#the upturned lawrence

[amiinkles]

I love you traveller

[bloody-blades]

even though its late , i had some time and finally finished the new years drawing!

[cezorian]

woah

[letterboxd-loggd]

The Upturned Glass (1947) Lawrence Huntington

February 18th 2024

[allweknewisdead]

The Upturned Glass (1947) - Lawrence Huntington

Man doesn't have any generous feelings - he only thinks he has. Selfishness, habit and hard cash - those are his real motives.

[directorsnarrative]

The Upturned Glass • Director Lawrence Huntington

[slutforpringles]

Per Lawrence Barretto, Daniel's upturn in performance means he is now understood to be the favourite to retain his seat at VCarb next year, and is also the favourite should RBR decide to replace Perez.

via: BARRETTO: It’s Lawson vs Ricciardo for the second RB seat in 2025 – but is there a way to keep them both happy?

[elenor222]

A Kendall Roy (Succession) Series

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: faint mentions of established relationship, sexual tension. All characters are of age. This story is 18+.

part 1

NEW YORK

3.12 AM

Emily stares at the white flushed screen of the newest shitop available in the market. She’s deciphering the flow of the shares today. Her glasses are turning blue with all the big numbers and the emails flowing through the system. There’s an untouched tumbler of souvenir matcha sitting on her desk. Her room’s illuminated a pale white with white lilies on her nightstand and an empty buzz from her phone. Emily rubs her temple, according to the entire finance department of Waystar, the Roys will take the company down with them by a decade. The lavish living and black dog services come with a price. A price they’ve long since forgotten to repay. Emily grunts and bites back her tongue. She looks up at the cerulean walls of her home painted with the same blood as them. Her chestnut eyes gleam, she dreams of Sicily and lush cherries. Bruised corridors and bluer skin. She turns towards the New York sky, cracking her knuckles and wonders how ground hog criminal she must’ve been to witness the corporate red with her own hands.

The next morning, a tall man with pale beach skin and visibly rich eye bags sits with four or five of his advisors and a bunch of younger executives. Emily does not accompany them. She stalls in her own office looking at the sugary buyout. She’s about ninety percent sure that Lawrence, the eldest son’s new venture, will and soon fuck Waystar. She lets out a giddy laugh in her mind and stays put at her cabin, chivalry gleaming in her eyes. Her posture is sleek, not too laid back but neither very professional. Kendall, suited up with cocaine in his back pocket, looks engaged, and rightly denounced, a little too lively.  

“This is a merger offer. Not an acquisition. We love what you do.” Kendall appears really passionate about the deal going through. His hands are clammy. He stares right through the upturned eye of the media guy.

“I get it. Of course, someone is always boss. And I don’t think that would be me?”

Kendall’s eyes briefly meet Emily. She’s intensely watching how this playdate plays out. Kendall can’t seem to focus between her glass of white wine at 11 am and that too tight white skirt riding up her thigh. He pretends to fix his tie. Hands imitating her face full of his length. He’s gone. Lilacs and bright Italian skies take over his vision. He’s sucking in another breath. So gone.

Kendall nullifies the rest of the conversation from his head. His eyes juggling between his two memento moris. There seems to a notable disagreement though, Emily senses it before she sees it. Her lip twitches as Lawrence stands up to leave. Kendall abruptly follows, seemingly surprised at the turn of the events. They walk next to each other down the wide corridor that border glass offices with venetian blinds on each side. He’s even wearing those knuckle deep expensive boardroom shoes, Emily peeks. Kendall steals a glance before the elevator door dings. She’s looking back at him with remorse. Soon, Lawrence whispers something inexcusable in his ear and the board sees him visibly loose his composure. He leaves the floor’s eyeshot rattled in fury.

LONDON

10 AM

“It’s inappropriate. It’s a fitness, thing. It’s - it’s basically a heart rate monitor. It’s a fucking abortion.” A broad shoulder man squeals. “is that what you give your 80 year soon to be father in law? To your boss? As a gesture of obeisance? When you’re looking for promotion? Or is that, say, like giving him a colostomy bag and a viagra? The optics are fucking horrible.” He keeps rambling on to the redhead beside him. She takes no notice of the priced-up suit or her satin shirt shining in the harsh auburn sun. Two black Mercedes line up bedside them.

Shiv, instead, is focused on a text.

Shiv: you coming?

Em: maybe :/

“Tom. It’s fine. Yeah, my Dad doesn’t really like things.” She advises him to throw ten to fifteen grand at some posh shop that sells sea shells. She’s staring at her phone with pursed lips.

NEW YORK

1PM

  “So, last call guys. We happy?” Kendall frantically looks around his team. Emily sits there looking uninterested at their long faces and sheets of robbery. Jess took an appointment, filing “wife needed for support” for her to be there. Back in the day, rose would’ve tainted her cheeks. Now, she only sits there. Stoic, unimpressed. She knows all too well that this was just another tactic for her to see him win. He’s bitter. And he hopes she knows.

Frank reassures him, ”If the committee play straight, we win. If they don’t, we go legal.”

“And we don’t want to just bump the number another point?” Young Alessandro, the investment banker looks towards Emily almost questioning the authority of her presence.

“You’ve already over ridden your Bali beach numbers. Although, I can give you an extra mil to demonstrate a knuckle fuck to Frank” Emily looks Kendall dead in the eye as if scolding a child. She crosses her legs and sits up straighter. Alessandro witnesses the change in power dynamics.

“You wanna call your Dad?” Alessandro offers.

Kendall looks like someone’s punched him in the nuts but he refuses to react. Emily only juts out her lips. She’s almost on the verge of enacting the scenes from their college days. Kendall gives her a so much so a threating look in response. His eyes dart to her mulberry pink lips. His mind fickle enough, churns him back to those same hot days with Emily on her knees.

 ���Do I want to call my Dad?” he glares at the board.

“No” he comprehends. “I don’t want to call my Dad.”

“Do you want to call your Dad?” he bites back.  

“Does anyone want to call their Dad?” Silence surrounds the cascading white room except the timely tapping of Emily’s jimmy choos.

“Okay. No one wants to talk to thier Dad. So, let’s get in there, buy this fucking company and go top ten, shall we? I’m pushing the bid to 120. Okay?” Emily lets out a sigh in disapproval. Kendall pays no mind to her wandering gaze down his body. She wonders how she can put this in the mad bear’s plate without pissing him off.

1 AM

“What’s the number?” logan’s call disrupts Kendall in the midnight. Kendall did know, there was going to be consequences to raising the bid. He only hoped Emily had flower petaled logans fuck over shoes to bendable China. He dabs his forehead with a white tea cloth to soothe his nerves.

“I’m going to one twenty.” He intakes a sharp breath, eyes blown and sitting upright. he prays that his quaver of tone isn’t detectable. He fists his bedsheet into a stress ball. A minute goes by where you can hear the chaotic New York night pass by. He’s untouchable; how does the teen spirit bubblegum wrath seep in?  He speaks further in a fever dream, “Good. Look are we still good for tomorrow? Today?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Logan is tapping away on his mouse. Unfocused eyes cram in all the emails from the week.

“Cos it’s gonna get out there?” Kendall’s eyes twinkle. They perfectly reflect the times square brightness.

“We’ll announce.” Logan rolls his eyes. His right hand is reaching for the will in his drawer.

“Great, so I can pre-floating to like Frank and Emily? If I need to. Cos it’s getting soft-floated.” The line goes dead. Kendall closes his eyes. He’s breathing raggedly. Theres a voice in the back of his head telling him he’s going to fuck it up. He blinks. Hard.

authors note: engagement of any sort is greatly appreciated. will try to update the next part this week itself <3

part 2

[loudcyclop]

31 Ik facts ~ or why Ikabod Kee is the best character in known history

Enjoy random stuff that I gathered from the game, because it brings me great joy

• He apparently remembers the names of every single guests in his hotel, like Lawrence and Patricia, but still call Fat Pajama Man like this. That, or he makes them on the spot

• He likes to eat dog treats

• He collected bowls of creamy potato, and had seventeen before he died

• His parents messed up his name at birth, calling him Ik instead of Ikabod. Which explain why we can't have more than two letters in our name and three in our surname (idem for Mr.Sob)

• Has a suspicious amount of cooling fans, there's a possibility that he collects them too

• He has party poppers at his desk

• He collects strobe lights (whatever it is)

• He has two arms, his tailor just never sewed the second sleeve and he never had the bravery to tell it to them.

• He had a spider on his forehead for two whole weeks (wherever the spider is a real spider or a previous guest is unclear)

• The way he introduces himself to you implies that he was hiding behind his desk until you came

• Recycle the aquarium water

• He collects barils of petrol

• He doesn't tell you anything if you throw furniture in his face

• He is an art thief

• His dad was a crow enthusiast

• Yep, same dad who pushed him out of a moving vehicule (and that he forgave for it)

• Why does he looks like this

• Why is he so tall

• He likes to fit his entire body in shoeboxes in the hope of being mailed to someone

• I made the math, and apparently the first thing that he thought after his horrible death as a teenager was to build a massive underground hotel for dead people with an asylum, three different factories, a mall, an entire western city, multiple endless pits and a level which is upside down. What a legend.

• His dialogue implies that he has two legs but the cover art for the ost doesn't show them.

• He has teeth in the shape of a heart monitor, if you hadn't seen that yet.

• He never got to tell that person he had a crush on them

• I thought it was a shame that his "sick tunes" were not in the OST, but I was unaware that HE COMPOSED THE OST. What a guy.

• He judged necessary to have a sound effect system in his hotel that he tests regularly

• He collected carnivorous plants that were apparently big enough to eat a small dog

• There is a tiny part of me that is not fully conviced that he didn't make up the haunted trucker thing on the spot

• He says that the Upturned Inn has no phone line, but if that's the case what is he calling us with ?

• He never lived to see the Internet, thank god

•We failed him

• I watched the Tomato stream and I'm sorry but this is his canon voice

Bonus Mr.Ballin fact:

Mr.Ballin has a slight chance of turning to look at you at the start of the level and it is legitimately one of the most horrifying sight I ever witnessed

[whatthefishh]

Sativa

Rydal Keener x f!reader

Part of the Oxford Comma series

Warnings: drug use (weed), studying excessively, oral (f receiving), mentions of p in v sex, baby cow eyes.

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: this took me way longer than I intended to write, it’s been a really difficult time in my mind for me and to those who are waiting for requests / chapters of other fics ily for being patient with me ❤️ huge thanks to my lovely mutuals who helped me, especially @xbellaxcarolinax for reading it over several times 🌹 love you

The room was slowly filling with the distinct smell of marijuana, little puffs of air spilling from Rydal’s lips as he took yet another drag of his joint before he tried to proposition you again.

“Wanna take a break now? It’s not like you can absorb the information by just staring at the textbook. Doesn’t work that way.”

You only sigh in response.

“A little smoke might make all those theories seem a little less… theoretical, yknow?” He laughs at the end of his quip like he finds himself extremely amusing.

“Oh, you think me finally giving in to your bad influence will help me pass this exam? You really think that’s the best way to study right now? Really?”

“Not a bad influence, princess, just wanna help you relax,” Rydal says while pushing your hair over your shoulder from where he was lying on his side next to you.

Smacking his hand away, you huff in annoyance. This wasn’t the first time he’s offered it to you, and it was never pressuring. He offered because he offered everything to you, and this was just another one of those things. You didn’t mind the smell. It was just irritating when you were trying to study and were very clearly stressed.

Rydal had learned these concepts from childhood, the topics of discussion in class were the same ones he’d have with his family at dinner, with his father over drinks at the early age of 14 back when he was obsessed with being just like him. The books on the syllabus were his summer readings as a child, the younger version of him desperate to impress with big words and bigger ideas, learning the hows and why’s of socialism when all his peers were riding their bicycles around the neighborhood. He didn’t have to focus as much as you did at this moment. And right now? Your brain was at its limit, barely digesting the words on the pages in front of you.

You lowered the textbook into your lap, turning to look down at him. His head was on the pillow next to you, eyes boring into yours calmly.

You felt your resolve slipping.

“None of this makes sense anymore.”

“What doesn’t?” He asked quietly, changing his teasing tone to match your somber one.

“It’s like, it’s like I’m reading the same thing over and over but I know—“

“You already know everything, you’re overthinking—“

“No, that’s what you think, but the last time I talked to your dad and he full-on tested me—“

“—wasn’t testing you, it came up organically so that doesn’t count—“

“Yes! Yes, he was! Who casually asks someone what their opinion on direct versus indirect democracies is over lunch? Like, what the fuck was I supposed to say?” Your voice is bordering on shrill, the memory of Lawrence’s unimpressed gaze and your face heating up in embarrassment as you struggled for words flashing through your mind.

“I’m sure he’d love hearing your rehearsed opinion next time. For now, though, I’d love to hear your opinion on something else.”

“Does it have to do with our actual reading material or does it have something to do with getting lost in a cloud of smoke with you?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“I just wanna make you feel better, baby, is that so wrong?” Rydal is looking up at you, unwavering, moving to finger the edge of the sweater you had on before dipping his hand underneath to rest on your back.

Looking at him with those eyes, the intense deep stare he held; his pink lips and their slight upturn, gentle and playful all at once —you made up your mind.

Propping your hand to take the joint from him, he doesn’t give it but instead, he sits up to guide it to your lips himself, his other hand clutching your waist. Rydal rests the tip of it against your lips, his eyes watching the way you wrap them around it delicately and you swear you could see his pupils dilate and hear his breathing slow down.

“Take it nice and slow, deep breath,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your mouth as you inhale, “hold it, that’s it. Good girl. Now slowly exhale.”

You did as you were told, feeling the smoke fill up your lungs and burn slightly as you held it, and then exhaled straight into Rydal’s face.

“Oh god, sorry I didn’t realize how close—“

Before you could finish speaking, he took a deep drag of the joint and hungrily pressed his lips against yours, inadvertently blowing the smoke into your mouth while doing so. You could feel his warm breath mixing with yours, your hearts beating in unison as his lips worked yours. The almost sweet and earthy taste of the weed seeps into your lungs as his tongue claims your mouth. Everything was overwhelming and thrilling and arousing and beautiful and he felt so good right then that you wanted to claw your way into his lap and stay there, burrow into his chest until you were warm and safe.

Rydal would keep you safe, with him. He would.

Pulling apart for air, you don’t remember who moved first but he was tossing your textbook on the floor while you were peeling your sweater off, the room becoming instantly warmer, the need to be closer to him making you antsy. Needy.

The effects of the smoke kicked in sometime between kissing Rydal stupid and him taking off your bottoms, his eyes stripping you faster than his hands could. You were clutching his shoulders, desperate to keep him close especially once the weight settled over you and your limbs felt heavier.

He had to stay close, you couldn’t let him leave you at this moment. Your arousal mixed with the slight paranoia that came with the high resulted in a very strong desire to stay as close as you could to Rydal, needing him more than you could put into words. You hoped he understood from how tight you were holding him, from how much you were whining when he dragged a finger down your soaked panties.

You flopped back against his pillows and despite being naked, you didn’t feel cold, your eyes and nipples pointed to the ceiling as he kissed his way down your tummy. He already laved your breasts with his mouth, the traces of saliva he left behind from wrapping his mouth around your peaks now making them pebble in the evening air. Rydal’s hands were everywhere, his tongue dipping out every few seconds to taste your skin. The effects of the high made you hypersensitive to the maelstrom of sensations, his touches feeling ten times more powerful and intimate than usual.

You didn’t realize it, but you were making all the pretty and perfect noises for him, breathy moans louder than usual while he explored your soft skin, harshly panting and voice wavering on little moans. You were driving him up the wall, his hips softly grinding into his blanket for some relief while he mouthed over the top of your underwear.

Rydal’s mouth wrapped around your clothed clit, letting his drool soak the material until he could suck it and hear your shocked squeal of pleasure. You buried your hands in his soft hair, strands slipping through like gossamer.

He lifted his mouth an inch just to hook a finger around the gusset and plant an open mouth kiss on the very core of you. He was sweet like that.

Apparently, your panties were too much of an obstruction for him as they were ripped from your legs a moment later so that he could spread you open with his fingers. Licking a stripe up your dripping cunt, Rydal dived in, eyes closed, his nose gently nudging your clit while he tongued at your opening. He continued to tongue fuck you, slowly moving in and out of your little hole leaving you gasping and moaning lowly, tugging on his hair. He continued this little routine; licking up your peeled-back core, tonguing inside your cunt, and then to rile you up that much more, he would let his teeth graze your clit.

Rydal’s fingers were stuck gripping your thighs, leaving indents from how tight he had to hold you down just so you’d stop squirming. You were so restless from him edging you, almost cumming several times but he’d pull back, blowing cool air on your core just to take you all the way again. Occasionally, he would moan into you, swirling his tongue around your clit just to suckle on it sweetly as if it were honey he was drinking on. You were whining pathetically as you buck your hips up into his mouth, the synthetic dose of dopamine only serving to heighten your pleasure. Your limbs felt heavy, you could’ve been 10 feet underground, plunged deep within the earth itself, body like lead, and the only thing you could focus on was the way Rydal’s mouth lapped at you, slurping obscenely as he made you choke on a moan.

This time around, he didn’t let up, his tongue working double time as he stared up at you, his hands pushing your thighs further apart to give him the space to fuck you with his tongue with purpose. He was intent on making you cum, fucking finally. You tried to ask, tried to form the words to beg him – maybe you did, maybe you were begging him more than you usually did, maybe that’s why he was finally giving in to you, you really couldn’t remember what you were saying – but it seemed he wasn’t stopping. Reaching up with one hand to entwine his fingers with yours and resting it on your tummy, he groaned, almost as if giving you the permission you were waiting for to let go, that it was okay, that he’d take care of you, catch you when you inevitably fall.

And fall you did. Hard.

Eyes shutting, head thrown back, floating and sinking simultaneously, his mattress was soaked not only with your release but with sweat, your body feeling seven different emotions at once as you finally came into his eagerly awaiting mouth. Rydal was there just as he promised, made you feel good – brilliant, intoxicated, euphoric – true to his word.

The comedown was… interesting.

Rydal was still holding your hand, thumb rubbing the back of your palm while he nuzzled your thigh, resting his head and blinking up at you while you caught your breath. He was a sight to behold, his gorgeous hair mussed from your restless hands, lips shiny and swollen from use and his eyes, so fucking deep and loving and still hungry.

The giggling started, hazy thoughts from the high making it hard to stop, taking the weight off your chest as it continued. Thinking about how you were aggressively pushing his hands away from you just moments before letting you wreck his comforter had you covering your face, releasing another peal of laughter. Rydal’s lazy half-smile while watching you only made it worse, knowing he thought you were a lightweight and would definitely tease you about it later. Kissing his way back up your body, pressing his mouth lovingly on your soft parts, he met you at his pillow, smiling down at you prettily. You sigh after the last little laugh leaves your chest, eyes sparkling up at him and suddenly feeling bashful.

“Never heard you beg so nicely before,” he says, smiling, kissing the corner of your mouth before snickering at your embarrassed groan. “‘Pleasepleaseplease, oh GOD–’”

“Ssshhhhhhutthefuckup oh my god, I did not sound like that,” you shoved your hands on his face, hastily trying to cover his mouth from speaking and imitating you again. Your cheeks burned. You didn’t sound like that, right?

“Mmmph, yeah actually, you’re right. It was much worse,” he managed, despite your fingers slipping into (his?) mouth. After gently removing them, he held them down against the bed before leaning forward to hover right above your lips, “it’s okay, baby, I liked it. Can you do it again for me?”

And then he held your gaze, like a fucking siren, knowing exactly the effect he had on you and your now achingly empty pussy, the muscles clenching around nothing as he let his breath mingle with yours. Rydal didn’t kiss you, just stared at you with his eyelids low waiting for you to beg him.

“Are you gonna let me take care of you? Gonna ask me nicely?” He was so close but kept himself away until the only thing you could focus on was syncing up the movement of your lungs. His denial only made you want him more, desperation bleeding out from you.

“Mhmm,” you whimpered.

“Yeah? That the best you can do?”

“P-please.”

“There it is,” he mumbled, gripping his length in one hand, lining himself up to slowly push himself in, the fat tip of him stealing your breath.

Rydal never got enough of the way your sweet pussy gripped him, and made sure to pull as many soft pleas out of you as he could for the rest of the night.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

There’s a distinctive creak of rusty hinges - the gate, Oliver realises, that marks the zig-zag path to the beach - and supervising his every move Elio keeps up a running commentary; well-versed, apparently, on the third-century Christian martyr upon whom this, Italy's most magical summer tradition, originated.

The Tears Of Saint Lawrence

“Trust me!” Elio declares, rooting through the hallway closet for a lightweight sweater as Oliver spies his missing espadrille half-hidden by Polpetta’s upturned basket. “It’s August tenth. La Notte di San Lorenzo! You won’t want to miss it.”

“Not for the world,” he agrees, inspecting the tan-leather surface for incriminating teeth marks.

And certainly not like last time, either: when the poetic notion of wishing on a falling star was damn-near anathema to a man so consumed by the devastating thought of goodbye. 

“Can you fetch a blanket?” Elio calls, voice echoing to the vaulted ceiling, yet no sooner has Oliver slid one into an empty holdall does the other man catch him by the wrist; face full of impish glee as he seals the distance between them. “According to your Heraclitus,” he drawls, a gauzy silk scarf dangling from his fingertips. “...the eyes are much better witnesses than the ears. But my father was adamant surprise is the greatest gift, and you, mon cœur, deserve to experience this properly.”

Oliver arches an intrigued eyebrow. “Properly, huh?” Biting his lower lip, he offers no resistance when Elio motions him closer; securing the ad hoc blindfold at the back of his head. “Kinky.”

Elio snickers. “You’ve seen the contents of my bedside cabinet.”

He has indeed. 

And honestly can’t wait to investigate them further.

“Fortune favours the bold,” Oliver says - somewhat tipsy thanks to Manfredi’s birra alle castagne - and Elio laughs out loud, adjusting the tightness at his temples with a cursory tug.

“Okay?” he checks. 

“Me okay.”

“Then Andiamo, Americano!” Elio exclaims, steering him towards the foyer entrance, and steadying him at the waist they negotiate the narrow steps of the raised veranda; wood transitioning to gravel to the familiar cushioning grass that comprises the villa’s front lawn. 

The cool, night air is rich with jasmine and rosemary; the brackish ocean breeze tickling his nostrils as the ever-present waves roar in his ears.

“Watch your step,” he hears, followed by a small click when Elio employs his flashlight.

There’s a distinctive creak of rusty hinges - the gate, Oliver realises, that marks the zig-zag path to the beach - and supervising his every move Elio keeps up a running commentary; well-versed, apparently, on the third-century Christian martyr upon whom this, Italy's most magical summer tradition, originated.

The tide is still receding when they reach the bottom: the multitude of shingly pebbles slipping occasionally as they skirt the deserted shoreline. Minutes blur - Elio’s body an extension of his own - and Oliver finds himself somewhat breathless after a calf-aching schlep along some steeply-sloping ground - a dune, he suspects, judging by the thorny vegetation - before Elio stops short; releasing his bicep with a gentle squeeze. 

“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” he says, apropos of nothing. “To take you to the berm, I mean. The higher elevation is surely magnifique, but I didn’t want to ruin the effect whilst getting us there. So.”

“Fair enough.” Oliver’s heart leaps into his throat. “Maybe next year?” he suggests instead; buoyed by the possibility. “Or Ferragosto, even?” They could pack a picnic lunch. “That’s this Sunday, right?” 

“All roads lead to La Danzing,” Elio agrees from somewhere to his left, presumedly arranging the afghan at their feet. “Careful when you lie down, ouais?”

Oliver scoffs. “Like you said: I’m middle-aged, not decrepit.” 

“Tell that to your dodgy kneecap,” the other man goads; the heat of his palm guiding Oliver southwards as he crouches on his haunches; legs unfolding in an awkward shuffle.

Finally horizontal, he wriggles his hips in a bid to get comfortable - no easy task by dint of the various detritus digging into his spine - but with a faint whisper of clothing Elio’s sitting beside him, so Oliver crosses his ankles and folds his hands atop his stomach; the switched-off flashlight plunging him into total darkness.

“Ready?”

Elio’s excitement is infectious. “Absolutely.” 

“Then brace yourself, mon ami.” 

Slender fingers cradle his skull - loosening the blindfold’s double knot - and Oliver’s eyes snap wide in awestruck disbelief when Elio whips it free with a flourish.

“Oh my God,” he gasps: the words wholly inadequate; the paralysing sense of utter insignificance almost impossible to overcome. “Oh my God…”

The light pollution is negligible here - miles as they are from the nearest major city - and the Riviera sky is an inky canvas. A pinprick panoply extending to the distant horizon. Truly mesmeric by any standards, yet amongst those scattered constellations blaze the Perseids, also. An annual meteor shower born of dust and ice. Hurtling through the Earth’s atmosphere like tears; emblematic of the white-hot coals over which Saint Lawrence met his untimely fate.

“Oh my God,” Oliver repeats, positively trembling as his arm drops limply to the side.

Dizziness strikes quickly in his poleaxed intermezzo, and mouth agape at the wondrous sight he digs his nails into the woollen blanket; mooring himself with the coarse, knitted fibres.

Reconnecting.

Recalibrating.

The lost decades behind them outstripped by those to come.

“We’ve found the stars,” he murmurs eventually.

“To hell with once only,” Elio replies, levering up on his elbow, and gripping the front of Oliver’s Oxford he funnels his love, his forgiveness - his everything, really - into a kiss that burns brighter, fiercer, than anything streaking the celestial plains above.

Notes:

Also, happy birthday to our Maestro, Luca Guadagnino. Eternal thanks for the stories you’ve told and the countless lives they’ve touched ❤️

[ruknowhere]

“The world is a beautiful place

to be born into

if you don't mind happiness

not always being

so very much fun

if you don't mind a touch of hell

now and then

just when everything is fine

because even in heaven

they don't sing

all the time

The world is a beautiful place

to be born into

if you don't mind some people dying

all the time

or maybe only starving

some of the time

which isn't half bad

if it isn't you

Oh the world is a beautiful place

to be born into

if you don't much mind

a few dead minds

in the higher places

or a bomb or two

now and then

in your upturned faces

or such other improprieties

as our Name Brand society

is prey to

with its men of distinction

and its men of extinction

and its priests

and other patrolmen

and its various segregations

and congressional investigations

and other constipations

that our fool flesh

is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all

for a lot of such things as

making the fun scene

and making the love scene

and making the sad scene

and singing low songs and having inspirations

and walking around

looking at everything

and smelling flowers

and goosing statues

and even thinking

and kissing people and

making babies and wearing pants

and waving hats and

dancing

and going swimming in rivers

on picnics

in the middle of the summer

and just generally

'living it up'

Yes

but then right in the middle of it

comes the smiling

mortician”

Lawrence Ferlinghetti ~ 1919-2021

[bloody-blades]

Chomper....is this lawrence?...who knows?

[oatmealdaydreams]

birth of a star, stories yet to begin

Let me know if ya wanna be added on or taken off the general taglist!

Pairings: Ikabod Kee & The Traveler, gen

Warnings: None

Summary: As the Traveler travels floors in the elevator, they pass the time by sharing conversation with Ikabod Kee.

Notes: If you wanna check out my original poem that inspired the title, the poem itself is HERE!

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[read under the cut]

The ride in the elevator is filled with the cluttering ambience of stray chairs and the screeching of cables. 

The red number in the corner climbs as the Traveler ascends—descends?—the floors of the Upturned Hotel. It dings with every new level of the ridiculously tall building. A few stray chairs that they threw into the elevator rattle slightly as it goes. The Traveler sits on one of them as they wait until the inevitable time when the elevator abruptly stops upon another dangerous floor. They cradle the bulky, greenly lit phone in their hands, glancing down at it. Watching the number of floors tick by proves to invite more thought than they prefer. Aside from the ambient sounds of wood and metal and thick cables, the Traveler finds it too quiet. They can hear air in their ears—or whatever they’re hearing out of. Despite being terrifying, facing the monsters (sorry, other guests) of the hotel is better than this silence. At least, they make little clicks or gurgles or growls. It’s more noise. The noisier, the better. It’s quiet. The Traveler’s leg starts bouncing as the silence continues. It’s not enough. 

A sudden ringing from the phone startles the Traveler, but they sigh in relief. At least with the phone, they always know who it is. Ikabod is the only one who calls them. They press the squarish answer button as the elevator rattles on. 

“Sir, how is your stay so far? Would you rate it five stars or one?” Ikabod’s voice comes through, along with his face on the small screen. 

Again, they wonder, Why’s he so insistent on ratings?

“Uh…five?” they answer, unsure if Ik would hang up if they said otherwise. 

“Oh, I’m glad, sir! Say, what would you say is your favorite part of the Upturned Hotel?”

“The elevator,” the Traveler deadpans.

“Ha! Your jokes never cease to amuse me, sir.”

There’s laughter on the other end of the line, before, “Truly a comedian. Though, your file says you had a job as a cowboy, so I don’t know how you’d be an actual comedian. Maybe it’s some untapped potential, or—!”

“Ik,” they interrupt, not unkindly. 

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s it like in the lobby?”

“Oh, uh, quiet, I suppose. The door’s still rotating awfully fast. I need to fix that when I find time to.”

“Didn't you mention a storm earlier?”

“Yes, I did, sir! It’s…well, it’s still going. I haven’t seen any lightning flash in quite some time, so that’s a good sign!”

The conversation slowly eases the Traveler’s shoulders as they talk. Hearing Ik’s voice brings a sense of calm in the air. Maybe it’s because he’s the only other person—besides some weirdo who keeps calling him by saying ‘alow, alow’—or it’s because his voice reminds the Traveler they aren’t entirely alone. Not in an eerie way that the mannequins or Lawrence cause, nor in the way the little Gigglers create. It’s more like talking to a peer, or a friend, or…just someone else. Throughout this entire hellish adventure, having Ikabod around has been helpful. More or less, at least. 

The elevator continues to rattle on. The Traveler’s leg keeps bouncing as they sit idly by. The Traveler fidgets with their hat as they try to think of more conversation topics. 

“You seem quiet, sir. I know I’m usually the one talking, but, uh…you’re more quiet than normal,” the Traveler stops fidgeting with their hat as soon as Ik’s voice comes back through the phone. 

“Ik?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you ever seen the stars before?”

There’s a brief pause, and they can spot Ik glancing away for a moment, “Yes, I have.”

“Which ones?”

“Oh, just stars. Nothing worthy of conversation—”

“Please?”

“...sir?”

“Just—talk about them? Please?”

A nod and a sigh, “Alright, sir, by your request.”

A prickly part of the Traveler’s ashy chest settles slightly. It gets easier to sit in their rattling chair in the rattling elevator. They don’t feel the need to look at the number of floors. 

“I remember seeing a really bright one,” Ik begins, tapping a finger on his circular chin. “I don’t know the name of it, but I could always see it anywhere I went. Sometimes, I swear it felt like it was following me around.” 

The Traveler nods along, confident Ikabod could see them in his many microscopic cameras. 

“I had a friend who loved the constellations, and she’d tell me about them.” A wistful look appears in his eyes, but they don’t comment on it. “She’d tell me their names, what they’re named after…I don’t think I ever remembered what she called them, though. I do remember her favorites.”

The Traveler leans back in their chair, relaxing. The cables screech as the elevator continues through floors and floors and floors. 

“She really liked the crow one! Which was very fitting for her, since she also really liked birds. I bet she was named after a bird. Right? Might’ve been, oh…uh…”

What kind of parent names their child after a fucking bird?

“Maybe it wasn’t a bird. I, uh, don’t quite remember what her name was…oh, well! She taught me a lot about the stars and different birds. Wasn’t very social at parties, though.”

Another nod as Ik continues. The Traveler thumbs the side of the phone, noting how smooth and sharply angled it is. 

“I’m afraid I don't know a lot about the stars, sir. I do apologize—oh, wait! Sir, do you like poetry, by chance?”

The Traveler blinks at the change of subject.

They shrug, “I guess?”

“Good enough for me! I know this poem about the stars—well, a part of it, at least. I don’t remember the name, or who wrote it, or most of the poem. However, if you like stars, you’ll like the part I do remember! Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure, wouldn’t hurt.”

“It wouldn’t, sir. Not unless I wrote it down on paper, rolled it up, and hit you with it!” 

A light chuckle bubble out of the Traveler at that. Ik seems to smile at the sound, mirroring it. They wonder when the last time Ik laughed was. 

“Okay, it goes like this: ‘death of a planet, so full of life. Birth of a star, stories yet to begin.’”

As Ik recites the little stanza of the poem, the Traveler closes their eyes to listen. It’s nice. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s nice. They’re not one for poetry usually, but hearing it from Ikabod makes it better. 

“‘Life of a sun, burning for all but its own.’”

The Traveler loved the sun, back on Earth. It was warm. Can they remember what ‘warm’ feels like? Can ash feel heat? Can ash feel cold?

“‘Cries of a moon, forgotten amongst myths lost.’” 

What have they lost? What memories have been lost alongside the way they died? What will they lose as they continue on in the afterlife?

“That’s all I remember. Did you like it, sir?”

The Traveler opens their eyes, feeling more relaxed than they’d been in a while. 

“Yeah, it was nice. Thank you, Ik.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Taglist: @lost-in-thought-20 @thegoldenduckie @not-sure-what-im-feeling

[thehutpoint]

And, as this place is, after all The Soldier's Hut, not The Growls, here comes Lawrence "Man, this sun is blinding me, but I'll try to look cute" Oates...

EDIT: okay, so now the only thing I am sure is that the pic was snapped by Scott. But goddamit, it is not Day, who had visibly crooked nose with upturned tip. This gent has his nose as straight as they make them and visibly downturned tip. More, dude has straight brows, while Bernie has elegant arches. This might not be Laurie, but sure as day, pardon me the pun, it isn't Day either. Okay, off to find a better quality copy.

[ahandfulwithquietness]

Some of T.E. Lawrence's habits described by Clare Sydeny Smith in Golden Reign:

"His quick, rather jerky way of moving made you think he was walking on his toes. He carried his head little forward."

"[...] his voice was soft and attractive, with at times the merest suspicion of the soft lilt characteristic of the Irish. He often indulged in a flat chuckle of amusement; it was never, as people have described it, anything like a gigle. He didn't laugh very often, but when he did it was very heartily, thrusting his chin outward and with the corners of his mouth curling up."

"He had curious trick of grasping his right wrist with his left hand and holding it against against his right shoulder under his chin."

"Another of his mannerism was propping his right elbow on his left hand and resting his chin on the upturned palm. If he was perplexed, interested or excited, he would run his fingers through his tousled hair. He lovedsitting with his hands clasped behind his head, rocking his chair to and fro."

"Tes had frequent and expressive habit of saying slowly, ruminatingly: "Yes, yes; oh, yes," and he liked to use word "creature"- "nice creature"-"good creature"- and so forth. He never used a word too much."

"[...] he never smoked or drank and said he couldn't imagine why people did either. He hated the smell of smoke and the effect of alcohol on other people"

"He did not care much for food, but certain simple things like oranges and coffee with cream he enjoyed. His chief hedonistic trait- perhaps his only one- was a love of warmth. Like a cat he was happier and more forthcomig when the sun shone, and he revelled in a very hot bath."