— oliver quick from emerald fennell's "saltburn" indie & selective & canon / penned by jk ( heavily affliated with @felixferitas est. 02/22/24 )
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— oliver quick from emerald fennell's "saltburn" indie & selective & canon / penned by jk ( heavily affliated with @felixferitas est. 02/22/24 )
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— a note !!
predictably, and as i oft do, muse trickled into nothing early last month — so this muse and blog will be on hiatus !! i genuinely treasured all the thrilling threads and interactions i had here, and if there's any continued desire to write with me, i'll offer my discord in ims and provide updates to my next rping venture, but otherwise — tipping my hat to you all !! ( i'll keep this up regardless, in the off chance i return to him, as my fondness for this little devil, and the troubles he's stirred with all of your muses, bring me joy still. ) ttfn !!
"I always felt like an outsider. But that built me up, in a sense, to prepare for this work. And this is all a bonus compared to what I've journeyed through. So, imposter syndrome? No, I've never suffered with that in acting. I've always felt in place."
WHETHER SHE WAS HIS FIRST OR HIS FORTY-FIRST DIDN'T REALLY SEEM IMPORTANT. Just thinking about his eagerness to please her makes her stomach roll, makes her cunt twitch. She's rubbing her legs together without realizing into it, bucking up into absolutely nothing that could provide friction. Let's just hope nobody's watching the security camera out here; they'd see quite the solo performance.
Until you trickle down my chin.
Oh, god. Did she really get that wet for him? Did he really compel that from her? She suddenly feels bashful, despite how confident he is in the reality of her past performances.
"What do I miss? Oliver." She's in public! She's at work! It's fucking delicious, frankly; she's only playing that it could be anything but.
"How about—your cock in one of my friends while I stroke her?"
oliver isn't shamefaced by any means, not one to reel when prompted into explorations of sexuality. desire comes instinctual to him, knee-jerk, and sourced from the pit of his stomach — but the sharing, the performative intimacy that comes with romancing veronica is a decisive one. it thrills her, he's learned, and as he's willed himself once to stain the coat of his lungs for the sake of unwavering eye contact, the invitations for a twosome turned three, turned four — appeared to oliver, necessary. he gets off on it because she does, delights because veronica's hungering eyes feed him like a touch of her own. in an ideal situation, the inevitable euphoria built into the blush of her cheeks would be only oliver's to covet, only oliver's to watch, to gaze upon in their shared privacy. this is mostly the case at present, so he preens, works himself with a pivoting wrist, echoes like he enjoys the polyamory in passing. " — yeah? want to watch — and feel me, your hand flat against her stomach — fuck her nice and hard? good and wet for your fingers?" the arousal builds either way, half-present memories — though blurry with overlapping experiences — still erotic enough to prompt quickened pumps. none of it is as satisfying as having her, no fantasy, no distant vision, no promise rivals the hug of her body around his cock — but each dragging fist wrenches him closer and closer to a sloppy end.
what chess piece represents you?
— the black king.
you are the black king. you are the most important piece on the board, often called the weakest. but you are not weak in terms of tradition and status. the king gives orders to others, ensures difficult tasks are done, and makes the hardest decisions. yes, the king's movement is weak but in every other aspect, they are strong and important, for it is them that the game is fought for, to begin with. you rule with an iron fist, making the hard decisions that others won't, the only one to ever see the full picture. be careful, my dear king, for there are reasons kings are overthrown. you know what you do is right, now you must convince your entire kingdom. stay aware, my king.
as tagged by: @cemeterysgirl tagging: @egojock, @absentpublic, @nuks ( samara ), @takenamiss ( vathos ), @anthrcpophagi, @id1eyouth ( zachary ), @legbite, @solrites ( solveig ), and whoever else wants to tackle it!

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i want to lock him in my basement [gets scared about the optics ] with his permission,
Those words wind around them like a cord chain; they coax forth a soft needy sound. They've always been pleasantly vocal. Oliver's strength greatly (and wonderfully) surprises them, arms effectively restrained with the inability to struggle free (not that they would want to anyway). The idea of bruises being left as evidence is addictingly beautiful.
The intensifying heat is delicious as it continues to heighten. They're leaking pre-come. Streaks of it glisten on the skin of their abdomen as one leg is maneuvered. The slight flare from the muscles there don't last long, any discomfort is quickly eased.
The first jarring thrust in this position is profound, stealing the breath from their lungs in a moan. It reaches deeper inside them as if wanting to claim every inch. The rhythm is disorganized, but the ravenous and intense nature is one they're weak to drown in. They're disheveled, caught in the snares of Oliver's whims without a care... when it suddenly STOP.
Peyton can still feel the pleasurable stretch from where their bodies connect, but there's nothing more. Their resulting frustration isn't as prominent as initially thought; they know the game Oliver's playing. But they're too cock-drunk to muster up a good comeback.
"Please," they gasp out, now babbling. "I fucking need you. Own me. I love it. I want to be yours, make me yours. I love it when you fuck me. Claim me."
there is half a moment that her chest tightens in what would have become mortification had he not continued. someone laughing at her words is -- rarely positive, in her experience. but the flash of worry dissipates just as quickly, her mind then hopping to his next question. what was his first impression? it isn't something annette thinks of.
"hm. f-f-firs-st, i -- i tr-ry not t-to ... j-jud-dge r -- r-read-ders. z-z-zas -- zastr-rozzi was ... n - not-table. unc-comm-m-mon. b-but, um." a pause. "p-pol - lite. w-well, um. well-r-read. int - int-tell-lig-gent." she shrugs, not sure what else to say.
usually, if someone comes into the library often, she can glean something about them, however small. but his selections were so varied, so ... well. there is something.
"i th - thin-nk you, um. cr-rav-ve exc - ex - excitem-ment. o-or ... v-var-riety, or. ch - change. b-but it's, um ... hard to - to trus-st in l-lif-fe, so ... books." if she's right, he'll be greatly disappointed in her. annette charitably considers herself boring, unremarkable. another little shrug, expression melting from thoughtful to a bit shy. "a-at leas-st, ... f-fr - from your ch - chec-ck-outs."
change is inevitable, he thinks. it's a necessary evil when the source of ones desire lay unwinnable without it. if there's any similarity between them (and frankly, oliver doubts this) their paths would never cross; both lives parallel, perhaps asymptotic at best. he meets her because he goes out of his way to, stands across her listening, because he'd prompted it from her. there would be no annette and oliver if not for intent, if not for decisive change. so he shrugs, thoughtful amidst assumption. he could thank her for the compliments seeded in, but there are larger caverns to close, and he cocks his head just slightly, eyelids lowered in focus. "would your impression change if i'd come with you in mind?" oliver clarifies with a habitual drag of tongue. "if i made these choices as an excuse to visit you, would you still think of me highly? — intelligent, and well-read?" his expression, bland and flat, gives little away.
her initial reaction is a high-pitched squeak, a mousy sound of surprise &, to a lesser extent, alarm. she does not wrench herself away, as she did the only other time she has been kissed. but she does not respond in the opposite way, either, simply standing there & allowing it to happen. (is this as cruel as active sweetness? she isn't sure.) she retreats, weak lungs rattling as she looks up at oliver again through her lashes.
"i d -- i did - i didn' r - real - realize -- ... oh."
she's blushing furiously, a bright & hot pink pooling under freckles. the sensation of the contact seemingly echoes, as if the pressure lingers. she has not retreated far, nose still brushing his. wide eyes scan his features, half-searching for that same look she'd seen once in a pair of dark eyes. but there is none, at least at the surface. perhaps this time she is another person, not the mouse being scruffed by the cat.
the hand around his wrist slides to simply cover his hand, pulse still loud in her ears. slowly, almost strangely so, she turns her face into his palm, as if at any millimeter of movement his gentle affection may sour. barely, she ghosts her lips to the heel of his palm -- her own sort of gesture.
she astounds him with minimal movement. the fluster is expected, the nervous tremors like clockwork — but it is with the angling of her head and the brush of her mouth that oliver latches onto, hurried and needy. heel to skimming lips, the stretch of his fingers curl, trace along the bridge of her nose and the angle of her jaw. from touch alone, he can picture annette's expression in his head. he can see it fine, awed with the blue of his eyes — but it's a stunning sensation to recognize her through the run of his hand. there isn't anything to be verbalized. he communicates similarly, in gesture, in contact, and whilst her face turns into the curve of his palm, oliver leans into the blush of her cheek, the shell of her ear. he kisses her there, runs the seam of a smile against the soft lobe, then lower still to where her neck extends. nose to pulse, and a guiding arm bending around the bend of her waist. he's almost feeding her into himself, pressing her flush against his person, though the intimacy continues arguably slow. sweetness to modest skin, romance in the cup of her face.

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"you don't have to be sorry about anything. just take it as uh... a lesson, or something." he shrugs his shoulders, smile still there. it is not exactly easy to talk about, but after all the time that's passed, it's a lot easier. it's just a part of his life, now. "i was only fifteen at the time." then, it's austin's turn. "can i ask why you're so interested? i'm not offended. just curious."
he tries to picture it in his head, the snap of bone and sinew, the presumed shattering of skin, the terror of it suddenly blown outward from pinprick to flooding hurt. oliver's injuries, though strange in their own right — are less cinematic in description, and he's only wary of the insistent pressing when austin addresses it. "sorry," he repeats, brows lifting in habitual apology. "i'm overtly curious. a troubling habit is all." true to a point, though oliver's intrigue lies more heavily upon austin as a whole than it does his misery. there's something to be celebrated either way; that he's privy to such a pitiful event and welcomed to ask about it — proof of their slow and steady entanglement. then, shaking his head with a rerouting, oliver proposes: "we don't have to talk about it any further if it's uncomfortable. i don't mean to pry."
eros the bittersweet, anne carson / saltburn (2023) dir. emerald fennell
She takes a long sip of her wine, her lips pressing against the rim of the glass as she hums, letting the deep red alcohol warm her throat. ❛❛ Oh, not really... ❜❜ She confesses, offering a sheepish smile. Her eyes are half-lidded, and her entire body is lax and pliant. Felix is staying with a babysitter- a rare feat, as Samara rarely leaves her son in the care of others. She's too much of a mother bear.
But times like this are nice- when she can unwind and relax with a trusted friend. ❛❛ But... It's really nice. Thank you for having me. ❜❜ Samara says softly, her brown eyes warm and twinkling as she swirls her wine around in the glass. The blunt they shared is gone, and the ashtray sitting nearby. She feels warm and content, a far cry from the anxiety she nurses when she's alone in her room with her thoughts.
the hood of her gaze communicates much, whispers of a gradual unwinding, the melting of tongue and drifting of inhibitions. he's done research of his own — samara's storied life more public than any prior figure of interest — but there is a high to be chased when the world is offered to him freely. a glinting sign of trust, or a desire to. and oliver knows the depth and weight of it, the sway desire baits forward, the warmth rippling out in pliant waves. oliver drinks to keep her company; sip for sip. "nothing to thank me for. i'm happy to be in your company, happier to share in the relief. you owe these sorts of evenings to yourself," he muses, not from a space of condescension nor of a paternal advisor, but cheekily, grin tilted in the process. the scrambling heat of rising liquor interrupts the blasé hum of his commentary then, and with a lifted brow, oliver adds: "evenings where you let go. do what you'd like to do, say what you'd like to say — be who you'd like to be."
As if he had read her mind, he says the magic word, the one-worded spell to bring her back. Stay. It's all she ever wanted, a place to belong, a place to remain and plant her roots. Home was never a place, she knew that. Maren had learned that by the age of five, when her home address changed with the seasons. Home was people, a person. Yet Maren didn't have a home. Not physically, not emotionally. She was a loner and she was meant to be alone. But it felt so good to be wanted. Even if she wasn't sure of his intentions, having Ollie ask her to stay was all she needed to confirm her attachment.
I do like you. The more he speaks, the more Maren feels herself reeling like a fish caught on his hook. She was easy prey, even if she could also be a fierce predator. She was easy to lure, easy to bait and trick into a false sense of security. Oliver must've known that. He must've seen that weakness in her. Because every word he says only tightens his grip on her heart. If he didn't stop talking, she might never leave.
"I will hurt you. I always hurt people." She looks down, unable to meet his gaze as she mutters. "Even when I don't want to."
It's far too easy for Maren to imagine the way it could all play out. They grow close, they hang out. They watch movies, go on drives together. She becomes hopelessly attached and then: boom. She wakes up one day to an empty passenger seat. An empty sofa. An empty bed. Nothing but his clothes and the lingering scent of him to serve as proof that he ever existed in the first place.
She couldn't do it again, she refused to. She couldn't go through that heartache again. And Ollie didn't deserve to die that way, no one did. Except maybe Maren.
His grip on her is almost predatory, keeping her in range and preventing her from scurrying off like a startled animal. It should've been off-putting, it should've made her stomach roil and her mouth go dry. Instead, she likes the way the pressure feels. She likes the absence of choice and the security of obsession. She likes the idea that if her mind were to float away, his grip would be there to keep her afloat.
Without realizing it, she steps closer to him, subtly and subconsciously offering her other wrist for the taking. Choices were her weakness. She hated making them. She always seemed to make the wrong ones, no matter the circumstance. Maren never chose the right answer, never went down the right path, never trusted the right people. So, letting other people choose for her had become addicting. Letting them choose the restaurant, the movie, the place, the limits. And when it proved to be the wrong choice, she had someone other than herself to blame and someone she could viably escape from.
But wanting Oliver to choose for her felt unfair, especially when she couldn't be sure if he knew what he wanted. They could both very well be floating along in the cosmos, waiting to collide with something. They could very well be the cause of each other's downfall. Even so, she raises her eyes to meet his, an innocent, pleading vulnerability saturating her gaze. "Please don't make me hurt you, Oliver."
it isn't hurt, not really — not just. in-between the gnawing, the gums, the grinding pressure and inevitable crunch of cartilage, severing of nerves and punctured skin, sits salivating laps, tenderness, lust and unhurried romance. there is more to enjoy than a private wounding, and oliver murmurs this, needlessly desperate: "you won't." though their bodies have come into heavy contact, there is much to learn. in the same way he arrives new to maren's tendency, she sidles in foreign to his desires. she may assume him plainly masochistic; a halfway suicidal thing deranged and needy for the clamp of her teeth, the burn of her stomach. he suggests otherwise, "i'll stop you before you do — or I'll punish you if you try." and morbidly, oliver communicates it like romantic gesture, thumbstrokes running like rivulets across her knuckles. "i won't let it get too far. i only ask you to try. to open up for me, spread like i sense you hope to." she wills the sentiment from him with the doe of her eyes. sensuality made all the more enticing when her façade is wet and wide, her sweetness like cherry garnish for a repressed brutality. he's entirely smitten, drawn like a man obsessed. it's early, but oliver doesn't doubt the tingle. he's friend to it, companion to the thrum that ripples through him layer by layer. he must have her, is the point. "i'm resilient." (hardy, malleable, and naive as it is to think; oliver thinks himself even invincible at this point, heart hammering too quick to catch hesitation. struck too accurately to consider anything but the tending to his desire.) he corrals her instead, scoops her palm by palm along maren's waist, then snaking further to the low of her spine. his eyes are almost frightfully blue, nails digging like measuring pins through the soft folds of her clothes. "...i am," oliver murmurs, reassuring then when the distance between them shrinks into inevitable intimacy. he moves to woo her, evidently — left hand abandoning its possessive grip to cradle maren by flustered cheek.
Arching an eyebrow, Zachary senses the complexity buried beneath Oliver's words. “You know,” he begins slowly, feeling the significance of his answer settling on his tongue like an unvoiced secret, “it’s different with you.” The admission lingers in the air, thick with sincerity. He leans a fraction closer, the air humming with an unspoken connection. “Sure, I love the rush, the flattery that comes with it. But when it’s just us…” He trails off, his smile softening as he turns his head.
Meeting Oliver’s intense gaze, Zachary sifts through the maze of his feelings. “With you, it’s deeper. It’s intimate. I feel… seen in a way that those nameless faces can’t touch.” He pauses, for a moment. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t crave that thrill too. Maybe I don’t need the attention like I thought, but there’s a part of me that relishes it, that feeds off it.” There's a hint of shame in his voice, a tinge of embarrassment.
“I will give it up, if that's what you want.”
he clarifies, stubbornly jealous. "and you won't resent me if i ask? — not now or in the future?" paranoia leaves a garish stain, reddens oliver like a wound. he wishes otherwise, yearns to believe zachary by first comment and require not an ounce of repetition, but he's already prickling. he's already expecting a lie, a fib that reveals itself ten years in the making. he's asking for an exclusivity and belonging that toes an argument of agency. surely zachary will bristle when the time comes; the inquisition alone will be the fall of them. still, his tongue flits. still, oliver jumps to impulse and wants to be proven otherwise. ('tell me you belong to me. convince me of it today, and tomorrow, and again a decade from now.') wetting the seam of his lips, he murmurs, "i would work to fill in the space it left behind. i'd be dedicated to your satisfaction."

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A silent, comfortable habit had grown where Vathos knew he could leave his stick behind when going out with Oliver. He trusted him like that. So either he would hold onto his arm or squeeze his shoulder. Oliver was cautious and would warn him if there was a step or roadblocks. There hadn't been any accidents so far. So fingers easily found his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze as they made their way down the hall.
"Anyone can choose not to be single, Oliver. It's just a matter of standards." He said it lightheartedly, although he truly believed in the statement. If you wanted to have a relationship, after all, you can easily let go of your preferences and beliefs in order to gain one just for the sake of it. But that was usually not how it worked.
"A type--" he considered. "Someone with a warm voice. Lean or athletic physique because, well, it's nice to understand the lines of the body, I guess." Face scrunched slightly together in discomfort, thinking that last part sounded a bit weird. "Someone smart. Where you can talk to, debate with. Someone who's not.. shallow." Vathos considered his own words, then nodded casually in agreement to his own description. "What about you?"
the description put forth is sound, though oliver frets temporarily in the jabbing of shallowness. it's once upon a time definition often mixed in with figures who prioritize beauty above all else. in oneself and in others, presumably. oliver wouldn't consider himself exactly that but there is a stringed connection there between bubbling appreciation for the handsome, for the stunning and attractive — and the impulsive habit he'd borne from falling in love through first impression alone. he believes in the latter somehow, thinks it a fine reflex when his reverence has yet to lead him astray. vathos is as beautiful as he is kind after all, as handsome as he is patient, and charismatic. he clung often to immediate judgment, lapped his lips in the distant awe — though there became more to it in time. they are friends now, is the thing. scrambling for 'debate', oliver counters: "is it shallow if my type is based on feelings that can't be placed?" he's honest too, surprisingly — then with a nervous build up, he continues, "sparks. raw attraction. — love at first meeting, i guess." attachment and obsession and addiction and devotion and possession too.
and now this, right here is why the two of them became friends int. he first place. their smile goes from something silly to a little more devious, and while nadine is usually the type to order a drink by guessing, they have found themselves a new task. memorize the prices of every alcohol they can find in an attempt to scam the fuck out some rich assholes.
"oh, they'll just have to. especially knowing how limited our weekly budget is. and we're just so kind, y'know? spending what little bit we have on our friends. all in the small hope that us poor folk can get a little glance from the rich. a smile, if we're lucky."
now, he gets an excited kiss on the cheek. "you're an evil genius, ol. make sure you bring your best puppy dog eyes. they're sure to eat that up. even gets me, sometimes."
he doesn't intend to be 'evil' nor is he particularly warmed by it, but nadine's near instant affection for it has oliver halfway beaming. the approval tastes sweet and salty under his tongue, the purse of their lips an approving brand. " — well." and he warms, considerate when coasting comments about the understated manipulation of baby blues sits at the tail end of their exchange. that nadine seems aware of it, seems independently bemused by it's glaring existence, is worrying. albeit, they don't seem wholly put off by it, if anything. his fingers brush the pecked cheek. "i doubt batted lashes will do me any good in their company — but i'll try not to appear deceitful, at best." a canned chuckle, but a chuckle nevertheless. and when his hands return low to his sides again, oliver continues with the clearing of his throat, "what's um — our budget?"