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pparacxosm · 1 day

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wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast.

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy wood-panelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and bemused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently.

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

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buckgasms · 6 hours

Text

Ok let's talk about Dark!Cowboy Bucky shall we......

Expect dark themes ahead y'all 🧡

Here's what I'm thinking:

He is a bounty hunter in the early days of the wild west and sadly you have a bounty out on you.

Maybe you were caught up in a crime but you are really innocent, but no one seems to care about a young woman, or the truth for that matter.

You already felt like the unluckiest person on earth, but when you overhear in a bar one night that the infamous bounty hunter Bucky Barnes is looking for a pretty little runaway, your stomach churns. And it hasn't stopped since.

🧭

Bucky hates the rain. It makes things so much harder. His horse is more grumpy and less willing to obey. People don't hang about to share tidbits of information. It's harder to get a drink.

However, it also makes his prey act silly. Especially pretty girls on the run. They aren't made for the rain. And they are so easy to spot, running across open fields in a dirty white dress, seeking shelter in a barn.

He chivves his horse onward, a wry smile on his face.

🧭

You are sitting on a bale of hay, wringing out your hair when you hear a horse approaching. Your blood runs cold as you hear the door open. You dash as quietly as you can into a dark corner and hold your breath as a man walks his horse in, talking to it gently as he guides it into a stall.

He removes his hat, gloves and shrugs off his wet coat.

"I know you're in his little darlin'"

Your eyes widen and you squeeze your arms tight to keep you from moving.

""If you come out now, it'll be easier. I'll put in a good word for ya..."

You debate it, but you can see him through a hole in the wood. And his face, however handsome, is plastered with a cruel smile. You don't believe him.

He huffs after a moment of silence. Looking around the barn, assessing how good it'll be for the night. He sits down and starts running a thin rope through his fingers.

"Gettin impatient now sweetheart... Don't like to be kept waitin..."

You shiver in the cold, your body dripping with sweat and rain. Maybe you could run out while he was distracted? You were pretty fast and you really had nothing to lose at this point.

You took a quiet, shuddering breath before dashing out from your hiding space. Despite feeling the wood of the barn door it was futile.

A tight, sharp object wrapped around your ankle and you felt the floor give way beneath you. You managed to roll over and watched as he dragged you backwards, pain tearing though your limbs as you were pulled along the floor.

"There you are" he mutters, pressing his boot onto your tummy, as he looks down at you. You suppose it would be to prevent you from fidgeting, but you are frozen in fear.

"My, my. Those wanted posters don't do you justice little darlin'. Don't quite capture that pretty face..."

You whimper as he kneels down, starting to wrap the rope around your other leg to tie you together, before looping it around your wrists.

"Please... Please sir I didn't do anything. It's a big mistake. Please...?"

He ties you off with a bow and chuckles. "Oh I know. I'm not as stupid as your neighbours, thinking a little flower like you could be involved in a bank robbery. Fuckin' dumb as hell..."

Your relief at his statement is short lived when he stands up and leaves you on the floor.

"Well then... Can't you help me? Let me go?" You wriggle and writhe, trying to keep him in your eyeline. Maybe he could be reasoned with?

He chuckles and sits himself on a bale. "Well I did think that, but there are two problems. First is that I've been chasing you for 5 days, in a storm and you've kinda pissed me off..."

You gulp, tears pricking at your eyes as he smiles at you.

"And the other problem is, now that I've gotcha, I don't think I wanna let you go."

You let out a shaky sob, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping as you have for many times in the past week, that this is all a dream. When you hear his boot scuff near your head you know it isn't. He kneels down next to you and takes your face gently between his hand and turns you to look at him.

"All I keep thinking is how I'm ready to retire, head up to my little cabin and have a pretty little housewife all to myself. Cook my dinners and have my babies hmm?"

Your eyes glisten as he talks, blurring vision as you begin to panic. You shake your head and mumble a weak 'no'. It makes him tut and squeeze your cheeks tighter.

"I know darlin', you're gonna fight me ain't ya? God knows you don't do anything the easy way huh? It's ok though. I'll have you convince by mornin'."

🧭

Convinced might be simplifying the situation, but by morning you are certainly not putting up a fight anymore.

Overnight as the storm raged outside he took you apart piece by piece. There was no part of your body that was now foreign to him.

He'd carefully removed your dress and kissed you all over. It was almost like a lover would. Sucking and biting gently at your soft skin, leaving marks all over you.

You shout and cry as loud as you can but he just smothers your cries with kisses. You tried to roll away, fight despite your bound state but he just chuckled and rolled you back where he wanted you.

He'd gotten very cross though when you tried to keep him from your heat. He'd had to find more rope to tie you open and spanked your heat until you were red and puffy.

"Wives aren't supposed to hide what belongs to their husbands darlin'. So don't you be hidin' from me..."

He resumed his gentler approach after, claiming your body with unexpected softness, kissing your tears away and praising you for taking him so well.

Hours passed and he barely relented. He let you rest a little, providing you with drink and a warm blanket. You slept when you could but were often woken by his lust, kisses and bites on your neck and chest.

"God you're beautiful yknow? So good for me... You gonna be my little housewife? Let me hide you away?"

He smiled wide when you nod. What else could you do?

I literally couldn't say no....

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky imagine #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #cowboy!bucky #bounty hunter

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howlsofbloodhounds · 2 days

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You know, I think Killer getting reunited with his brother after his escape with Color would be really interesting, whether it goes well or horribly wrong.

If it goes well, it would be really interesting to see how Something New Paps deals with Killer not really being his brother (though I am of the idea that he'd love Killer for Killer as well. I just also think it would mean him grieving his brother yet again. This time knowing he'll never have his brother back). It would also be cool to see how he'd get along with the Epic Sanses. I also really would love to see explored what his tentative new dynamic with Killer might be, and how that may change Killer's dynamic with the others too (would he be less codependent with Color with Paps in the picture? Or would he just become dependent on both?).

If it goes horribly, well, it would be interesting to see exactly how horribly. Would Killer panic enough to kill him again? How would he react to that after so long? Would Killer even believe that that's his brother? Would he just deny everything and turn away and then be haunted by the possibilities forever?

I just hhhhhhhh. I've been thinking about them so much. I've never see content about them explored, ever, and the possibilities are giving me brainrot

Yes! This is the stuff I want to see with killer from this fandom. Not more of the same! Let me watch these doomed siblings suffer or heal. The angst having to grief the person you never knew you lost while they’re right in front of you, looking at you, looking through you—only it’s something else with your loved one’s face. Uncanny valley im telling you.

I personally think Papyrus will have a difficult time actually accepting that his brother is gone. Hed subconsciously see signs in Killer—same smile, same twist of the corner of the mouth even if the nature of the smile is different from when Sans told an awful pun, because now Killer is smiling like that when he tells horrible stories he seems to think aren’t horrific at all.

I think how this reunion unfolds definitely depends on the exact situation. If Killer is still trapped under Nightmare or not, or if Color has rescued him.

And if Papyrus has any memory of what Killer did to him and everyone else—because Killer did spend years upon years murdering and horrifically torturing Papyrus and all the others as if they were nothing more than toys.

Killer could look at him, and all Papyrus could see is that empty, dead eyed look as he screams and cries while Killer breaks his bones. As if Killer didn’t recognize who Papyrus was, and if he didn’t care who he was.

And Papyrus, how his reactions during those times could’ve affected Killer. He was in unimaginable pain, terror, and confusion. Hatred and anger and spite are understandable reactions. What are some things he might’ve said to Killer during these moments that stuck with Killer? Begging and pleading, cursing and screaming? Attempting to get Sans to “remember who he is”?

As the world Reset around Killer, did others eventually start changing too? Even if only in small easily missed ways, even if they forgot by the next Reset. Chara and Killer were always in search of something new, after all.

Could Killer trust himself at all around Papyrus? Or would he immediately start thinking about how he has killed him before, how Papyrus could be here for revenge or even worse—for Sans.

Would some part of Killer despise Papyrus for being weak enough to forgive him, just like he always did for the human? Would Killer feel the need to kill Papyrus again—believing it’s what it has to do to prevent something even worse (Stage 4), or perhaps out of panic as you mentioned, or even that anger at Papyrus or just the unimaginable confusion and stress and pain that Papyrus’ presence brings (Stage 3).

Would Papyrus’ presence disjoint Killer’s “placement” in time.

Would seeing him make Killer think he’s back in the Underground with Chara, and thus Papyrus is another enemy he has to deal with. Would he be unable to accept that the Papyrus in front of him is his Papyrus, or would he think it’s just one Papyrus out of a gazillion more, and therefore not worth wasting energy on?

I can definitely see Stage 1 being reluctant to actually be around Papyrus. Not because he hates him or is disgusted by his “weakness” and not even because he thinks he has to kill Papyrus—although he’s very aware that some parts of him very likely do think those things—not only because he can’t trust his own mind, his own desires, but also because he just..feels horrible around Papyrus.

He idealized this image of Papyrus and the life he thinks they used to have, but he has changed. He has done a lot of things. He couldn’t even accept a hug from Papyrus for very long without pushing him away in tears. I think he’d definitely benefit from having his brother back in his life, although I doubt it’d be a very frequent thing.

I can see many instances where guilt, fear, and shame just leads to him trying to “hide” from his emotions in Stage 2, which leads to the usual avoidance behaviors. Which may also lead to him subconsciously blaming Papyrus for being able to have any effect on him at all—given how Stage 2 views it when situations and people are able to make him “feel” anything. As if they are attempting to control him.

So many interesting possibilities—especially given how much Papyrus may know. How much knowledge is he working off?

{ @stellocchia }

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sweettea-and-honeybutter · 12 hours

Text

Eyes On Me

A/N: Lol I don't even know what to say 💀 this came to me 30 minutes after I woke up because @wakandamama and @daydreamgoddess14 have rotted my brain at the idea of SydCarmy. I've been trying to finish this Terry Richmond fic for days but I had to get this out 🥲

Pairing: Carmen x Sydney

Genre/Warning: 18+, its juuuuuust smut so minors kindly fuck off

Words: 932, short and sweet to get me back used to posting

Alright have at it 💕

“Eyes on me Sydney” she let out an exasperated groan at that, knowing that if she opened her eyes to watch him drill into her, watch his intense blue gaze take in her squirming form underneath him, tatted arms stretched taught, strong hands gripping her hips firmly, his own hips thrusting into her with wet, obscene smacks-

If she had to look at that while feeling how fucking good he was digging into her, she’d simply explode! She’d die right on the spot.

“Carmy-“ her breathing was so labored, voice coming out surprisingly whiny for her “-I can’t! I really can’t, it’s too much.”

She bit her pouting lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration from trying so hard not to cum yet. Her hands stretched over her head to prevent him from fucking her into the headboard that kisses the wall with each thrust, and her tits bounced hypnotically with his consistent pounding. Sydney looked so pretty like this.

He smiled softly, taking pity on his brilliant girl turned cum hungry, fucked out slut. He slowed his thrust to a sensual grind, rolling and snapping his hips in a way that had her tossing her head side to side with a cute squeal.

“Aww I’ve seen you do hard things pretty girl, you can take it” he released one of her hips to bring his thumb to her clit, it was still wet and swollen from how he’d tasted her earlier, and this brought the sexiest moan of his name from between her lips.

“Eyes up here Chef. I won’t ask you again.”

Sydney gasped, squeezing her eyes shut tightly in pleasure before opening them to stare into his with a squeaky “yes Chef”

He had a sweet smile on his face, skin glistening with exertion, picking up his steady pace again as his thumb worked her button faster.

“There you are, I wanted to see you Syd. Wanted to see you fall apart for me.” Oh he sounds so good, and he feels so good, and she wishes she could slap that stupid smile off his face for how he’s making her go brain dead. She should’ve known he’d be the type to talk her through it.

“Carmy!” She pleaded with her eyes, “I’m so close, I need-“

“Shhh shhh I got you pretty girl, I know exactly what you need” both his hands lovingly smoothed up her thighs, climbing higher over the curves of her torso and perky breasts, up her arms to grab her hands. His eyes stayed locked on her, his face now hovering above her own.

He continued to thrust into her, grinding his hips every time he bottomed out in her, making sure his happy trail grazed her swollen clit each time. This had her eyes rolling to the back of her head with her sweet moans falling right into his waiting lips so near hers.

“Ah ah my pretty chef, I said eyes on me” his blues were cocky and playful now, her browns were teary and desperate and soo pretty. “And wrap those long legs around me, open up this tight pussy for me”

She’d joke with him later about him being bossy even in bed, but she absolutely wrapped her legs around him and squeezed around him, this new angle making her needy pussy sing louder.

“Aww listen to that! Fuck, she’s so wet Syd. Am I making you feel good chef? This what you needed from me?” He gave her a quick kiss and pulled back, waiting for her answer. His hips snapping more excitedly with more vigor was the only indicator that he was just as affected by her, her obvious pleasure egging him on.

“Oh my fuck yes, yes yes please, I’m so close!” He folded her arms above her head and placed his elbows on them, further caging her in underneath him as he started to slam into her. His forehead on hers, she had nowhere to hide from him.

“Give me that fucking cum then Sydney, let me feel it pretty girl. I need you to-“ she wailed loudly, pussy gushing and spasming all over his dick, getting him so lewdly wet, and it felt so very good to him.

“Fuuuck that’s it! Good girl, that’s my good Chef.” He lifted up slightly to bring one hand down to her clit, prolonging her orgasm as her pussy massaged his dick just right.

“You’re brilliant you know that Sydney? Just so good for me. You’re gonna make me cum pretty girl” she’s nodding frantically, breath coming out in such cute huffs as she could focus on nothing but the pleasure he was pulling outta her.

His blue eyes found her gaze in the midst of her pleasure and he looked so strained trying to hold back “you’re gripping me just right baby, where the fuck do you want my cum hmm?” She could hardly speak, it was all so much.

“Inside Carmy, just-“ he cut her off with a biting kiss, groaning with such relief as he emptied into her. They’d deal with the consequences later, right now this was all he wanted to feel, to just be surrounded by her. And surround him she did, cumming again moaning his name into the heated kiss.

His lips slowed as his hips did, pulling that last bit of pleasure out of them both. He broke the kiss to pepper sweet little kisses all over her face then pulled back slightly to look at her. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Good? She huffed out a laugh and rolled her eyes playfully. Duh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mkayyy lemme know what you think 😇 Ive got Carmen, Terry Richmond, and Rio from Good Girls fighting for attention in my head but I have a feeling Terry is gonna win so let me know if you wanna be on the taglist for that!

Also I've been wanting to write more sapphic fics I just haven't found any characters that really inspire me 😮‍💨 please hit up my asks/dms if you have any ideas

#sydcarmy #sydney x carmy #carmy berzatto #carmy x sydney #the bear hulu #syd x carmy #sydney x carmen #carmen berzatto #the bear #the bear fanfiction #the bear fic

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vishnavishivaa · 2 days

Text

Heartbreaking Memories

I wondered if I should edit this small OS after I had written it, but realized that you all deserve to read this the way I wrote it. It is raw, and it came entirely from the heart.

*************

Shiva quietly watched Sati fretting across the landscape of Kailasha, not saying a single word, even as She was starting to rage. He understood Her fury, but this was not a time to let it fester. It was not even the time to be angry, but yet, this had to happen. This pain that His Sati was going through had to happen, and it tore at His heart, tore His very essence, as it is. While He would rather shield Her from all pain, Shiva knew well that being Jagadambika also came with that caveat of having to go through all of this, as had been ordained before the very beginning.

"Swami, I want to go to my father's house."

Shiva sighed quietly within, and shook His head, deciding to try and persuade Her from going. He wanted Her to stay, but what had to happen will happen. Sati had seen all the Devas, Gandharvas, Yakshas, all celestial beings, flying past with their families, joy evident in their mien. Being the curious person She is, Sati had enquired from Her elder sister Rohini what festival was happening, and had heard the truth. Now, She was insisting on going to the one place She had not been invited to.

"Sati, I don't think you should go," He said gently. It was not right as well, given that there had been no invitation. Seeing Her looking irritated, He quickly continued, "My love, we have not received any invitation from your father. It would not be correct to go under these circumstances."

"Swami, that is my father's house," Sati responded adamantly. "I want to go and ask him why we were not invited. How can any sacrifice be done without you?"

"Sati, please understand. You cannot go, my love. It is not right to go anywhere when we aren't invited; even if it is to your own father's place."

"Swami, I grew up there, I spent so much time there. Please Swami, let me go. I want to ask why Pitashree did not see it fit to invite You, who are the Lord of all the Universes."

"Daakshayani, how does it matter? Everyone is mine anyway. Even if not offered to me, it is still offered to me," He explained affectionately. "There is nothing in this Universe that is not mine and there is nothing in this Universe that is mine."

"Swami, please do not confuse me with your words. Give me permission to leave. This is about my honour, for that is what You are. I need to ask Pitashree why he chose to exclude you."

"Daakshayani," Shiva sighed and got up from His position, knowing She had decided to be stubborn, given the mulish expression that adorned Her charming face. Even that expression was enhanced due to it being visible on Sati's moon-like face, He thought, walking towards Her and holding Her by the shoulders, gently kissing Her forehead.

"I will send Nandi and the Ganas with you," Shiva said quietly, hugging Her once, His heart thudding within Him. He could only hope now, for what was written could not be undone.

***

Shiva froze, when He felt a shot of energy enter Him. He sat up straight, closing His eyes as He felt Sati's fury of destruction enter Him. He realized that Daksha had pushed Her too far, and the raw energy in Her form had awakened, now taking a lesson of almost everyone there. He could feel His limbs trembling, and He gave in to it, for this was His Sati.

For Her, anything would He do.

He could feel Sati's Aadi Svarupa, that of Sarvaloka Aadi Shakti, growling in fury and talking, but all He could sense was pure numbness from within Him. Tears sprung in His eyes, as He knew the tragedy that was about to happen, and yet was helpless, unable to prevent it. This was Her Leela, and it would be wrong to interfere.

In a flash, flames enveloped His Sati, and Shiva felt them envelop Him as well. He allowed the burning fire to dance around Him, as He felt His Sati's energy return to Her Mula tattva, and Her body collapse.

His chest was filled with the horror of what His soul had witnessed, and He felt a cry tear from within Him, a new feeling to Him. He opened His mouth, His howl of pain tearing the fabric of the Universe He Himself had created, as tears slowly made their way down His cheeks, as He felt His other half leave Him in the form of Daakshayani Sati, dissatisfied with the father She had chosen.

"SATI!"

His wail had caused the Universe to tremble, caused planets to move off their axes, turned Universes upside down, and yet, all He could do was let out painful bellows, one after the other. His Sati had left Him, and nothing could ever be the same again.

*****

This memory was the first one that had filled Shiva the moment those beautiful eyes fell on Him. The young woman of barely thirteen, yet entirely Aadi Shakti, now stood next to Her father. Those dark orbs that were beyond any Universe now gazed at Him with a resplendent devotion that His heart's strings tugged hard. He knew who She was, for She had always beem Him more than He Himself was. Her lively gaze, the soft smile on Her lips, and the awestruck expression on Her face reminded Him of Sati, heartbreakingly so. And yet, there was an entirely new aspect to this form of His Shakti, one He felt He would see as time went by.

Shiva steeled Himself. This was going to be a hard journey, for Parvati and more so for Himself.

'Your pains will be mine, and all the fruits will be Yours, Uma. For You, I will do anything.'

********

@ahamasmiyodhah @mahi-wayy @yehsahihai @theramblergal @krsnaradhika @ramayantika @achyutapriya @thegleamingmoon @nidhi-writes @houseofbreadpakoda @hum-suffer @kanhapriya @kaal-naagin @krishna-priyatama @willkatfanfromasia @celestesinsight @arachneofthoughts @idllyastuff @mahaswrites @braj-raj @krishna-sangini @krishna-premi @chaliyaaa @tripurantaka Please please let me know what you all think. I want your feedback!

#shiva #shivablr #ramablr #krishnablr #sanatana dharma #hindublr #shaktiblr #shivashakti #umamaheshvara #satishiva #alameluwrites #desi writing #writers of tumblr #vignettes

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ourfatherwhoartinhell · 3 days

Text

Silent Hearts // [Part III]

Pairing | Cowbell x reader

Word count | 3.1k

⚠️ Warnings | Canon divergence, f!reader, Y/N is used. Should be okay otherwise? Nothing really happens in this one, you just have a chat with Mountain.

Chapter Summary: It's your turn to struggle with complicated feelings. You turn to Mountain to find some closure and understanding, but he opens your eyes to something completely different about this mystery ghoul than you ever could have imagined...

A/N: This one is less intense but gives y'all some more background on Felix. I wonder what will happen when you finally see him again... stay tuned for the next one~ xoxo

[Prev][Next]

Once you got back to your dorm that night, you had a chance to finally process what just happened as you laid out on your bed; the group of Brothers who were hellbent on terrorizing you, the strange ghoul that seemingly came out of nowhere to your rescue.

Where did those Siblings run off to anyway?

This was all feeling so overwhelming and strange. You had a very limited knowledge of the ghouls and their species in general. You really only talked to Mountain, who was very intimidating at first due to his enormous size, but you two could talk about plants and fauna for hours. Quickly it became apparent he was quite soft spoken and very respectful. He never made any sudden moves and was generally very calm. Nothing like what you had imagined ghouls would be. He taught you a lot about greenery but almost nothing about him or his kind. You never wanted to push either, knowing that the Clergy always said to leave ghouls alone and to stay out of their way.

They were workhorses and nothing more in the eyes of the Clergy and it made you sick. From your few interactions with Mountain, you knew they were capable of so much more. They were intelligent and emotionally complex creatures who had so much to teach us. They all seemed overall pretty content and happy with their roles though, so who were you to try and understand the intricacies of human/ghoul relations? That was a job for the Liaison Unit.

Those were siblings specifically chosen to help keep the peace between our very different species and for the most part, they do a very good job. The members of the ‘Human-Ghoul Liaison Unit’ know the ghouls very well, they help create rules in the best interest of both parties to keep everyone safe. They also are in charge of educating the new members of the Ministry on our otherworldly counterparts.

You had heard there were talks of a ‘Unified Security Division’ in the works too; a joint-species task force to monitor, protect, and prevent Ministry members from both human and ghoul related incidents. You thought it was a great idea! Humans and ghouls working together as a team, utilizing both of our unique characteristics and skills for the greater good of the Ministry.

Would probably never happen though. That would give the ghouls too much authority, the Clergy would finally have to accept they were a higher life form.

The next morning you walked out to the greenhouse to see if the only ghoul you knew would be able to give you some answers on who you met last night.

You waved hello to a few Sisters on your way down the steps exiting the Ministry. You weren’t really sure how you were going to even start, or what to even say. Did Mountain even know who this ghoul was? He seemed to have been out there a while, maybe they never spoke?

“You seem terribly lost in thought.” Mountain's warm voice came from low beside you.

“Mountain!” You shouted, a hand gripping your chest. “Belial, don’t scare me like that!” You had just about jumped out of your skin, not realizing how detached from reality you were in that moment. Mountain was crouched between rows of tomato vines so it was no wonder you didn’t see him, even if he was gigantic.

“Sorry, sorry.” He laughs and stands to his full height. “Anything I can help with?”

You let out a heavy sigh, the thoughts of yesterday returning with a vengeance. “Actually yeah. I hope you can. I came out here to ask you some questions about… ghouls?”

Mountain’s confused expression was noticeable even through his mask, his head tilt said more than words ever could. “Why are you suddenly interested in ghouls?”

You looked down to where your feet squished the well-kept grass. “I’m not! I mean– yes, I am.” You took a breath. “Something happened.”

Mountain gestured to walk with him so he could sit with you and chat properly. There was a large octagonal gazebo just a few feet from where you were standing. He stepped over the row of tomatoes with ease and guided you towards it.

The gazebo was a perfect addition to the garden if you did say so yourself. It was wood but painted black. The hanging candles that lined the outside were brushed silver which must’ve looked picturesque at night. There were 4 steps up to the main platform, lined with an iron railing. The thick pillars each had a weeping angel attached that faced outwards, water droplets from the morning rain made them cry over the flowers below.

Once the two of you got up to the main platform, there was a black deck couch directly in front, decorated with blood red cushions and golden accent pillows. In front of the couch was a rounded glass coffee table with matching chairs on either side. There were lush green plants that sat on either side of the large couch to bring some colour. It was such a nice spot, you didn’t know why you haven’t come out here more. It was peaceful. Exactly what you needed white you talked through your troubled thoughts.

With a soft, gentle hand on your back, Mountain offered for you to take a seat on the couch. You realized the cushions were just as plush as they looked when you eventually sat, taking a moment to just sit and take in the smells of the nature around you.

Mountain stood awkwardly by the other end of the couch with his hands clasped behind his back before you noticed he hadn’t sat down.

“You can sit beside me, I’ll allow it.” You joked and patted the middle cushion.

Mountain simply nodded and took a seat at the opposite end.

“I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

It was a full sized couch so there was plenty of room, but of course he was a gentleman. Gentle-ghoul? Whatever you were supposed to say. Mountain was always so polite and considerate.

“Mountain, you are the only ghoul around here that hasn’t made me feel uncomfortable or awkward.” You smiled, knowing that every word you said was completely true.

Being a ghoul of few words he just hummed in understanding and nodded. “So, what did you want to know about ghouls? You… didn’t get hurt by one, did you?”

His eyes flicked to yours, gauging your reaction. He knew that his kind could be a little out of control and unpredictable by nature. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit you were slowly becoming a soft spot for him. So if one of his packmates did anything to harm you…

“Oh! No, nothing like that.” Your hands waved in front of you, trying to brush away any thoughts that you had been hurt. You noticed how Mountain had already begun looking with a slight hint of worry for any injuries he must’ve missed when you had been walking together.

He let out a sigh of relief when he realized that wasn’t the case and unclenched his glamoured hands. “That’s good. Really good.”

A faint look of worry crossed your face as you saw Mountain relax. Were ghouls really so dangerous that they just attack Siblings out of nowhere? Were you safe with Mountain sitting 2 feet away from you on the other end of the couch? Questions started to stir but you forced them down. Mountain has never once made you feel afraid, or that he was capable of anything but kindness. Sometimes, you'd admit, you tended to forget he was a ghoul and not just a Sibling in a mask.

“I was up at the cemetery last night and those Brothers came to bother me again,” you started.

Mountain let out a low, very annoyed grumble. He knew who you were talking about, they had been bothering you for a little while, sometimes even when he was around. They thought they were invincible within the walls of the Ministry, that their faith would protect them from any harm.

“What did they want this time?”

“I’ve never seen them in the cemetery before so I don’t even know how they knew to find me there, but anyways. I was just finishing up placing the last of the tulips - which were very pretty by the way, thank you.” You smiled, remembering how nice they looked at the base of the headstones. The colours were perfect for this time of year.

“I thought you’d enjoy those.” Mountain said softly, returning with his own smile knowing he was already planning which ones to give you next week.

“Anyway, they came up and were a lot more forward than usual. Getting brave I guess,” you recalled, voice lowering as you continued. “I thought they were going to actually try something this time so I warned them, like you said to, but I guess I must’ve closed my eyes because by the time I opened them, they were gone. Just vanished.”

Mountain nodded in intrigue as he followed along, moving to face more towards you as he let you continue.

“Then from over the hill I see this half glamoured ghoul, I think? At first I thought he was you because he was so tall.” You explained, watching Mountain's eyes squint through the mask, trying to imagine who it could’ve been way out there. “He was covered in blood so I offered to clean him up a bit, but he was so strange.”

Mountain's eyes flashed an angry green as he suddenly got a good idea of who you had run into, his expression twisting into a glare as he took a frustrated breath. “This, ghoul. What did he look like, did he say anything to you?”

“He was blind, that I remember for sure. He had white smoke like a mask over his eyes, said he lived in the woods or something? He was kind of off-putting at first if I’m being honest–”

You didn’t even get to finish your sentence before Mountain let out a very displeased growl. “Don’t go back to the cemetery.”

You were unexpectedly taken aback, eyes wide with shock at Mountain's sudden shift in demeanour. This wasn’t like him, normally he was very soft-spoken.

“What? Why?” You asked nervously. “Mountain, what happened?”

“I don’t want you going back there now he knows your scent.” He said very abruptly, looking around like the two of you were suddenly being watched.

Your breath hitched, Mountain’s anxious body language radiating danger. If one of the largest ghouls in the Abbey was afraid, you were absolutely terrified.

“My scent? What’s going on? Who was that? Who are you so afraid of?” You asked hurriedly, starting to breathe heavy.

“Not afraid.” He said in almost a whisper, turning back to look at you. “Angry. He’s not allowed to come anywhere near members of the Ministry, especially the Siblings.”

“Who is he, Mountain?” You asked sternly, starting to get tired of his cryptic secrets.

“A very, very distant cousin.”

Now it made sense why the strange ghoul was so tall, they were related.

“Felix is your cousin?” You questioned, trying to make sense of it all.

“He told you his name?”

Mountain’s surprise made your brow furrow. “Uh– yeah. Why? Is he not allowed to do that either?”

The earth ghoul shook his head. “No, that was never part of the agreement. Plus ghouls take great pride in their name, they were given to us by the Dark One himself.” Mountain let out a pained yet amused huff. “He’s never told anyone his real name before.”

It was your turn to act surprised. Never? You knew you didn’t know that much about the ghouls but this was beyond what you imagined.

“What does that mean? Is he going to hunt me for sport now? Should I be afraid?” You asked.

Mountain took a breath. “I don’t know, Y/N. I really don’t. All I can say is avoid him at all costs, he’s not a ghoul you want to know.” He looked at you with a serious expression. “He’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” You echoed.

Suddenly the entire night snapped together like a puzzle. The blood, the vanishing Brothers. He had killed them. Why didn’t you realize that before?! You literally helped clean blood off a killer, standing inches away from him.

Your body shook involuntarily as you realized how close you stood to death himself.

“He didn’t seem that bad…” you trailed off in a horrified whisper, your fingers nervously brushing over your drying lips.

“He’s out there for a reason.” Mountain said, his voice slowly returning to his more comforting tone. “Just promise me you won’t go looking for him? If you want to continue going to the cemetery I can’t stop you, but at least bring me along… so I can protect you.” He trailed off quietly at the end, now speaking with a different kind of nervousness.

Unfortunately for Mountain, you hardly paid attention to anything he said. Your mind still reeling with thoughts of Felix. You lowered a hand to your chest, trying to steady your racing heart when you suddenly looked up at Mountain.

“He couldn’t hear my heartbeat.”

Mountain's head tilted much like his cousins did as he looked at you in confusion. “What do you mean? Not at all?”

You shook your head. “He said it was quiet. Told me that normally he could hear everyones but he couldn’t hear mine.”

Mountain slowly got up to pace around the side of the gazebo, deep in thought. “What else happened?”

You looked at the ground, trying to remember any important details. “He said he was given a choice? To live in the catacombs or the woods, that’s why he was out there. When I told him he was covered in blood he said that was common? I thought he meant because ghouls have to hunt, not because he had just killed three people.”

“He lied.” Mountain said abruptly. “We can eat human food just fine, but he can’t. Ever since he was summoned he was never able to eat anything on the surface, so he started eating like we do in the Pit.”

“Which means?”

“Blood, Y/N. Up here Felix needs blood to survive or he dies.” Mountain stopped pacing and gripped the back of the chair in front of him, his claws peaking through in flickers as his emotions started tearing through his concentration.

“The Clergy thought it was strange but allowed him to hunt in the forest once a month, he ate raw the rest of the time but never in the dining hall with the rest of us. They had a special room in the kitchen where they threw him slabs of meat like a feral dog.” Mountain hung his head remembering how poorly he was treated. “Normally the longer we’re up here, the less of our demonic nature hangs around, we become “domesticated”, as Copia now likes to say. I guess because he was still hunting, his instincts were kept razor sharp. Deadly.”

You couldn’t help the way your mouth hung open as you took in everything you were hearing. This couldn’t have been the same ghoul that stopped you from falling on your ass when you slipped, or the ghoul that joked and teased. The ghoul that looked like a kicked puppy so starved for affection that he all but begged you to stay.

“I don’t know what his lack of ability to hear your heart means, but it can’t be anything good. He uses it to hunt and track his prey, amongst his other abilities. He’s not like the rest of us, Y/N. He never will be. He’s too far gone.”

“You said he knows my scent now too,” your voice laced with worry.

“Normally that’s not an issue, I got to know yours as soon as we met. It just happens,” Mountain explains. “Ghouls tend to use scent for a lot of things, it’s like a silent language.”

You nodded. “But why can’t he live in the Abbey? You said he did before?”

Mountain tensed once again as he grumbled. “He will have to tell you that, we don’t like to speak of it.”

Sensing that was still a sore topic you dropped it, watching Mountain make his way back over to the couch and sit back down. He rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned in towards you. You could see the intense look in his moss coloured eyes like he was silently pleading with you through the slits in his mask.

“I’m serious, Y/N. Promise me you wont go back on your own. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

You admired how protective he was. It was comforting to know that if anything happened, Mountain would be there. But there was still something clawing at the back of your mind, like a string begging to be unravelled that was pulling you back to Felix.

“I promise.” You smiled.

“Good. Now, what were you thinking for next week’s arrangements? I’ve got some roses just about ready–”

You nodded along mindlessly as you discussed the next batch of flowers, chipping in a few words now and again but you were far, far away. Talking about it only brought you right back, and Mountain failed to notice your 100 yard stare once he got talking about his new batch of hydrangeas.

You couldn’t help but get lost in your memories. The invisible string pulling you right back to him. The way he looked at you, the fanged grin that made your heart skip in excitement and curiosity. Remembering the way his tail felt, pressed against your back as he pulled you closer. You could almost swear you still felt it rubbing gently along your spine, or his breath along your ear whispering, ‘What's the matter, Kitten?’

You shivered at the phantom touches which earned an odd look from Mountain before he continued explaining some different colour combinations for next week. You told yourself it was just your mind playing tricks, he wasn’t really here. You were safe, you were with Mountain. Yet, there was so much about him your soul still craved to understand. A feeling that was so foreign. You felt betrayed by your own mind after everything you learnt. You were supposed to be afraid and never want to leave the safety of the Abbey ever again.

But as much as you wanted to uphold your promise to Mountain, you had those cemetery eyes…

[Next]

#the band ghost #ghost band #nameless ghouls #ghost ghouls #cowbell ghoul #cowbell x reader #ghost band fic #nameless ghoul fic #ghost band x reader #nameless ghouls x reader

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kyonshi-8610 · 4 months

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a realization i had about a month ago

#sorry this comic is crude i just wanted to get it out of my system #dungeon meshi fanart #??? technically i guess #dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #toshiro nakamoto #nakamoto toshiro #laios touden #laishuro #laishiro #also. i will admit the guy was obnoxious and whenever he talked to me i genuinely felt nauseaous #im sorry guy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! for faking my interest in your interests because i was too scared to tell you i was uncomfortable!!!!!#but also fuck you!!!!!!!!!!!!! you kept talking to me while i was trying to pay attention to class and you kept making me nauseous!!!!!!#but while i feel this way i know it could have been prevented if i had just talked to you properly!!!!!!!!!!!!

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youremyonlyhope · 5 months

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why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up

#i'm overthinking something that i did and was told off for doing by my director #and on my way home i was thinking when was the last time i was even talked to like that during a production #and then i remembered the costume experience from hell of only a couple months ago that i've already began blocking out #but the thing is that that person was someone i knew i'd never have to work with again #i mean at first i thought i would have to work with them more. then they announced they were moving away immediately #so i only had to deal with them face to face for another weekish after that point and anytime they yelled at me #i was like 'cool. i'll do exactly what you say to do. and nothing more.' but then of course me being me #i did some extra stuff and they initially were like 'oh that's pretty' and then days later told me to cut everything i added #and like sure i get that the show was frozen but girl. that costume was unfinished. i was trying to finish it. it was frozen but looked bad #anyway. whenever they yelled at me and had actual malice in their heart i was like whatever. i was hurt. but i didn't care as much.#but this time it's someone i've worked with many many times before and it was about a habit i have that i know isn't great #but at the same time the thing that prompted it wasn't even me doing this habit it was something else #but she interpreted it as that habit and said that i can't do that on a production she's directing #and that if i couldn't stop then i could pull out from the production and there'd be no hard feelings between us #and honestly i think her reassuring that she knows i'm valuable and that she wants me there while also telling me not to do this thing #and the fact that she's someone i like working with and will continue to work with just made it all hurt so much more #especially since she referenced another past production we've done where i didn't even realize she had noticed that i do this.#and i found myself in near tears. and still am kind of in near tears. i can't decide if i need to cry or not.#and i had NO sleep last night so i was looking forward to sleeping tonight but now i'm just overthinking EVERYTHING #and like. i know everything will be fine. if i just stop inserting myself and stick to just my specific tasks. it'll be fine.#but this is one of the ways my ocd manifests. i feel like i have to personally fix something i notice going wrong. or it'll be bad.#because every single time i choose to sit back and not be nosy when i notice something it ends up bad in a way i could have prevented #if i just inserted myself in a situation i technically wasn't part of but knew i could help or fix. so i just need to not do that.#but then i feel guilt if it does go wrong in the ways i immediately assumed it would and in a way i could prevent.#and i've been trying to work on this for like 6 months and aaaahhhh it's hard and being called out on it from her just really really hurt #i still may or may not cry. i don't know. the irony of me telling my therapist THIS MORNING that it's been a while since i last cried.#and the universe being like 'i took that as a challenge' and handing me this situation for me to spiral over.#i need to leave things alone. i need to stare straight ahead. and ignore whatever isn't specifically for me to do. but ahhh i want to help #and then of course my mom has this same habit and it annoys me when she does it yet i do it to other people and ahhhhhhhh #brain please just shut up. i need to sleep. i have to work tomorrow.

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todayisafridaynight · 1 year

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rgg can have a You Did The Bare Minimum award for keepin jo alive and not continuin the trend of one-shottin every interestin antag we meet but they esp deserve it cause lettin jo live the rest of his days in guilt and shame without the power to do anythin is pretty thematically consistent for him. if i may be insane to say.

#snap chats #Stream Of Consciousness dont look at me im rambling #EW this text post is longer than a tweet thats disgusting #i never even tweet outside of art on twitter. ok i do on my personal but i barely post there outside of qrting stuff lmao #In Any Case. i do have an essay on my dome about shame/guilt and jo i aint gon lie #thats been brewing for a while cause like.... lol..... lmao perhaps....#ill just keep it short and sweet rn cause my brain just aint fucntionin how the fuck is it 10pm hold on （；´д｀）#anyway Speedrun Version of what im thinkin tonight #jo's greatly motivated by the guilt he feels for his irresponsibility debilitating masato #he does all he can for him in an attempt to atone for that #but despite those attempts he still shoulders that never-ending guilt #despite those attempts i think its a fair wager to suggest he probably thinks there isnt anything he could do to properly atone #but he at least can and does still try right. this comes back to him going to jail i promise #beforehand jo /felt/ as though he was powerless to do anything- in prison he's /physically/ incapable of doing anything of use anymore #or. he's at least incredibly limited. the most he can do is tell ichi past info but Specifics right #moreover both the arakawas are gone: even if jo was free he still would have no conceivable way of 'redeeming himself'#esp in the case of arakawa that feeling of guilt is worse: this is another case that he arguably couldve prevented #obvi with masato that one is more sure He Definitely Could Have Prevented This but Specifics 2x right we know what im saying #my words are muddy but i hope we know what i mean. in prison all he can do is think and be left with his feelings #all he can do is stew in his regret and guilt. its like. Thematically the perfect consequence for him #like again One Thing to let him live but it also just so happens to play into that eternal guilt/utter powerlessness so well #this type of thing is going to decay my brain until LAD8 comes out and all of this is undone somehow but for now.... i love his misery...#ok this is the only vaguely. I Thought For More Than Three Miliseconds Today post youre gonna get im going back to being stupid

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mabelsguidetolife · 1 year

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I think miles is going to die because he has this awful abscess in his mouth and we can’t afford to treat him and he bleeds from the mouth and i’m so scared……. he’s twelve, so he’s no spring chicken, but i just love him so much and seeing him in this pain is unbearable and i don’t know where to turn

#I know he may have to get put to sleep when we can finally get him to a vet but i dont feel ready to say goodbye #I can’t be selfish because it’s not about me but he hasn’t been his usual cheery self in a little while but it’s getting worse #we can’t even afford our own oral surgery much less our dog’s #it hurts so much to know i could lose him very soon #i haven’t dealt with a pet death in a very long time #and he’s such a beautiful soul i just #I need to spend more time with him and treat him extra special if i can’t save him #i need him to know he’s loved while he’s feeling this pain #but i keep crying and it keeps making him nervous so i have to stay away until i can control my feelings #pet death cw #I feel like it’s all our faults #I don’t know why but i keep thinking about different things i could have done #more ways i could have cared for him #i want more than anything for him to be happy again but i don’t know if that will happen or if it’s too late #we all love him to bits but despite always playing with him and petting him i still feel neglectful somehow #like we could have prevented this

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mcmansionhell · 8 months

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we've found it folks: mcmansion heaven

Hello everyone. It is my pleasure to bring you the greatest house I have ever seen. The house of a true visionary. A real ad-hocist. A genuine pioneer of fenestration. This house is in Alabama. It was built in 1980 and costs around $5 million. It is worth every penny. Perhaps more.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Kate, that's a little kooky, but certainly it's not McMansion Heaven. This is very much a house in the earthly realm. Purgatory. McMansion Purgatory." Well, let me now play Beatrice to your Dante, young Pilgrim. Welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

It is rare to find a house that has everything. A house that wills itself into Postmodernism yet remains unable to let go of the kookiest moments of the prior zeitgeist, the Bruce Goffs and Earthships, the commune houses built from car windshields, the seventies moments of psychedelic hippie fracture. It is everything. It has everything. It is theme park, it is High Tech. It is Renaissance (in the San Antonio Riverwalk sense of the word.) It is medieval. It is maybe the greatest pastiche to sucker itself to the side of a mountain, perilously overlooking a large body of water. Look at it. Just look.

The inside is white. This makes it dreamlike, almost benevolent. It is bright because this is McMansion Heaven and Gray is for McMansion Hell. There is an overbearing sheen of 80s optimism. In this house, the credit default swap has not yet been invented, but could be.

It takes a lot for me to drop the cocaine word because I think it's a cheap joke. But there's something about this example that makes it plausible, not in a derogatory way, but in a liberatory one, a sensuous one. Someone created this house to have a particular experience, a particular feeling. It possesses an element of true fantasy, the thematic. Its rooms are not meant to be one cohesive composition, but rather a series of scenes, of vastly different spatial moments, compressed, expanded, bright, close.

And then there's this kitchen for some reason. Or so you think. Everything the interior design tries to hide, namely how unceasingly peculiar the house is, it is not entirely able to because the choices made here remain decadent, indulgent, albeit in a more familiar way.

Rare is it to discover an interior wherein one truly must wear sunglasses. The environment created in service to transparency has to somewhat prevent the elements from penetrating too deep while retaining their desirable qualities. I don't think an architect designed this house. An architect would have had access to specifically engineered products for this purpose. Whoever built this house had certain access to architectural catalogues but not those used in the highest end or most structurally complex projects. The customization here lies in the assemblage of materials and in doing so stretches them to the height of their imaginative capacity. To borrow from Charles Jencks, ad-hoc is a perfect description. It is an architecture of availability and of adventure.

A small interlude. We are outside. There is no rear exterior view of this house because it would be impossible to get one from the scrawny lawn that lies at its depths. This space is intended to serve the same purpose, which is to look upon the house itself as much as gaze from the house to the world beyond.

Living in a city, I often think about exhibitionism. Living in a city is inherently exhibitionist. A house is a permeable visible surface; it is entirely possible that someone will catch a glimpse of me they're not supposed to when I rush to the living room in only a t-shirt to turn out the light before bed. But this is a space that is only exhibitionist in the sense that it is an architecture of exposure, and yet this exposure would not be possible without the protection of the site, of the distance from every other pair of eyes. In this respect, a double freedom is secured. The window intimates the potential of seeing. But no one sees.

At the heart of this house lies a strange mix of concepts. Postmodern classicist columns of the Disney World set. The unpolished edge of the vernacular. There is also an organicist bent to the whole thing, something more Goff than Gaudí, and here we see some of the house's most organic forms, the monolith- or shell-like vanity mixed with the luminous artifice of mirrors and white. A backlit cave, primitive and performative at the same time, which is, in essence, the dialectic of the luxury bathroom.

And yet our McMansion Heaven is still a McMansion. It is still an accumulation of deliberate signifiers of wealth, very much a construction with the secondary purpose of invoking envy, a palatial residence designed without much cohesion. The presence of golf, of wood, of masculine and patriarchal symbolism with an undercurrent of luxury drives that point home. The McMansion can aspire to an art form, but there are still many levels to ascend before one gets to where God's sitting.

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

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#architecture #design #mcmansion #mcmansions #ugly houses #interior design #bad architecture

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s0dium · 17 days

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𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒?!

A/n: Thank you for everyone's patience while I've been on this hiatus. I hope this makes up for lost time Warnings: Dom!xreader, fingering, oral, cum eating, blowjobs, squirting, voyeurism, breeding kink, mating press, doggy, face sitting Characters: Geto Suguru, Gojo Satoru, Sukuna Ryomen, Toji Fushiguro

Toji- Blowjobs/Cum eating

Toji plugs your nose when he cums in your mouth and makes you gargle it until its dripping down your throat.

He is such a meanie:((

He laughs at how your face scrunches up from the bitter taste of him and how glassy tears roll down your puffy cheeks from the sheer brutality of thrusts into your mouth.

You would think that he'd be done after he busted a load into your mouth? Wrong. He pushes his length deeper down your throat almost making you gag.

"F-fuck baby, that's it, j-just keep doing that."

You still your movements for a brief moment, letting Toji's dick weigh heavy on your tongue while you look up at him through glassy eyes and wet lashes. Immediately, your head grows fuzzy and your ego swells when you catch how his face is tilted toward the ceiling, his eyes scrunched closed as if he's too afraid to open them. He's close. You can tell. Toji's mouth is slightly open, and you can see his tongue darting across his lips, wetting them as if savoring every sensation. Oh how you wish you could touch yourself right now, roll your clit with your index finger and savor this moment. Unfortunately, you got your hands, or rather your mouth, a bit too full.

You let the hand on the back of your head push you flush against Toji's groin, shoving his member impossibly farther down your throat and your nose into his dark happy trail. His musk is strong of old spice and salt. Spit slips from your lips, warm and slick, as it dribbles down your chin.

"Did I say you can stop? You trying to tease me baby?" Toji chuckles but you don't miss the way he almost tumbles over his words. You got him good.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hand on the back of your head guiding you up and down his length while you kneel between his legs on the floor. Every second you're fighting the impulse to moan, knowing if you do you'd probably gag. You even have to drop your jaw to accommodate his sheer size. As it moves in and out, there's an unmistakable saltiness and warmth against your tongue, and the way his mushroom tip hits the back of your throat knocks the wind from you. You can’t help but focus on the sensation—the way his cock fills your mouth, the slight friction as it moves, and the way your tongue instinctively curls and flattens around it.

You allow your tongue to flop out, the warmth of your wet muscle gliding across the underside of his dick makes his thighs shudder. Then, all of a sudden, he grabs your hair and shoves your face into him. You gag at the sudden intrusion down your esophagus, but Toji merely groans, reeling his hips back and thrusting into your wet mouth with primal vigor.

"Gonna cum baby, just take it ok?" He curses under his breath before wiping a tear from your eye with his thumb. "You're taking it like a champ."

You sit there helplessly as he uses your mouth like a sex toy. Heavy tears stream down your puffy cheeks and you have to dig your nails into his thighs to prevent yourself from gagging.

"Fuck fuck FUCK." With a loud groan and a particularly powerful thrust, salty fluid fills your mouth. You can feel his dick twitch as it spurts ropes of thick cum to the back of your throat and paints the roof of your throat.

Your instinct is to swallow. But you don't dare to. You're better trained than that.

"Show."

Obediently you open your mouth, sticking out your tongue to showcase his milky white cum covering your wet muscle.

Toji grins. He presses down on your tongue, letting the cum drip onto his thumb before pushing it back in.

"Swallow."

Gojo Satoru- Face sitting

For all his yapping and bragging Gojo Satoru is a service dom (though he will never ever admit it)

He's so smooth talking you into it

"Baby, baby, please, I always make you feel good don't I?"

"Shit baby, you're so messy."

You can barely hear Gojo's voice over your moans strung out on your lips. You can't think, fuck, you can so much as breathe as his tongue laps and licks your quivering hole from under you.

Gojo moves with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each stroke of his tongue sending waves of heat and electricity through your body. The sensation is overwhelming, warm, a perfect blend of pressure and softness that makes you melt. You can feel every movement, every flick and swirl around your clit, every time he enters in you with an unhurried intensity, drawing out the pleasure until it feels almost fucking unbearable. Remember how only a few minutes ago you were terrified of crushing his face under your weight? How stupid were you to think that would stop him, that any of your protests and concerns would prevent the Gojo Satoru from devouring you until you sobbed.

"Stay still f'me wont you."

You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, a teasing contrast to the cool air around you. His hands grip your hips firmly, grounding you on his mouth, grinding you on his mouth, so your legs rest on either side of his head, your body responding instinctively to ever prod, nip and suck of his tongue.

"G-gojo please wa-" You cut your self off with a low whine when his soft lips wrap around your pearl and gently sucks.

“Mmmmm” Gojo moaned against your pussy making your stomach twist. “Taste like heaven babe”.

Geto Suguru- Breeding kink

As said multiple times before, above all else Geto Suguru is a family man.

Sure, he loves fucking load and load of cum into you until it drips out from your cunt like a milky white river

But what really sets him off is the idea of you fully and round with his kids. Oh boy. He really cant help himself.

Maybe there is something deeply fucking wrong with Geto Suguru. Maybe there is a fuck up in his brain chemistry that makes him think about stuffing you with his cum 24/7 until your begging for him to stop. Otherwise, he is afraid that there is no excuse for how he is acting right now, how he is fucking you in this moment, like an animal in heat.

Honestly, it's was a miracle you even managed to stay conscious.

“Fuh-fuck I-I cant- fuck -please Sugu~” Tears swelled in your eyes, staining the pillow your face is buried in as you struggle to remain on all fours. Fucked good? Try being fucked stupid, you can't even form a coherent thought from the delicious collision of Suguru tip against your cervix. The friction is enough to make you scream but you've been doing that for hours now, your throat is too hoarse to even moan at this point.

"What princess," Suguru coos, rocking his hips into your creamy cunt from behind, doggy style, the fap fap fap sound of his pelvis against your ass filling the air. "You want me to, what? Stop?"

In one quick motion, your body is flipped over, his cock not once leaving you empty for a second. He pushes you into a mating press; knees held against your shoulders to expose your entire lower half to him, the perfect view of the hole Suguru currently has his dick buried inside. The sight of you leaking around him makes his toned stomach tighten from arousal.

“Fuck doll your killin' me.”

You let out a groan of your own at how the curvature of his dick digged itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up. The shuddering of his legs against you let you know he is on the verge of going over the edge. You need to be filled, oh god you need his cum spilling inside you.

Eager to be the cause of his orgasm, you buck your hips forward against him helping him to get himself off to your soaked insides.

"Shi-Im gonna-" Suguru cuts him self off with a low groan as he pushes himself flush against your pussy and throws his head back in the air. You can feel the warm liquid inside you, strings and strings of hot cum filling you up as he held you in his arms. It made your body shake, his load weighing at your stomach like it was forming a bulge with how much there was.

Sukuna- Fingering

Sits you in his lap on his throne while he is having a meeting, and fills you with his fingers.

The fingers are so thick and long, two is enough to have you creaming.

You are going insane.

You needed more, more friction, more speed, more impact. One of Sukunas fingers wasn't possibly good enough, at least with how painfully slow he was moving.

You paw at his kimono, slightly tugging on the robs why he continued to discuss with some dumb advisor something you couldn't be bothered to focus on. If it weren't for the blanket covering his movements you are sure that random guy would run right out the door, which is something you were considering.

More, more, more. The thought consumed you, your toes curling and uncurling over the blanket as you buried your nose into Sukunas chest.

"Kuna..." You let out a low whine, low enough so only he could hear. "Please..."

Sukunas expression doesn't change, he doesn't even look at you, but his hand movement does. Without warning he slips another thick finger into your creamy cunt and curls, massaging your spot with the pads of his fingers.

You can't help but rock your hips back and forth, trying to suck him in deeper. You don't even notice that the advisor has left until you feel Sukunas breath against your ear.

“Greedy little thing.” Sukuna chuckles, intently watching the pleasurable facial expression you make as you fuck your self on his hand. He starts pumping his hand in earnest, covering your mouth with one large tattooed hand when you start crying out, jerking in his hold. It’s too much, the feeling of his thick fingers pressing into your sensitive walls, the wet little pap pap pap of his palm hitting your clit, the blinding ecstasy that’s coming closer and closer.

Your about to warn him that something feels weird when it hits you. As the wave crashes within you, it radiates outward, a ripple that electrifies the air, catching you in its grip. Your breath hitches, a sharp gasp and a loud moan escapes your lips, and suddenly everything around you pulses with the same rhythm, each beat perfectly aligned with the surge of ecstasy rushing through your body. You don't even notice the water gushing out of your pussy, soaking the blanket and Sukunas hand. Your skin tingles as though you’ve been swept up in the aftershock of their orgasm, and you have to bury your head into Sukuna's robes to ground yourself from the pleasure.

"Such a good girl," Sukuna coos, "Now I just have to fuck you don't I?"

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