#LERECUEIL: a collection, compilation, anthology, or repository of things, often literary works like poems, stories, laws, or data, gathered into a single volume or set.
an independent and private multimuse by becks. she/her, 30+. originally est. 1 jun 2023. most recently moved 11 jan 2026. mutuals and 21+ only.
featuring largely interconnected original characters, with a small handful of canon characters from various sources. character list under the cut.
low to moderate activity. please read rules and information before following and interacting.
carrd.
ORIGINAL CHARACTERS:
the bardots
sebastian bardot
angélique bardot
jules bardot
colette bardot
pascal bardot
ramon silva
the sommerfelds
simeon sommerfeld
shoshana sommerfeld
ezra sommerfeld
the menagerie
tristan patel, the viper
sarita singh, the lynx
aniko kovacs, the scorpion
seneca kappel, the phoenix
fantasy ocs
aria de luca – ser aria of the lakelands, archetype of the valorous knight fallen from grace
freya fairweather – privateer captain and illegitimate sister of the prince of the dawn
guillaume de la tour – prince of the dawn, harbinger of prophecy
khyrielle "khyri" thornvail – woodland wanderer, wounded half-orc warrior ever fleeing her past
phineas barba – historian, avatar of the goddess hesta
pierre lapointe – lord & gentleman, purveyor of fine non-stolen goods
reyna – siren of the south sicacian sea, eater of hearts
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" THEY ALWAYS GET SO SQUIRRELY JUST AS THINGS ARE STARTING TO GET GOOD. " simeon doesn't bother to conceal the irritation and borderline condescension in his voice – not directed at the technically uninvited guest in his dressing room, but rather at those who had sent her. something about her general demeanor tells him she's about as eager to be here as he is to be extracted, which is to say ... not at all. refusing to pause in his evening ritual of preparing himself for the stage, he watches her with half a perceptive eye through the mirror on his vanity.
she appears prepared to strike at any moment, all teeth and claws for anyone who crosses her – a conclusion he doesn't come to only from the arsenal of weapons he can see strapped to her, let alone what he's sure he can't. it's certainly not a feeling with which he is personally unfamiliar. the difference is his uncanny ability to conceal it beneath layers of charm and beauty and pretense, to seamlessly disguise any contempt with come hither bats of his lashes and purred compliments and an innocent face that tempts the foolish to tell him anything. he supposes he cannot say for certain that she lacks such traits – but it's an educated guess. if she's rebel intelligence, he'd guess she's the muscle.
" extracting me when I'm this close to what they want to know is stupid and overly cautious of them. any chance you'll tell me who in high command gave this bantha shit order? " his mouth pulls together in an annoyed purse as he imagines the possibilities. as the son of a former senator, he's always felt that draven and mothma handle him with kid gloves, as if any political power his family once had still existed. as if the very empire they rally against hadn't taken it. a somewhat hopeless sigh escapes him then as he applies the slightest bit of shimmer to the high points of his cheekbones. " and I don't suppose you're going to give me a choice. it'll be less noticeable if I disappear after my set, you know. "
WITH THE SAME EASE AND SKILL WITH WHICH HE PULLS NOTES FROM THE AIR WHICH DRAW LISTENING EARS, THE SONGSMITH CREATES OPPORTUNITY AND INTRODUCTION FROM WHAT SHOULD BE HUMILIATION. coy and clever as he largely has been in his travels, it seems in retrospect inevitably in light of the growing dangers that he would eventually wind up an unwilling guest of some of the monsters ungraciously moving in upon all territories of hyrule. these days feel a world apart from a place he used to call home in all its corners. even his own music has begun to sound strange to his own ears, discordant where it was once melodic. and perhaps he's no right to be here. perhaps it is foolish, even – but uncertainty turns him reckless, and grateful as he is for a rescue, he contents himself to know it had only been a tertiary benefit, rather than a risk entirely for his sake.
" wait – please. " he wheedles, if charmingly, as the strange and lovely warrior begins to turn away, as if to depart. simeon's hand tightens on the neck of his newly re-acquired lyre, tilting his head curiously and allowing his eyes to narrow. " surely even someone so skilled needs rest after such an impressive display. and surely I owe you a meal, whether in the nearest town or merely cooked over a fire. I can hardly pay back the debt, but would you deny me the chance to at least acknowledge it? "
admittedly there's little harm, too, in a stitch of extra protection until he gets his bearings again – but that's merely a side benefit.
haston from seb : [ 3AM ] a dark graveyard thick with petrichor, well beyond visiting hours.
this was a natural setting for scenes the doctor was most attuned to. even when he was in his office, or the city council, nothing held quite the same appeal as the very dark soil beneath his feet, the smattering of headstones and crosses like small beacons in the night, the moon shining down in beautiful and pale silver. nearly as beautiful as his companion, for their was never a better word than that for sebastian, and haston had no time looking for it when he was simply too busy being with the other man. the intensity of those eyes, the sharp speed of that wit, the undeniable pull of that mouth - haston always found himself far less agreeable to the world's demise when sebastian was in front of him, or next to him, or in any way wrapped around him; and even in such serious moments as these it was a struggle to fully focus.
even in the middle of the night bridging into an early morning, knowing what was beneath their feet was not only moulding bodies and undone bones, but somewhere beneath laid the river he knew was so cold it could kill, just like him. therefore to find the hot touch of sebastian's hand on his back, where his own was on the hilt of the shovel he was still carrying over his shoulder, was a distraction. at this point, haston was about to forget what he was doing, which he'd invite any other kind of day, or night, but maybe not when he knew half of the population that recently made their bed in this particular plot of land.
" if your hand goes any lower, love, i might just hit you with the shovel. on accident, though no one would believe it to be one, " haston warned sebastian, leaning close to his neck, a snapping of his teeth following the words - teasing, lilting almost, before he did pull the shovel from his shoulder and ushered sebastian along to one of the graves further down closer to the line of trees. the mighty, and permanently frozen, coldfoot family did not have their permanent resting place here ( no, that one was much lower, with a direct line to the source ) but several of haston's relatives that used to live here before the town had become closed off were buried here. the coldfoot's did have relatives, yes, some of them even as human as the man next to haston, and their weakly-grown roots never really made much room. haston put the tip of the shovel against the dirt, digging his heel into it. " now, i do owe you some more family history from my end to even our score. you wouldn't mind if we'd start with my great uncle, would you? fairly certain he was buried with an heirloom i desperately need. "
WHO WOULD HAVE PREDICTED HOW MUCH MORE OF HIMSELF THERE WAS TO LEARN AT HIS AGE? no matter how much of his life sebastian feels as though he's merely stumbled through, there had been a time when he believed that he at least understood himself entirely, that there was little left to unearth in the depths of himself after digging for so many years. how incredible it is, to a man who studies the mind, that he can learn so much more about his own inner world because of one man. at no point in his past had seb imagined himself in such a situation as this, standing in a graveyard in the depths of night, a willing assistant in an act that some might consider grave robbing. he's always entertained some level of morality, he likes to think, but he's learned above all in his profession that such a concept is fungible – and dearest haston had explained the necessity of this outing to his satisfaction. that is, of course, not to mention the spark of curiosity that explanation had also sparked somewhere deep within him – purely academic, of course.
" and would you pretend it is not in its way romantic that I would risk it? " he asks innocently in return, even as that wicked hand slides downward to give his companion's rump a firm and playful squeeze before he dances a step just out of reach. he is too grown to be so impish in the presence of a lover, but strange as it may sound, it comes to him with ease with a man considered so odd and serious and off-putting to so many in this small minded town. for as much as he mostly wishes that haston did not have to withstand such rancid treatment, there's a certain satisfaction to being seemingly the only one in this whole damn place with the presence of mind to appreciate haste's fascinating and endearing singularity. with him, even an activity as objectively morbid as this becomes a fascination.
as he buries his own spade in the soil without prompting, tossing the earth neatly to the side, sebastian allows his gaze to flicker to the doctor with a poignant curiosity he doesn't bother to conceal. after all, haste only had to explain the basics to convince his colleague to come along – less a foundation than a skeletal scaffolding of reasoning admittedly supplemented by a trust and affection that has admittedly seized him with an irresponsible swiftness. ( he likes to think that may be mutual, but finds he can live almost as easily with the alternative. ) his mouth twitches somewhat in fond amusement as he continues to dig at a measured pace, one shovelful at a time. " I agreed to tag along without any promise of a fuller story, " he points out with half a shrug, knowing perfectly well that his companion must be aware he won't leave it there. after the briefest beat of a pause, he continues, as if admitting to something, " but ... as a doctor and an academic, particularly in my field, I suspect you know it might drive me a bit mad not to know more. not to mention that it seems only proper etiquette to keep somebody well informed, if they're so willing to dig up graves under the moonlight with you. "
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[36.] leaving possessive marks in places only they'll see. | trissim.
FOR SIMEON, FALLING IN LOVE IS LIKE DROWNING, THE PIERCING AGONY OF INHALING WATER INTO DELICATE LUNGS AS HE GOES UNDER. since his very first ill-fated tangle with romance in his youth, the queasy terror of that inevitability – or so it always feels – makes it equivalent to a struggle for life and death in his reactive mind, a hairpin trigger for the instinct of fight or flight that dwells within him in spades. the walls sim constructs around him are personified in the bold, seductive role he plays onstage, ethereal and untouchable, an impossible man who does not truly exist. it has been his armor for so much of his life, a secret form of flight known only to himself. and he has not realized until recently how much tristan ( @m0tiveforce ) has weakened those walls, little by little, until they're little more than a translucent veil draped over the very heart of him.
even now, the fear nearly freezes his pulse.
strangely, the realization that the dragon is not quite as immune to the songbird's performances as simeon previously imagined has eased that tension within himself more than he would have expected. the fact that their growing closeness has bared that truth more visibly night by night soothes like a cooling balm. easy enough to ignore the stark truth that tristan's interest in his stage productions walks hand-in-hand with their deepening emotional intimacy. simeon focuses instead on the delicious sensation of being watched and wanted. he has always enjoyed it even from strangers, when he presents himself for examination. he isn't entirely sure he could put words to the utter sweetness of feeling the focused gaze of a man he himself wants with such deep fervor in return.
the hunger it sparked began onstage, with the weight of those storm-deep eyes lingering on the songbird's every fluid motion – and the songbird's very flesh tingling with a keen awareness. heedless to how it might annoy the boss, sim had played to it, maintaining a stitch too much eye contact, accentuating the allure of each motion even as he felt his own craving grow infinitely from moment to moment. from across the room, he'd pushed and pulled and drawn his lover into his web of desire, even as he'd known that same web ensnared him at the same time. and by the time his set concluded, when he'd slipped through the halls to his dressing room and found tristan waiting for him outside the door, the other man hadn't a moment to speak before sim had him by the front of his shirt, dragging him through the door and slamming it shut behind them with one foot.
now that he's shoved tristan down on the lounge and straddled his lap, simeon has him exactly where he wants him. he still wears his revealing costume, his slim waist accentuated, his lean thighs bare, decorative pearls still woven into his thick hair as though he'd been plucked from a treasure trove. his attire only adds to the greedy shimmer behind his sharp ocean eyes and the forceful press of his palm against the middle of tristan's chest, keeping him firmly against the back of the lounge as his other hand works to hurriedly unfasten his lover's trousers.
his agonizing appetite overcomes him and he leans forward to snatch tris's mouth with his own, biting down gently on his bottom lip, lifting his hand from the other man's open fly to frame his sturdy jaw. the way tristan melts into him in response, the fluid response of his body to simeon's ministrations – the willingness of a man who exudes such power – coaxes a languid shiver down his spine. wanted. he is wanted. tristan wants him. as he is. he has seen the ugly within of him and he still wants him. he has watched simeon on stage in all his thinly veiled glory, and he's wanted him then, too.
it sparks something particularly ravenous in him, something that wants to both devour and worship, another of his contradictions like a snake eating its own tail. both hands now clutch at tristan's face, cradling his jaw, all teeth and tongue, as he leans his weight in its entirety against his lover's chest. this is not the polished paramour simeon has so often been in his past, but rather a coiled spring of need beneath soft perfumed skin. those clever hands slink downward, sliding over tristan's clothed chest, settling on his hips, growling almost impatiently as he slides the layers of fabric down those generous thighs.
wanted. tristan wants him.
he has always seized the control his lover allows him with enthusiasm and perhaps that has never been more true than it is this moment. a hum escapes him as his mouth blindly moves down tris's chin, jaw, throat, until the impatience drowns him. in one fluid motion, he slips down tristan's body like rain down a windowpane, settling on his knees between the other man's legs. somehow he manages to bring the half discarded pants with him, sliding them down to tris's ankles and leaving him gloriously bare from the waist down. he cannot speak – could not find words if he tried – but something like a purr leaves his throat as he leaves in to nuzzle against the soft flesh of tristan's inner thigh. hot to the touch, he feels a shudder in the live wire of nerves beneath his lips and presses a kiss there.
then more than a kiss.
his teeth sink softly into that delicate skin, pulling outward, sucking what's sure to be a dark, sweet bruise into tristan's powerful body rendered helpless to simeon's attention. want me, he thinks, just like this. he murmurs unintelligibly against him as he leaves another mark, another, as though taking one step at a time toward the very core of his own need, a craving that can only be achieved by giving to tris, by indulging such that he will never stop wanting. those blue eyes flicker upward, as if shy, as if in deference, flooded with an innocence that suits him both perfectly and not at all.
the heat of tristan consumes him, the anticipation held in each tensed muscle, the weight of those same eyes that had observed his very move onstage not half an hour before. it is without breaking eye contact that he finally moves to the crux of his thighs, that he indulges of tristan's own desire for him, mouth open and eager, like a man stranded in a desert and his first taste of water in days. he wraps his arms around tristan's legs and forcefully pulls, adjusting him a few inches downward for a better angle for his exploration.
all of this, and yet not for a moment does he tear his gaze from his lover's, intent as he is upon drinking in every expression, every quake, every gasp, every minute shift as simeon pulls him apart.
eager as he is, insistent, desperate in his need to be desired, he does not stop even when tristan pulls apart by the seams once, twice, not until he pushes sim away by the shoulders when the sensations become entirely too unbearable. only then does simeon finally catch his breath, only then does he drop his gaze, if only to rest his cheek against the inside of tris's knee, suddenly soft as cotton, flushed and half angelic as he recovers himself even with the familiar savor of the dragon lingering on his lips.
make no mistake, i love simeon's general trick in sci-fi verses of being a lounge singer and usually also a spy of some sort but ngl i love the self-indulgent idea of him being part of a ship's crew in any given sci-fi au that involves some chain of command ... and he's just an unholy fuckup. not great with science, engineering, maintenance, or any of that. maybe in communications/linguistics. but mostly just causes problems, gets in trouble CONSTANTLY whenever he's bored, purposefully causes chaos because he hates authority and is way too secretly scared to embrace ANY potential he might be hiding deep, deep down. but he also unfortunately benefits from a bit of nepotism because his parents ( and siblings ) are brilliant and it's entirely too complicated to fire him so he's just AROUND even though command probably hates him.
plus, the second there's a crisis situation or something that requires absolutely unhinged thinking or the need to adapt / charm / talk one's way out of something, he's stupidly effective.
" AND WHERE THE FUCK IS MY FUCKING COAT?! " simeon's muffled exclamation from the depths of his dressing room, behind a row of costumes somewhere near the back lefthand corner, is directed more at the general universe than anyone in particular – especially the only other person in his dressing room. it's only the latest in the string of profanity that's filled the last several minutes, spat and hissed like an angry kitten as sim has struggled to remove his performance makeup, to transition from stage to street clothes, all as quickly as possible despite tristan's ( @m0tiveforce ) continuous – and somewhat amused – insistence that there's no need to hurry.
a shuffle, a thump, and another frustrated yelp escapes simeon's corner, followed by an unintelligible string of muttered obscenities. finally, the clothing on the rack parts as he pushes his head through, rumpled locks falling messily over his forehead. his face, fresh and cleaned now of stage makeup, pinches in a pout until his gaze falls upon his guest. almost despite himself, his expression relaxes into a half-shy smile – before he disappears again behind his makeshift wall.
" you really won't tell me where we're going? " sim pretends to whine as he rustles through the racks of clothes again with a humph. a sigh follows, then the shink of metal against metal as he pulls another item off the rack. remaining in constant motion makes it at least somewhat possible to disregard his own thrumming pulse, the youthful excitement gripping at his throat as he holds one outfit after the other experimentally against his chest. " I don't know what to wear! "
@m0tiveforce ( as tristan trevelyan ) gets a starter from simeon.
A LARGER SHIP MAKES IT NO EASIER TO FIND EVEN A SCRAP OF PEACE WITHIN. if anything, freya has a more difficult time than ever finding anywhere to be alone, up to and very much including her own cabin. after all, if she chooses not to answer her com, that's the first place anybody would think to look – or to simply hail her that much more disruptively in the confines of her own living quarters. so instead, she seeks the strange in-betweens, wherever she can find them, rare as they are. the persona she's built allows her at least some plausible deniability. after all, who would expect to find the great commander shepard in the normandy's most infrequently trafficked storage hold, tucked on the floor between two enormous crates?
and among those who might believe that much, who could imagine her with a smoldering cigarette in one hand, leaning as close as she can to the nearest filtration vent?
one of the benefits of the lower decks is that the air filtration system hits these areas last. so while they maintain the foulest and stalest air, there's less of a chance of a whiff finding its way up to the bridge, or the crew deck. not to mention that blowing each thin line of smoke directly into the vent beside her minimizes any smell lingering here with remarkable effectiveness. she's practically made an art form of it. with a bitter sort of comedy, freya realizes how reminiscent of her youth this is, when she'd sneaked onto the roof of her father's building in the citadel to hide the one rebellious act which might cause him shame. she can't decide now if shame is what she feels anymore – or if she just wants to keep something for herself.
it's an ugly habit, she knows, and one of which she'd rid herself for many years before ... well, all of this shit happened. she managed to get through her time with cerberus without picking it back up, but she suspects that had more to do with a lack of time than any particular commitment. it had been house arrest that did her in, all her nerves and grief and fury and guilt and helplessness coalescing into hours of chain smoking while leaning out a window – in between pacing circles around her flat. unfortunately, that made vega one of the only crew members with a clue about this particular vice. more fortunately, he'd been remarkably easy to convince that she quit after reclaiming the normandy. she has no desire or intention for him to learn otherwise.
but of all the members of this crew – vega included – she expects she'd prefer that any of them to catch her here, rather than the familiar shadow that falls over her left shoulder.
" shit, " she hisses bitterly to herself, not even bothering glancing up to see whatever judgment, disdain, annoyance, amusement, et cetera that saren may be exhibiting with the weight of his gaze trained on her. of all the bloody– ... but it almost had to be, didn't it? and she had almost no doubt, even in that instant moment, that he'd sought her out.
god almighty, did she miss when he didn't give enough of a shit to bother.
" would've heard it on the com if there was an emergency, so I take it you've sniffed me out for your own reasons. congratulations, arterius, here I am. " for a moment, she considers stubbing out the cigarette as if to hide it – but there's no doubt he's seen it, so instead, she inhales deeply before blowing another delicate stream of white smoke into the vent. " might as well tell me what the hell you want. "
@laesarus ( as saren arterius ) gets a starter from freya.
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reading habits have me in my feelings about guillaume de la tour, prince of the dawn, the dragon heir, the prophesied, a man who should have been so incredibly ordinary but for the accident of his birth, who lives his entire life beneath a weight he wasn't designed to bear. and the worst part of it being that he tries so very, very hard to be what his family and country seem to need and expect of him while constantly falling short of expectation, until he ends up in a spiral half of his own making that drags him down not just through emotional and spiritual depths – but leads to the very physical disfigurement of himself. he gives so much of himself that it becomes almost self-cannibalistic, overusing his limited abilities as a mage and his limited abilities as a statesman, recognizing himself less and less as the days go by, both literally and figuratively. he turns slowly into a terrifying beast, and perhaps more devastatingly, feels himself changing on the inside as well until he doesn't know what is right and wrong anymore. he is a doomed tragedy who feels so cowardly for not wanting to be a doomed tragedy.
the tension between me being sick of men getting away with the bare minimum both irl and as fictional characters, and also loving almost nothing more than those m/f ship dynamics where she is so cool and powerful and the most amazing woman alive and he's just. some guy. he's just a normal ass dude. and the catch is that he is fully aware how incredible SHE is and acts accordingly.
finished my last book and immediately started a new one on a whim and now I’m trapped in its clutches so hopefully this awakens something in me once I’ve finished unhinging my jaw to devour the rest of it.
returned from ren faire broke as hell and with back pain to end all back pain but we had a great time and dottie did amazing and there was an incredible and very cringe after hours bg3 burlesque show and now we’re chilling for the rest of the day so I may be around after I do some reading!
PERHAPS THOSE MEMBERS OF HIS FAMILY AMONGST WHOM HE HAD BEEN RAISED WERE ALWAYS CORRECT. ramon has always been uniquely fascinated by engaging in the most raw and human of experiences, no matter how difficult it proves to remain with one foot in each of his worlds – especially when he hasn't enough of them to go around. his mother back in nicaragua, if fondly, has always encouraged caution. with respect, he has always ignored such encouragements. only in places like this does he hesitate in his idealism. some human hungers are natural, beautiful – and some are savage and base and horribly selfish. intimate desires are certainly not inherently foul, but the lecherous greed which seeps through the gazes of most patrons of such a cabaret has far more in common with violence than with love. why, then, would he come to such a place, one might ask?
the easy answer is business. perhaps the more complex one is to remind himself that he is only half his mother and that he must remain vigilant about which parts of him are not.
he cannot help but notice the proximity of perhaps the most favored performer of the evening, if in large part due to the sheer weight of the ravenous stares which follow her. doubtless she has no intention to approach him – and for his part, he keeps his gaze occupied upon tracing the outline of the liquor bottles against the back shelf. a drop in the bucket or not, the heaviness of another set of eyes cannot possibly be something that such a woman seeks. perhaps it is for the same reason that he chooses to speak to her, thinking his question clear even if that isn't so much the case, " it must be exhausting. "
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also connected to nothing ic but can we believe it’s been a whole year since one of my best friends who fosters all the time with our local humane society ( and my legal secretary at the time which is how we met ) picked up a 2lbs 7 week old puppy who’d been surrendered as the sole baby born in an accidental litter, undernourished and underdeveloped from malnutrition, who needed to be fostered bc she was so terrified at the facility that she shut down completely and refused to eat or drink or even acknowledge a single person — and made her very first call to me, who wasn’t looking for a dog, telling me “ I have a dog for you, I’m so serious. ” 24 hours later, she brought her to my apartment and this pup who had refused to leave her crate for hours the day before in a new place came out of her shell immediately and chose me as her person and our home as hers in a way I can only describe as magic. within weeks of being able to officially adopt her, dorothy jean became bold and brave, friendly and sweet, hilarious and playful, smart and well behaved, and bonded to us and our home fiercely. now, she’s my constant companion and halfway through her training ( as recommended by my therapist ) to becoming the best autism assistance dog ever. if you don’t like chihuahuas, she will cure you, this has been tried and proven many times over.
my latest reading selection has siren/merman simeon running rampant in my mind so please consider the following potential ship plots for both current and future ship partners:
siren simeon captured for a royal menagerie / zoo / sideshow / whatever fits. feral, uncooperative, in mourning, everyone assumes he can't understand / speak but he's just refusing to. slowly builds unwilling bond with man who Happens to be around for a fairly unrelated reason and takes an interest in whatever's going on with this creature even though he can't do anything at the time about his captivity. ( could be a royal who doesn't have a ton of power at the time or noble or worker for a royal menagerie, patron or worker for a zoo / sideshow, etc. )
man gets swept off the deck of a ship in the middle of the sea during a storm, wakes up on the shore of an isolated island after a miraculous survival. somehow food mysteriously appears in obvious places, there's always the feeling of being watched, and probably thinks he's going crazy because he swears he hears a beautiful lone voice distantly singing at night. ( what actually happened is that simeon saved him, brought him to the only land anywhere near, now doesn't know what to do but keep him alive and safe without actually being seen because that's SCARY. )
