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#the first time i read i was like a child (granted a weird child) and had no idea what was happening

hetaherr · 8 months

Text

scent of tomorrow

: childe, thoma, wriothesley, kazuha, wanderer

: fluff, a little angst if u squint, all about smells

super self indulgent, literally thought of this in the shower lmao okay bye happy reading and reblog to win your 5050s <3

childe

scent is one of the senses you should put to use when childe is around. it is known to see and to feel is a privilege given that the man is often travelling in his line of work. but i implore you to not take smell for granted, for in his abscence all that shall be left in your home is the scent of his presence. you find yourself sinking into the cold and empty bed, the smell of him freshly out the shower will waft through the room, eventually dissipating in the following days. you remember his muscular arms wrapping around you shamelessly, a cheeky smile adorning his tired face as he begins to tickle you. take a whiff and it smells of water, clean and refreshing, it's slightly minty and it feels pristine. there are floral notes like the orange blossom, you can make out the innocence and playfulness- much like the purity that is his love for you. it's weird how the first time you met childe, the air was grim and smelled strongly of metal. it isn't hard to guess why, he looked intimidating and seemed far away. but now he was yours, all you can think about is how much you miss his joyful and refreshing antics- much like the aroma he brings and makes any space immediately feel like home.

thoma

though far away, you often find yourself transported into the charming yet quaint town of mondstadt. or at least what you pressume to be mondstadt. thoma smells like a freshly baked apple pie, vanilla and apple- and a little cinnamony as you've mentioned before. "my cinnamon boy" you will say while snugging into him on a cold rainy inazuma day, he feels warm and the smell of vanilla feels oddly comforting and relaxing. if you think about it he smells like walking into a kitchen with the oven on during christmas. he smells like the feeling of running fingers through your hair, cozy as you listen to him ramble about his day with the kamisato clan. it is the perfect feeling of nostalgia and pure comfort, the embodiment of fall. there is something so homely about his scent that makes you want to call your family or childhood friends again, he reminds you of the innocence of youth that is forever unattainable. he smells like the remembrance of the past and the security of the future that lies in his warm embrace.

wriothesley

there is something so on brand as you see those 3 in one soaps sitting so awkwardly in your shower, squeezed inbetween your fancy bottles of shower gels and all kinds of face and hair masks, body scrubs to keep yourself feeling clean. i suppose to this man, one bottle will do, and being clean is a 2 step process. however it's funny, he'll come home and a teasing grin will fall apon his face while chasing you around the living room- despite being exhausted from work- for a hug. "no hugs until you take a shower!" you can try shouting, squirming as he catches you. but trying is really all you can do. you can smell the musk that is his sweat, it's a little woody yet it makes you feel so very secure and safe- similar to the fortress he runs. a true sign of his hardwork, it may be a little gross as you return his hug- groaning as usual. but as he relishes in your touch, you can smell the lingering scent of that ridiculous soap he insists on using, it smells like jasmine. so pure and weirdly sensual as he tells you yet again that "i've missed you". its fascinating how his scent does such an accurate job at reminding you of his honesty in his work and in loving you. you may complain about his sweaty hugs and his odd taste in soaps but you do hope that the both of you stay in each other's embrace for just a little longer, before it's all washed away down the pipes.

kazuha

an honest laugh sounds across the beach, kazuha's hand unconsciously moving a piece of your hair away from your face as he listens to you speak. "you just smell different from how i imagined..." the sheepish remark sparks the feeling of surprise within his chest. when you first set eyes on the wandering samurai, the image of autumn and beautiful maple leaves falling from trees appears within your mind- a reasonable thought. but it couldn't be further from the truth. kazuha smells like summer, he smells like white musk and coconut. it's a little woody, fruity and floral at the same time, similar to his calm yet charming nature. it reminds you of the way he is able to remain so composed like the tranquil ocean while he manages to fluster you with his flowery words. at times you can faintly smell the sea breeze, salty and citrusy- but the scent comes and goes as does he, never staying in one spot for too long. under the sun as you lay with him atop a warm rock feeling the breeze, his scent is vast. one moment it feels like splashing in the ocean under the sun and the next it feels like watching the waves crash against the shore under the moonlight. he smells like the way you romanticise being at the beach, whether you are playing with your friends or sitting in a hammock, just watching and existing. be glad that everytime he is away, the beach will always feel like home.

wanderer

there is something so peaceful about waking up in the early mornings of spring, the crisp air and morning dew is something so miniscule yet so easy to love. but all you chose to look at is how his mouth is agape, brows slightly scrunched together, the motion of his chest falling and rising is the only thing moving in the still environment that surrounds you. at this moment as he wakes, you are greeted with the delightful aroma of lavender. unlike his usual stubborn and harsh behaviour, the scent of lavender only enhances how calm and tranquil it feels. it makes you laugh at how different his personalities seem throughout the day. his eyes narrow at you as his arm that drapes lazily across your waist pulls you closer. you can smell the aroma, surprised at how long it has lasted, you like how it reminds you of his devotion to you. there are times he smells like bergamot too. it smells like the sun, citrusy and a little playful. it dispells the shadows of despondency and anxiety, he smells like breathing the fresh air of morning walks. he smells like hanging the fresh laundry in the afternoon on a sunny yet windy day. the mixture of scents remind you of the elegance and purity that he is. a man capable of change and love, after being brought his sun.

#genshin impact x reader #childe x reader #thoma x reader #wriothesley x reader #kazuha x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader

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ppnuggiex · 1 year

Note

HII ur aesthetic is just so pretty and the way you write is so shekehsjjdkd fell in love when I read the first sentence, I'm not even joking😕

BUT ANYWAYY could I req diasomnia, heartslabyul, and/or octavinelle with a gn!reader who has a habit of squishing peoples cheeks whenever they hold eye contact 4 too long? /*flutters eyelashes cutely*/

THANKYOU PO IF YOY ACTUALLY DO THIS HOPE U DONT DROWN IN REQS OR SMTH HAVE A GREAT DAY MWAMWAA also i don't even know which characters are good with this kinda prompt so honestly im dependin on u 2 choose whoevee u want 🙇‍♀️ bye sissymars 🥺🥺🤭🤭🤗🤗

　　　　　　TWST x gn reader

　　　　『　malleus ,, sebek ,, riddle ,, cater ,, floyd ,, gender neutral reader 』

　　-> reader who squishes cheeks when ppl stare too much

　　— fluff ,, sfw ,, crack

　　— TYSM 😭♥️♥️ this made my day omg ,, so glad you like my writing ,, i kinda did a few from each dorm you asked for except for octavinelle bc character limit is 5 for me 😭💔 but youre more than welcome to request for others ! :D hope you enjoy this 🙏❤️

- malleus

| • he usually doesnt mean to stare for too long ,, always knowing it was rude and how it feels to be stared at by others

| • though he was focused on talking about the gargoyles at the gates and hadnt tore his gaze away for a moment

| • he shut up immediately the moment you reached out and squished his cheeks ,, eyes wide in astonishment

| • how fearless you are ,, child of man

| • he does ask about it ,, wondering what the reason was for ,, and when he learns why he apologizes and promises not to do it again

- sebek

| • bro was on another rant abt his master ,, how courageous and how kind he is for putting up with these stupid humans everyday

| • oh how he adored his master ,, how pure and wonderful he was

| • it got to the point he was shaking your shoulders and making direct ,, intense ,, eye contact

| • annoyed with how long he was staring ,, you reached up and squeezed his cheeks

| • he jumps back ,, so confused and offended

| • why would you do that !?? explain now human !!

| • he huffs and puffs about the reasoning ,, but listens and respects your boundaries

- riddle

| • he was probably ranting about another reckless first year making a mess of the kitchen or some students ignoring the queen’s rules

| • he didnt mean to stare for too long ,, most likely already knowing about how you get about it

| • when you squish his cheeks ,, he may or may not have let out an embarrassing squeak

| • he’ll puff his cheeks and apologize ,, telling you not to talk abt the squeak to anyone

| • his face is so red by the end ,, embarrassed he let himself stare too long and let out a squeak

- cater

| • knowing how observant he is ,, he’d know about it immediately when he sees you do it to ace and deuce

| • he’ll be quick to discard his eyes when he realizes hes been looking too long

| • though he sort of stared a little too long once ,, trying to take a selfie with you

| • when you squish his cheeks outta nowhere ,, he’ll jump back a little and almost drop his phone

| • he apologizes and says he was adoring you for the moment ,, before taking the selfie and moving on to focus on that

- floyd

| • he probably stares on purpose when he gets ahold of this information

| • its only so you can squish his cheeks ,, hes a bit weird abt it ,, craving your touch and if staring at you long enough grants him that then he will gladly do so

| • but if you get rlly bothered by it than he will stop

| • this time he just happened to do it accidentally ,, trying to memorize your smile as much as he could while it was there

| • he didnt realize what he was doing until you squeezed his cheeks with a huff

| • he blinked a few times before giggling and pulling you into his lap ,, wrapping his arms around you

| • “ ahhh sorry shrimpy ~ i didnt mean to stare too much ,,” he purred before pressing a kiss to your head

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netherfeildren · 1 year

Text

Forfeiting My Mystique

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Summary: You're a girl made of golden gossamer, a work of art come to life, and Ezra, well he's dedicated his life to collecting beautiful things.

-OR-

An Ezra Art Collector AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: voyeurism; kind of objectifying? (not sure how to tag the strange shit going on here); ezra’s weird; mommy issues; references to past childhood abuse; touch aversion/touch starved (at the same time); sugar daddy vibes; size difference; oral sex (f! receiving); butt stuff lite; dom/sub undertones; power dynamics; self esteem issues x2; panty thieving; masturbation; obsessive behavior; possessive behavior; brief mention of recreational drug use; brief discussion of parent death

A/N: This is extremely self indulgent - basically I wrote it for me, but you guys can read it too. I know I took some liberties with Ezra's characterization but whatever.

Inspo (and some of the dialogue) pulled from Lenny Kravitz’s Paris town house Vogue tour, Jeremy Strong’s favorite things GQ interview, and “Marianne” from Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin.

Title is from the poem by the same name by Kaveh Akbar.

Word Count: 12K

Read on AO3

Ezra has always loved beautiful things. Since he was a child, his mother taught him to instill an appreciation for beauty into all facets of his world. She herself, a gorgeously beautiful creature, was well versed in such a life. But beautiful as she was, she was also cruel, selfish, capricious to her very core, and she’d turned him into a strange amalgamation of a man by proxy. At once also cruel and selfish and capricious, but hurt and soft and gnarled, as well, so that he was also made gentle and aware and hopeful. That above all else, his greatest weakness, always hopeful. Perhaps, to the point of naivety, the point of peril. For he looked for beauty in all things, and to do that, he was forced to bestow his hopeful eye upon even the ugly and harsh things of the world.

And so he’d dedicated his life to finding those beautiful things. An art collector by virtue, they called him. A vulture, a scavenger, a treasure hunter. A man full of greed and pride, demons and too much money. All he thought of himself as, was hungry. So yes, perhaps a scavenger, a morsel of greed within the marrow of his bones, always looking for the next sublime artifact, painting, statue – person. But he also liked to think of himself as a protector of those beautiful things, of historic things. Things that changed the very face of humanity, shifted the tide of the world. A collector – always in search of the next life changing sight. Always certain the world was filled with endless possibilities for beauty, for loveliness, for sensuality, for something to captivate, to overwhelm him.

The first thing he sees are your feet. Standing in the gallery over from the one you’re inhabiting, people he doesnt know or give a fuck about talking at him, schmoozing and preening and prostrating themselves. Probably hoping he’ll cough up a couple million euro for whatever cause they’re pretending to crusade behind at the moment. He can see only the quarter bottom half of the famed performance artist he’d heard so much about. The entire exhibit tonight had been built around you, and it had the whole of Paris raving and ravenous for a piece of the lovely morsel they so claimed you posed as. Shallow and vain creatures that the peers of his echelon were, they were easily amused and easily bored by the smallest passing fads. At once desperate to be the first to see or speak of a thing, and consequently, the first to discard it as dépassé.

He’d made the trek all the way to the Left Bank from his townhouse in the 16th arrondissement, to see the performance of the woman whom his associate, Oruf, had said would change the way he thought of a living creature forevermore. Big words from a little man, Ezra had no real inclination to believe.

The angle of the wall blocks most of you from his view – granting him the sight of only your knees down. Your feet are small, he can see the tiny square shape of your nails, the gleam of them under the soft warm overhead light – lying on your side, one slotted above the other. The fine architecture of your ankles – delicate, the blue hued veins crawling like vines up the top of your foot, lost to the pale of your skin. The smooth, glossy slope of your calf, up to the flat round of your patella. It’s all he can admire from where he stands. Pretty legs, but nothing to lose one’s head over so far.

The person talking at him is interminably long winded. Ezra would like nothing more than to beg them to shut the fuck up and be on his way. He wants another drink. He wants to see you in full. He’d heard so much about the woman sitting for the live art exhibit. You’d been heralded into a creature of myth by the wagging tongues of Paris. He wanted to discern for himself the level of sanctity you deserved. He wanted to see your face.

Finally, he’s able to demure from the conversation, the promise of ten million euro for the charity of the sycophant’s choice, promised off-handedly – any amount of money would’ve been too little to get the gaping, begging maw to quit it’s yapping.

He slinks along the shadows of the walls, a vulture in its natural habitat. The lights brought down to a low warm hue, meant to shape itself along the contours of your skin, bring out the soft gleam within you. Surely the oldest trick in the book, that of light and shadows. He moves further into the room slowly, your back to him. The plush round of your bottom comes into view, two little dimples gracing the low of your back, the notches of your spine, up, up, to the heavy mantle of your hair. You’re resting on your hip, your torso twisted so your chest is pressed to the chaise you lounge on, your head laying cradled in the circle of your bent arms. There is a tiny, delicate outline of a sparrow tattooed at your shoulder. He watches the slow rise and fall of your back, the shadow of your ribs – he’d feed you more if you were his. The thought comes unbidden – a little shocking – a lovely bottom, beautiful, long hair, but for a man like Ezra – one who so wholly avoided any sort of ownership by another or over another, the thought of such intimacy, something to cause revulsion, not desire, coming from his own psyche, it’s almost distressing to acknowledge as his own.

The crown of your head gleams like a halo in the soft overhead gallery light. The room is muted, voices hushed, and the patrons rove around your unmoving body, the rhythm of your breath the only discernible sign of life on your form from back here. Oruf had claimed that you did not move a single millimeter during the entirety of the three hour long performance. He sure as fuck didn’t believe that. He was having a quite, self proclaimed, contrary and bitter season, by his own choosing, and was prone to bouts of obstinance and general disagreement at anything and everything that presented itself to him. He was choosing, as of now, to not believe in your myth.

He moves further around the center where you lay in repose. He needs to see your face. That will give him the answer he’s come here for.

There’s a large group standing right in front of you – rudely pointing, whispering, and he feels a surge of annoyance at the sight of them. You were here to be observed, appreciated, not fucking ogled like some cheap attraction, and he was here to see you – they needed to get the fuck out of his way.

Finally, they shuffle off, leaving the space directly in front of you open. He makes the final round above your head, comes to stand before you. Oruf had said the only part of you that moved were your eyes.

They fall on Ezra now.

It could have been as if, in that moment, you’d gotten up, naked as Venus, to shriek directly in his face. That powerful was the force behind your gaze – a punch to the gut, his mothers handbag swinging unexpectedly, purposefully into his stomach as he scurried meekly behind her as a child.

He pulls his Jacques Marie Mage frames from his nose. He needs to look away from the searing power of your attention. He needs a moment to collect himself, taking deep breaths as he studies the glasses, runs the tip of his finger over the bridge. He’s held frozen in place by the feel of your gaze still upon him.

He decides in that very instant he has to have you.

When he looks back at you, your eyes flit away. He is dismissed – made ravenous. On the verge of tears, perhaps. Look back at me, look back at me, look back at me. What sort of reaction is this to a woman whose name he doesn’t even know? Nonsensical. Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation – the edibles he’d downed before coming, maybe he’s having a bad reaction.

But the gift of your slow, lazy gaze roves around the space he inhabits now, everywhere but directly at him, almost like a punishment for having looked away from you first – even for a second.

He’s never considered the prospect of trying to buy a person. The moral question or dilemma of it. He decides he doesn’t necessarily care. Whatever he has to do to get you to leave this place with him, he’ll do. What he’ll be able to bring himself to let happen after that, if he’ll even be able to touch you, be brave enough to let you touch him, remains to be seen. Inconsequential too, he finds.

He circles the gallery for close to an hour before he can no longer help himself, can no longer feign casualness. The rest of the art here is pale and dull in the light of your luminescence. He finally comes to a stop in a corner diagonal from where you face, in the shadow of the sculpture of Paolo e Virginia. At this moment, he feels certain Puttinati prophecised your existence, to so depict the vision of reverence he’s feeling for you in this moment.

The performance is three hours long. In that time you don’t move your body at all, Oruf was right – lying with the stillness of marble. The only thing that moves are your eyes, and you watch the patrons closely, examine them. Your gaze is part of the art, part of the power of it.

The visage of you is shocking, not for your nudity, but because in a lifetime filled with unimaginably lovely things, you are, by far, the most magnificently gorgeous creature Ezra has ever laid eyes on. It is like a recurring bullet to the temple over and over again for the visceral shock you pull out of him.

Finally, finally, your gaze falls on him again. The meeting of your eyes, like the strike of lightning against the earth. He can feel his cock thicken, grow heavy, just at the touch of your gaze. It’s voyeuristic – unexpected – he can’t remember the last time he got hard. He feels almost perverted, sporting an erection at the mere sight of you, surrounded by all these people in this crowded gallery.

He can’t see your breasts entirely, pressed to the chaise as they are, only the full, pale sides. He wonders desperately at the color of your nipples, the shade, the hue. He’d like to imprint it in his mind. Know the taste of them, as well, of all your skin – wonders if the color there matches that of the skin between your legs. The thought causes hunger to climb like fire up his chest into his throat, saliva pooling heavy in his mouth at the mere suggestion of your cunt in his mind.

His eyes leave you for a moment, to cast the wide net of his gaze around the room, at the other men. He wonders if they’re hard too, if only your naked skin, lying still in repose, has the power to make their blood rush, their muscles thicken. He is not pleased by the thought of that. And when he comes back to you, you’re still on him. Gaze roaming down his body, taking in the fine cashmere sweater, his perfectly tailored suit, built to hang in a precisely designed loose cut over his shoulders, down his long legs, the incongruous sneakers, back, back up to his face, the spot of blonde at the front of his hair. A single delicate eyebrow crooks in a minute arch at him. It is all the answer he needs

You are looking back at him. It’s all he needs to know.

As the three hour mark comes to a head the lights dim even further until only a singular overhead spotlight falls upon your form. Your skin glows, seems to flare brighter for a single moment, and then a golden sheet of gossamer begins to slowly fall from the ceiling, and right before it lands upon your body, you finally move. Your body stretches, toes pointing and curling, long arms stretched in an arc over your head. The fine lines and slopes of your body coming into startling clarity for one moment, and then you turn over, away from him, where he can’t see your face anymore, and curl in on yourself. The golden gusset falls upon your coiled form, as if you’ve finally been put to rest. The lights dim until all that’s visible is the luminous gleam of the shroud over your curled body.

You are a girl made of golden myth and gossamer, and he must have you.

“Hello, Sparrow.” He steps into the small, warm space of your dressing room.

You turn to face him, you’ve been waiting for him. “Hello,” you say slowly. “You were watching me.”

“Everyone was watching you.”

“Not like you were–”

“No… not like I was.” His accent is some strange sort of concoction of eclectic European – at once French, but also slightly Germanic, with an inflection of deep American South at the end. The vowels and consonants rolling off his tongue, smooth and hypnotizing like the warm pour of honey, and then, suddenly, inflected with a bout of sharpness. Something that snaps you awake, forces you to come to attention, to pay attention to him. That was all it was really, you could tell, a forceful, demanding grab for attention at all times. He called it to himself, seduced the people around him into ardor. Whether they knowingly chose to be entranced or not, was not up to them.

“Ezra,” he gives an imitation of a little flourished bow. You give him your own name in return. “You were watching me back.”

“I couldn’t help it.” He had demanded it of you, after all, no need to lie now.

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” You turn back to continue packing your bag.

“I’m not very hungry.” You feel him come closer, hear the subtle hint of pleading desperation in his sensual voice that has pleasure coiling deep in your belly.

“A drink then.”

You’d like to be on clear ground with this man who you can see, even now, is an enigma not to be trifled with unconscionably. “Where? At your house?” you turn to crook a sardonic brow at him.

“Would you like me to take you to my house?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want too.” You’d already decided, didn’t see the point in prolonging the game.

His security takes you out the back of the gallery, dark Maybach rolling smoothly up as soon as you reach the curb, and you feel the searing phantom heat of his large palm hovering over the small of your back.

He hasn’t touched you a single time yet, and everything within you is coiled tight, waiting for that first graze.

He pulls the car door open for you himself, and then his driver is there, smoothly offering you his hand to help you step into the sleek interior. The leather beneath you is buttery chocolate brown and you press your thighs together. His security had taken your bag from you, and you felt bereft and listless without the protective clutch of it within your hands now.

He follows after you, sliding gracefully onto the seat across. You can see he’s wearing two gold chains around his neck that rest in the dip of his collarbones, and your mouth waters at the sight. The car pulls quietly away from the curb and then you’re merging into the busy city traffic, ensconced in the quiet of this liminal space he’s stolen you into with him.

He crosses one knee over the other, one thick arm thrown languidly over the back of the seat. You can see a small gold signet ring gracing his pinky – some sort of crest emblazoned on it.

Fucking family crest kind of rich. God. You don’t know if you’re prepared for this.

You cock your head to the side, the muscles in your neck are a little stiff and sore from holding your pose for so long, and you let your neck roll back on the head rest.

He’s quiet, still observing, as if you’re still existing within the walls of the gallery, and not being spirited away to his home so that he might have his way with you.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Might as well be blunt, you think, now that you’re here. He was so gorgeous in that room, watching you, circling you like a beast hunting in the wild. There was really no other way this night was destined to end, but with you beneath him, taking him into your cunt.

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t respond, only gives you a melodic little non-committal hum, continues to look at you from the seat across with those deceptively guileless eyes. You want him to snatch you by the chin and spit in your mouth.

The drive ends in front of the grand façade of a pristine Parisian townhouse on a secluded street in the 16th arrondissement – flanked by national embassies, no less.

You are very, very far from home. In a Paris you’ve not ventured into in all your years of living here.

He helps you from the car, finally, finally, finally, thick palm wrapping entirely around the thin of your wrist. Everything within you coils and pulses, tight and wet. His skin is warm and dry, you can feel the pull of rough calluses on his palm. You’re sure he can feel the hammering staccato of your pulse through the thin membrane as you stare at the way his fingers overlap completely around the circumference of your limb.

He lets you step into the foyer ahead of him as one of his staff sweeps the door open for the two of you, ready and waiting for their master to return with a respectably quiet, monsieur, mademoiselle, in greeting. There’s a huge Basquiat in the entrance hall, across from the sweeping staircase.

“Lots of his art came my way,” he says at your obvious admiration, shock, desire to tuck tail and run back home. “We weren’t friends, but I was roommates with a guy he’d lived with. His last girlfriend was best friends with my girlfriend at the time, so when he died we had one of the first calls.”

“It’s wonderful–” Your voice is full of awe, eyes taking in a type of home you’ve never seen before up close like this. Something out of a picture book that sits on the coffee table of someone wishing for more.

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Well… they get used for different things – so I’m not sure. Let’s call it eight.”

You huff a small laugh, run your finger along the keys of the opulent crystal Steinway. “Let’s call it eight, sure.”

Now that you’re here, that he hasn’t overtly said he’s brought you here for sex, you don’t really know what it is he wants from you. A bad thought, but an honest one.

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He leads you into an elegantly lush reception room, hovering hand again at the place above the small of your back. There’s a gargantuan crystal chandelier hanging at the center of the room, two enormous elephant tusks flank the elaborate mantelpiece. The room is a mix of eclectic eccentricities, both neutrally elegant and demure in its obvious wealth, but inflected with touches of vibrant color and idiosyncrasies to bring the room together in a way that you think must reflect the house’s owner.

He moves to the bar, choosing the green bottle of twenty year Laphroaig and pours a knuckle into two crystal tumblers. He’s quiet, subdued, and the lack of small talk to fill the silence has the backs of your knees itching and sweating.

There’s a glossy red panther sculpture prowling across a gold and ivory lacquered coffee table. He comes to hand your glass to you. “That’s a museum piece. I can’t remember where I got it, but it’s rare.” You can’t tell if he’s trying to boast, to impress you, or merely share his satisfaction at owning a piece of art worthy of a museum's gallery. You’d already discerned that at the Basquiat’s first glance, shit, at the first sight of the house. It was a veritable museum on its own. You were sure the number of museum pieces in every room were too many to count in a single night, nay week.

You don’t sit as he goes to do, but start to slowly circle the room. An imitation of his slow roving of you earlier at the gallery. The peat whisky is bold and smoky, a surprising hint of something akin to seawater, but also mellowly sweet. You think that this must be what his skin tastes like, his come – an amalgamation of all the different flavors on the wheel. Saliva pools heavy on your tongue and you take a deeper sip, eyes flitting to him.

“Three hours is a long time to lay so still,” he says.

“It is. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not particularly – perhaps a bit stiff.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not so long, but not so short, either.”

“So just the right amount?”

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment then, still watching, watching, watching. His gaze upon you feels like the drag of a specter’s fingers along your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. You wonder if this is how he felt while you watched him in the low light of the gallery. Hunted. But no, you imagine there isn’t anything that could make a man such as this feel like prey.

“Can I draw you a bath?” You pause at this – firmer, more familiar ground, finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. His request for you to get naked for him, to let him into your body. It’s what you want also. He’s not rushing this, and it’s making you feel unstable, unsure of the ground you’re treading here together.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

He leads you upstairs, to one of the guest bedrooms. The en suite, one of his favorites in the house – dark marble tub in the center of the room under a low hanging crystal chandelier. The French windows let in the soft glow of the moon outside, and he draws the bath for you as you peer through the glass. The reflection of your face in the windows, eternally distracting.

When the water is warm and ready, a splash of Neroli Portofino Body Oil poured under the stream, he turns to you. He’s hesitant – both of himself and you, equally. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a body not his own, and he feels the slight anxious tremor of his hands. Although he can’t be sure if that’s strictly attributed to nerves, or all the blood in his body pooling in his cock at the moment.

“Can I take your clothes off?” said as gently as possible, so as not to spook you.

Your gaze is as direct as it was while you lay watching him, surrounded by half of Paris. “Yes.”

He starts at the tiny bow holding the front of your soft silk blouse together – the weave so fine, it’s almost translucent, and he can see the outline of your evasive nipples he’s been so desperate to see. He pulls on the string letting the neck of the blouse fall open, then down to the tiny pearl buttons holding the rest of it together. All without touching your skin.

You’re panting, face already flushed, eyes bright, almost fevered. His balls are tight and heavy, ready to come, just with this. Just at the mere fucking vision of you ready and panting for him. His belly clenches and then he pushes the silk off the fine bones of your shoulders. The wings of your collarbones, the shadow of the dip in them the most tempting image he’s ever beheld in his entire life. He wants to dip his tongue into the tiny pool, fill them with ambrosia and drink directly from your skin.

He feels his cock begin to leak.

The zipper at the side of your skirt is next. He watches the rise and fall of your ribs, the tremble of your throat as he pulls it down slowly, revealing the rest of your skin to him. There’s a tiny lace thong around your hips, robin's egg blue. Oh, he will be stealing that for himself.

He finally lets himself touch your skin as he pushes the scrap of lace down your legs, crouching smoothly to his knees to help you step out of it. He takes in the sight of your small feet up close now. The fine tendons of your musculature entirely too fucking beguiling. He ghosts the tip of a single finger over the top of your foot and you moan for him. So goddamn sweet and wanton.

He unfolds to his full height and pockets your panties. To be inspected at a later time, pressed to his nose and mouth so that he might drink the scent of you down into himself. He tips his chin at the tub now, holding your wild gaze, breaths coming in short little gasps. Your cheeks are flushed the color of your nipples. The tiny wisps of hair at your neck and temples beginning to curl deliciously in the humidity of the bathroom. He could spill his seed just at the look in your eyes, he’s sure of it.

“In,” he orders, crowds you towards the edge of the tub and grips the bend of your elbow between his thumb and index finger – as little contact as possible – to help you into the water. “Sit.”

You immediately obey, and that fills him with more pleasure than the sight of your naked skin. The control you’re granting him right now, allowing him the privilege of ordering you for the sake of his own comfort – he’s going to reward you very well for being so good for him.

He bends over the edge of the tub, hovering over your beseeching upturned face. He brushes his thumb softly over your full bottom lip. “Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut, you look down into the water, a lovely pink blush blossoming over your cheeks. “Relax. Soak for a while.”

He can tell you want him. Badly. The flush of your cheeks down to your breasts, rosy little nipples peaked, your quick breath. That want, compounded doubly by his refusal so far to really touch you — his inability. The more he stays his hand, the more you want him, and the more you want him the harder his cock grows, the more frightened he becomes. He thinks it’s very true, that old adage, the harder you try to push a woman away from a man, the closer she will go to him by virtue of rebellion.

You sit in the warm bath for close to an hour, and he watches rapturously, hypnotized by the slick wet of the water rolling over your skin, from his seat on an ottoman at the center of the room. The weight of his gaze on your skin, almost violent in its intense desire. He wants to lick every single droplet from your body and then bite into the heavy lush weight of your tits until his teeth are imprinted in the soft flesh, bruises sucked into the pale globes. He hopes you’ll let him. He hopes he’ll let himself.

Your returning look is equally wanton. He watches your gaze trained and hungry on the heft of his cock hiding beneath his trousers. You spread your legs for him beneath the water as you wash yourself, putting on another show, private, just for him. An unjustly jealous wrath stirs within him, coiled and hissing, at the thought of any other human on earth ever getting to see you the way he is now. Largely a passive man, the violence that surges within him has him surprised and not, in equal measures. For he thinks that no being ever having beheld you, could ever possibly be driven to feel any other way than obsessively possessive over such a creature as yourself. You’re like a siren in this moment, languishing in the warm water of his bath, in his house, where you agreed to come with him tonight. A nymph willingly slinking into the depth of Tartarus, knowing she’s in peril of being wholly devoured by the beasts that lay at its depths, and still going anyways.

He helps you out after a while, tiny little fingers and toes soaked to wrinkles, elbow once again caught between his two fingers, and the heat rolling off your skin sears him. Has a violent tremble running jaggedly down his vertebrae.

He wraps you in a plush white towel, pulled from the warming rack, helps you dry your long hair. Then goes to his room for one of his shirts to put you in. He pulls one he’d worn a few days ago off the pile from the chair in the corner. He wants to know you’re sleeping in something that’s already been on his skin, that smells like him, that you’re soaking now in his own scent.

As he pulls the towel from around your body to once again reveal your bare form to him he presses a soft kiss to your naked waist – can’t help himself, the soft slope entirely too beguiling. Overtaking any apprehensions he may have, and his gut clenches with fear and desire. He can feel the weeping of his cock dribble down his thigh as he presses his lips to the warm, fragrant skin.

You’re quiet, watching him, letting him do with you as he wants. His own little sentient doll, created for his pleasure only. “I have a farm in Brazil,” he says. He rounds your form, starts to braid the long strands of your hair into a single plait. You put up no protest – it feels like water, slipping through his hands. “We grow organic fruit and vegetables and there’s cows, lots of cows. We never kill them, they just live there, graze.” One of his favorite places in the entire world, but perhaps, second to the place he resides now, staring at you, dressing you, touching your hair. “I love it there, I’ll take you.”

“Okay,” you say easily. “I’d like that,” the gift of the gentle curve of your smile. He wants to lick into your mouth, fuck you with his tongue, slap your pussy and watch the blood rush to the surface, feel the tight clench of your asshole as he fills you with his come.

“Will you let me watch you play with your cunt?” he asks gently.

“Won’t you do it?”

“I’m scared to touch you yet – to find out if you’re actually real.” He feels an uncharacteristically self conscious blush mar his cheeks. “I–I’m not ready. I want to watch first.” He comes to kneel between your parted thighs that dangle off the high bed. “Pet your cunt for me – show me how you like it, sweet girl. Please.” He is not above begging. Not for this. Not for you – for the sight of you playing with your wet, pink pussy.

You spread your legs wider, give him the tantalizing peak of your bare sex, your glistening folds. You’re already fucking wet for him. He feels an unrestrained growl claw up his throat like fire. His mouth goes dry, parched. The only way to sate himself, to drink straight from the source of your glossy slick.

You press your fingers to the pearl of your clit, swollen and needy already, he can see. You start to swirl little circles over your slippery flesh, your wet mouth falling open in a gasp. “That’s it, yeah–” he whispers, bringing his face in closer to the apex of your thighs so he can smell you directly from the source. His eyes flutter as he breathes in the scent of you, the deep amber and citrus from the bath oil, but beneath that, entwined in the rich notes, the musky scent of you. Fucking mouthwatering. He hears himself moan, the sound pulled almost unconsciously from his body.

“Inside– put your fingers inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” You press a single finger in, all the way to the last knuckle, and start to rock your hips. He can feel your gaze on his face, the weight of it heavy and pleading.

“Ezra– p–please, please, you do it,” you beg, let your head roll back as you press another finger in and start to rock your clit against the mound of your palm in earnest.

“But you’re doing so well, sweet girl. About to make that little cunt come for me. Look–” He gives you the weight of a single palm on the bend of your knee and you moan deep and ragged at just that compact touch. He can’t help himself – he pulls the edge of the t-shirt up to bare your tits to him and holds it up against the base of your throat where he cradles the delicate column in his hand – the entire large span of him completely engulfing your smallness. “Your thighs are trembling, treasure. You’re going to do it just for me, aren’t you?.”

“Y–Yes, yes–”

He pushes your knee in his grasp wider, opening you more for the fileting of gaze. “Make yourself come – I want to see it. Fucking come,” it’s a demand you answer, just the sound of it causing the heat of your skin to seemingly ricochet even higher. You start to come – he watches the clenching of the muscles in your stomach as you grind your fingers deep. He can hear how wet you are, the sopping wet squelch of your pulsing cunt, and he worries for one second that he’s about to come in his pants.

You let out a reed high mewl, like you’re singing just for him. “What a good, good girl you are,” he praises, and your eyes flutter shut, pulling your fingers away so that he’s left to admire the clenching of your stretched hole. He can see the glossy shine of your slick sliding down the crevice of your ass, and he wants to lick through your sticky arousal so fucking badly he bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood. He bends his head to press his brow to the edge of the bed between your spread thighs, tightening his grip around your knee until you whimper in pain. He loosens his hold immediately, thumb brushing soothingly over the bend before he stands, lets out a long breath. He stares down at your panting, flushed form. Wet and sated after your orgasm. Fuck all the art in the world. He’d set fire to every single masterpiece he owns in this very moment if he was granted the gift of getting to watch you come even one single time more.

He passes his palm over his mouth, feeling the soft bristles of his scruff. He’d like to see the smooth insides of your thighs rubbed raw with it, he’d like to see the stretch of your cunt as he stuffs you full of himself, the milky white of his spend leaking from all your holes.

“It’s time to put you to bed,” he says instead.

Your brow creases in the sweetest little frown, red mouth puckering, still panting. “You’re not staying?”

“No, sweet girl. I think it’s best if you sleep here tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But–”

“It’s alright. There’s no rush.” He leans over you to press a lingering kiss to your brow, pulls his shirt down to cover your breasts. You give him a little whimper, and he allows your hand to come up to clutch the thick swell of his bicep, the heavy muscle there bunching at the feel of your grip. He moves to help you settle beneath the silk duvet, pleased beyond belief at the sight of you tucked into a bed in his home, wearing his clothes, flushed and wearing the sated look of a recent orgasm.

“Goodnight, treasure.”

“Goodnight, Ezra.”

You find his room later. You can’t help yourself, following the glow of the soft light spilling between the crack of his slightly open door, like he’d left you a bread crumb trail to follow, like he knew you’d come searching. You can’t sleep knowing he’s so close, this dazzling creature come straight from a dream. Twisting and turning in the plush monstrosity of a bed he’d left you in. His shirt, butter soft, the dark, gray blue swimming around your much smaller frame. It smells like him, his cologne – you recognize the scent of Le Labo Another 13. Musky with the softest most subtle hint of jasmine, paired with something earthier – greener, and folded between all that: the soft saltiness of his sweat. Why would you sleep when a figure from your very fantasies was right here in the flesh. Your cunt clenches, wet and aching, even after he’d watched you make yourself come. You need more, want to feel the press of his cock inside of you, the heavy weight of it.

He’s sitting up in bed, reading something on an iPad, glasses propped low on his nose. He looks up at your small knock, not waiting for his permission to slip inside.

“I promise, I’ll be good.” You hold your hands up in surrender. “I won’t touch you. We can put a pillow between us if you like.” You move towards the bed.

There’s a large stack of books sitting on his bedside table, flooded by the warm moss stained light of the antique Tiffany lamp. A single idiosyncrasy of old world charm in a room made stark by its bright modernity. The pile is made up of a book of paintings by Howard Hodgkin, the diaries of Alma Mahler, The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner, the fourth volume of In Search of Lost Time – you appreciate his excellent taste – and at the very top, laying open, facedown, as if he’d just put it down a moment ago, My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard. You find it fascinating to see a book that spoke of life in such a granular way — realistic, simple, a normal man in a normal world, speaking in such extensive, caring detail on the small things in his life — on the bedside table of this enigma, this person who seemed to be, by far and large, a different species to all other men you’d ever met before. To see the spine so cracked and worn — as if he’d read it over and over again, in search of the equation for that simplicity, to thus inject into his own existence – a way to embalm his own world in such appreciation for the small but infinitely significant moments. You wonder if it’s taught him much— if he’s been able to find and implement whatever it was he’d searched for through so many reads.

“Alright,” he says easily, but the look in his eyes is slightly wary. You recognize Glenn Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations playing softly on the surround sound as you crawl into his bed – under the silk smooth sheets, bringing a pillow to blockade you from him, protect him. You don’t want him to be uncomfortable, but you desperately want to be close to him also. The two of you have barely talked tonight – too caught up in the observation of one another, like two animals circling in the wild. You want to talk to him. Want to hear the sound of his deep voice vibrate through your nerve endings.

“Intimacy is… difficult for me,” he says slowly, swallowing. “It’s hard for me to get close to people… emotionally, physically. I need time to — I suppose, to warm up to them.”

“That’s — that’s okay. I understand,” you say, because you do, because you’re the same in many ways.

“It’s why I love art,” he continues. “You can be close to something, feel its warmth, beauty – whatever feeling it is the artist intended to pull out of you, from a distance. Untouched – it’s untouchable. That comforts me for some reason.”

“I think – I think I understand that as well. Something, perhaps, about the idea of a thing remaining as it was initially conceived as, for all time, undisturbed by outside influences.”

“Yes – yes, exactly.” His eyes are alive with the fire of being understood.

You look down at his straining erection. You can’t help it. “You’re hard,” you say. You want to touch him so badly it’s a physical ache inside of you.

“I’ve been hard since I first saw you.”

“Let me help.”

He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“I was embarrassed that the other patrons would be able to tell how wet my pussy was lying there staring at you.” Shocking words. His eyes flutter shut, fuck, he murmurs under his breath, brings his hand up to rub at his jaw. You’ve noticed he does that a lot – a tell of sorts. He takes several deep breaths, the tension seeming to seep out of his body by sheer force of will.

You take him in as he settles back into the pillows, relaxing, or at least pretending to. His face, smooth and serene, laying there watching you, despite his heavy erection, but the look in his eyes – it’s also slightly provoking. As if he wants you to challenge him, question him, but also afraid, perhaps, that you’ll force his hand, that he’ll be forced to give in to what you both want before he’s ready. You decide to choose mercy – change the subject. More curious to see how he chooses to play this out.

“Let’s play the question game.”

“The question game?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he turns to lay on his side, facing you. Both of your hands are tucked beneath your cheeks. He’s wearing a soft, worn sweater, a tiny hole at the collar, the sleeves stretched and overly long. Oh, this may just be too much for you to handle.

“We’ll start with something easy – what’s your favorite color?”

“That’s easy?”

“Yes.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing.

“Depends on the day,” he says very seriously. His blinks are slow, his pupils huge and dilated in the warm light of the lamp. You wonder if he’s taken something. Every time he blinks the thick fringe of his lashes fans over his cheeks, the pause of his languor allows you a moment to appreciate them.

“That’s not an answer – you have to give a real answer.” You want to reach your finger out and brush along that thick fringe, through the patchy hair on his face, threaded through with the smallest hint of silver, stick your nose in his hair and smell him right at the source.

“It’s the only real answer there is – no one’s favorite color stays their favorite color forever.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Make things purposely difficult.”

A flash of his brilliant white teeth, “Oh, always.” You want very badly for him to bite into your flesh.

“Okay, fine. What’s your favorite color right now?”

Without hesitation: “The color of your eyes – they’re very strange,” you can tell it’s a compliment, and he finally touches you again. A single finger, just the tip, to the point of your chin, tilting your head back slightly for his inspection, as if you were one of the pieces in his collection. You think you may become one by the end of this. You think you’d like that very much. You can feel the slight edge of his fingernail dig into your soft skin.

“I already agreed to fuck you. You don’t have to woo me,” you breathe. You realize that, as of yet, he’s not overtly asked you to have sex with him – you throw the words out anyways, hoping to provoke him. This is too much. This man is too much. You don’t know what it is about him, but you want him desperately, like no one you’ve ever wanted before. You want him to overwhelm you – to take you by force. To take all choice and will and autonomy from your hands. You don’t care what will come of this, what will become of you after he’s done with you, if he discards you, forgets you – none of that matters. All you care about, in this moment, is that he finally decides to take you, that he gives you the opportunity to let go, to relinquish control. To unfold from the pose for just a moment. A slightly deranged spark fizzes in your belly. Your heart pinches a burning little pain at the thought that he hasn’t kissed you yet, that you still don’t know the taste of his mouth.

“None of my answers satisfy you. And yes, I do need to woo you. I find it very necessary.”

You try and emulate an unaffected scoff, his finger is still on your chin, but you feel your brow unwittingly fold into a confused frown. There is a tight knot of want coiled at the very center of you, burning hot and smoldering, and you need him to pick it apart with these strong fingers. He takes his hand away. The look on his face is very telling. He can read everything going on in your mind, you can tell. He looks like the cat that ate the goddamn canary. You try and take a deep, calming breath. “Alright, now you have to ask me one?” you divert.

“Me?”

“Yes, you – that’s how the game works. I do one, you do one.”

“Alright,” he’s quiet for a second, contemplating, “Do you have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child. Do you?”

“I had a brother, Damon. He died when we were younger.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well– it was a very long time ago. But thank you. His daughter, Cee, is my ward now. ” Not his niece, not someone mentioned in any capacity as his family. The connection, maintained as if at a distance — his ward — cold. But he gives himself away, his tender vulnerability made transparent, with the sudden flash of bright fondness in his eyes at her name, despite his trying to remain aloof. You are not so easily fooled. You see him despite his attempts to deflect from the true core of himself.

His gaze is so mercurial – at once relaxed, uncaring, and then flaring into something bright hot like a flash fire. But remote, remote always. Like the very center of him, his true gaze is very far away, very deep within him, and this gaze, the one he presents to the world, is merely a farce, a mask. A shroud he pulls over himself to keep others out. His own golden gossamer. You’re shocked that he’s shared this with you.

“My parents died when I was very young,” you offer, your own morsel of ragged soul in the face of his sudden vulnerability.

“I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

“It wasn’t so bad, after the fact. I went to live with my aunt – my mother’s sister. She was a dancer. My childhood was… unconventional, but wonderful.”

“What about it was unconventional?”

You laugh a little, looking up at the coffered ceiling above you, the thick beams a rich, glossy mahogany. You feel his gaze on your face like a brand. He has not stopped looking at you since he first started. In a sea of years being observed, his gaze is singular in the pleasure it brings you.

“She was a dancer. I mean—” you hum, “What wasn’t unconventional about it? We lived in New York for several years, then Budapest for a time, and then she brought us here, to Paris, where we stayed until her death – where I’ve stayed since. Her girlfriends were always around – fellow dancers, costumes and makeup, drinking and men. They taught me how to smoke when I was eight — Gauloises like a fucking chimney, at all hours of the day, after that — I forced myself to stop a few years ago. Now I only have one on special occasions, sometimes.” He looks at you like he knows you’re the sort to make a special occasion out of a trip to the market. “She had many lovers. Parties… disaster everywhere, but the riotous, happy sort – not the tragic kind.”

“No?”

“No. Perhaps, to the outside eye it may have appeared different… I don’t know. No life for a child, I think. But it was wonderful. She always protected me. But– but never like a mother. She was never like a mother – more like – a friend, or an older sister.” You laugh fondly at the memories, but also a little sadly. In the eyes of an adult now, you’d never want such a life for a child of your own, as exciting as it was at the time.

“One time someone told me I ended up as I did, naked for the world to ogle at, as a means to earn money, because of her. Because of how she was. And perhaps they were right, but… but not in the way they meant — to insult me. She taught me what art was, gave me the means to turn myself into it.”

“Who the fuck said that to you?” His tone makes you look back at him now. All the mystery in his gaze is gone, only fury burns now – very clearly. If he’d let you, you’d cup his cheek, soothe him.

You can see he isn’t ready yet, though. So all you say is: no one that really mattered – the truth, but you can see that it does not soothe him.

“What about you? What was your mother like?” You can appreciate how easily distracted he pretends to be, the deception of it, merely another shroud.

Another one of his long pauses, filled with his eyes on you. He gives you the gift of his touch again. Thick fingers picking up a strand of your hair, running it between his grasp. You feel the slight ghost-like tingle of the tug along your scalp, there but also not, and a jerking shiver moves through you. All the hair on your body standing on end. Fuck, this man.

“She was very beautiful – very cruel,” he says slowly, mesmerized by your hair sliding through his fingers.

“Cruel to you?”

“To the world.”

“Why?”

“But also me.” Succinct in its truth. The thought is a terrible one – for anyone to have been cruel to this magnificent dream of a man. The backs of your eyes pinch. Another long pause. “Hmm,” he tilts his head side to side, still sliding your hair through his fingers, twisting it gently around his hair. He gives it a tiny tug, and you want to scoot forward, even just the smallest bit, just to be a little closer to him, to feel the brush of his belly against yours with the movement of his breathing. “It’s difficult to say – unhappiness, bitterness, boredom. A great and complicated concoction of things that made her into the eternally complex creature she was.”

“She died?”

“Yes. She killed herself.”

“Ezra– I’m so sorry,” the words leave you choked and breathless.

He says it so plainly, starkly, like a slap to the face, one not meant to cause pain or harm, but shock. One meant to cause fear, something to say, look at how fucked up I am, stay away or I’ll infect you with it too. You scoot closer now, you can’t help it, and he goes immediately still, frozen – eyes wide, hesitant, but you don’t touch him. Your hair is still clutched in his hand, and his eyes move back and forth between your own and his hold on you. You’re close enough now, though, that you can feel the heat rolling off his body. Your eyes flutter shut, you say again: “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“She was too vain to grow to old age.” You feel him relax, comforted by the indication that you’re not going to touch him just yet. “I think she felt it was the only recourse for her.”

You open your eyes again, and he’s still staring at you. You so badly want to know what he’s thinking, to feel the press of his mouth against yours, to know the taste of his tongue, the feel of his incisors pressing into your skin.

You pivot three-sixty again: “Do you want kids?” He lets out a loud barking laugh at that, head thrown back so the tendons in his neck jump out starkly. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Wet and jealous.

“This is a very difficult game,” he says, giving you a sly look.

“We don’t have to play anymore, if you don’t want to.” A great lie – you never want to stop playing with him.

“No, I want to keep going.” He slides his whole hand into your hair now, palm cupping the entire side of your head in its broad expanse, and you can’t help the desperate moan that claws out of your throat. His responding hum is all-knowing. “I don’t know. But I love being… I like being able to imagine it.”

Your mind has been lost to a daze induced by the heat of his palm. “Children?” you murmur.

“Yes.”

Your fingers are twisted into the front of your shirt, clawing at yourself to maintain respect for his boundaries. “I want them. Lots of them. I hated being an only child. I always felt alone. I want to have lots of babies.” And his eyes flare with heat at that. The first blazing sign of lust in them tonight. Everything else before this, you realize, was merely a low simmering boil. The fist in your hair tightens so that your head tilts back slightly, the line of your throat exposed for his eyes to follow.

“Lots of them?” You nod your head minutely, wide eyed, equally ensnared by that look in his gaze as you are by his hand.

“Then you shall have them, Sparrow.” You let out a shuddering breath, turn your face into the pillow, enjoying the slight pull to your sensitive scalp as his hand follows, try to breathe deep, temper your racing heart. You’re so wet, you can feel it seeping out of you in a constant throbbing stream. The conversation serving as a more intense form of foreplay than anything else you’ve ever done with a man.

“It’s my turn again. When was the last time you fucked someone?” Blunt – thrown at your face to throw you off kilter. Oh, he fucking loves this. A broken little whimper claws out of your throat at that. Your cheeks are flushed, you can feel them burning, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. The smug look in his eyes taunts you, tells you he knows just how soaked you are. But it is also wild, as wanting as you are.

“Hmm?” he presses.

“Three years ago.” It’s his turn to be shocked now. You see the pause of surprise in that bright light within his gaze.

“Three years? Why?”

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to be close to people.”

“And yet you agreed to come here with me?”

“And yet I agreed to come here with you.” You don’t return the question. You wouldn’t like to know, you don’t think. And you can tell he sees that in your gaze, for he doesn’t offer up the information either. You like the mystique of him. Like some eldritch beast, a deity of old, something amorphous, not to be contained or understood. The unknowable aspect of him is appealing to you for reasons you haven't quite figured out yet, despite this game of questions you’re flirting with.

You go next: “Are you lonely?”

“Yes, very.” A pause, and then: “You are too.” This is no question. He can see it, recognizes the same scent of it that permeates the air around him, following you. “You seemed it, laying in the center of that crowded room, naked – bared for everyone to see.” It is not said cruelly. He is only telling you that which you already know about yourself, that which is plain for the whole world to see. “And then shrouded in gold, as if you wanted to hide that vein of aloneness that flows through you – it didn’t work very well.”

“Do you think everyone could see it?”

“No.” Good. You only wanted him.

You take another turn, you can’t help but break the rules with him. “Have you ever been with someone who– who you didn’t really want to be with, but you were– you were so lonely and needed… something… or someone?” All the surety you’d posed your previous questions with is gone now. He’s already discerned so much of you, what’s a little more bared skin? “So you just– you just settled for being with that person even though you knew it was wrong, and the only thing on your mind was the other person you really wanted to be with?”

Without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I think that’s the only type of relationship I’ve ever had. Although, the other person hasn’t really existed – just – just something I’ve thought up in my own head.”

“I accidentally called her by the other person’s name. She never spoke to me again. It was terrible– terrible of me.”

“I want to touch you so badly,” you plead suddenly. Unable to hold it in anymore in the light of all he’s shared with you. Your voice cracking and begging. “I want you to touch me, so badly.”

“I know.” Yes, he does. “You want me to fuck you.” All you can do is let your eyes flutter shut, try to continue to breathe, nod your head.

“Why was your mother cruel to you? What did she do?” You feel like crying now.

“Many things… I had terrible night terrors as a child. Scared her half to death. I’d scream and cry and sleep walk. For years. She didn’t know what to make of me. Some sort of demon come from her very womb to possess and haunt her house. She hated me – would lock me in a closet furthest from her bedroom to keep my howling away from her.”

The blazing heat of anger floods your cheeks, your eyes filled with tears, and he clicks his tongue, smoothes his thumb over the slope of your cheek. “None of that, sweet girl.”

“You were just a little boy – she should have– she should have comforted you. Helped you.”

“It wasn’t in her nature. You cannot fault a thing for not being what it was never made to be. She was a killer of soft things – within herself, within me too, I think. Or she tried, at least. She tried to kill everything soft she came into contact with. But she did love me. In her own way – a wrong way, but she did. That comforts me immensely.”

“That she loved you even if it was the wrong way?”

He nods, “And that I loved her – despite all her flaws.”

“Why?”

“I… I appreciate the idea of being a bad person, and still being able to find someone to love you.”

“You’re a killer.” It is not a question for you already know the answer – you can see it in his eyes, it is his inheritance. You know that either way, it won’t make a difference to you.

“I am, indeed. But, are you?.” The soft curve of his cunning smile is so incredibly beguiling. The most tempting thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life. You shake your head, you’re not, you never have been. You think it must be very obvious at first glance, for the patronizing look he gives you as he asks anyways.

“Sometimes I can be very bad,” he whispers slowly, drags the tip of his finger over your shoulder, down the swell of your breast, stopping just shy of your peaked nipple, circling the point.

“What do you do?” your voice is breathless, beseeching.

He smooths his thumb over your bottom lip, pushes between to get inside, presses down on the hard edge of your bottom teeth to inspect the wet gleam of your tongue. “I steal beautiful things for myself–” His voice is like smoke – his confession fortuitous, on the verge of disappearing. His mystique enshrouds the both of you. You hope you disappear alongside him.

“Is that what you’re doing now? Stealing me?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like being stolen.”

He wakes, very late into the night, or very early in the morning, the confounding blue hue of the outside world seeping in through the heavy drapes over the tall windows. Shielding the two of you from the real world.

Your body is entirely draped over his own. You’ve invaded him in your sleep, taken over all the space and air and thought he’s ever possessed. The soft weight of your breasts presses into his chest, your head tucked in the hollow of his clavicle so that he can feel each pass of your damp breath wash over his throat and chin. He expects to feel overwhelmed, uncomfortable, perhaps even disgusted, so much skin, so much heat, your legs intertwined with his – but all he can focus on is the fullness of your tits pressed up against him, the hot wet apex of your cunt against his thigh. You’re wet in your sleep for him – he can feel your dampness seeping through the silk of your extra panties.

One of your hands is curled over his shoulder and he brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to the soft, small palm. His hand dwarfs yours, swallows it whole. He sucks each one of the tips of your fingers into his mouth, bites down as gently as he can. Your hips start to shift over him, needy cunt trying to unconsciously rub up against his thigh.

He’s going to fuck you now. His cock is hard, aching, leaking, balls heavy – has been for ages, but finally, finally his mind has caught up. Thank fuck.

He passes his palm down the smooth line of your back, pushes his t-shirt you’re wearing up your back to get to your skin. This lovely smooth back he’d spent almost an hour staring at in that gallery. He feels a terrible, unfounded curl of jealousy, once again, that anyone else in the world has ever gazed upon the magnificence that is your skin. He wants it to be only for him, he wants you to be only for him – to own you.

His hand moves down to clutch the full swell of your bottom, pushes under your panties to take a handful of your bare flesh. He bends his knee slightly to put more pressure on your core and starts to roll your hips over him. You let out a soft little moan, sleepy, so sweet.

“It’s time to wake up, Sparrow. I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Ezra–” you murmur, coming to. Your body seems to take stock of the situation before your mind does, little cunt suddenly grinding down more firmly onto his thigh. You let out a moan that goes straight to his cock. He grips your hips and flips you over, settling between the spread of your thighs, slotting his length into your wet cleft, he starts a slow rock that has his head pressing up and into your clit.

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.”

Your eyes are glassy, dazed and confused. He says again, “Tell me how you want to be fucked, or I will decide for you.”

And then your soft little voice, grabbing him by the balls and showing him that as sleepy or drowsy or small as you may appear, you’re still aware of the power you hold over him: “I think I’d like you to decide for me, please.”

Fuck– he deepens the pressure of his thrusts so that his tip presses into your opening over your panties. Your jaw is hinged open, panting wet breaths as you moan for him.

He sits back on his heels then, pulls his t-shirt up over your head and then slides your panties over your hips and down your legs, grips your knees to spread your legs wide for him.

He was right, your cunt is the same color as your nipples. Beautiful.

It’s drooling, begging for him, and oh, how that fills him with pleasure – for such a beautiful thing to desire him, as much as he desires it. He ghosts the back of his knuckles over your slit, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide – he bends for a taste, moans deep and long from his chest.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet. Do you want me to feed your cunt, baby?”

“Ezra, please – yes – I want it so bad.”

“I know, I could see – all night, I could see how hungry you were. I’m going to eat you now.”

Please, please.

He settles between your thighs. Soft little licks to your swollen clit, then down to thrust his tongue into your hole. He grips the back of one thigh to press it up and back into your chest, uses his other hand to press down low on your pelvis, gives you more pressure as he sucks your clit back into his mouth. He can feel the clench of your pussy around his tongue, the shake in your thighs. Your keening moans move through him, have him grinding his aching cock into the mattress. You’re going to come in his mouth, he can feel it, taste it, your slick running from you, sweet and musky, all for him.

Your hands clutch at his curls, pulling and tugging hard as you arch your back and start to orgasm. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra. It’s a litany, a benediction. You are a work of art come to life to sing into his ear.

He gentles his mouth over your quivering sex, laps slowly at your pulsing entrance. He wipes his mouth over the tender slope of your inner thigh and goes back to his knees, licks his palm of your wet as he watches your gaze on him.

He cradles your small foot in his hold. He likes the thought that he can grasp that which has carried you through your life, in his hand. For some reason, it fills him with immense pleasure, the feel of your soft foot, the thought of you walking through life, walking through the world, towards him, to find him. Always him, only him.

There is a wound in him, dark, and putrid, overwhelming his existence always. It was only through the cathartic fulfillment of holding a beautiful thing in his hands that he felt reprieved of the terrible thing. He feels that reprieve in this moment, with the delicate weight of your small foot cradled within his palm.

He brings it to his mouth and digs his thumb harshly into the elegant arch, forcing a moan out of you, deepening the curve of your spine, then drags his teeth along the instep, presses a soft kiss to your first toe. He can see the clench of your little hole at his ministrations, the flush of your skin from the peaks of your breasts to your cheeks.

Your breath is hitching, breasts quivering with your gasps. He bends to lick into your mouth, thin ankle still held in his grasp, finally, finally taking the taste of your tongue onto his own and you moan, wanton and desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist to bring him closer.

“I’m going to give you my cock now,” he presses into your skin, open mouthed kisses to your throat, your neck, your breasts. He nips a gentle bite to one swollen little nipple.

He grasps the base of his cock, passes his hand slowly from root to tip once, twice, and then presses the flushed head to your clit, grinds there for a moment, you jerk, then moves down to your hole, feeds you just the tip. You cant your hips, try and take him deeper, but he holds back, pulls out and moves back up to circle your clit again, and then back down again to press inside. “No, no, no, Ezra, please – I need it so badly – so badly.” He watches a tiny tear, track down your temple and back into your hair, and he gives you the entire thick length of him at that, fucks inside, all the way to the end of you.

“There? How’s that?” He presses a kiss to your breast, sucks it into his mouth. The taste of you is godly. “Is that better, needy thing?”

“So good – so good,” you sigh. Stretching your arms high above your head, arching your back to let him in deeper.

“Fuck, yes–” he groans. He sits back on his heels, grips your hips and starts to give it to you hard. The strong swing of his hips causing the soft jiggle of your tits with every thrust. Your eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, soft mouth open and wet. So fucking beautiful.

“Will you let me fuck your ass too?” Your head is already nodding, all rational thought currently being fucked out of you. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes – anything you want.”

“Good girl.”

He changes the angle, fucks up into that spongy devastating part of you he plans to own after this is done, and he starts to feel the tight pull of your inner muscles working to suck him deeper. “That’s it, beautiful, just like that. Taking me so wonderfully.”

“God– I– I’m–” you press your palms to his belly and he brings one of your ankles up to his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bone.

“God isn’t here right now – just me–” He grits his teeth, gives it to you harder. He can feel his orgasm start to pool, hot and liquid, at the base of his spine, balls drawing up tight.

“Give me another, Sparrow, one more. Need to feel it around my cock,” spit through clenched teeth.

“Oh, fuck – that’s so good,” you moan, and then you’re milking him, pulling his come out of him with the tight wet clutch of your muscles.

“Fucking perfect, yes – just like that.” He lets his head roll back on his neck, hand grasping your ankle as he fills you.

He watches you eat your pain au chocolat. Sitting in the warm morning sun of the observatory. Tiny bites of the flaky sweet bread, dollop of chocolate sitting at the corner of your mouth that he plans to lick off in a second. He is mesmerized. He knows, empirically, he probably looks like a fucking creep, staring you down as he is, but he can also see the subtle preen in your gaze when you glance up at him every so often. You enjoy this part of your play as much as he does, so it seems. The watching.

“Will you let me take you somewhere today?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Brazil? I’d show you the farm.”

You swallow, the most guileless eyes he’s ever beheld, shining in the light. “Brazil? Really?”

“Of course, treasure. Or anywhere you want. Your happiness is mine to watch over now. I would do anything for you.” As he says it, he can tell, you did not lie when you said you’d like to be stolen.

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect fic #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect fanfiction #prospect 2018 #prospect fic #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #ezra prospect smut

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blue-rose-soul · 3 months

Note

Love ur au!!! You have so many interesting thoughts I just adore reading everything you’ve posted!

You’ve already established that Alastor would have exactly zero interest in any sort of bond with his dearly detested sperm donor but I was curious as to what you thought on whether Lucifer would want a relationship with Alastor? How would he approach that?

Hey, much appreciated! Honestly, with the first post I expected it to be a weird niche AU no one besides me would enjoy. I'm really glad you and others are enjoying it and I'm enjoying you guys' questions!

I do think Lucifer would want to try forming a relationship with his long lost son (that feels so weird to type, imagine how weird it would be for Lucifer to say the phrase aloud, lol). From what we've seen of him, he seems like a loving and sweet man who adores his family, even if he's not always the best at expressing that love. I think if he found out he had a kid out there, no matter who that kid was, he'd want to form some kind of relationship with them. Of course, Alastor being Alastor complicates things quite a bit.

They didn't exactly make a great first impression on one another, on top of which Lucifer harbors a lot of guilt for leaving Nicaise to raise a child alone, and Alastor to grow up without a father. Especially when he learns what happened to Nicaise later. Lucifer thinks it's his fault Alastor is the way he is, which... kinda sorta fair? Alastor definitely had an unstable childhood which certainly played a part in Alastor growing to become an unstable adult. That being said, ultimately there were a lot of outside factors contributing to that instability, and at the end of the day, Alastor's choices were his own.

I go with the 'Dexter-like moral code' interpretation of Alastor's murder targets. But I also think there was a fair amount of disproportionate retribution. A man who beats his wife definitely deserves to get beat back and then divorced, but not butchered like an animal. Granted, the culture being what it was at the time, it's doubtful Alastor's targets would have faced any other kind of retribution than what he gave them.

All this to say that Alastor feels perfectly justified in the horrible things he's done, and Lucifer blames himself for Alastor becoming this warped, vengeful person.

Lucifer's attempts to get close to Alastor are horribly, painfully awkward. Remember how he answered Charlie's phone call with, "Heeeeeeeey, bitch!"

Yeah.

He tries, he really does, but a lot of the times Alastor just shuts him down before he can even open his mouth. So he tries going to Charlie for help.

"Ooooof, see, here's the thing, dad... I want to help, I really do! But I'm trying to do this thing where I'm more respectful of other people's boundaries. I mean, I'd love to see you and Alastor getting along! But if he doesn't want to talk with you, I'm not going to force it? As long as you guys aren't fighting? I'm sorry."

And that's as far as Lucifer gets with Charlie. So he tries talking to Niffty and Husk, the two people in the hotel who know Alastor best. Niffty is... sweet, but not entirely helpful. Husk gives what advice he can, but he's got his own chip on his shoulder regarding Alastor, understandably.

"Look, Alastor's a mean son of a bitch who lives to make my life more of a hell than it already is. He's fucked in the head. Always has been. You might as well cut your losses."

That's disheartening to say the least.

I do want there to be a happy-ish end where reconciliation happens. But it would take a loooooooot of time and patience on Lucifer's part. Especially with Alastor making an active effort not to get close with anyone at the hotel.

#ask #anonymous #Hazbin Hotel #the Devil's Bastard AU #Lucifer Morningstar #Alastor #Charlie Morningstar #Husk (Hazbin Hotel)#wanted to say this up there but wasn't sure where to fit it in #Lucifer might try forming a bond by talking about Nicaise but that only serves to enrage Alastor #''Keep my mother's name OUT of your mouth''

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shuobox · 6 months

Text

Hiii * kicks my feet as i try and make sense of your vague backstory *

Cassie rose…. White pumpkin beloved . wowie

Her backstory is so like. I want to study her like a bug sometimes. What on gods green earth is going on with her and the old builders

While thinking about it i pieced together a very delusional viewpoint of what i THINK mightve happened that would make cassie so . intent. on getting “”home””

(Inspired off of @/zoomire ‘s prodigy!cassie + vamp!cassie hc/au)

When the Atlas (portal hallway but like, not a hallway, think more like… layered backrooms cube with weird gravity and staircases. like those illusion paintings. With portals everywhere) was at its beginnings, found and studied by the old builders, the group was carefully discovering these new and strange places.

It didn’t take long for them to gather that these places can be dangerous. But where theres danger there are endless bounties that are BEYOND valuable in price.

It’s what helped them make this odd… …town? Place? When Harper created the respawn machine from parts gathered from the other worlds, it changed so much. Harper and Otto (and a certain… man) knew to be wary, but Mevia and Hadrian wanted to harness this newfound discovery by the reigns. It would be a waste, after all.

It didn’t take long for them to realize that it is verrrry easy to die out in these places. Its dangerous and its no good trying to juggle handling these games and something with boundless potential that is the Atlas.

Hadrian and Mevia knew the other three wouldn’t agree to it under any circumstance, ever. It was beyond immoral in a lot of ways, put simply, but the two had already discussed and planned and prepared.

They snuck out and into the Atlas as they usually did, no one batting an eye, and it was a few hours before they emerged. Hadrian holding a small, sleeping toddler.

To say Harper had questions and Otto was beyond appalled that they pulled a whole person— no less a child— into their world, far from their original home, would be an understatement.

Hadrian reassured they found the child when she was being held captive in a dying town with illagers patrolling all around. It was for the benefit of the child, if nothing else.

They didn’t argue. Much. They were aware that trying to wander back in and place the child back exactly to where she was would be useless; Hadrian and Mevia knew the portals better than they did and they weren’t letting up. Otto gave up; the debate that had settled between Harper and Hadrian did grant him the slightest idea to create something to navigate the Atlas.

Cassie grew up alongside the old builders. She’d learn from Harper most of Redstone and general morals and advice; Hadrian would teach her about combat and the games (to say Cassie found him as the least favourite teacher would be an understatement), Otto taught her to read and write, and once she was older, Mevia taught her about the more brutal sides of anatomy, where to strike and how fast or slow depending on the reaction you want.

When Cassie was 15, she was handed the Atlas Compass (because i dont ljke the idea of there being a book that just wooshes a big arrow to where u need to go), benign tools, and pushed into the portal network with a simple task. An easy one at first; find an ore you wouldn’t usually find back at home through one of the realms. Document a mob and bring back a body part of it. Etc, etc

She didn’t know much about the Atlas. The old builders never told her much— only vague information and that she’ll understand when she’s older.

The tasks would get a bit harder, a bit more complex each time; juggling beating the living hell out of people in the games when her tools had expended their use and fighting back swarms of mobs fetching items and blocks and finding a portal back.

She always sought praise that came from Hadrian himself. He was the mastermind of the games after all; the one who’d fearlessly taken her out from a terrible predicament when she was younger, one she hardly remembers anyway, and had always travelled the Atlas with confidence.

He always told her that he had such high hopes and expectations for her; that what she’s doing is worth it, that she’ll understand everything, and that he’s so, so proud of the way she turned out.

Supposedly.

—

Okay i give up on writing anything further because head hurty ouuu

Cassie would like. Eventually snap with the whole having to be champion over and over again to please hadrian because him seeming disappointed in her hurt cassie (saw him as a father figure lol) and also the whole thing with her having to toil through the Atlas and if she didn’t she’d get shoved in there anyway

After Harper leaves (and certain someone) and theres nobody shedding a positive light on cassie’s life anymore; she slowly starts going numb and then haywire from a cycle that is seemingly never making the three old builders satisfied

After the two leave Hadrian and Mevia get more and more harsh and expecting of Cassie; occasionally just getting her to do the work for them

maybe when she comes back all beaten and bruised and wounded after the games or after an expedition and is sent back to the atlas the next day when she’s hardly healed up enough, saying she has to do this again and so on— it makes her crack . and she attempts to attack Mevia. effectively killing her but the respawn machine causes her to come back anyway . maybe a fire happens in the process bcz of mevia’s tnt tendencies idk

Listen. Mevia and Hadrian are like. They are not good influences on anybody and were especially not to younger Cassie. They are nnnnnot built to try and raise easily influenceable kids. They are terrible parental/guardian figures that Cassie looked up to and sought appreciation for

(I mean, Hadrian always described Cassie as *his* kid. And so did the players of the games. )

Otto tries to get through to Cassie with words but accidentally distracted her as Hadrian already knocks her out and just sort of. Drags her into a dimension far away . Otto feeling guilt knowing he probably could’ve done something or reached out but it being too late now; tossing her into a quiet and dreary dimension where the nights are twice longer and dead rise stronger. Leaving her for dead.

And Cassie wakes up. beaten and limbs weak dragging herself to wherever she can find shelter . mind recollecting moments of before her impromptu snork mimimi time . and just like her role models all she can think about is causing immense suffering to all of them

(Hadrian and Mevia for obvious reasons, Otto for not doing anything and standing by watching, Harper and yay you guessed it Soren — for leaving)

and yeaa she like sets the traps and kills plany of people with several fruitless attempts at her murder mansion before the order of the stone come along and trap her in her own trap

(White pumpkin in this ver is … WAYYY more brutal…. Girl has a lot of pent up rage and shes learnt from the most gruesome sadistic ppl out there)

BUT ☝️ that was in fact not the end for her

But i don’t want to say too much bcz j want to reveal the last oc and then make a big ol post about my ramblings of my au . so huzzah

Headcanun time

- when I say she jokes in subtle ways I mean she’ll super casually slip it into a convo. She finds this incredibly amusing

- got Winslow when she was around ~13 or so. Would talk to her cat when she was alone and still does it today

^ Winslow got caught in one of Mevia’s explosives/fire, resulting in the loss of his leg :o( she didn’t talk to Mevia for months when it happened

- enjoys painting and reading to pass the time. Does not understand the concept of public libraries and will just take a book if she wants it (she doesn’t have a preference for any particular genre)

- got her whole “white pumpkin” alter ego idea from a murder mystery book she read from Otto’s collection

- she actually has really good wording on whatever she’s feeling. Mainly struggles to be vulnerable enough to say it aloud.

- still holds some spite towards Harper, Soren and Otto but ☝️ at least its not murderous intent anymore

- prefers axes and daggers above other weapons

- has a phobia of deep, dark waters + claustrophobic. Doesn’t like rain purely because it gets her wet and she dislikes the feeling.

- cut her hair around the time she was stuck in the mansion. Yes that means she has been there for a while given when the order of the stone came by, cassie’s hair was nearer to her shoulders.

^ ties it up now so it doesn’t get in the way as much

- Winslow likes sitting/laying across her shoulders like some weird lil scarf when he doesn’t feel like walking. Cassie loves it when he does this because she can hear and feel him purring

- enjoys logic puzzles/puzzles in general. Enjoys it even more when its a particularly complex one, even if its needlessly difficult. (Gets it from Harper…)

(Oc is next !! ヽ(ヅ)ノ also i suck at wording cassies story soz)

#mcsm #mcsm redesign #mcsm cassie #cassie rose #mcsm cassie rose #minecraft #minecraft story mode #mc:sm #minecraft: story mode #cassie rose mcsm #cassie mcsm

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oddballwriter · 6 months

Note

Do you write smut? 👀

If yes, what about trying for a baby with the moon Boys

Warnings: Reader has afab anatomy but gender and pronouns are never said. The moon boys being horny. Unprotected sex. Listen read the request, you can piece it all together

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Steven Grant

I've mentioned before that Steven would love having a child with you so when you say that you want to try for a baby he's overjoyed because he finally gets to be a father

But then of course, you need to try for a baby

Steven actually looks into the best ways to make sure that you can conceive the baby

I've said before that Steven knows your cycle for the sake of taking care of you when your period comes, but now he's using your cycle to know when your ovulating and more able to conceive

Steven is sweet and gentle with you, like he always is. He doesn't really see a need to try and really get it in since you guys have prepped for this to give you the best chances of getting pregnant

He does ramble a bit during though, gently rolling his hips and talking about how lovely you'll look and how great it will be to start a family with you

Marc Spector

I like to think that Marc goes about it in a more simple way

Marc doesn't really plan like Steven does, I actually think he would find that sort of weird

I think the plan for him is just you getting off whatever birth control you're on and not using any condoms and then just goes about life like normal

You two just have sex when you guys feel up for it

No real planning. If you have dry weeks then you have dry weeks. And if you guys just have a week where you guys are all over each other then there you go

He does butter you up a little during the sex talking about how great of a parent you'll be and that you'll look so nice pregnant with his baby

In all honestly when that's happening, he's just rambling but outside of the bedroom he actually says that he's happy to be doing this and starting this kind of life with you

Jake Lockley

Okay Jake is a straight-up dog with it

As soon as you say you want to have a baby with him he just goes for it

Let's face it, Jake never used condoms in the first place so you were probably on some kind of birth control

As soon as you are officially off your BC, he just lets it all go

It is on sight every time and anywhere in the house honestly

Jake, of course, is so ready to be a dad and have a baby with you and has honestly been waiting to give you his babies

But he's gotta get you pregnant first and he's doing that like he's getting fucking PAID per round

Jake wants to be a dad, he's always horny, and he is highly susceptible to baby fever

The is a triple threat /j

#moon knight #moon knight x reader #moonknight #moonknight x reader #steven grant x reader #steven grant #steven grant smut #marc spector #marc spector x reader #marc spector smut #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley smut

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minihotdog · 11 months

Text

Fearless Magazine

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

Prompt:

A mysterious stranger leaves an item of the main character’s front door with a note attached saying “For a rainy day”

***

“If you like him just go and tell him,” Lynn says to me curtly

“And what if he doesn’t like me and is just trying to use me?” I say exasperated.

Lynn looks up from her lunch to face me, “He kissed you, what more do you need? A proposal?”

I sigh and rest my head on my hand, “We both know his reputation.”

Eric was well known for a loner but when he did entertain the presence of a woman it was always a hit and quit.

“Yeah, he’s a whore,” Lynn spits out the statement as if she was claiming that water is wet. “However, he did more with you than he’s done with any other girl.”

“What’s that?”

“Talked to you and acknowledged your presence afterwards,” She says before stuffing her face with food. “He’s probably been laying awake at night thinking about his beautiful Y/n,” Lynn says mockingly, she hugs the air and makes kissy noises. I ball up a napkin and throw it at her while she laughs.

“He made his move, your turn.”

“Ugh! Why is this so complicated?” I ask myself while rubbing my forehead with my fingers.

“I still can’t believe big bad Eric is a softie for you!”

“Whatever! I’m going back to work!”

***

All day Eric and I caught eachother’s eye. At one point he even winked at me.

I don’t wanna be another girl you charm and then throw off to the side.

I sit on my bed against the wall. My thoughts going back to the night he kissed me, the way his hands felt on me, his soft lips on mine.

The dating cultures of Amity and Dauntless were complete opposites. Dauntless moved too fast. You meet someone and by the first date you are together, left to figure things out as you go.

In Amity, you begin by leaving a gift of the person’s doorstep and if theyre interested, they’ll leave on on yours. Each gift comes with a note telling them about yourself and your favorite things, in hopes that you have some in common. From there you’ll meet in person and go for a walk or sit down and get to know each other.

Maybe I should give him a gift.

Eric’s Pov

I sit on my couch with my useless leg propped up by a pillow flipping through a book I’ve read a thousand times. *Knock* *Knock*

Who the fuck is that?

I grab my crutch off the coffee table and rock myself forward in a huff. I frown to myself thinking about all the times I took having two working legs for granted.

I look through the peephole.

Oh my fucking god not this again.

I open the door and come face to face with the last person I wanted to see: the faction gossip.

“Hello, Samantha. What can I do for you?” I try my best to be nice to an elder but pieces of my dislike for her seep through.

“What’s this someone left on your doorstep?” She pries.

“I don’t know, I didn’t know it was there.”

She looks at me suspiciously pursing her lips, the deep wrinkles on her face showing contempt.

“You better not be fooling around with anymore girls,” She warns me before handing me the box that she no doubt opened before knocking on my door.

“I never was,” I defend myself. The glare she shoots my way almost makes mine look like child’s play. “Ma’am,” I add quickly hoping she’d put the glare away.

“Boy, don’t lie to me. I’ve seen the girls coming in and out of your room.” She puts her finger on my chest, poking me to emphasis her words. “There was that one with the funny accent and then a blonde one that was here the other day.”

“First off, the one with the accent was my ex girlfriend of two years, who hasn’t been here in months. And second, I didn’t have a blonde woman in my room recently.”

“Of course you did! She was the weird looking one with the short hair.” She argues.

“FOUR!?” I blurt out coming to the realization.

“Young man don’t you raise your voice at me!”

“Yes, ma’am, I didn’t mean to. Can I please go inside, I need to take my medication.” I lie while motioning to my cast, desperately trying to get away from her.

She waves her hand in a “go away” motion before turning away from my door.

I shut the door almost leaning against it with relief. I crutch my way back to my spot on the couch, sitting with the box on my lap. I examine the unexpected gift, I almost chortle at the polka-dot box stuck to the top as I open it. Inside lies a container with hot chocolate written across in red with a little santa in a sleigh and a note: “For a rainy day 🙂” written in cursive.

I flip the note looking for a sender but find nothing. I can only assume it’s from Y/n, trying to court me with her Amity-ness.

My grin stifles as I remember what Elder Samantha said, “You better not be fooling around with anymore girls!”

Is that what she’s been telling the faction? That I’m hopping bed to bed!?

My heart begins to feel heavy at the thought of Y/n hearing the rumors. I can only wonder what she’ll think of me when she does hear. As fierce as she is, deep down she’s still shy and delicate. She hasn’t been entirely conditioned to dauntless and the viciousness of the elders that live to complain about the changes in the faction, even improvements from when they were young.

What if she already knows?

Y/n’s Pov

“I forgot to put my name on it!”

Lynn hits her forehead with her hand.

“Who else could it have been from?!” She looks at me flabbergasted. “I don’t understand these dating rituals. In Candor you just go up to someone and tell them ‘I like you’. None of these theatrics,” She says disgruntled.

I frown at her, “I’d hate to get broken up by a Candor. They’d probably sit there and tell you every little thing that’s wrong with you until shrink,” I cross my arms.

“That’s the good part! It helps you improve as a person.”

We go silent upon hearing Eric’s crutch echo down the hallway. He comes through the door, usually he’d at least glance in my direction but today he looked at the ground when he passed me.

“Uh oh,” Lynn whispers before taking a sip of her latte. “Maybe he’s allergic to chocolate and thought you were trying to kill him.”

I shoot her a sharp look.

***

That day I noticed Eric was more to himself than usual. He didn’t stay late with me as he had the last two days. I wanted to ask him if he was alright but didn’t want to step out of bounds.

Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he found another girl.

I fuss to myself. It was a friday night and I was cooped up in my bedroom ignoring Lynn’s texts telling me to come out.

Maybe I should go out and get my mind off him.

#divergent #eric coulter #eric coulter imagine #eric coulter x reader #eric divergent #divergent fanfiction #divergent imagines #eric dauntless #four divergent #eric coulter x oc

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writing-frenzy · 8 months

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Mob Protag Ichigo and the Puppet Master (UraIchi Isekai Idea :3 )

So yeah, for anyone who's read my first idea with the Kurosaki Fam Isekai, they'll know all the stuff that has inspired this and that I've already mentioned an idea with a Mob Character!Ichigo and a Puppet Master Benihime (AKA Urahara Kisuke)

Let us set the scene :3

How will Ichigo go to a fantasy world, especially with how he is? Well, as Ichigo was growing up, one of his sisters was really, really sick; they weren't sure if she was going to make it tbh. Ichigo did all he could, but being a little guy, there wasn't much he could do. One day, he came upon a weird being who said they could grant wishes; Ichigo immediately asks if they can make his little sister healthy. The being said yes after a moment, but it will cost him a peaceful afterlife. Ichigo takes the deal, the being is admittedly touched by this child's goodness and unselfish desire, because for such a sweet child, they know of death and the loss it brings already. So the being actually doesn't twist the wish like so many others he does, letting the children live out their natural lifespans in peace.

All is well, until a 17 year old Ichigo saves his other sister and her friend from dying to a truck. Our World's Divine Being is like; damn, you still had way, way more life span and time than you should have to had died now... but since you have a contract, I can't just let you survive :/ eh, I'll use it to at least give you perks to survive your reincarnation in that hell hole. (not to mention how they too are actually touched, they're a sucker for loving families)

Ichigo: wut

Godly Being: *throws a book series and some powers at him* Wish you luck out there!

After feeling just a bit violated and like someone was digging around in his head and blood, Ichigo wakes up in an abandoned house in some modern looking steampunk like city. Looking around he doesn't have much but some basics for survival, weird as heck items, and a book series. Not much to do, he reads the series, which answers a whole lot of questions even as makes Ichigo scowl like a thundercloud.

See, this is a very, very dark fantasy like series, it's gonna have all the canon Bleach fighting and gore but with magical surprises and such, with a very, very bittersweet ending. It's kinda like a modern setting meets with a very eco-friendly way because the world will crush those it sees trying to abuse it (mother nature don't play around here) so it's kinda steam/water/wind/solarpunk. Don't know who I want as the OG Story's protag to be, maybe Rukia or one of the Karakura Kids, but it follows them in a world were contracts/pacts/deals with spiritual beings is over everything; it can be with weapons, it can be with bloodlines or any such. Not all pacts and such are unequal, some in fact are real and true bonds, the pact bound loyal to their contractors to obsession... others, it is is very much a thing of slavery and torture, which can go both ways depending on what was exactly contracted.

Ichigo goes about trying to figure out his own contract/pact thing, which while so long ago, is just something he has never been able to forget, seemingly inscribed onto his very soul in a way. He knows he was picked because his soul was the most compatible for the spirits the being wanted for him, and he already knows its going to change his body as well, but it still confuses him.

(maybe something like;

A mix of holy power and darkness that would find most be consumed,

Flames properly controlled that can reach the moon,

Cut it from the sky and devour it if so desired,

But yet all one wants is to protect their own wary lost and life tired,

For One such as you a power so great is to be entrusted,

It will find you, change you, leave your life chain broken and rusted,

In Time it will be shown if you can make this power your own,

But already, your fate has sown.)

(LOL, this is Ichigo, he's gonna break his fate and make friends with his Hallow and Ossan, because I love the idea of the three together again in this au :3 later tho)

But yeah, so Ichigo is figuring things out, especially with controlling his body once more because his strength went a bit wonky, but I also like the idea of a different weapon Ichigo if that makes sense? Like, he will still be an op power house, but the thought of him using spells and martial arts makes me grin evilly? Like, with his Hollow more bonded later, he can make claws come out to rip soft bellies apart and such. And Ossan just insists he learn a bow for those times he needs long range and such, even if he gets a bit despairing when Ichigo occasionally gets too frustrated and just throws the damn arrow (all three in Ichigo's head are quiet whenever the move proves highly effective, which is always.) Oh, but now I can't help but think of Childe from Genshin Impact's fighting style :D maybe instead of blades though, Ichigo switches to a hand to hand with bracers of some sort covering his arms that are hard as fuck, easy to move around in because of magic.

But ah, getting sidetracked again, this all comes later down; for now, Ichigo is still figuring shit out, avoiding protagonists and co because yeah, people not protected by plot armor tend to die really, really messily around them and he still can't do jack right now (doesn't mean he doesn't do what he can, even if its just simple things like helping the elderly, making sure kids get home safe, or even knocking out some regular thugs harassing some ladies.

Ichigo, despite all his scowls and looks, still draws people in with his kindness and protective nature in this dark, lonely otherworld.)

Its as he's helping someone shopping, this sweet little lady who goes on and on about her sweet grandbaby, that Ichigo goes to the Urahara Shoten for the first time; not much gets his attention, besides the fact that the protagonist has only been here once or twice in the early chapters for some odds or ends, this place being some mixture of candy/pawn/tea shop.

But then something in the shop resonates with him; with his very soul. Looking around, Ichigo tells the sweet grandma he'll be right back, and call him when she's done, to which she gives a cheerful reply before Ichigo goes off, looking high and low before he finds a strange book and block with it, like a set. Picking it up, it just feels so damn right... till he looks at the price tag and cringes. While he has odd jobs here and there to help him out, it's just enough money for him to live with since he doesn't have to worry about rent with his questionable abandoned house, covering his food expenses and the public bath fee.

"Find something you like dear customer?" is said from behind him, which makes Ichigo jump like a few feet into the air, clutching his book and block set to his chest, before turning to the one who startled him.

And so thus the first meeting with Urahara Kisuke, Geta-boshi as Ichigo likes to call him. After a bit of back and forth between the two, Ichigo admits he can't afford the book and block set, too which Urahara merely hums, eyes oddly shadowed from his hat as he considers that. one thing leads to another and somehow Ichigo not only gets the set but even a steady job at the shop, even if his paycheck will be cut because of said set. And sure, Geta-boshi is sus as fuck, but Ichigo doesn't sense any ill will from the man, not too mention the man even helps him with understanding the book, a soul book as its called, which strengthens souls and their contracts, enabling them to get a growing weapon called an Asauchi that transforms with the soul. Its not bad.

On Kisuke's part, he is actually pretty intrigued by Kurosaki, this youth who carries the potential of a predator but the heart of a protector, actually reacting to the soul book and Asauchi Kisuke had made more for curiosity and boredom then to actually make a functional weapon. Not to mention just how much fun it is too mess with Ichigo, the boy shows he has a clever mind and a strength that just seems to constantly grow more and more. Kisuke is actually considering just how he can possibly use this youth for his goals, wondering if he can be the chest piece he needs to finally topple the king in this game between Puppet Master Benihime and Greater Lord Aizen.

Ichigo does know about Puppet Master Benihime from the story, they were a neutral character only focused on making sure the world would not collapse, no matter the amount that would be needed to be sacrificed in the end. But in the story, it only ever showed Benihime herself, never even mentioning that she was actually contracted, and 100% loyal to said contractor, so Ichigo has no clue about just how scary his mentor is at first, besides when the man actually did finally spar with him and Ichigo couldn't even get a hit on him. In this world, these two have a bit more time, a bit more room to act, and with it they bond, much to Kisuke great surprise even as he still plans to use him.

So things happen, things are reveled, discoveries are had, and Kisuke goes to Ichigo, confirming that he knows.

And then he kneels before this youth; he kneels and apologizes, thinking and knowing in his soul he's done something unforgiveable, thinking he won't be forgiven and fine with that as long as Ichigo still lives well... only for Ichigo to actually forgive, just like that, just because he could tell Kisuke meant it, scowling still but most of all accepting.

Its a good thing Kisuke was already kneeling because that alone would have made him bow just from the sheer acceptance and warmth Ichigo just seems to shine with. Ichigo has no idea just what he's done, who's utter loyalty and trust he has secured, and Kisuke will kill, die, and live for this boy, he just has to say the word. Even with all the people Ichigo has gathered, from villains to protagonist, people who are loyal and true if to no one else but him, Kisuke feels blessed he can be included, can be trusted even over the others to always remain at Ichigo's back and protect it no matter what.

In return, Ichigo looks up to Kisuke as both a mentor, ally, friend, and after an interesting dream, a damn annoying crush he can not get rid of, going strong for years (no longer a crush then but let him deny it for a bit). Parts of him wants to devour this man whole, never share him with the world, but Ichigo is such a being of freedom he could never dream to rip such a thing from someone else. (Kisuke being Kisuke wouldn't mind if its Ichigo tho >:3 All Ichigo has to do is ask, and this man would give him the world, Benihime right behind him.)

I feel like this story would be a slow burn but not if that makes sense? like, there is a tension from the very beginning of the story to Demi-romantic/sexual Ichigo's awakening of shit, so that's what that feels like (Fight me on this, I will defend it to the grave Very Demi!Ichigo)

But yeah, so far that's it for my Bleach Ideas :D hope you enjoyed them and stuff.

#Bleach #bleach au #ichigo kurosaki #kisuke urahara #uraichi #Mob Character Ichigo

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moony-2001 · 6 months

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Lore Olympus ep. 252 critique

Before all you stans get mad I generally thought this episode was pretty okay. But maybe that’s because not a whole lot happened.

Cassandra

So going in the order of events, first up is our favorite gal Cassandra.

Gotta say, already like her loads.

I don’t have a whole lot to say about her general existence, beyond the fact that it’s stupid that Apollo is using her as a walking incognito tab. My main criticism more lies around the idea of when did Apollo even meet her? He obviously couldn’t have met her during the time skip because there were no interactions allowed between realms during that time and he was kicking it in Olympus.

We also have no indication of when he actually met her post-punishment. There’s no definitive timeline for how far we are post-time skip, but by my estimation, we can’t be more than a month past when the embargo officially lifted. Idk I can already smell the mess that is this storyline a mile away.

The SA plot line

Holy fuck. I don’t exactly know what the hell Rachel is exactly trying to achieve with the SA plot line but I can tell you that the handling of it has been piss poor.

Uhhh... this is great and all except for the fact that Persephone never thought this. There is not one shred of evidence that Persephone ever liked or actually found Apollo handsome. Not even in the very early chapters. She didn't even say that he made her feel special. She said that she liked the way Hades made her feel. Hades made her feel special by grooming her but that's a whole-ass post on its own.

Even after her assault, she continued to express at minimum a clear discomfort for him in front of others and at maximum immense hatred for him when by herself or with only him. And now suddenly Rachel wants to flip the script? Why? What purpose would that serve? Why is she suddenly backpedaling on a plotline that was established within the first 25 episodes/the second day Persephone is on Olympus? The SA plotline is the longest-running and the "big bad" that has yet to be resolved. But now it only pops up when the story needs a little conflict or an extra boost to drive it forward. Plus now she wants to portray Apollo as this misunderstood ex-love interest/boyfriend with whom the audience is supposed to sympathize? It's disgusting. @genericpuff who I really need to stop tagging in these posts I'm so sorry made an excellent essay about how Rachel is burying the SA plot line that basically takes what I've said above and greatly expands it. Go read it, they made a lot of excellent points.

Melinoe

Ah yes. The mystery deity that was really Hades’ inner child/actual child all along!

So I actually had a conversation with another LO critic about how weird I thought this "inner child -> actual canonical child" pipeline was. Now, granted, I could be reading into this way too much but when I first read this, I honestly thought it was some kind of weird/unintentional representation of parents projecting their trauma onto their children.

We've seen this little ghost buddy in past chapters and a lot of people (myself included) thought that our ghost buddy was a representation of Hades' inner child. A little Hades if you will. And it was portrayed that way. We often saw our little ghost buddy/little Hades who was extremely traumatized by Hades' past experiences. The part of Hades that just can't let go despite what he may claim about "moving on" or "being better". But if this little ghost/Hades is actually their kid Melinoe, that means they saw everything that Hades went through. All his traumas, all his struggles. Everything. And now also with Persephone and her little jaunt through the mind-scape and the shit she saw. So now we have to recontextualize all of those scenes where Hades interacts with this being and tbh the scenes kind of become very ick? This is such a strange direction to take this particular storyline. Something about it just rubs me the wrong way and I don't know if it's my above complaint or something else.

But yeah. Pretty tame in comparison to some of my past posts and posts that will come. Until the next chapter and/or my next post.

#anti lore olympus #lore olympus #anti lo persephone #anti lo #lore olympus critical #lo criticism #lo critic #lo critical #lo hate #unpopular lo #unpopular lore olympus

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trainingdummyrabbit · 2 months

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which character ya wanna post about? (invitation to go off)

ouuHGUHUGHHG ive been rotating this around for hours bc ive redirected myself like 5 times since u sent it but ithink i got it i got it this time. i wanna talk abt porccubus. ok gimme a minute gimme a minute

so like. i know theyre technically the same thing, across lobcorp/ruina, but i really really wanna dissect the weird contrast it has going on there. (though, isuppose, their "same"ness is kinda up in the air re:abnos, considering there was a librarian snippet abt child of the galaxy being more "vicious", but wwwwwweh [waves hands around])

so like. the thing about lobcorp porccubus is that its just. an odd fucking creature. like yeah obviously, but its about the way its perception seems to weave around it. its core themes, that of pleasure and euphoria, uncontainable and uncontrollable, would imply that its something impulsive, stimulation-seeking, something that is driven wholly by desire and would be difficult to pin down. however, the way that its logs and flavor text are written give off a much more... subdued vibe, for lack of better words to describe it.

it is the source of that elation, yes, but everything in the way it holds itself is so withdrawn. it simply floats there, yes, but there is little to no mention of it making any moves of its own (which, now that i recheck its info log, is also mentioned plaintext!) and its in-work flavor text seems to speak with the tone of someone Studying it, Speaking about it, rather than observations of its movements or descriptions of its mindset. its all very distant. speaking in third person to someone who is listening. ...right?

which is to say: whats wrong with this dog. its story implies direct exploitation yet it just… it Just. its some strange little animal. its not malevolent and trying to kill people for fun. but it also isnt all sad like petals plucked from a daisy. it just Is. it has almost the same sort of feel as some sort of object. and yet it is clearly alive. does it have a will? it must; as abnormalities Do. so what is it? it functions by its own rules and just kinda Goes Here. does it want? does it need?

porccubus itself acts more like a Service or Trade than an actual creature. you walk in and interact with it, and it knows what to do in response. game of trust - it does a little song and dance as is its nature, yet doesnt seem to desire much more.

which also brings me to the shackle-- the little necklace around its neck. it speaks about how it was chained up, for whatever reason, and yet nobody seems to have any idea why. and porccubus... just doesnt seem to mind it. never mentions it. its such a particular type of indifference. (i suppose another good question is what is it shackled to?) and even further still... what does it mean that the ego gift it grants Is that necklace?

lc!porccubus as a creature is laced with restraint. both in a literal sense, And in an internal sense. pleasure and euphoria, yet it is definitively restrained. it cannot reach out first. it does not act on its own, but rather waits for something else to reach out First. even when it breaches, it (according to what im reading,) simply... waits. waits for an approach. (you Must approach it. it has to be a Choice.) theres something very Aimless about it, mechanical almost. i cant really sum it up in any way other than That Is An Animal.

...which brings a very interesting contrast between It and its Ruina counterpart. in the library, its much more Jubilant. it speaks, for one, which is something i straight up didnt know it did for a while. the way that it presents itself outwardly is much more outspoken-- inviting, wanting someone to engage, trying to persuade that first step. it yearns! pet it! it wants to share what it has to give, but it still wants that hand of yours offered to it First. its happy! its happy! come be happy with it!! dance with it, play with it! its demeanor is so much more forward, more present... more conscious.

and crucially... that shackle is no longer tied about its neck. rather, it dangles loose from the end of its tail, almost like an accessory rather than something granted/given to it. does this represent the release of former ties? it certainly acts more free than it did before-- whatever was holding it back, is it gone now? is its shift in demeanor the jubilant frolicking of that which has never been able to soar? is this what allows its nature of wishing to share that elation to shine through? much like a dog chained to a stake, finally being set loose in an open field.

in an unspoken turn of events, porccubus seems to focus on Release. release of ties, release of inhibitions, release of that which had been holding you back. it wants nothing more than to give what it is experiencing to those which are weighed down by things that keep them unhappy. and yet, it does nothing to truly alleviate what those woes are, simply covering them up with a layer of unrelenting sweetness.

..............which of course, brings me to angela. yeah yall thought i could go an essay without her?? lol. lmao.

on the floor realization centered around her staunch desire to live, it almost seems to stick out like a sore thumb. with all of the withdrawn mourning and wishing that the rest of the phases share, pleasure is an odd slap in the face, almost. but... it really does make it hit that much harder-- Especially with that which was expanded upon above. the imagery of unshackling yourself from that which held you down, allowing yourself to feel things you never were able to-- never were Allowed to. is that not what she stands for, here?

its reaching towards an open door, trying to grasp to any amount of Living that you can reach-- you deserve that much, at least. at the Very least. you Have to be allowed something. but not only is it that desire, but its also the Ignorance. the understanding that no matter what you mask it with, all that baggage still remains. chasing those short, intense bursts of happiness-- everything else still continues to eat away at what's underneath. and yet, theres still a consciousness to that. even further than that, a commitment.

who cares what becomes of you because of this? this happiness-- this which you were never allowed to so much as dream of-- is right within your grasp. and to taste it for even the smallest of moments, the briefest amount of time-- that makes it worth it. it was all worth it. nothing matters more than this complete devotion to sensation. it doesnt matter if it tears you apart from the inside, this is what you were always looking for. this is what you deserve. and youll do anything to hold onto it.

in some odd way, it really is about rotting.

in conclusion,

#THANKYOUUUU um um um. this ended up longer than i thought itd b and im not sure if its coherent but i think abt it all the time godbles #ispent like an hour typing in circles yesterday but i GOT it. igot it. i gotit.#piktalk #projmoon #long post #...speaking of its ties to the art floors themes... its one that kinda hit harder th more i teased out abt it.#bc that Is very real. that almost paradoxical lashing out in that way; desiring even if it kills you; even if thats what you wanted t avoid #its the want to reclaim the self through any means necessary. its discordant. it almost seems helpful. but...#...anyway i just think its funny is all ^w^ funy silly lil thang !

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warrior-cats-rewritten · 4 months

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Hey. Semi-Serious post here. I'm gonna be quite frank, this is about the death of a real animal. My animal.

The one I made the dedication of WCR!Into The Wild for. Because the wounds are still so raw that I can barely get through typing this very sentence without feeling choked up. So... If this post isn't for you, enjoy the first cat picture, the rest will be under the cut.

Meet Cleo.

She was my best friend. I moved into her home when I was a child, and her being there got me through the ensuing abusive situation I'd found myself in. I quickly became her favorite person. She was always there for me, and I was always there for her. I read Warriors books to her.

I met someone online that I fell in love with, and planned to have them move here. I worried about Cleo, who was now getting on in her years, but still healthy and strong.

I was granted full, effective ownership of her, since she was never really registered with a breeder. An oopsie, runt of the litter kitten of a genuine bred Maine Coon, unknown father.

Plan fell through, immigrating to Canada is difficult and the economy was about to fall apart. So I made the choice to move to the UK.

I was then informed that I could not take Cleo with me, they said she was too old, and that the plane ride would be too much for her. She was roughly 14/15 years old and, again, healthy. This next part is hard to write.

I spent every day after that, for a year, spending as much time as she wanted with me. She got every cuddle and snuggle she wanted.

I still remember that last time I ever saw her, the night I left the country. I held her like a baby, because she liked that. I remember what the back of her neck smelled like (warm chocolate). I rubbed her belly, and whispered to her that I loved her, and promised to come back again and see her. Then I placed her on her favorite spot on the back of the chair, and left.

I got regular updates from my mom about her, but something was clear. When I was on the phone, I was not to call out to her, because when I did, it made her search the whole house, meowing and calling out for me, looking for me. The dogs never did that, just Cleo.

4 months away from home, she started peeing in... Odd places. Visible places. Like... Middle of the living room and on bathroom rug.

Mind you, she used to do that in front of her litter box as a protest when it wasn't clean enough for her liking. But... Not like that.

Other than that, normal behavior.

Then, about 6 months in, she started being weird with food. Still demanded it, of course, but... Wouldn't eat it. Mind you, there were times when she really was just happy to have the wet food there... And then go off and eat her kibble as if she hadn't just acted like she would die without her wet food. Typical, right?

After a week straight, and not much kibble eaten, it... Was concerning. I offered my mom to cover the cost of any medical bills she would need, but was told to not be 'ridiculous', that she was too old. That she didn't need a vet, that nothing would help.

7 months in. July 7th, 2023. Ordinary day, kinda fun, sunny out, a relaxing day where I wasn't looking at my phone much. My partner gets a text from my mom asking if I am around. I get a call from my mom.

She hadn't eaten in days. She wasn't in her box anymore. She was barely drinking. All her chub was gone, leaving my poor girl at only 5 pounds. A fraction of her weight.

My mom was not calling me to say goodbye. Goodbye had already been said. And I wasn't there.

I asked if my mom could bury her, so at the very least I could have something to visit when I got home.

To get Cleo's body back, it would have cost 200 dollars. She would be cremated, and her ashes not given back either. Gone.

The older woman next to me later said she had never, in all her years, heard a person wail and scream the way I had. I barely remember it, or anything after that. The grief is so bad that I feel chest pains, and my throat will close, I could cry myself hoarse still, just from thinking about her.

On one hand I don't want to feel this way anymore. On the other I feel horrific guilt about that, about wanting to "move on". I hate that term, it needs something new. Moving on isn't forgetting about them, it just means it doesn't hurt as badly anymore, but... What does THAT mean?

Below is the very last picture I have of her.

I'm sorry, Cleo. I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry I broke my promise. And I'm sorry I wasn't there to say goodbye.

I'll never forget you. I'll never love you any less.

It'll be hard to visit home without you in it.

If you read this post, thanks for listening. I'm really struggling with grief processing, even though it's been almost a year. 208 days as of today. She isn't the first I've lost, she won't be the last, but WCR is partially dedicated to her.

I hope you like the pictures of her, knowing how vain she was I'm sure she would enjoy me showing them off.

Bye guys.

#pet loss #pet death #cleo #tw grief #dealing with grief #not doing it well

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fatuismooches · 8 months

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Hello Smooches

What if I appeared in your ask box with family stuff again?😘 This time my victim is Pierro (I just need to cope w/ fact that hydro men hate me and I lost 50/50 to Jean)

So to be Pierro's child there are few variants on how you appeared. Maybe you survived Khaenri'ah with him (with your other parent dying there) or he picked you up after you were abandoned (like with Kaeya) or his current lover somehow, miraculously managed to convince him to start a family. Either way - after downfall of his homeland, Pierro is extremely protective of anything, what's close to him, so while he can't stay with you for long, drowning in endless work, you're always protected. Fatuus won't dare to disobey Tsaritsa's right-hand man (bc if they do there's a certain doctor or marionette waiting for them..)

Sadly, because of their father's status, child is feared as well. Most likely they grow to be very lonely, only really interacting with some harbingers and maybe Childe's family as well, because he felt bad for them and asked Pierro's permission to let them meet his family. Your father won't show it, but he's oh so happy when you return and tell him about how nice Childe's relatives were !! And you even made friends !!

As busy as he is, Pierro tries to make time for his child. He plays chess with you and no, he doesn't lose on purpose, what makes you think that? He also reads bedtime stories for you (either if you can stay awake until he return home or you come to his office specifically with this request). He has low and raspy voice, so you fall asleep quickly. Pierro will never forget how he was reading a silly fairy tale and a fatui soldier came with report, but he didn't notice them.. Talk about awkward

Speaking of awkward situations, very rarely you can end up on harbingers' meeting, when you fall asleep in Pierro's office and he doesn't want to leave you or you came to him before meeting and refused to leave, of course promising to stay quiet (well, these adults speak of lots weird and boring stuff, according to you, so you probably fall asleep rather quickly) or something else.. Harbingers are like ?? 🤔🤨😳?? the first few times, but then they get used to it

Another random thought, but imagine smol child hiding in their father's coat. Considering how lonely they grew up, they're probably shy as well. Or they just want to warm up, because it's too cold in Snezhnaya. Then, someone makes c/n a mini version of harbinger coat..

When it comes to studying, Pierro is demanding, but not to the point of making you know everything perfectly by studying endlessly. Child ends up very knowledgeable

Pierro genuinely tries his best at fatherhood. He can come across as cold, overly busy or too demanding and to some extent it's true. However if he was a father, he'd always manage to give you all the love and time that's left in his frozen soul </3

-🥀

WE ARE READING DAD PIERRO FLUFF TODAY PART 2 😤😤❤️ What if i gave you a little kith for providing me with this lovely fluff 🥀 anon?? 🥰

Only the most qualified and strongest agents are asked to guard you, it's one of the greatest missions and honors you could be granted as a Fatuus (which is kind of funny 😭) Some of them are just confused about why they're asked to protect a mere kid but once they hear it's Pierro's kid, they're like 😨 oh! So at this point even your own protectors are scared of talking to you in fear of upsetting you, and it's very hard for a Harbinger's child to make friends in general... :( there aren't much people your age in the palace too... but of course big bro Childe saves you! The ginger has seen you around only a few times, but he can't help but feel bad. A little kid who already looks so lost and lonely, it makes him sad :( If he has to set up some playdates with you and his younger siblings, then so be it! After that, Pierro genuinely thanks Childe, because social interaction is very important for growing kids... and he loathes that he can't provide it himself.

Poor reader, they're never gonna beat their dad at chess 😭 As soon as you think you got one of his strategies figured out, he's already on to another one! I imagine you got grumpy left quite a few times 😭 Ouhhh the bedtime stories... 🥺 you come to his office with a book in hand with the biggest puppy eyes and he can't help but give in! Reader infiltrating the meetings real 😭 You wanted to learn more about your dad's work too but then it got so boring... how can he listen to these people drone on for so long?! The Harbingers don't say anything but just give Pierro a knowing look.

YES. Reader literally just pops out of Pierro's coat out of nowhere and people usually get hella spooked. And when they try to speak to you, you just slip right back into the shadows. You love your tiny coat so much, because it makes you look like your dad :3 Pierro may not be the best dad, but he's certainly not the worst... he will put in as much effort as he can and that's what counts.

#smooches talks #🥀 anon #pierro love notes <3 #me when when when he 🥺#child reader would be so curious as to what is behind his mask #u never find out

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theresa-of-liechtenstein · 17 days

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today my dad showed me a picture of myself, aged seven, dancing happily with one of my parents’ friends at the wedding of the son of another of my parents’ friends. my parents’ friends are old enough to be my grandparents (granted, if they started early, but my parents still laugh at memories of the unaware people who would see little me with one of their friends and ask if i was their apo.) my parents didn’t mesh well with filipinos their age (and they were recent immigrants to the states, and wary of making friends with americans) so they intentionally sought out companionship with older, established filipino immigrants. because of this, growing up, i was the youngest person at every social function without fail; many of them were either empty nesters or their children were off to college, so i had a multitude of titos and titas that practically doted on me. at get-togethers, i did my best to sit quietly and drink in the atmosphere, or at least, try to understand everything that was going on; whenever i got bored or didn’t understand anymore, i could always wander off and draw by myself or read in a corner, and a tito or tita would occasionally sit by to keep me company.

i loved it. i loved being included in the company of people older than me, being treated seriously as a person, being able to drink in their wisdom. i’ve never been afraid of aging, because all the people i looked up to as a child weren’t exactly young. i was always excited to grow old, if it meant i could be as cool as the titos and titas i had when i was young. i suppose that’s why i’ve always been drawn to intergenerational relationships.

how sad that i let myself be convinced—by the first group of people i thought to call friends in university—that i was weird for aspiring to grow in age and wisdom, for seeing older people as people and not as the punchline of a derisive joke. how sad that i hated myself for so long after those ‘friends’ decided i was too weird to deserve their company, that i blamed what had given me so much joy as a child for losing fleeting and ultimately empty companionship.

at seven years old, i dance with my parents’ friends—my parents’ friends who were probably nine times my age—with the largest smile on my face. fourteen years later, i relax in the sitting room of a professor and fellow violinist’s house, next to my conductor and surrounded by my new group of acquaintances: all old enough to be either my parents or grandparents. it’s like being that kid again: sitting quietly, drinking everything in, now with some ability to contribute. but mostly, safe to just stay and listen. safe to be myself.

i doubt the little girl dancing with her tito would be at all surprised by this turn of events. au contraire: i think she’d be pleased.

#em speaks

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niqhtlord01 · 2 years

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Humans are weird: 4Chan

( Don’t forget to come see my on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord )

Alien: So it is just message boards shared among humans? Human: Correct. Alien: Why is this so special? Human: Because if you can think of it there’ll be a message board for it. Alien: Oh really? Alien: So if I am thinking about what humans taste like? Human: *Clicks and is taken to cannibal board* Alien: That one is too easy. Alien: How about the best way to overthrow a government? Human: *Clicks and is taken to several boards breaking down tactics for different countries* Human: Is that the best you’ve got? Alien: *Angry now* How about how to get aroused by looking at feet? Alien: Do you have that?!?! Human: Well you got me beat there. Alien: I knew- Human: SIKE! Human: *Opens several thousand boards for foot fetishists* Alien: *Screams in anger* ---------------------------------

Alien: How does this chan of 4's compare to the red of its and tumbles? Human: Picture a race between three cars. Human: One is being driven by a racer whose been heavily drinking and doesn't care the car is currently on fire. Human: The second is covered in angry racoons and my little pony plushies while being chased by rabid tigers. Human: And the third is covered in peanut butter while a naked person holds on to the hood shouting "WHERE IS THE JELLY!?" Alien: ...... Alien: I'm still confused. Alien: Which is which? Human: Doesn't matter; they're interchangeable. Alien: That makes no sense! Alien: If they could be swapped out why go through the length of vividly describing each? Human: I needed time to distract you while I pickpocketed you. Alien: What? Alien: *Looks down and sees wallet is missing* Human: *Looks up to see human running to nearest window and jumping out through glass* Human 2: *Walks over* Human 2: You could tell he was a 4chan man. Alien: HOW?!?! Human 2: Because he forgot we're on the 30th floor. ------------------------------- Alien: Is there a board for how to raise plants properly. Human: Here you go. Human: *Opens board with detailed groups for different plants* Alien: You promise this won’t get weird? Human: I can make no promises I’m afraid. Human: People did some weird shit to the piranha plants from the Mario games. -----------------------------------

Alien: I wish to learn how to make soup. Human: Your wish is granted. *Opens soup board* Alien 2: What’s the catch? Human: No catch. Alien 2: Are you serious? You love fucking with my people over this. Human: Soup is serious business on 4Chan. Human: You don’t fuck around with soup there. -------------------------------------

Alien: How would you describe this chan of 4’s? Human: To give it a single definition has long since become impossible. Alien: Surely you can’t be serious? Human: 4chan has transcended out understanding…. Human: and don’t call me Shirley. -------------------------------

Alien: Why are there so many cats here? Human: It has long been part of their end game to dominate all of humanity by infiltrating every aspect of human society. Alien: They can’t do that! Human: I mean, we really do love cats so it’s natural to share them. Alien: No, I mean that was our plan first! Alien: They can’t copy us! Human: So you’re saying they’re copycat- Alien: *Kills human with ray gun* ----------------------------------

Alien: Should I use this site to get feedback? Human: That depends on one thing. Alien: Which is? Human: How high your salt intake is. -------------------------------------

Alien: What is the one question not even 4chan want’s answered? Human: Oh that’s simple. Human: Who were the minions from “Despicable Me” working for between the years of 1933 to 1945? Alien: …………….. --------------------------------------

Alien: Does this site have any good recipes? Human: Most of them involve clown meat so I don’t think you’d enjoy them. Alien: What the florp is “clown meat”? --------------------------------------

Alien: Why do your people keep this chaos alive? Human: You can find some pretty funny stuff on there to make you smile. Alien: Funny? Alien: FUNNY?! Alien: I just read a story about how a human school child traumatized another human child by sending them pineapples for years on end. Human: Yeah; funny shit like I said. ----------------------------------------

Alien: Who is this large green man and why do people fear him so much? Human: They only fear him if they enter his swamp. ----------------------------------------

Alien: What is the difference between green text and red text? Human: Green text is often used for funny stuff that'll make you laugh. Alien: And the red? Human: To make you question your very existence in the universe and your personal worth to society. Alien: Isn't that a bit extreme? Human: God help you if you ever come across purple text then. --------------------------------------

Alien: Why are so many weird people on this chan of 4’s? Human: Mostly to get back at the government agents who are spying on their internet history. Alien: How do they know they’re being watched at all? Human: *looks at monitor* Oh they know……

#humans are insane #HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #funny #4chan

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rose-icosahedron · 4 months

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I miss Harry Potter.

Let me explain, since this sounds both weird and potentially like a red flag off the bat. But here we go.

We know now that JKR is a transphobe who uses the platform granted to her by the popularity of her book series to spread and justify her views. Talking positively these days is a dog-whistle for TERFs and Transphobia. And I know that retrospectively re-reading some of her works knowing her views it seems obvious in someways.

However, none of that mattered when I was a little kid who thought magic was cool and didn't have much media literacy. And tones of people who did liked the books too.

I have fond childhood memories of having the books read to me by my dad in the evening, and of going to the Harry Potter park(I think its in universal studios although I don't know) and absolutely loving the butterscotch slushie they had that they called butterbeer. I remember having incredibly detailed conversations with my family about the fact we were probably all Ravenclaws.

The first fanfic I ever read was "harry potter and the methods of rationality" a fic that was a complete re-write of the entire series that showed off various logical fallacies and addressed them, adding logic to the original series and being really the sort of thing my geeky family loved, which note, my dad read this fic to me when I was little, and it is honestly still one of my favorite fics of all time.

These were all good memories, and there was nothing wrong with them. My family enjoyed this series and the media around it and its fandom, tons of people did. We all did, honestly.

But now adays I don't think I could say all this without this context. Because of everything, it is almost impossible to say that you did enjoy this thing as a child and not call your younger self bad for that. For something that you could not have predicted or known about. And its sad, and I miss Harry Potter.

I'm not saying go and ignore what JKR is doing with her platform now and try and be giant Harry Potter fans all over the place, I'm just saying I'm sad. That that book series was, in many ways, good, or at least good enough to capture our imagination. People read and liked it for a reason and the joy many of us found in it was good, the work may not be but the memories were. I'm saying that those good memories weren't bad for happening, and that it sucks that it has all become what it as.

Don't feel bad for enjoying what you enjoyed.

You had fun as a kid, don't let an asshole take away the joy from those memories.

Or well, you don't have to. If you don't want to.

And I'm going to re-read the methods of rationality sometime because it was great and someone made an awesome audio book recording of it and I like the nostalgia that comes with it.

#harry potter #jk rowling #this post is kind of a vent?#it feels like its shameful now to admit that you liked harry potter without casting some sort of negative judgment on the enjoyment of it?#like it feels like you are supposed to feel guilty for it #and it kinda just sucks #that feeling has bothering me for awhile #so here's my thoughts on it.#:/

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