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daydreaming-in-letters · 4 months ago

Text

Feast

07/25/2024

Pairing: Vampire!Hozier x reader

Word Count: 7,286

Warnings: vampire au, language, alcohol, blood, blood sucking, thoughts about unaliving oneself, fingering, light choking, oral (f receiving), penetration (also the reader is female and has hair covering their neck)

Summary: You had heard rumours about the man living in the old mansion down Hollows Lane. Gruesome ones. Enticing ones. Little did you know they were all true.

A/N: I blame hoztwt and my undying vampire kink for this.

Picture found on Pinterest

If you enjoy my story, liking is great, but leaving a comment or reblogging is the stuff that keeps me going. No permission is given to copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

There were rumours about the man living down Hollows Lane. Gruesome ones. The first time you had heard them, you had laughed out loud. A simple prank, you had thought, gone by the end of the month. But they just did not stop.

There were also other rumours. Enticing ones. The man was a seducer, they said, a master of his art, and he knew how to have a good time. You had heard women gushing about his talent, about how they had never been satisfied like that before. It was almost too good to be true. Especially since all he wanted in return was a tasty meal.

A small price to pay if the rumours about his unearthly qualities were true. And as soon as the thought had manifested in your mind, your ears picked up the deep roll of thunder in the distance. A warning, maybe. Probably not. Still it was enough to make you trip and stumble a few steps forward. With a deep breath you steadied yourself, pressing the basket of food you carried to your chest. Just one more turn, one more road to walk down. You could already make out the roof of the grand mansion at the far end. There was a whisper, carried on the breeze, as if it was calling you, a ridiculous thought, you chided yourself, but still your feet had picked up their pace again, the determined clicking of your heels on the pavement the only noise in the lamplit street.

Finally you reached the iron gate and its signature creak brought back memories from the first time you had walked up to his doorstep. You had been so nervous, almost dying inside from anticipation and anxiety alike.

You had no idea how this was supposed to work. All you had was some kind of code word you were expected to say to him.

The large door knocker felt heavy and ice cold as you lifted it and brought it down three times. For a long while, almost an eternity, nothing happened, and you were about to turn around and leave when finally the dark wood in front of you moved. And there he was. He was even more beautiful than the women had described and you doubted there were words in any language to do the looks of this man justice.

“Can I help you?”

He just stood there, waiting, glancing down at you as he towered in the doorway, but that was all it took to stun you into complete silence. Your mouth felt utterly dry, your tongue too heavy to move even if the code was short and easy to remember.

“Are you quite well?”

At least you managed to nod and that seemed to please him somehow.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you blurted out, your brain happy to start with something simple.

“Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

He held out his hand to you and you took it without hesitation. It was soft and warm and his touch almost had you miss out on the moment when he drew in a sharp breath, his upper lip quivering strangely, but it was gone as fast as it had appeared and soon you doubted whether it had been real or just a product of your shell-shocked brain.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Yes! I mean, no. I—” One eyebrow shooting up, he observed you carefully as you stumbled across your own words. “I’m sorry. I am so nervous and I have no idea how this works.”

“I can see that,” he chuckled. “But there is no need to be nervous. Just tell me the words and you’ll be fine.”

His green eyes were so calming as they seemed to stare right into your soul. It should have worried you, should it not, that he seemed to be able to glance at the deepest, most well-hidden parts of you so easily, but instead you felt yourself relax under his gaze.

“Carpe noctem,” you finally managed to pipe up.

“Good girl.”

His voice was low and raspy and you felt your walls tighten around agonising nothingness upon his words. He smirked, knowing full well what he was doing to you already and as much of a warning signal this should have been, it turned you on beyond reason.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” You shook your head. “And the rest of this will be just as easy, I promise. All you need to do is be back here on Saturday, exact same time. Dress to your liking, I want you to feel as comfortable as possible. And bring all the ingredients to your favourite meal.”

You nodded mechanically.

“Are you sure you got it?”

“Got it.”

Gosh, why were you like this? Why could you not just be chill about this? You were embarrassing yourself in front of a man who would supposedly shag the brains out of you this Saturday if one could trust the rumours in this town for once. He on the other hand seemed completely unfazed, maybe even enjoying your flustered state, telling from the satisfied smile on his face.

“Okay, see you on Saturday, then,” you were quick to end this torment, even waving stupidly at him as if you had not already done enough to traumatise yourself. But he was just as quick as he caught your wrist mid-air, a movement too fast for your eyes to catch up and he did not even allow you a second to blink before you found yourself pressed up against his body, one arm slung around the small of your back to keep you in place.

“Goodbye, angel,” he whispered, his breath mingling with yours in the tiny space that was left between your mouths, a space he was keen to erase completely as he leaned in. His kiss was featherlight, making you doubt once more whether this was actually happening or if his lips on yours were just another product of your delusional mind. All you knew was that it made your knees weak and you were very thankful that he was still tightly holding you.

Even more so as a sharp sting shook you from your hazy state. Your lip. And the distinctive metal taste of blood.

“What the hell was that?” you hissed in irritation, two fingers finding your lip and as you pulled them away, the dark red liquid was shimmering in the eerie light of the evening.

“Just a little appetiser.”

You wanted to protest, to tell him off, but once again you found yourself rendered speechless by this man. And he knew how to use your petrified state as a strong hand wrapped around yours, holding the fingers laced with blood in place, and then his mouth opened to take them in, licking them clean as he stared right into your eyes from underneath those impossibly long lashes.

“Can’t wait for Saturday to come.”

You did not know how often you had gone over this scene in your head these past days. It made you shiver, every time, but even more than that, it made you want him, to a point that you started to question your sanity because you knew you would never find peace again if you did not have him. Just once.

And so you had done exactly as he had told you. You had come back, Saturday, same time, wearing your favourite dress and heels, both red like your lipstick. The outfit was not really comfortable as he had suggested, but no other item of clothing in your wardrobe managed to make you feel yourself as much as this. And god knew you could use as much confidence as you were able to muster.

In your hand you carried a basket full of ingredients for your meal, no matter how odd his request still seemed to you. Why would anyone see a self-made meal as a fitting price for…well…for what he was about to give you in return? Living in a home like that, he surely was wealthy enough to afford a cook if he did not want to prepare his own meals. Would that not be much easier and less risky than having to eat a surprise dish from someone who did not know half the time what they were doing? Maybe he had some weird food kink or it got him off to watch other people work for him.

Whatever it was, he left you no time to think about the matter further as the door suddenly swung open. Your hand was still hovering awkwardly mid-air since you had just been reaching for the knocker. And it stayed there for a moment longer, your nervous system sent into overdrive as you took him in.

He was even more radiant in his gloom tonight, if that made any sense at all, but there were no better words to describe the pull he had on you. He was dressed in all black, jeans, denim jacket and shirt, which conveniently was not buttoned up to the collar, thus allowing a fine view of his fluffy chest. Different to your first meeting, he had decided to pull half of his hair back in a ponytail, allowing the rest of his curls to fall freely around his shoulders. He might have trimmed his beard a little as well, but you could not tell for sure, the memory of your last encounter still a bit blurry around the edges.

But all that seemed secondary when he fished your hand out of its weird position and brought it to his lips for a gallant kiss.

“You’re back.” He was beaming, his eyes so full of joy that you almost believed he had doubted you would return. “Come in.”

He still held your hand, making a welcoming gesture with the other, waiting patiently for you to step inside. Another thunder rumbled through the night, louder this time, and you hurried to cross the doorstep. With a heavy thud, the door of the old mansion fell shut behind you, causing a violent shiver to run down your spine. And you could not help but feel like red riding hood in your dress, who had just entered the wolf’s den, fully knowing he would devour her.

“Welcome to my home.”

And what a home it was. Dark wood and old carpets dominated the place, staircases wound their way upwards elegantly, leading to even more rooms that seemed wasted on one inhabitant alone. Oil paintings decorated the walls, portraits as well as landscape scenes of places far and near, and here and there antiques caught the eye, collector’s pieces, possibly, or family memorabilia, passed down from generation to generation. And as if that had not been enough to remind you of those old gothic movies, the whole house seemed to be covered in a sheen of gloomy, flickering light, as if it was solely lit by candles. But of course that was ridiculous, nobody sane would rely on candles today instead of electricity. It must be some of those ultra-realistic LED candles that sat on the chandeliers and candelabras you passed by on your way as he lead you deeper into his lair.

To your great relief his kitchen was up to modern standards, at least far more modern than the rest of the house seemed to be and you thanked the heavens for that. Even the thought of having to cook in a kettle over an open fire doubled your nervousness in an instant.

You did not speak much as you went to work, but you knew you had his full attention. You could feel his eyes on you, observing your every move, following you around as you tried to concentrate so you would not mess up dinner. An impossible task, it seemed, but what could you do? Sending him away was rude and out of the question. This was his home, you had come here of your own free will, knowing full well the terms of this deal, and if you wanted your needs satisfied, you would satisfy his, even it meant to have your every move studied.

“Wine?”

You almost jumped out of your skin. He was so close, his voice coming from right beside your ear. Accompanying his words, he pushed a glass of red wine into your periphery. You hummed in affirmation as you took the drink from his hand. Eagerly you set it to your lips, gulping down a swig and then another as you found it did nothing to end the sudden drought in your throat. And yet you found yourself leaning back against him the moment his hands found you. One was careful to brush away the hair from your shoulder, while the other tenderly glided up and down your arm. You felt his chest move as he inhaled deeply, bringing you even closer, letting the deep vibration of his satisfied hum take hold of you too.

“Mouthwatering,” he concluded, and he was already pulling away, the last you felt of him the brush of his fingertips against your neck.

He must have lied to you, a white lie, but totally unnecessary as he did not seem to intend in the least to eat the meal you had prepared for the both of you. He sat across from you at a table that felt uncomfortably large at a dinner for two, twisting a glass of wine in his hand. Yet he was neither drinking nor touching the food on his plate.

“Are you not hungry?” you inquired, already unable to hide the miffed undertone in your voice.

“I am,” he stated plainly as if your question had been obsolete, as if in fact your question was the confusing bit of this conversation and not his totally antithetic behaviour.

“Is the food not to your liking then?” you refused to let him get away with it this easily. And as you waited for his answer, your fork dashed down to impale an innocent piece of vegetable.

“It looks delicious.”

He sported a smile, totally unfazed by the message of the little stunt you had pulled. If this man intended to seduce you by giving you the full boyfriend experience, even the aggravating and irritating parts, he would be in for a surprise tonight.

“Then why don’t you eat?”

“I will.” He had just finished his statement when lightning stroke, bathing the room in its cold, white light and for a second your heart stopped in your chest. It was only an instant, but the picture of him had been distorted completely, his mouth wide open, a pair of razor-sharp fangs glistening in the eerie light.

You did not dare to blink, and still you must have, as only a moment later, everything was back to normal, he even continued speaking as if nothing had ever happened.

“All in due time, angel.”

Angel. He had called you that before. You had no idea what about you exactly made him think this was a fitting nickname for you. You certainly did not think of yourself as a being of light, and no one else before him ever had. Not that this was a bad thing, on the contrary. But what bothered you about it was the fact that he had already chosen a term of endearment for you, while you did not even know his name.

“Will you at least tell me your name?”

Your voice sounded awfully strange to your own ears, a mixture of pouting and whining. It never sounded like that, not even in your lowest moments. And there had been quite a few of those.

“You can call me Andrew.”

“Andrew,” you repeated, letting his name roll over your tongue as if you were testing the sound, testing what it felt like to form the name with your mouth. It was not intentionally done, but when you looked up from your plate, you found his eyes already glued to you, and the hunger reflecting in those deep green orbs made you shiver in anticipation.

An anticipation you felt now more than ever, and it was threatening to drive you to insanity as you casually flicked through his record collection after dinner, trying very hard not to let your nerves get the best of you. You had moved to the living room now, or was it his music room? You had no idea, but the piano and the record collection let you assume as much.

“This one.”

You pulled the LP from the shelf and handed it to him. Andrew was already waiting by the record player, taking it from you.

“Great choice,” he commented. "Unbelievably talented musician, and an exceptional woman. You would have loved her.”

“You say that as if you knew her personally.”

“I did,” he stated as he found your gaze, and not for a second did you doubt that he was telling the absolute truth, however impossible it seemed.

“How?”

You watched him walk over to you, and you both knew that he would not answer your question. He did not need to. But instead of taking the last way out and run, you took the hand that was already waiting for you and nothing you had done in your life before had ever felt this right.

There was just one question left to ask, you wanted to blurt it out and get it off your chest after it had pestered you for days, but you waited until you had both sat down on the chaise longue by the window.

“So, ehm, how is this gonna go?” You were still holding his hand, your fingers playing with his as you spoke. “Do you want me to tell you what I like?”

“No.” His voice was like velvet. “There is no need to tell me. I will know.”

“Know how?”

He slowly detangled his fingers from yours, and when his eyes found yours again, something about them had changed.

“I can sense it, your desire.” His words had distracted you, allowing his hand to move unseen. It found you, found the sensitive spot of bare skin right above your knee. He did not even have to look and had found his aim still, making you suck in a sharp breath of air as his warmth seeped into your skin, gliding higher and higher up your thigh until his hand had vanished underneath the hem of your dress completely. “I can sense what brings you pleasure.”

Your eyes must have fallen closed under his gentle caress, and yet the touch of his lips did not startle you as they found the outline of your jaw. He moved slowly, placing featherlight kiss after kiss along the path to your ear.

This was the moment. It had come at last. Time to give him his part of the bargain. And so you brushed your hair aside, craning your neck to allow him full access.

“Not yet, angel,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, “not yet.”

Instead of the teeth you had awaited, his palm settled on the most delicate spot you had offered him. He placed it right above your pulse, claiming what was his to take whenever he desired. He could probably feel it, feel the blood rush through you, and the thought was enough to coax a soft sigh from your throat.

But your pulse against his fingertips was not the only thing he could sense. Above it all he heard it, loud and clear, the thunderous drum behind your ribs, as if your heart was waiting for the right moment to break free. That would not be necessary. There were other ways to free you.

You moaned, a sound that warmed his icy heart, and when he let his hand glide up your thigh, your legs fell open for him. He blindly followed the moist heat, his eyes never leaving your beautiful face, watching as you slowly let go. Soon you would be lost to the world, your world, and would become part of his instead. He was just about to tear the last barrier, fisting the exquisite fabric, he gave it a harsh tug and there was nothing left between you and him any more.

You were so soft, softer as the finest silk, and the moan that fell from your lips when his fingers dove in between your silky lips to spread the slick that awaited him was so sinful it almost swayed him to allow himself a little taste of you. But he knew better than that. The wait would only heighten his enjoyment. He would not let his ravenous thirst ruin that for him.

Your head sank back as he slowly slipped inside of you, exposing even more of your neck as another sinful sound broke from your lips. This was impossible, he needed to do something, to silence you for a while until he had gathered enough strength to withstand the urge to sink his teeth into you and suck you dry. And so he pushed his thumb past your lips until he felt your tongue press against it, sucking it in deeper.

Soon he had found the right rhythm, pumping in and out of you, crooking his fingers every now and then to brush along that sensitive spot inside of you. He loved how the stimulation made your breath hitch in your throat, how your eyelids fluttered in that tiny moment of pure pleasure. It drove him wild, to play you like that, and for a second he forgot himself, his thumb gliding out of your mouth to squeeze that frail neck of yours.

He let go immediately when he heard your heart skip a beat, it had startled him, but your whine came instantly, eyes flying open to find his, begging him silently to do it again. And who was he to deny you your pleasure? So he squeezed again, lightly at first, then harder until your hand grabbed the collar of his jacket, your back arching as you pulled yourself closer to him.

You were close, so close, and he wondered…Tilting your head back, he dove into the crook of your neck, his tongue darting out to lick along the prominent vein. He could taste your pulse against his tongue, taste the sweetness of his triumph as he felt your walls clenching down on his fingers. Just one more step, one more ace up his sleeve to drive you over the edge. He knew you could feel it, feel the slight sting as his fangs brushed along your neck, teasing the skin they would soon break, a promise so ardent it left you no choice but to come with a desperate shout.

He held you as you trembled and shook, riding out your high against his fingers. You were enchanting in your rapture and it was in this very moment that he vowed to give you everything you wanted, he would cater to your wants and needs until you felt you could take no more.

He had never understood those who got high on striking fear into the hearts of their blood donors. Fear only staled the taste, while satisfaction heightened it. All those hormones, serotonin, oxytocin, prolactin, dopamine, adrenaline, mixing to form the most delicious concoction.

But there was something more to it. The truth was, he liked giving something back. It made him feel less guilty about what he had to do to survive. He had not really chosen this life, well, he had, but he had been young and in love and full of hope that sharing eternity with her, the one who had turned him, would be worth it. It had not even lasted a decade before she had tired of him. Apparently commitment was not only difficult for beings with a limited lifespan.

But with her gone, everything had seemed pointless in the beginning. All the things he had given up to share this life with her, he missed them terribly. And he loathed the killing, the never ending thirst. He had thought about ending it, numerous times, but he had always found more reason to hold on. And with a few alterations of the rules, he had also found a way to make it work.

He did not kill anymore. There really was no need to. Except for the fact that there were no witnesses if he did. Still, it was possible to survive on smaller portions of blood. He needed to feed more often then, which in turn increased the risk of getting caught. And so he had come up with this transactional system over time.

It was as easy as it was effective: he gave them what they wanted, and in return he could feast. Before he let them go, he made sure to erase certain memories of the shared time, and since he was good at his side of the transaction, they came back freely.

But this right here, you, you were more than a transaction. It had been nothing but a matter of business with the others, sex was just sex, a means to get what he wanted. But for the first time in forever there was something more than hunger he wanted to sate. He wanted you, wanted a taste of what it felt like to be alive, truly alive, not just a slave to the never dying thirst.

It had been a while, and he had been sure he had forgotten by now what it felt like, but with you, so full of life as you writhed with lust in his arms, he remembered everything. And he needed more of it.

You must have sensed it, that he was about to let go, and his punishment came promptly. “Andrew,” you whimpered, as if his absence was pure agony, and he hurried, moving with lightning speed as he disposed of his jacket and made his way down to the floor. He knelt between your legs, pushing up the red fabric to expose his next treat. He was ready to dive in, to devour you, lick you into oblivion, but the gentle touch of your hand as it cupped his cheek held him back.

Your eyes were so soft, full of affection and he felt a sting in his chest as the thought crossed his mind that he did not deserve this. Not at all. He was merely using you and still… His lips pressed to your palm in a tender kiss. The gesture did not even remotely match the endearment your eyes held, but it would have to do, for now.

And then you surprised him again. In the blink of an eye your eyes darkened, your hand moving into his hair, while the other pulled the red fabric even higher. And on your lips, those pillows of sinfully smeared red, formed a smile that would surely bring him to his knees if he was not already kneeling.

Eager for the touch of his lips you pulled him the rest of the way and his mouth found you with a moan, as if you were the most exquisite he had ever tasted. But what did it matter what you were to him? To you, he was the best you had ever had, and he had not promised too much when he had claimed he would know how to please you. He did. Oh god, he did.

Swirling his tongue, he drew small circles around your clit until tiny stars started dancing before your eyes. But he had no intention of ending this so soon, you knew, as his tongue slowly glided all the way down to your wet entrance, teasing you, just to glide back up. He repeated his sweet torture a few times, over and over, until you lost count. And just when you thought he would never stop this torment, his tongue dipped into you. Hooking his arms around your legs he pulled you closer, sinking even deeper into you. You keened, one long, drawn out cry of pure delectation. Both of your hands had vanished into his hair by now, securing him right where he was. Not that you feared he would cease his endeavour, but you needed to feel him, needed to feel that this was real and not just a fever dream, your mind caught in divine delirium.

“Andrew,” you sighed breathlessly and for a second he stilled, dark eyes staring up at you, searching intently for any signs that you wanted him to stop. But you did not. Far from it. And so his eyes dipped back down, his upper lip quivering treacherously before his tongue darted out to lick one long stripe along your crevice. He sighed, eyes falling shut as he inhaled your scent, and you could feel your walls twitch upon the ferocity of his gesture. His forehead creased, nose scrunching as he bared his teeth, the two prominent fangs now unashamedly on display, and like a savage beast he leapt forward, to devour you properly.

“Yes, yes,” you yelped, fingers tightening in his hair and he growled against you. “You’re gonna make me—” But you did not get to finish that sentence before your orgasm washed over you in a mighty wave, drowning out everything but you and him. Completely out of control, your legs wrapped around him, locking him up in the prison of your thighs where he still worked you, fervently, until your body went limp and your legs finally released him.

Your eyes still closed, you could feel him, his kisses on the inside of your thighs, his movement as he left his spot between your legs, slowly crawling up your body while he covered it in more kisses, your hips, your stomach, your cleavage, your neck. You held him there for a while, relishing in the feeling of his mouth right there, right where it belonged, but all too soon for your liking he pulled away.

Your tiny whine made him chuckle, and the most beautiful of smiles still curled his lips as he resurfaced from the crook of your neck.

“Should we take a little break?”

“Never.” Your answer was finite. You did not need a break. In fact it was the last thing you needed. There was something else you needed more than anything, and your fingers had already set out to get you exactly that. Skilfully they worked, opening button after button of his shirt, revealing more of that fuzzy chest. And now it was your turn to taste him, to kiss and lick that milky white skin while you kept on freeing him from his clothes. With a moan he sank against the back rest, one hand vanishing into your hair. He did not do anything, left it all to you, let you take what you wanted in your own sweet time. It was only when you had unfastened his belt and opened his trousers that he helped you shimmy them down his long legs. You had thought he would look more vulnerable once you had completely bared him, but there was nothing vulnerable about him. He was still exuding the same predatory power you had felt the moment you had first laid eyes on him and you knew you were damned for it, but it pulled you to him like a moth to a flame.

“Turn around for me, angel,” he ordered and you did. Kneeling on the chaise longue, back turned to him, you melted into his touch as his fingers found the hidden zipper on your side. He was in no hurry to pull it down, allowing himself to revel in every inch of your skin that came to light, dragging one finger along it, all the way down to your hip, where he gathered the fabric in both of his hands and pulled it above your head.

In an instant his hands were back on you, exploring your body. One arm hooked around his neck, you exposed yourself even further for him, and when he finally cupped your breasts, kneading them tenderly, playing with your hardened buds, you sank back against his chest. Wedged between you, resting right between the cheeks of your behind, you could feel him, all of him. And it was more than apparent that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

Carefully your hand moved through the tiny space between your bodies until you had found him. He hissed as your fingers closed around him, teeth sinking into your shoulder as you moved, slowly, stroking him, worshipping the silky hardness until it was not enough anymore to feel him like that.

You guided him, bending forward until you could feel the gentle press of his head against your entrance. Lazily you dragged him up and down, coating him in the juices he had so expertly coaxed from you.

“Fuck, angel, you are so wet.”

And with that you pushed your hips back, sinking him deep. Your reward was another growl that echoed through the silence. He was quick to pull you up against him, burying his face in your hair. He just held you like that for a while, enjoying your bodies in unity, his hand right above your heart, his breath drifting through your hair and down your neck, covering you in goosebumps.

But then he came to life, his hips moving, slowly at first, then faster, and once he had found his rhythm, you knew you were lost to him. It was perfect, just perfect, the steady rocking of his hips, his hand following the call of your sex, vanishing between your thighs, while his other still held you, trailing up your chest until it had found your throat, gently applying just the right amount of pressure. There was no way you would last long. How could you with the amount of pleasure he coaxed from you, leading you towards your next high as if he had been born for that purpose alone.

His lips found your ear, mouth falling open to lick along the bow it formed. “Come for me, angel. I know you want to.” And while he still whispered the redeeming words, you obeyed him once more.

You would have tumbled and fallen from the might with which your high took hold of you, but he held you tight, mumbling soft words into your ear as you moaned and sighed and mewled like a possessed woman. Softly he pulled you back with him, moving your malleable body around until he had you straddling him, your head resting against his shoulder while his hand drifted soothingly up and down your back.

You had no idea how long the two of you had been sitting like this, your hand on his chest, his heartbeat steady underneath your fingertips, calming you until the fog that had clouded your mind had cleared.

“I always thought vampires did not have a heartbeat,” you rambled as you pushed yourself off of him.

Andrew smiled, like a mushy drunkard, you thought, and for a second the word besotted came to mind. But of course that was just you seeing things that were not there. And he made it so easy for you, this fantasy, even reaching for you to rest his hand against your cheek.

“There is much for you to learn then.”

And when he pulled you in for a kiss, you did not care anymore whether this was a fantasy or reality. Like a drug, his lips drowned it all out, the doubt, the white noise in your head, and made you focus on him alone, his mouth, kissing along your jaw, down your neck, rekindling the flame that had just cooled down to a faint glimmer in a heartbeat.

“Andrew?” He hummed against your pulse, and you had to swallow hard, forcing down a moan, before you could continue. “Will you make me come again?”

He still did not leave his favourite spot, as if you had simply asked him for the time and not to fuck you again. “If that is what you want.”

It was. It was all you wanted, all you could think of right now. And since he made no inclination to give you what you wanted anytime soon, you reached for him. With a gasp you found him, still hard and ready for you. And as you guided him once more to where you needed to feel him, you told him about something else you wanted, something you longed for even more than for your next high.

“I want you to come with me this time.” Your words finally made his mouth still, his head slowly coming back to light as you continued, “I want to feel it, want to feel you, deep inside, pulsing in your rapture.”

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, and there was something about his eyes that made you want to run, something wild, something carnal, something you could taste on his tongue as he pulled you in for another kiss, deep and searing, while he pushed up inside you in one sleek thrust. You pulled away in a gasp, panting heavily as you stared down at him. He had the audacity to smirk, his eyes darkening with every passing second.

“Go on then, angel. Make me come.”

As he spoke, his hands had grabbed your hips. He was guiding you now, the roll of your pelvis against his, just for a while, until he trusted you had overcome your surprise. And when you moved on your own, you could feel his hands wandering up the length of your back. His tenderness was misleading, your suspicion proven right as he dragged them back down harshly, his nails surely leaving trails in their wake. You keened upon the unexpected sensation, your head lulling back. And it seemed this was the moment he had been waiting for all along. Immediately his head dove down to your chest to claim his reward, sucking in your nipple like a starved man.

You felt as if you were falling, tumbling through the air while he kept on ravaging you. In a desperate attempt to save yourself, to grab onto something for dear life, your fingers found his hair again. You pulled and still he did not budge, tormenting your soft flesh until you were betrayed by your own body and he was rewarded with an unhinged twitch around his length.

“It feels so good,” he moaned, and then it seemed you were not the only one who found herself betrayed by her own body when he confessed, “You feel so good.”

And while you were still soaring on his declaration, however insignificant it might have been, he hit that one spot inside of you that made you clench even more violently than before. He moaned again, a low, guttural sound that made you quiver, and when your eyes locked with his, another smirk had found its way onto his lips. Like a bloodhound he had locked onto that spot that made you dizzy with desire, sending those tiny shocks through your body with every hit, they spread and pulsed, crawling along your skin until you could feel the racing beat of your heart underneath the thin layer of skin that covered your neck.

He must have felt it too, one arm wrapping around you to pull you closer, while he used his free hand to brush away every last strand of hair from your shoulder. His gaze found you once more, and now the hunger was more apparent than ever, wafting through the dark pools of green, mixing, until they had lost all colour and you stared into pure darkness.

Giving permission was easier than you had thought, it felt natural to nod, to watch his fangs grow to full size once he knew you did not oppose, to feel him grow inside you at the same time, and just as his teeth broke through your skin, he came, giving you everything he had while he took what he needed in return.

You had feared it would be painful, but all you felt was pure bliss as he feasted on you, as he stilled the craving that he must have felt all night, stilled it on you. And as you gave yourself to him completely, you were carried away by the unexpected momentum of your high. You fell again, spiralling through a tunnel of colours that burst through the darkness around you. You felt light as a feather, but plunged down with the speed of a rock. And yet there was no room for fear. Not even as the colours began to fade and you were left with nothing but darkness.

You were dizzy, almost delirious, fighting so hard to hold on to consciousness, and if you failed, it would be his fault entirely. It was not supposed to end like this, but you had tasted so good, so scrumptious, that your taste had sparked the faint hope he would finally be sated. An illusion, of course. This hunger would never end, but it had made him foolish, had made him take more than he usually did, almost too much. It had taken him everything to pull away, just in time, as it seemed.

A soft sigh came from the place against his chest where your head rested. He was still cradling you, softly rocking you back and forth after he had mumbled his futile apologies. You probably did not even hear them in the state you were in. The state he had put you in.

He cursed himself as he carefully scooped you up into his arms. He usually did not let the donors stay over, never, that rule had not ever been broken before, but he did not care about rules anymore. What he cared about was you, and you needed rest.

Slowly he lowered you onto his bed before he laid down by your side, draping the sheets over you both.

“Sleep, my angel, you deserve to rest.”

You looked so peaceful in your slumber, and he did not even question why his hand reached out for you. Lovingly, he brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen into your face, his fingertips gliding across your brow, your cheek. He wanted to touch your lips as well, but he was afraid he would wake you, and so he kept his distance, his fingers still tracing their form, even if he could not feel their silky touch.

You were different. He had felt it all along, but it was only when he had tasted you, rich and warm on his tongue, that he had known for sure what it was that set you apart from all the others. You were what the likes of him called an old soul. One that had lived many lives and carried the wisdom of the centuries. Maybe that was why you had read him so easily. He was sure you had at least felt it from the beginning, what he was, and the fact that you had chosen to seek him out nonetheless still irritated him.

However odd all of this might seem, he was more than aware that finding an old soul—or being found by one—was a rare thing, especially today, when souls hardly lasted for one full lifetime. Maybe he should keep you, just for a while. To take care of you, your old soul and the body that housed it. Just to make sure the world would not lose another precious being like you.

Metamorphosis (Sequel)

***

taglist:

@rosecentury

@lowkeysimpinloki

@fightmespideyboy

#hozier #vampzier #vampire!hozier #vampire!hozier x you #hozier fanfiction #hozier imagine #hozier fanfic #feast #vampire fiction #gothic fiction

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carebooks · 4 months ago

Text

No one wants to admit the fact that yes, Team Black is right because A) She was named heir by the king and B) having a cock between your legs doesn’t make you a better ruler. it just makes people THINK you’re better.

So, everyone shifts around looking to blame this or that for Rhaenyra’s side or this or that for Aegon’s. And yet no one seems to remember that this whole thing started for one man trying to grab for more power:

Otto Hightower.

He was the one who influenced Rhaenyra be named heir to Viserys, not because he believed in her, but because he didn’t want Daemon on the throne. Daemon was someone he couldn’t control and someone who hated him, he would’ve been removed as Hand immediately. He figured Rhaenyra was the safer option, believing he could mold her and influence her just like he did Viserys.

Then, in 1x02 when seeing her show up for the dragon egg that Daemon stole, Otto saw that Rhaenyra was more alike her uncle than he thought. She couldn’t be controlled and that was a problem. Luckily, he had already been sending his daughter to the king as a backup. Which works when the king proclaims he will marry Alicent.

Once Alicent has had a son, he sees his way back in. Not only is that a new baby boy that the realm will flock to as their new king but this is also his grandson, his blood on the Iron Throne.

And when he sees his daughter choosing Rhaenyra’s side as he’s leaving in 1x05, he leaves her with one last piece of intelligent manipulation and fear, he frighteningly tells her that Rhaenyra will have to put Alicent’s children to the sword if she wants to uphold her claim. (Something we don’t know that she would do because we never got to see her on the throne without any usurping. 1x08 and 1x10 showed us that Rhaenyra is not impulsive, not when it comes to the realm. She is not bloodthirsty nor is she easily swayed, killing her own kin is not something she would do.)

Finally, when his grandson is crowned king and he now has to deal with a 20yo boy who doesn’t know the first thing about politics or ruling, the unthinkable happens and he’s removed as Hand. All that careful planning gone in a second because he overestimated what he was worth to a boy that was raised without love and placed in the highest seat of power in the realm.

So, yes, all of this is on Otto fucking Hightower.

The IRONY of it all is that Alicent’s children would’ve been fine. Aegon didn’t care about the throne, didn’t want it, he wanted to drink and fly Sunfyre. Aemond only coveted the throne because he was mad that he was the second born son and everyone went out of their way to put Aegon on it, someone who he and Aegon-himself agreed was ill-suited for it. And even Daemon wouldn’t have tried anything against them because he knew just how bad that would look for Rhaenyra, they didn’t need the title of kinslayers.

so yeah, in the end, men suck.

#it all comes down to controlling evil men #men in general #men suck #house of the dragon #otto hightower #anti otto hightower #queen rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #alicent hightower

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outerspacebisexual · 3 months ago

Text

Jacaerys Velaryon hated his dark hair.

It marked him as many things: bastard, unworthy. Strong.

As a child, that word—bastard—was shrugged off. By his mother, his father. His grandfather, the king, had been blind to it, despite the murmurings of King’s Landing—despite those of his second lady-wife and their children.

They only grew worse as he aged. As the short crop of messy dark hair slowly began to curl.

“Strong looking lad, wouldn’t ya say?”

“Good looks don’t make up for the lack of white hair.”

As a teen, he kept it cropped short. Short enough that the stubborn curl would stay flat against his head. Luke, despite claiming otherwise, wasn’t worried about it.

“It’s just hair, Jace.”

“It’s not.”

Joffrey was afflicted with the same crutch as his elder brothers, though Jace didn’t come down quite as hard on him as he did Luke. Maybe it was his age, or the fact that was growing up without either of his fathers, Velaryon or Strong.

Daemon counted for something, he supposed. But the difference between the three of them and the rest of their fair-haired family was stark. As fearsome as Daemon was, he couldn’t quell rumours that festered outside the keep. He’d never thought of the prince as his father. Perhaps because of his age. But that day in the throne room with his great-uncle Vaemond, when Daemon had cleaved through the man’s skull as if pushing a knife through butter, he’d felt it. The kill was mostly for his mother, but it mattered not.

As his half-siblings grew, and their hair became lighter and lighter, he felt that sense of dread. He couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. A sense of unworthiness. Rightfully, his youngest brothers might have more of a claim to the Iron Throne than he. They were of pure Targaryen blood. He was a half-breed. A Targaryen, yes, but did his mother’s pedigree make up for his biological father’s lack of one? Did his adoptive father’s Velaryon name make it all right? Did his step-father’s Targaryen one secure it, or hinder further?

As the years passed, as his mother took her rightful place upon the throne with he at the foot of it, he began to realise that it mattered less and less.

As he said his vows to his betrothed, and their children slowly arrived, he began to understand his mother’s words all those years ago.

“You are my son.”

Because as he stared out at the field in front of him, Baela nestled beneath his arm, and watched his children flying high overhead on their dragons, he finally realised that it mattered not.

His children.

Targaryen by blood, and Velaryon by name. White-haired and brunette alike, they were all his.

And sometimes, as the dragons dropped so low their claws scraped the ground and a dark-haired child screamed past, he caught sight of Luke.

And then it really didn’t matter at all.

#look at me pretending that there’s a happy ending #jacaerys velaryon #lucaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #prince jacaerys #baela targaryen #harwin strong #joffrey velaryon #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #laenor velaryon #house of the dragon #hotd #little self-indulgent headcanon to get me through the break xx

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starkraivennemad · 1 month ago

Text

Not Just Mates Anymore

“Tell me it’s not my fault.” Sherlock looking to John and raised a knowing brow, as Mycroft entered the flat unannounced as always.

“It’s not your fault.” Mycroft responded glibly, before John could.

“He lies.” John pointed at the elder Holmes.

“Of course I lie.” Mycroft rolled his eyes as he took a seat on the couch and looked at his brother.

John raised his own brow at Mycroft’s serious expression. “Should I leave?”

“No, you’ll find out anyway.” Sherlock and Mycroft spoke nearly in unison.

The brothers gave similar sniffs of chagrin at the proof of one of the ways they are alike as John grinned in amusement.

“The isolated man who does not mind being different; who does not know that he is lonely.” Mycroft smiled ironically.

John remained silent understanding there a story he did not know behind it, as Sherlock gave a slight nod in acknowledgement of words spoken long ago as Mycroft continued.

“In the end, I really was obvious, wasn’t I? I was textbook: the hidden pain of isolation, the slow joy of realizing there someone who understood; the unexpected craving of friendship and then... more…” He smiled again, but sweetly this time “... and you slowly pushed and watched as I even more slowly fell. Oh, it is absolutely your fault, Brother Mine, and I thank you.”

“Oh, I admit, I drove him into your path.” Sherlock conceded, “Because you were too stupid to take the wheel on your own.” Sherlock gave Mycroft a look that dared him to gainsay his words, knowing he could not.

“Ah…” John smiled as it all came to him. “You’re not asking for his blessing – you know you have it. May we see it…?”

“Et tu…?” Mycroft grumbled. “Can nothing be secret with you?”

“Yes, his fault also.” Sherlock gestured to John, “Without him I never would have realized I could push.”

“Definitely your fault, Sherlock.” John took the jeweler’s box Mycroft held out. John whistled at the ring inside: rugged, understated and yet lovely to the eye – much like its imminent recipient. “I did not imagine this.”

He handed the box to Sherlock who made an impressed sound before he handed it back to his brother.

“Realizing I was falling for him was a miracle, realizing he was falling for me was a blessing. I know what you did, but why Sherlock?”

“Honestly, all I hoped for you was a solid friendship, Mycroft. Someone else you could implicitly trust. Who wouldn’t have it out for you or want anything from you but mutual respect. Because as John, by some fortuitous miracle, learned with me…” Sherlock winked sat his husband, “Greg learned to see past the ice façade and see you. In turn, you saw that he is a strong man, a patient man – he’d have to be to deal with either of us, let alone both – Greg is an intelligent man who knows his worth, he is a good man and he sees that you are one as well. Still, I am not Eros, Anteros, or heaven forbid Himeros – the subsequent falling was all yours.”

“I know of Anteros, but Himeros? Which god is that?” John asked.

“God of sexual desire, the twin brother of Eros and for my brother…” Sherlock smirked when Mycroft quickly hid the jeweler’s box and stood, “… the one coming up the stairs…”

John grinned as a familiar trod was heard before an even more familiar face was seen. “Hey, Greg.”

“Hey, John, Sherlock.” Greg appeared sat the door. “Evenin’ luv, I heard ‘…the one coming up the stairs...’ do I want to know?”

“Not really.” Mycroft gave John and Sherlock dirty looks.

“Sorry mates, hate to come and go, but I took a taxi and traffic’s a beast. If you have reservations somewhere for six or seven, Mycroft we should hop to now…” Greg gestured to the steps.

Mycroft looked at his pocket watch and headed towards Greg, “Let us quickly depart then.”

“So smooth, Brother Mine – what’s the rush?” Sherlock teased.

“Yes,” John chimed in, “wasn’t there a question you wanted to ask him…?”

“Oh no, I know that tone of voice. I don’t know what’s going on, but on THAT note we’re out.” a knowing Greg took Mycroft’s arm and quickly ushered him out. “Later mates.”

“Right, mates…” John laughed as the two left.

“I know…” Sherlock waited until he heard the downstairs door close. “…wait until Greg learns we’re soon about in-laws and not just mates anymore.”

------------------------------------------------

Read/Comment on AO3

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

#mystrade monday #mystradedialogueprompt #mystrade #bbc sherlock #mycroft holmes #greg lestrade #sherlock holmes #john watson

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alonetimelover · 1 year ago

Note

"I can't stop thinking of you" for Harry maybe?

Also, your writing is really so so great🫶

"I can't stop thinking of you."

pairing: Harry Styles x booktuber!reader

summary: YN and Harry had loved each other for months. The thing was, none of them was brave enough to admit it. So what happened when Harry found the courage and YN made a mistake the night before?

word count: ~1,4k

warnings: mentions of sex (nothing explicit), angst!, heartbreak, and some feels from Harry

a/n: Thank you so much for requesting and your lovely words!

blurb weekend prompts blurb#1

booktuber!reader: part 1 part 2

Well, YN never was good with dealing with her emotions. There were always two options: run from it or make a decision that you’d regret the next day. She tried to take option one all the time, but making mistakes was engraved in her life story (like in anybody else’s). Lately, or should it be said, yesterday, she made a mistake she felt was going to ruin her most valuable relationship - her friendship with Harry.

“YN, please. Don’t tell me you went home with him,” her best friend screamed into the phone.

YN looked over her shoulder, gazing at the man sleeping in her bed. The duvet was placed over his lower body, exposing his muscular back painted with black tattoos. His curly hair was splayed across one of her least favourite cushions, creating a brown nest. In a good way.

“And what if I did?”

“Did you look at him even once last night?!”

She moved out of the bedroom, closing the door after herself, so as to not disturb the sleeping man.

“Of course I did,” she scoffed.

“So you know what you did.”

YN sighed into her phone. Of course, she knew what she did.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

YN moved around the kitchen taking things out of the cabinets and fridge to make some breakfast. She started her newly bought express, needing some caffeine. If she was going to get through this phone call, she needed as much help as she could get. Well, then she would need to face the man from the bedroom, but it was a task for a ‘future her’.

“You slept with Harry’s doppelganger!”

Right. In her bed was a sleeping 6 feet tall man with darkish brown hair and tattoos almost all over his body. In the club last night, she couldn’t distinguish more details than those, but she needed something, someone to help her forget him. The appearance closer to someone she was attracted to was just a plus.

When the lights were illuminating the man's face she knew how ironic it all was. His cheekbones were high and sharp just as his jawline perfectly accented. The dimples deep into his cheeks whenever he was sending her that white smile. And those green eyes. Right there, she deep down knew he wasn’t there to help her forget about Harry. No. He was there to somehow be him, to make her feel as if he could ever be hers.

“They look nothing alike,” YN lied, sipping her coffee, cursing after burning her tongue. “Fuck.”

“You’re either blind or delusional. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You’re very supportive, babe.”

“I’m not going to support whatever you’re trying to do. It’s a mistake, YN. Trust me.”

“How do you know?” She raised her voice. “Maybe it’s good for me. I slept with him, it was great. And now I can forget about Harry and move on with my life.”

“You can forget about Harry?”

“Easy. Done.”

YN placed the coffee mug on the counter with a thud, spilling half of it. She really was over the talk. She decided to have sex with that man, and she did. She didn’t regret it and didn’t lie about it being great. The man, Henry (yes, she knew fate was really messing with her) treated her right. She had a very good night. It was all about the consequences. She didn’t want them to become clean. And all the talk she was having was writing those mistakes with black ink on paper.

“Is it? Is it that easy to forget about the man you’ve been in love with for months?”

There it was, period on paper.

And before she could answer anything, there was a sound of knocking echoing through her flat.

“I need to go. Someone’s at the door. Can we please meet up today?”

“Of course. My place at 5. You bring wine, I make dinner.”

“Okay. Love you, bye.”

After hearing the good bye back, YN moved across the room and towards the door. After unlocking it, having made sure that her bathrobe was covering everything it could, she opened the door.

Fuck you, fate.

“YN.”

“Ha- Harry. Hi. Uhm, what are you doing here?”

Now, she felt even more exposed. Couldn’t it be her noisy neighbour or the courier with the delivery she had been waiting for for days?

“Well,” he started slowly, immediately halting in thought for a moment. “I don’t really know. Can I come in?”

“It’s really not the best time.”

Puzzles had been slowly being put together in his brain. After waking up today and seeing YN’s post on instagram he felt part of his heart breaking. He covered his feelings for her deep inside, praying for them to never come up. He put on the role of a best friend and was proud of it. He could never jeopardise that friendship. YN was somebody that he knew his soul was searching for.

“I just need a few minutes.”

“Maybe during lunch? At that bistro you’d talked about?”

“YN, please.”

He knew that if he didn’t say anything right now, he’d never do it. When the courage was still in his veins, he had to use it. Whatever would follow, that would be his fate.

“I can’t stop thinking of you. You’re in my mind when I wake up, looking up at the ceiling you sprayed with that wine, thinking that I should really paint it. You’re in my mind when I make breakfast, because of that time when we were doing it together and you got the email about your grandad’s shop being sold to you. It always makes me smile, thinking how happy you were at that moment. You’re in my mind when I’m driving down to Chesire, pointing out all the yellow doors you were so infatuated by, when you drove to mum’s with me. You’re in my mind when I fall asleep, remembering how many times I held you in my arms and felt whole. And- and I can’t do any of those without thinking of you. You’re engraved in my mind. In my heart.”

Harry took a deep breath and finally looked at YN. Her eyes were glossy, looking at him with that look he could never distinguish and put in any category. The one thing he admitted to not know about her - that look.

Through his whole monologue she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. She was in his mind. She was something that he couldn’t possibly forget. She was his. And that feeling, that love for him was beaming from her eyes. The look of love.

“Harry, I-”

“You don’t need to say anything, really.” He started rambling, somehow embarrassed that he had let himself out like that. “You don’t need to say that you feel the same way. I can deal with rejection. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn't have come.”

“No. Stay,” she said immediately, reaching for his hand.

She felt the electricity going through Harry’s palm to hers and straight to her heart. She looked into his eyes, searching for any grain of doubt in his feelings, finding none.

“Harry, I can’t express how long I’ve been waiting to tell you this.” She laughed, not believing that she was going to admit everything. “I lo-”

“YN?”

Harry’s eyes moved from YN’s, landing at the source of the interruption. His hopeful eyes lost the spark in milliseconds. His smile faded and the grip of his fingers on hers, loosen. He was a fool, believing that she could feel the same. He felt betrayed. Even more when the stranger turned around and locked his eyes with Harry.

Harry took a step back, diverting his eyes from the man and then back to YN. Puzzles were tossed on the ground and with each second stepped on, losing colour and making the outlines unreadable.

YN looked over her shoulder, seeing Henry standing near her couch in nothing but his underwear. She wanted to think that ‘it couldn’t be happening right now’, but she knew better. The decisions she had made yesterday and regretted, backfired on her. The decision, which just now, was costing her the friendship she was so protective of. The love she was so afraid to fall into. It all was drifting away.

“Harry,” YN whispered, trying to find the words to explain the situation.

“It’s okay.” Words, like venom, were sipping out of his tongue. Even Harry didn’t like the way it sounded or the tone he used. “No need to explain. I think you have someone to get back to. Have a good day, YN.”

And just like that he was gone. And so were their hopes that it all could have turned out the way they dreamed about.

Fate really was heartless.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles angst #booktuber!reader #blurb weekend

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smolandweirdwriter · 1 month ago

Text

The Bad Kids In/After College:

Adaine, Kristen, and Riz attended Astral State University together. Ordinarily, a three-person party isn't the most likely to be successful, but they have a reputation and experience that many adventurers haven't, and they make it work, becoming saviors of not just Elmville, Solace, or their surrounding world but of planes of existence as well.

Fig dropped out after Junior Year. Since then, she has begun a recording label in Hell that operates something of the way Bill Seacaster's patronage does. She's effectively a patron to dozens of bard-warlock multiclassers at this point. Fig and the Sig Figs is going strong, but they're not touring as much because Gorgug's schedule has been wacky.

Why, you ask? Because Gorgug decided to take Arthur Aguefort up on his offer to teach at the Aguefort Adventuring Academy, and that resulted in Arthur forcing offering Gorgug to study directly under him. He's been hopping around through time and space with Arthur learning about Artificing and Barbarianism and the history of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy and all sorts of crazy things. It's been a chaotic four years, and also, somehow, the best four years of Gorgug's life. Weirdly enough, he and Arthur develop some convoluted bond/understanding of each other. He wants to take some time away from all the Aguefort stuff (both the man himself and the school) before he starts, so he'll be teaching in the next fall. Until then, he's returning to Elmville and staying with his parents.

Fabian did not pursue any form of higher education or further adventuring type thing. Of all the bad kids, he's become the most, well, normal. He and Mazey opened a dance-fighting studio. He wants to propose to her. Is 25 too soon? He asks Adaine over Fantasy FaceTime one night.

She's in a small bunk of an inter-dimensional spaceship, heading home soon. Her hair is dyed blue and longer than it's ever been, wrapping around her shoulder and spilling all the way out of sight of the screen. She's stronger now, dressed in something of intergalactic armor. She's not the person he knew--she's who that person was always supposed to be, and it aches because in all truth, she was his first crush, and he is always thinking about her and her sister and how much he loves them and how different that love feels now than it did when he was 15. How childish he was. How easily he wanted people who did not want him. How happy he is now with Mazey. How he always wants to feel like this.

Adaine shrugs. She doesn't really understand marriage, herself. Doesn't want it. Will marriage do anything to change what you think of her?

What? No. Of course not. It'll just make it more... Permanent.

Nothing's permanent, she tells him. But you two are cute. If marrying her will make you feel more connected, go ahead.

He bites his lip. I don't suppose you can look into the future for me and see if she says yes?

Adaine doesn't answer. They both know it doesn't work that way. She doesn't really know the future any better than anyone else. Her anxiety has not gone away or faded, her problems have not miraculously vanished, but she is not alone anymore. She is not afraid. She is so immensely loved, and there are days when that still strikes her as unbelievable, but those are few and far between.

Kristen loves college. She loves the freedom, loves the discovery of information on her own time and in her own interests, loves hanging out with Riz and Adaine, loves the mystery of new, unknown places that she and Cassandra can revel in. For all that has occurred, she and Cassandra are learning together, a reborn god and her reborn prophet who is young and has made mistakes and knows herself well enough now to know trying and failing is not something to fear. It's sort of ironic, but Kristen has become so alike to the philosophy student guardians she had with YES?. And yet she is still something different. She is gloriously unpretentious, but she has grown into (and simultaneously out of the more childish aspects of) her questioning and escapist nature, and she cares. She cares so much about everything. About fairness and justice and answers answers answers. She worships not only Cassandra but Cassandra and Ankarna, gathering power from both equally, a Cleric of Two Gods, the Cleric of the Reborn Ones, cleric of Dusk and Dawn. She's thinking of pursuing grad school. Maybe she'll study philosophy. Maybe not. She and Riz talk about it late into the night. She has not gotten over Tracker, but nor have they gotten back together in full. They are friends, and that's something that will not sit quite right in the pit of Kristen's stomach, but she lives and she learns and one day it will.

Riz it turns out, has discovered quite a lot about himself in the last few years. Like, oh, he can have friends who aren't the ones he made in high school. Like, oh, all those clubs he joined Junior Year? Yeah, it turns out he really, really likes some of them. He discovers, especially strangely, that he likes gardening. He likes the idea that he planted something, made something, helped keep it alive, that they together are surviving and thriving and okay. He likes taking care of things. He keeps a small potted plant that he carries with him everywhere.

When the Bad Kids come back together, they are not new people. They are who they were always meant to be.

#you guys dont understand how important Gardener!Riz is #the symbolism of gardening is something so special to me #helping something else live and in turn helping yourself live #extending the care and time and compassion and effort that others couldn't--or that YOU couldn't --to your wellbeing to something else #something wholly dependent on your attentiveness and practice and care #ohhhhhh #and adaine-dyeing-her-hair-blue is simply canon im sorry #smolwrites #fantasy high junior year #fantasy high sophomore year #fantasy high #dimension 20

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hey-august · 6 months ago

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Headcanon: Buggy 100000 percent the type of guy who’d be into YN no matter what kind of nose shape they have. He’s into the nose shape actually. No matter how insecure you are about it, he will always assure you it’s lovely and he’s being a hundred percent genuine. It’s incredibly ironic of course, it’s something that one first glance doesn’t make any sense given his own insecurities. The guy who gets so defensive about his…. To the point of not let anyone say something that sounds alike, will defend yours to hell and back? It’s ridiculous. But he’s genuine. The jury is still out if he’s like this because he has been teased for his perceived flaw all his lives, has been told that „He’s a handsome guy but that… thing in your face is too silly“ too often and he knows how it feels… or if he’s truly just extremely oblivious to his hypocrisy and that he truly believes that every nose is good in its own right…. Except HIS because that’s CLEARLY the ugliest nose ever

Yes yes yes, absolutely!!

He’s completely baffled if you ever say anything remotely negative about your nose. You wish it didn’t have a bump, that it didn’t tilt to one side, it was bigger, it was smaller, it went up more, down more - none of it makes sense to Buggy. Your nose is perfect! He’s never seen such a perfect feature.

How could you say such things? You’ve seen what an ugly nose looks like - you’ve seen his nose. Bulbous and red, always in the way, such an awful shape.

You'd tell Buggy that his nose is adorable, it’s wonderful, it’s perfect. You'd tell him that you love it. He believes that you believe what you’re saying, but he doesn’t think it’s true. Still, it made his stomach flip when you headbutted that drunken asshole at the bar who compared his nose to a fugly tomato good for nothing but throwing at fools.

Buggy took that moment to heart, but not in the way you hoped he would. Since then, he’d defend you against anyone who even slightly implied that you didn’t look amazing and flashy. Even if you said it was alright, you did have bags under your eyes, your nose was a bit swollen from a cold, your hair was greasy because you needed a shower, he didn’t understand. He didn’t see those things, he just saw you.

It wasn’t until a particular afternoon that Buggy began thinking differently. A regular afternoon at sea where nothing exemplary was happening. You stood at the railing, watching the waves and accompanying marine life. Buggy came up behind you, trapping you between his arms. He pressed his face against your hair, smelling the ocean air mixing with you.

Buggy loves rubbing his face in your hair and taking in your essence, but he also finds it frustrating. He feels like his giant nose gets in the way.

So when he turned away and mumbled the usual frustrations about his honker, you tilted your head to nuzzle back against him. You told Buggy that his nose isn’t in the way. That you love it. You love feeling it, you love seeing it, you love his nose. You love it because it’s his. Because it’s him. And you love him. All of him.

#buggy headcanon #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #hey-august buggy headcanons

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venussaidso · 7 months ago

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The Ascendant Lord impacting your aura is real because tell me why I used to mistaken Jeremy Irons and Daniel Day Lewis for each other. And they still give me the same vibe yet share no nakshatras or nakshatra lords on their top 3 placements.

Jeremy Irons has his Sun in Uttara Phalguni.

Daniel Day Lewis has his Ascendant Lord (Jupiter) in Uttara Phalguni in the 2H. The 2H doesn't just rule over our assets and values, but also our face. The 2H literally gives support to our 1H | ASC and plays a role in our physique, and also aura (in my opinion).

Irons has a Ketu nakshatra (Magha) in the 2H in his chart while Lewis is a Mula Ascendant, Ashwini Moon. So it could be that I'm picking up on Ketu as well. Another thing, Irons has Venus in the 1H and Lewis has Bharani Sun.

They don't even look alike but the way they're so comparable to me can be validated by their nodal contacts too. Jeremy Irons has Rahu in Ashwini while Daniel Day Lewis has Moon in Ashwini.

There are probably other aspects I missed but 1H, 2H placements and the Ascendant Lord is validating enough as they further impact one's physique and aura. The nodes are important as Rahu stood out to me since they are both famous public figures (Rahu is essential when picking apart one's public image when there's established fame). Although yes, the top 3 placements will be extremely prominent– because I can still pick up on their stark differences. I do think this also looks like a random comparison. Like Jeremy Irons is a Pushya Ascendant, Uttara Bhadrapada Moon and Daniel Day Lewis is a Mula Ascendant, Ashwini Moon. The both of them literally have the double whammy effect of their lunar mansion's nakshatra lord which makes them more different than similar. But still valid how I managed to connect them together.

EDIT;;;;;;;

so i am not crazy, this shit felt by some. i'm not the only one who intuitively picked this up 🧘🏽‍♀️

uhm 💀

#random #vedic astrology #sidereal astrology #jyotish #physiognomy #also it's daniel day-lewis>>> jeremy irons :)

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medusapelagia · 3 months ago

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10 - The Tower of Terror

written for @steddieangstyaugust (prompt: "Where were you?”) and @augustwritingchallenge (Prompt: enemies to allies) and @aug-kissed (prompt: Blow a Kiss) Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve/Eddie TW: Witcher AU, violence, blood, injuries Words: 1626

(An AU inside an AU?!?! Yes 😂)

When Steve’s mom dragged him to Kaer Morhen as a kid, Steve didn’t know that she was selling him to the mages to make a witcher out of him. He just thought it was a funny adventure. They rode in a little carriage together with some cabbages, and then they crossed the woods and started the same long path that now Steve is walking down, holding Roach's bridle with one hand, guiding the stubborn girl down the steep slope.

Steve never knew how much the mages gave his mom. He hopes they gave her a lot, she still had other five kids at home and he was just another mouth to feed: too young and weak to be really helpful working at the farm.

Now his mom and his brothers are long gone, but Steve is still there, doing what he was raised to do: killing monsters.

At the end of the winter, he says his brothers and their father goodbye, and gets back on the path, ready to kill monsters and humans alike. Because sometimes, the worst monsters have human skin.

On his back are his two faithful swords, silver and iron, that he keeps in tiptop shape, cleaning and sharpening them every night before resting.

He doesn’t stop at the first few villages, he wants to leave them to his brothers, but he keeps walking toward the farthest towns, looking for little villages that definitely need a witcher, even if most of them can’t really afford him. But Steve was never too high-maintenance: if the people are nice to him and they really need help, he will help them, in exchange for some food and a comfortable place to sleep.

He would probably help them for free as well, but even witchers need to eat and sleep.

That’s how he finds out about the Tower of Terror. An old tower that’s all that remained of a big castle up the hills and that was destroyed during a strong earthquake.

He’s eating some bland soup, the only thing he can afford at the beginning of the hunting season, when a man, wearing fancy clothes, sits next to him.

“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away? The white hair or the yellow eyes? Maybe the two swords on my back?” Steve asks sarcastically, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with rich men, they are the ones that always try to fuck him up and pay him less than the agreed amount.

“Snarky, aren’t you? I thought all of you were grumpy and scary men.”

“Met many witchers?” Steve asks without even turning.

“A couple. When I was a kid. Anyway, I have a job for you. I want you to go to the Tower of Terror and free the place from all the monsters that inhabit that place.”

Steve lifts an eyebrow, “Did they attack the village?”

“Not yet. But they are monsters! We can’t live under the threat of those monsters coming for us if we want to become a bigger village. You see? At the moment all we have are just a few houses, but the road that leads to us is the quickest route to get to Hawkins. If we manage to kill every monster in the Tower of Terror, we will be finally able to attract more travelers and become a bigger city.”

“And make more money.”

“And make more money.” The man agrees, “The tower is full of gold and jewels, you could take anything you want once you clean it from the monsters. So what do you say? It’s a pretty big deal.”

“What kind of monsters haunt the tower?” Steve asks, squinting his eyes, pensive.

“How the fuck would I know! I never got there.”

“I don’t take jobs if I don’t know what I’m facing.”

“Oh. Too bad. Well, I guess I’ll ask the other witcher.”

That catches Steve's attention. What other witcher? He concentrates, trying to find a slow heartbeat like his but finds none.

“Oh, he’s not here yet, but we sent a messenger a few weeks ago and he promised to come soon. In the beginning, I thought it was you, but the messenger told me about dark pitch-black hair, so…”

There’s one witcher crazy enough to accept a job without knowing what the fuck he’s going to face. A witcher on his back has two swords and a lute. A witcher that’s crazy like all the witchers from the Cat School.

Eddie.

Steve takes his bowl of soups and gulps it down in one go, slamming it on the table, “Good for you.” he says, leaving the tavern.

He’s not even halfway through the village when he hears a familiar voice singing a stupid song, he turns in time to see Eddie get off his dark horse and put away his lute.

“When the tavern owner told me a grumpy witcher with white hair came to the rescue I couldn’t believe my luck.” He grins, getting closer to Steve who is still riding Roach.

“Not here to help you. Just looking for a job.”

“Are you saying to me you’re allergic to money? Because, my dear Steve, that castle is full of gold and jewels. So full that you won’t have to hunt for at least ten years.”

“And became old and fat in the meantime? No thanks.”

“Come on! It will be fun! You and me against the world!”

“There’s no you and me. There’s you. And there’s me. And our paths won’t cross again.”

“Oh, you weren’t so adamant when I was fucking you against the tree in the middle of the woods a few summers ago.”

“That was a one-time thing. And we were drunk.”

“Were we, Stevie?” Eddie asks, licking his lips and showing the little cat fangs.

“We come from different schools.”

“Doesn’t mean we are enemies. I'm pretty fond of you, actually.” Eddie says, blowing him a kiss and then winking at him.

“It does,” Steve replies, deadpan, before hitting Roach in the stomach and pushing her to gallop away.

“Tomorrow, at first lights! I’ll be there, waiting for you!” Eddie yells, but Steve doesn’t even turn.

***

Steve doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t even meditate. He just tosses and turns, thinking about that only night he shared with Eddie years before. How good it felt to be adored and loved even if it wasn’t real.

Finally understanding he won’t get any more sleep he sits near the ember of his fire, trying to remember everything he knows about the Tower of Terror. He has definitely read something about it but now all he can think about are pale hands wrapping his sex while a horny voice whispers dirty things in his ear.

If Eddie is really going to get into the Tower alone he will die, and those hands will never touch Steve again with reverence and desire.

It’s not Steve’s problem. If Eddie wants to die he’s free to do as he wishes.

Roach turns her head, glaring at him from the tree she’s tied to.

“Ok, I get it. I get it.” Steve sighs, dismounting the camp and preparing himself to fight.

***

It’s the smell of blood to guides him through the stupid tower, not the greedy, as Eddie insists when they meet in a maze of corridors.

The dark-haired witcher is holding his side, a deep wound gushing blood through his fingers, but Steve doesn’t have the time to take care of his injuries, because the monsters with no eyes are attacking them again, their shriek so loud on Steve’s sensitive ears that he has to fight with himself not to drop his sword and protect his ears with his hands.

With a slash, he cuts the arm that’s reaching out toward his head and when the creature loses its balance, Steve’s sword pierces him from side to side. He doesn’t even have the time to retrieve the blade, when another creature, smaller than the first, attacks him, making him fall on his back while he tries to keep the monster’s mouth away from his face. Steve kicks it in the stomach and the creature yelps, recoiling just enough to give Steve the time to grab the dagger from his belt and cut its throat.

The dark and warm blood falls on his clothes and his face, and Steve curses, kicking the dead beast.

“You should think about dyeing your hair.” Eddie chuckles, spitting some blood, “Black maybe it’s a little too dark fir your skin complexion, but I think chestnut would be perfect for you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve replies, trying to determine how bad the injury is.

“Where were you? I thought we agreed to be here at dawn.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“I heard you growl, distinctly. That’s not how your school expresses agreement?”

“Fuck you.” Steve says, fishing some vials for his bag, “Take this.”

“Swallow? How magnanimous of you.”

“Just drink it and let’s get out of here.”

“Can’t.”

“Come on Eddie. Not even a cat can be so stupid to risk his life for some jewels that were probably stolen ages ago.”

“Have you ever seen monsters like these?” Eddie asks, pointing to the two dead creatures.

Steve squints at the monsters without eyes. He doesn’t remember having read anything about them in the book he studied, and he definitely hadn’t met such creatures before.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you come with me we could find something more than gold and jewels.” Eddie drinks the potion in one go and gives the vial back to Steve, “Can we be allies, for once?”

Steve stares at the other witcher who slowly gets up, one hand still protectively in front of his wounded side.

Allies.

Just for this time.

They shake hands, and then their medallions start to shake like crazy.

(Should I start working on a Part 2???)

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jadevine · 3 months ago

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Deadpool and Wolverine musings, Part 1 - On Deadpool knowing he’s Deadpool, the Worst Wolverine, and a Hero That Never Was: How the theme of failure in "Deadpool And Wolverine" hits too close to home for another would-be actor.

--- So now that I've processed Deadpool and Wolverine, it really hurts to see the theme of failure and being “the one who’s WATCHING people be awesome” woven through the story. You probably know someone like me, dear readers. I have big dreams, but no big friends or big bank account to pull them off.

The Deadpool franchise’s nature as a self-aware side of the Marvel Universe folds painfully into my own experiences as an artist.

As usual for Deadpool, the start of the movie is a wild ride: We open on him desperately digging up Wolverine’s grave from the end of “Logan,” because Deadpool needs Wolverine’s help--and he’s in serious denial that Wolverine died. Turns out that yes, he did. And Deadpool ends up fighting some furious Time Variance Authority soldiers… with Logan’s decaying skeleton. To the hilariously unfitting song of “Bye Bye Bye” by NSYNC.

Millennials, we can feel old now. I remember when NSYNC was rolling out their CDs in the early 2000s, and when I decided I was too cool for NSYNC anymore, I threw that shit away. Apple is now laughing at me for buying this one song again, twenty years later.

We then get plunged into an explanation of why Deadpool is desperate for Logan’s help, and boy howdy, does he need HELP.

Wade and Vanessa started having relationship issues between Deadpool 2 and this movie, so he tried to sign up for the Avengers to give his life purpose. In his interview with Happy Hogan (HELLO, SIR, IT’S GREAT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!!! WADE, SHUT UP ABOUT HAPPY BEING A CHAUFFEUR!!!), Wade says he wants to be an Avenger because “he needs it.” Why? Deadpool sure loves the battles that the Avengers are known for, but I don’t think he wants to be an Avenger JUST for violence or glory. There’s one MORE thing that the Avengers are known for: Being friends. And with it, being LOVED.

The running theme in Deadpool’s movies is his nagging insecurity and loneliness. In the comics and movies alike, he is constantly trying to join the X-Men or the Avengers, but his main problem is… Deadpool himself! You are your own worst enemy, as the saying goes.

He’s ruthlessly good at killing, loves his gallows humor, and he’s reckless as hell. The usual expression that someone’s weird/crazy is “having a wire (or a few wires) loose,” but Deadpool’s like an electric rat-king of jumbled wires. (A cash register at my work has one of those bad boys. I am constantly worried if it’s okay.) Later in the movie, Wolverine thinks Deadpool has ADHD because of how insufferably chatty he is, and while Deadpool’s constantly called “crazy” because other characters just don’t like him, fan speculations and writer depictions abound on what KIND of mental disorder he might have.

As TV Tropes would put it, Deadpool is “The Friend Nobody Likes.” Other heroes tolerate him because he’s skilled, but not many LIKE HIM. And he is all too aware of it, especially in the films, so by the time of Deadpool and Wolverine, he WANTS to be a hero.

As I mentioned before, he says to Happy that he NEEDS to be an Avenger.

But Happy tells him, “The Avengers don’t do the job because they need it, they do the job because people need THEM. Understand the difference?”

Many Avengers fans understand the core of the Avengers, and of the superhero genre as a whole.

I did not miss the shots in Happy’s office of notable objects in the main Marvel Cinematic Universe--and maybe Wade was looking at them, too. We call those “Easter eggs” because people will scour the film for them.

-Tony’s very first heart reactor, with the engraving of “Proof that Tony Stark has a heart.”

-One of Captain America’s old shields.

-Old pieces of Iron Man’s armor.

-A photo of Tony himself and Peter Parker.

Then comes the hurt-y part: “Please, Mr. Hogan, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like an annoying one-trick pony.” Ouch, Wade. I am all too familiar with the sense of failure, and feeling like I annoy everyone by existing.

So Happy says to Wade, “The problem might be that you’re reaching a little too high. Aim for the middle and you’ll never miss. I think you got a good heart, I believe what you’re saying, but not everyone’s the world-saving type. Shoot for the middle and you’ll never miss.”

And after he’s rejected, Wade officially breaks up with Vanessa. WHY, motherfuckers?! THEY ARE MY POWER COUPLE!

So with no Vanessa and no Avengers, Wade becomes increasingly insecure/depressed, and he leaves the Deadpool work behind and takes a car-sales job with his former X-Force teammate Peter to pay the bills. If that is not an allegory for the constant misery of being an artist who doesn’t know anyone important, and doesn’t have the money to make knowing important people EASIER, I don’t know what is.

I spent years trying to get people to read my novel drafts on Wattpad so I can get them cleaned up and published for real, and then I could be a REAL FUCKING WRITER. And that wore me out, because I’m not a marketer and I’m already introverted. I spent years not being able to afford updated headshots to audition for shows, so I could finally be a REAL FUCKING ACTOR and do something that wasn’t a college production… but after I finally got new headshots, guess what happened? I’M STUCK AT MY DAY-JOB TO GET MONEY.

While I’m trying to be a real fucking actor and a real fucking novel writer, I’ve combined them into an unholy sandwich, by writing a superhero story that deconstructs the idea of “who gets to be called a hero, and who’s just a gangster/vigilante?” It involves the Tagalog deities being stuck in California as undocumented immigrants.

I feel like I asked every Filipino theater I know of about workshopping this script or giving it a reading or two when the draft is done. Like, I’m Filipino-American and I’m writing about Filipino mythology and Asian-American superheroes--I don’t expect people to spring a whole production onto the stage when I say go, but surely people would want to check my script out or keep tabs on me? Something to get the ball rolling?

But that involves having GOOD luck, and I don’t seem to have any. The theaters who bothered to answer me say it sounds cool, but they don’t have the resources, or how this script is expensive to pull off, so I’ll need to find someone willing to take a risk and fund my production.

I wanted to fucking laugh at those folks, because that means THEY’RE not willing to risk things for me. I want to laugh because if I don’t, I’m gonna murder something.

As Deadpool said in his very first movie: "Fake laugh, hiding real pain."

PEOPLE SAY THEY CAN’T AFFORD ME? WHEN I SPENT YEARS HUMILIATING MYSELF, ASKING IF SELFIES WERE OKAY TO USE FOR AUDITIONS, BECAUSE I COULDN’T AFFORD TO UPDATE MY THEATER HEADSHOTS?

This one time, I could have gone to Canada for a writing conference. It was about how Filipinos and the Filipino diaspora use their culture and spirituality as inspiration for their work. I sent them an email about my poetry and writing, and I didn’t really think they’d answer me, so I was pleasantly surprised when someone DID answer, and they thought my work sounded beautiful!

But then they said I’d have to get to Canada, pay the attendance fee, find a hotel and get from a city (either Toronto or Ottawa) to the buttfuck wilderness of a regional park, where the conference was actually being HELD.

So I said (politely), “Oh, I didn’t realize you wanted to hold a conference in Canada, but had no way to… GET NON-LOCAL SPEAKERS TO THE CONFERENCE. I figured you’d be handling at least some of the costs. I won’t be able to go, then.”

One of my friends, bless her heart, started a GoFundMe on my behalf. It went nowhere, so neither did I, but she tried. Another of my friends said it felt really messed up that they wanted me to pay the attendance fee AS A SPEAKER.

In my only bout of less-bad luck, I submitted some angry decolonizing poetry about the Tagalog gods to a show halfway across the state, and the team absolutely loved it… but that was before I had updated headshots. When the recent Facebook memories with a photo of the brochure showed up, I got to see my fucking Facebook selfie smack in the middle of everyone else’s nice, professional headshots, and that really stings.

I wish I was like Deadpool, and I had some time-traveling friends to go back and replace it with one of my REAL headshots. But I can’t spend all my time cringing, so I’m not only writing my stories, but saving up to pay 50-100 actors for a table reading.

I GET ONE SHOT AT GETTING MY SCRIPT OFF MY LAPTOP AND INTO THE WORLD. ONE SHOT THAT’S GONNA HURT MY BANK ACCOUNT. MAXIMUM EFFORT IS MY STATE’S MINIMUM HOURLY WAGE, MOTHERFUCKERS.

And that’s probably going to be my only shot. I don’t know anyone in theater professionally, because I never got a chance to WORK WITH anyone professionally.

For my script, I have three or five Filipino actor “friends” (more like acquaintances) whose shows I’ve watched a few times, so I told them how I have a superhero script that I’d love to get a reading for when the first draft’s finished, and I will pay everyone for a table reading in a couple months. And if they have ten or fifteen more friends of varying ethnicities, please ask them if they think my script sounds cool as well.

I hope I didn’t sound too desperate.

I try not to outwardly beg, but I don’t have a good gauge on that. I was the only Filipino in my theater class for years, so I never knew how to TALK about my extremely Filipino-oriented urban-fantasy, or if my stuff was ACTUALLY good or just weird. I went to open mics for a short but lovely few months, before I had to stop.

I couldn’t even afford MONTHLY TRIPS to read my work. Not only for no pay, but I had to pay AN ENTRY FEE and deal with the parking in this driving hellhole of a state. And then being a BROKE Filipino who still lives with my mom and works in food service? I always feel like I’m begging for scraps of attention.

I love art.

I love making art.

But with so many things depending on who you know--whether you can afford to go to shows, or go to school, or go to parties so you can FIND people to know--art really makes you feel shitty and poor sometimes.

My friends and about twenty or so Wattpad reviewers like my work, and they say I’m a great writer. It always makes me feel nice.

But when I try to get someone IN POWER, someone with MONEY, to check out my work and say the same things, that’s where I start feeling like Wade in the Avengers Tower--so close to the heroes I’ve heard about my whole life, seeing the things they use, the photos of people they love--and begging the doorman to let me be a hero, too.

#writing #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #gambit #wolverine #acting #performing art #musings

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