#fake thesis tag

[chicago-geniza]

My whole-ass fake thesis focuses on the popular interwar European idea that the viewer/reader had more access to a work's subconscious "content" than the author intended to express, & while this concept gets abused for 800 bigoted reasons. Nevertheless. Anne Rice is a gay man

Like Hans Tietze and Henri Bergson I will go toe to toe in the afterlife but. Nevertheless! Anne Rice is a gay man

[cangrellesteponme]

happy pride month to the evil demon and the evil demon ONLY

[thethinkingcloth]

if you’re not in the poly co discord server you’re missing out. we don’t just ship lucy/george/lockwood, we also write fake in-universe academic papers in which we cite each other’s fake in-universe academic papers bc we are incurable nerds who are overly invested in the problem and how it has shaped society

[crumblinggothicarchitecture]

I read your fake smart-girl coded Taylor Swift post. Ended up on my feed because it was tagged philosophy. It was long enough that I caught a few words and actually read it. Honestly thought it was satire until I read your answers to other people.

I do not care about TS. But I do care about philosophy. You have a degree in it ? Funny, I have one too. You've read Aristotle ? I did too. But did you read though ? Did you really get into philosophy, and heard what the people you, I'm sure, can quote really well, actually said ? Because what it looks like, is that you got a degree in philosophy, but did not get philosophy at all. What makes me say that ? Your attitude, and that paragraph :

"Also, for the record, I don't think Taylor Swift knows anything of substance about Aristotle. I, on the other hand, took a three-hour long oral exam over Aristotle's life work while out-of-my-mind-high on Dayquil and pain meds after a surgery. I got an "A", and, somehow, I lived through that, I doubt the validity of Swift's claims to know anything at all about philosophy. Especially, considering how all her songs are about as deep as a puddle. "

Sounds like you're here to show off, and to make yourself look like something, without having a clue what it means to have the inclination of a philosopher. Or you know what it means, and you've lost it somewhere along the way.

If you've studied philosophy, and actually took time to read and understand the words of philosophers, you know not one of them would condone your attitude, the way you use their names, the way you're making your arguments. Having an A for an exam on Aristotle does not guarantee that you'll be able to make good arguments for the rest of your life. Nor does it guarantee that you understand his work, or are good at philosophy. It just means that, at one point, on a very specific part of Aristotle's work, you had enough knowledge to be rewarded with a good mark. It stops there. It does not mean anything else. Even if it was for your master's thesis. Sure, you know more than TS about philosophy and she fakes knowledge in her songd, but is showing off your grade and putting yourself as the center point of your argumentation the best way to convey that message ? No. You're trying to put her down by putting yourself above others. To anyone with a sense of philosophy, it just looks like you're a student who never understood the works he/she read, and focused on grades and others' approbation instead.

You care about your degree ? Re-read the books and make use of your ability to understand them. Not as a way to show off, but as a way to lean into the attitude a philosopher might have.

You write posts using philosophy ? Make it palatable to others, and show its uses. Be humble. Same thing for literature. The people whose books you read, they want knowledge to be spread. Studying philosophy should have, at the very least, helped you see that. The degree you got is here to push you to continue doing what all previous philosophers and writers did before you got to read them. Otherwise, your degree serves no purpose, other than satisfying your ego. At least, that's how it looks in that post.

Anyway, it'd just be nicer if you used your degree to show the benefits of philosophy, rather than to stroke your ego. Think about Socrates for a while. He asks questions, he makes simple arguments, he rarely talks about himself, he wants others to learn. That's the idea. Not showing off. Not being an ass to a girl you've never met. But being open for discussion, and make sound arguments, for others as well as yourself. What was the point of you fixating on the misuse of 'soliloquy' ? What did it bring to others ? And your anger towards TS, why ? Why write a whole post about it, shove it in her fans' face, what's the point ? Did anyone get anything positive from that ? And why bring your degrees and grades into the mix ? Anyone can make an informed and sound argument, even without a degree. What did it give you to say all those things ?

Fyi, I was taught philosophy in France. I know people in America and the likes get taught philosophy differently than how its done here. Wouldn't be surprised if there was a cultural difference in the way we understand the discipline. I've got a master's degree in the subject, and six years of study under my belt, if that matters to you. Was top of my class also. And I've lived with a philosophy teacher for eight years, too. In case you try saying I have no place speaking about philosophy the way I do.

There is barely anyone who gives a damn about philosophy. You're one of the few who cared about it enoigh to study it. Make good use of your degree, and don't be an ass to others.

Let me give you a piece of my mind, because, honestly, my dear friend, what are you doing? 

Is this some kind of moral flex in which you prove to be the better person because you’ve never implied that there’s no way a certain person knows anything about Aristotle? You want to seem like the better person, because I took one single cheap-shot at Taylor Swift’s intelligence amid a full literary explanation as to why she is using a specific term wrong? Are you joking? You want to call into question my entire education? Because I said Taylor Swift is not as “deep-thinking” as she claims? Okay, yeah... you’re right I guess that makes my entire education invalid. My bad. I’ll go rip up my degrees.  

First of all, let’s address your arrogance. You write, “Sounds like you are trying to show off, and to make yourself look like something, without having a clue what to means to have an inclination as a philosopher” (para.4) in response to me saying Taylor Swift probably doesn’t know anything about Aristotle. Yeah, obviously that line is a quick jab at Taylor Swift. So, what? Am I writing an essay? No. Am I writing a journal article? No. Am I writing to a conference committee with a submission of my finest work? NOpe. I’m saying that I would bet money that I know more about Aristotle while suffering the effects of surgery-induced delirium. It’s not that deep. It’s not meant to be a deep, philosophical take on the nature of Taylor Swift’s work. I’m throwing a metaphorical tomato at her, while yelling “boooo.” So, what? You say, “Play nice.” No. Taylor Swift is not my student, nor my friend. I, thus, have no obligation to try to teach, guide, or help Taylor Swift understand anything. I’m not her philosophy teacher, and, you know what, I don’t think she cares about philosophy at all. You know why she name-dropped Aristotle? It rhymes with “full-throttle” and “Grand Theft Auto” (Swift “So High School”). I’m laughing at her so-called poetical lyricism. In the same breath, I’m judging her for relegating Aristotle to a cheap throw-away line in a dumb pop-song in which she sings about how her football boyfriend makes her feel like she’s 16 again. It’s so mind-numbing.

I’m sad. It’s not anger that compels me, but sadness and disappointment. I’ve been a fan for nearly 15 years and my original post came from lamentations about outgrowing an artist I once respected.  Granted, I might have been angry while writing that post (sue me about it).  

 I do respect Taylor Swift’s work enough to criticize it, however, do not twist my words to mean that as an attack on her personally. I do not wish harm to other human beings, yet it is worth noting that I talk in many other posts about my disgust towards her immoral actions. Even still, most of my posts about Taylor Swift are linguistic or literary criticisms meant to help me process this absolute let-down of an album. I’m also just practicing my literary criticism abilities (I start Grad School in like 2 months, so I’m trying to keep my skills sharp). It’s all low-stakes.  And, you’re mad at me? You think I’m being mean? Why? You think that I’m “being an ass to a girl [I’ve] never met”? (para. 8). Taylor Swift is not a girl, first of all, she is older than me and I’m a grown woman. She is way richer, and way more powerful too. What is your point? 

Let’s talk about the next line in question: “What is the point of you fixating on the misuse of ‘soliloquy’? What did it bring to others?” I’m fixating on the term soliloquy because Taylor Swift has been using this faux literary/ dark academia aesthetic to sell her records for years now. She’s wears “my coat” (if you catch my meaning). She’s using my real-life study as a way to sell shoddy, sloppy records. I’m going to call that out. Despite her using all the aesthetics of academia, she’s not intelligent enough to even just use the term soliloquy correctly. I noticed it right away, and so did many others. If she can’t even get small details correct about literature, why should I believe that she even knows anything about literature at all? It destroys her creditability. I’ve taught students the term ‘soliloquy” as high school kids. It’s not too much to ask for the biggest pop star in the world, and someone who claims the title of “good” writer, to teach herself what a soliloquy actually is before using it in a song just because it sounds similar to “sanctimonious.” If it’s wrong, she’s just wrong. She could have hired an editor. Now, I won’t go into the context of the line here, too much, but the whole line is her calling her audience a bunch of sanctimonious morons who are talking to themselves. (Is Taylor Swift playing nice enough for you? I wonder....)  

Let’s move on. 

Now, let’s talk about your concept of “inclination of a philosopher.” 

You are correct in saying that often teaching Philosophy varies remarkably from country to country. I was weaned on the analytic philosophy, whereas I believe the French are more continental. (Correct me if I am wrong.) So, the effect of this is that I am obviously quite blunt and fond of Aristotelian logic. Who doesn’t love a good syllogism? A funky little linguistic proof? Yes? Still, I must remind you that I wasn’t really making an argumentative point about actual philosophy in relation to Taylor Swift.  

To the crux of the issue, however, I must say that I was actually showing the inclination of philosophy by correcting the intrinsic flaws of the songs I disliked so much. What is philosophy if not the spirit of seeking truth and wisdom? Critique and analyzing poetical works often tie directly into the philosophical field of aesthetics wherein the goal is true, fruitful, understanding on how literary devices and aesthetic representation actually function. If anything is also in effort of seeking truth, surely, you see that critique and correction is? And asking for better workmanship? I was only mad, because mining Taylor Swift work for aesthetic meaning is like searching for Gold in a parking lot. : (  

Next point: “to anyone with a sense of philosophy, it just looks like you’re a student who never understood the works they read, and focused on grades and others’ approbation instead.” 

First of all, this is rude. You don’t know me. You read my honest, brief anger, that I managed to condense into a couple lines in one single tumblr post, and that gives you the audacity to say I’m a bad student who sought grades above all else? Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh................. Okay, tell me why I spent hours in study rooms and sent countless emails begging for guidance through things I didn’t understand. Tell me why, I’ve stood in front of people and blatantly admitted that I did not understand the readings. Learning takes time, and there is no shame in taking your time. Grades are just letters. What matters is how the strength of what you learn impacts how you act in life. I’ve learned my lessons with all the ferocity of a child falling down a hill and running back up it again. I know my own intentions, and you don’t. I mentioned my "A" in the post really just to lend credibility, through professorial authority (lol), to the fact that I think Taylor Swift is fake smart.

Next: SocRaTeS? You're Joking! What is he doing here?

In an eternal quest for my own understanding, I often returned to Socrates. Did you not see my profile picture? Socrates is my homeboy. If ever I get to choose how to die, I will die like Socrates. Willingly, and with a full-bodied credulity of my own philosophical stances.  

You say, “Think about Socrates for a while. He asks questions, he makes simple arguments.” First, he does not make simple arguments. Is it not a syllogism? He writes full dialectical structures. This is some of the most complex stuff I have ever read. Let’s talk about why: Over the centuries, we’ve come to call it the Socratic method. This method includes discursive questions meant to make people question not only others on their reality but to question the most internal mechanisms of the mind. It asks them to think about why we believe or hold the beliefs that we do. He, famously, likens it to a child's development in the womb. The questions are meant as an external way to engage with mechanistic development of thought itself- thus we untangle the dangerous thread of rhetoric internal to our own rational minds. It’s a type of meta-analysis of the self-more than it a simple game of question and answer. Like children from the womb, according to Socrates, we must develop our rational minds too. And, above all else, the Socratic method seeks truth.  

Socrates would approve of my literary criticism of Taylor Swift, because I am using it to seek a higher truth. And, in some way, I am inversely questioning my own reasons for seeking what I do. I enjoy poems for a reason. I like to ask myself why I like what I do, and what meaning it brings through my unique perspective. (Applied to others as well, I love to hear from others). I critique Taylor Swift not because I hate her, but because I want to engage with the aesthetic qualities of the material world that elevate my ability to empathize, to think, to engage, to feel the world around me. I love art. I love reading, I want people to write with intelligence. You know then, the soul-crushing feeling of realizing an artist is actually bad. She rhymed Aristotle with Grand Thef Auto... Socrates himself would shudder. Socrates would also recognize that aesthetic quality ought to undergo critique and beauty interrelates to moral value. He was of the belief, and I dare say I believe it too, that beauty, aesthetic beauty, can be likened to moral value through the identification of ways in which it reveals the truth of our very souls. To him engaging with aesthetics is one way in which to reach out and connect the metaphysical to the material, in such awe-inspiring ways.

Ever been moved to tears by a painting? I have, but the question is WHY? That is why I critique literature, poetry, art... music. Whatever I can get my hands on really. I really want to find out, WHY? why was I crying in the Art Gallery, right next to the ice cream shop and everything.

 You are perhaps right that I could make more of an effort to explain my points, and also the "moral of the story" or what I hope other people will take away from what I wrote. I’m only ever critical of something if I care enough to either love it or wish it was better so that I could love it. To be honest, I didn't think anyone would read my silly vent post about Taylor Swift, but here we are. I could do better. I usually save my real efforts for my published work, though.

And you, my dearest colleague, are apparently spineless. If your conviction on philosophy is that we must all be kind and precious to each other for fear of causing offense, then I think your career will sink like a rock. Socrates was mean as hell, though not spiteful or malicious. He was mean in the sense of asking people to take a good, long hard look in the mirror. I would ask Taylor Swift to look in the mirror too, but she has a whole song about how she’s not going to do that (Anti-Hero). As you see, I hope that I am not spiteful either. But I do want people to be better and make better art. Socrates would say the same. I say what I say and I mean it. Because I am desperate for something true and beautiful and real. There is no one on earth above reproach. There is no school of philosophy which suggests passivity is tantamount to intelligence. I will not be passive.  

You say: “Make it palatable to others. Be humble” 

How’s this for palatable: No <3. Why diminish myself? Why should I obfuscate and dance around my own hard-won intellectual skill? Why should I dumb it down? It is not egotistical of me to use my own skillset. Does a doctor not save lives? Do they apologize for using their skills? Does a mechanic not do the same? Does the poet not also do the same? What of the critic?  

I can be humble, though. Humility is being self-aware enough to recognize that some might have a skillset more advanced than your own. I seek guidance and consistently challenge myself in academic endeavors. I can recognize the authority others have just as well as I can recognize my own authority. I will not, however, shrink down because you think I’m being too know-it-all-y.  

Humility does not require that I speak only when choking back apologies for the audacity I have to speak. I am not sorry. I spent the last 6 years of my life working on two degrees while working 3 jobs. It was hard. I’m proud of myself. If someone feels upset that I speak about the field of study I have fought to participate in, well, I genuinely don’t know what to tell them. Intellect is not a threat (to most). I would say, “if you have a question, ask it.” I actually am very friendly despite my sharp tongue. I am a teacher to my bones <3 and I love my job.  

Anyway, if I missed any of your points, misrepresented them, or offended you greatly- my inbox is always open. And I love a good, well-structured argument. However, next time can we talk about actual philosophy instead of you just attacking my character, thanks. <3 Obviously, I took offense. I think you meant to offend me though, for whatever reason. Really, I did go back and crack open a few books to write this, double check some things, so thank you.

Did you get your graduate degree in America? Would love to know. I am planning on getting another Master’s after I am done with this first one. I want to study aesthetics ( LOL).  

Ps. Why can’t people show off? I love when people have a talent that they aren’t afraid to share.

[hotmessmaxpress]

Masterlist

Links are under the cut because this is too long!

You can find the chapters, asks, and extras of the a/b/o au under the tag "rosquez a/b/o au" and the chapters, asks, and extras of the onlyfans au under "OnlyFans au". Any of my asks are tagged "motogp asks."

Always feel free to slide into the ask box with questions or inspiration!

A/B/O AU: Asks are tagged: rosquez a/b/o au

Part 1: Vale/Luca/pack finds out about the bite

Part 2: Bez has a meltdown about Marc joining the pack

Part 3: Bez thinks Luca is still mad (he’s not)

Part 3.5: The porny sequel to part 3 (Luca/Bez)

Part 4: Marc becomes the Pack Mom

Bonus parts/ asks/ one shots:

Marc's nightmares

How the pack fuck Bez (nsfw)

Thoughts on how much Vale loves Bez and Marc

Vale is obsessed with Marc

Marc x Bez omega bonding

My Marc x Bez friendship thesis

Alex visits the ranch

What happens when alphas try to hit on Marc?

Wholesome self-indulgent pack time

Pecco/Bez/Marc

OnlyFans AU: (entire series NSFW) Asks are tagged: onlyfans au

Part 1: Vale is a porn addict

Part 2: Vale and Marc are bikefuckers

Part 3: More bike porn (with a side of obsession)

Part 4: Marc is hot, Vale is fucking stupid

Part 5: Marc is stupid (endearing), Vale is stupid (horny), and Uccio is stupid (evil)

Part 6: Marc and Alex go on an adventure

Part 7: Alexa play ‘mastermind’

Part 8: Spoiler alert: they fuck! (vale's bike makes a cameo)

Part 9: they’re nasty freaks. also they ride bikes, meet luca, and talk

Bonus parts/ asks/ oneshots:

Will Vale be Marc’s sugar daddy? (Vale wishes)

Marc has a boundary (and they talk about it like adults!)

CeleBez gay porn crisis

Tiny Shorts Interlude (Vale POV)

Fake Dating Au (Bezz x Mig)

Part 1: The Plan

Part 2: Bez Didn't Think This Through

Horror Au (Rosquez)

Part 1: Void Creature

Interlude: Void Creature at the Ranch

Part 2: cavities

Part 3: shadows

Part 3.5: shadows part 2

Bez/Marc/Vale

Part 1

MarcMarc

Fluff

Mechanic!Bez AU (Cele/Bez)

Part 1

Oneshots

Soulmate goose au

Bez x Pecco trash talking and in love

Luca x Bezz post-Jerez

First time back at the ranch

[bbraespam]

Raven said that it took her a whole year to stop hating Beast Boy? I mean do you suppose it means the team knew each other between the events on Go! and Nevermore? I mean in Raven’s mindscape she actually believed Beast Boy didn’t like her and vice versa.

Actually, I thought things went pretty well. Took me a year to stop hating Beast Boy. -Raven to Terra in Titan Rising

What happened between Go! and Divide and Conquer is a question that will live in my brain for all time, so let's talk about it!

So, my interpretation of Raven's line there is that it places Nevermore approximately a year after the events of Go!. (And I recommend taking a look through my Beast Boy vs Creepy tag for an idea of my thesis here. (mobile link))

In Go!, Raven and Beast Boy get along surprisingly well for how we see them by Divide and Conquer. What I think happened is this:

Beast Boy's discomfort over Raven's dark energy powers came up at least once again, probably more, and Raven interpreted this as Beast Boy rejecting her as creepy. So she started icing him out, and taking any of his attempts at humor towards her as him being fake. In return, Beast Boy got frustrated because he does tentatively like her as a person and has been trying to befriend her, but at the same time is unsettled by her powers that he doesn't understand (in that scene, if he was really truly scared of/didn't trust her, he wouldn't be literally reaching out).

That's why by Nevermore (about a year after they initially met) they're both operating under the erroneous assumption that the other one doesn't like them. I think Raven later framing that period as "hating Beast Boy" is a bit of a defense mechanism over how rejected she felt. After all, she was plenty nice to him whenever he was real with her and wasn't putting on that jokester front.

To answer the other part of your question, which sounds like it's about how long the Titans have been a team pre-Season 1? I'd put it at only a couple months since they've officially been in the tower and operating as a team. The early episodes of S1 feel like they've been a group for long enough to be mostly comfortable working together as an established team, but not long enough to really know each other on a personal level yet—Robin and Cyborg already have a coordinated move, but either the team's never gone out to pizza together or haven't yet gone enough that anyone knows each other's orders or Star's gotten a look at the menu.

(a couple extra thoughts under the cut)

For ideas about how the team formed:

After Go! they seem to be at least temporarily separating. It feels easy to assume that some of them started using that communicator to call each other up post-Go! once they ran into trouble they couldn't handle alone (was it Beast Boy, who was really hurting for friends and somewhere to belong? Cyborg, who wanted to keep his neighborhood safe? Star, who'd just gotten a taste of niceness and liked it? Raven, who wanted to do some good for the world before her father showed up? Robin... I think is least likely, despite him having a hand in making the communicators. He'd be there if asked in a heartbeat, but I see him having trouble admitting he needed help)

After a few times it becomes clear that not only could they do some real good together, but most of them could use some housing help. (After all, the only one who seems to be native to Jump City is Cyborg, and maybe even that is somewhere he moved away from his dad post-accident? Everyone else seems to have just drifted into town). So forming a team and moving in together is a perfect solution for everyone. (Maybe the city asks them formally to stick around? is there even a mayor here who's running this town shh not important)

Nevermore's narrative function

One interesting thing I didn't fully notice until just now looking at the episode list, but Season 1 uses the plot of character-disagrees-with-Raven-and-they-learn-to-understand-each-other as great excuses for displaying the characters of (almost*) each of the main cast, in Nevermore, Switched, and Car Trouble. (Notable because not every pair on the team gets an episode focused on their relationship, only sooort of BB & Star in Forces of Nature, and Cyborg & Robin in D&C, but those plots are much less focused on the characters opening up to each other than the Raven ones.)

(*Robin's the only one who doesn't get one, which I think is due to this being his season. Every "Robin" ep in S1 needs to advance the overarching plot, which doesn't really leave time for Robin-and-Raven-have-a-wacky-self-contained-adventure. It also just doesn't seem necessary, since he gets plenty of time for both his character and relationships in those episodes.)

[yourlocalasexuwhale288]

Alright, part two of my favorite Hannigram fics.

I have a lot of dark fics on this list, but this one is very fluffy. When Hannibal knows that Will is sick, he sends him to the hospital and covers his classes, winning over everyone in the meantime.

Back to the darkness, in this, Will meets the gorgeous Hannibal Lector in a bar, when Will is celebrating his birthday alone. After an amazing night, Will finds out that he has a new thesis advisor, and it's none other than Doctor Hannibal Lector. Did I mention his thesis is on The Chesapeake Ripper?

Probably my favorite fic on this list, Will is barely 21 when he meets Hannibal in a bar, the other killer thwarting his hunt with a sexy distraction. They spend weeks together, in a sexy bloody relationship, before Hannibal moves on. Years later, they meet again in Jack's office. But Will is older now, and Hannibal wants to keep him. Will won't make it easy, if his monster wants to keep him, he needs to prove his worth. Another courtship of bodies!

In this one, Hannibal meets Will while both are on their way to dispose of bodies. They agree to be each others alibi for the murders, and fake date to keep up the ruse. Eventually, they realize these are real dates, not just alibis.

This one is an AU where Will is a serial killer, and cannibal of sorts, before he meets Hannibal. Includes tags such as "food is people" and "wine is people too".

Another time travel fix-it fic, in this one Will wakes up post fall to find out he has been in a coma, and Hannibal has not framed him yet. This is Will using his future knowledge to change everyone's fate.

[reikunrei]

Omg thank you for your post about El!! That theory is fun and all but I can't believe people think it has any chance of happening in the show. It would amount to a "it was all a dream" ending, people who hate it, and most of all, as you said it wouldn't make sense. I wonder what you think El's ending is going to be, staying true to the themes of the show? I have no idea what they're going to do with her character and I'm really curious to find out. There's also that video of Millie saying she saw her character's ending and thought "ooohh" and walked away slowly. I feel like dying isn't a good choice but then she's just going to be living her life with her friends and her new found family? That seems too... simple. I'm curious to know your thoughts!

yeah, it's a theory that really drives me up a wall because it sequesters el into this "she's not actually important at all" role, which is just... shitty. for all their flaws, the duffers have a pretty good track record when it comes to writing strong female characters (for the most part), and so it feels just wildly out of character for them to pull the rug out from under el and say "oh, she wasn't actually real the entire time" (whether that be for will-based or mike-based manifestation theories. in both (or any) cases, it pushes her into a position of solely aiding her male counterparts and undoing everything handled in her own personal arc. thus: misogyny).

like you said, it really does feel akin to the "it was all a dream" types of storylines, which the duffers have explicitly scoffed at and said is not what's happening. so like, even if it wouldn't completely undermine the story as it's been presented to us thus far, we have more-or-less solid confirmation that it wouldn't be the basis of st5's conclusion, straight from the horse's mouth.

the only time "it's all fake/it's not real" really comes into play (from what we've seen) is regarding stuff with the lab and, specifically, the mf and henry. the "it's all just a dream" stuff is already explicitly presented to us as a bad thing, or not the solution and rather part of the problem. even as it specifically ties to el, nina is something that's largely or entirely fabricated (even if it has real anchor points), and while she comes out of it having regained her powers, that's very likely not the only goal of nina (but i won't get into that here, that's something james talks about a lot in his upcoming thesis post) and the unreality of it all is much more nefarious than it's been presented as thus far.

i mean, even thinking about st2 and will facing the mf as if it's not real/just a nightmare that he can tell to "go away"... only to have that trust in unreality be his whole undoing? like... it just doesn't make sense to me to make "she's not real" a conclusion when every single bit of unreality we've seen thus far has only aggravated things.

and i know i said this in the tags of that post earlier, but just to bring it to the forefront here... it really confuses me to have el's arc be about being different, being an outsider, and feeling like she doesn't belong because she's weird or "the monster"... only to say she should just be shut away forever or killed because of it? like... just say you think "undesirable" weird people should be separated from society and be done with it.

it's the antithesis of the entire show. stranger things, at its core, since the beginning, has been about society's outcasts trying to find their place in the world and accepting their "freak" side and not trying to "fit in." our introduction of henry has explicitly furthered this idea by putting the burden of accommodation on society, not on the individual. and i'd be shocked if they had her reach a point where she felt like she couldn't find a place in the world when we already see that she's more than capable of fostering a comfortable environment with her friends. it's too much like just... giving up, to go the route of "she's not real."

as for what i think the end of her story will be... i have no idea LOL i don't feel confident enough in anything to put down something concrete here. basically, i just don't think it's going to be something akin to "she's a figment of someone's imagination" or was "created" by one of the other characters. she has her own story, her own history, her own life. i don't know what millie could have been reacting to, but i wouldn't be shocked if it was less so "el's ending" and more so something about answering the question of who she really is. so... less of "what's her last scene on the show" and more just... generally figuring out what her whole deal is, you know? because there's still a lot of holes in her past that need filling.

so i guess an answer i can give here, which is definitely wishful thinking, is that i believe the way her story is "wrapped up" will revolve around learning who her parents really are and the actual history of her life (ie. she's not actually jane ives, one of the henries is her parent in some way shape or form, perhaps even brenner is her biological father in some way, etc.), while also touching on the truth of what happened in the lab in 1979 and forward/figuring out just how messy the order of events presented in nina was. like, i firmly believe that the ending of her arc will involve having to come to terms with some really harsh truths about herself and her lineage, and finally wrap up the whole "monster vs superhero" argument she's had going on in her head. so i do think she'll get her "happy life" with her new family and friends, it'll just be a very messy road to get there.

which ties very neatly into some of the overall themes of the show: that sometimes good people do bad things, bad people do good things, not everything is black and white, and the answer to everything is love, compassion, and understanding, even when someone does something "monstrous."

anyway. thank you for giving me a reason to talk about this more and sorry for rambling LOL this stuff just gets me heated!! it annoys me to no end to see characters constantly shoved into the position of "supporting byler" at the expense of their own arcs, and it especially stings for me when it's done to el. especially because i'm in the camp of, if the show had to pick a singular main character, it would be el. she's the tie between the outside world and the lab. she's the one person who helps to really keep everything together and offer answers. so it just feels wildly counterintuitive to essentially give all of that to someone else and make her an expendable middleman.

[waitingforsecretsouls]

Traumerei & Zahard (Pt. 1)

(Tower of God #580)

We're far enough along in Traumerei's character and the depiction of his relationships to other Family Heads now that I feel confident in trying to analyze them a little more in depth, beyond meme edits or brief speculations in the tags of said memes, with a focus on doing this mainly in comparison and contrast to his relationship to Zahard as this posts main focus, highlighted as his most prominent and defining one from well before Traumerei's actual introduction.

Warning: This will include spoilers up to roughly #638 of the Tower of God Webtoon, and in part draw on SIU's blogposts of published chapters of the Hidden Floor arc. Under the cut for length.

My Thesis Statement: The defining aspect of Zahard and Traumerei's relationship, built on a basis of genuine comradery and mutual support between the two, shows Zahard as the only Great Warrior so far who actually expects things from Traumerei (or to paraphrase, who, in however limited a form you want to argue, places his faith in him). We see Zahard confide in him, console him, and entrust vital tasks to him, to the exclusion of all their other comrades; not only as the first comrade Zahard turns to in the present day story (in what's Outside Zahard's technical debut), but also a long way back in the past, before the first war with F.U.G. even broke out.

I'll try to structure this into three segments (and going by the likely amount of screenshots, probably a reblog chain rather than one self - contained post as I had hoped):

Zahard and the Family Heads

Traumerei and the Family Heads

Zahard and Traumerei

1. Zahard and the Family Heads

The first thing I'm going to argue for this purpose is Zahard's sentiments towards his old Irregular companions. Contrary to what seems like a popular opinion in fandom, that the present day Zahard views them as means to an end exclusively, devoid of any kind of positive or emotional sentiment at all, I actually think it's the opposite, and that he would have a far easier time, strategically speaking, if he did view them in this indifferent manner.

1.1 Zahard and Self

I feel like the origin of this perspective of Zahard as a purely cold, ruthless and calculating mastermind stems from his treatment of the Hidden Floor, where he collaborated with his data to first segregate the data of the Great Warriors into the hidden hidden floor, and then delete them.

My main argument against the validity of this would be, first of all, that the recorded data of their past selfs are very much not equivalent to their Outside, real selves, and that it would be perfectly natural for Outside Zahard to not hold the same feelings for them as their "real" versions.

Secondly, I feel like people really overplay the extent to which Zahard manipulated his data self in this: Yes, we have Zahard sport a malicious grin when he reveals data Zahard's ignorance of events on the Outside, and declares him as a "poor thing", "a fake me":

(Tower of God #386)

However, what this scene itself confirms it that 1) data Zahard likely only got forcibly edited (and only regarding these specific memories) when Bam asked him about Arlene, since "their names" is unlikely to refer to Edahn, with whom he converses perfectly fine and in a familiar manner and thus likely to refer exclusively to Arlene and V, who were erased from offcial history on the Outside as well (and whom Zahard likely sometimes wishes he could edit out of his own memories as easily as in data Zahard's case).

This is basically all but confirmed in the beginning of #368:

and 2), that Zahard has a rather nostalgic side, considering that he harboured the wish to leave the remnant of his young and optimistic self in the world in any form at all.

We also get from data Zahard himself that he helped Outside Zahard of his own volition, in a scene that's arguably centered around the Outside Zahard's strong emotions:

(Tower of God #387)

The emotions in said case being "anxiety" and fear, but still ultimately serving to demonstrate that Zahard is far from limited to the stoic and ice - cold killer we saw in his words to and subsequent treatment of Bam immediately prior, something concluded in his decision to honor his young self's wish for Bam to reawaken his passion as he did for said data self, despite the fact that said data was already in the irrevocable process of being erased from existence, lacking crucial information about Bam and his current Outside self.

(Tower of God #388)

(Note that this is AFTER Zahard noted "That really is a power that desires the abilities of God" about the Second Thorn Fragment, about whose origin and purpose he would know, as well as a multitude of potentials regarding Bam's origin and "fate". That is not the kind of choice someone robotically calculating the best possible outcomes and most ruthless way to get there would make, much less at the prompting of a soon to be deleted "fake me" he truly held either nothing but contempt or no emotional connection to at all, one he might easily have deleted outright).

Also, I didn't quite know where to bring it up, but I'll also mention that there is no immediate correlation between the data of the Great Warriors entering the "Hidden Hidden Floor" and being automatically deleted. As data Edahn reveals, they were tired of their existence as data, and followed Zahard knowing there might have been something fishy about his mirror from his Outside self. For all we know, they might have been deleted upon explicit request, similar to the data of Yura's and Hwang's bodies mother, somewhat detracting from data and Outside Zahard as ruthless killers and deceivers in that particular matter:

(Tower of God #386)

But all of this has been very centered around Zahard and his interactions with his own past self, so when am I going to get to his relationships to the other Family Heads?

Well, this segment was important in and of itself for getting there, demonstrating that Outside Zahard is not an unfeeling robot but actually fairly sentimental, and will alter his course based on the considerations of people close to him whom he respects (even in ways that are arguably highly disadvantageous to his own continued well-being), even if in this instance said person was a version of himself, which still serves its own purpose of demonstrating a senitmentality regarding his younger days, back when he and his comrades where comparatively unburdened and driven young adults climbing the Tower together.

1. 2 Zahard and the Family Heads

(Blogpost Season 2 Episode 292)

In light of the abovementioned arguments, I don't think Zahard purposefully sawed of all connections to his old comrades because he no longer cared about them, but rather that he still values these relationshop above nearly everything else, and distanced himself because he though that was what was his duty as their leader and a "KIng", about which he developed something of a complex, in case you didn't notice.

Introduced in his data self of course (I promise, we'll leave the Hidden Floor after this one):

(Tower of God #365)

This mindset smells of Outside Zahard, and comes specifically after Bam mentions Arlene's name, which we have establish to have been one of the primary "triggers" installed into data Zahard. I also feel like the following "What do I look like to you now? A human being? Or a monster?" might reveal another sad aspect of Zahard's current self-image/conception, but I' ll have to restrain myself with the images if I want to be able to at least conclude the Zahard and Family Heads portion in this posts image limit).

In another form, we get this in Traumerei's (but truly, Enkidu's and Gustang's) recent flashback arc, specifically #618:

But since I'll have to save many of these more recent points for Traumerei's portion of the post lest I needlessly repeat myself, I think it's enough to conclude this with the observation that at least part of what drove Zahard to change his mindset and become the solitary figure he is in the present day story was a feeling of responsibilty, acting according to their stations, soaring far above anyone else in the Tower, an expectation he extended to his comrades.

As Kallavan said, With Great Power comes Great Responsibility, and all that:

(Tower of God #477)

And we do see Zahard explicitly consider the Family Heads in the big decisions/doesn't simply overrule them, such as involving Bam:

(Tower of God #539)

We as readers know that Zahard and Traumerei had their private conversation prior to the Nest that probably truly determined what happened wrt Bam, but if anything this just strengthens my point, since Zahard explicitly allowed Traumerei to do as he wished.

(Tower of God #551)

(The reason I included the panel with Zahard's reaction is that I find it very interesting and important to the point I'm making. I don't have a conclusive opinion, but to me he appears almost taken aback by Traumerei's answer. Because remember, Traumerei's answer here is his reveal of the "condition" under which he'd take up Zahard's proxy war against the Poe Bideau family. That's quite a selfless "condition", or at the least purpose for said condition, to place, so I might well imagine that Zahard was taken aback by the lengths Traumerei would go to, specifically for him. Even in a more cynical reading, this is still Zahard allowing Traumerei to recruit himself a second Irregular into his family (the one he may know is considered as destined to kill him) and therefore also showing a certain degree of trust wrt that. But more on their relationship in particular in the eventual concluding part of this post)

Last but not least (arguably the opposite), we also have what may be the implication of Zahard as the one who gave the Great Warriors access to their famous Imortality Contracts, or at the very least having done something to make Traumerei regard him as the main cause behind their current positions and perpetual longevity of said positions:

"From the moment we got to the top, the only choice we had was to fall or not. But Zahard has given us a way to avoid falling forever. Only now that we have defied the laws of the Tower have we become beings who will never fall."

(Traumerei, Tower of God #632)

So while I'll certainly agree that we don't have many direct interactions between Zahard and the Family Heads, he does leave them free room to act with the only stipulation basically not to declare war on him, and doesn't brute force his own choices over theirs. He is very lenient (so far) even in regards to the Family Head who has broken this one rule, and has shown considerable respect for Traumerei's opinions and plans. Furthermore, he may well have ensured or enabled the Family Heads current hax, for which I would find it difficult to see another reason than wanting to keep them with him.

While there is a very interesting conversation to be had about Zahard and Gustang (and whether Zahard was aware of Gustang's preservation of the Thorn and Floor of Death all the way back or not), it's worth pointing out that Zahard's order to destroy Gustang's family (something we now know Gustang himself desires) only occured as part of his three orders, and Gustang himself is not targeted by default.

Basically, I haven't seen anything so far that convinced me of the "Zahard doesn't care about the Family Heads anymore" stance.

And with that out of the way, I'll move on to Traumerei's relationships to the other Family Heads depicted so far (who thankfully does have some more actual interactions with them).

(And again, a point I didn't know where else to fit in in which only occured to me towards the end of this post: I do think it's noteworthy that Outside Zahard does adress data Edahn as a avalid representation of Outside Edahn, to the point of not considering that he may hold differing sentiments from Outside Edahn wrt his relationship with data Zahard. Which goes against one of my first points, that Zahard may have drawn a sharp line between the datas and Outside selves, but supports my main points even better:

(Tower of God #386))

[yeliuxi]

Fic Writer Q&A

Tagged by @dragongirlg-fics :") Thank you ahh

How many wips do you have currently?

I think 5. Though all having various degrees of actually aiming to finish and post haha

For Qi Ye - The longer Ming Hua fic. Ming Hua's impressions of Jing Beiyuan and his bullshit throughout the years

Also for Qi Ye - My main fic. The genderbend modern organized crime AU that I have been working on for years now with femme-but-also-kind-of-becoming-butch-at-the-end Jing Beiyuan + butch Wuxi. But I ended up drawing a lot of it to procrastinate the writing... so now I have a lot of art (including first attempts to draw NSFW art), and not even a complete outline

& another for Qi Ye - Just straight porn featuring Jing Beiyuan domming Wuxi. Also topping like Jing Beiyuan initially wanted to do in the novel. But that's a separate sex scene. That's all

For MDZS - modern AU inspired by my RBB prompt. Lan Wangji has feelings for Wei Wuxian & when helping him out Lan Xichen accidentally ends up dealing with his own problems

For Locked Tomb - Palamedes/Camilla gender thesis fic. Where they fuck (? Masturbate? What happens when you share a body) and cope in unhealthy ways and Pyrrah is there going "wow yeah that's fucked up. Do you feel fucked up about this" and having an uno-reverse moment about her in Gideon 1's body

Still in brainstorming phase but The Double femslash where jealous Situ Jiuyue indeed "knocks up" Xue Fangfei. They blow off steam and the fake pregnancy drug is administered in sexy way lolol. The two lines of ":0 Whose baby is it" "Jiuyue's" live rent free in my head

More of the Q&A below

Which one are you finding the hardest to finish?

#2... It keeps growing... I thought I would end with an AU equivalent of Jing Beiyuan faking her death but then I started writing post-fake death... and now it's 90% ex-criminal-but-still-committing-a-continuous-crime Jing Beiyuan relearning how to be a normal person and Wuxi fitting herself back into a normal life 🤦🏻‍♀️Also did I mention the procrastination with my drawings?

What does it usually look like when inspiration strikes for you?

Unfortunately I think when I am most inspired it prevents me from writing haha. I get all excited and then stare off imagining the scenes... and do not write them. But there is a moderate amount of inspiration where I go onto 4thewords co-op writing battles and write out 10k in a day. I had several of these days in July and then have not since...

Do you curate playlists for each fic or is your process different?

No... I feel too much pressure to have songs that "relate" to the fic and I don't like doing that because it's time consuming and burns my energy that could be spent writing lol. Also I don't usually do any creative things with music because it's distracting to me

Do you go balls to the wall and write as you go or are you more organized?

I am a pantser mostly (tragic result of often having more vibes than plot thought out haha) but for certain long fics I will put together a detailed outline

Tagging: @difeisheng @geneticcatalyst @minnarr and whoever else wants to :D Yes this includes anyone reading this. Even if we aren't mutuals haven't talked etc. Just say I tagged you because I did and I am nosy and want to read it

[chicago-geniza]

Larry Wolff the historian that you are. Nobody is doing it like Larry Wolff when it comes to clarity, prose style, citational depth + breadth, and synthesis of thought. He wrote a 27-page thematic lit review article that became a state-of-the-field address on historiographical approaches to the development of modern nationalism(s) in Eastern Europe. I am in the process of reading everything he's ever written

[catchingbigfish]

writeblr reintroduction 🗝️

hi! call me elle (she/they). i'm a 30 y/o writer & i follow from @prettytothink-so! i'm also studying for my MA in english, focusing on literature, and plan to eventually write my thesis on haunted house literature. my main functions as a bit of a studyblr, bookblr, life-blog combo, but most of my posts live here.

i write fiction characterized by horror & gothic themes. i write about relationships, families, and found families, and characters in my work go through exquisite and grotesque things, including body horror, hauntings, broken and warped time, eroticism, nightmares, eco-horror, and possessions. my work is nsfw and 18+ due to horror, violence, and sex.

i'm always open to ask and tag games! if you're interested in my wips, see below the cut. i'd love to get to know other writers, esp if you write/read any of the following:

horror and gothic literature

body horror, eco-horror, nightmares, and dream logic

dysfunctional families (found and of-origin) and their dynamics

romance, including sex, and relationships, esp. in horror themes

i also write poetry, characterized by confessional themes and centered on the body. as you might notice, my blog is not particularly minor-friendly, and i try not to follow minors (and will likely unfollow you if i do so by accident). current primary WIPs under the cut!

conversion | dark litfic / satire

summary: Rosalyn arrives to Abbadon University for her fashion-making MFA sick with an unknown illness and a fresh diagnosis of hypochondria. Her professor, famous for her work chronicling her experiences with medical misogyny, has an exotic illness disputed by medical professionals, and a group of acolytes -- other students whose symptoms remind Rosalyn of the illness still brewing in her body despite the doctor's dismissals. When she begins to fake the visible symptoms, the professor and her acolytes welcome her into their ranks and Rosalyn finds the care she's been looking for her entire life. She has to decide what price is worth paying.

status: second draft completed & with beta readers

tag: #wip: conversion

so it goes | horror / romance

summary: Marisa Walker, a birth doula and herbalist, sees a personification of Death whenever someone close to her -- literally and figuratively -- dies. When she goes on a trip with her best friends, her FWB, and his girlfriend, she sees Death and wakes up the next day to her FWB's girlfriend missing. They go home, and Marisa must navigate life in the shadow of the missing woman. She isn't alone in her family, though, and the stories of her mother, aunt, and grandmother's own encounters with Death unfold alongside hers.

status: outlining second draft, but mostly on hiatus

tag: #wip: so it goes

[antigonenikk]

in love with a dying man

pairing: eugene sledge/merriell ‘snafu’ shelton; eugene sledge/elliot alderson

fandom: the pacific, mr. robot

tags: modern au, mr robot fusion, drug addiction, attempted suicide, dissociative identity disorder, hurt/no comfort

summary: eugene’s life is going great. he’s teaching multiple classes. his thesis is on track. he doesn’t miss elliot at all. then he gets a call that elliot has fallen off of the fucking coney island pier.

He gets the call at two in the morning. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just shoves his head further beneath his pillow. His neighbors were up blasting house music until four AM, and Eugene is desperate to get at least five hours of sleep before he has to give his 11AM lecture to a room of 60 undergrads who are only taking Intro to Biochemistry as a means to an end. The class is torture, his least favorite to teach. Nothing at all related to botany. But with so few graduate students at Tulane, the ones that are willing to work overtime, like Eugene, have been assigned classes beyond their specific specialties. He reaches his arm out for a moment, expecting to find a warm body next to him in that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, and can’t help the deep pit of despair that comes from finding only empty air instead. A year ago, Elliot would have been sleeping beside him, rolled into a small ball. Or he would have been sat up by his computer, typing furiously. Or chain smoking on the balcony. Or staring at Eugene as he slept, wide light eyes shining eerily in the backlit room. The point was, he would have been there. Here. And now he just wasn’t.

He picks up the phone, and holds it away from his ear to try and make out what’s going on. Because the voice at the other end of the line should not be calling him.

“Gene. Thank god.”

“Darlene?”

He hasn’t seen her in a year and a half. Since she visited them for Thanksgiving, somehow ate four edibles, and ended up sprawled out on their couch claiming that the sky was actually just fake—an illusion. That they were actually all just fish living inside of a glass bowl painted like the sky. Elliot had laughed at her, and told her she was remembering that stupid movie Chicken Little, that the three of them had gone to see the day before for purely ironic purposes. Just like the three of them had gone to eat at Margheritaville two nights before, for purely ironic reasons of course. Eugene had watched from the kitchen, feeling deeply fond towards the two of them, and the way they were able to laugh together. It had been years since he had laughed with his own brother.

Before shipping off to bootcamp, maybe. Before him and Elliot had come out as a couple and Edward declared Eugene dead to him. Probably even earlier than that.

“Darlene. What’s wrong?”

Because something has to be wrong. And Eugene knows what it must be. Eugene saw it when Elliot refused to stop using, when his eyes grew more and more sallow after his mom’s death. Saw the glimmer of a life coming to a close. Saw it in the hidden foils stashed in empty canisters of Kodiak chew, needles taped to the tank of their toiletbowl. He had fought and screamed and wrecked his life trying to stop the inevitable, before he finally let go. He knew this day was going to come. A call that would tell him that the only person he had ever truly loved was dead. And there was nothing he could have done to stop it. Because Elliot always chose the morphine over Eugene. Always, always, always.

“It’s Elliot—“

Eugene’s heart stops and starts and stops again and the world goes quiet.

“He…he fell off the pier. At Coney Island. I…I don’t know what’s going on. The doctors won’t let me see him because you’re his emergency contact still. Please—“

She breaks off sobbing. Eugene sprints out of bed, pulling on a sweatshirt and jeans and a pair of boots, no time for socks, he can’t find his socks. He realizes he’s dropped the phone and picks it up, panic coursing through him.

“I’ll be there. Give me a few hours. I gotta—just give me half a day to get up there.”

“Okay.”

She’s quiet when she says it. Scared. He remembers she’s two years younger than him, and frightened out of her mind, and all alone.

“It’s going to be okay. Alright? Everything is going to be okay. Just sit tight and let me know if anything else happens. I’m coming to you right now.”

They both know it’s a lie. But she sounds grateful to hear it. Eugene takes her quiet sigh and stores it away as a source for his determination. He’s beat himself up against the wall that is Elliot Alderson’s slowly protracted suicide before. He’s willing to do it again. He’ll be willing to do it until the day he dies.

———-

The easiest thing to do is take a flight. Eugene sits first in the back of the Uber. Then in the flight terminal. Then on the plane itself waiting for takeoff. He feels like he did the day before him and Snaf—Elliot—first shipped out for their second tour in Baghdad. Sweaty and still. Like his heart is beating so loud it’s drowned out his ability to move at all. At that point it hadn’t been a game any more. He knew what he was getting into. He knew what it meant. Knew there was no choice. The only way out, once you were on that plane, strapped in, was through. He remembers Snaf puking on his shoes, grim and shaking, and Bill giving him shit for it. He had cradled the back of his buzzcut, the small soft hairs there at the nape of Elliot’s neck, and let the clammy feel of his skin calm him. As the ground beneath him shakes and he rises into the air again he can still feel the phantom sensation of warm skin on his palm. He doesn’t try to wipe it off.

———-

The hospital is worn down and desolate under the fluorescent lights. Darlene looks small, scared and young and out of her depth. Her makeup is smudged. Eugene realizes suddenly that he didn’t bring a change of clothes for when this is all over. Whatever it is that this ends up being.

He holds her in his arms without saying anything, and feels the tension collapse out of her. Running his hand through her hair, which is so unlike Elliot’s.

He fell. Almost. Only once. After they got home. Eugene remembers waking up in the middle of the night to Elliot on the balcony of their apartment, legs hanging over the railings, a faraway look in his eyes. The kind he got when he turned inwards. And mean. When he said “Elliot isn’t here right now, boy.” Like that meant anything. For hours he would brood like that, refusing to answer any questions. It was better than the opposite, better than the mask that was Snafu, casual cruelty stripping dead Afghani corpses for cigarettes. Better than the manic ramblings about the state of society and how if they just worked together they could fix it, really, Eugene!

Eugene remembers the sheer terror he felt grabbing him back, pulling him down beneath him like they were under flak. Remembers screaming, why why why? He remembers placing his hands on Elliot’s blank face, looking for any sort of answer.

“He thinks his father pushed him out the window. I wanted to show him what really happened. But he’s not ready yet.”

He had said it later, to the wall, when he thought Eugene had fallen asleep. The He in question would become clear weeks later. If Eugene had done something then. Involuntarily committed him, maybe. But that would have just been speeding up the inevitable.

————

When he gets to Elliot’s room he sees two women already there. One he recognizes as Angela. They lock eyes before he turns to the other woman. She looks confused to see him there. Anything to avoid the bed, and the form inside of it who looks so small and frail. A breakable sparrow that has been pushed too far from the nest. If only—he could have done more. For Elliot. If only he had done more. Tried harder. This time he will. The nurses say he’ll wake up soon. Maybe they can fix things. Start over. Back to when it was easy to be in love. Back when it felt less like a leash and more like the ultimate freedom.

“Hello ma’am.”

She shakes his hand.

“Hello…?”

“Eugene Sledge.”

She still looks confused. She can’t be Elliot’s girlfriend. That would be…

Who is she?

“I’m Mr. Alderson’s therapist.”

Hope springs, even when he knows it’s fucking stupid to hope for any sort of real change. He’s seeing a therapist. He’s getting help. Maybe they really can make this work. All he has to do is wait for Elliot to wake up. And he’ll say it. How much he misses him. How they can go back together, to New Orleans. They can find him help there. A program, an NA group. Or they can commute even. Long distance. Eugene would do anything. He could even move here maybe, when his thesis is presented next Spring. There’s loads of research opportunities in New York.

———

Elliot wakes up in starts and stops. His eyes, large and wonderful and bleary, look around the room. They pass by Eugene. Darlene went home two hours ago to get some sleep. They pass by her empty seat. They land on Angela and the therapist.

He feels like an intruder as they gush over him. Handing him water and worrying about his fall. His jump. To think that once he knew Elliot better than any person in the entire world. Knew him down the very marrow of his soul. And now… now. Elliot turns to him, finally. And Eugene holds his breath. Going on 20 hours with no sleep and no food he feels like he might pass out. The green eyes that he has loved past the point of reason, past the point of distraction, stare straight through him.

“Who is he?”

Distantly, he can hear Angela’s quiet gasp. Who is he? Why is he here? Three years. One in bootcamp. Two in Afghanistan. One and a half back stateside. Who is he anymore, to Elliot?

The first night in their newly rented apartment, they had no mattress. Elliot joked that it wasn’t that big of a change from deployment. They had drunk cheap cherry flavored vodka, passed back and forth, and played cards. Curled around each other, later, skin to skin. Elliot had whispered in his ear, “You are the only good thing that ever happened to me.” He was smiling, crying silent tears. Eugene had never seen him cry before that night. Eugene had kissed his temple and whispered back that he was never going to leave. Never. It was forever, what they had.

Eugene can taste salt water on his tongue. What is he now? Stranger, cut down the middle, rocked open again bleeding out. He keeps trying like a dog, coming when called, throwing himself at the wall. The wall that will never bend nor break nor crack. Not for him. Not for anything. He gets up and walks out of the room with measured steps. The kind you take when you do not exist. He hides himself away between two vending machines, curls into a ball, and sobs so violently he feels like he might be sick.

[psychedelic-ink]

a broken prince.

pairing: ezra x f!reader

genre: smut, angst, hurt/comfort

word count: 5.2k

summary: Coming to Venice was a one time opportunity, which was why you accepted the invite to join a work party of self assured academics. You meet a former pianist that's angry at the world and himself.

warnings: anger issues, drug use (weed), a very messy handjob, dirty talking, creampie, piv, riding, mentions of a car crash, talk of how he lost his arm, ptsd, outdoor s.ex, high s.ex

a/n: this idea has been plaguing me for the absolute LONGEST time. I think it's been like 2 months since I thought of it and it's finally done! this was actually supposed to be a simply thing where ezra and reader gets high but it turned into something more, hope you all enjoy it!

a special thanks to @fuckyeahdindjarin who beta'd this for me, I'm forever grateful 💜 also tagging the dearest @frannyzooey because way back you told me to tag you if I ever wrote ezra getting high and here it is, hope you like it 💕💕

MLISTS .  LIBRARY. TAGLIST

Gatherings were already not your thing, but a party thrown by self assured academics is much worse than anything you can think of. You would much rather continue writing your thesis in the comfort of your hotel room, but in the end, this party is the reason why you’re here. 

Cutting through the crowd, your skin crawls at the sound of fake laughter and the sight of fake smiles. Offended looks follow your steps when you accidentally brush upon them. You ignore the stares, and hold your breath until you reach the balcony. Luckily it’s somewhat less crowded. Only a couple holding each other as they embrace the sunset and a group of friends making a toast to their achievements. 

You look ahead. The view is breathtaking. The blue fading into the orange, the sun slowly dipping behind the small buildings, sunbeams reflecting off of the tiny windows, the warm summer breeze caressing your skin and lulling you into a sense of a movie like beauty. This right here. This is why you accepted to come, this is why when Cee asked you to attend, you said yes in a heartbeat. Venice is deserving of every poem, every film and art showcasing its elegance. The soft waves of water echo from the canals, Italian vocals reaching your ears. You focus on the song. Music is such a beautiful thing. You don’t understand a word, yet your body reacts to it. Goosebumps coat your skin as the tune envelopes you in the form of a soft wind becoming colder. With a smile, you gently start to sway from side to side but as you move, you hear something that didn’t come from the streets. Another song being played by someone above. 

Your body stills, ears perking up. The tune stops, then begins again and stops once more. Your eyes trail up, ghosting over the closed windows that show nothing but the fading light of orange sunbeams. 

Curiosity gets the better of you and you slip back inside. With the corner of your eye you notice Cee chatting with the bartender, a glass of red wine nestled between her fingers. She seems happy. Unlike you, she actually knew some Italian so it was easier for her to mingle with whomever she pleased. 

Her gaze flickers to meet yours, her smile widens upon seeing you and she waves, calling you over. You shake your head and motion that you’re heading up, despite seemingly confused, she doesn’t pry and shrugs, returning to her conversation. 

The chatter soon fades into the background, music of the band dwindles leaving only the sound of your steps and the soft tunes of what you can now clearly identify as a piano being played. The soft light of the setting sun seems to evade the walls you pass by, leaving them untouched. Every artwork your eyes lay upon seems darker, sorrowful, almost. Or maybe you feel like that because of the music. It’s louder now and you can tell that the notes come from a place of bitterness. The sharp stops after each press of a key becomes more prominent. Angry. You wonder what kind of person is behind the composition. You try to imagine but you can’t quite make up a face to go along with the song, you can only vision emotions.

When you’re done climbing the stairs, you come across a wide hall. The floor is made of checkered marble, leading all the way to a door slightly cracked open for anyone to sneak a peek. The sound of your steps bounce off of the walls. Every other door is shut tight. It’s as if life itself is leading you to a moment of no return. You read about moments like these. An inevitable moment of fate. You never felt so strongly about anything before, you don’t believe in fate, yet you’re positive that if you turn around right now, you’ll be climbing up those stairs again. Gently, you press your finger against the white wooden door with a touch so gentle that it doesn’t move. Your pulse quickens, mouth suddenly feeling dry with the thought of who might me on the other side.  

It’s wrong. You know better than to sneak up on people, but you can’t help it. The devil whispers in your ear; it’s charming, impossible to say no to. 

Holding your breath, you lean closer. The sun peering from the balcony of the room illuminates your eyes. The first thing to catch your gaze is the white tulle fluttering with the summer breeze, you follow the dance of the fabric. The cruel melody begins again. You see a man sitting on the piano stool. He’s tense. Jaw locked tight and muscles popping beneath the toned skin. His right leg bounces up and down, fingers hovering above the keys as if he’s trying to feel their soul. He swallows. His nostrils flare with a deep breath and he plays. 

His finger tentatively presses a key, then another one. You expect a third to follow but it doesn’t. Instead a string of curse words follows. His hand abruptly comes down onto the piano. A collaboration of notes rings into the air with the impact. You jump at the loud, curt sound. The door creaks wider. More light hits your face. 

The man gets up, his jacket following him like a tail. For a brief moment you get a decent enough glance at his face; He’s handsome, much to your surprise. He has a jaw that can cut diamonds and a piercing dark gaze that screams hatred for the world. Before he turns to face the balcony, you notice a patch of blond in his otherwise short dark hair. 

Stuffing a cigarette between his lips, he sighs. You really should go. 

Your legs take root in the marble. 

“I know you’re there, you can come out now. The shows over,” 

For a moment you contemplate whether you should run or not, but given the fact that you’re not a child and a grown-ass woman, you hold your breath and push the door fully open. Knees shaking (you might be a grown-ass woman but that doesn’t mean you don’t get nervous), you step inside, his back is still turned to you. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to– I just heard–” 

When he turns, you feel the air being knocked out of your lungs. He’s gorgeous. The unlit cigarette is still between his lips, a shadow falling over his face due to the light warming his back. He looks you up and down. The air between you two crackles with electricity. His gaze reaches the utmost depths of your soul, he raises a sole eyebrow, a glint of curiosity visible. You want to take a step back. Want to hide. But your mind screams at you to hold your ground. It’s just a man. A man looking at a nosy woman. 

“Curious little thing aren’t you?” there’s a hint of an accent beneath his words. A southern drawl. He’s not from here either. “You an archeologist like the rest down there?” 

You nod. He looks away, you sense a hint of sadness. 

“You should go downstairs, have a good time,” 

“What’s your name?” you ask, ignoring what he just said. 

Your legs take you to him. Before you know it, you’re standing next to him, both of you staring outside the balcony, yet still within the building, admiring the darkening view. 

“Ezra,” 

Silence follows but it’s not actually silent. If you know how to listen, you can hear the sound of summer; the sound of glass clinking, toasts being made, drunks laughing too hard, the voice of the party still going on downstairs– Summers are never silent, so it’s easier not to speak. You tear your gaze away from the view. He’s still tense. His black coat draped over his shoulders, his arms hidden. 

“Why are you alone?” 

He licks his lips, refusing to look at you. 

“What makes you think that little bird?” 

Your cheeks heat up at the nickname, heart slowly spreading from your gut towards your skin. The cigarette now loosely hangs between his lips, you wonder how it’s not falling. 

“I’m here with my goddaughter, she insisted that I come,” he chuckles. “She convinced me that this city might make me feel better about myself, that I might find my muse and get my mind off of things. I believed her, at the time– She’s quite convincing– but it seems all my muses have already fled, leaving me all alone,” 

“Being an artist must be hard,” you chew on your bottom lip, why are you anxious? “But maybe you’ll find your muse soon, going out might help? It’s a truly beautiful city,” 

“Just because something is beautiful doesn’t mean it always inspires– Art is born from pain, a smallest of light within the darkest of times. But sometimes it’s so dark that the muses refuse to entertain you, they fade with the light, burying you in complete bitterness,” 

His sentence had begun soft, but ended in a hiss, his tone venomous. 

For some reason, you want to understand him. He’s only a stranger with a name, nothing more. Yet, you can’t help but be drawn to him. 

Suddenly Ezra turns to you, his mood completely shifting. There’s light in his eyes.

He pulls the cigarette away from his lips and holds it to you. You shake your head which is accompanied by the wave of your hand.

“I don’t smoke,”

He raises an eyebrow, eyes full of condescending humor.

“It’s a blunt birdie. You smoke that?”

You blink heavily, mind seemingly scattered.

“Weed?” you ask. 

“Indeed,”

You shrug, “Sure,” 

The two of you finally step onto the balcony. It’s been long since the sun had disappeared, the blue night conquering the yellow. It smells fresh out, like frshly cut grass and wine, the stars wink down at you both.

When he places it back between his lips, you expect him to pull out a lighter with his left hand. But he doesn’t. Your brain whirs in your skull, his situation slowly starting to sink in. You’ve only seen him use his right hand, never his left. 

Ezra lights it between his lips, takes two quick puffs. The end turns red, a crackle reaching your ears. When he’s convinced that it’s lit properly, he extends the rolled up blunt to your lips. Heartbeat ringing in your ears, you lean down and wrap your lips around the end of it, it burns your lungs when you inhale. A pleasant thrum ringing in your veins as you take another deep breath, your body melting. 

He pulls it back, bringing it to his own lips. You notice the shade of your lipstick encircling the butt of it, he doesn’t mind. He dutifully wraps his lips around the mark and takes a deep breath, he closes his eyes, brows relaxing as a puff of enticing smoke curls out from between his lips. His head falls back, exposing more of his neck and the veins that trail across the column, you swallow, heat building between your legs. 

Ezra turns and gestures towards the wall behind you. 

“Wanna take a seat, birdie?”

Your shoulder presses into his when you sit. He’s warm, muscles firm. After taking another puff, the smell of cannabis encircling your both, he offers it to you and shrugs off the jacket. 

Despite the pleasant haze of your mind, your eyes widen. His arm. It’s not there. 

Fuck– you shouldn’t be staring but your body is slow. You blink, it feels as if seconds stretch out into hours till your lashes touch the skin underneath. When your gaze gains focus, he’s staring at you. Eyes misty, dazed, but yet he’s watching you so clearly, like you’re the only thing in the world. You just met this man. Your heart shouldn’t be beating this fast. 

“It happened two years ago,” minutes pass between each word. “It’s cliche really, a car accident. And I don’t even have anyone to blame. ‘Drank the whole damned bar and drove myself into a wall of a church– I was either gonna die or lose an arm, fucking paramadic decided to save me, cut my arm clean off,”

It’s jarring to hear him swear. The back of your neck tingles as he reaches forward to pull out the joint from between your lips. His own puckers around it for a long pull, he blows out the smoke in one long breath. Tongue feeling swollen in your mouth, you lazily watch as the gray swirls up into the night sky. 

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” you stutter out. “I can’t even imagine how that must’ve been like,” 

He grins, extending the joint back to you. Before smoking, you hold it between your fingers, waiting for him to finish. 

“It’s shit,” he lays his head against the cold bricks. “Every morning I’m in pain. I go to rub it away but there’s nothing, just air, but it still hurts. An imaginary feeling I’m forced to live everyday again and again, like Prometheus– You know who that is?”

“Of course I do,” you didn’t intend it, but you sound offended, you’re talking too fast. “He was cursed to get his liver eaten out every morning by an eagle. It absolutely sucks,” 

“It does,” he laughs, chest trembling with the sound. “Sometimes I feel like I’m him reincarnated,” 

“You believe in that kind of stuff?”

“Hmm, sometimes. You don’t?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, the but of the cigarette finds your lips and you take two quick puffs. The tips of your fingers heat up. “If I had a life before I feel like I should be able to remember it at one point. In a dream, in a sudden flashback or some crap like that– Brains are powerful, it should send me a signal or something,” 

“What makes you think that it's not?” 

His head is on your shoulder. Ezra looks up to you with doe eyes, he parts his lips and you place the blunt in between. You feel like jello but sparks fly across your body when the soft skin brushes against the length of your fingers. He inhales, long and deep, you can see his lungs expanding. You pull it back, immediately placing it between your lips. The heat of his mouth still surrounds it. His eyes follow the movement, your own flutter closed, relishing in the feeling of the smoke going down your throat. You’re numb. 

Your eyes slowly open when you feel his thumb at the corner of your lips. He smiles, chin pressing into the curve of your shoulder. 

“Or maybe you don’t feel like you’ve lived a life before because you’re brand new, darlin’” his words slur, he laughs again. You smile back. “Or you’re just shit at reading the signals, one of the two,” 

“What signals have you received?”

“Many– but the one most memorable one is that it didn’t surprise me when I woke up with a limb short. I was in pain, I was sad, bitter, angry. But not surprised. It felt like it had already happened before. It felt–” you take another drag and blow the smoke towards his face, he sighs. “It felt like fate. Destiny. I was meant to lose an arm, but I ain’t happy about it.” 

“Who would be?” you’re buzzing, a smile tugs at your lips without actually feeling joy. “I doubt your destiny was to lose an arm. You think too much,” 

His smile is tender. 

“Perhaps I do. But when the worst has happened you tend to think about it,” 

“That’s not the worst,” 

“What do you reckon the worst would be then?”

“Dying,” 

“Death would be a blessing,” his hand extends to the sky, an attempt to touch the stars. You won’t be surprised if he actually does. Again, you place the joint between his lips. He inhales and when you’re about to pull away, he grabs your wrist and keeps it there. He takes another drag, then let’s go. You feel a searing circle around your wrist, his fingertips engraved into your skin. “You’re forgetting that I’m Prometheus. Would you say that to him? Along with my arm, I lost everything. I foolishly believed I was meant for greatness– To take my place between the stars and be a part of something great. Now I can’t even play two notes,” 

He’s a pianist. 

“You’re a pianist,” 

“I’m a pianist,” he chuckles, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t figure that one out while you were spying on me?”

You’re dumbfounded. It shouldn’t have taken you so long to put the pieces together, you kind of just assumed he might be playing as a hobby. He peels himself away from your shoulder, leaning against the bricks once more. Your shoulder feels unbearably cold now, with the feeling, a shudder climbs up your spine. You want him close. You want him to hold you. When he licks his lips, dried from the smoke, heat builds between your legs. By the time you place the cigarette back between your lips, you notice that there isn’t anything left to smoke. Sticking your bottom lip out, you pout. He grins, eyes skimming across your lips and bare neck. 

“I have another one if you want to,” he hums. 

You shake your head, all you can think about is how wet you feel. 

You want to kiss him. It feels like one of those moments where you get the urge to jump on the tracks or dip your finger into boiling water. In those moments your brain tells you to stop. But the same mechanics of your mind don't work with him. You want to jump into the fire and feel the burn of his cock deep inside of you. You want him to make you scream and for the whole world to hear. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Normally, you would be embarrassed about being so forward. But with the pleasant hum still ringing in your ears, and the buzz within your head, you only smile and lean closer. His grin is wide, dark eyes full of amusement. He inches closer and slowly brushes your lips together, the sound of your heart joins the hum that’s already loud in your eardrums. 

“You want to kiss me?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “If you want to you can,” 

You want to, so you do. 

He tastes like cannabis and bitter coffee. He inhales you like smoke, hand making its way into your hair, he pulls you closer, the curve of his nose pressed snug against your cheek. You melt into him. Everything you feel, you feel tenfold. His tongue swipes against the seam of your lips, you open wide, the soft muscle sneaking into your mouth to have a taste. His fingernails gently scratches your scalp, you would purr if you could, the same hand travels down and cups you from above your dress, thumb pressing into your nipple. You moan into his mouth, not a care in the world as another cool summer breeze blows over you both. 

You lick his bottom lip as you pull away, Ezra’s mouth skims down to your throat, nibbling the sensitive skin. 

Desire bubbles inside you. His lips are pure sin. Enticing like the stars above. Your hand finds his clothed erection, you squeeze playfully, grinning wide as he groans. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. 

“You wanna suck my cock pretty bird?” 

Another gush of arousal drips from your thighs. Your lips find his, pressing against them briefly before traveling down his body. You press a soft kiss into the juncture of his neck, a swipe of your tongue following while you unbutton his pants. Your breathing quickens. Slowly, your fingers wrap around the length of his cock, he feels hot and heavy within your hand. He hisses out a breath, the veins in his neck popping. You suck on the skin, you could stay buried in his neck for hours if you had the time. It smells and feels like something more, something you can’t bear to move away from. 

Your hand moves quickly. Sliding up and down his length, the heel of your hand briefly swipes against the head, the precum making it easier for you to move. The sounds that come off of you both are lewd, dirty. He must’ve been just as worked up as you were. His cock is drooling all over your fingers, making everything messy and wet.  Your hand glides up and down with ease, little whimpers leaving his lips whenever you suck on his neck. You don’t want to leave the comfort of his skin but you know it’s inevitable. 

When you take him between your lips, heat scalds your skin. He feels glorious on top of your tongue. So wet. A thick layer of precum coats the inside of your mouth, you suck at the tip and take him in deeper. His hand gingerly pushes you down. 

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “Take it all, little bird…I know you can– Such a good girl for me,” 

You moan at his praise, dark curls tickling your nose. Before taking him deep into your throat, you hadn’t realized how thick this man was. Your chin strains with the pressure but you still manage to swirl your tongue around his cock, swallowing around him. Ezra continues to spit out filth as you begin to move your head up and down. 

“You’re quite a sight to behold, lips barely wrapped around my cock– You’re making a mess, look at you…so dirty for me, don’t you care at all that anyone might see you?”

His cock throbs, gushing out precum, you swallow; your own hands slid up his thighs, fingers digging into the flesh. 

With an idea shaping in your mind, you pull away from his cock. Your gaze never leaves his as you stick your tongue out, a string of saliva dripping down and sliding down his length. He takes a sharp breath, you can almost hear his heart beating fast in his chest. You stroke him before wrapping your lips around him again, taking him in whole with a swift slide down. His fingers tighten in your hair, a groan follows. 

“Shit– Birdie– I need to fuck you– ‘ need to fuck you right now,” 

You’re head spins, however you’re sure it’s caused by him and him only. He tugs at your hair but instead of pulling away, you keep the tip of his cock between your lips and suck as you flutter your eyelashes at him. With a small smile, you tilt your head and slide your mouth sideways down his length. He’s so warm. 

“You want me?” you whisper, the air ghosting across his sensitive, wet skin him shiver. 

“I do– I do, I do– It’s been so long– Need to bury myself in the heat of your pussy right now or I’m gonna cum all over that pretty face of yours,” 

He sounds desperate, you believe him when he says it’s been a while. You lay a kiss at the head, grinning as you look up to him. 

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” you say, crawling into his lap. You roll the skirt of your dress all the way up to your waist, his hand grips your ass, squeezing anxiously. “I like the idea of you making a mess of me,” 

“You really shouldn’t say stuff like that to me, birdie,” Ezra breathes out through his nostrils. It feels like it takes him forever to speak again. “I’m not one to just fuck you full of my cum to turn around and fall asleep– If it’s a mess you want I’ll give it to you. I’ll cum deep inside this cunt, I’ll cum all over your face, tits, ass– Do you really think I’ll be satisfied by only coming once?”

You might cum from his words alone. Without even realizing, you began to touch yourself, rubbing your aching clit from over your panties. His eyes follow, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips. He pushes himself off of the wall, crashing his lips into you as he forces you down to his cock with one hand. He guides the sloppy roll of your hips, swallows your moans as the damp patch grows across the cloth. He smiles into the kiss. 

“Where on earth did you come from?” he whispers against your lips. “Am I imagining this? Are you actually here?”

“I am,” your voice is silent, all the confidence sucked out of you. You lay your hands on both sides of his face, holding his head tenderly between your palms. “But are you?”

There’s something freeing about fucking outiside. You feel hot and cold at the same time. The wind that caresses your skin forcing out goosebumps. Ezra draws a stiff nipple into his mouth, sucking eagerly as he slams his cock deeper inside. You look up to the sky, relishing in the feeling of him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing more of your abused tit into his mouth, he growls, eyes fluttering closed; he opens his mouth wider, teeth nipping the sensitive skin.

You’re not sure how loud your moans are, or if the party downstairs is over or not– The only thing you’re sure of is that you don’t want this to end. The pleasure, the sadness, the conversations that don't make a lick of sense. You don’t want to give up the buzz in your veins, the pleasant feeling of relaxation tickling your muscles– But you know you have to. The night will end and morning will come, taking him with it. 

Tears bite the corner of your eyes. Your chest feels tight and heavy. It’s going to end– 

“Hey hey,” 

Ezra looks up to you, eyes moving across your face and lingering on where you’re biting into your bottom lip. It’s already swollen. He hooks his thumb into your mouth, pulling you down so that his lips meet yours. He cups your cheek, grinding his hips up deep into your cunt. Your insides squeezes him tight, fluttering around the girth of him. He moves away, chest heaving, Ezra lays his forehead against yours, it’s damp with sweat. 

“Focus on me. Don’t think. You said that before, right? That I think too much– Don’t be like me, birdie– Just feel– Not everything needs to be a story with a start and finish,” 

You don’t remember saying that but you trust him. It’s eerie how he can see right through you. 

His thumb draws rough circles around your clit, your head falls back at the pleasure. You’re slicker. The sound of the way your bodies connect bleeds into the foreign city. Somewhere in your mind you take notice how silent it became, you soon forget it. Ezra’s head lays between your breasts, kissing every patch of skin his mouth finds, hips canting up into yours at a brutal pace. You feel as if you’re free falling. Scared, yet twitching with excitement. Your chest swells, desire building, forcibly tensing your lower abdomen. Absent-mindedly, you realize that he’s muttering into your skin, the words barely reaching your ears. 

“That’s it…you’re taking my cock so well out in the open like this, letting people know who you belong to– fuck– FUCK– how are you here– how are you–” 

Ezra grunts when you tighten around his cock, his balls feel tight and heavy, ready to burst. He’s ignoring the ghost of an ache his missing arm causes. He only wants you. He doesn’t want to think about how his dreams are buried seven feet under, how he’s been all alone with only Cee checking in on him– How he can’t even play fucking twinkle twinkle little star– He only wants to think of you. He only sees you. The way your back arches so beautifully, the way your tits bounce with the force of his thrusts, they way small hairs spread across the softness of your stomach– Ezra reaches out and squeezes the tender muscle, your lips part with a gasp, the way you move on top of his cock is uncoordinated, luckily he’s there to help. He crowds your personal space, whatever was left of it anyway, and mouths the underside of your jaw. 

“You wanted me to make a mess–” he says between pants, voice trembling. “Did you actually mean that little bird? If you didn’t you need to tell me now before I fill this tight pussy up,” 

“I-I meant it,” your thighs tremble, a needy moan escaping your lips. “Cum inside– I need you Ezra,” 

He’s not sure how many thrusts it took, might’ve been one might’ve been a hundred, but before he knows it  he’s spilling into you, pelvis flush against the curve of your ass. Ezra starts to play with your clit again, murmuring how he wants to feel you cum around his cock. You do as you’re told while he continues to pour into you. Your moans collide, making the most beautiful symphony he’s ever heard. Your body tenses, then coils down into him; your bodies pressed against one another as you both try to capture your breaths. 

The ache he always feels in his arm is back. He wants to hold you properly, press your head into the crook of his neck as his other arms snakes around your waist, but he can’t. Instead he compromises by just doing the first one, you purse your lips against his skin, kissing it gently while the harsh waves of your orgasm slowly fades. He softens inside of you, but both of you refuse to move away from the other. 

“I don’t want to go back down there,” you finally break the silence, murmuring into his neck. “I like it here.” 

“Hmm, sadly, little bird, I don’t think we can stay in this balcony half naked forever. However tempting that might be,” he feels you smile, an airy chuckle leaves his own chapped lips. “Besides, I’m sure your friends are wondering about you,” 

You pull away to shake your head, he raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s kind of like a work party. If that makes sense. I have one friend here but she’s used to me wandering away from crowded places so she won’t be worried. She’ll be fine as long as I shoot her a quick text,” 

Ezra grins at the way you, for some reason, sound so proud of your friend. He wonders what kind of people you’re friends with, wonders about your life outside of this balcony. He imagines that it’s beautiful, just like you. 

He parts his lips to speak but you beat him to it. 

“You want to walk around?” your body feels heated, you begin to stammer, the loose tongue the weed provided must be wearing off. “I-I know it’s kinda late so I understand if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be fun to walk around the streets when it’s not super hot and empty,” 

“That sounds great, birdie,” 

Ezra closes the distance, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss. This time you both melt into each other, emotions running high as he swipes his tongue across your lips. 

Even if it's only for a night, it feels good not to be alone. 

[ainyan]

Hmm... tags: #fake dating, #major character death, #mpreg, #only one bed, #everyone is an idiot, #star-crossed lovers, #university AU, #original female character(s), #also there's lots of sheep, #dont ask

It's their senior year at the Garlean Institute of Technology, and Nero and Cid's relationship is on the rocks. The death of Cid's adoptive father Gaius, the escape of Nero's sheep and subsequent failure of his senior thesis, and the breaking of one of the beds in their dorm room has taken its toll on their always tumultuous love life.

Taking their third break in as many months, Cid has enlisted the help of an old girlfriend to make his old flame jealous. But Nero has a surprise for Cid that will rock his world, and the deception might just push their break into a final separation.

Meanwhile, Nero's alone, confused, angry, and so not ready to be a mother.

Got an idea for the Next Great Fanfiction? Send me a title or tags and I'll write you a summary!

Thank you for the ask! <3

[starbuck09256]

The enigmatic Dr. Scully

Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober2023

It's been a while xf fam! But I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. Thank goodness for Fictober! Hope you enjoy this little slice I came up with.

Season one, Mulders thoughts on his new partner.

He hadn’t prepared himself as well as he thought. His research into his newly assigned partner had glossed over her brilliance, significantly. Her thesis resonated with him on an intellectual level that made Phoebe seem almost illiterate, which was most certainly not the case.  Most would assume he had a certain type of woman he liked, tall, dark hair with a classic old money look that can’t be faked by even the wealthiest of the new money. That wasn’t his type, not really, the problem was women who had come from backgrounds like his had something else in common. Education, yes education, you see men of wealth needed a companion who could hold their own in conversation. Who read the Times, the Wall Street Journal. These women were well-bred and educated in a way that previous generations of women would never imagine. Phoebe and her father’s connections, prestigious schools, even Diana and her senator of a father. 

His type wasn’t looks, and the fact that he sat here on his worn couch with a copy of Dr. Dana Scully's senior thesis with so many notes in the margins that he had 8 pages of additional addendums on a yellow legal pad gave him more than a pause for concern. Dana Scully could easily be his downfall. Her thesis and thoughts had plagued his mind for weeks since he first read it. While originally he believed she would be a skeptical scientist and discredit his work at every possible turn, her thesis pointed to a different person altogether. She was certainly pretty, which he had already discerned from her FBI photo. She outranked him in the shooting range and about 95% of the bureau. Might be a good thing to have a partner with a guaranteed good shot. Unless she was going to be shooting at him, another ripple of anxiety rolled through his mind.

Why put her on the X-Files? Why saddle her brilliance in the basement? She wanted to get into fieldwork, she had a reputation as being a well-liked, informative instructor at the academy. Of course, some of her classmates were proving they would do anything to climb the federal ladder, not at all unusual for new recruits. He tapped his pen against the pile of pages of math and theory that had him questioning his own marginal knowledge of the universe. 

He had mentioned he liked it. He more than liked it, and damn if he didn’t like her too. This was not the time to fall for a badly veiled ploy. He taps his pen more before tossing it on the stack of files as he rubs his face standing up to pace a bit trying to order his thoughts of her once again. He isn’t sure what to make of her. She had followed him out to Oregon, and while she didn’t agree with his theory, the way she had gathered extra evidence, as she had studied Billy Miles's feet. She understood. On some level she was just like him, searching for the truth in a litany of lies. She was far more open-minded than she let on. She was far more righteous and loyal than he had originally thought, and he has been desperate to talk to her since. 

While he is proud that he hasn’t called her again since he let her know that the reports they filed were gone, his mind is begging him to engage her in another mystery. He needs more time with her. More time to figure out the enigma that she is. His stellar reputation and education have provided him with a way to look through people dissecting their interests, their fears, and their motives. Has he become so complacent that this new partner of his, confounds his mind so easily? Or has something much worse occurred? Has he finally found a woman that leaves him in the intellectual dust? 

He pulls out a report of a missing test pilot in Idaho. What would the enigmatic Dr. Scully think of a missing test pilot? How far would she challenge a military command that her own father has been a part of for over 20 years? He wonders and his own damn curiosity about her allegiances and thoughts have him picking up the phone and dialing before he has a solid plan to engage her. 

She agrees to meet him tomorrow at a bar just down the street from the bureau. His mind finally catches up and again asks him how smart it is to meet the woman, who has been plaguing his mind incessantly for the last 4 days, at a bar. Thank god he suggested a 2pm meeting. Will he buy her a drink? That could be an easy test. If she is open to a drink, would it speak to her willingness to fall in line with the secret lynching the bureau has planned for his continual embarrassment? Or will she point out that it is 2pm and she has other work to do? He told her he had a case that he didn’t want to share at work. He has a feeling should they continue on this journey it will not be the last time they meet in secret someplace outside the walls and ears of bureaus halls. He sits back against the worn leather, a smile stretching across his face. At the very least he will get to see her again, and talk with her, and for now, just knowing that tomorrow his mind will need every fiber of fortitude to dance with the brilliance of Dr. Scully is enough.