits like a whispered scream instead. The shadow of rain is closer. If the dancing bear were out there, it’d be lost to the deluge by now. “I should’ve done worse. I would have, had I not been thrown away in here.” He remembers that a man with a face like his left him here, but he doesn’t know who. He shakes his head, jostles the non-memory out of his ears, searches harder for the dancing bear, killed a bunch’a people, he murmurs to himself, once more again, because he likes the sound of it.

“So you’re talking about yourself. You want to be forgiven.” He doesn’t like when you tell him, when you don’t ask. It makes him feel like you know something he doesn’t, and he wants to know everything you know.

“No. I don’t know.”

“Do you feel thrown away, Joel?”

“I feel forgotten – impossible to remember,” his voice cracks at the end, eyes suddenly wet and hot.

“By who?”

“The world.” He can’t remember his childhood. He can’t remember what he was like as a child, and it makes him sad.

You’re quiet for a long time, no more scratch, scratch, scratch, no more itch. No more angel voice, and then, very soft, like you know you shouldn’t. “I remember you. I haven’t forgotten you.”

Once, a time ago because he can’t discern lengths of it anymore, it doesn't exist here in the perfect place, amidst what, he thinks, is a lot that you know you shouldn’t have allowed, you’d changed the routine up on him. Had sent for him, instead of coming for him yourself. When he’d stepped into the room where you have your talks, you’d been facing the big window, looking out at the green, the line of your shoulders and the dip of your waist and the swell of your ass in your skirt that shifts like water around your knees and the saliva pooling heavy in his mouth, it’d been too much, too much for a broken thing, and you hadn’t turned. Like the pen, like more trust, you hadn’t turned to face him even though he knew you’d heard the door snick shut behind him. He’d stepped as quiet as he could up behind you, quiet like when he was sneaking to kill, and he’d brushed a single tip of his finger up the length of one of your skinny, little ones, so much smaller and finer than his thick, brutish ones, stroked the palm of your hand. You’d made the tiniest sound, interrupted by a swallow, but he’d heard it. He’d heard the want in it. He’d not forgotten either, and he sees that sound in your eyes now, again, as you stare at him with an intention he’s not so fucking crazy that he doesn’t know you shouldn’t possess.

He smiles a little again, and you don’t return it, but it’s okay, he sees the sound of your want in your eyes anyways, and that’s infinitely more satisfying to him. “It would serve us all well to remember to try to be a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving.”

You swallow, shaken, he can tell. Shaken by that thing inside you for him he knows shouldn’t be there. You scratch a little in the book, say slowly, “It starts with you, I think, you have to forgive yourself first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. There are things you talk about you clearly have no understanding of. You’re young. You don’t know better. He understands. “I think… I think, I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Who have you been?”

And again, he doesn’t mean to say it, but you tell him so much you don’t mean to say either that he feels he might as well also. “Someone–” That anger again, he can’t help himself even though he desperately wants to. “Someone my daughter would be afraid of.” Full blown rage now. At you. Yes, at you. You force things from him he doesn’t want to give you, and there’s a thing within him that wants to punish you for it, take a pound of flesh in repayment. “I want someone to forgive me. I want to be forgiven. I want to experience it.” Truth is like fire, hypnotizing, seductive, once it catches, inextinguishable. He wants to hate you sometimes for forcing these things from him, for not giving him a choice, and worst of all, done so unintentionally, unknowingly. He wants to not give you a choice either.

“From who?” You ask. Silly little girl. You need to learn the art of restraint, of temperance. He should teach you.

“Our hour’s up.” He looks away, dismissing you. As if he’s the one in charge here, and not the one caged. Divested.

“No, it isn’t. It’s–”

“Our hour’s up,” head snapping back towards you, barking– “It’s time for you to go.” And something in his gaze must tell how far he’s been pushed, by you, for you jerk up and out of your chair suddenly, turning to scurry towards the door, not bothering to say goodbye, not bothering to turn back, not bothering to notice the clatter of your pen on the linoleum.

He watches you go, a single black seam runs up the back of your hose, and the sight makes him feel violent, eager for darkness and the solitude of his white box room.

He doesn’t know why, maybe the way the rain beats against the singular tiny window in his room, maybe the way it whispers at him like all the other things that whisper at him now, but he knows you’ll come before he hears the stunted jangle of keys, the sigh and click of his door, the bare pad of shoeless feet on the hard floor, you’d thought this through, your too fast, too shallow breathing.

He’s staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, cock hard, a little chafed. He wasn’t able to make himself come tonight, sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes he needs the imagination of your wet cunt more than just the mere memory of your voice in his mind and the remembered feel of your gaze on him, but he’s never let himself picture the full act of fucking you. Thinks it would send him to a level of unhingedness he’d find unable to restrain in your presence. He only thinks of bits and pieces of you, like a dissected doll pulled apart for his half pleasure. Never the full thing, ever.

You try and say whatever it is you want to say several times before it finally comes out, all choked and feigned regret, but you do try and put on a good show, swallowed up by nerves as you are. “I– I just– I just came to make sure you’re okay,” you whisper. You’ve never been in his room before. He’s never had you in his space like this, and it makes him leak.

“You didn’t come for that.” Voice slow, still wide eyed, looking up at the white domed ceiling, something like victory in the shape of a hymn pounding through his veins. He won’t look at you until he’s ready.

“I… I felt badly about how we left things this afternoon. I shouldn't have– I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t end our talk the way– the way… Joel?” You stutter, trail off, voice small and unsure.

He sees you move out of the corner of his eye. One step forward, two back, pressing up against the door again. Little bunny full of regret for coming into the wolf's bed, and he moves suddenly, swift despite his age still. He has little to do here besides move his body, make sure it doesn’t grow rust. He sits up quick as a whip, swinging his legs over the edge of his too small bed, planting his feet wide and sturdy on the cold floor. He can see the tremble of your throat even from here, the pristine lines of you. Your hair and your face and your tits and the tiny little pearl buttons of your blouse like soldiers waiting to be felled on the battlefield. He’s going to rip them from you, pluck the garments keeping you hidden away from your skin, spread you out, filleted.

“That’s not what you came here for, angel.” He shakes his head slowly, and your panic ricochets higher, makes his cock harder. Your arm reaches back for the latch slowly, fumbling behind you, and he braces his legs. Your other palm outstretched, fingers trembling. He gives you another slow shake, as if that small gesture could keep him at bay. “I hear all the things you tell me. Don’t worry. I always hear.”

“Wh– what do you mean?”

“I always see the things you want me to know. I know… I know. It’s okay.”

“I don’t– I’m not sure… I shouldn’t have come.” Your hand finds the latch, angling your body to slip through as swiftly as possible, and his muscles coil tight and ready. “I just wanted– to– to make sure…” You pull the door open, move to slip away, and he lunges for you, catches the edge of the swinging door, lets you float in the lie that you’ve gotten away for a few seconds, scurrying a few paces down the dark corridor of his perfect place where he’s found his perfect girl.

The morning after I killed myself, I found an angel.

You make it as far as the bend in the hall before he’s trapping you in his grip, swinging you around so fast you bounce against the white tiled walls, cages you there, open mouth immediately at your jugular, biting down hard while his big palm completely smothers your face, forces your choked cry back down. His other arm wraps around your waist, lifting and dragging you back down the hall towards his white box and his little bed and all his fantasies, artery caught between his teeth, no more choices to be had, exactly like you leave him all the time. He whispers at you to be quiet, quiet, quiet, angels are always good, and then he’s shutting the door behind him, trapping you inside and plucking the keys from your skirt pocket, locking the two of you away together as you should’ve been from that first day.

You try and struggle in his arms, little feet kicking weakly at his shins, scratching at his sides where he has your arms trapped, but the sound of your fight is restrained, held low and gurgled in your throat, and he knows that you know that this is what you’d come for, that you’re getting exactly as you’d sought.

“Fight harder if you’d like,” he says low in your ear, throwing the keys to the far corner and wrapping both arms tight around you, pressing all the air out. Finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you, the plush heat of your breasts against his chest, the soft swell of your belly against his stomach. He’s so fucking hard he wants to rut into you like a beast. “I want you to be scared,” and it’s the foremost truth he’s ever shared with you. The heart of all his depravity. “I want you to want it so bad you’re terrified. As bad as I want it. I want you to not want it also. Want you to fight and cry and scratch and bite, and then take it anyways ‘cause I’m gonna to give it to you anyways. You always take all of my choices from me,” he adds on, voice going barely there, mumbled, pressing a tiny kiss to the tiny hammering pulse in your throat, and you let out your first soft moan. An angel singing right into his ear. Your fighting tells all sorts of lies. He hoists you higher, presses you closer, and you wriggle and squirm, grinding his erection into the soft apex of your thighs.

“Joel– stop, please– please. I– I didn’t think–” He bends his head to your breast, drags his nose over the hard peak he feels beneath the silk of your blouse, nuzzles there, enjoying the sound of your breathlessness, again that feigned shock. You’re right, you didn’t think, and it’s too late now. What did you expect would happen, coming here to his cage like this in the middle of the night? He catches the taut peak between the edge of his teeth, tugs gently, plucking your cords.

With a fist wrapped in the length of your hair he forces you to your knees at his feet, jerking your head back roughly so that your mouth falls open on a gasp giving him the opportunity to hook his fingers over the edge of your bottom teeth, stretching your jaw open wide. “Open– lemme see,” he orders. “I wanted you so bad,” dragging the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of your jaw. “I want you so bad. All those days when you forced me to tell you things I didn’t want to tell you. I’m going to show you temperance now, angel,” he nods his head down at you condescendingly when you try and protest. I didn’t force you to do anything, “But you did. You did. You pulled things out of me I didn’t want to share. And now I have to have you. You always take all of my choices from me.” He clicks his tongue down at you, and there are tears in your eyes that go wide and something worse than frightened when he tugs the elastic waist of his soft white pants down, pulls out his angry erection and heavy balls. Your expression morphing from something worse than frightened, to something like desperate, like hungry, like his for the taking. And he’s big, he knows it. Much too big for the pretty little throat he’s about to force it down. But he’s going to be gentle, he’s going to help you, teach you.

“Joel, please–” And look at you beg, so pretty with tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks. He brings the searing brand of his erection to your cheek, presses the burning hot skin all over your face, coating himself in the wet of your tears, marking you in the thick male scent of him. And the feel of you, just like this, just this little bit – with his fingers still hooked over the edge of your teeth he turns your face so that your open mouth brushes against his length. “Taste– I know you’re hungry for it. Give it a kiss hello, little angel.”

Your eyes flash up to his face for a brief moment, almost too quick for him to catch, and then you’re pursing your mouth against him, swallowing the shudder that moves through his entire frame. A tiny kiss to the ridged underbelly of his cock, the drag of your lips against the length of him to the fat tip, and then another kiss with wet lips and enough tongue to undeniably lick up some of what’s slicking it. You want him, even if you won’t admit it, even if you cry or fight. It’s all he needs to know.

Still caught by the teeth he jerks your head back forward, opens you wider and forces his cock down your throat. You gurgle around him, whining, shrieking, false, he knows what you really want. Can feel it in the slicking of your tongue around the proof of his desire for you, he’s giving you everything he has, and he spits your name, purges it from his belly like an infection over and over again while he starts to fuck your mouth. Feels you gulp hard just at the right moment to get his leaking tip caught tight at the choking opening of your throat. He could come just like this. He could, he could. You’re all his. Fill your belly with his semen until it bulges, feed you himself until you’d never be without him. He lets his head fall back, looks up at the white dome, at the false home of the false God, tells you again, voice all cracked and broken and gone away from him, “I don’t believe in God anymore, but that’s okay. I have you to believe in now,” fucks harder, listens to your cries climb up the walls, savors the scratch and shove at his thighs when he tightens his fist in your hair to a painful degree. You always take all my choices from me, always. But he knows that if he’s to show you temperance he must exercise his own, and after a few more slick thrusts, he pulls wetly from your mouth, enjoying your whistling groan as you sag face first against his thigh. He pets your hair now gently, fingers twisting through the softness. He’d always wanted to feel it, memorize its texture, its scent. There is nothing about you that isn’t worthy of veneration, of doing the worst thing in the world just to have you, taste you, keep you.

He lets you rest for a moment, wonders at the fact that you haven’t screamed yet. You easily could, call for help, salvation, an escape. You haven’t, and it soothes him. Makes him feel disgusting in a way that doesn’t match up with how disgusting it should feel to force himself on his pretty angel; a self satisfied type of disgust. Something he should be more ashamed of than he truly is. But when you have so little, when you barely have yourself, when theft is the only means of self satisfaction, little recourse remains for creatures caged in perfect places with only bad avenues left to them.

He hauls you up by your underarms, lets his wet cock press trapped between the two of you, and he’s so close, so close, so close to what he’s needed for so long. He gathers you in his arms, cradles you gentle and with purpose. Tucks your hair behind your ears and wipes the tears and spit from your face, takes it the sparkle of your big wet eyes. So pretty. “Truly like an angel,” and chucks you beneath the chin when you shake your head at him. “You are. So pretty and so soft.” And then finally, like so many times he’d forced himself not to imagine it because he was terrified of what the fantasy would turn him into, no longer the dancing bear in the distance finding it’s escape, but a hungry one, a violent one, an animal so far beyond control all it could do was devour, he pulls you close by the tip of your chin and swallows your mouth whole. All tongue and teeth and the slick slide of your own fervor because yes, it’s there, tangling with his own mouth, pressing your own spit onto his tongue like an offering. You kiss him back.

You kiss him back.

And, “I want to make you my little butterfly,” he says, “Spread you open, pinned just for me to look at. Only me.” He whispers it into your mouth, soft and secret and true. He’d string you up if he could, split you open and peer inside, rifle through the shafts of your ribs like a lexicon that spells out the truth of who you really are. And then that sudden anger again, that furious stone spinning in his throat. His touch becomes harder, punishing, “You’re going to tell me everything about you,” he says with all that rage in his voice, spits the stone out at you. “You shouldn’t have kept secrets from me.” Fuck the little red book and the scratch, scratch, scratch. He’s going to have all your truths. He’s going to be the one taking all of your choices away from you now.

He hauls you towards his little bed, popping the pretty pearl buttons as he goes, knowing he’s going to go to his knees later to collect them like treasures for himself after this is done. He rips the blouse from your shoulders, shudders at your indignant little gasp with the sound of the tearing silk, and you’re all soft skin and fine lace and the prettiest thing he’s ever beheld with his own two eyes in this whole life.

You bring one delicate hand up to his throat, try and grip him there, push him back, but he presses into the touch, sucks at your mouth again, harder, biting, and you say onto his tongue that you shouldn’t, and please, Joel, just wait, but he won’t and he can’t and he tells you it’s useless to fight because he’s having you regardless.

“No, no– none of that. You’re going to take your fucking like a good little girl,” and something about his words or his tone or the look in his eyes must make the connection in your brian that this is happening click because you suddenly go boneless, head falling back to bear your throat for him, soft sound of concession slipping from your lips.

He goes in for the kill, he’s always been exceptional at that, after all. Teeth latched at your jugular, tongue up and across the slope of soft sugared skin, and you taste like salvation. He’s saved now, he’s sure of it. Everything he’d lost, his daughter, his mind, himself, he’s going to find it buried in your cunt. Joel is absolutely certain of it.

He divests you of your skirt, the pretty lace, leaves the nylons held up by tight elastic around your soft thighs, and then it’s all just bare skin and heat and your soft whimpers, the coolness of your hair between his fingers. He lays you out across the length of his bed, takes in the majesty of his winnings. An angel felled and caught. You lie there staring up at him, and there’s an innocence to your gaze that brings him to his knees, set down and at your mercy now. He parts your legs slowly, one small kneecap in the bowl of each palm, the softest skin he’s ever felt beneath these death roughened hands, and Joel could sob now, weep if he had the time for it. He spreads your thighs wide, palms dragging up the insides, calluses catching on the smooth nylon and watches the dip and hitch of your belly as you gasp and shiver.

“Are you scared?” He whispers right as his palms reach the uppermost part of your thighs, and you’re all softness and warm, damp skin, plush in a way that makes his mouth water and his gums ache, and then he’s finally laying eyes at the center of you, and you’re slicked in the gloss of your desire for him. Playing pretend, feigned fight and reluctance, but he’s looking right at the heart of you, and all he sees now is your truth. You shake your head no, let out a soft breath. “Look at this drippy little cunt,” and he drags his thumb over the pearl of your clit just as whisper soft as his voice is. A half screeched hitch claws up your throat, your thighs jumping at that first touch. He needs to see more, hooks a thumb at each delicate lip and spreads wide, but gently, so as not to hurt you. That’s for later. He stretches your little hole, enjoys the shy wink it gives him.

“My God… look at you,” he says with something like reverence in his voice. So slick and gorgeous. “I think this little cunt’s going to take me in very nicely.” He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit again, clicks his tongue when your knees try to struggle shut. “None’a that, angel. Be good for me now.” He presses harder at your clit, runs his thumb down to your twitching opening, passes there lightly, coating himself in your leaking slick. “I wanted you so bad,” he tells you, one more moment for confessions before he starts. “I want you so bad. And you’ve always taken all my choices from me. Forced me to stay myself when that’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“You’re Joel,” you whisper, and bring your hand to circle the wrist of the hand he’s petting you with. Not pushing him away or pulling him closer, only a gentle manacle around the thick of his bone. He looks up and into your eyes as he presses his thumb slowly inside of you, hooking it over the thin edge, twists you open slow and gentle and measured, gets you ready for the thickness he’s about to split you open with.

“That isn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to forget all that, all the bad, her, I wanted to forget all of it. I tucked her name under my tongue for so long it became blood, and I wanted it like that. And you didn’t let me.”

Your thighs shift restlessly around him, and you bring one foot up to the edge of the bed, anchoring yourself there so that you can begin a gentle rocking motion of your hips, fucking yourself slowly on his thumb. Your breasts heave and sway with the motion and his balls go so tight and so searingly hot, he could come just now like this from the sight of you, suddenly green and untried like he was in his youth. He didn’t think it was going to be like this, and it’s like he’s wasting your honor, stealing it from you, but something given can’t be stolen and his plans are foiled, he’s not in control but he doesn’t really care either. He finally has you.

He bends his head, brings his mouth to your slick swollen cunt and takes the first sip. Groans so deep in his chest he’s more animal than man suddenly, sucking hard and sharp on your clit, he pulls his hand from you and laves his tongue over the entire slope of your sex, tongue dipping into the well of you. He spreads your lips again, wide, stretches your hole and fucks you with his tongue, big nose pressed to your clit, drowning in your sweet musk. Your fingers twine in the overly long curls of his hair, and he grips your thighs so hard he’s sure you’ll be left with the mark of him later which only makes him rougher, stronger in his hold. With your grip in his hair you sing for him in soft moans and whimpers and more feigned resistance with whispers of no, Joel, and please, stop while you ride his face, his entire mouth covering your cunt, eating it. More beast than man, not Joel, not a father, not a brother, not a killer, only yours. Carved in the image you’d wanted him to be. The one you’d made him with your words and your looks and your scratch, scratch, scratch. All those times you’d asked him what do you want, Joel? And he’d never had an answer for you because what was he supposed to say? You, this, freedom, your wet cunt, the far off field and the dancing bear and my daughter back, alive, my brother, face not unknown. My name, my name, I want my name back. I want myself back. To be alive. I want to be alive. You come on his tongue, first with a shudder and then with a groan, your entire body flushes hot, and it’s a concession of yourself and a door opening, the first vestiges of what the rest of his life will be.

“You’ve got the sweetest little cunt, baby. Goes so tight and wet and fluttery,” he licks up the sticky sweet of your come, runs his tongue over the wet around his mouth, feels it trickle through his beard. “Think I’ll keep you.”

Pulling his shirt up and over his head, he crawls up the length of you, slotting his hips between your damp thighs, pushing his soft pants down his legs as he goes, gathering the small of your wrists in a manacle of his fingers to pin them up above your head. He drapes himself over your body, covering you entirely with his weight and pauses for a moment, nuzzling through the curtain of your hair to get at your ear, your throat, your smell. “Are you going to fight back?” He says soft into the small shell of your ear.

“No, I don’t want to.” You turn your head further to the side, bearing more of your throat to him.

He follows your orders, runs a line of wet kisses up the delicate column, tastes the pulse of your heart and the slope of your shoulder. “Why not?”

“I don’t have it in me. I’m not a fighter, I came from a place where there was always fighting, where I always had to do battle constantly. I don’t have it in me now, anymore, ever.” You turn to face him again, lick at the line of his mouth, suck on his tongue, your hips rolling now against him, his erection slotted between the soaked lips of your cunt, swallowing him in warmth. “But also, because you were right. Because I want you. Because I did take all your choices from you.”

Your words pull a groan, a whimper from him, and he pulls his hips back, presses forward, uncoordinated and slipping against all that slick, hot skin. He lets one of your wrists go, keeps the other trapped above your head. “Fuck– grab my cock,” and he feels the heat of your fragile formed hand wrap around the thick of his cock. An ugly, brutish thing held by perfection. You squeeze gently, twist just barely, and he feels his tip rim puckered skin, hot and round and persistent, probing against you as you try and find the right angle. “I’m gonna ride this cunt – hard. And you’re going to take it just how I give it. And you’re going to beg for more and harder and you’re going to thank me.”

Yes, yes, yes. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel.

You notch the tip of his cock at the wet mouth of your cunt, and then he’s pushing in, saving himself, finding salvation, returning or leaving himself, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He presses in, in, in all the way until he’s sitting hard and heavy and deep inside of you, and he’s sure he can almost feel your heartbeat when he bottoms out, balls pressed to the slick curve of your bottom. Your breaths scratch in whimpers against his ear, his hair fluttering in the wind of your gasps, and your free arm wraps tight around the back of his neck, your hips rolling to take more, impossible, for he’s already deep as he can be, tip to womb. But he shifts his weight, grinds against your cervix and enjoys the sound of your pained moan.

“You feel right there? Where it hurts? That’s where I fuck you full’a my baby, little angel.” And his thoughts are unhinged, his desires full of madness and future and possibility. He pulls his hips back, drops them and shifts his weight forward inside of you. “And right there?” Grinds against your most sensitive spot, “That’s where I make you cream all over my cock.” He pulls his hips back again, focuses the tip of his cock at that desperate place inside of you and with his hand gripping your bottom to the point of pain he pounds into that place over and over again. The slick wet, obscene sound of his cock fucking in and out of your drippig cunt rings in his ears, and he grits thourgh clenched teeth, “Say thank you, say thank you. Beg me for it harder.”

And you’re so good, so good, and all please, Joel. Harder, harder, more. You’re so deep, it’s so good, please, more.

He’s going to fill you up and mark you and keep you for himself, and he bends his head, wraps his mouth around the full and heavy weight of your bouncing tit as he fucks you into orgasm around his cock. Going tight, tight as a fist, so wet it drips down his balls and onto the already soaked sheet of his too small bed, and you come for him the way he’d never let himself fantasize about before. Your moans like a song in his ear, and it’s so fucking good, better than any dream, better than anything the voices in his head or the dancing bear could have ever conjured up. He shifts upwards, anchoring himself above you so that he can look down at you as he fucks down deep into your cunt, cock punching against your womb so that it hurts, so that the look on your face is folding in on itself, but good enough still so that your pussy convulses again in another forced orgasm. He wants to look at you as he fills you with his spend, turns you into something he owns after this.

“Gonna fill you up now– gonna fill you until you’re leakin’ me.” Your hands slide up the soft slope of his stomach, his chest, fingers dragging through the hair there, twisting and pulling on it, up to his face where you cup his chin gently, eye to eye and all wrapped up in your cunt he starts to come, the thick heat of his semen coating your womb while you milk him deeper, every last drop of every last part of him he has to give.

When he’s done he pulls heavy and wet from you, the sight of your swollen red cunt gaping from him, he finally pulls the slick ruined panty hose from your legs, the marks of the too tight elastic leaving brands in your soft skin, he fingers the grooves gently, clicks his tongue at the sight in reproach. The only thing leaving marks in your skin now should be him. He pulls your wrists back into his grip again, and the look on your face is almost melting in submission, soft and spent and sloppy, leaking cunt all covered in him.

He ties each delicate wrist to the iron frame of his bed, tight, he can leave marks here now, you’re all his, and returns his attention to the source of his salvation, ignoring your protests as he eats his own come from your cunt until you’re crying a little too loud to remain undiscovered, coming twice more before he gives you reprieve, but he’s the one taking all your choices now, and you have no say in what happens after this.

He eyes the forgotten keys he’d thrown to the dark corner of his white boxed room, “If you’re not good and quiet, I’ll leave you here for everyone to find, naked and fucked and leakin’ me. Pretty used cunt for the whole world to see, that what you want?”

“No, Joel,” you shake your head, all falsely innocent gaze sparkling up at him.

And he tells you how good you are because the two of you are only going to share truths with each other now, only going to share everything. “I had nothing for so long. Nothing. Not even my own body, not even my own mind. Now I have you, and I won't give you up for anythin’. You’re mine now. They all told me so.”

“Who told you?” You ask softly, but he ignores the question as he draws his clothes back upon himself.

“I find myself so hard to remember and so easy to forget, but you remember me. You said so, and now I’m going to make sure you never forget.” Joel collects the keys and the pearls brought to him for his salvation, the dancing bear is so close now, and wraps your shredded clothes back around you, unties your wrists from the bed only to re-secure them, and hoists you folded over his shoulder for the taking.

Joel lost his daughter, and then he lost his mind, but now he’s found you. And they said it would all be okay now that he’s found you.

The morning after I killed myself, I found the end of my suffering, and at the end of that suffering there was a door – behind that door, I am alive again.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#vic fic #Joel Miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us au #Joel miller smut #dark joel miller #dark fic #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal characters

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multi-fandom-imagine · 5 months ago

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hi can u do prompt 11 and 26 for sean diaz x reader???? really can’t think of anything else so of course do want u want with it 🙂‍↔️ (reader is she/her also!!)

A/n: it had been a looooooong time since I've written anything for LIS, I hope it wont suck. Doing my own thing since I hate that neither truly got a happy ending so his father never died here

Prompts used:

11﹕sender runs their fingers through receiver’s hair .

26﹕sender lights receiver’s [ cigarette / joint ] .

Sean did his best to shake the nightmare from his mind; his father being killed, little brother gaining powers, not to mention a slew of other shit that he could only remember bit's and pieces of. It was strange, it felt real, like he actually experienced all of that.

Losing his eye, going to jail to keep his brother safe, all of it. But when he woke up he was still in his room, he could still hear his father cracking some dumb jokes and you, god did it feel good seeing your face when he woke up.

"I'm starting to think you should lay off the weed Sean." You did your best to tease him, did your best to at least take his mind off the nightmare he just experienced.

Scoffing, Sean took out his lighter as he lit the joint between your fingers. "Maybe you're right or maybe it was a bad batch and smoking this would be the only shit to purge it from my mind."

Shaking your head you shifted your body as you inhaled the smoke. "So was I in this nightmare of yours? Hard to believe I'd just abandon you after all that."

Sean shifted his body as his head dropped on your shoulders. You were, you managed to track him down but he also remembered you getting stabbed. He could still feel how your body trembled in his arms then the flood of articles and stories that came out after he left you.

'Young girl found dead in car...more at 11.'

It made him sick.

"Sean?" A sigh left your lips as you then let your fingers run through his hair. You weren't about to bring that subject up again. "How about we go swimming tomorrow...have a little cook out? Whole family can go, I know your dad has crush on my mom's friend."

"Gross!"

"Annnd my dad has been dying to show your dad his new grill....so what do you say?"

Slowly relaxing his shoulders, Sean let his fingers slip through your own. Your hands were smaller compared to his, so much smoother. Giving it a soft squeeze his lips twitched into a smile. "Sounds like a plan."

With the nightmares long gone, Sean stood then helped you stand as his arm wove around your waist as you two walked back to his house. Whatever life that could have been faded away. Changed for the better, he wasn't going to let anything slip by."

#life is strange #life is strange 2 #life is strange x reader #sean diaz #sean diaz x reader #drabbles #drabble

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kiyo-cant-write · 1 month ago

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Heyya, sorry for coming back to request the same guy again, Silver. Probably I've been reading it and saw you write "down bad" and remember I have requested but no update if it has been written, and would like to see your writing again. If I remember, something goes like Yuu very open about their PDA, while Silver is close and not open about the PDA. Sometimes they got called "to get a room". Then in some way got a little suggestive, probably some implications they did "the deeds". I'm not into nsfw but suggestive and implications is okay

silver w/ a very affectionate s/o (yuu) ✧･ﾟ

Thank you for requesting again! I normally don't write this much for these requests but I got an idea nd had to see it through. That said... Please enjoy!

Summary: Silver's s/o is very affectionate and open with their feelings. Silver is the opposite. However, this man also dislikes the comments his peers are making. He takes matters into his own hands in ways that seem just a tad unlike him.

TW/CW: very mild/implied suggestive content

Notes: established relationship, gender neutral reader, they/them pronouns for the reader, the reader is Yuu/Ramshackle Prefect

Guest Stars: Ace Trappola, Sebek Zigvolt

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Silver

Silver has never been good at being affectionate.

He's both a private person and an awkward one.

His s/o has told him that he looks like a prince, but he has a lot of trouble acting the part of one the way he thinks they want.

[Name] seems to want him to be a doting partner, but it's hard.

He can protect and defend all they need... but affection is different.

How do you hold someone? What is appropriate?

These are all things that Lillia did not teach him.

In the end, Silver remains avoidant of affection in public and clumsy about it behind closed doors. He does mean well, though.

Contrary to him, [Name] is a radiant force of pure affection.

They liked to hang on his arm or run and give him a hug,

While his expression remains serious, he doesn't mind. It's nice.

Silver dislikes comments from others, especially Sebek, about his relationship. Sebek's comments are just the loudest.

When in private, Silver can try to be more affectionate, but he's still learning how to be a good boyfriend to his s/o.

They were having some kind of party. Silver wasn't sure what it was all for but [Name]'s merry band of first-year friends were all there alongside himself, Sebek, his father, and Malleus. Things were... fine, he thought. They were eating food that [Name] had prepared for them with the help of the Ramshackle Ghosts and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. It wasn't until about an hour into the event that something decided to test Silver's patience.

That something... was Sebek Zigvolt.

"Sebek, must you be next to me right now?" Silver asked him, earning a scoff in return from the prideful halfling.

"NONSENSE. SILVER. YOU ARE DISRESPECTING OUR MASTER BY SITTING AWAY FROM HIM AT THIS EVENT."

Sebek was firm in his accusation.

"Sebek..." Silver began, trying to ease the tension, "You have—"

He was cut off by the feeling of arms wrapping around his shoulder and a kiss pressed to his cheek softly. It was [Name].

"Silver, do you want any more food?" they asked him, seemingly eager to help get him some if he wanted any.

"No, I am fine, thank you," he told them, "I ate enough."

Sebek reeled back as if he had been struck.

"HOW INDECENT!" Sebek cried out, causing at least two people at the gathering to turn in the direction of the three of them.

"Sebek—" Silver tried again, sounding a bit more annoyed this time.

[Name] leaned closer to Silver instinctively when Sebek yelled, the sudden sound startling them out of their own thoughts.

"You two are so in love, stop taunting us singles!" Ace called from across the way, trying to balance a plate of food that seemed just about ready to splatter onto the floor, "Get a room already!"

Silver sighed, unsure he had the patience for this crowd. Sebek wasn't helping either as he appeared to agree (at least in some form) with Ace's statement. It was irritating to deal with the whole lot of them.

"[Name]..." he whispered, knowing they could hear from their proximity, "Do you want to head upstairs? I doubt Father will let anything happen to damage Ramshackle."

"Hmmm...." [Name] hummed, thinking on it, "Sure...? I am kind of tired after all that cooking."

He nodded, moving to stand. [Name] let go of his shoulders in favor of holding onto Silver's hand, something he returned after a moment of deliberation, loosely holding onto the hand grasping his own.

"Even with the ghosts' help it was a lot of work," [Name] continued to tell him as he nodded along with what they were saying.

"I am sure it was. You made a lot for today."

Walking up the stairs, they soon entered the bedroom that [Name] shared with Grim. It was a simple room but it was not nearly as run-down as it had been, or so [Name] said. Walking across the room, they sat down on the bed and patted the spot next to them, urging Silver to join them.

"Alright," he agreed, sitting down on the bed with perfect posture.

He was tense from earlier, [Name] could see it in his shoulders.

"Silver, are you alright? Did Ace bother you?" [Name] asked him, worried.

Silver shrugged it off, not intrigued by the offer.

"Your friend always seems to be that way," he told them, plainly, stating the facts of his own experience.

"He can be energetic but I can talk to them if you want me—"

[Name] stopped mid-sentence when Silver looked at them with a certain gleam in his eyes. They knew he wanted to say something.

"Huh...? Sil?"

"[Name]..." Silver replied, seemingly piercing his sentence together,

"Yes..?"

[Name] wondered what Silver needed to say to them.

"May I... kiss you?" he asked them after a moment, face tinged red in a way so slight it was barely noticeable.

[Name] paused to process the request before nodding, as eager for this as they were to get him food, hang on his arm, or nuzzle up to him during these events with their friends. They were always like that.

Silver was not. Taciturn and even a bit gloomy at times, he was not the radiant and affectionate type as his partner was. Still, they loved him. They accepted this side of him that refused public displays of affection, that was clumsy behind closed doors, unsure of where to put his hands or what to say in a moment of closeness.

He pulled them closer to him, a gentle tug that [Name] followed with anticipation as Silver pressed his lips to theirs in a soft kiss. It was something gentle and light that [Name] felt was fitting for someone like him, a royal knight if there ever was one.

[Name] was not yet used to moments like these when Silver wanted to be affectionate. But they welcomed it.

In a brief moment between kisses, they say those words to him.

"I love you, you know, Sil."

"I..." Silver spoke, "Those words make me want to do something more than just a simple kiss, you know..."

He had never once given in, but now he had admitted it.

[Name] looked at him in surprise.

"Ah. Don't make me repeat it... please."

"I mean..." they tried again, "If you want to..."

...Imagine the rest yourself~ <3

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

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dailyrothko · 1 month ago

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Hi! I was wondering if you had any opinions on the play Red by John Logan? Really admire the Rothko work you do!

First of all, thank you.

Secondly, I think I maybe in a weird position to critique this. I have read almost everything written about Rothko that I know exists. All the books, all the articles I could find and all the interviews I can put my hands on where people who knew him talk. I actually have you guys to thank for this because until this blog got popular, I didn't know much about his life other than the basics. But, feeling some responsibility to my "Audience" and chosen subject, I tired to educate myself in this niche.

Because of this, one naturally forms a picture of the person in your head based on these collected impressions. I think most people don't really know much about him, at least until recently.

I am thankful that the play was an entrée into the art for a lot of people. Like the Rothko episode of Mad Men, many people are brought to awareness of the Rothko through these other mediums and I think that's really cool.

The thing though is that John Logan wrote the movie Gladiator, and you can tell. I see nothing bad about that kind of drama, it just doesn't jibe with my impression of Rothko, While Rothko was sensitive, upset at times, neurotic and opinionated, careful and studious, but he was not this bellowing pontificator that I feel is represented in the play. Again there's nothing wrong with making a drama of it, it's just something that I divorce from Rothko's actual character. I used to have a job reading movie scripts for an actor and you find a lot of common devices people use to make the drama effective, and I feel Red uses a lot of those to good effect. Every play or movie I have ever seen about an artist takes the task of making a largely internal process, external enough for the audience to become engrossed in.

Rothko was sensitive, well-spoken intellectual man. Many of his friends speak of his great tenderness and generosity towards them. The play seeks to pit him and his assistant as two poles of the art world, the new encroaching on the old. Again, fine as a dramatic device but Rothko painted alone, and he talked about painting to no one, ever. Anyone who knew Rothko says he never discussed his art. So any conversations in the play are entirely fantasy.

So, basically I think the play is entertaining and hopefully gets people interested in the art, but I wouldn't take it like a biography of Rothko! And that's really my main point, not to knock the play but to point out the differences between fact and fiction.

Here's some context:

"When I've seen my father portrayed, I've sort of winced, because it doesn't sound like him or come across like him. He was a very warm, humorous person, I remember him telling me silly stories as a child. - Kate Rothko

"As I see him, he was a very loving, essentially feeling man. He was loving and lovable. He liked to put on a rough show. I mean he liked to talk tough. He presented to me a softness. And I was full of my Oriental, religious view of things. I never attempted to talk to him about it because he didn't respond to it. I took it that it was his concern with the world which was from boyhood because of his parentage and finding the same ugliness and stupidity in the art world as in the world that made him so convinced that life wasn't worth living." -Wallace Putnam

Mark is often presented as off-putting; however, he really was quite warm, nurturing and could be very funny." - Regina Bogat

"(Rothko had) a genuine charitable impulse. It grew out of real sympathy. I don't think it was a put-on in any way, nor for self-aggrandizement...there are numbers of cases in which while he was alive he helped persons and always anonymously. He never wanted it known, nor did he ever talk about it." - Stanley Kunitz

*forgive typos, my brain does not see them until weeks after the fact

#mark rothko #daily rothko #rothko #markrothko #dailyrothko #abstract expressionism #colorfield painting #art #modern art #questions #red #john logan

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anyshapebutsquare · 3 months ago

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my gram passed away a week ago. she went within a few days of starting hospice. i saw her on tuesday and i knew the end was near. she couldn't open her eyes but she would occasionally give me a 'yep' or a 'uh huh' in her cute little voice. she was 96, and i'm thankful that i got to have so much time with her. i'm going to miss her so much. while i was there, i told her how i always admired her. she had 24/7 aids and i kind of wished she'd left the room while i was there so i could've talked to her privately. she really is everything i'd like to be. she was very direct, goofy, kind, sincere, honest, generous, funny, and always seemed to be positive. she traveled the world with my pop before he passed, and when he passed she didn't want to go anywhere without him. she told me probably 15 years ago shortly after he died, that she was ready to go. she often said she was ready whenever god wanted to take her, honestly. i am pretty at peace with it because i know she was ready and accepting. apparently she told my mom she was looking forward to seeing her father again, which i think is beautiful. she claimed she struggled a lot with anxiety, and i'm sure she did, but she hid it so well. i can't even explain how amazingly quirky she was. she was blind the last 30 years from macular degeneration, yet she took the bus to philly's 69th street station alone, just to talk to what she thought were 'interesting' people on the bus. my dad and aunt had to beg her to stop in her 80s because it just wasn't safe for her. she loved trivia, games, seinfeld, piano music, and rabbits. she had many pet rabbits throughout her life, but the one she had right now was extra special. my aunt took care of it most of the time once my gram couldn't do it anymore, but would bring it over to her a lot. his name was mr. softee. my gram would talk to him on the phone, and he would zoom around his cage in excitement at the sound of her voice. it was such a uniquely cute relationship. he was very calm with her in person. a couple months ago she asked me to bring stanley to visit her, i was worried because he can be overly excited in new environments, but he did great and she loved it. every holiday there was always a 'gram question' which was just some silly thing she came up with that would stump you and make you chuckle. i think i may reactivate my instagram because i think i put some of the questions on there, but one i do remember is 'what even is a pumpernickle?!'

i need to decide if i want to say anything at her memorial. i thought about reading a poem, but maybe i should write something. i hate public speaking, but if i have it written down it might not be so bad? she was definitely my closest relative and very influential to me growing up.

#gram #tw death #tw grief

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widowmaxff · 11 months ago

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the sour taste

pairings: motherfigure!wanda × fem!reader (platonic)

warnings: ed!!!, bad thoughts, self-deprecating reader, reader sees wanda as a mother figure

a/n: so I accidentally deleted the request for this oneshot but thank you so much to whoever asked! I've never written a character with ed but I really hope you like it ;)

You didn't remember exactly what it was like to have a father or a mother. You don't remember what it was like to have a hug or play with the toys you always dreamed of. Your childhood was made up of tests and bad people at the Hydra base who punished you for every wrong step. Those people appeared in all your nightmares nowadays and it all seemed so real.

But, you still remember exactly the day the gunshots were loud enough to make your ears hurt, and how the red-haired woman was the first to find you in your cell with your hands around your head trying to muffle the sounds. You remember how she bent down beside you and made you calm down. How her touch made you feel loved again, how her sweet words made you hold on to her and not want to let go anymore. Wanda Maximoff held your hand tightly until you finally arrived at the Avengers Compound.

It took you a while to get used to the people in that place, their laughs, their clothes, their voices. Everything was very strange for you. But with Wanda it was different. She was the only one you let comb your hair, put you under the covers and even the only one you let come close to you. It was obvious that this changed over time, but this connection with Wanda was greater than anyone else in that Compound. Maximoff helped you recover and learn to be a normal person, and teenager, again. But even so, some habits would not change.

Once at the Hydra base, you went more than five days without eating, not because you wanted to, but because you made some minor mistake and they thought the only thing to do was punish you. You remember how your body became too thin, your skin was paler than normal and your hair fell to the floor of the cold and dirty cell you were in. And that was what you did these days to punish yourself.

When you started attending (being forced by the Avengers) school, these self-punishments became even more frequent. You saw how those girls in short skirts with their arms out were totally different from you, you thought. They were thin, very thin. And you... are you. Things got even worse when those same people talked about you, how your body wasn't like theirs. So, you think the problem is you.

The punishments from your childhood, all the bullying you suffered and how you thought about yourself came together into one thing, a big snowball that was thrown at you and made you suffocate until you ran out of air. You felt like that at that moment under the blankets, your eyes red and swollen from crying, your cheeks dry from tears. It was only six in the afternoon that day and your thoughts didn't stop for a single second, about how you deserved to suffer and die of hunger, how you didn't even deserve to be alive.

Most of your days were like this. You skipped breakfast with the excuse of being late for school, you skipped lunch saying you had already eaten at school, you skipped dinner pretending you were asleep when Wanda knocked on your bedroom door. At the birthday parties that Tony Stark threw for everyone in that place, you didn't eat the cake. From the afternoon snacks that Maximoff brought you, you vomited in the bathroom a minute after leaving. So, you tried to change your body, your face, but you always felt like that. You felt disgusting looking at the girl on the other side of the mirror.

And when you heard the knock on your bedroom door, your heart skipped a beat. You knew it was Wanda and now there was nowhere to hide your reddened face, nor the lie of pretending you were asleep. "You can come in." you mutter loud enough for the older woman to hear.

She enters the room, but you still don't look at her. Your body almost melting into the bed makes her worry. Wanda walks lightly towards you, lowering herself to the ground so she can look directly into your eyes. Maximoff had already seen you cry, she had seen it many times. But even so, she worried every time you appeared with your nose red and the corners of your eyes even more so. "Hey, sweetheart." She tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, waiting for a response from you.

"Just another nightmare." You lie quickly, seeing the expression on Wanda's face become even sweeter. But she knew deep down you were lying. Because every other time those sour dreams haunted you, you turned to her, not even waiting to calm down to run into Wanda's arms and listen to all her sweet words that helped your head.

"I'm so sorry, baby. You know I'll always be here for you, okay?" She murmurs, quickly pulling you into her arms and kissing your forehead. You take a deep breath and rest your head on her shoulder, feeling her hands caressing your back. "What do you think about having dinner? I know you sleep early so I already made your favorite dish." Her voice was so sweet that you almost started crying again, but the words she said felt so hard in your head that even your empty stomach turned.

You couldn't think of a lie that made sense at that moment, and you knew that if you thought too loud around Wanda she would end up discovering things you didn't want her to know. So you just shake your head up and down. She leaves one last kiss on your head and holds your hand so she could guide you towards the kitchen of that large place.

At some moments on that path you feel your legs failing and your head dizzy. You were weak. And Wanda realized that. She immediately stopped when it happened the third time and held your face in her hands, looking straight into your eyes. You knew it was happening because of the lack of food in your stomach, but she couldn't know that. "I'm sorry, I'm just tired." You lie again, losing count of how many times you've had to do that to the woman in front of you, who was just worried.

The expression on Wanda's face let you know she didn't believe you, but you still continued on your way back to the kitchen. The smell of food makes you nauseous. You wanted so much to taste every grain in that dish without feeling guilty, but you knew that was impossible to happen.

You sit on the chair looking directly at the full plate that Wanda prepared with all the care in the world. You touch the cold fork and start stirring the food with it. You can feel Wanda's gaze on you. She knew, you thought. You thought you were hiding it so well. You would have to make her think otherwise, that it was just things in her head. Then, you take a small portion to your mouth, feeling the tears start to burn again in the corners of your eyes. The noise your throat makes when you swallow the food makes you close your eyes tightly, trying to hold back the tears that were insisting on falling. You wouldn't cry in front of Wanda now, not when you didn't want her to find out your secret. You felt so embarrassed.

But when you finally release a sob, Wanda knows that those voices that worried about you in her head were right. She runs towards you and holds you in her arms. At that moment you can no longer control all that feeling that you kept inside you, of all the bad moments and memories that make you feel guilty for having swallowed that small portion. "Oh honey." You hear her voice crack as she pats your head. You start to sob and cry even louder with each passing second, feeling Wanda hold you even tighter. "Shh, it's okay, you're okay."

"I'm so- sorry." You manage to speak through all those feelings being poured across your face.

"There's nothing to apologize for, sweetheart." Wanda kisses your head, feeling your body relaxing with her physical touches. She knew that you never had a mother-daughter experience, and she knew that at that moment all you needed was a mother figure to help you. "Oh, my beautiful girl... it's okay, Mom is here." You were feeling so overwhelmed that you didn't even notice the term Wanda called herself, but it still made your heart warm.

Wanda didn't know if you were ready to talk about all your feelings and she wasn't going to force you to talk, but even so, tears of despair still fell from Maximoff's eyes, wanting to know why you wanted to starve yourself until death.

"I love you so much, baby. Don't forget that." She holds your face with both hands, watching your eyes fill with tears with every word she says. You couldn't speak at that moment, just staring at the older woman in front of you with eyes blurred by tears. "We'll get through this like we always do, okay?"

You can feel Wanda's fingers caress your cheeks, red from crying. "This won't last forever, love, and I'm here every step of the way to help you." She wipes away one of the several tears that fall from her eyes, feeling her body shake. "We'll work together to find healthy ways to approach your relationship with food and I'll help you with whatever you need." You close your eyes again and take a deep breath, continuing to feel Wanda's loving fingers on your face. "We can seek professional help, such as a therapist or nutritionist. Furthermore, I want you to know that our relationship is completely open for you to come and talk to me, yeah? Feeling comfortable sharing your feelings and thoughts will be essential for me to be able to help you."

"Thank you so much, Wands." You murmur, still looking into the woman's deep green eyes.

"I'm so sorry I didn't realize it sooner, my love." She says, now holding your hands as her eyes become shiny from the suppressed crying. You shake your head disagreeing with her, muttering something like 'it's not your fault'.

"What if we start one step at a time?" Wanda murmurs, leaving a tender kiss on your hand. "Today I'm going to help you eat at least half of the plate, what do you think?" You hesitated for a moment, but seeing Wanda with hope in her eyes made you agree to the idea, because you knew she would help you with whatever you needed.

That night everything seemed so different. Wanda managed to distract you from all those dark thoughts inside your head that told you that you weren't enough, that you didn't deserve to be eating. But the woman with red hair made you feel loved, because you are. Wanda makes you smile and feel like a better person in that terrible world, because she loves you. And you knew that she wouldn't give up on you and would help you with even the smallest things with the greatest pride in her eyes, because that's what mothers do.

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nonotnolan · 2 years ago

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Rookie Mistake

“Yeah, I realized the other day that, like... I’ve spent the last five Sunday afternoons, like, completely blacked out,” he said, rubbing his hands as he spoke. Dave, our next door neighbor, was telling my mother why he didn’t host his normal Saturday night party yesterday. I had to admit I was not expecting that answer. “I didn’t even think I had been drinking that much, but like... why else would that happen, y’know?"

Well, I knew exactly why he had been blacked out the past five Sundays-- I’d been using the spellbook I found in the attic to slip into his smoking hot body. Look at his chest, can you blame me? Dude has shoulders for days. I’d hop into his body when my mom and her husband went out on their date night, and then I would download Grindr to score a few casual hookups with some eager twinks. Being home from college over the summer sucked, and Dave’s body helped make it suck less. It was a victimless crime-- or so I had thought.

Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about what Dave would remember whenever I hopped into his body. Total rookie mistake, but it could have been a lot worse. As long as I stayed out of his body, his blackouts would stop, and no one would be any the wiser. Dave excused himself and went back inside his house, while Mom and I finished up bringing the groceries inside. Hopefully I didn’t look too guilty.

I took the spellbook down off my shelf, and pulled up Google translate again-- the damn thing was written in Latin. The good news is that all of the spells were illustrated, so it was usually pretty clear what each spell would do. The bad news is that a lot of the rules were written in small, cursive handwriting that the computer couldn’t read when photographed. I was making decent headway translating word by word, but it was... tedious, to say the least. Can you blame me for getting impatient?

The astral form spell I’d been using to possess Dave hadn’t said anything about memory loss, but I had also stopped translating after three paragraphs. I’d already learned the important pieces, or so I had thought. You can’t travel more than a quarter mile away from your body without risking permanent separation, your astral form could be blocked by wards or captured by soul snares, whatever the hell those were... and then the spell started talking about how it was really good for spying on your enemies. Wouldn’t something like target memory loss be important enough to mention earlier? I was livid, but it was ultimately my mistake for using a spell that I hadn’t fully translated.

I’d only made it through another half-paragraph before I got interrupted by a knock on my door. “Sweetie, I just wanted to let you know that it’s just me going out tonight,” Mom said. “Henry isn’t feeling well, so he’s going to stay behind and rest up, okay? I know I don’t have to worry about you staying quiet for him while he sleeps. See you tonight!”

I could scarcely maintain my excitement as I waited for the sound of my mother locking the front door. Henry, my step-father, was a delicious otter of a man. I hadn’t even considered the thought of taking over his body, but how could I resist an opportunity handed to me on such a silver platter? And if he was planning on sleeping anyway, the memory loss issue didn’t matter! Translating the rest of the spell could wait, I needed to seize this opportunity before it slipped away. I made sure to clear off my bed, and position myself in a neutral posture before casting the spell-- the first time I used the spell and returned to my body, the crick in my neck took three days to fully heal. Once my astral form had separated itself from my body, I flew as fast as I could to Henry’s sleeping form.

After all... just look at this man. Henry is... he’s like gay candy. Any time the three of us go out together, I don’t think he realizes how many skinny dudes can’t look away from him. And for the next few hours, that would be me. God, it was such a rush to think about that. Can you blame me for getting excited? Aside from the occasional dress pant, Henry never really wore anything that would display his bulge, so I wasn’t sure what sort of equipment I would be working with, but... now that it was in my hands, I was not disappointed. So that was a ten minute detour. I’m only human, after all.

My next order of business was to take some raunchy selfies and send them to my phone for some, uhh... future me time. The problem was that the only rooms in the house with good lighting were also the rooms where Mom had already redecorated Henry’s house with floral wallpaper. Seeing that in the background was just a total boner kill. I’d have to use my room for photos. I try to avoid seeing my lifeless body whenever I can-- it’s kind of unsettling-- but in this case, it was worth the discomfort.

I figured Henry’s strength would be more than enough to carry my body down to the living room couch, only... when I opened my door, the bed was empty. The pit of my stomach sank to the floor as I stared at the impression in my bed sheets, the only remaining sign that my body had previously been resting there. I started taking deep breaths, running my hands across my new chest fur as I tried to calm down. If the astral form spell was going to cause my body to disappear, it would have happened before today. The first step was probably to search the rest of the house, just in case anything else had been displaced.

I found my body outside, shirtless, smoking a cigarette on the patio. He had to have heard me-- I certainly wasn’t quiet as I flung upon the back door-- but he didn’t even bother to look up at me.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my body?” I said, trying to puff out Henry’s chest for maximum intimidation.

My body responded by blowing a cloud of smoke into my face. “Get over yourself,” he said, taking another long drag. “You grabbed my spellbook out of my attic, turned the next door neighbor into a meat suit, and now you have the gall to pretend that you’re the victim here?”

I tried to think of some sort of witty comeback, but my brain had completely frozen up. “I... Henry? Is that you in there? What are you doing?”

“Watching you fall for the world’s most obvious trap,” he said, lording over me with a smug grin on his face. He had me dead to rights, and we both knew it. “Your mother hadn’t even finished pulling out of the driveway, and your horny ass was already trying to take over my body. Good thing I had already started my own astral form before she left. Mind you, I have ways of keeping unwanted spirits out of my body... but then we wouldn’t be having this delightful conversation, would we?

“Consider yourself busted,” he said, snuffing out the cigarette on the patio table. “You’re going to spend the night here, pretending to be me while keeping to yourself under the guise of feeling sick. I’m going to take your body out for a joyride tonight, same as you did to Dave. We’ll switch back in the morning. No funny business, or you’ll learn first hand why I no longer need to use a spellbook to cast magic.”

“Y-yes, sir,” I said, nodding my head. Seeing Henry inside of my lanky body with his arms crossed, it looked catty rather than intimidating. All the same, I was not about to try and mess with him any further. Better to take the L here. “Hey, uhh... after tonight’s punishment... do you... do you think you could teach me how to use that spellbook?”

Henry paused, sizing me up and down with his eyes before speaking. “Me, teaching you? After a rookie mistake like this? Not on your life.”

#male body swap #gay body swap #casual body swap #male possession #male body possession #male body theft #selfish magic

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visndcaitswhore · 11 months ago

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Amavi || Ch.2

That day Gabrielle conveniently lost her cigarettes, and she acted like the entire time she was supposed to be studying, she wasn't throwing glances at the closed window across from her every 2 minutes while tapping her leg nervously. To the point where her mom had to shout at her from downstairs because they could hear her heel thumbing on the wooden floor through the ceiling to the living room.

Her mind was racing about how to approach this when she just decided to wing it and go with the flow. She locked her door, buttoned up her shirt, which she usually had a bit too open when in the comfort of her room, and grabbed a matchbox on one hand and a tiny rock on the other before making her way to the window.

Gabrielle noticed the lights were on. Then again, she would wake him up even if they weren't. When the peddle hit the window, it made a sound. Not too loud, not too quiet to go unnoticed by the boy inside the room. Still, he took his sweet time to answer, and Gabrielle was left glaring at his curtains, head propped up on her fist, till he finally opened them.

He must have been sleeping or was simply tired. Those were her first thoughts and the first thing she noticed about him. Aside from the white patch over his left eye, It wasn't that bad, but it was different. Kind of made her sad. Not that it changed his face that much; it could've been worse.

"Finally. I thought you died," she remarked, opting to ignore the subject for now. There is no need to be soft and make things weird.

He flipped her off, and she smiled, knowing her decision was the correct one. "Toss a few."

He fished a few out of his pocket. "Two?"

"Four." He paused and gave her a look, making her shrug. "I run out."

"You never give me more than three," he pointed out, still focused on the cigaretes in his hand. Gabrielle watched him, remembering that her father used to have a friend who had lost his eye, and he couldn't really focus on objects for a while. He would try to grab something, but he could only grab air. It was something he got used to after adjusting.

"Next time, I'll give you five." She looked at the matchbox in her hand, reading the words she had written on it: "Plus, I have a gift for you."

She was aware it wouldn't do Michele any good, but something about him not being confident, even when he is being an asshole, and locking himself in his room made her uncomfortable. Maybe because he was never meant to be quiet, even when they were younger, he was full of life. It may not seem like it at first, but he was one of the few people she knew who was unafraid to live the way he wanted. Maybe she admired him for it, or maybe she craved that quality of his to stay in her life.

His quietness unnerved her. She was the quiet one; her quiet was familiar. That's why they had been friends, she thinks. She was quiet, and he never misunderstood that. He didn't misunderstand her loudness, either. She returned the favor, knowing that's just how Joseph was—he could bite.

Biting was something they both knew how to do. Heck, she was worse than him, blowing up and lashing out like a second language. Bruised knuckles and bloody noses brought her comfort, in a way.

So, late-night smoke breaks were needed. For both of them. And for him to go back to how he was, he didn't need just a gift or one of those magazines boys liked so much. Gabrielle was going to make him remember how to be spiteful.

He tied four cigarettes together, as she had requested, and threw them at her. They were a bit off the mark, yet Gabrielle caught them and made a show of counting them, checking to see if they were unsmoked, and one of them was a bit burned at the end of it. The girl held it up, showing him "Cheap."

He smirked unapologetically, resting his arms on the stone service of the window sill. "Still waiting for my gift." His words trailed off as he watched her place that one cigarette he had tried to smoke about an hour ago but decided against it between her lips, which made him unconsciously lick his.

"My mom is going to bring you cake one of these days."

Gabrielle lit it, taking a drag and letting the sounds around them fill the quiet. Just from the floor below she could hear her sisters laughing, talmking and running around. A few houses away there was a store, that sold the best pastries Gabrielle had ever tasted. even now, she could smell the croquembouche in the air.

He scoffed, "That's not your gift."

"I can't bake."

"I know, Cheri," he joked.

Gabrille laughed, remembering how she had created chaos in her kitchen a few years ago, to which the boy was a witness and was never planning on letting her live it down. Finally, she showed him the matchbox; he squinted at it in confusion, then looked back at her face.

Joseph didn't see how a matchbox was a gift, which made him curious in a way only Gabrielle could make him, but before he could question her, the matchbox landed on his chest, and he looked at it, pushing his hair back. He had been in the process of growing it out just at the beginning of summer, maybe because British girls liked it or because he had heard Gabrielle say she liked longer hair.

Whichever it was, the admission would only be heard by the wind alone in the privacy of his room as he lay awake in the middle of the night, his thoughts eating at him, wondering if the light in her room would shine and if he would seem too pathetically obvious if he went out to smoke.

There were words on the matchbox, written in black.

"You didn't find out from me." And he nodded, for his tongue was covered in something bitter as he remembered the older Magnan sibling. At the same time, an almost warm feeling spread through him as he looked at her. His missing eye made it harder for him to adjust to any distance or change in light for a while; therefore, this was the first time since they started their conversation that he could take her in.

Her dark curls, her olive skin tone, and her brown eyes with hints of green and flecks of gold. Her relaxed posture, leaning her cheek on her hand, the cigarette hanging from her lips—fuck, her lips—lazily .And he remembered the last time they hung out, and the bitterness spread from his tongue to the rest of his body.

Could the bitterness drown her away? Cover him completely so he can be free.

She smiled and said, "It looks good, by the way." motion towards her own eye.

No, probably not.

"I look like a pirate."

"Poor, pretty Joseph. Your handsome face scarred. How will you get through with all the girls checking you out?"

At least she did not mention Vincent Auriol.

The blonde laughed; his face was scarred; his head was a mess; his mom was distraught; and he had the audacity to laugh.

Gabrielle could never have guessed that the laugh wasn't because he was looking forward to all the girls being interested in him. But because he was cursing his luck for the one he wanted, he wouldn't be one of them.

The next day, when Gabrielle saw him walk on the school grounds, she gave Michele a look, and since Michele did not know any better, she thought it was simply because the brunette felt for her situation. It didn't even cross her mind; the look was an apologizing one.

At the end of the day, he lost an eye; it's permanent damage. Her consolation thoughts made her push away all guilt as she chatted with Simone.

Simone was definitely the easiest person to have a casual conversation with, though sometimes she took Gabrielle by surprise with her words. In her defense, being asked if you are a runaway princess from some dynasty would probably take anyone by surprise. "Since you are wearing pants so much, I thought it was because of horse riding." Simone explained, her cheeks heating up when the tall girl threw her head back with a loud laugh.

"And your first thought was that I was a princess?"

"Well, you wear them a lot." The Algerian made a motion towards her pants, with a smile that turned shy when Gabrielle leaned forward, whispering a secret:

"They make my ass look good."

The short-haired girl put a hand in front of her face, certainly not expecting her to say something like that. She had heard many boys comment on her ass, that's for sure, but it did not cross her mind that she cared about that. Gabrielle adding that 'it's not like my boobs on the big side' made her hit her shoulder, laughing.

After a while, she remembered she had to go put her gym attire on, which she was not going to do in the boys toilet, so she had Annick stand guard in case Giraud passed by. The blonde took her role seriously, insisting Gabrielle go change first so they could avoid any suspicion if she was spotted out of the girls toilets.

"We match." Gabrielle noted with a big smile as she put her hair in a high ponytail when Annick took notice of the muscles in her arms. Her mom had muscles too, but they were the type of muscles one got from working a lot, which were nothing like Gabrielle's.

"Do you work out?"

"My dad teaches me savate," she explained, walking next to her with a shrug. "I like it."

"That's kinda cool." Annick said, looking around, avoiding her gaze even when she could tell from her peripheral vision that Gabrielle had turned her head to get a look at her. She let her, mostly because a part of her was used to being starred at; she had faced worse gazes. Keeping her cool, her eyes landed on her, only to find the girl looking at her much differently than when men or spiteful girls looked at her.

Gabrielle threw her hand around Annick's shoulders; it seemed foreign for someone to do so, but her body refused to pull away. "I'll teach you if you want."

"I'll just have you do the dirty work for me."

The fact that Gabrielle nodded with clear self-assurance and no hesitation made it seem that she would in fact do something like that for her. Maybe she would do it for fun, even.

Walking inside the gym with Gabrielle holding her close gave them a strange sense of deja vu when all eyes landed on them.

"I think they are jealous of me." Gabrielle whispered in the blonde's ear, "I got the best girl in France."

"France?" Annick found it excessive to make her out to be the best out of every girl in the entire country, even when the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.

"Definitely."

Well, the gym turned out to be a disappointment since the boys were clearly having fun while they were stuck climbing a fucking rope, which can only be fun when you are 10 years old and don't know how to do so. Some stuff is fun till you find out how to do it; then they are just chores, a way for a teacher to give them something to do so he won't have to think about them too much.

Gabrielle was just keeping herself occupied by zoning out or listening to Simone's insane scenarios about Annick being some secret Hollywood star child. Though she had to admit she had thought about that one herself, she came to the realization that kids born to famous, rich, and accomplished parents probably wouldn't be good at anything; in fact, she doubted they would even care to try. The only time she felt like butting in was when Simone complained about a bruise that had formed on her thigh by absentmindedly adding:

"The love of your life won't give a shit about a bruise or a scar, Simone."

"What if he does?" She sounded absolutely horrified by the idea.

"Then he is not the love of your life."

At some point, the four girls had gotten tired of doing the same thing over and over again, so they just sat side by side on the blue mat, with Simone and Gabriele usually starting a conversation. Which didn't go great since Annick was her usual closed-off self and Michele looked like she was sitting on hot coals the entire time, clearly anxious.

Gabrielle kept an eye on her the entire time, mostly because she was used to it from keeping her younger sisters in line when her parents told her to. Well, and even if they didn't, it was her job to help them out with anything. It could get frustrating at times; that was the role of the oldest, though her elders would say. It was a role, and everyone has roles in their families, friend groups, and society in general.

Then Michele decided to start climbing the rope again to keep herself busy, and all that was left to do was watch the boys play. Gabrielle narrowed her eyes, wrinkling her nose as if a foul smell had entered her nostrils, knowing full well she could do much better than any of them. Applebaum proved her point when a ball hit him on the side of his head, which made her scoff and look to the side.

Coincidentally to her right, where her gaze diverted, was Descamps, whom she noticed had a smirk on his face and a certain, familiar spark lighting up his face. Nothing good, she knew. But at the end of the day, none of her business exists. Still, she watched him make a sign to Dupin, his partner in crime, and they snickered together.

A thought passed through her mind at that moment. Leaning her weight to her left, she whispered to Annick. "Is Dupin pretty, or am I crazy?" Who, mostly because this was the second weirdest comment she received in the past 15 minutes, rolled her eyes. "It was just a comment. Not like I would give him the role of class president in a silver platter!" Gabrielle exclaimed, offended.

Maybe it was also a dig at the fact she thought that Annick had every right to keep the date to herself, become class president and put Giraud in her place. She deserved to be at that position, she studied the hardest, got the best scores but Annick decided that keeping a low profile would be better.

"I don't know about Dupin, but his friend has been checking you out the entire time. Maybe keep your focus there."

A beat of silence. Annick looked at her straight in the eyes, while Gabrielle wondered if she could get away with getting physical with her like she did with her younger sisters.

Annick might be a proper lady but she was sure she would bite her if she even tried.

Gabrielle raised her hands in surrender with a laugh "Okay, I'm shutting up."

#joseph descamps #mixte #mixte1963 #annick mixte1963 #michele magnan #simone mixte #jean-pierre #fanfic

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