#lol this took so long to come up with | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inkskinned · 6 months

Text

you have to be sexy but you have to be sexy in a way that's kind of bloody. you learn this early because you are wearing a ruffled skirt and the snow around your ankles kicks little sand particles against your calves. baby's first catcall. welcome to sexiness! welcome to the eyesore of your own body!

you have to be sexy like high heels. like sculpted eyebrows. like lean stomach and highly treated hair. you have to be sexy like youth is sexy, which means you have to be sexy like boxtox and plastic. a 30 year old can be sexy but she's not going to be bloody, and they like the bloodiness of it. a 30 year old is sexy when she is a whiskey glass and a wooden desk.

but you need to be sexy like an open mouth. you need to be sexy like a bitten apple. like plucked skin and white-knuckling the waxing kit.

so sex is a performance, not an enjoyment. for a while, you just assumed everyone else was also in on the joke - nobody actually likes sex that much, right? like, some men probably do, but why would you? it is like a gender - your gender is sexy. your gender is the performance of sex. you are thigh highs and garter belts. which, to be fair, do make you feel sexy.

part of what does make sex good is that you can tell that other people want you, which means the performance of sexiness is both bloody and wanted, which is good, which means you are winning at having a body. being wanted is the prize. being wanted is the thing you are searching for, not hope. you think you are looking for a soft grave in easy loam, but that is bloody but not sexy. to be sexy you must be bloody like a red open sign. bloody like a handprint. this will make you wanted.

any wanted or unwanted body is subject to supply and demand, which is to say that the more demand, the better you are valued. you must be highly demanded to be valued. this is stated in matter-of-fact by some men. sometimes it is a priest that says it, and sometimes it is a podcaster, and sometimes it is the 45th president of the united states of america.

(if you do not have any experience with being told your value, i want you to grab the nearest bird to you and i want you to crush it into a thin paste in your hand. spit into the center, and then hold your fingers closed tight around it for days and days, long after the rot has set in. feel bones itch inside of your fist. this is only a fraction of what it actually feels like, but it will suffice for a moment.)

good sex feels like you have earned their desperation. you have earned your own value. for a while you operated under the understanding that everyone knew about the power structure, even him. that their desire to take you - the violence of it - means that you must desire to be caught. little prince, guardian fox - you would rather have cut your own arm off. you liked the secret, cunning little voice you keep tucked into a box. you think you are fucking me. i am not even here right now. you are fucking what i conned you into perceiving. this is a painting, not a person. dominion over the body before all things.

so you bend your body like a wheat shaft and learn the steps so perfectly that it almost seems graceful. (if you do not have experience faking your own connection to your body and sexuality, cut each of your articles of clothing just a little bit incorrectly. pour fishbones into each of your meals. this way, you will experience the average noon on a tuesday.)

you have to be sexy like light spilled over a desk, but not desperate. not a noose. you can't be sexy like an electric guitar, you are the acoustic. you have to be on top of the bull but you can't have control over the animal.

okay, okay. the little rabbit of your heart went to sleep so long ago that winter has ravaged your concept of the human soul. there's something very-bad inside you, something that has taken over, a little fetid and rabid animal, angry and hurting and willing to bite first.

oh but even that's a pain that's sexy. open your mouth. be careful not to let the canines show.

#spilled ink #writeblr #warm up #the reason i tag warm up on so much is bc often i write them between me doing other things so im mostly telling myself to come back and edi #bc i rarely have time to check for typos lol #this is partially about compulsory heterosexuality btw #and why it took me so long to realize im a lesbian #i just assumed sex wasn't really supposed to be that good #been reading feminist lit and u can always tell

3K notes · View notes

ghouljams · 8 months

Text

A Fair Trade (A First Date) Word Count: 2.7k Tags: Price x oc/reader, minor descriptions of reader but only if you really squint, fluff, first date awkwardness Summary: The Witch promised Price dinner and by God he's going to be fed. Price promised her a date, and that makes this whole thing a little harder.

You are trying and failing not to think of tonight as a date.

You've been on dates. Not good ones, and they never came to your house, but you've been on dates. You were never this nervous before. You smooth your hands over your apron, trace the embroidery with your fingers before you pat your thighs to stop your fidgeting. You're going to change while the meat is still cooking, your usual work clothes feel too plain.

It’s painfully clear you don’t dress up often as you look through your closet. Actually it might be more accurate to say you have no concept of dressy vs too dressy. Your usual uniform is casual to you, but you often have clients tell you, you look nice. Whatever that means. You shake your head and grab whatever is clean, staring at the coven clothes in the back of your closet. Too fancy. You twist the little pearl buttons on your blouse into their holes, and make a face in the mirror. It’s all too obvious you’re trying to look nice for someone.

It’s the silhouette, you think, the nipped waist and tight skirt. You huff and don’t bother to do the last few buttons, searching around your drawers for something more casual. You think you have a pair of jeans somewhere. You know your sister has tried to force denim on you enough times. God, this skirt makes everything so much harder, you’re not used to clothing sitting so close to your body.

Fuck everything you’re changing, you’ll wear one of your dresses it’ll be fine.

There’s a solid knock on your front door, your wards light up excitedly. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg for it to not be Price. You know it is. You’ll just have to tell him to wait while you finish getting ready, slipping on a pair of heels as you make your way to the curved oak door.

You tug the door open, feeling more than a little frazzled. Everything is already going wrong and now you don’t have any time to fix it. Price smiles down at you, he looks the same as always. Fantastic, once again you’re overdressed. You step to the side, bid him a quiet “please come in” and hold the door for him. He slips his hat --your hat-- from his head as he steps inside. His eyes drag over your body in a way that makes you feel far too exposed.

"Did you dress up for me?" He asks, you feel a little silly the way he says it.

"You said this was a date," which makes you feel even sillier to say.

“I did say that,” Price hums, reaches towards you, gentle fingers finish buttoning your shirt. You tip your head back instinctively for him as he twists the satin ribbon tie at the collar into a neat bow. Your breath sticks in your throat, the gesture far too intimate for a first date. “Are you nervous, sweetheart?” His fingers caress your throat and you snap your chin down, take a step back before your heart can jump out of your chest. You suppose changing is out of the question now.

“No,” Liar, “should I be?”

“Probably not,” You hate how he smiles at you, with just barely contained amusement, it’s far too charming.

“You know to behave yourself,” You turn away from him to go check on your roast, “otherwise the wards will throw you out just like last time.”

“Last time,” He mumbles, and you feel yourself wince, the ache in your chest at his tone. You shouldn’t have brought it up. Price is quiet, you’re not exactly used to him being quiet. You can feel him, his magic like a still lake, deep dark waters hardly stirring the secrets at the bottom. You still glance over your shoulder to make sure he’s actually in the house when he’s gone too long in silence.

He’s looking around your living room, picking up framed pictures and smiling down at the happy faces. His eyes dart to the wood beams of your ceiling, to the overstuffed couch, the knitted afghans, nothing you find terribly interesting. All of your materials are kept closer to the kitchen. If he wanted to snoop he should’ve chosen one of your glass cabinets, not your bookshelf. You shrug and pull your ceramic pot from the oven, you don’t have anything that needs to be hidden.

You settle your main on the counter and go to grab plates. You figure you can get dinner plated while he’s busy putting his scent all over everything. You can feel his magic clinging to whatever he’s touched. It’ll take you weeks to get it fully out of your house. You try not to think about the magical cleaning you’ll have to do when he leaves, focusing instead on slicing thick cuts off the bread you’d baked earlier.

Your grandmother would be quite proud of you for all the cooking you’ve done. Everything is fresh and cooked to perfection. It’s quite a nice plate if you do say so yourself: warm bread, tender meat with a rich thick sauce, and roasted vegetables with just a hint of char. Everything smells of warm herbs and careful preparation. Cooking is a magic in and of itself, one you’re thankful you had a good teacher for.

You grab both plates to set at their respective places on your table. Not exactly formal dining, but then again your family has never been a formal dining sort of people. Still, you have the prerequisite candles, wine, cloth napkins and butterflies in your stomach. You look for Price, finally having made his way to your curio cabinet. He turns a pair of dragonfly wings over in his hand.

“Dinner’s ready,” You raise your voice enough to be sure he’ll hear you over whatever he’s thinking. He settles the wings back in their place as he looks at you. His eyes drift down to the table.

“You served me,” Price sounds, almost confused, but- hm, indulgent, maybe. His voice is thick with something you haven’t heard before, deeper in his chest than it usually is. Something about it makes you want to touch him, conjures the feeling of sitting on his lap as you take your own seat.

“You’re my guest,” You tell him, “I’m a good host.”

“So you are,” He pulls his designated chair out to sit, and pauses again, leaning to pick up the fork you’d laid out for him. “This is fairy made,” He twists the intricate wooden utensil between his fingers, you nod.

“You’re not the only fae I deal with,” You pick up your own fork, the wood curves comfortably in your hand.

“Apparently,” Price smiles, finally sitting, “anyone I should be jealous of?” You snort.

“I should hope not. If I had to deal with anyone half as stubborn as you-” You shake your head, clear the sentence from your thoughts, “Besides I rarely cook for others. Too much-” you wave your hand, “idle magic to keep track of.”

Price hums. What you want to tell him is that cooking is such a labor of love, that it’s almost impossible to serve anything to anyone who isn’t going to stick around. That clearing your intent and keeping it clear the whole time you cook is far more than what a normal person has to go through, even if they’re just making toast. That every recipe seems to call for the same herbs that love and health spells call for, and you’ve never been able to shut your brain off from the association. That even sharing a meal with your friends makes you worry you’ll accidentally put a spell on them, and they’ll never trust what you give them again. That even though you love cooking you never stop being a witch, putting magic into everything that touches you.

Price watches you, your faux casual air. You know he has a better nose than your mundane friends, you dread to hear if your food smells like a spell. His eyes are so warm as you meet his gaze. It always surprises you that such an icy blue could be anything but cold, and yet.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me,” He says, picking up his knife and beginning to slice through the meat on his plate. You open your mouth to refute it, and grab your wine to sip instead. There’s no point in lying when it’s so painfully clear.

Wood, ceramic, copper, your kitchen seems almost made for fae comfort in its current state. Not a lick of iron anywhere it could’ve infected the food.

Instead you flick your wrist, your little record player excitedly switching itself on and carefully setting its needle on your pre-approved vinyl. You let the machine deal with the fiddly bits as your magic works to try and even itself out around the traces Price has left.

“I promised you a meal, you should be able to eat it,” You finally manage, doing your best to focus on your own food when your stomach is twisting itself into knots.

“Thank God for that,” Price tells you, “if I can’t eat you, at least I can eat your food.” You both watch the candles burst in crackling flames, bright enthusiastic licks of fire that you do your best to calm down. Magic reacting to your emotions. The record player skips a beat with your fluttering heart. “Cute,” He says it so casually, like your flames don’t crackle with his every word.

“Shut up,” You grumble.

If you’d thought dinner would be the hardest part of the evening you were horribly wrong. Dinner is easy. You’ve taken tea with Price enough times, had enough conversations with him, that you find it easy to fall into your familiar groove. Though you can feel time passing, can hear the soft click and chime of your clocks, you get lost talking. Before you know it hours have passed. Your candles burned down, your plates clean, the previously full bottle of wine neatly polished off. You think your record has reset itself at least once.

It’s nice, comfortable. Price always gives you his full attention, listens without simply waiting for his turn to speak, and you return the favor. Although with how intelligent he is, it would be hard not to give him your full attention. This date thing is easy. You don’t know why you were so worried.

All of your awkward anxiety rushes at you as you stand at the door. You’ve never been good at ending dates, and you’ve never had a date go well with someone you’re- Well you suppose you can admit that you like Price more than you should. Like him enough to hesitate the ending. You stare at him, trying to get a read on his mood, trying to silently ask him to do something. Please tell me how this is supposed to end, you think at him.

“You have to tell me if you want something little witch,” He smiles down at you.

"Would you kiss me?" You don't know what else to say, how else this could possibly go. You want him to kiss you more than anything. You had it once, and you haven't stopped thinking about it since. Price smiles, and pulls you into his arms.

He kisses you and it's nothing like it was last time. The blind panic is gone for one. It's slow and soft, it's not perfect, you don't know what to do with your hands or really what to do with your mouth, but it doesn't matter. Price kisses you like he never wants to do anything else, like the world can wait for him to finish. You're warm from the dinner and you can feel it bleed into the kiss. His beard tickles a little but the way he holds you and the soft slide of his lips make everything else melt away.

When he pulls away you can still feel the phantom press of his lips against yours, and it makes giddy bubbles pop in your ribs and across your cheeks. You want to kiss him again. Price smiles and brushes your hair back, his rough calloused fingers gentle as they skate across your skin. You really must be greedy to want so much more of him. You try to coach yourself, too much of a good thing blah blah blah.

He cups the back of your head and kisses you again. Soft, soft, soft. You didn't know kissing someone would feel like this. You've seen movies, read books, but you'd thought those must be exaggerations. When you'd kissed him before it had been so insistent, all teeth and tongue as he tried to devour you. If you'd thought he was trying to steal you away then you can't even imagine what he's trying to do now. Your chest clenches tight, pulls taught, bursts with gnawing desire, you think you might be trying to steal him, or at least convince him you're worth staying for.

Not that he needs convincing, you are more than worth staying for. You're so sweet and warm from the wine. Your lips are plush against his and your pretty little fingers hold onto him so tightly, he wouldn't leave you if the whole court called him. There's a slight tang of alcohol on your lips that makes your kiss all the sweeter.

Your hands slide to his shoulders as you press up on your toes, press closer against him. He wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you flush against his chest. As if he could keep you any closer, feel any more of your warmth. Oh you sweet thing, if he could sink into you he would, each honeyed kiss, each gentle breath, plucking at the last string of his resolve. Precious darling, do you even know how well loved you are?

You pull back, turn your head so his next kiss just catches the edge of your mouth. Price is ravenous for you, sliding his lips to your jaw, he can smell your pulse, the soft powdery rose of your perfume. How could he still be so hungry after eating? He can feel the syrup drip of your magic down his spine, languid and entirely too enticing. Actually, everything in the house seems to tremble just on the edge of your breaths, seems to weigh heavy against his shoulders, anticipatory.

It’s not just his hunger, is it?

His lips still against your neck. No, it’s yours as well. He can smell it, taste it on your skin, your want. You’re a spell, as much as you try not to be, just begging to be adored. You’re nervous. He pulls back, takes in the pout of your lips, the draw of your brows, wanting but unsure. He can’t. You deserve better than just hungry wanting. You should rest safe in the knowledge that he won’t leave in the morning.

Unfortunately that morning won’t come tomorrow.

Price strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead. It’s the end of an exchange, a decision made for both of you. you thought he’d be pushier. He was getting what he wanted, right? Maybe that was your own inexperience shining through, but you’d thought- Well you’d thought this was why he wanted you.

“What now?” You ask, trying to hide the confusion in your voice.

“Now?” He sighs it like it pains him, “Now, I leave, and you see me tomorrow.” You can’t say you aren’t relieved. Grateful that he isn’t pushing you for more so quickly. Still, you can’t help feeling a small sting of rejection.

"Even if I ask you to stay?" You push up onto your toes to try and meet his lips again, but he leans back to keep you a breath away.

"Especially if you ask." He tilts his head, and you feel like you’ve edged too close to a dangerous line. "When I fuck you," Price breathes, brushes his lips against yours, "and I will fuck you, Sweetheart," he assures you, "I want it to mean something.” He brushes your hair from your cheek, his fingers cupping your face like you’re something precious to him.

“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow?” You hope. Price smiles, and kisses you a final time. The feeling of him lingers when he pulls away. Gentle magic sticking to your lips as he pulls his hat on.

“And every day after that,” He promises.

588 notes · View notes