#orphanhood

[tenebrius-excellium]

I somehow feel like it's a little too early to make this estimate, but I took care of some things for myself lately and I'm feeling so so alone and vulnerable but also wayyy more confident, cautiously optimistic and hopeful for the future than before? Like, as a motherless daughter I have this dream of being able to say that "it got okay around age 30". I need to be able to tell this to someone else one day and be so so compassionate and encouraging to them, being able to promise that everything does get better, even if it might take someone another decade to reach that point for themselves.

So here's my coping mechanisms / survival guide for other motherless kids/teens/young adults out there... it's so trashy, like, I was making this up as I went along, I was just winging it out there, I did not have help and nobody cared what I went through. These are the things that got me through. They're not developed, they're not scientific, they're makeshift comfort. But please take what you need if you find anything helpful in this pile of rugs. (so crying right now)

Music and daydreaming help. So, sooooooo much. Don't get lost in the daydreaming too much, but I, for example, literally use music beat patterns to physically calm myself down. Music is a GREAT emotional regulator. Get that stuff out. Pacify yourself. I hum, I tap, I blow my eardrums out when life gets too much.

Stuffed animals help. They are soft and go everywhere with you and they are a guaranteed safe space. They are your pillow at night and the one you can always kiss and hug. They will love you back with their presence as well as they can. They've been through your shit with you and they are witnesses.

Christianity and Church help. A lot. A good Church will have motherly mothers and safe men in it. Members will gift you their spare items (I got like a clothes rack, a microwave, and more). They will give you money to get by if you honestly admit that you need help. When starving, I've always lowkey found food there. Within a Church, people will naturally move and clear out their households and get you connected to essential supplies like repairs, vacant housing, unused furniture, clothes and such. Accept this help. Don't depend on it, however, and do not exploit it either. Just grasp those opportunities when they present themselves.

Jesus himself helps. He will answer your prayers prayed in desperation if you honor him with your life. He saw. Trust me, he saw and he still sees, and he still helps you. Even now.

Socialism helps. A LOT. I've survived on state benefits for the longest time and have been so greatful discovering all the graces the government will grant you as an orphan, as a student, as a child, as a young person. My state has been more loving to me than my own parents. At least that's what it oftentimes feels like. Whenever they abandoned me, I was able to apply for some financial aid elsewhere. I recently organized insurance for myself, and it is my first real safety net EVER. I can relax better now.

Media help. Books, movies, talks, inspirational quotes, whatever floats your boat. Hearing and watching about other people's experiences lets you find kindred spirits and role models to aspire to. Don't get too lost in them either because you have to forge your own path. But take all the strength from them that you can. My real life role models include Kate Winslet, Kate Blanchett, Hugh Jackman and RDJ. My fictional role models are every swashbuckler ever, every dreamer, fighter, dancer, singer ever, just passionate people who are able to live in the present and get creative with the situations they find themselves in while maintaining a positive attitude and a fun, confident spirit.

No one will be coming to save you. Take responsibility for yourself as early as you can. I made the mistake of expecting others to save me for far too long. I remained passive expecting my step-family to accomodate my needs "when they finally find the time to think about me". These people have their own family dynamic; they don't get that you are different. Listen; THEY HAVE THEIR OWN FAMILY. You, however, are from an entirely different family. I wish for each and every orphan to be grafted into a family that wholeheartedly accepts who you are and supports you unconditionally. In my case though, I was expected to fit in with them and to grow up to do things exactly like them, their way. Which I couldn't. Because my blood literally boils different. If you feel "off", "out of place", "different", reclaim your origins, insist on it, do things your own way. It'll free you dramatically. If you're happy, good for you, then don't touch that shit. You can be grateful for what you have. Sincere gratulations! But what I'm trying to say is, asking the dumb questions and having to learn everything by yourself is humiliating. It's also exhausting. Sometimes you will have to fight the adults in your life for what you really need when they try to give you what they *think* a normal kid needs. You are not a normal kid. You need extra stuff. Why do YOU have to do everything by yourself out of all people? WHY YOU? WHY MEEE? I have no idea. It doesn't make sense. It's so unfair. All I can tell you is that things immediately get better for you the moment you stand up for yourself and take responsibility. It's okay to whine. Just get to doing something about it while you're at it. Listen, I love you, but you HAVE to.

This I can't say from personal experience, but apparently, having animals/pets and engaging in sports helps some people. Small things I've noticed are that basking in the sun feels like a hug. Walking barefoot as often as possible connects you to the earth. It's very grounding. Everything from the night stars to the glistening water to the soft blades of grass is there to love you and for you to feel safe under. Mountain ridges and beloved cityscapes are things for my eyes to hold on to when the abyss gets bottomless and the void unbearable.

Take things as slow as you need to. Don't beat yourself up for not developing or understanding things as fast as your peers, - they get the luxury of being inherently taught by the mere existence of their parents - you don't. You're a warrior. You're a survivor. You are busy reconnecting your family line to the future which was severed by the disappearance of your og folks. You are literally carrying the load of two generations. Respect that. You will get to the same destinations as the others, just a whole lot slower. It's okay. Preserve your strength, take as many breaks as you need as you teach yourself to not just survive, but to genuinely thrive.

You will make it. You will make it. You will make it. You will make it. You will make it. You will make it. You will make it. You will make it.

You will make it.

[superherospinoff]

[Image ID: Screenshot of a paragraph that reads ‘Batman is quite famously an orphan, as are the first two Robins. For years Tim Drake was unusual among the Batclan in having a living parent, but eventually the temptations of orphanhood overcame the writers. End ID]

still one of the funniest ways i’ve ever heard tim’s backstory recapped 

[apopcornkernel]

and did bruce not, in the end, have a hand in jack drake's death as well? did tim becoming robin not seal his father's fate? we can talk in circles about the delegation of guilt but batman's quest to make no more orphans has, undeniably, made an orphan of robin

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

Another comic headcanon for the books

Ambrosius doesn't know his own birthday

He was an orphan before the institute got their hands on him, most likely abandoned as an infant since he has no knowledge or memory of his parents. I hc that he was only a month or so old at the time

So baby Amb was always sad that he didn't have a birthday (even though like half the kids at the Institution didn't either) because he wanted to feel like a normal kid. Ballister tried to convince him to just make a birthday up. "You know you arrived in September and were about a month old, just pick any day in August" but he didn't want to because it wouldn't be his "real" birthday.

So like. 10 year old Ballister in typical Ballister fashion lied about going to his old orphanage and checking the dental records and finding out that they dated his birthday to exactly August 11th and got him a cupcake. Ambrosius was so happy.

It didn't take long for him to figure out that was an entirely made-up story but he still celebrated his bday on that date because it meant a lot to him that Ballister gave him a birthday.

He didn't celebrate it for the entire fifteen years they were separate. If someone else threw him a party, he'd allow it, but stuff like that rarely happened and he never did anything on his own.

When they first got back together he was so used to not celebrating his birthday that he'd forgotten it, but Ballister didn't. Things were still too fragile to make a big deal of it, but Ambrosius woke up to find Ballister making pancakes in the kitchen, and he'd gotten him a cupcake and rented a disc of his favorite musical to watch.

And yeah he was beside himself.

[yellowocaballero]

you know what'd be a really jerk move? if your coworker/best friend (who may or may not have a crush on you, you don't know for sure) got a promotion, and right after they got the news you whispered for them to meet you later... and you invited half your other coworkers, and it was all to make plans to celebrate your bff-coworker's rival's promotion.

anyway, canonically rin did that to obito.

RIN MAN WHY YOU GOTTA DO OBITO DIRTY LIKE THAT NO MATTER HE WENT EVIL.

Canonical 14yo girl levels of thoughtfulness and empathy for the feelings of teenage boys. My favorite thing about Naruto is its dedication to having the shittiest children alive.

[noxexistant]

[feeling a wave of indescribable grief and complex trauma overwhelm me] i need to project on jack kelly right fucking now

[vastiitas]

Thinking abt cole's way of watchfulness,,, its progression and origins,,, the way it is embedded so deep into his behavior that it's subconscious,

[akkivee]

lol tho like dh’s emptiness from failed bonds/being left behind they’re healing from with each other is also hilariously painful when you also look at how they’ve all damaged someone by leaving them behind 😭😭😭

[catastrophic-crow]

honestly I'm really glad that the option exists. like, you don't want to be associated with a story anymore? you can orphan it instead of deleting it, and that's awesome i think. or maybe I'm just heartbroken over fics that i bookmarked and recommended getting deleted or set to private

ao3′s orphaning option is cool and a good idea but mostly very fucking funny. i posted this work for fun when i was younger and i still want people to be able to come back to it if they liked it, but now im an adult professional and i dont want it attached to my name. whats the word for that? umm, anonymously posting? no. i want something that indicates i murdered this story’s parents 

[freefallintothevoid]

Dick Grayson's unmatched success as a child vigilante makes a lot more sense when you remember the Court of Owls was a thing and that Dick was meant to be the next Grey Son.

There is no way that someone at Haly's Circus wasn't there keeping an eye on him while he grew up. A future weapon needs to be trained and monitored after all, and a circus, a place where weird skills are completely normal, is actually a great place to secretly train a child.

You know, just some knife tricks that translated really well into actual fighting. How to get out of restraints and pick locks while under a time limit. Death defying acrobatic stunts that coincidentally do wonders for parkouring. That sort of thing. Nothing that seems out of place for a boy growing up around circus performers to learn, but would literally any where else.

I mean, while I fully believe that most kids would want to kill the man responsible for their parents deaths, Dick was weirdly prepared to go through it. He tracked down Zucco with way more ease than any normal child should have too. He became the first child vigilante, for goodness sake. The first Robin! He only started getting formal training after he basically forced Bruce into it!

Bruce himself has no idea that this kind of competency in a child is unusual, considering he was much too blinded by the similarities between his and Dick's tragic orphanhoods.

Alfred is in a similar boat because he’s desensitized to weird children after he somehow managed to successfully raise Bruce 'The Batman' Wayne, so he doesn't clock the hyper-competency as abnormal either.

By the time the other batkids start popping up (Jason 'The Audacity' Todd, borderline-street rat with no fear) (Tim 'the greatest stalker in Gotham history' Drake, child genius, also bullied his way into becoming Robin) (Barbara 'raised by the only uncorrupt cop in gotham' Gordon) (Stephanie 'daddy issues and spite' Brown) (Duke 'Pretends he's the normal one and people believe him' Thomas) it's too late.

It would also explain how Dick got along so well with Damian out of all of them. Similar childhood with different approaches and all that. On some subconscious level, Dick recognises and resonates with the murderous ten year old assassin with strong familial ties to a secret elite assassin organization.

It isn't until after the whole Court of Owls and Grey Son reveal that suddenly Dick realises a whole lot of things about his childhood that suddenly make a lot more sense.

[deagodplease]

tiya was talking about how i dont like my name because my family doesnt say it with the vowel, that the rdyn is all slurred together when my family says it so it feels jarring and aggressive when people pronounce it without an accent and im bout gonna cry !!!

:(

[edgarallen-foe]

are you still an orphan if your parents die after you're old enough to move out?

[chronically-ghosted]

vivarium

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: ezra x f!reader word count: 8K summary: you request a vacation for your birthday. With the rain and a few drinks, you get a lot more than you asked for.  warnings: alcohol drinking, minor age gap (less than 10 years), oral (f!receiving), fingering, smut, possessive!Ezra, dom!Ezra, one booty smack, dirty talk for real, smut, pining, a bit of angst, referenced/implied orphanhood, made a religious sex pun and i'm so proud of myself a/n: so @morallyinept requested this and it turns out when I write for a boy for the first time, it can’t be less than 7K – whoops. i've gotten ezra requests from some moots before, so i hope this lives up to your expectations! **massive thanks to @toomanytookas for editing and providing the initial validation so i don't post in a mouth-frothy haze. I've never had a beta like you before and I genuinely feel like I've turned over a new chapter in my fic writing. thank you!

🤍Masterlist ���� Ezra Masterlist 🤍 AO3 Link

💜come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

Your feet in the clear blue water, the humidity like a wet tongue on your skin, you scratch a nail under the tab of a mustard yellow can, crack it open, and drink. The bite of alcohol dulled by the carbonation, you take several pulls, drawing out the mid-afternoon buzz from two other cans and whetting your mouth in the heat of the jungle day. You lean back on your elbows into the sponge-soft grass, and let out a massive sigh. 

A few feet ahead of you, on a repurposed inflatable reentry tube, your long-time privateer partner chuckles, the sound deep in the back of his throat as he floats by. Thick fingers and exposed heels dragging along in the crystal water, he greets the yellow sun like an old friend – arms wide, chest out, a lazy smile on his face. A damp rag – supposedly clean – sits over what you know to be dark-earth eyes, every other inch of him relishing in the inevitable sun tan. 

“I see your aaahhh, pet, and I raise you a mhmm.” The rubber squeaks as he adjusts, tips his scarred chin up to the cloudless sky and rests his head back. “Kevva said there’d be days like this, but I think the old hag mighta left out a thing or two.” 

You grin, the wet heat of Banu 8’s lowlands drawing sweat droplets onto your hairline at the back of your neck, settling thick behind your ears where it co-mingles with the drunk haze loping around in your brain. You watch Ezra with his bare arms, hairy legs, and prominent nose turned towards the divinity he’s so fond of invoking and the thought crosses your mind – again:

Shit, he’s so fucking hot. 

Oh, bad thought.

You drop your gaze, pressing the cold aluminum lip of the can to your mouth, drinking quicker than you probably should, anything to distract you from your partner as he obliviously floats by. 

For our sake, you silently beg the hungry little creature that whines and snaps at the image of a shirtless Ezra, please fuck off. 

While Ezra whistles a vaguely familiar tune, terribly off-key, you scoop up the cool lagoon water and dribble it over your hot knees, then your thighs, dampening the rims of your make-shift shorts just enough to cool them without leaving them vulnerable to a permanent state of moisture due to the high humidity. You flick the last drops of the water onto your chest, your white cotton bra choked to your skin. A final effect, you press the cool can to the thrumming pulse on your neck, closing your eyes with a relieved grunt, taking the time to enjoy the sensation of the cold metal against the rapid beat in your throat. 

From the water, you hear an unsettled grunt and you open your eyes to find that same shirtless Ezra staring at you, the rag now curled in one hand against the rubber float. He swallows, looks at something past your ear, and again tries to adjust in the sticky rubber float without flipping himself over, his hands falling into his lap. 

“Neptune, dear, would you do us the favor of tossing over one of those cans? I’m parched. I think my lovely skin is drying out.”

Neptune. His favorite nickname for you. You never got any real explanation from him as to why you got that name, other than after you’d officially joined his crew, you told him you came from a blue planet in a far off system. But that was often the way of things: Ezra did something and you didn’t question why. From that simple truth, you learned about how to repair and rebuild the entire electrical system from a drop pod. You learned, in excruciating detail, the parts and mechanics of a thrower, so much so that you could almost identify the model number at a glance. You learned about which corporate dig sites to avoid, which made for easy marks, and which would draw the eye and ire of entities hardly worth the trouble. 

Being out on your own since you aged up out of the orphanage had not gone the way you hoped and life had not been so kind as to teach you any other way to survive. Ezra had found you in the back of a red spice market, cornered and slurping down the last few of your credits from a muck bowl that you had vastly overpaid for.

For whatever reason, he offered you a job on the spot, despite you having nothing to offer him. and no experience in anything except cleaning prophylaxiams and staying out of the way.

And yet, he has been far kinder than life, or anyone else, had ever been to you. 

As a result, loyalty was only a fraction of what you felt for him. What had begun as overwhelming adoration had grown hot to the touch, slippery between your fingers at night, and perhaps – what you feared most of all – obvious. 

Yet when Ezra looked at you with a smile on his face, it was only comradery he wished to share with you, certainly not his bed. He shared it with practically every other bi-pedal humanoid you came across, but not you. And this you had to accept. And you did. 

But being a little drunk made it that much harder to remember where to keep your hands to avoid being burned.

“Sure, Ez.” You tuck your legs out from the cool water and dig around in the canvas bag at the base of the white nut tree. Most of the ice had melted into the bright green grass around the lagoon, but a few of the cans were still cold. You’d probably tease Ezra later for skimping on the insulation bucket the provisions store the port offered, but he had been so eager to get to the camp ground after spending an “exceedingly exorbitant amount of time stacked up against human drivel on public transportation”. One lopsided grin, and you’d give him the world. 

“Ez–,”

He lifts the rag, glancing at you over his shoulder, hands cupped as the can flies through the air. The cold metal presses against the overheated skin on his chest and he hisses. Eyeing the can ruefully, he cracks it open and drinks deep. You busy yourself with sliding to the edge of the pool again to keep from watching his throat move. 

Ezra finally pulls back, smacking his lips, with a pleased groan. He wets the rag again and dramatically flops it over his eyes. Hidden from his view, you watch the roll of water down his temples, his neck, his chest. 

“Name anything better than this, Neptune, I beg you. Free from obligation or assignment on commission. Where my only moral imperative is to drink as many of these as I can and remind you how beautiful you are. Which . . .” he tilts the bottom of the can towards you, head still tilted back on the raft and dripping rag covering his vision, “fantastic, by the way.” 

Having stifled your blush while under his watchful gaze about three or four other times today, without him looking, you flush so hard and fast you go lightheaded. Beautiful, he said. You drink more carbonated alcohol to choke back your rising heart, your eyes skim over the curve of his nose, a drop of sweat as it peaks on his forehead. You can’t linger over him too long; he has a six-sense about you – unable to know what you’re thinking but that you’re overthinking all the same. 

“Was this worth the trip on public transportation, Ez?” Your ankles stir the water again. 

“I could do this all day,” he sighs contently, bringing a warm smile to your face. “And definitely all night.”

Maybe you’ll both be so sun-drunk later tonight, you’ll fall asleep together on the pallet on the floor. Of course, by nightfall, someone will have to come to their senses and you’ll be tucked back into your separate sleeping bags, but maybe, as a present you couldn’t possibly ask for, you can just nap together.

With the bottom plush of your lip stuck between your teeth, you rim the metallic edge of your can with your nail, ankles spinning slow circles in the water. 

“Thank you, Ezra,” you say quietly, “for the best birthday I’ve ever had.” 

It began as a sort of joke one night on the volcanic hotspring moon of Wulkan after a twelve hour shift hunting through the black ash in search of fire pearls. The job was rather rushed, and Ezra had his reservations going into it, but fire pearls were a near certainty and you both needed a boost after a jump exchange had gone a little cockeyed. Sweat dripping from his temples, the provided water packs in the harvest suits doing just enough to keep him from passing out from heat exhaustion, he extended the skein of hydro-electric towards you across the narrow lane between your cots and asked you if you could be anywhere right now, any system, where would you be.

“Somewhere so cold I freeze my tits clean off,” you said with a sigh and wiped your own sweat-drenched forehead. You could smell yourself after two days of sweating profusely, but your stench in comparison to the rest of the crew, including Ezra, barely registered any more. You took a sip as Ezra laughed.

“A grievous crime against humanity and all its luscious gifts, but I get your meaning. Anywhere else?”

“Water.” This was said with more conviction, so much so it turned Ezra’s head towards you. “The few memories I have of my home planet and my parents, we were always near or in water. An ocean, maybe. I’m not sure. But I remember being really, really happy and I think being near water . . . it would make me happy again.”

You handed the skein back to Ezra, something unreadable in his gaze. He took it back from you, his fingers dark from the ash that clings to everything. On the other side of the tent, the rest of your crew and other teams mill about, yelling, with cutlery clattering as the camp gets ready to slow for the night, a graveyard shift picking up in just a few hours. 

Ezra’s eyes are as dark as the ash you’ve been shifting through the past two days.

“Then you shall have it, Neptune.” He said, quietly. “I’d give you the fucking galaxy if I could.” 

Those words often came to you in the crevice between sleep and wakefulness, when your mind was idle and the reins that tightly bound your affection for him loosened without a conscious grip. When you thought you weren’t being watched. 

The flat of his foot hooking behind your ankle breaks you from your reverie. Cast into shadow by the wide, rubbery palm leaves above your head, he looks at you curiously. 

“That look of deep consternation is giving me a headache. Spill.” 

With a faint smile, you gently bump his knee with your own. “Nothing, Ez. I’m just glad we get to take a break from it all. I can’t remember the last time I . . . the last time we’ve just had nothing to do.” 

He cocks his head as his gaze crawls up your ankle, your shin, to your knee. You think it might linger on your thigh before it bounces to your face. You tighten your grip on the hot, expansive feeling behind your ribs and stare back at him.

“Then that’s a black mark against me, as the leader of this clan.” His mouth curls, eyebrow arching as he talks, knowing that statement has been a point of playful contention between you two for years. “A good overseer knows when to crack the bullwhip and when to let it rest.”

“Well, a better overseer knows when to demand that her team rests, because sometimes they have no idea what’s good for them.” 

His foot rotates behind your ankle, his toes brushing against your calf, bringing your attention to your own body part in the water. Your legs are hairy, nearly as much as Ezra’s, and you haven’t shaved your pits in possibly a decade. Ezra once brought home a professional nightwalker, one from the Upper City, to the derelict flat you’d been sharing for two weeks as you offloaded your haul to the under markets. You never forgot how smooth her skin had been, shaved clean and smelling of moon lilies. That scent permeated the small space for weeks afterward. Even now, just the sight of moon lilies makes you nauseous. 

His aversion to you runs much deeper than physical aesthetics, even if you can’t help but wonder sometimes if becoming as smooth and hairless as the nightwalker might change his mind.

“Observational to a fault as always, Neptune.” The ball of his foot rests briefly between your legs before he pushes off from the spongy lip of the lagoon’s edge. He floats back into the sun, his head shaking slightly, a smile drained of amusement on his lips. He inhales as the sun crests over his forehead and he glances up at the blue sky. “I have no idea what’s good for me.”

Something about his tone, the way he turns away from you, scratches a very raw place inside of you – a place that fears and obsesses over abandonment. You wouldn’t survive it if he abandoned you, if he left you to fend for yourself one day. Logically, you know he would never do that – he has sworn up and down to your face that that notion is fundamentally ludicrous to him – but the anguish of him silently rejecting you from his bed again and again and again makes that fragile place inside you bleed red. 

You stand up, swipe another can from the bag, and move towards the waterfall. 

“I’m taking a hike.”

You feel his eyes on the backs of your thighs as you march towards the gentle incline.

“Be safe, Neptune,” he calls softly.

For a fleeting second, you wish he had made you stay.

The first fat raindrop splashes against your cheek and wakes you from a humid, irritated nap. You’re scowling by the time you open your eyes to several more wet droplets as they splatter against your neck, your forehead and you sit up, even more frustrated than when you fell asleep. The last sticky tendrils of dreams snap and pop as you pull yourself onto your feet, back hunched and arm held high against the steamy sprinkle. A crack of lightning, then a growl of thunder, and the sky splits open, drenching you in seconds. With a snarl of your own, you snatch up the empty can from the grass next to you and make for your camp down the hill. As you crest the top, you see a figure standing outside the tent, back tense and hand raised as if searching through the twilight gray downpour. 

Normally, the thought of warming up beside Ezra in your yellow tent fills you with something inexplicable, the grime and load of the day melting from your shoulders, but your buzz from earlier has thickened, made worse by the heat, the emotions in your heart all gummed up and smashed together. The sight of him cranks up your irritation high in your ears. With a huff, you concentrate on a smooth slide down the hill without breaking your ankles and not the fire rising in your gut. 

But the rain and the distance apart has only stoked his own outrage.

“Where the hell were you?” He snaps as you yank back the velcroed tent flap. He is dripping from head to toe in jungle rain as he follows closely behind you into your small space. You ring the water from your hair into a corner and scowl up at him. 

“I fell asleep. The rain woke me up. I came back as soon as I could.” 

His eyes narrow, water rolling off his bare shoulders as if he still stood out in the downpour. The droplets pat pat pat against the tarp floor as he snatches up a fiber towel and dries himself off, scowling all the while. 

“I searched for you, calling your name up and down this fuckin’ jungle and I didn’t hear a peep. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d been hurt?”

“Then I would have fucking dealt with it, Ezra.” You stomp to your feet, neck hot from his patronizing gaze. Hands on his hips, you feel like you’re being scolded. “I can take care of myself.” 

One dark eyebrow arches mockingly, the scar on his cheek twisting in his scowl.

“And you expect me to lay about, twiddling my thumbs, while I wait for you to return or until you deem it appropriate for me to fret over your corpse?” 

That patch of blonde hair is a shade darker, drenched and pressed flat against his forehead. His bare chest is littered with scars and divots where chunks of flesh had been torn away. His skin is a reflection of the hard life he lives. You doubt you’d look any different if you’d seen yourself in a mirror. 

“We are partners, Ez,” you grind out between locked teeth. “Equals, alright? I am not your little sister for you to fuss over and you are not my keeper.” 

At that, the indignant swell of his chest deflates and the anger in his eyes flickers before fading out. 

“You are beyond capture,” he mutters, eyebrows down but gaze distant. “I’d never dream of keeping you, Neptune.” 

Again, it’s his phrasing that hurts most of all. You glance away, the backs of your eyes growing hot and tight, drying out despite the sticky moisture warming the inside of the tent. But then his hand around your elbow startles away the tears forming in the corners of your eyes. 

“You are the most important thing to me in the entirety of this world and the next,” he says softly, earth eyes searching your face. “I came on too strong, I know that, but the idea that you’d ever be gone from my side for any amount of permanence . . . well, it’s been a lifetime since I’ve felt fear like that.” 

His frown goes belly-up, a hopeless smile on his face. “I wasn’t aware I even still could.” His calloused thumb brushes your skin, skin that nearly catches fire from the rough drag of scar tissue, before he lets his hand drop. Your own curls into a fist at your side, a tremor rattling the bones of your wrist in an effort to keep from reaching up and touching that moon-shaped scar you dream about at night.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ez. You taught me enough to survive in a world like this. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

That smile goes wan, sickly. “That’s the problem, dear heart, I trust you with my life.” 

He swallows, as if suddenly bashful to make direct eye contact with you. He clears his throat before rummaging around in his canvas bag for dry clothes. He yanks a black, sleeveless shirt on over his head before setting up the materials for a flameless pocket fire. 

“Since my dreams of showing you something called a barbeque have been quite literally rained out, we’ll finish off the rest of the dredge pack tonight. But come first light, I’ll fix you breakfast so succulent, the smell alone’ll make your mouth water. How does that sound, Neptune?”

He barely slows to breathe as he seamlessly switches topics from breakfast to another meal made at camp without looking up or stalling in his prep for dinner, hands almost disconnected from the humming of his mouth – one so methodical, the other like a channel rat on fire. 

“– and the thing was no one was really sure enough what a squatter egg looked like when it goes bad. But being out in a cramped hold-out for two weeks where it was so dark, your own ass and someone else’s had no demarcation, well, there wasn’t a single peep of dissimilitude . . .”

Words strung together so quick and so melodic, it was always incredibly easy to fall into a sort of easy trance around Ezra. Sounds and syllables just sounded right coming out of his mouth and after a while, that trance became a state of repose, Ezra’s own sense of calm filtered to whoever was also in the room. But not to you, not right now.

After spending immeasurable time with less than half a space between you in cramped tents and in claustrophobic dig sites, you could read the tension on the lines of his body as well as the lines on the palm of your hand. 

“Neptune? You with me?”

Ezra glances up at you, always aware of you and your movements like the twinge on a spider’s web, a signature smile that has always seemed to shine a bit brighter for you plastered over his face. The anger was the only thing holding you up and with it gone, you can feel your bruised heart twinge as it folds over itself. 

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m gonna switch out of these wet clothes before we eat, okay?”

He hums, nodding, eyes fixating on the steadily boiling water in front of him as you turn away to the other side of the tent, by your pallet and traveler’s pack. As further evidence that he feels nothing but companionship for you, you feel his eyes remain nowhere near you as you strip off your shorts and bra for a sun-warm suit. Then again, you’d like to think it’s kind of scandalous to be changing in front of him, but you’d both seen each other naked more times than you could count – there is no modesty in foxholes. The space between your hips and your thighs feel sticky from sweat and the slick rain, the curve of your spine warm and flushed. The zipper is loud in the silence. 

You’re braiding your damp hair away from your face when he sighs and the noise makes you look back at him.

“Answer me honestly, if you’ve ever cared for me a tick. Do you regret it?”

His eyes are sorrowful, worried, brow fixed down. Ezra is not, and never has been, a man prone to melancholy. His wrists rest loosely over his knees, gaze deep in the bubbling bone broth. The rain outside taps insistently at the tarp. 

“Regret what?” 

“Coming with me and taking on this life. It’s not an easy one,” he says quietly. “I should have offered you another choice, that day in the market. But one look at you and I . . . I was willing to trust you with my life, Neptune – far, far too soon. Even at my best, you make me irrational.”

You watch him, his broad shoulders moving, as he scoops up the hot, dark liquid into two bowls, and joins you by the entrance to the tent. You pin back the flap as he settles, the scent of humid rain immediately flooding your mouth, the pattering sound now twice as loud. Wordlessly, he hands you a spoon before digging into his own bowl. 

The heat of the soup burns away all the silly, impossible things sitting on your tongue. You sit in silence, his presence never rushing you to answer before you are ready. As you eat, you stare out at the dark lagoon, where you had both been only hours ago, the clear water murky beneath the downpour. 

“No, Ezra, I don’t regret it.” He stills, as if surprised you’re answering him now, mid-meal. He lowers the bowl to his lap, eyes trained on you. “You saved my life, more times than I can count.” 

Your words loosen the rigid lock of his shoulders. He grins. “As you’ve said, you would have been just fine without me.”

Your vision goes blurry. You pin him with such a stare, you watch the blood rush from his face.

“But it would have been only half a life.”

“Don’t kid about that, Neptune, it’s not –,”

“I’m serious.” You put your bowl down and rub your eyes with your sleeves. Of all the ways he hasd seen you bare and naked, he’s never seen you this vulnerable. “I don’t wanna do any of this without you. I want you, Ezra.”

“You have me, dear heart, you have me.”

“Not like that and you know it.” You watch as understanding rolls across his face. His lips part, eyes wider. He swallows and you stare at the ceiling, cheeks suddenly wet and hot. He said he’d never leave you, but what if this is the thing that finally does it? Could he work with you, knowing just how deeply you love him, and not feel an ounce of disgust? “You told me once sex is just a way to pass the time, but never, not once, have you ever even tried to pass the time with me.” 

He swallows, deeper this time, jaw locked, his eyes fluttering with the force of it. He brings his knees to his chest.

“Because it wouldn’t just be passing time with you.” 

In that moment, you’re grateful for the rain, for the sound of something to fill the silence. 

You stare at him, cross-legged in front of the open corner of this yellow tent, abandoned bowls growing colder, but he sits with his leg up, knee to his chest, as if to ward you off. Ward off whatever is growing in your gaze, under the flat bone over your heart in your chest. But whatever is stifling the air in your lungs, is warming his eyes past the point of comfort, barrelling towards expletives and the crass, the lewd and depraved. You cannot go back to having him look at you any other way. 

That look loosens every line in his face when you crawl into his lap, your knees around his hips. The backs of your thighs go damp, even through the suit, pressing down onto his still-damp shorts, and you think his breathing has quickened.

His massive palm hovers near your cheek, unwilling or unable to pull you forward or push you back, his oak eyes searching your face for signs of discomfort as if he had somehow dragged you across the tarp floor. 

“Neptune,” he mumbles as he focuses on the curve of your bottom lip, “this is unwise. You don’t know what you’re asking for.” 

You can feel the hard curve of his shoulders as you follow the lines of his arms and settle them on his collarbone. Nothing has happened that can’t be undone – not yet. Your perfect, vicious Ezra hasn’t pressed you flat on your back like you thought he would at the hint of sex. You could return with your dignity tomorrow morning, this moment never spoken of again, and he’d let you have that. The shake of his elbow with his palm against the tarp is the only indication that something might be unsettling to him. 

But it is your birthday after all. Maybe he’d let you have this one thing. He doesn’t know you’ll die without it.

“If you don’t want this . . . if you don’t want m-me, then say something. Push me away and I’ll never bring it up again.” You cup the sides of his neck as your hips shift forward, closer to him. The air in your lungs tightens, breath coming in shallow pants. Only then does he drop your gaze and fixate on your encroaching heat. “At least then I’ll know.” 

There. Out loud. It’s been said, heard above the deluge of rain against the tent and the jungle outside. 

His palm finally settles on your cheek. It brings a sense of wholeness to you like you’ve never known. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a breathy exhale pours out of your mouth. His thumb catches the plush curve of your bottom lip and he draws it towards your chin, his own mouth open, enraptured. 

“Sweet thing, how have you not always known?” 

His mouth is humid against yours, as if he swallowed the jungle while looking for you, his thumb releasing your lip to capture with his own. The tip of his pointer finger massages the hinge of your jaw, just below your ear, and he manipulates your head until your mouth parts like he wants.

His tongue skims your upper lip, a tentative exploration into the unknown rewarded with a low groan that is warmed by the heat coiling low in your hips. You taste his tongue, a hot glide inside your mouth, and you feel his arms slip around your lower back, his inhale of breath sharp across your face as he brings you closer. He bites your lips roughly, the spark of pain and pleasure crackling across your face as if you’d brushed a live wire. 

His fingers wrap around your wrist, prying you from the back of his neck, just for a moment, his eyes heat-soaked. You suck your teeth, mouth open and seeking, and the hand around your jaw drops to your collarbone, the breadth of his palm nearly suffocating your throat.

The briefest pressure – the slightest touch – at the pulse at the bottom of your neck and your hips rock forward into him as he flattens his other palm to your ass, clutching you to him and pinning you to the pallet.

His teeth scrape against the curve of your ear, pinching the cartilage between his incisors, while his hands frantically search up and down your waist. His weight smothers you, his stomach breathing into yours, the flat plane of his chest rubbing your nipples raw against your suit, an unfocused lurch to his hips every time you tug on his hair. With every breath, every time you try to savor his touch, the taste of his mouth is like a wave, dragging you forward, wrapping a dizzy chain around your throat and squeezing.

Ezra’s greatest weapon has always been his mouth, that silver string spinning faster the longer he captivates you, spell-bound. Now he uses to decimate you in entirely new ways. 

The suck of his lips against the moist flesh below your ear distantly distracts from the afterburn of his unkempt beard against your jaw, your cheek. His lips alternate patterns of reward with a plush kiss and punishment with a stern nip when you try and stifle a moan. The edge of his shirt is damp from resting against his shorts when you slip your fingers underneath to palm the small of his back. He stills when you run your fingers around to the front of his trunks. 

His hand curls around a clump of hair at the base of your skull, his eyes darker than volcanic ash. The steady heat of his groin against your thigh is a sensation you’ll chase for the rest of your life.

“You know what happens when you touch a man there, Neptune?” He’s breathing hard, you both are, and the way he snags your hair in his fist has your head twisted at an odd angle, but you’d be damned to a Kevva-forgotten corner of the cosmos before you drop his gaze. You nod and that moon-shaped scar on his cheek twitches. “I know I didn’t teach you that.”

“L-learned it – somewhere else – Ezra.” Your mouth isn’t working properly, your lips swollen from his kisses, the slight pain in your scalp making it difficult to focus, while your cunt tightens hungrily. “Had to.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you wouldn’t give it to me.” 

He leans back, his forearm tense and corded where he has you by the hair, a seemingly disinterested scowl on his face. But by the throbbing length pressed up against you, so far from where you need him the most, he is anything but. 

“So you’re saying this is my fault?” Without breaking eye contact, his chest raised inches above yours, his fingers snag on the blue zipper by your collar and your breathing nearly stops. He hums to himself, eyes following the path of the zipper as the material separates, click by click by click. When it reaches your belly button, he stops. 

“Ezra –,” it’s a whine and you can’t even chastise yourself for it. And neither, it seems, can he. 

Head tilted as if curious about the label of a box beneath colorful wrapping, he dips his wide hand beneath the edge of your suit. The heat that radiates from his palm against the curve of your stomach has you writhing underneath him, your knees drawing up to his hips, trying to catch any relief. 

But he takes his self-satisfied time. Callouses of a hard-won life snag and drag over the soft paper-thin skin that covers your ribs as he maps you in one hand. When he cups your right breast in his palm, the noise you make is a sob of gratitude. 

“You let another man besides me do this to you?” 

The snarling pit of your own thoughts slows as some awareness realizes he’s speaking to you. 

You swallow, clutching his bicep, begging for forgiveness before even opening your mouth to answer. 

“It didn’t mean anything, Ez, it wasn’t you – it meant nothing to me–,”

“But you let someone else touch what’s mine, hm?” That lazy, slightly irritated look on his face, he rotates his hand, squeezing the cup of your tit again, before sharply pinching your nipple. 

“Ezra–,” you choke out and his thigh shifts between your legs, just close enough to feel the heat but nowhere near close enough to grind against. His thumb rotates the raised flesh slow enough to capture and catalog every sigh it draws from you, his eyes catching between his hand and your relaxed face. 

He wears the same expression he does when sitting in the backs of blackmarket tea shops and smoky alebins. When the prospect of striking gold becomes all he can think about.

“Strip.” He suddenly commands. He lifts off you just enough for you to wrench your arm through the armhole, all the while keeping a rough palm on one breast, and then the other. You watch him massage your flesh and your ribs tremble with an unsteady breath. Only when a slightly cool breeze meanders over your bare shoulders and chest do you realize that the tent flap is still open, your head inches from the edge. A perfect and unimpeded view to anyone who wants to watch him hungrily grope your tits. Embarrassment peaks sharply, despite his hand pressing you into the tarp, you wrench your neck back and look over your shoulder through the window of the open tent as if you need to confirm that you are giving the jungle a floor show.

“Ez– shit, the flap–,” 

He finds that the skin beneath your breast had grown sticky and slick from sweat, the humidity still oppressive even with a breeze. He bends his head and licks that same sweaty path and your attention snaps back to him, nails curling against his scalp, his warm breath a high-intensity balm to your roughly-played-with nipples. 

“Not a soul in sight, Neptune,” he murmurs lazily into your ribcage, his nose running up and down the valley between your tits. “And if there were, let them learn a thing or two.” 

His teeth nip the swell of your stomach as he crawls down your half-naked body. Without his heat and hands, the tenderness from his attention on your breasts ratchets up to an ache, a minor preoccupation before he hooks his fingers around the rest of the jumpsuit and tugs. 

You are naked beneath him, swollen chest rising and falling, your knuckles scraping against the pallet as you search for something to grip with all your might. You smell of lagoon water and hot jungle air, of muggy photosynthesis and algae. The smoky scent of the black ash of that distant planet never really left Ezra and the dampness of the rain seems to stir it up. He towers over you, dark and breathing heavy. Smoke and brimstone.

He gropes your ankles, then your calves, hands gliding over the thick hair there – now grown soft in length – as he slowly spreads your legs, with a light you’d never seen before in his eyes. 

“Neptune, I revolve around you.” 

A wave of anxiety lurches up your throat when he brings his mouth to your cunt, the cloying, imagined scent of moon lilies threatening to tear you out of the moment – he won’t want you wild like this – but it’s forcefully yanked back down with a single stripe of his tongue. His previously casual, authoritative persona cracks when he buries his face into your unkempt curls and lets out a deep, overly pleased moan.

Your back bends and he’s gathering up your limbs in his arms to pin them down, nearly resting his forehead on your pubic bone. A few more licks, some deeper than others into where you drip for him, and your thighs start to shake. His fingers around your thighs squeeze roughly against your flesh and pull you further apart. 

Between the flush of slick seeping from you at an embarrassing rate and the wiry hair kept natural out of a certainty no one would see it, he must be drowning or choking, his tongue flicking and sliding, nose prodding your clit just enough to spread the sparks of arousal up through your spine. Feeling as though you’re losing your grip on reality, you sink your hands into his hair, thumb rubbing back that blonde patch, and tug. The moan he shoots into your cunt as he rocks forward into your touch has you whining helplessly. The tarp squeaks where he rubs his hips into it. 

His arms curled around your thighs, your hips shake with restraint against every lap of his tongue until he flicks your clit and your hips grind up against his obliging mouth, a sunspot of pleasure flaring brightly. But all too soon, Ezra lifts up onto his elbows, his hands smoothing across your stomach and he pops his mouth up from your wet folds. With an irate gasp, the swell of bliss fading, your gaze snaps down to plead with him, but he shakes his head.

Wordlessly, he takes one hand from your thigh and wipes his mouth clean with a swipe of his fingers. Then, with his eyes wide, the skin around his mouth loose, he crooks two fingers at the top of your mound before sliding them down where his mouth was seconds ago and presses them inside of you. That simmering in your low belly roars back to life and you toss your head against the unforgiving pallet, eyes slamming shut. He growls at the obscene sucking noise your cunt makes as he plucks at you, in and out. 

“Oleaginous,” he hums, so quietly, it might have been for him. He tongues your clit lightly, pushing his fingers as deep as they can go, watching you thrash. “Mine. Understand?” You remember that tone of voice from when he had you dissecting throwers on a workbench in front of him. You nod, eyes fluttering open, balancing on the precarious edge of release. 

You want to obey his every word. 

His thumb twists up, opening your clit to him and within a whispered breath of “good girl” he sucks your bundle of nerves and launches you into orbit. 

Your entire body goes stiff from the force of it, only to crash back down into his waiting hands, your voice wavering on a high-pitched, girlish wail that shrieks above the sound of rain. Waves of bliss lap at every nerve ending and your vision goes fuzzy for a minute, the only sound you can register is the pounding of your blood in your ears.

And then you register the steady, wet plunge of his fingers still dragging in and out of your pussy.

“Was that mine?” 

Your clit tingles from overstimulation, but you’d rather die than have him stop – you want to answer, if only you could pick up the pieces of your voice. You can only nod, whining. He presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh, the skin there smeared with your release.

“You did a bad thing, letting someone else touch what’s mine.” He scolds, rubs that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head, holds his finger to it until it burns. You cry, his punishment evident. “Now you have to apologize, Neptune.” 

You nod again, mouth wrenched open as he drags you back and forth across pleasure and pain. 

“Y-y-yes, Ezra,” the words are bone dry, cracked between your teeth. “I’m sorry.” 

Pure wickedness strikes those earth eyes and scorches them a singed black. 

“Unfortunately, atonement is a fickle thing,” Ezra tuts, dragging his lips across your thigh in a mockery of a kiss, “and I’m not quite ready to offer absolution. Despite your offerings,” he wipes his mouth with a stroke of his palm, “this godhead remains rigid.” 

You whimper. He grins with a mouthful of teeth.

Ezra pulls back onto his knees and shuts your thighs, his hand palming your ass as he indicates that you should turn. Your entire lower half still feels like jelly – no one has ever made you come that hard with just their mouth before – but you obey. You stagger onto your hands and knees in front of him. 

His wide palm appears beneath your chin.

“Spit.”

You do.

That spit-wet hand cups your still wet cunt, middle finger rubbing briefly against your clit, before it disappears. You feel him move closer, hear his slick hand pump himself a few times with a grunt. Hot lips drag up your spine, interspersed with the nip of teeth, and when he lays across your back, his hands overtaking yours and threading your fingers together, his bare chest presses up against the skin of your back and you shudder. 

He noses your temple, his throbbing cock coated between your folds. He bites at your jaw and follows your line of sight through the open tent flap. 

“Breathtaking, isn’t it? All that moisture, dripping and running over smooth rock and fern. All that heat coagulating in spaces it shouldn’t fit. All that . . . open field, for anyone to just wander into. Take a look around and smell the air. Could they smell you like I can, Neptune? The way you leak for this cock?”

As he hums filth in your ear, his hand settles again at the base of your throat, thick fingers squeezing just enough to threaten, before sliding down to your swinging breasts, rough palms catching your swollen nipples, then arching down your stomach and between your legs. 

He plays slowly with your clit; barely enough stimulation and he knows it.

“Ask for forgiveness.” He croons in your ear. The breeze returns for a moment, and between the heat of him mounting you like a feral animal and the hesitant touch of outside air against your sweaty chest, you shudder with a groan. 

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I’m so–,” his middle finger increases its pressure slightly and the words shatter in your mouth, “sor-ry.” 

“And for what?”

He continues to rub between your folds and the minute hitch in his breath is more intoxicating than anything he’s done so far. This is affecting him just as much as it does you. He kisses your jaw then tugs on the skin with his teeth. 

“For letting a-anyone but you t-touch me.”

Ezra presses his damp forehead into your shoulder, panting, your correct answers soaking the neurons in his brain. Your reward is the faster stroke of his finger. 

“And why was that a reprehensible thing to do?” His hips rut into yours, the scrape and rub of his cock between your slick lips and thighs almost enough to set you off. 

“Because it’s yours – I’m yours – f-fuck, Ezra, I’m yours, I only wanna be yours,” you sob. 

He’s suddenly gone from above you and the loud crack of his hand against your ass cheek deafens you for a minute, the sting skittering up your back and down your thigh. 

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your elbows shudder, the weight of his tone, his hand nearly forcing you onto your chest with your ass still in the air. You wanna be so good for him. 

He’s breathing hard and his skin is warm and damp where you feel his thigh press against the back of yours. There’s a measure of restraint he’s showing and it makes your heart pound in anticipation. You swing your hips back at him, as if you could catch yourself on his cock. 

“I wanna show you I’m yours,” you cry, nails curling into the pallet. “Please, Ezra, please!”

His broad hand settling on your spine draws a hiccup out of you, a sob. 

“Breathe . . . Good girls get what they need.” 

On an exhale, his blunt tip spreads you apart and he shuffles closer as he thickens inside you. His loud, unabashed moan overwhelms yours, when you think you might just be devoured by him. His hand, the one at your hip, squeezes you, silent reassurance. You can feel the knuckles on his other hand against your slick lips as he feeds himself into you.

“Neptune, talk to me. How,” your cunt tightens around his girth at the sound of his voice coaching you along and he grunts, as if suddenly dizzy, “h-how do you feel?”

“Amazing, Ez. Please keep going don’t stop I can take it–,” 

He obliges; something’s reconnected the wires in his brain enough to tell him to move. He huffs before sinking deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. He bottoms out and waits again, letting you both catch your breath. 

“Spent a hundred moons thinking about this.” The puff of breath against your shoulder is the only warning you have before he presses his mouth to your skin. His hand free of your clutch, his thumb softly rubs the muscle of your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, wherever he finds bare flesh. “Would wake up in the night, with you a few feet from me, looking like divinity made sin, made real, but I wasn’t worthy to touch you. You got me all tongue-tied, Neptune, all mucked up in the head. A silly boy,” he purrs.

You glance over your shoulder, unsure which Ezra is going to meet your eyes, but wanting all of them. The man you feel most safe with in this world and the next greets you and you reach back and squeeze his hand. He chuckles softly, and with it, comes a gentle roll of his hips. You gasp, airily, your gaze slipping from his face to his chest, to the steady breathing in his stomach, and then to the growth of hair that fades as it reaches up his low belly. How many times did you sit across the room from him with your fists in tight balls, watching as he regaled exploits of riches and wonder, all the while thinking about how thick his cock is outlined in his suit – you’re so blinded by breathy dreams of what the musky scent of his cock must taste like that you miss that he’s pulled out farther, halfway now, and you are completely knocked senseless when he thrusts back in, a beat faster. 

“Later, Neptune. I’ll let you suck my cock later, but right now I’ve gotta ride this pussy to oblivion.” 

Your thighs quake at his promise, cunt squeezing him, and he huffs, picking up speed.

“I felt that. You really like sucking cock that much?” 

All you can answer him with is a whine. Your knees are starting to ache from the barest cushion the tarp provides, the palms of your hands sore, but you can’t find it in you to remotely care. With every stroke, he fills you up to a breaking point before riding you back out. Moaning gratefully, you finally drop onto your elbows, your cheek scraping against the pallet with every forceful thrust behind you. He tilts your hips up higher, on one knee to fuck down into you; he’s searching with his cock for that spot that made your brain numb. 

Like a flood, you feel bliss roll down your spine, his hands on your lower back pulling you up another peak, and you gasp, at the edge of a very, very long drop, the sounds in the tent as sticky and wet as the rain outside.

But Ezra’s sounds are loudest of them all. Grunting. Hissing. Moaning like he’s fucking the best pussy of his life. You open one eye, glancing over your shoulder and the sight drops open your mouth. Hips pumping forward, skin dewy with sweat, he breathes like a freshly broken-in stallion, relieved that something finally bested him. Chest full and tight with muscle, flushed pink with roaring blood. Stomach torqued with tension. His rhythm is caught between his hands pulling you onto him and his cock thrusting into you. A frantic beat that bounces wet and hot, mouth agape and eyes rolling shut, his head drops back between his shoulders. You push back slightly and he stutters, the hand on your hip tightening. 

“Not gonna last, Neptune–” he grits, his jaw locked tight. The image of him actively staving off an orgasm for you to finish first has been imprinted on your brain for the rest of your life. 

“J-just a little harder, Ez.” 

He obeys, submitting as you had for him, sweat curling around his neck and down his chest. 

As release barrels down on you, those mahogany eyes catch and hold yours in a second that lasts through infinity. They promise you things that you didn’t know you asked for, those eyes, made vows only your soul could hear. You see, in that instant before you are swallowed whole, that he’d die at your feet, if you asked him to. He’d give up every worldly treasure he won through grit and his teeth if you needed it or wanted it. If it made you happy.

His Neptune – in the crushing grip of your gravity. Willingly caught in the trail of your comet as you fill up his night sky.    

“Yeah, that’s it, right there – Ez-ra!” 

His face blown out in near ecclesial bliss is the last thing you see before your vision goes white. Your heart pounds in your ears so loudly, it's the only thing that exists for an instant. And then you shatter with a perfectly soft cry, bliss breaking across you like a heavy wave, and you succumb to exhaustion. 

Behind you, he groans, fucking you faster through it, snarling something entirely incomprehensible. 

You think you might say his name, you don’t know what your mouth is doing, but whatever you say, it breaks him and you are dragged through another low shock, the flood of cum deep into your achy cunt enough to contract your walls again, his harsh groan stuffing your ears just as full. 

The rain is barely louder than your desperate attempts to breathe. 

The tarp crackles as you slump forward onto your stomach, Ezra dropping to his side with half his body over yours. Panting raggedly, his hand curls up to the base of your neck, a reassurance of his presence and commitment when words have failed him. 

You lay like that for a long time.

And then, when feeling starts to return to your limbs, you turn your head, your nose rubbing against his. When you breathe hotly across his face, he grins a satisfied grin that splits into a chuckle. You laugh with him too, curling up into his chest, his forearm is sticky across your spine, and he kisses your forehead.

Staring up at the tarp, together you listen to the rain. 

In the long drawn out, buzzy silence, his nails scratch the base of your skull. And then, like he remembered something vital, he picks his head up and looks at you.

“Do you want this to change things for us?” 

“Yes.” You cup the muscles of his thick neck. “Yes, Ezra. I want this to change everything between us. Please.” 

He smiles, unguarded and open. 

“Wild horses never stood a chance . . . especially against these tits.” He nips at the swell of your breast and you laugh. “I had no plans of letting you go in any case . . . but we are bound from this day forward. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod. A stroke of heat passes over his eyes and  Ezra leans forward to kiss you, his hand on your cheek pulling you in close, as close as you can be, two sticky bodies, cum-dried and tingling.

“And if we’re going to spend every year of our lives together, I have a question for you.” he pushes away a stray strand of hair stuck to your face, nose tip to nose tip, “did you have a good birthday, Neptune? Are you satisfied?”

With a giggle that has his eyebrow arching playfully, you kiss his cheek.

“I already told you. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.” 

+

[writers-in-moominvalley]

Just thought it'd be fun to see y'all try to figure this out. Put your reasoning in the comments/tags!

*DIDN'T HAPPEN

DARNIT

[saintsenara]

ik the draw of snoldemort is that it's as delicious and healthy as fibreglass-riddled cotton candy but have you ever considered them being happy?

yes, all the fucking time.

i am genuinely of the opinion that snape and voldemort are each other's most plausible romantic pairing, and while i sustain that opinion mostly thought the power of being delusional, i do think there's a legitimate grain of potential for snapemort to actually be strangely wholesome.

and so, since this is not the first request I've had for such a thing...

...here comes the snapemort manifesto.

i am also of the opinion that the series presents an extremely narrow and unhealthy definition of love - love as suffering and sacrifice and secrecy - which voldemort can't allow himself to experience because his life has unsurprisingly made him unwilling to suffer or sacrifice and which snape forces himself to experience to the clear detriment of his physical and mental health.

but love is also - fundamentally - about comfort and pleasure and not being bored in someone's company.

the canonical voldemort clearly actually likes snape. he also clearly enjoys spending a substantial amount of time alone with him - especially in deathly hallows: voldemort teaches snape how to fly unaided [the only death eater he seems to do this for], which is canon proof they were going on lots of romantic midnight swoopings; snape is obviously voldemort's source for the information that tonks and lupin have recently married, which means they're gossiping over glasses of wine just as much as they're planning to take over the ministry of magic; voldemort visits snape at hogwarts while he's headmaster, and while that's to steal the elder wand, he does say that he'll join snape once his grave-robbing is done...

the two are clearly intellectually compatible - not simply in terms of level of intelligence but in how that intelligence manifests itself. snape has a very voldemort-ish view of magic as something whose boundaries can constantly be pushed and whose authorities must constantly be challenged - that magic is really about power [and those too weak to seek it] - and it's clear in canon that dumbledore's unease about allowing him near the defence against the dark arts job prior to half-blood prince [when snape agreeing to kill him - and revealing how his love-as-suffering for lily drives him - finally convinces him that snape has rejected the dark side entirely] is because he fears snape's way of understanding magic, since it reminds him of voldemort [and - in reminding him of voldemort - reminds him of grindelwald].

but snape and voldemort's intellectual compatibility has something underpinning it which goes beyond how they understand magic and its purpose in the world. they think the way they do about magic because of the similarities in their life experience.

as harry walks to the forest, he sets himself, snape, and voldemort up as a trio - the "abandoned boys", whose lives have all been shaped, to varying extents, by dumbledore. but, while harry and voldemort are each other's narrative mirror - due both to the overtly mystical pseudo-fraternal [or, if you're so inclined, soulmate] connection which voldemort establishes between them by making harry a horcrux, and to their shared experience of orphanhood - harry actually has much less in common with either half of snapemort than they have in common with each other.

for example, while they're all half-bloods, harry's pureblood parent is his father - which gives him a wizarding name, and the social cachet this brings in a world which is so obsessed with blood, family, and male lineage. snape and voldemort have muggle fathers and muggle names, and this gives them a radically different social standing - even if they are, ostensibly, within the same blood-category - to harry.

similarly, while lily is muggleborn, she is still a witch, attends hogwarts, is known and liked within wizarding society, and - like many muggleborns seem to - separates herself entirely from the world of her birth in young adulthood to live in a way indistinguishable from someone born and raised in a magical family.

tom riddle sr. and tobias snape are actual muggles - which means they exist in a world completely divided [and with that division scrupulously maintained by the ministry] from the magical one. while snape is brought up by his birth family and voldemort isn't, their lives are still dictated by their fathers' experiences of, fear of, and disconnection from magic - and this shapes their lives very differently even than harry's experiences with the dursleys.

harry also heavily resembles his pureblood father, which provides similar social cachet. one device which canon uses a lot is the idea that every member of a pureblood nuclear family unit looks alike - narcissa malfoy is blonde and pale, while her sisters are dark-haired, so that she is immediately identifiable as lucius malfoy's wife and draco malfoy's mother; molly weasley is red-haired and freckly, even though these are weasley, rather than prewett, traits, for the same reason.

in having harry look so much like james - while its primary intention in doing this was clearly to help obscure lily's role in the series' central mystery for as long as possible - the text allows him to smooth his path through the wizarding world because he looks like a pureblood, like someone who is understood to belong in the society through which he moves.

voldemort, in contrast, looks exactly like his muggle father. which parent snape resembles is more ambiguous - in deathly hallows, harry says that snape "greatly resembled" his mother, but both order of the phoenix and half-blood prince suggest this isn't the case, and the person he resembles is his father. this makes more sense, since snape resembling tobias means that he - like voldemort - lacks the visual connection to the wizarding world which would - like a pureblood surname - ease his way of belonging within it.

snape and voldemort are also from the same working-class background and have the same experience of childhood poverty. harry - no matter the financial aspect of the dursleys' neglect of him - is still middle-class in the muggle world by virtue of being raised in a place like little whinging by people like vernon and petunia.

and - crucially - harry's financial circumstances and class-status change utterly when he enters the wizarding world. he ascends to being upper-middle-class; he has the resources to buy everything needed for school new - meaning there's no visual distinction between him and his wealthy peers caused by him having, as voldemort does, secondhand possessions; he is able to treat these possessions casually; and he never, ever worries about being able to afford them [when his nimbus is smashed by the whomping willow, he's upset because he liked the broom so much and because he's embarrassed by the circumstances in which it was damaged, he doesn't worry one bit about not being able to afford a new one - he also considers buying himself a firebolt and, of all the things the one sirius buys means to him, it never seems to seriously cross his mind that it's a stupendously expensive thing for a teenager to own].

harry's class ascendance once he enters the wizarding world also gives him access to the ways of connection and network-forming which dictate how magical society runs. while much of this is voldemort's fault - since it's bound up in the fact that harry is a celebrity - it's also evident that this isn't entirely the case. slughorn's attitude towards harry is influenced just as much by his fondness for lily - and the clear reading of canon is that, if harry was the average hogwarts student and james and lily were still alive, harry would be "collected" for the slug club in the way that cormac mclaggen or regulus black are: people that slughorn wants to keep around in case they offer him something, not people he wants to keep around so that he can manipulate and control them.

voldemort and snape, in contrast, exist outside the social networks which govern wizarding society by virtue of their birth [hence why voldemort sets up a parallel social order - with him at the top - among his followers].

voldemort plays the game the way he's expected to while at school - sucking up to slughorn; leaning in to being, as he puts it, "poor but brilliant" - and then rejects a lifetime of being dependent on slughorn's patronage [he could be minister for magic, but only "if you keep sending me pineapple"!] for the only job he can get on his own merits.

snape rejects the idea of playing the game while at school - the teen snape we meet in order of the phoenix is conspicuous in his difference, not only in appearance but in behaviour, from his peers, and the marauders' bullying of him is motivated just as much by his existence outside wizarding social norms as it is by james' sexual jealousy of his friendship with lily and his own deliberate provocation of james and sirius.

and he also rejects the social convention the series values [by which i mean, the series thinks the class system is good as long as the good guys are the ones insisting on maintaining it] in young adulthood. i bang on about this a lot, but it's clear in canon that the reason snape becomes a death eater - and also the reason why he thinks the death eaters will help lily, even though this initially appears to be nonsensical - is because voldemort offers him a chance to transcend the limitations placed upon him in a world with such a restrictive class system. voldemort is the only person who offers him the things he desires - power, respect, recognition - in a context in which his background is [seemingly] irrelevant.

there's an element of snape seeing what he wants to see here, of course. he's clearly voldemort's exception in terms of social class [just as bellatrix is his exception in terms of gender], and this is a grooming technique on voldemort's part which sets snape apart from the other death eaters and makes him more dependent on maintaining voldemort's favour than men like lucius malfoy or rodolphus and rabastan lestrange, who are inherent insiders to the elite male social circle from which the majority of the dark lord's minions are drawn.

but there is also an element of recognition in voldemort choosing snape which has a heavy blast of affection - platonic or otherwise - behind it.

one of the things which dumbledore gets wrong about voldemort throughout the six books in which he appears is that he believes that voldemort is secretive to the point of repression about his origins, childhood, and life experiences. instead, the canonical voldemort is a certified yapper - he needs virtually no prompting, as a child with dumbledore, a teen with harry, or an adult with harry, to start talking about his life in a way which gives quite a lot about himself away. the proto-death eaters we meet in half-blood prince know all about the teen voldemort's search for his lineage. barty crouch jr. knows his birth name. lucius malfoy is completely unbothered to hear harry state that he's a half-blood.

and this shouldn't surprise us - what orphan wouldn't be on a desperate quest to be perceived, to be understood?

snape is clearly one of voldemort's great favourites because he's someone the dark lord implicitly understands - a clever, awkward, lonely boy searching for respect and power which the stagnant wizarding world refuses to give him. it stands to reason, then, that snape is also one of voldemort's great favourites because the dark lord thinks that snape can understand him.

and, in a situation where he's actually given a chance to offer voldemort this understanding, snape therefore has the power to give the dark lord the thing he's been searching for his entire life - someone who knows who he really is behind the elaborate mask of unassailable majesty and loves him anyway.

none of this has to change the future - voldemort can still be a terrorist who kills his wife guy's only childhood friend, the snapemort will slap nonetheless.

but it still can.

[kerubimcrepin]

Liveblog: Wakfu Season 2 (episode 17)

I find myself liking Eva a lot, during this rewatch, because I really am realizing that Eva&Joris is a very interesting and insane duo to consider.

If Ankama was wiser, they'd make them friends explicitly. Oh well.

Joris watching Adamai say this (Adamai is living through his worst nightmare of the person who loved him dying and coming back without memories, this time for real): 😬💀🚶‍♂️

This seems like some sort of waiting room for the meeting, judging from the fact that all the participants (as well as Grougal, but, to be fair, he's like a baby, it's logical that he'd be present with him until the very last possible moment, before being passed on to babysitters.)

I think it's interesting that Joris is sitting quite neutrally, looking exactly at Adamai and Armand, while Qilby is turned fully towards him.

...Studying him, perhaps?

Judging from the fact that Qilby was appealing to Sadida royalty by having studied their texts, and claiming to have met their god, he seems interested in learning more about people — maybe to manipulate, maybe simply curious.

Considering Qilby's connection with dragons and millions of years worth of memory, I could wager that he can feel/see that Joris is a bit weird.

(I know I am reading way too much into this, but let me have this lmaoo.)

This is why I find it quite fascinating that Qilby (interested in studying people around him, maybe seeking an advantage) is telling Joris (an old, dragonized Bontarian deligate) about a dragon that razed Bonta before Joris was born (Arty (Goultard's Dead Dragon Husband)).

Trying to gauge if Joris is secretly a dragon? If he knows that dragon? Trying to gauge his age? His opinions? Hmm???

This is one of the most short and uninformative Joris one-liners in the whole franchise. He's so epic for the way he dodges saying anything here.

Considering the fact that Joris is 1. pretty gullable, actually, 2. generally distrustful of people he doesn't know, especially royalty, 3. sounds pretty happy about this interaction here, I think Joris's opinion of Qilby is "this is a foreign leader, and the whole thing is going to cause a lot of issues. Eliatropes' happiness is worth it, though, and also he seems nice enough. But we are not friends."

Basically, I think Qilby has Joris on his side hook, line, and sinker. Lmaoo.

HE LOOKS SO AMUSED BY THE SHENANIGANS.

Joris LOVES Sadida Kingdom.

I'm insane about Brakmar. Of course the prince of Brakmar (a capitalist hellhole) would be the only one to give a lowly servant a coin.

[wipes tear] Tipping culture is real in Brakmar because otherwise people will not survive on their wage alone. Just like in America...

While none of them are shown, this meeting implies the existence of a kingdom for every race. (I need ecaflip lore so bad...)

I love this animation error so much. How did this happen.

Sitting cutely with his hands crossed.

Guys I think Qilby might have supremacist beliefs about his people. Idk, just a hunch.

And in THIS shot, the animation error is gone.

I want so, so bad to know about whatever the Ecaflip equivalent of Cra City/Sadida Kingdom may be...

Kerubim has canonically been to Trool fair and he LOVES fishing for quaquacks, and we know this from the anniversary map commentary (despite his painful and traumatic memories from episode 48 of Aux Tresors de Kerubim. He talks in the MMO about being uneasy about quaquacks since then.)

Another error — Joris sits there quite inconsistently...

@dullard @dullard @dullard @dullard @dullard @dullard @dullard HEY DULLARD HE SAID THE LINE—-

I love this so much. He's been dealing with politics for centuries, and he's so fucking angry that he allowed himself to slip up and say something antagonizing.

This is a bunch of rich people who have not known orphanhood or living in squalor in their entire lives, talking about putting children in mines, and trying to pass off a bunch of children who lost their parents in a war like a hot potato. And one of them, from a country that his country fucking hates, says that this might lead to a war.

I think Joris, with his life story and opinions and the tragedies he's witnessed in life, must be thinking things much harsher than this. Just a hunch.

This "us" doesn't include Bonta, btw :)

While I have issues with season 4, I do like that there was some moral ambiguity to the world leaders: with hindsight, I think we can say pretty easily that Brakmar's concerns are quite valid, even if false this time.

As I've said — Joris, like Yugo and Adamai, thinks pretty simply that everyone should always do good things, and that it's so so simple to be good — you just give people what they need! :) It's literally so so simple.

And that's how he, after becoming the ruler of Bonta in Waven, got to the point of having: cannibalistic wars, using living beings as building material and weapons, having 999 prisoners of war, spies and guards everywhere, implied slavery, as well as—- [I am forcibly taken offstage]

Once again, Wakfu demonstrates that Bonta and Sadida are very closely aligned.

me and @dullard have had countless conversations about this fucking episode, and he said a lot of interesting things. Here are some highlights, which he has allowed me to include:

I literally don't even know how to put my opinions into words, besides including these screenshots.