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#Write Marcus
writemarcus · 2 months
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Dev Bondarin is directing a reading of my kitchen-sink dramedy TUMBLEWEED with the UP Theater Company (www.uptheater.org). The reading will take place on Sunday, January 21st at 3pm at Ft. Washington Collegiate Church located at 729 W. 181st St. (1 train to 181st).
Kirby Fields, artistic director of the UP Theatre Company recently spoke with the Manhattan News recently about their Dead of Winter series: ‘Fields says it is particularly gratifying to establish relationships with writers. Marcus Scott, who wrote the third play in the series, “Tumbleweed,” came to a staged reading last year. Then he sent Fields a number of his own plays.
“This guy is just bursting with ideas,” said Fields. “He’s pulling from philosophy, pop culture…he’s culling from all different racial dynamics on stage and putting them all together.” Directed by Dev Bondarin, the play revolves around a young Black woman with “hair like a tumbleweed” who tries to reconcile different standards of beauty.’
👩🏾‍🦱👩🏿‍🦱👩🏽‍🦱👩🏾‍🦱👩🏿‍🦱👩🏽‍🦱👩🏾‍🦱👩🏿‍🦱👩🏽‍🦱👩🏾‍🦱👩🏿‍🦱👩🏽‍🦱👩🏾‍🦱👩🏿‍🦱👩🏽‍🦱👩🏾‍🦱👩🏿‍🦱👩🏽‍🦱
Read the story: Manhattan Times
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thoughtkick · 4 months
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Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.
Marcus Aurelius
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ageofstarkey · 7 months
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nervous energy ✰ m. riddle
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summary: it’s just been one of those days, and you seek out matthéo to make it better.
pairing: best friend! (but maybe something more?) matthéo x reader
warnings: nothing really!! just some very vague mentions of anxiety related thingssss
note: another lil baby matthéo blurb!! just love-sick théo being an absolute softie for reader :’)))) also if you’re new here - i headcanon matthéo as french (hence the accent on the e!! so his name would be pronounced muh-tay-o, and théo would be tay-o bc i think it’s a cute nick name) okay okay anyways hope you enjoy!! feel free to submit hp requests (marauders or original era!! no smut!! <3)
masterlist
reblogs & comments are so appreciated <3
✰ ✰ ✰
with a quiet little sigh, you knock at the door of the boy’s dormitory. you’re filled to the brim with nervous energy, fingers worrying at the sleeves of your sweater as you wait.
after what feels like a near lifetime, the door swings open with a loud, familiar groan. matthéo stands on the other side, and the mere sight of your best friend causes you to lose any semblance of composure.
before he can even so much as say hello, you’re throwing your arms around his neck. “woah - hey” he stumbles back but quickly steadies himself, wrapping tentative arms around your waist. “what’s wrong?” his voice is soft in a way it only ever is around you, and it takes everything in you not to break down and cry.
“bad day” you murmur weakly into the fabric of his t-shirt. your voice is muffled, but his arms tighten around you in silent understanding. “i just feel weird”
“d’you wanna talk about it?”
you make an awkward attempt at a shrug, arms still wrapped firmly around matthéo’s neck. “i don’t think so.”
“okay. that’s alright.” he’s quiet for a few seconds, one hand stroking up and down the length of your spine absentmindedly. “is there anything you need?”
you sigh softly as you pull away from matthéo. your arms fall back to your sides, and you try to ignore the way one of his hands remains firmly on your waist. “can i just… stay here for a little?”
his lips turn upwards in the barest hint of a grin. “you can stay as long as you’d like.”
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perfectquote · 15 days
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Very little is needed to make a happy life: it is all within yourself in your way of thinking.
Marcus Aurelius
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kedreeva · 1 month
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OC Askbox Game
I'm avoiding writing and you probably are too, so let's at least think about our characters while we do it.
You know the drill- send me a number (ONE number, you can come back for more) and I'll answer for an OC of your choice (if you know their name) or my choice (if you don't know their name). Feel free to name some of your OCs in the tags of your reblog, if you want to be asked about them.
How did you choose their name?
Were they created for the story, or was the story created for them?
Do they have a love interest, and was that their choice or yours?
Do they have a best friend? If so, how did they meet? If not, have they ever/why never?
Did they have a pet as a child?
What catalyzed their introduction to the plot?
What attribute of them (some facet of their personality, their history, their look, or whatever etc) would you find most important to somehow preserve if they were transplanted to an AU fanfic?
If your character's financial situation were to suddenly flip (someone poor becoming rich, someone rich becoming poor, etc), how well would they handle it? What would be the first thing they would do?
If your character could have handed their role in the plot to someone else, would they have?
Free Space #1: Which of your OCs would be most likely to survive a zombie apocalypse? Which would die immediately?
Does your character have a pet peeve?
Has your character committed any crimes (per their universe's laws)? If not, which crime would your character most likely commit?
Who is your character's closest (by relation, fondness, or distance) blood relative?
How does your character feel about riding horses (or your world's closest approximation of a horse if it lacks horses)?
Is your character's first instinct fight or flight? Is there something that could force them to do the opposite?
What is your character's favorite leisure activity?
Is your character holding any grudges? Are they likely to stop?
If your character were trapped on a deserted island, what three things would they want to have with them? Which person would they absolutely hate to be trapped there with? Which person would they enjoy being trapped there with?
Does your character having any health issues, whether they're aware of them or not?
Free Space #2: Which of your OCs would you most like to meet in person, if they could become real (or you could visit them) for a day?
Final Question: Ask me your own question about my OC
Remember: play nice! Send an ask to the person you reblogged this from, and try to send a few to folks that reblog from you!
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morallyinept · 16 days
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B O D I E S - A Collection of Pedro Boy & Real Body Reader One Shots - Masterlist
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A collection of softly smutty Pedro Boy stories, featuring real bodies and real love... 🧡
Adoration - Joel Miller - Cancer/Masectomy
Reverence - Ezra - Limb Loss
Devotion - Dieter Bravo - Curvy/fuller Body
Homage - Javi Gutierrez - Blindness
Veneration - Frankie Morales - Deafness
Adulation - Marcus Pike - Alopecia
Respect - Dave York - Wheelchair User/MS
Devoutness - Marcus Moreno - Mature 60+
Glorification - Jack Daniels - Pregnancy
Exaltation - Javier Peña - Scarring/Burns
Sanctification - Joel Miller - Vaginismus
Benediction - Frankie Morales - Scoliosis
Acclamation - Marcus Pike - Walking Aid
Piety - Dieter Bravo - Paraplegia
Obeisance - Joel Miller - Fibromyalgia
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🖤
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ravensmadreads · 7 months
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Unhinged totally unasked for thots about Riding Pedro Boys
Authors Note: So this came from me chugging entirely too many energy drinks and then projectile vomiting in Taylors inbox. I'd like to warn you that: English isn't my first language, I have never written smut before, I'm not a real writer, and also I'm trash goblin levels of unhinged about this. That being said; Enjoy and uhh. Forgive me Fandom
JAVIER PEÑA
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Javier Pena doesn't let you do it.
Don't @ me LISTEN! (YES I STARTED OFF WITH A CONTROVERSIAL THOT FUCKING BITE ME.)
That man does not have the time, or the patience, or the good sense (the sense is at the other end) to let you ride. He needs the control okay? And sometimes it's not even about the control ! It's the frustration. It piles and piles and piles until he snaps. He needs to do. He will bend you over and work his frustration away until he has had enough and you let him because he needs it. (And lets be real he makes it worth your while every single time)
BUT. When he finally fucking retires, and gets a ranch, and breaths air not tinged with the smells of death, cigarettes and guns for the first time in however many years, and maybe drinks some fucking water, he takes you out on a date. He fumbles through the entire thing, panics because he thinks he blew it, still manages to get you home, gets ridden for the first time in like 6 years, and can't walk straight for an entire day and stammers every time someone asks him why.
JAVIER GUTIERREZ
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Javi G loves it. He loves watching you. Gets all puppy dog wide eyed (remember the pool scene face??? Thats it.) and you have to really focus because his look of straight up wonder and awe and bright eyed eagerness makes you want to cry. He's panting like he's running a marathon, running his big hands EVERYWHERE he can reach. He makes you feel worshipped and adored and so very very loved. Thanks you after. For being so amazing, and so wonderful to him, and thanks the universe that he found you. Cause he's sap. You definitely cry after.
JOEL MILLER
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(Watch me be controversial again) Joel is fucking tired okay? He has old man bones and creaky joints and his back is achy. Patrol was agony, Jesse wouldn't shut up the entire time, and Tommy was giving him shit, and he has no energy to drill anyone into the mattress (as much as we all want him to). He's just plain tired. He likes you on top. Likes it slow (like a roast chicken on a sunday slow). Enjoys the gradual build up, likes to lean back, watch with half open eyes as you take your time. Wants to indulge in something beautiful at the end of the world, and that something is you. He makes sexy grunting noises, mutters a whole lot of praise ~and filth~ and just y'know. Savours it. 🫠🫠🫠 savours you. 🫠
DIETER BRAVO
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Dieter is a maniac. (Leave him alone he has adhd!!) He can't still still for the life of him so you best believe he changes positions 6 times and the only way you're getting to ride is if you're also putting some weight elsewhere. To hold him down! You squeeze his neck once and he MELTS. INSTANTLY. Loses all sense. Starts babbling and whimpering and making extremely pathetic noises. Will definitely buck up and whine. PRAISES YOU. BEGGING. LOUD NOISES.
MAX PHILLIPS
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Max is a heathen. He just likes watching you bounce. That's it. That's the post :p
MARCUS PIKE
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Marcus P is a romantic. He will be doing the whole "lean forward and try to get kisses in between" while also "moaning and maintaining eye contact" and he's holding you so tight , squeezing your sides and also muttering declarations of love. About how he wants a life with you, and a family, and a home, and a future. How he's going to "make you so happy baby, I promise I will, I swear to you". Doesn't let you off for from on top of him for atleast a half hour after; kissing all over your face and rubbing your back and petting your hair "I meant all of it sweetheart. I want all of you." shsbzgwgsvsg ilovehimsomuch and I've only ever seen gifsets of this man what is wrong with me
MARCUS MORENO
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Marcus M is A MENACE. He wears his stupid glasses, and has his stupid shirt off, while he does stupid taxes/meeting plans in bed. You keep throwing side glances and getting increasingly wound up and he just has this gentle smirk but he's mostly ignoring you. You sidle up to him and maybe start kissing his jaw, laying gentle pecks down his neck, and he's still fukcungh working "Baby. I need to finish this. I'm sorry, you need to wait." But that smirk is still there and it's driving you crazy and maybe you keep kissing until you reach his *coughs* and then you're working on getting him interested. You can still hear the fucking pen scratching though and so you go deeper, and he raises an eyebrow. "be good now honey" You're settling in his lap and he has you sitting there until he has finished his paperwork with you whimpering and trying not to squirm because you want to be good you really do and you know he'll make it so much better but he feels so good and when he's finally finally done you get to move but you're so wound up you can't pull yourself together enough to find a rhythm and you're nearly in tears and he has to grip your sides and murmur instructions in your ear and help you until you're satisfied and just when you think he's done, and about to flip you over, he adjusts his grip and starts moving from underneath you until you're crying and he's finished ~which doesnt happen until you've come 2 more times~
DAVE YORK
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Dave. Oh my gosh Dave. Dave is a strict dom if ever there was one. With him it's a punishment. He'll tell you to hold off until he's done which is freaking impossible with how deep he gets, and how he likes to warm up his hands on your butt while you're trying desperately to hold onto that last thread of control. He is muttering absolute filth, holding your arms behind your back with one hand while the other is either laying smack after smack or rubbing you furiously all the while he's got the smuggest look. "Don't you dare baby. Be a good girl now. Listen and obey for once". But you can't because he's not fair and he knows it. And when you do finally fall apart he's clenching his teeth trying to hold back himself and his hands are holding you up as you gasp his name like it's the only word you know. He's running his hands down your back and kissing you softly and helping you catch your breath and when you finally get your heart to stop pounding and look up at him, he's watching you with this dangerously soft smile and he goes "oh you're in for it now aren't you honey?" and kisses your forehead while you try not to whimper.
FRANKIE MORALES
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Frankie is a soft boy. He loves it. Craves it. He loves giving up control. Wants you to tie him up and have your way until he has no thoughts left in that pretty little head. He is swearing like an absolute sailor the entire time, calling you ma'am, begging to be released so he can kiss you and touch you, absolutely nearly breaks the head board once he was so desperate. Wants to be edged but also is the biggest WIMP about it. Will pout and swear and beg and plead but then want you to deny him again. Will definitely be mumbling absolute nonsense once you're done. Needs all the aftercare. Blushes pink when he gets it. Wraps himself around you like a HUGE koala bear after. ~and returns the edging favour 3 times over when he gets in his Captain Francisco Morales Mood~
JACK DANIELS
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BONUS TWO I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT and tumblr won't let me put gifs for:
Jack makes every single cowboy joke known to man. You have to put your hand on his mouth to get him to shut the hell up. His eyes get all glassy when you do. He puts his hat on top of your head and busies himself in your neck (dual benefits: A. He shuts up and B. HICKIES) will definitely drag you on top of him in his Bronco (he likes to show off) will pull up on the side of the road almost 70% of the times you drive together. Bites you over your clothes. Loves the way you grab desperately at this leather jacket. Definitely makes you bend over and 'clean up the mess sugar' before driving like the hounds of hell are after him all the way back home and doing it all over again because "we gotta make you a mama now love"
PERO TOVAR
Pero got married after he came back and retired as a sell sword. His wife is a soft but sassy thing who's a little (read: not at all, she returns his snark twice over) intimidated by him but also thinks he's a good man because he saved her village from raiders. She has seen him grumble and snark at but then also share his food with the orphans who works at the village inn. She's inexperienced (let me live my victorian life) and he doesn't really think he deserves her but also he's not so much an idiot to say no to someone like her. She's the village "healer" and he met her when he got stabbed by one of the raiders (arm wound: not serious.) He has to teach her. She gets shy and flustered, which is a total 180 from her sassy self, and Pero loves it. She makes the most amazing sounds that have him thinking that maybe he did something right in his life to end up in her arms. She wants to please her new husband and asks her married friends for advice and they tell her about this new position. So she asks him, stuttering and tripping over words, if she could try something she heard about? From a friend? She straddles him and Pero loses his mind. He's closing his eyes and clenching his jaw so hard and she's whimpering in the most DELICIOUS way and he's trying so hard to hold back and let her take her pace and she's so worried "am I not doing it right?" Pero has to take 3 deep breaths before he's centred enough to answer and then he helps her. Puts his hands on her hips to guide her. Puts one of her hands on his shoulder "steady now pequenita" and puts the other low on her belly and presses in so she can feel him. Loves the way she cries out. Bends forward to leave little marks everywhere he can reach. She's scrambling at his chest, leaving nail marks he loves, and finally grabbing his hair and pulling until he groans. And when they're both done and sated and sweaty he kisses her, looks her in the eye and winks. "I'm going to have to go thank your friend now, mi esposa."
DIN DJARIN
Din and you dont have time. The razor crest is finally in hyperspace, you got shot at for the 50th time in 2 weeks, (because Murphys Law seems to be the only law Mando never breaks), you're exhausted, sweaty, and the giggly green monster of chaos only made you chase him down from the top of a weapons cabinet twice before he finally decided to take a nap. You're frustrated, and in desperate need of a shower, and a nap, but also you can't get the image of Mando fighting out of your head. Before you know it, the hormones have taken over and you're attacking him in the pilot seat. The bucket is off (I refuse to look at my own reflection in the tin cans helmet while we do the do), he's got you arching into him, your shirt is half torn from the top because Din refuses to wait for "so many fucking buttons Meshla" the gloved hand is squeezing the back of your neck, his mouth is on your chest, his other hand (you only managed to get one glove off) is splayed out on your back. You're riding him like you're trying to break him and his thigh holster? thing (do i look like i can figure out what they're called?) is digging marks into your skin but you're too turned on to care. It's frantic, it's messy, you're PRAYING the tiny green menace stays asleep as you do your best to muffle your sounds. The refresher isn't big enough for a round two, (you still do your best), and your legs feel like jelly, when you finally pass out; curled up on top of the human space heater while he hums Mando'a in your ear.
*****
TAGGING: @chronically-ghosted (you are a menace but ily)
@fuckyeahdindjarin (here I go trying that writing thing again, stop me pls)
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adiraargent · 12 days
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Your pain is my pain - Mattheo Riddle
Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader warnings: none, mentions of wizarding war ig wc: 475
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In the dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains, the room felt suffocatingly silent, save for the occasional rustle of sheets as you shifted uncomfortably in bed. The weight of the nightmares pressed down upon you like a heavy blanket, suffusing the air with an almost palpable sense of dread.
You lay there, eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling as your mind churned with memories of horrors past. Night after night, the same visions plagued your dreams, dragging you back into the depths of despair with a relentless grip that refused to let go. Flashes back to the wizarding war and your last year of school. The war had ended a little over a year ago now and your nightmares had been coming back.
And yet, amidst the darkness, there was a flicker of light – a beacon of hope that shone brightly in the form of Mattheo Riddle, the cocky, slightly short-tempered Slytherin boy who had captured your heart in ways you never thought possible.
He had been your rock through it all, ever since you started dating in your fourth year. He was a constant source of strength and solace in a world gone mad. And as you lay there, grappling with the demons that haunted your every waking moment, you couldn't help but wonder why you hadn't confided in him sooner.
"Why didn't you tell me the nightmares are back?" His voice shattered the silence like a thunderclap, pulling you from the depths of your reverie. He tightened his grip around your waist, his presence a comforting warmth against the chill of the night.
You turned to face him, your heart heavy with guilt and regret. "I... I didn't want to burden you," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the room. "You have enough on your plate as it is."
Mattheo's expression softened, his eyes filled with a tenderness that took your breath away. "You know I never minded helping you with them," he said gently, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. "Your pain is my pain, and your burdens are mine to bear."
Tears welled up in your eyes at his words, a floodgate of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. How had you been so blind to the depth of his love, so oblivious to the fact that he would move heaven and earth to ease your suffering?
"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "I didn't mean to shut you out."
Mattheo pulled you into his arms then, holding you close as though afraid to let go. "You never have to apologize for being human," he murmured against your hair, his breath warm against your skin. "We'll face these nightmares together, just like we always have."
And in that moment, as you surrendered yourself to the safety of his embrace, you knew that no matter what horrors the night may bring, you would never have to face them alone. For in Mattheo Riddle, you had found a love that transcended even the darkest of dreams, a love that would light the way through even the bleakest of nights.
written by @adiraargent
please do not steal :)
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psychedelic-ink · 1 month
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ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐕𝐑𝐄
ㅤㅤmarcus pike x art historian!reader
genre: mutual pining, friends to lovers, forced proximity, smut, minors dni,
word count: 6k
summary: when a famous art collector is murdered, circumstances lead you to be temporary roommates with Marcus Pike.
warnings: oral sex (marcus receiving), marcus getting spoiled, some very mild angst, idiots in love
a/n: this work was commissioned by the lovely @sevillagrenada! thank you so much for your support and thank you so much for this delicious idea, I had a blast! ❤️‍🔥
** dividers made my the talented @saradika-graphics 💜💜💜
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Another day, another handsome detective at your doorstep.
It’s been a few months since you and Marcus first got acquainted. He had visited you during one of your busiest hours, asking you for information on a recently stolen painting while you were desperately trying to sort out a curated disaster by one of the interns. It didn’t end well. You ended up shouting at him to leave you alone and even though you regretted your choice in showing how distressed you were, it was what it was. What surprised you later, however, was finding him in the early morning hours with two coffees and blueberry muffins. He apologized profusely and asked for a do-over. Something that you were more than eager to oblige. 
And the rest, what most art historians like you would say, was history. 
Now he visits you almost every morning if he can. Thanks to his charm, you were now considered the number one go-to person of the FBI when it came to art theft. A title you didn’t mind having. 
“A bit early even for you, don’t you think?” you say, handing him the folders you’d been carrying. You smile as he lets out an exaggerated “oomph” and go to open the door. “Don’t be a baby, detective.” 
“I just wanted to see you, what’s the harm in that,” he answers, following you inside. “I have the day off tomorrow so I won’t be visiting.” 
“How thoughtful of you.” 
“Good to see that someone appreciates it.” 
He takes a seat as you head for the coffee machine. You’d got it a month ago, saving Marcus the trouble of waiting in line every morning before work. You appreciate having this as an excuse for him to stop by every morning. Luckily, the museum was on his way to work, meaning he was more than happy to visit you. Sometimes it’s hard to forget that this relationship between you two is meant to be nothing other than friendship, a platonic thing. But every day you find your heart swelling more and more at the sight of him. It’s been too long since you felt close to someone. It’s been even longer since you ached for a person you know you shouldn’t ache for. 
“Are you working on something with Remedios Valo?” When you turn you see him hunched over your desk, his eye meet yours, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry, all these books were just sprawled here. I couldn’t help but look.” 
The coffee machine comes to life, the aroma mixing in with the scent of books. 
“That’s alright,” you answer, lips feeling numb. “And yeah, Olivier is adding one of her works to his collection so he wanted me to take a look.” 
“Which one is he buying?” 
You know he absolutely despises the idea of art being bought, hidden from the rest of the world to be a decoration. You hear it in the drop of his voice.  
“Les Feuilles Mortes.” His gaze falls back to the table. “Dead leaves. The one with the woman with orange hair and green dress.” 
He hums when he finally sees it on the page, “It’s a nice one.” 
“It is. It’s one of my favorites.” 
You bring the two cups of steaming coffee. His eyes find yours as you place them down, taking a seat. “You must be excited then,” he states. “To be seeing it in person.” 
“I’m just happy it’s going to someone I know will take care of it.” 
“I did meet him once. Seemed like a decent enough guy.” 
A soft chuckle escapes your lips, “You really hate art collectors don’t you?” 
“With a passion,” a soft smile touches his lips. “But I’ll make an exception for you.” 
You shake your head, smiling into your cup as you bring the steaming liquid to your lips. He’s always like this. Making sure just how much you matter, making you feel cherished, it’s a contrast to how you feel most of the time. Your eyes fall on the painting printed onto the glossy paper. Everyone interprets art differently. In this particular piece, you see loneliness but also a peaceful serenity. The shadow bowing to the woman, them being connected with a piece of blue yarn that she’s holding. The fact that it’s blue and not read also piques your interest. It makes you think it’s not something that is forced, it’s not the fates that brought them together but something else. Something more intimate and free. 
“So, when are you seeing this stunning artwork in person?” 
“Tonight.” 
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Marcus already knows that today is going to be a long day. 
He knew it as soon as he entered his office, all fellow agents gathered in one place, murmuring. They parted like the Red Sea when he came through. That’s when the captain told him that extinguished art collector Olivier Balmaceda was found dead. Murdered. 
All he could think of was you. How excited you were to see him, and the painting, tonight. How Olivier was your friend and what would this mean for the investigation? Everyone here knew you, adored you. You being close to the murder victim certainly wasn’t good. He didn’t want you to be involved in any way, not even as a consultant. 
He steps out of the unmarked FBI sedan, his leather shoes echoing against the pavement as he approaches the crime scene. His partner, Tim, follows suit, both agents taking in the scene that awaits them.
The art collector's mansion looms before them, an opulent testament to a life steeped in appreciation for creativity. The air carries a faint scent of antique wood and the unmistakable aura of the art world. As they enter the expansive gallery, it becomes clear that Olivier Balmaceda's passion for art extends far beyond mere aesthetics.
The crime scene, bathed in the soft glow of gallery lights, is surreal. Olivier lies in the heart of his sanctuary, surrounded by the very beauty that defined his existence. The juxtaposition of life and death against the backdrop of artistic brilliance is haunting.
Tim glances at Marcus, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation. Together, they navigate the intricate dance of art and tragedy. The paintings, sculptures, and tapestries bear witness to the final act of a man whose life was intricately interwoven with the world he cherished.
As Marcus approaches Olivier's lifeless form, he can't help but feel the weight of the art that envelops them.
The art collector's mansion is cloaked in an air of somber anticipation as Marcus's focused gaze is drawn back to Olivier's lifeless form, nestled among the artworks that had once been a source of joy. The forensic team, adorned in pristine white suits, moves with meticulous precision, weaving through the crime scene like careful curators preserving a delicate masterpiece.
"Bullet entry at the back of the head. Looks like a single gunshot," Marcus hears one of them say, his voice a measured cadence amid the artistic silence.
Marcus nods, absorbing the gravity of the information. The team proceeds, each member contributing to the careful orchestration of documentation. His path takes him to the abstract painting, now surrounded by the scrutinizing eyes of forensic experts.
"We're scanning for any hidden messages or anomalies. This painting could hold clues.”
"Keep me posted," Marcus replies.
His attention turns to the delicate sculpture, now cocooned in an evidence bag. Tim approaches, his words a whisper against the backdrop of the gallery.
"Looks like they're treating the whole gallery as a crime scene. Anything stand out to you?" Tim inquires, his voice a muted harmony in the investigative symphony.
"Not yet. We need to dig deeper, find the connections between Olivier and whoever did this," Marcus responds, his words a subtle melody of determination.
The investigation shifts towards Olivier's desk, adorned with sketches and notes – a tableau of potential motives. They meticulously examines the papers, unveiling a narrative hidden within the inked strokes.
"Possible motive here. Let's see if Olivier was working on something that could've angered someone," suggests the expert, their words punctuating the air with a promise of revelation.
Acknowledging their findings, Marcus's thoughts churn with possibilities. Just as the investigation prepares to move to another sector of the mansion, his discerning eyes catch sight of a sketchbook nestled on a nearby shelf. A flicker of curiosity sparks within him, prompting the donning of gloves.
"Hold on a moment," Marcus interjects, a pause that reverberates through the dance of forensic activity.
The team halts, their collective gaze directed towards Marcus as he delicately retrieves the sketchbook. Its presence is unassuming, a silent witness to the unfolding drama. As Marcus flips through its pages, the sketches reveal a familiar artistic style, each stroke a brush with recognition.
"Wait... these look like—" Marcus begins, his words a murmur to the sketches that come to life beneath his fingertips.
Tim glances over, an inkling of recognition in his eyes.
"Isn't that—"
"Yeah. It's hers," Marcus confirms, closing the notebook.
So much for not getting you involved.
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“Captain, you can’t be serious.” 
Your eyes are drawn to Marcus, his voice holding the tone of nothing other but disbelief. Your eyes turn to the floor. Olivier is dead. Murdered. And the only proper evidence to connect the dots of what happened is your sketchbook. The sketchbook you could’ve sworn you left in your office. The sketchbook that you only kept to yourself other than Marcus and a couple of more trustworthy people. One of them being Olivier.
You close your eyes. It’s exhausting to breathe. You focus on how your nostrils flare and let it all out through a small gap between your lips. Marcus inches closer, hand firm against the small of your back. 
“I’m dead serious, Agent Pike,” Captain Lana answers, her voice calm yet cold as ice. “Until this entire case is solved, she’s on house arrest and under your care.” 
“Just because we found her sketchbook does not mean she’s a suspect—” 
“Agent Pike,” her voice cuts through the tension in the room. A sharp shudder crawls up your spine, your skin prickling with attention as you open your eyes. Despite her tone, she doesn’t look mad. “You will do what is best for our consultant. As of right now, she is linked to the case of one of the biggest art collectors for reasons we do not know. The best thing we can do is keep an eye on her and protect her.” 
His mouth slams shut, his jaw clenched. His hand deserts your back and in that moment, all you can feel is guilt. Guilt of him being forced to do something he clearly doesn’t want to do. 
To share his home. 
“I understand,” he answers curtly, turning on his heel. “Let’s go get your things.” 
It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you, shooting Captain Lana a glance, you follow him out of the office. 
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Marcus hasn’t said a single word during the entire drive. Even when you finally parked, he just took your bags and led you up the stairs to his apartment. Your heart felt as if it was shattering into a million tiny pieces. The poor organ was already weighted down by your friend's death, and now one of the closest people to you couldn’t even look at you. 
He drops your bags to the floor and you slowly shut the door. You don’t even have it in you to look around, not that it would matter, you’ve already been here before. You doubt anything changed. 
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out before he can say anything else. “God, Marcus, I’m so sorry.” 
“For what?” 
His hands are on you in an instant, lifting your downturned gaze. You blink away the tears, breath catching in your throat as you meet his eyes. It’s so easy to get lost in them. You could live an eternity there. “For . . for having to stay here. I know it’s inconvenient.” 
“Oh, sweetheart no, no. You could never be an inconvenience. I’m. . . I’m sorry I made you feel like that. I should’ve checked in on you. None of this is your fault understand. None of it,” his thumbs draw slow circles around your cheeks, the knot in your throat growing by the second. “And for all it’s worth, I’m happy that you’re here. I would be worried sick knowing that you’re alone.” 
Suddenly you’re being pulled into his chest, your senses completely enveloped by his scent. He gingerly cups your head from behind, holding you there, allowing you to disappear from the world for a while. 
The first tear escapes unexpectedly. It’s immediately absorbed into his shirt and the rest follows. He doesn’t try to hush you, doesn’t try to get you to stop. He allows you to break down completely. You cry and cry, until there’s nothing left anymore. Only then does he pull back, lifting your gaze to him once more. 
“Feeling better?” 
“Y-Yeah. Thank you, Marcus.” 
He shakes his head, “I’m not doing anything you should be thankful for. This…this is what friends do.” 
That’s right. Friends. 
Your eyes sting when you blink, a forced smile tugging at your lips, “Yeah, friends.” 
You’re almost certain that you’re imagining it, but you swear the crease between his brows deepens with your answer. 
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The soft glow of the TV screen bathes the room as Marcus settles onto the couch beside you. “Really? That’s what you want to watch?” 
Marcus raises a brow as he looks down at you. You’re wrapped in a blanket, looking as if the two of you have been living together for years. He loves how you’re already comfortable with the living situation. He wished he could have this in better circumstances without an ongoing murder investigation, but he’ll take what he gets. 
“I haven’t started the new season yet, it’ll be fun.” 
“It’s a murder mystery. Are you sure?” 
You snort, “I know the plot of Only Murders In The Building, Marcus. No need to remind me.” 
As the first episode begins, the room is filled with the intriguing soundtrack of the show. Marcus watches the characters unfold on the screen, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. The play of emotions on your face, the way you get caught up in the plot – it's more captivating to him than any murder mystery.
Gradually, you lean into him, seeking comfort in the shared moment. The warmth of your presence seeps into Marcus's consciousness, and he finds himself entranced by the way you become absorbed in the show. Unconsciously, his arm drapes around your shoulder, the gesture protective yet tender.
In the semi-darkness of the room, Marcus grapples with his own emotions. The line between friend and something more blurs as he navigates the uncharted territory of his feelings. As you snuggle closer, he can feel the gentle rhythm of your breath, the subtle rise and fall of your chest.
A flicker of uncertainty crosses Marcus's mind. Does this closeness mean the same to you as it does to him? He wonders if you sense the subtle shift in the dynamics between you. The arm around your shoulder, a silent invitation, speaks volumes, but Marcus Pike remains in that delicate space between uncertainty and the unspoken desire for something more. The murder mystery on the screen becomes a mere backdrop to the complex enigma of emotions unfolding between two souls entangled in the intricacies of life and love.
Marcus's heart races as he lets his hand linger on your waist. He can feel the warmth radiating through the fabric of your shirt, and he wonders if you can feel the heat of his touch as well.
He watches your face, searching for any sign of discomfort or hesitation, but all he sees is the same intensity and focus on the TV. It both thrills and confuses him – is it possible that you can be so oblivious to the way he feels?
But as he watches you, he notices the faint hitch in your breath when his hand moves slightly, as if you're aware of his touch but trying to hide it. It only fuels the growing attraction between them, and Marcus can feel himself getting more and more drawn in.
His mind is filled with images of how he wants to touch you, and he can barely contain the urge to lean in and brush his lips against your neck. He wants to feel your skin against his, to explore every inch of your body.
The tension in the room becomes palpable, and Marcus can feel his heart racing. He looks over at you, and for a moment, he thinks he sees a flicker of desire in your eyes. But just as quickly, it disappears, and you go back to watching the movie without a second glance.
His hand moves even closer to yours, brushing against your fingers lightly. He can feel the heat emanating from your body, and he knows that you're just as affected by the electric chemistry between them.
His mind is clouded with desire, and all he can think about is kissing you, touching you. But he knows he needs to be patient. He can’t just make a move and potentially ruin the friendship you have.
But as the episode goes on, Marcus can barely pay attention anymore. All he can focus on is you, and the way your body moves slightly with each scene. He can feel himself getting harder with each passing moment, and he knows he needs to do something to release the tension.
Without thinking, his hand moves to your thigh, tracing small circles on your skin. He can see your breath hitch and your eyes flutter closed for a split second before you regain your composure.
He leans in closer to you, his lips just inches away from your ear. "Is this okay?" he whispers.
Marcus relaxes when you nod, eyes still glued to the screen. He knows you want to turn to him, to witness his feelings lingering in his eyes but he also knows that you can’t for the same reason why he can’t tell you how he feels. Fear. Fear of rejection. Of loss of a friendship.
So, his hand on your thigh is as far as he’ll go. Soothing you with the simplest of touches. 
The credits roll and the episode ends, Marcus can't help but feel a lingering sense of longing. He knows he needs to push these feelings aside and focus on the case, but he also can't deny the strong connection he feels with you.
As you stand up to turn off the TV, Marcus suddenly reaches out and takes your hand in his, surprising both of you. The air between them is heavy with unspoken words and tension, but they both know this isn’t the time or the place.
For now, they'll focus on solving the murder and catching the killer. But Marcus can't shake the feeling that this shared moment was the beginning of something more – something that could change everything.
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It’s been almost two weeks now since you moved in with Marcus. And other than Olivier’s murder, things have been. . . peaceful. He’s been doing everything for you. You’ve never been taken care of to this extent before. It made you feel bad in a way, as if you were a burden to him and now he felt inclined to take care of you just because of the circumstances. 
However, you couldn’t ignore the tension either, the chemistry. Almost every night you thought of when the two of you watched TV. How close the two of you were. You often find yourself thinking about how differently that night could’ve ended. Only if you were brave enough, then maybe the friendship could’ve escalated into something more. 
While heating leftovers for the both of you from last night, the door clicks open. You expect to see his smile, the same question on his lips asking how your day was—but all you can see in his eyes is exhaustion. He forces a smile when he sees you, then silently heads to his room. Your lungs cave in on itself. Your body buzzing with worry, you look down at the barely heated leftovers. He deserves something more. Something fresh. 
So, as you quickly head down the hall to check on him, you order his favorites. You come to a halt at the door, heart beating in your throat, you knock. 
“I’ll be right there,” he says, almost apologetically, which makes you feel even worse. 
“I just wanted to check if you’re alright. Can I. . . Can I come in?” 
You’re about to head back to the living room when the door slowly opens. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, the first three buttons of his shirt wide open, exposing skin. You barely manage to tear your gaze away. He looks vulnerable, defeated. 
“I’m okay,” he clears his throat. “I promise.” 
You ignore what he says and take a step forward, forcing the both of you inside the bedroom. It smells of cinnamon. “I ordered us some food from that place you like. We have some time to relax.” 
“Relax?” 
You let out the breath you’ve been holding and trap his face between your hands. You want to make him feel good. You want to pamper him. At least this one time, you want to do something for him instead. You know what his answer is going to be if you ask him about his day—he’ll brush you off, because it’s the case you’re involved in. The murder of your friend. 
“Let me make you feel good, Marcus.” 
His eyes widen, lashes fluttering, his lips part, “You don’t have to do that.” 
“I know I don’t have to but I want to.” You quickly add when you see the hesitation growing in his eyes. “Please.” 
You notice the hollow in his cheek, the way his jaw moves as he chews on the inside. Your heart beats wildly in your chest. After what feels like hours, his head jerks in a small nod, “Okay.” 
Marcus gently falls onto the bed and you drop to your knees, taking a place between his spread legs. You can feel his eyes on you. His gaze intense as you fumble with his belt. You tug down his pants along with his underwear, his hips slightly lifting to make it easier for you. His cock is still soft. It makes a certain type of hunger grow inside you. Placing both hands on his thighs, you dip down, taking him into his mouth. He sharply inhales, cock twitching over your tongue. It doesn’t take him long to grow in your mouth, and suddenly swallowing him down proves to be harder than you thought. 
Your nostrils flare as you attempt to swallow him down, your nose brushing against the soft curls. His hand gently cradles the back of your head, and when you look up you see his head falling back, his brows furrowed as he breathes heavily through his nose. 
Parting away, you suck the base of his cock, your tongue swirling. His hips jerk and a moan rips from his throat. “That—that feels good,” he swallows. 
“You like it slow?” you say, lips moving against sensitive skin. “Tell me how you like it. Show me.” 
“You’re doing great sweetheart, just do it how it’s best for you,” he lets out a breathy chuckle. “I’m not picky.” 
Brows knitting together, you pull away and fix him a half-hearted glare. You wrap your fingers around and begin to stroke him, witnessing the flex of his thighs. “I want to do it how you like it,” you state. “Show me or I’ll stop.” 
Your lips curl as you hear him whine. It’s such a beautiful sound. 
“Fine.” 
He drags you back down to his cock, your hand falling away. You open your mouth to take him once more, thinking that he wants to fuck your mouth, but instead, he presses your lips to the side of his cock. You feel the heat of him, the bulging of his veins. 
“Wrap your lips,” he rasps and when you do, he starts to move your head up and down. 
You let out a muffled moan, the vibrations sending shivers down Marcus’ spine. His movements are slow, almost as if he’s fucking himself deep into you—almost as if he’s been thinking about this for months. Your head bobs up and down, your lips pursed around him tightly. You hear him grunt above you, and you can tell that he’s struggling to keep himself in control. 
“Put your hands back on my thighs,” Marcus commands, and you do so without hesitation. “I want to feel the bite of your nails.” His thighs are shaking beneath your touch, and you can feel the coiled tension inside him, just waiting to snap. You do as he asks, digging your nails slightly into the flesh. Another whimper falls for him, a sounds desperate and needy at the same time. He pulls up and finally slips himself into your warm mouth, your eyes water as he pushes you down, taking him whole. 
“You’re gonna make me come,” Marcus grunts, his voice punctuated by the wet sounds of your mouth on his cock. 
You keep up the pace, eager to please him. You can feel his cock growing harder and harder inside your mouth, and you can tell that he’s close. You swirl your tongue around him, pressing your lips even tighter around him. 
“Fuck,” Marcus mutters, his hand gripping your hair tightly. “I’m gonna—” 
Before he can finish his sentence, he releases into your mouth with a deep groan, his hips bucking up into your face. You eagerly take him in, swallowing around him as he spills, hot come trailing down your throat. He lets out a heavy sigh, his body going limp as he comes down from his orgasm. 
You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Marcus looks at you with admiration and slight embarrassment, his cheeks peppered with a faint shade of red. 
“Sorry, that was quick,” he murmurs, tugging you up and pulling you to his lap. “Now it’s your turn.” 
He leans towards your lips but you stop him by pressing two fingers, they’re soft. “We can think about me later,” you say, despite the inside of your panties being an absolute wet mess. “I just wanted to make you feel good.” 
“I want to make you feel good too,” he objects, nipping at your fingers. “Don’t you. . . I thought you wanted me.” 
The guilt in his eyes is back and your hand drops away from his lips. He’s holding you tight as if you might disappear.  
“I do,” you answer tentatively. “But I don’t want you to jump into this thinking you have to. I don't want you to do anything you might regret.” 
“Regret?” he shakes his head. “What does that even mean? I’m not jumping into anything. I’m not confused if that’s what you’re worried about,” his arms around you tighten, and with that, you know you’ve said the wrong thing. “You just sucked my cock—are you telling me that was out of pity? Gratitude?” 
You cut him off, “N–No. . .” 
“Then what was it?” his voice drops dangerously low, eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and hurt. “I’m one hundred percent here. It has nothing to do with the case. And for you to do something just because you felt bad for me. . . I thought we were finally getting somewhere after all of this.” 
“Marcus—”
“I think I want to be alone right now,” he turns his head away from you but doesn’t do anything to push you off of him. Your apology dies in your throat, your mouth suddenly dry. You slowly move away, the taste of his come still in your mouth as you contemplate what to do. What to say. 
But whatever you were planning evaporates with the ring of the doorbell.  
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You’re sitting on the couch when Marcus comes home and sits on the armchair right across from you. You’re eyes slowly shift from your phone to meet his gaze, he continues to stare down, his thumbs thrumming over his thighs. 
It’s been an awkward couple of days after the argument you two had. Neither of you were brave enough to broach the subject, However, that didn’t mean what happened didn’t haunt you in the dead of night, both in a bad and a good way. 
“It’s done.” 
His words send a chill down your spine, your muscles tightening, “What’s done?” 
“The case. We found who murdered Olivier. . . and how your notebook got there.” Marcus takes a deep breath, his eyes finally meeting yours as he begins to unravel the mystery that has been hanging over your heads like a storm cloud.
"Olivier's murder... it was someone close to him. Both rival and friend," Marcus starts, his voice heavy with the weight of the revelation. "Turns out, his friend had been eyeing the same collection for years. When Olivier outbid him for that prized painting, it pushed him over the edge."
You feel a knot form in your stomach, a mixture of shock and sorrow swirling within you. Olivier, with his vibrant personality and passion for art, didn't deserve such a fate.
"And my notebook...?" you prompt, needing to understand how your own belongings ended up tangled in this tragedy.
Marcus sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Olivier... he wanted to show your sketches to one of his friends. He thought you had real talent and he was planning on gifting you that painting."
Your heart sinks at the realization. Olivier, you’re going to miss him. Marcus wraps his arms around you, offering comfort and support as the weight of the emotions you've been suppressing finally spills over. You lean into him, the warmth of his embrace a soothing balm for the wounds of the past few days. His touch is both reassuring and grounding, reminding you that you're not alone in this tumultuous journey.
"I'm here," he murmurs softly, his fingers gently tracing comforting patterns on your back. "It’s over now. You can return to your life and begin to heal."
“Heal?” you blin at him, lips parting. “Return to my life? What does that even mean? We can’t go back to normal Marcus. Not after everything. . . I—” You swallow, the knot thick in your throat. “I care about you, Marcus. I care about you deeply and I just want you to know that. I don’t want you to think it was a one-time thing. Ot that I did it because of the circumstances. I did it because I wanted to. And I wanted to long before any of this happened.” 
As your heartfelt confession hangs in the air, Marcus's eyes soften, his expression reflecting a mixture of relief and affection. Without hesitation, he leans in, closing the gap between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss. It's a moment of shared vulnerability, a silent exchange of emotions that speaks volumes more than words ever could.
The warmth of his touch ignites a spark within you, a reassurance that despite the challenges you've faced, your connection remains unbroken. In this intimate embrace, you find solace and hope for the future, knowing that whatever trials may come, you'll face them together.
As the kiss deepens, the weight of the past few days begins to lift, replaced by a sense of renewal and possibility.
Marcus's hands move to your waist, pulling you onto his lap as he deepens the kiss. You feel his body pressing against yours, igniting a fire within you. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as your fingers tangle in his hair.
His lips move fervently against yours, conveying the unspoken emotions that have been building between you for weeks. You can feel his heart beating against your chest and it's a comforting reminder that you're not alone in this moment.
He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a tingle in their wake. You let out a soft gasp, arching your neck to give him better access. His hands roam over your body, his touch setting every nerve alight. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”
Your fingers move to his shirt, desperate to rid him of the barriers separating your skin.  His lips trail down your neck again, moving to your shoulder, his hands roaming freely over your body. You let out a soft moan, arching your back as his hands reach your waist, pulling your shirt off. The cool air hits your skin but it's nothing compared to the heat radiating between you two.
Marcus and you remove each other's clothes. Your hands roam hungrily over his bare chest, feeling the muscles ripple beneath your touch. He moans softly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine.
His hands move to your back, unhooking your bra and gently sliding it off. Your bare chest presses against his, skin against skin, and the sensation sends sparks of pleasure through your body. Your lips meet again, his tongue moving alongside yours, his hands roaming lower to your waist and down to your hips, pulling you closer.
You push him down to the couch, your hands reaching for his jeans. With ease, you undo the button and slide them off, revealing his toned legs and the bulge in his boxers. Your fingers trail down his stomach, feeling his muscles contract under your touch.
He flips you over, his lips moving down your neck and to your chest. With a flick of his tongue, he takes one of your hardened nipples into his mouth, causing you to arch your back and let out a soft moan of pleasure. His hands reach down, unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them off your legs.
As his lips continue to travel down your body, his fingers slide into your underwear, eliciting a gasp from you. You can feel the heat and wetness building between your legs, the tingling sensation increasing with every touch.
In one swift movement, he removes your underwear, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable to his touch. But with Marcus, you feel anything but vulnerable. In his embrace, you feel safe, loved, and desired.
And you know that is something that will never change. 
253 notes · View notes
mysmuttyy · 1 month
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REALISATION
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summary: mattheo and y/n are enemies, but he has a nightmare that makes his realise he loves her.
⚠️: death, crying, confessions, fluff
Pink: y/n | Red: mattheo.
Monday Morning.
Voices echoed around the room. The voices were heard in front of him, behind him, but not beside him. For the first time in three years, her seat remained empty, chair tucked under the desk- Just like she left it. Mattheo felt odd not having her there, but slowly, he shrugged it off, convincing himself that she’d show up any second.
The class dragged on, the doors opened and closed, but she never walked in. It was like this for the rest of the day, no one had seen her.
His overthinking won and his anxiety set in, the echo of his footsteps following him down the quiet hallways. With a mumble of the password, the doors swung open, allowing him access. The curly haired boy wasted no time in hurrying up those steps, rushing toward her bedroom. His veiny hand clutches onto the handle, knees buckling once his dark eyes spot her limp body lying in a pool of her own blood.
The whole world stops, and he feels a shooting pain coarse throughout his entire body, heart shattering into a million pieces, every ounce of happiness he possessed fading away.
People arrived and he somehow gained the strength to get up, stumbling toward the phone booth, tears streaming down his face as he dialled in her mothers number. Her sweet voice was heard on the other side, sounding just like y/n’s. He felt his heart break all over again, as this mother cried on the other side of the phone, repeatedly asking for him to be joking.
Mrs Drew, y/n’s mother, choked on her cries as she informed Mattheo about y/n’s feelings for him. She was in love with him. That’s all it took for him to fully break down, knees dropping to the floor, loud sobs filling the booth.
“I’m so sorry!” The boy cried, begging for her mothers forgiveness. She cried back, telling him never to apologise.
Monday Morning.
The great hall doors sprung open, slamming into the walls. Everybody turned to look, watching as Mattheo Riddles dark eyes scanned the crowded room. Y/n stared at the man who hated her, noticing a change in his demeanour. Today, he didn’t seem unbothered like usual, he actually seemed to be very bothered.
Once their eyes locked, he smiled, a sweet, genuine smile, one that made butterflies swarm her stomach. Her cheeks flushed red, a smile she couldn’t hide forming across her nervous face. Mattheo Riddle walked down from the doors, heading toward her. She watched, eyes following his figure, melting when his hand cupped her cheek.
Mattheo pulled her up from her chair, holding her gently, leaning in until their lips smashed together. Everything changed in that moment, there was no more darkness, it was colourful. The two felt their souls had finally come together, accepting that their meant for each other.
She pulled away from his touch, quick to question what was going on. That’s when he confessed to not only her, but the whole of Hogwarts too. “Y/n, I’m so in love with you.” He told her, holding her so tightly, too afraid to let go.
The girl giggled before him, making his heart do a backflip.
A/N; this is my first fluff, no hate pls 😂😂 also, i haven’t gone over it bc I’m too lazy n half asleep so, ignore any spelling mistakes! thank you for all the support, i love you all.
ps: i need smut ideas, send them thru xoxoxo
182 notes · View notes
thehopefulquotes · 2 months
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Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.
Marcus Aurelius
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writemarcus · 1 year
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In Conversation: Keelay Gipson with Marcus Scott
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Keelay Gipson, an award-winning multi-disciplinary Afro-surrealist dramatist, activist, and teaching artist, knows what it means to battle your inner demons and come out the other side.
In June 2020, during the pandemic, Gipson’s mother, Gwendolyn, passed away. From the pangs of grief, Gipson began excavating and examining his life and journey as a storyteller. Born in Oklahoma City to a young, unwed mother, the prolific writer was adopted by a Black married couple from the Deep South who relocated and raised him in the idyllic suburbs of Tulsa. It was his mother that nourished his love of theater and the performing arts. Studying acting at Pace, and after a period of being relegated to roles of drug dealers, gang bangers, and sex workers, Gipson turned his focus to writing for the stage and advocating for Black people and Black lives through his work. This would eventually lead to a passionate drive as an activist, with Gipson eventually becoming a member of “We See You, White American Theater,” an anonymously-led coalition of artists that circulated a widely read set of demands for change during a cultural reckoning that saw seismic shifts in and out of the entertainment world.
Now, the award-winning scribe is on the verge of making his off-Broadway debut with the kitchen-sink drama demons., a poetic meditation on loss and legacy. The play, produced by The Bushwick Starr in association with JAG Productions, revolves around the Daimon family who have come together to bury their patriarch and exorcise the trauma passed down to them—but is it too late?
While speaking via FaceTime from his apartment in Brooklyn’s Flatbush neighborhood, Gipson was in the midst of rehearsals for DOT DOT DOT, a TheaterworksUSA musical commission based on the Creatrilogy trio of picture books by New York Times bestselling author Peter H. Reynolds, adapted with composer Sam Salmond. Below is our conversation about the glass ceiling, gatekeeping, and demons.
Marcus Scott (Rail): Can you describe the journey of going from actor to playwright?
Keelay Gipson: The journey from actor to playwright was really just me following the path of least resistance. I was a student in the Musical Theater program at Pace University (class of 2010) and didn’t find much success in booking roles in my time there. This was way before we were having these kinds of nuanced conversations surrounding race and representation in theater. So I began writing roles for myself to act. I would get folks together in an empty studio and we’d read my plays. Soon I stopped acting in them and would just listen to them. I found my voice while trying to give me and the other brown and Black folks an opportunity to be full artists during a time and in a program where that wasn’t happening.
Rail: How many plays have you written and where does demons. stand among them?
Gipson: I’ve written seven full length plays. demons. is the most recent. I began working on it in the summer of 2019 as part of a joint residency with New York Stage and Film and the Dramatist Guild Foundation.
Rail: While I have my theories—why is the name of your show called demons.?
Gipson: I grew up in a Southern Baptist household. The idea of demons. is something that has always been a part of my consciousness. As a child, I remember my dad telling stories about seeing exorcisms, and it always fascinated me. This idea that something other could be the cause of our afflictions, both mentally and physically. I wanted to toy with that idea. Honor the faith that I grew up with while reclaiming it on some level.
Rail: In a 2020 interview with JAGFest, you said “demons. was a play I wasn’t supposed to write, so I listened to the muse; I sat down and it came out of me.” Can you explain this?
Gipson: As I said, I was in residence with NYSAF and DGF at Vassar in the summer of 2019. I was there to work on another play of mine, The Red and the Black—which is a play about the rise of New Black Conservatism. I often have multiple projects going at one time. A play I’m “supposed to” be writing and a “procrastination play” [laughs]. demons. was the latter. Honestly, it was a thought experiment. I was moving squarely into my mid-thirties and I had seen friends lose parents, and I was trying to mentally prepare myself for what that might feel like. Little did I know, the play would be the precursor for my own experience with the death of a parent during the pandemic. I say, “it wasn’t the play I was supposed to write” but it was the play I needed to write.
Rail: So, what’s it about? What was the inspiration for your play demons.? I assume the loss of your mother.
Gipson: Yeah. So, the story follows a Black family after the death of their patriarch. And what I noticed in dealing with the aftermath of a death is that a lot of stuff comes up, right? So, demons. is an exploration through an Afro-surrealist lens of what comes up after the death of a family member, mainly of a parent. The things that you have to reckon with, things that maybe aren’t yours, but that you inherit. So, there’s this idea of inherited trauma, and especially with Black folks in America, what we pass down to our family members and what we leave behind when we’re no longer here. So, demons. is an exploration of all of those good things that death sort of unearths.
Rail: I followed your journey throughout the pandemic with regards to the loss. Once again, I'm very sorry for your loss, man.
Gipson: Thank you. I appreciate it.
Rail: What was your relation like to your mother?
Gipson: My mother was my biggest cheerleader. In high school, she was the president of the parent association for the drama program. She got the pass to come do a photo-call during the dress rehearsal; she would be there with her camera in the front row taking pictures, not for promotional use but for the scrapbook. Like, my mom was the one who was like, “Go to New York.” I went to New York a couple times in high school with my drama program and my mom came as a chaperone. We went and saw the shows that we saw with the theater department and then we went and saw our own shows. My mom, she loved theater and she was the one that—when we didn’t have the money and I didn’t know if I could come to New York to go to school—she pulled me aside and was like, “I’m gonna make this happen for you.” She was… she was everything.
Rail: So, you’re working on this play about Black conservatives—I think it’s hilarious cause both of us have written about Black conservatives during the pandemic, by the way—and you’ve got so many other things going on; you’re an advocate, or an “artivist” as you call yourself, being one of the figureheads behind We See You, White American Theater and the issues revolving around that, in tandem with the multiple projects you’re cultivating. So before we get into that aspect of your life, was it hard for you to kind of mentally go from one place to another place? Are you one of those writers where you have to be working on multiple projects or are you one of those writers where you can only work on one project at a time?
Gipson: I have never worked on just one project at a time. I think for me, I need something that’s completely opposite of the thing that I’m supposed to be doing. Like, if I have a commission that’s about a historical moment, then I’m gonna write something that’s wild and fanciful over here to like, break out of that—not monotony—but break out of the sort of structure that one wouldn't give me. So yeah, I’m often working on multiple things just to keep my brain limber.
Rail: That’s interesting. I see the link between The Red and the Black in your artivism, but what about this particular play with regards to it?
Gipson: This play kind of feels like a new era of my artistry. You know, I’ve written several plays that are about race, that are about Black folks dealing with race and racism, and not like, being beat down by it, but finding a way through; and I try to be honest in all of those works, but this play feels very much not a part of that pantheon. It feels like, to quote Toni Morrison, I’m taking the white person off of my shoulder. It’s not about race. It’s about Black folks. I wanna write about Blackness and all its complexity and not in relationship to whiteness or to racism. This feels like a new era of work for me, where it’s just about these Black folks in a room trying to figure out how they move forward after this thing devastates them. In the opening of the play, it says “a Black family and extremists.” Like, that’s what the play’s about. How do we relate to each other? The world sort of doesn’t come inside of the space in this play. It’s about Black folks in a space together figuring it out and not in relationship to society or the political landscape or 2022, 2023… it’s timeless in a way because death will always be true.
Rail: Let’s talk politics. Let’s get into it. There were many incidents over the last three years and many of those incidents in the industry in some way involved We See You, White American Theater. This collective has attracted the likes of Tony Award winners, the Academy Award winners, the Broadway Elite and those on the rise… What was the intention behind that? Was there a litmus for that?
Gipson: I think that during the pandemic, we had a lot of time, right? I’ll say that a lot of people had things in the pipeline and the industry was chugging along. There was no reason for it to change. It was working. Then everything stopped and we had time to look at the way that things are going. Look at our industry for real, holistically, and I think a lot of us brown and Black folks saw that it's not working, not for us, and it hasn't been for a long time. We’ve been tokenized. So, in working alongside those organizations and those movements, I was trying to galvanize other brown and Black folks who felt similarly that the industry wasn’t working for us and we could do better. Like, especially in the theater.
The theater is different than film and television because it’s people in a room breathing the same air, there are people sharing space, right? And I’ve always wondered how we can do better at sharing spaces with one another; and I’m all about community. The theater for me has always been a community-driven space. So, I wanted this community to mean what it says! I do think that it's business as usual a little bit again, which is not concerning because I think that the theater is working the way that it was designed to work. Much like a lot of things in our society. Yes, we can push back on it, but if we don’t imagine new models—like completely new models—then the old models that we’re trying to reform are always going to try to revert back to the way they were working. Cause that’s how they were built to work. So, the momentum of some of these things, like We See You… there are several organizations, I don’t want to just point to that one… but I wonder what their role is now because things kind of feel like they’re back to normal. I mean, the seven Broadway shows that were Black-led that came right out of the pandemic, that’s a great thing. But they all closed pretty early. Even with Ain't No Mo… it’s not working. So what?
It’s not us, it’s not the Black creatives. Right? It's because we know these things that we’re trying to make it better and it’s not getting better. So, it feels like it’s the model. I don't know, I think we need to imagine bigger than we are even doing now. I think we need to think magically, we’re theatremakers, right? We deal in magical thinking. I think we need to do that more when it comes to the theater because right now we’re just trying to polish a turd a little bit, it feels like. [Laughs] Like, we know it doesn’t work. And we had all of this time to try to make it work and it’s still not working. I think of the Cleveland Play House incident that just happened. And I’m like, “How, after all of this time of listening and learning, did we come to this moment?” So, we have to think magically. We need to think bigger than I think we even know.
Rail: For our readers, what are some things that we need to really look at? You mentioned the seven shows that opened on Broadway in the fall of 2021: Pass Over by Antoinette Chinonye Nwandu, Lackawanna Blues by Ruben Santiago-Hudson, Chicken & Biscuits by Douglas Lyons, Thoughts of a Colored Man by Keenan Scott II, Trouble in Mind by Alice Childress, Clyde’s by Lynn Nottage, and Skeleton Crew by Dominique Morisseau. Since that time, shows like Jordan E. Cooper’s Ain’t No Mo’, the Broadway transfer of the Asian-led musical K-Pop, MJ: The Musical (also penned by Nottage) and Adrienne Kennedy’s Ohio State Murders opened and closed on Broadway. Not to mention, Michael R. Jackson’s A Strange Loop.
Gipson: And it won every single award it could possibly win; you know what I mean?
Rail: What are some things that we can look at in general for the field? Because this is a global issue affecting Black, Brown and BIPOC people on both sides of the pond. Using a bit of magical thinking, what are some concepts, machinations or ideas that could work?
Gipson: I think it starts with audience cultivation. Honestly. I think outreach is a huge thing that theaters don’t know how to do because they rely on their subscriber base. That's the truth. The subscriber base we know is mostly older white folks who have disposable income. Millennials don’t have disposable income. And like, I'm sorry, but to get a package at one of these off-Broadway theaters, or to go to a night at the theater and get a good seat, it’s expensive. Right? So there needs to be outreach to people who can't spend a hundred dollars or five hundred dollars or a thousand dollars on a package for a season. And we need to make it cool. Honestly, theater is not cool. It’s only cool when it’s like the hottest ticket in town, right? Right? We need to figure out a way to make theater accessible to people younger than the Boomers and to Millennials that don’t have disposable income. And it’s not gonna happen with one or two nights of Affinity Nights. It’s gonna happen by putting people on late night shows! I don't know. I’m not like a marketing person but to me, it feels like there’s a disconnect between what the theater is talking about. Because once people come see these plays and get talking, that’s where the change will happen. But you gotta get people into the theater and from what I’ve seen, it’s the same people. And yes, there’s Affinity Nights, and so you can go to a Black Theater Night or an LGBTQ Theater Night and see your community. But the truth of the matter is we’re either seeing it for the second time, or it’s because it's your community, you’re finally seeing those people, but they were gonna come to the show anyway.
Rail: Ain’t that the truth. So, you are trying to appeal to a particular audience. How would you market demons.?
Gipson: I don't know. That's interesting because I couldn’t go to churches, I don't think, and market this show in the same way that like Ain’t No Mo’ might be able to. I’m a professor, so I’m going to try and get young people to see this show. Young Black people because this show’s kind of weird. I like weird stuff. Weird Black shows can be successful too. Shows that are weird and Black… there's a place for them. A Strange Loop is weird to me. I’m like, that's cool. Passing Strange, things like that. How can we take Black surrealism, things that are a little left of center, but talk about being Black in a way that is just as valid as something that’s a little more straightforward.
Rail: You’ve grown exponentially as an artist, mostly because of just the nature of the beast. Where do you think the next stage of Keelay Gipson is going?
Gipson: I hope it is still in the theater. Actually, I know it is. I think I'm working on some musicals. I know I’m working on some musicals. I’m working on a new history play about Tulsa (because I’m from Tulsa and I haven’t written about being from Tulsa and being Black from Tulsa, and I think I should do that). So musicals, a play about Tulsa and hopefully, a film or a TV show.
Rail: And if you could bring any family member to see this show, who would you bring?
Gipson: I would bring my mother. Yeah, I would bring my mother. I kind of regret—I’ve told her to wait so many times to, you know, just wait until it’s the real thing. “Don’t come to the reading, just wait till it’s the real thing.” So, I would want her to see the real thing.
Rail: Pleasure to finally meet you, Keelay.
Gipson: No, this was lovely. Thank you. Thank you.
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The Bushwick Starr and The Connolly Theater demons. May 20–June 10, 2023 Brooklyn
Contributor
Marcus Scott
Marcus Scott is a New York City-based playwright, musical writer, opera librettist, and journalist. He has contributed to Time Out New York, American Theatre Magazine, Architectural Digest, The Brooklyn Rail, Elle, Essence, Out, Uptown, Trace, Hello Beautiful, Madame Noire and Playbill, among other publications. Follow Marcus on Instagram.
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