#for them it was an important part of their story and that’s not fetishising

[youneedsomeprompts]

How to write: ethnicity & skin colour

requested by: anonymous request: How exactly can I describe a characters ethnicity/skin color casually, without it sounding like a specific scene that just exists to describe the skin color? I hope this makes sense lmao… I just want to write a scene where I casually mention someone’s ethnicity or skin color

description of appearance: No matter if skin colour or hairstyle or clothes, a text is more dynamic if you don't dedicate an entire scene/paragraph to it but rather sprinkle the necessary information in here and there. However, there can be instances where it's conducive to the plot to put that entire paragraph (e.g. introducing a new important character with backstory). Otherwise, I'd say try to keep it short and put it where it serves the plot.

ways to incorporate...

... a description of appearance:

when a character makes their first entrance (describe everyone's colouring - POCs' and white characters')

the impression their complexion makes together with their clothes: "the bright yellow of their shirt complemented their dark skin"

the way their colouring interacts with lighting: "the grey weather took away the rosy hue of their fair skin"

when appearances create a contrast: "I immediately noticed them because they were the only other black person"

... ethnicity:

let the characters mention it where it makes sense

regarding the narrator you've chosen for your story, it can also be blended into an inner monologue

include parts of their culture: traditions, terms, family, etc. (this also allows to bring up their ethnicity repeatedly over the story and not only at the beginning)

show their struggles: are they affected by social struggles? then show it!

words to use to describe skin colour:

... basic colour descriptions:

brown

black

beige

white

pink

... more specific colours (try sticking to familiar/common words that can be easily visualised):

amber

bronze

copper

gold

ochre

terracotta

sepia

sienna

porcelain

tan

... prefixes or modifiers (can be easily combined with basic colours):

dark

rich

warm

deep

fair

faint

light

cool

pale

... undertones (pre-dominant colours underneath the skin - often warm or cool, sometimes also neutral and olive):

yellow

orange

coral

golden

silver

rose

pink

red

blue

... avoid food analogies as it's often received as offending, fetishising, and/or objectifying.

That's all I can provide as of now but I'm sure you guys have aspects to contribute. I'm very interested to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to add to this post whatever you like to/can share <3

And for more information, maybe also check out @writingwithcolor for more specialised posts on the topic <3

[morallyinept]

Reverence - A Ezra x Limb Prosthesis F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: A mysterious, vagabond man comes to your aid, and in return you show him some kindness. And over the course of a stormy night, you discover you both have more in common than just outward appearances.

Pairing: Ezra x Limb Prosthesis F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, Reader does have hair, however. Reader has a prosthetic limb. She was born with an underdeveloped limb below the left knee. Reader's age is not mentioned, so you can determine/imagine it's you, if you'd like to, bub. Ezra is in his early-to-mid 40's.)

Word Count: 12.1k - because Ezra won't shut up. 🙃

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers & warnings: Mentions and descriptions of limb loss/use of a prosthetic limb/Ezra is missing his arm/Reader is missing her leg below the knee/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!) fingering/oral M & F receiving/there is no fetishising of limb loss here, it's real love/sex with very real bodies/an imagined world created within the Prospect universe/Ezra comes with a thesaurus

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | EZRA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

The Pug is a skiv of a planet that seems to have been forgotten by time itself.

Its once-gleaming skyscrapers now stand as towering monuments to a bygone era; their facades stained with the grime of countless rotations. The feculent streets below are a tangled web of concrete and steel, where the lurid neon glow of Vayok advertising signs cast flickering shadows on the faces of the downtrodden masses.

The air of Puggert Bench is thick with the acrid stench of industry, a noxious cocktail of pollutants and toxic fumes that hang heavy over Noki District like a thick shroud.

The sound of machinery echoes through the streets, a constant reminder of the ceaseless churn of production that drives the small planet's rototiller economy, despite being nothing more than a mechanical layover for most passing through on freighters. 

Despite the harshness of its environment, Puggert Bench is a livable place of vibrant contrasts. Here, lander pods zip past rusting hulks of abandoned ship corpses, their sleek orbs cutting through the smog with effortless grace.

The cloud stream, blocking out the sun in a haze of burnt umber that chokes you when it sticks to the back of your throat, carries on the breeze through the air into your nasal cavity as you breathe in. When you blow your nose later, black shit will present itself to you in your tissue, unless you wrap up with a mask or scarf whilst outside.

For every gleaming skyscraper and bustling marketplace, there are a dozen dark alleys and forgotten corners where the lawless thrive. In the shadows of the city's turgid underbelly, criminal syndicates and black-market traders ply their illicit loot prospected from alien moons; their activities hidden from the prying eyes of the less-than-honourable authorities.

Everyone is fair game in this place.

A place, where walking by yourself late at night probably isn’t a wise idea, but when left with little choice as your shift runs over - again - you brave it head on, picking up your often wonky steps with a hurried pace.

You’ve walked this grimy thoroughfare countless times, memorising the way with muscle memory. You wrap your fraying scarf round your face, cutting out the tar that burns on your tongue.

A slight drag on your gait, an itch surfaces where the buckles rub at your skin around your left knee joint. You stop, pinching and digging your fingers in over your pants to tug out the relief from the burn of the itch.

With each step, you’re reminded of the weight that bears down upon you - the prosthetic limb pressing back against your prickly marred skin with a relentless intensity. The artificial joint, no matter how seamlessly it's been integrated with your body, still causes a continual dull ache that reverberates through your bones with every movement.

You can switch it off sometimes, but the hard pavement beneath you seems to magnify every twinge of discomfort, every jolt that sends shockwaves of thudding pain coursing through your remaining upper limb with every step you take.

You’re still toying with the idea of trading it in for a bionic model, but the foreboding cost and invasive surgeries to wire it into your nerves - that come with their own horrific testimonials of those who’ve had it done, and done badly - far outweighs any desired practicality. Instead you navigate life with the callouses and blisters, used to them being part of your daily routine.  

Slipping your fingers between the buckles offers minimal, sweet respite for a few blissful moments as you scratch, when suddenly, a hand shoots out from the darkness, grabbing you roughly by the arm and yanking you into a secluded alcove; the brick walls slick with the sweat of the city.

Before you can react, a gruff voice growls in your ear, sending a chill down your spine.

"Your credits. Now!" The assailant demands, his putrid breath hot against your neck as he presses a sharp object against your side.

Panic surges through your veins as you fumble for your wallet, your hands trembling with fear as you forget momentarily which pocket it’s in.

He shoves his hand in the pocket closest to him, rooting around in there uncouthly as you protest and struggle.

You’re both disturbed when a shadowy figure emerges from the darkness, with a quiet determination.

The newcomer is a man of imposing stature, his features obscured by the billowy hood of his tattered coat, and a facial scarf of his own that covers his nose down to his chin.

But what catches your attention most is the sight of his empty right sleeve, the fabric of his coat pinned haphazardly against his shoulder where his arm should be. 

“I’d rethink that course of action, unless violence with a matched counterpart is what you're getting at.” The man warns in a steady, yet rich Southern drawl. 

Your mugger mouths some regurgitated insult in Vayok. You don‘t fully speak it, but you know enough to know he’s mocking the obvious disability of the man, who simply chortles in response to a jibe he’s probably heard before.

But you're left wondering in bewilderment at how your apparent saviour will pull this off. 

“You assume this handicap is to my detriment? Are you sure you wish to find out how inaccurate that misinformed assumption is?”

Undeterred by his physical limitation, the man squares his shoulders, his gaze locks on the attacker with unwavering resolve; a pair of dark eyes shining defiantly in the dim light of the alley.

In a matter of moments, fisticuffs ensue. It happens so fast, you're unsure who threw the first hook. Seizing the opportunity, you break free from the thief's grasp and stumble away; your heart pounding in your chest as you watch the scene unfold before you. 

You watch helplessly as the man’s coat is torn where it’s previously pinned as they kerfuffle and tussle - the tear in the dirty fabric is deep. The one-armed man subdues your attacker, his movements fluid and precise despite his apparent infirmity.

But a surprise blow to the sternum knocks him down with a winded oof. 

The bolt pistol is revealed; gleaming chromatic and pearly in the night air as it falls from the coat pocket of the man and skitters towards your feet. 

A single squeeze on the trigger renders your attacker incapacitated, growling as he clutches his shoulder and stares up at you taking careful aim again. 

The thief stumbles backward, his grip loosening on the man completely as he struggles to regain his balance. He’s all teeth and spittle as you watch the one-armed man take his hand - that’s still holding onto your wallet - and bends it back at a sickening angle.

The assailant yelps with the slow, deliberate cracking. 

“Drop it, or I can assure you I’ll make it a more painful process than necessary.” The man warns.

The wallet clatters to the ground.

“Excellent. I suggest you hasten with speed to get your wound tended to, lest I change my mind about absolving myself from further violence.”

As the thief slinks away into the darkness, nursing his wounds and cursing under his breath, you turn to your saviour, your eyes wide with gratitude and dumbfounded admiration.

But he slumps down the wall clutching under his ribs, chest heaving. 

“In Kevva’s name, woman!” He snarls when he sees you still taking aim.

Taking little risk, you keep a grip of the pistol, primed and ready.

“Yes,” he nods, breathing in raggedly. “Best to keep your wits about you, Birdie. There are all manner of beasties out here who would relish a chance to get you.” He sniffs deeply. “But tell me, do you treat all your saviours with the same warm welcome or am I the exception?”

“Can never be too certain.” You remark with a shaky hand. "It's like you say, all manner of beasties."

He looks at you like a dog sniffing out the other; sniffing out whether you’re a threat to him or not. Dark eyes preened on you and unrelenting.

“Keep it steady, pet.” He motions to the blaster with a subtle nod. “A weak grip makes an opportunity easy to exploit.” 

You look at him suspiciously, two dark tar eyes regarding you back as he pulls down his scarf to breathe, and to show you his face for reassurance you assume, although the swampy air makes him cough and hack.

“Just some friendly advice.” He explains with a dull shrug. He sucks in air with a deep snort and spits out a globule of phlegm on the pavement. 

“The mistake you make is assuming we’re friends.” You confirm confidently, although there's a tremor to your tone. Your body feels like jelly as you try to steady yourself. 

“An underestimation I won’t make again, duly noted.” The man confirms as he struggles to stand upright himself. 

“Do you need a hand?” You put to him as he struggles with balance. 

He glares up at you with a rather repugnant look through cinched in brows. The two deep pits of his nostrils flare at you like black holes opening across the vacant universe that’ll swallow you whole.

“Sorry. Poor choice of words.” You quip, as you step towards his sneer. You remain steadfast with the bolt pistol, holding out your other hand. 

He mutters fast under his breath, growling, and you don't catch it.

"What was that?" You query, suspiciously, arming the pistol again.

“Timid threats from a quashed maverick. I’m no harm to you, pet.” He holds his only palm out to you.

You take it and pull him upright to his feet. He passes your wallet to you with thick, grubby fingers and you surrender his bolt pistol in return, albeit reluctantly.

You shudder and gasp out, feeling the unrelenting burn around your prosthetic make itself known again; the adrenaline subsiding in your body.

“Quell your snivels. You remain unsullied. I'd garner that a win.” He says simply, noting your watery eyes. “He was nothing but a hungry brute.”

“Quite the hero, aren't you?” You remark with a scoff at his barbarous contempt towards you.

“Don’t mistake me for a gallant knight, I’m far from that. More of a superfluous hooligan, but I’m still a man with a mere iota of sympathy and respect for the superior species when they find themselves in trouble.” He eyes you carefully as you wibble about on your feet. “You're just a slip of a thing, why are you out so late wandering? Are you lost, little bird?”

“No. My shift… it ran over. This is my usual route home when there's no shuttle.”

“Do you often find yourself in trouble’s embrace?”

”Won’t be the first time, I'm sure.” You mutter. 

“Unfortunate. I hear a surge-five is well on the way. Best be homeward.” He remarks with a click of his lips as he looks up at the glowering sky. The heavy swell of a incoming storm predicted is approaching in from the horizon in a cluster of almost onyx clouds.

His scowl softens as he looks back at you still trying to process the whole incident and remaining a little unsteady on your legs. 

“I expect you to denounce the offer, but walking you back to your quarters would seem prudent, given the errant situation. I know I appear as a stranger to you, so I’ll respect your wishes if you decline.”

You don’t hear his words as you focus on remaining upright, trying to process the events. 

“Oi. Woman. What say you?” He questions again, bringing you back to him.

“I can mend your coat.” You offer, fuzzing back in and your eyes fall on the large gaping flap on his right shoulder. 

He looks down at the sleeve you nod to and a growl erupts from his lips at the tear. “That will be unnecessary.”

“Do you have another coat?”

“No.” He gruffs. 

“Then it’s necessary.” You assert. “The surge-five is predicted to be harsh.”

He simply nods and drops his hood, shaking his head fully out from under it. An aquiline nose cuts a sharp line across his face, accentuating the aura of strength and intensity that surrounds him. But oddly, a small, messy blonde coiffure sticks out against his hairline, stark amongst a sea of dark oil-slicked tufts.

“I'm not holding out much optimism at your skill. The hole is quite impossible to simply mend.” He observes. 

“You let me worry about my skill. I accept your offer of chivalry. It’s kind of you, thank you.” You say, with a pertinent nod. 

“I’m not kind, pet, but the assumption is appreciated nonetheless.”

“Kind enough to walk me home and save me from losing my wage.” You tuck your wallet back into your jacket. 

“I have enough on my conscience to reconcile with, let alone the thought of a woman of your calibre making it home in one piece.” He tucks the bolt pistol away inside his coat. 

“My calibre?” You baulk.

“I meant it as a compliment, of course. Pretty thing like you out here is bound to attract some attention.” He says, eyeing your stance.

"Why are you out here anyway?"

“Minding my own. What’s your name, friend?”

You tell him and he nods. “Ezra.” He introduces. “I’m perplexed by your intentions.” Ezra replies flatly. 

“All I offer is some tea and some respite from the incoming storm.” You say. 

“Do you open your home to every vagabond you meet?”

“Only the charming ones.” You remark with a snort. 

You’re convinced you see a grin turn up his lips. “No quid pro quo? Nothing is free, Birdie. Smart women like you, you know this.”

“I am smart. I offer you some food and drink and to patch up your coat, that’s all. I know very well you’re a stranger and could harbour ill intent despite this heroic facade you've presented.”  

“It’s no facade.” He says with a frown. 

“Good, because I have no qualms in putting a bolt in you should you try to turn on me, we clear?” You warn with a satisfied smirk. 

"Been there, done that." Ezra eyes his stump with a wry grin before he rolls his eyes dramatically at your stern look. "Clear."

“I have my own bolt pistol back at home.” You warn.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt. The fire in your belly serves warning well enough, Birdie. I wouldn’t dream of any chicanery.” 

“Then follow me, Ezra.” You say, with a brewing smile.

Your tiny, poorly provisioned apartment is nestled in a nondescript building on the outskirts of the city.

A walk there that has you both absorbed in a mutual silence that offers a strange comfort, akin to the satisfaction of picking at a scab. Ezra mostly keeps his hand in his pocket and side glances you occasionally with parted lips as though he’ll say something, but doesn’t. 

“Let me get you something for that.” You offer, as you note his knuckles when he takes them out of his pocket and pushes the rusted gate open for you.

“It’ll dry over soon enough.” He says, looking down at his bruised and bloodied fist.

“It’s cold and the winds are picking up.” You say, noting the ferocious sky churning overhead. “I’ll get the tea brewing. Come on up.”

“You’re not as frail as I first assumed. I must stop doing that.” Ezra mumbles as he looks you over.

“He took me by surprise. Had I been prepared, I might have thrown a hook or two.” You shrug. You note he hesitates behind you. 

“Pertaining to the circumstances of our meeting, perhaps you might want to be alone?” You can sense the trepidation hanging around him; he’s wary of you and it pulls at something inside your chest.

“Come up, Ezra.” You repeat, ignoring him. 

He lets go of the creaky gate behind him. “Far be it from me to deny a lady. Even if her taste is somewhat marred in misjudgement.”

“Something tells me I can trust you.”

“That would be your first mistake.” He assures. 

“Well, this evening might surprise us both.” You say, as he follows up the steps behind you.

You take your time, hand sliding up the railing as he walks beside you. With each step, you focus intently on the movements of your prosthetic limb, adjusting your gait to compensate for its artificial nature.

You weight bear on your right side, loading your foot and keep your momentum forward up the stairs. You wince as you feel it rub uncomfortably again. 

“Are you hurt?” Ezra asks as he examines your unhurried pace. 

“No.” You shake your head with a rueful smile as you carry on. 

The stairs, with their unforgiving surfaces and steep incline, pose a formidable obstacle, testing your resolve with each upward stride. The prosthetic, while marvellously engineered, lacks the finesse and flexibility of a natural limb, making each step a delicate balancing act between stability and control. The last thing you want to do is slip in front of him.

After you reach the eighth floor, slightly panting, he follows you round to the faded door of your apartment. 

“Cosy,” Ezra retorts as he's introduced to your small, cramped world. “It's not often I’m rendered without speech.” Stacks of clutter balance precariously in columns on every available surface.

“I like to collect things.” You say nonchalantly.

“I can see that.” He counters, blinking as he steps through cautiously. 

You hold your hand out expectantly for his coat and he hesitates. 

“I can’t patch it if you’re wearing it.” You sway.

He slips it off his shoulders and you try not to look at the long sleeve that flaps without a hand at the bottom of it on his right side. His sweatshirt is terribly frayed and holey, and his pants seem loose and ill-fitting.

Boots that are at least a size too big for him clomp around his feet. His appearance, although broad and foreboding, also hints at the gaunt and destitute. There’s a peculiar smell emanating from him now he’s taken off his coat. Something sweetly rotten. 

You beckon him through, tossing his heavy coat over your arm, and he follows you through to the living quarters; a stalwart room that overlooks the grimy city.

The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and lingering incense spices, mingling with the faint hum of electronic devices scattered throughout the cluttered space. 

You switch on an air purifier and remove your scarf revealing your face to him fully as you instruct him to make himself comfortable in the ragged recliner.

You busy yourself in the small kitchenette, chinking cups and getting out a tin of med supplies for his hand. You throw a couple of packets of freeze dry in the warmer and set a timer. 

On the splintered coffee table in the centre of the room, stacks of dog-eared books and half-empty mugs vie for space with an assortment of trinkets and knick-knacks thrown clumsily over it.

He leaves through the pages of a hefty book on mining. “Light reading material?” Ezra queries as he tosses the book down. 

“Call it a tempered curiosity.” You say, coming through with the cups and the tin shoved under your arm. 

“Curiosity killed the feline.”

“Yeah, but it has nine lives.” You state boldly to him and he smirks. 

“I could tell you all you need to know. Was my profession, a man’s work.” Ezra explains as he takes the mug from you. The heat immediately absorbs into his fingers. 

“You're a Prospector?” You ask, with raised eyebrows. 

“I was. Not much of anything now.” His lips downturn into the rim of the mug.

“Where are you from, Earth? You look the type.” You ask him, settling slowly and rigidly into a rickety chair opposite a sewing machine in the corner.

You lay out his coat on your lap and reach for a pin cushion. It smells musty and wild, like the outdoors. 

“From that suppurate shit-hole? No. Sorry to disappoint.” He smirks.

“Where then? Lau? Your accent hints at relations from a primitive Earth.” You probe.

“You seem well acquainted with it.” He says, reaching for the med tin and flipping it open. He tears at the packet of an antiseptic pad with his teeth, spitting the paper out that sticks to his lip. 

“I read.” You smile as you regard him.

A rugged moustache adorns his upper lip, its edges slightly frayed, combined with a shadow of facial hair, adding to an air of menace that might initially catch one's attention. His presence in the small, dimly lit room feels both enigmatic and imposing.

If you had to guess, you propose him to be within his early fortieth, to forty-third rotation, or thereabouts. His skin carries a layer of grime, a testament to the rigours of his endeavours. 

“The memory of my origin is hazy at best.” Ezra shrugs, as he presses his knuckles against the moist swab he lays out on the coffee table. He hisses with the sting. “Home hasn't been a concept that I’m all too familiar with. Although I’m informed it was blue like Earth was before it was ravaged. It's been a long time since I was stationed in permanence. My bones have always been restless.” He leans back in the recliner and sips at the fragrant tea. “This tea… it harbours memories.”

“Regale me.” You entice, as you thread the bobbin on your machine. 

He licks round his lips savouring the citrus taste. “Have you ever ventured to Kerulon?”

“No.” You shake your head.

“A pisser of a planet, why would you? I got waylaid there once, on my fuknugt ship. Stranded for a time, which seems to be the continual narrative for my story, but I digress. It’s a planet on the edge of The Fringe, known for its vast expanses of sand and scorching twin suns that never set. Not much there at all except for a slow, agonising death. But as luck would have it, amidst the dunes that stretched endlessly towards the horizon, I sought refuge in a humble desert oasis. A rare oasis of life amidst the harsh landscape, it was tended to by a group of nomadic travellers known as the Sand Dwellers. They offered me a generous cup of their signature orange tea - a brew infused with spices native to Kerulon's desert flora, I’ve come to suspect. Your tea reminds me of that cup of salvation.”

Ezra sips another mouthful loudly and hums with his eyes closed.

“I got it from the marketplace.” You chirp. 

“Really? How uncanny… And where exactly did you procure that?” His pointer finger, stubby and long points to the glassy jewel on your shelf by the grimy window. 

“I found it.” You shrug.

He scoffs as he approaches and reaches for it as though drawn under a spell. “Birdie, do you know what this is?”

“A pretty rock.” You say with a lazy mirth.

He stands and fondles the faceted cabochon inside his big palm, eyeing the blood amber middle. “Aurelac. You’re sitting on an abundance of riches.”

“I’m well aware of Aurelac and it’s worth on the black market.” You press on the pedal under the table, and the coat slides through your machine fluidly. 

Ezra blinks, bewildered. “You know it’s worth, and yet you’ve abdicated it as a paperweight?"

"Mhm."

"Such a curious creature, unable to be bribed by gems in abundance. You must be the only one not to be swayed by the allure. And that’s a rarity.”

“I don’t need riches. If it matters so much to you, you take it.” You simply say with earnest eyes. 

Ezra baulks and struggles to form words.

“You Prospectors are all the same. Vultures just picking at the sinew on the bone. I’ve yet to meet a Prospector who didn’t live up to the reputation of harbouring an unsatisfied greed. You’ve killed for that.” You look at the gem wrapped inside his whopping palm with disdain.

“I have, and indulged in deeds far worse.” Ezra nods with a sigh through his enrapturing verbosity. But also a drained voice that indicates he’s just plain sick of this shit now, sick of it all.

Ezra smirks, bearing teeth and a corrupt murmur slips out. “Your assumption is emphatically sound, little bird. It's like a disease, the siren song of Aurelac knows no bound or reason. A sane man would always be swayed to harvest and reap. I couldn't count on all of our combined digits the number of times I’ve made lewd choices in spite of my perseverance to merely covet the riches that the Kevva forsaken moon bequeaths under her ample bosom. I've spent a long time there suckling at the teat. It only pains me now to ponder my very justifications for it to begin with, purging the bowels of that fecund wood…” He trails off grinding his teeth and sighing as he examines the unspoiled gem shining in his hand. 

As you work, Ezra's voice pierces the silence once more, each syllable laden with a poignant blend of resignation and acceptance. 

“There was a time when spitting off the edge of the world was an arrogant riot; to pillage and plunder with luck and careless abandon, but now with spirited discourse, I’ve settled into a freefall back into the harsh shunt of The Fringe. Some of us have the proclivity for greatness, while most do not. I fear I’ve become the latter.”

You look up at him and his face bears the worn lines and creases of hard experience, etched deep by the sun and wind, giving him a weathered and world-weary appearance.

His prominent nose adds to the pastiche of mystery and arcane belligerence that hovers about his person. A scruffy beard adorns his jawline, adding to his rugged and no-nonsense demeanour.

Oily hair streaked with grey at the temples, falls in disarray around his forehead, but what catches the eye most is the striking patch of blonde amidst the darker strands at the roots.

It seems like the evidence of a possible birthmark born in the hair line, or could just be a fashion choice exalted in bad taste. You make a mental note to ask him later. But it adds a unique touch to his plotline in a twist of his devious character as you ponder him and his story.

“Such a beauty,” Ezra remarks, observing you as he twists the jewel around his thick, calloused fingers. “It’ll fetch you a good sum.” He simply returns the gem to the shelf, his eyes lingering on it long after it leaves his grip. 

Your eyes graze down to the missing appendage, trying to fill in the gaps on his pages, as you place pins in your teeth. 

“Ah.” He notices your lingering gaze. “Go on, ask away.” Articulating around his Southern inflection with deep flutters of his tongue, it scatters out of it like jagged diamonds from the mines of Ajaxia.

You smile. “Nothing to ask.”

“I’m not foul to you like this?” You sense that he loathes it. Wired bitter with the loss. 

Despite the initial challenges and the occasional stares from strangers when your limp overtakes you when your prosthetic becomes unbearable to bear full weight on, you refuse to be confined by societal expectations or limitations.

You throw yourself into mundane life with unparalleled gusto, pursuing your work with a fervour that could inspire those around you if they weren’t so ignorant and assuming. A trait that might only embolden Ezra too, the more time he spends with you, if he cares to.

The thought of revealing your commonality with him rests idle on your tongue however. 

Yet, beneath your fearless exterior, you can harbour moments of doubt and insecurity. There are days when the weight of your prosthetic feels heavier than usual, and the whispers of self-doubt threaten to overshadow your resolve. You recognise it too, in his dark eyes right now, fierce, but also harbouring that self-loathing and defeated eroding.

It’s different for you, you don’t miss what you’ve never had, you only know a life like this, but for him? To have had it and then lost it, you can feel the decayed emotion that it evokes pouring from him, even if he never says the words out loud.  

You stand, approaching him with his coat patched and he raises his eyebrows. “Far from it. We might have a common depth.” You mutter. 

“I fail to see anything we share in common. However, you have magic in you, no doubt.” He says, as he admires his mended coat. “Witchcraft.” He smirks, running his fingers over the neat stitches.

“You have a way with words.” You smile, reaching for your cup.  

“A flair, so I’m told. Thank you.” He says earnestly to you, eyes big and round. 

“I work in the textile factory, my job.” You explain as you disappear into the kitchen when the beeper from the warmer goes off. 

“I was good with both my hands too, once,” he surmises bleakly. “What meat is this?” Ezra enquires, chewing slowly to savour the peculiar tang from the heated freeze dry meal that you’ve thrust at him with a spoon.

“Trog. At least that's what I tell myself. Makes it go down easier.” You remark.

“Never look a gift trog in the mouth, I suppose that’s good counsel.” Ezra shrugs and shovels in more, steadying the packet in his crotch for support; the warmth of it seeping into his thigh muscles and warming him pleasantly. 

“I’ve some Bitz Bars if you'd prefer?” 

He shakes his head. “If I never see a Bitz Bar again it’ll be too soon.”

The brief silence between you is disturbed only by the battering swell outside that has increased in its voracity in the last hour, and the soft chews and gulps as you both devour your meal in ensconced silence. 

It’s a harmonious, off-key beat that serves as the background chime to your dining encounter. Discreet in your mutual voyeurism as you eat and steal curious, yet wary glances at one another. 

You’re sitting at the small table with your sewing machine, whilst Ezra masticates on the recliner, albeit much slower, and negotiates a spoon in a hand that’s not ambidextrous in the slightest. 

“Tell me where you learned your skill.” Ezra prompts around a spin cycle of meat. 

“I have many. You’ll need to be particular.” You finger a newly discovered hole on your kneecap idly and frown at it. You can see a peep of leather from the buckle tarnished underneath.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, pet.” Ezra smirks, as he chews through his mouthful and runs his tongue around his teeth dislodging pieces of meat; his dark eyes flashing to you briefly. “Specifically your skills with a needle,” he waggles his stump at you and his sleeve flaps about and knocks his pouch over. “Fucking tarnation!” He mutters, pissed. 

You get up pliantly to assist him as he gathers the packet with quick snaps of his fingers. He spoon-scoops the contents off of his thigh, plopping the mounded heaps back into it, feeling the juice and gravy soak into his pants in a small, irritating patch.

“My grandmother taught me.” You say, dabbing at his thigh with a cloth.

He nods at you whilst continuing to alternate between cleaning himself of the spilled grains and meat, and eating it with good measure.

“Commit to a deal with me.” Ezra prompts after he swallows down the gristle.

“What kind of a deal?” You question, narrowly.

“I’ll tell you my story in its entirety and you regale me with yours in equal measure. Omit no detail too small.” Ezra declares.

“There’s really not much to tell. My life has not been spent roaming the Interplanetary digging up sparkly gems.” You remark. 

“You sound bitter.”

“My hindrances keep me here.” You sigh. 

“What hindrances?” He cocks his head at you. 

“Tell me your story, Ezra.” You deflect as you settle back in the chair to eat. 

Ezra smiles exaltedly. He relaxes back into the recliner after discarding the packet, whilst you listen keenly as he recounts how he came to be on the wretched moon with a group of like-minded individuals - rapscallions, as he refers to them - who were an entourage of the roguish sort.

Ragtag acquaintances he’d collected during his time prospecting many planets and satellites across the Interplanetary, but seemingly coming up short until The Green was set in his sights during the heights of the Aurelac rush. 

Of course, man’s greed always complicates even the basics of well interpreted relations, and soon he found himself without his ship or his crew; most of them deciding to pick one another off over petty quarrels, whilst the successful of the rogues took to leaving the moon. And Ezra was stranded with nothing but a serious, yet mysterious being known only as Number Two, who filled the role of henchman to Ezra’s own smart, callous wit at genial leadership. 

He reiterates to you, several times, that Number Two was not much of a conversationalist, much to his imminent dismay, so when he happened upon Damon, he informs you of the relief he felt to copulate wildly in words exchanged with a stranger, even if they weren't pleasantries.

It’s apparent to you, before he’s started to share his whimsical story, that Ezra has a rapt knack in kinking the tendrils of censorious intelligence and a dry sagacity that often blurs the lines of sarcasm and menace. Flowery, Southern treble clefs dance off of his tongue in a verbal, bewitching thrall, playing their music around your head in kaleidoscopic wonder. 

The things he'd done, the things Ezra he'd lost, are all painted from his cracked lips for you to see and experience, unscathed in the most exquisite details and colour. Feeling as though you’re there with him by his side and witnessing the altered course into complete annihilation. He was sure he’d be abandoned by Cee in a warped juxtaposition that, even his attempts at atoning for his previous sins couldn’t seem to cleanse him of. He iterates wistfully that he should've seen it coming. 

Ezra finalises the story with her gallant return and bringing him home rather than being left there to perish.

He’s notably candid when he speaks of his love for women - plural. He shares vulgar trysts about his many lovers on Luxillion, mostly whores whom he paid good credits for before he settled off on his wanderings, but who won't even entertain him now that he;s no longer whole. He mentions he occasionally dabbled freely in the delights of flesh with a fellow Y chromosome too; a flouted omission that makes your pores saturate at the outlandish, yet scandalous thought of it. His laying partners are of no prejudice. 

Ezra is regimented in never speaking of an unrequited love nor a love that holds permanence inside of his beating organ of clogged ventricles. The closest Ezra has come to feeling an emotion akin to the desire to protect another is with the bolshie whippersnapper named Cee, who had saved him from his fate on The Green.

And then you, this very evening. 

“What happened to her?” You enquire. 

“Your guess is as good as mine. I woke up in a med bay and haven’t heard a whisper since. Skipped out with a sack full of gems. Good for her.” He remarks. 

You watch as he winces and scowls down at his stump.

“Are you alright?” You query.

“Just an irritation" You watch as his lips curl back over his teeth. "Sometimes it… it feels as if it’s still there. Sears. Feels like I can still wiggle my fingers, the most peculiar thing.”

Nursing the aggravation is made small, as Ezra stares out at the window with a watery look making his scleras shine and the cords in his neck tense. Trying to push it to the back of his mind to be recycled into some distorted relief.

“That’s quite the story you shared.” You say. 

“It’s but mine to keep. And now yours too, I guess.” Ezra sighs and winces again. “Do you happen to have anything for the burn?” He asks, feeling the pain grow and mutate from his wrangled nerves into his veins.

“I might have a tranq.”

“Bliss.” He says as you get up. He notices you take a moment to regain your balance, a slight limp to your gait as you make your way forward. 

A large explosion-like sound is heard outside and you turn towards the window as the lights go out in your dingy apartment.

“Kevva’s wrath!” You gasp, a silhouette lit up by the purple lightning that rips terribly across the sky.

“Did something calamitous occur?” Ezra asks, standing too.

Aggressive thunder is heard rolling in once more as the rain pelts harder until it’s a tiresome skirmish battering the panes.

“Looks like a strike hit the fuse box. Whole District is out.” You say, hovering by the window.

“Perhaps it was a good call, your invitation.” Ezra says, a small smile unfolding on his lips. 

“Mm. The rain is often acidic.” You retreat to the kitchen and find some medicine and some candles. Lighting a couple on the coffee table, you take a hold of Ezra’s sleeve after passing him the pill. 

“Not a tranq unfortunately, but it might take the edge off.” You begin to roll his sleeve upwards. 

“What are you doing?” He queries.

“Making it easier.” You say, softly. You pin it in place, and then fetch a spool and needle from your sewing table. 

He watches, eyelashes fanned across his cheekbones as he stares down at your fingers working around the new hem of his sleeve you've created.

“I think I’ve seen you before... Around the District, down by the river.” You begin, carefully as you start to sew the sleeve in place. "You live there, don't you?"

He immediately bristles. “I don’t require charity. I’ll take my leave.”

“Ezra. You have nowhere to go. We both know that. It’s a dangerous night with the surge-five. Drink your xanadu tea and stay. You can take my bed.”

He sighs as his eyes shy away. “My predicament since my return from the Green has rendered me… unlucky, it’s true. There isn’t a place or a sympathetic ear here for people like me, and so my place is with shelter under the bridge. But I won’t spoil your evening with my dreary plight.”

“We can share in the dreariness.” You smirk, looking around at the dim confines of your apartment gloaming with waxy candlelight. 

He sighs again as he watches you thread neat stitches to keep the sleeve in place. 

“I can’t force you to stay. But I’ll sleep better knowing you’re safe rather than outside in that. I’ll make do on the recliner. I insist.” You say as you glance at the lightning streaking across the sky.

“Kindness offered to a scoundrel. You are something, Birdie.” 

“It’s only gratitude for what you did in the alley. We’re even.” 

"If I were to take you up on your offer, I will sleep here. You won't be denied your bed."

"There's no argument, Ezra. You'll take the bed and we'll say no more about it." You confirm.

“You trust me fictitiously.” 

“No, I trust you.” You correct him. 

“You know nothing of me. I could take your treasure and run whilst you sleep.”

“So do it. I already told you I care not for it.” You say, as you thread the stitches carefully. 

“Why don't you cash it in? You could improve your living quarters.” He suggests. 

“My living quarters are fine as they are.” You reply with a frown. 

He looks at you curiously, deep eyes burning into you as you find them with your own. 

“I don’t care about the material things.” 

“Pet, your dwelling is stacked with material things.” He grins. “Look at all this treasured garbage.”

“It’s gotten a bit out of hand admittedly. But it's mostly worthless.” 

“What is worth it's weight to you?” He enquires, boldly. 

“Life. Connection…" You catch his eyes. "Love.”

He scoffs as he brings his cup back to his lips and swallows the pill. 

“Immaterial things.” You say, as you notice his gaze heading towards the Aurelac gem again. 

“Before I left for the Green, the only material possession I owned was my ship. A Testing Screamer.”

“Fancy.” You remark, unimpressed. 

“No, she was a patched up shit bucket of rust, with a channel rat infestation, but I worked her hard. She got the job done. As I recounted, words and metal flew amongst my crew and they left me there to seek my death without her. I came back with far less.” He says, glancing down at his missing arm. “So, I relish the importance of the immaterial, even if you assume otherwise of me.”

“I assume nothing, Ezra.” You confirm. “There. You’re all patched up. You’re free to go into the wily night if you're so adamant.” You wince at the chafing burn around your knee joint.

You’re keen to rid yourself of the prosthetic, but hesitate whilst he’s here. You don’t mean to be prickly, but it’s a burn that’s starting to irritate.

“I’ve offended you.”

“No.” You shake your head with a faint smile offered. “I’ve been really grateful for your company, actually. It's been nice to converse with someone.”

“Do you feel lonely, pet?” Ezra questions out of the blue. 

You turn to face him, your knee knocking against his and you wince. “All the time.” You answer honestly.

“I find it hard to accept that you cloister yourself here alone each cycle.” 

“Why?”

“Because you're indeed bewitching.”

His hand is felt on your waist, gently squeezing, and you stop him as he reaches your thigh. 

“Too fast?” Ezra queries, reading your eyes carefully. 

“No.” You smile. “But…” You sigh with a steady gulp and then take his hand, hesitating before you place it on your artificial calf just past your knee. 

He immediately raises his eyebrows with a crooked smirk as he feels not soft flesh under your pants when he squeezes, but a hard shell. He knocks against it, bewildered. 

“You come with secrets,” he hisses jovially. 

“Missing pieces.” You correct. 

“As do I.” He says as your eyes fall to his stump barely poking out of the rolled up sleeve now. “Tell me your story,” he murmurs hauntingly.

He begins inking soft kisses into your collarbone and you don’t stop his forwardness. Instead you close your eyes and relish the feel of the warm, tender contact offered.

“No story. I was simply born this way.” You sigh, feeling his lips burn on your skin. Your fingers run themselves through his oily nape and scritch into his scalp. 

“Then there’s no less of you to love, pet.” Ezra groans, looking up at you. “A simple man would be worthy of your affections, even if just for a night?” 

“Perhaps.” You smirk.

“Perhaps? Here you sit like Kevva pushed you out her womb for me, perfectly moulded from clay, and you say perhaps?” 

You simply smirk as he looks at you, trying to figure you out. 

“I’m not perfect.” You say, your eyes averting away. 

“I’ll be the judge of that. I’d like to see you bare.” He says, and you know immediately what he means. 

You sigh out deeply and nod. “You too.”

“Birdie-”

“You. Too.” You sway. “Let me see you, Ezra.”

He watches as you stand and unzip your pants. You notice his eyes lingering on your centre for a moment, hidden beneath your bland underwear, but then his eyes trail down your left thigh to your knee where the buckles meet your skin.

You unbuckle your prosthetic without any meekness at all, leaning on his shoulder for support as he wraps his only arm around you, offering balance.

“I've got you, pet.”

You let it clatter to the floor and sit down in his lap, straddling him as his fingers tentatively brush over your revealed skin.

He, however, gulps as his fingers linger on the hem of his sweatshirt.

“Can I help you?” You ask him, and he shakes his head, pulling the offending item off clumsily and revealing his stump to you as his sweatshirt plops beside him.  

“Beautiful,” he says, observing the smooth skin of your ungrown limb. You shudder as his fingers sweep delicately around and across it.  

“Likewise,” you say, stroking down his arm to where it stops into a knot of twisty scars.

“Two peas in a dreary pod,” Ezra says, hooked nose brushing over yours. 

“I don’t like peas.” You chuckle. 

“Another commonality,” he smirks.

He watches as you reach forward behind him and take a small jar from the shelf. You push it into his hand as you open the lid and begin to scoop out some of the waxy salve inside. 

The balm, infused with cooling agents and healing properties, provides instant relief to your inflamed skin with a comforting warmth; soothing the rawness that bears the brunt of the day's chafing from your prosthetic.

He inhales the scent, lifting the jar to his nose and hums at the fresh, earthy aroma. 

“Homemade.” You clarify. 

“More potions from my talented sorceress.” Ezra smirks. “May I?”

You nod, holding the jar for him as he scoops out a small dollop, and rubs it between his thick fingers until the consistency turns thin.

“Tingly,” he says in wonder.

He runs it gently around your skin, rounding the circumference and across the calloused welts and blisters, soothing and massaging gently. 

“That feel good?” He queries with a bewitching smile all of his own.

"So good, Ezra." You nod with a breathy hum and he watches as you lean forward and kiss his stump gently, mouthing over the fibrous knots and welts. 

“Your mouth is Kevva sent,” he groans as he watches you.

You run your tongue over it, kissing up his shoulder and tasting the salt of his neck. Tasting him there as he fondles and rubs your knee gently, fingers slick with the balm. 

“Your ministrations, although kind, are wasted.” He gasps. “I’m not a man that can be tamed. I fear it's been too long that I won’t be gentle.” Ezra warns. 

“Neither will I.” You growl as you pull him to you, teeth tugging on his lips.

He engulfs you wholly; his hand swamping your back for support as you crush him towards you. His tongue slithers into your mouth and you suck on it, gasping as you feel his blunt nails rake up your back over your shirt. 

“Here?” He pants around your succulent mouth. “Or the comfort of your chambers?”

“Here. There. I don’t care. I just want you, Ezra.” You groan, your body tingling and sweating.

You squeal in delight as he stands with you abruptly, his sole arm keeping you wound tight around his body as he steps into your bedroom.

“I may only have one arm, but you're safe in it.” He reassures you by gripping you tight. 

“Never doubted it.” You say, nuzzling into the salted musk of his neck as you cling on around it.

He twinkles as he smirks at you; those dark eyes regarding you with a controlled enthral, left to marinate spicily in your thoughts and on the fine hairs of your arms. 

Outside, the sky growls, bearing its teeth as Ezra lays you on the bed. He watches you unbutton your shirt and pull off your panties, revealing yourself fully bare in all your flesh and graces to him.  

His eyes roam over the contours of your body, taking in the shape of your tummy, your hips, the swell of your breasts. The way your right leg curls up and the way your left, stopping at the knee, moves with a seductive fluidness to it just like the other.

Your entire body is his to freely claim, to roam unbidden. Slick pussy to drown in, to worship at the altar.

He's never been a good man, undeserving of the fruit you bear freely to him now as he licks his salivating lips. But you make him feel good; a small, insidious voice convincing him he’s unworthy is quashed inside his mind, silenced blissfully as you beckon him forward and allow him to touch, to explore.

He’s marvelled by his own restraint, wanting nothing more than to tear into you - pull you apart and put you back together again. Yet he’s rendered docile, eager to draw long, haunting moans out of you as he tastes and feels each of them, taking his sweet, glorious time instead.

“You’re so…” He fails to find the right word in his mental thesaurus to do it justice. "I want nothing more than to whelve myself inside of your tight, hot cunt right now." Ezra sighs, staring at your slick centre, an obvious tent growing in his pants. “But first, we must discuss logistics."

You giggle looking up at him. “Fuck logistics, just get over here and fuck me.”

He shakes his head in disbelief at you, spread out before him and he swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

“Can you ride me?” He kneels on the bed, pink lacing his cheeks. “It’s easier if you can, my balance is often maligned. A chin to the nose might be an unpleasant douse to the fire.” 

“I can. I might need you to support me if we go hard.” You nod. 

“I can do whatever you need.” Ezra smirks crookedly. "Slow, fast... hard."

“What do you need?” You ask him, reaching for his face and planting kisses over it.

He smells wildly acrid, a build up of sweat and grime from the city has sunk into his flesh, but you’re undeterred as your mouth runs over his skin. Your cunt is so fucking wet just inhaling the stagnant, earthy hidrosis of him; beads of your slick running out of you in a delectable tickle.

“I need you to sit on my face, pet.” Ezra instructs you through a strained grunt, his lips curling up over his teeth as he helps position you above him. 

You lower yourself down onto his waiting tongue, holding onto the bed railings. His arm is firmly around you, as assured. 

He licks burning acid on your pussy, dissolving you down to the chalk of your bones as he tastes you; groaning into your folds hungrily. You grind on his mouth, chasing that blooming high that tingles and leaves you clawing in his hair desperately as he tongue fucks you gloriously.

You're basking in the pure pleasure of his mouth and tongue lapping at your pussy, all consuming and euphoric. Losing yourself to that dreamy build up of tension that arches your back and curls your toes.

And just when you think you can't take it anymore, suddenly all that tension is released and pulses throughout your body. You fall into a zen state of absolutely nothing - just white, hot pleasure coursing through your body.

You forget everything. Your name. The aches from your prosthetic. You even forget to breathe. He’s taken your body and mind to this exquisite place simply with his mouth and lets you fly and float around up in there until you come down, and then he’ll build you up again and again.

“I could lick you for turns, pet.” He snuffles through a satiated smile.

It makes you melt into him, crumpled like paper. Burnt up and falling ashy onto his skin. His stump rests against your thigh, prodding gently against it as his hand sweeps down your back and grips onto your ass, pushing your cunt further onto his mouth.

You move your hips, writhing against his tongue as he licks up onto your clit and you cry out in relief at how good it feels. 

“You taste divine,” he muffles around your sticky lips. 

He pushes his head up, lips squelching around to get right in as your thighs ripple and shake as he brings you to the edge once more. You're standing on the precipice of the universe and looking down into it's swamping, glittery depth.

You rest back on your hands, your fingers squeezing around the meat of his thighs as his one hand blazes a journey over your belly and towards your breasts where he squeezes and massages the left in his grip. His eyes stare up at you and you stare down, lips parting as your moans increase. 

His tongue is precisely erratic, licking, sucking and flicking in all the places he can get to to draw your orgasm out and make it last. A kaleidoscope of colours stream in the room, their waltz blinding you as they swirl and merge. You can feel it all over your body, the heat, the burning as you tense and coil. 

When you come again, it feels like you're floating once more; your body slack and wibbly as you gush into his waiting mouth. And as much as you could let him do this, for indeed many a turn, you want him in your mouth too.  

You move with ease, comfortable to slide across the sheets gracefully and with speed that makes him grin. Pulling his pants down, you see him in all of his thick, weeping glory. 

"Fuck, Ezra..." You murmur at the sight of him.

“This is how you make me feel.” Ezra pants as you stare at the hard swell of him almost lunging out his groin at you.

His cock feels imposing; heavy and smooth. A flushed pink head swollen and leaking profusely. You feel how hard he is, how he’s acutely dripping for you; strings of pre-cum coming away in your palm as he brings it up to his mouth and licks it away whilst eyeing you.

And you can’t explain what it does to your body, let alone your brain, at how wet he is for you. And hard, so fucking hard that it bulges angrily; a taut, thick vein popping off on the side.

“Take me to paradise, Birdie.” Ezra hums, as he watches you slither between his legs and take him in your mouth. 

Ezra's eyes roll into the back of his head and he bites his lip until it bleeds copper rust on his tongue. He makes some intangible sound as he looks down at his fat cock sucked slowly and deeply into your mouth.

He brushes your hair away with shaky fingers, unsure and unfamiliar with such a gentle movement that he orchestrates, thumb stroking over your cheek.

“You can take it deeper than that. I know you can. Let me slide all the way down in there. Feel me in your belly.” Ezra grunts. 

He bucks his hips as you swallow, your fingers scratching into the soft, wiry hairs in his groin and over his belly. He fills your throat and you feel him twitch when you suck harder. 

He pulls your head back and tells you to spit on it. Smirking, you do as he instructs, and he watches as the globule decorates him in crystal strings.

“More,” Ezra keens, as you spit and drool over his cock further.

You’re panting for it; desperate to have him inside of your mouth again as he keeps it close enough, but just out of reach from your lips - teasing with that crooked grin lacing down at you.

But then, he finally lets you have it again, and is enthralled as you take him in greedily like you’ve been starved.

Humming in satisfaction, you suck him down and swallow deep, feeling him prod at the back of your throat as he guides and controls you with his hand knotted in your hair.

His grunts are felt on the end of your clit, his satisfaction tingling all through your body and you get off on getting him off; grinding your hips against the comforter on the bed as you suck, chasing your own release. Groaning out around his cock when the sheet catches your clit deliciously.

You pull him out of your mouth in a wet slurp and begin kissing around his groin; each little kiss peppering him and absorbing into his skin, leaving further fiery brands as you go.

You haven’t lost interest in his dick, still grasping him in your hand and running it over him, but you’re interested in all of him now, want all of him.

He’s drawn into your eyes as they look up at him, as you work your way across his abdomen and leave his hand to weaken inside of your scalp. It drops to your jaw as he helps you slither up his body and kisses you.

He’s surprisingly gentle, explorative and leaves no part of you untouched by his lips as he’s only too willing to return the favour. He lays back, his body weakening as you sit on his cock; your hands running through his hair, massaging his scalp as his head lolls back and he loses himself to the feel of your nails scratching through it.

You’re squirming and pushing yourself down on his length.

“Oh, you want it all, huh? Take it. Fuck my cock, pet. It’s yours.” He husks.

“You feel so good.” You whine, pulling on his hips as you work. 

“I'm going to make a mess of you when I come.” He grunts.  

“I want you to fill me up, Ezra.”

“Flood you,” he groans. “Fuck, I want to ruin you, but I want you like this too. It’s confounding.” He pants.

"Plenty of time to ruin me," you groan.

The infinite kaleidoscope only intensifies, becoming more vivid. Bursts of colour explode from behind your eyelids and are felt warming you all over as his cock nudges against the deepest part inside of you. 

“Ezra!” 

You feel his mouth roaming your chest. Sucking your nipples between his teeth as he alternates, pulling on them, teasing them hard; the tiny spots around your areolas standing and tightening too. Little pleasurable bumps that each have their own nerve centre that make your pussy twinge and drip like a leaky faucet over his cock as you ride.

Soon you flop forward onto him, your breasts hitting the hardness of his chest. That delicious pull deep inside your belly makes itself known. That tight, knotting before you’ll snap back and release.

His pants increase and those growls start to haunt. He’s close. It’s in the way he grabs and paws at you more sloppy now, like he can barely hold on anymore.

All it takes is an enticing whisper from you, telling him to come, to let go, to fill you up, and his teeth sink into your shoulder.

He groans and grunts deeply, hips stuttering and candid whimpers leaving his breath. All the atoms of his being spilling into you, thick and warm as he drips out of your cunt over his thighs.

And Ezra doesn’t let you go. He keeps you there, kissing you, glued to his chest, fitted around him like a perfect puzzle piece. 

The surge-five still roars outside, but seemingly less consequential. 

The acidic rains have moved on and the window of the bedroom is speckled with only a few streaks of wayward drops that the wind blows in squiggly lines around it; the tail ends of shooting stars before they die out completely. 

A little snuffle beside your ear focuses your attention on Ezra, still asleep beside you in the middle of the night; his stumped arm poking out of the bobbled blanket, and his other still curled under your back and ending around your waist.

His fingers twitch occasionally, as he jostles and flinches in his sleep, still branding on the skin on your navel. You wonder what he dreams about to make him shudder so.

Your head tilts to examine his face in the darkness. The slow roaming from the blonde tuft so stark in his chocolate hairline, to the way in which his eyelids flutter restlessly as his eyeballs move under them as though something is alive. 

He pelts your face with light breaths that are warm and hardened, and yet it’s a scent that doesn’t putrefy as you allow yourself to be bathed in the warmth of them.

You refute anything that’ll disturb your peace right now, such as the dull urge to urinate, instead cocooning yourself further into this moment right here in Ezra’s sleep laden grip.

He’s unlike any other man you’ve ever met and it leaves you breathless as you examine his face whilst he sleeps beside you.

Thick eyelashes adorn his swollen, sealed lids and a wiry scar is a slapdash carving below his left eye socket, leaving your imagination to ponder how he obtained it.

A thick velvet slug, matted with sweat and the residue of your slick, clings to his top lip, whilst the rest of his chin and neck is garnished with unruly stubble that's in the throes of growing in length and sparsity in hodgepodge greying patches. 

His lips, pale pink and fuller on the bottom set, are chapped and sore, much like your own as you continue to gnaw on them whilst you mull the events over of how this enigma came to be in your sheets this night.

“See something you like, Birdie?” Those lips move with a small gruff tone.

“Merely spectating.” You reply back, softly. 

“Spectating? I think the term is voyeurism.” Ezra smiles with his eyes still closed, and the creases around them grow in number and folds. 

You smile and Ezra can hear the moisture in your mouth click around your teeth at such a close proximity.

“Your lament protests about sleeping on the recliner were just a bunch of who shot John, weren't they?” He croons into the skin of your neck, dipping his head as he stretches. You feel him inhale deeply against your skin.  

Ezra wonders briefly if he’s suffered another loss, for his left arm is numb with the weight of you resting on it. He wiggles his fingers bringing them back to life and feels your skin warm against it under the blanket.

“Your practicality has been lampshaded,” he whispers. “Tell me, did you plot this tryst into fruition?” He chuckles. 

“One would think this situation is amusing to you,” you say.

“It’s ah… something.” That brazen itch turns from ghastly mania into a settling excitement, an accepted wave of rapture that shakes his bones at your warmth and proximity; the blood in his body rushing towards the end of his cock at breakneck speeds.

“I fear I won’t be able to resist sordid temptation much longer.” Ezra repeats, a dirty grunt escaping through his strained voice.

“Then don’t. Defile me at your whim.”

The sound of his haughty chuckle is both harmonious and husky at the same time as it reverberates from somewhere deep in his chest cavity. Ezra is most attractive when he smiles and laughs, you think. It completely changes his stern, scowled face.

Perfect, puffy lips crooking up into his cheeks revealing a dimple that draws the eye in; a smile that could convince the sun into imploding. But his smile has dissipated and those dark eyes are prying into places they ought not to pry again.

"I'm going to annihilate you, pet." He whispers, grazing his lips against your own. "You think you can take it?"

You know you’re stupid to think you can do this; nudge him to the precipice and encourage as he jumps off it willingly. Coax him to show you the most depraved, abominable parts of himself and not have some repercussions come and bite you on the ass for it.

See him unleashed fully; the worlds across the Interplanetary cracking open and their suns splitting into two as he savages and ravages.

But you want him despite all the swill and misfortune; you want him to make you fall apart - to totally obliterate you. Use you as mere clay for his own twisted satisfactions as he leaves imprints and eternal marks on you that’ll blister and bleed.

The way he touches you, the way he doesn't shy away from your body leaves you wanting for the affection he drowns you in. He’s your missing piece making you whole. He dilutes your pain with his own making it bearable. 

You shudder at the feel of his fingers softly stroking over your half leg; a ghostly touch that you acutely zone into. His eyes are still brooding into yours. 

"Break me." You urge.

“I can smell your sweet stink all over me." Ezra grunts as his fingers slip down the between your ass cheeks, leaving a devastation of goose pimples in their wake.

You rest your clipped knee onto his hip, opening you up for him. You bite your lip, gnawing frantically on the bottom as the path takes a delectable turn towards your cunt. 

Your head swims; the hairs on your body and nipples coming alive. Feeling high and giddy, balanced on that precarious cusp of passing out, but not quite managing to do so.

You breathe out slowly as his fingers pause; the burn of them felt deep inside your core already as you clench around nothing, and the throb of your clit aches and prickles with a pang of eager want. 

Ezra’s gaging; reading your reactions and fine tuning into that solid will that you’ve been dismantling slowly over the course of the last turn spent with him.

He knows, for it’s ambushed his own impenetrable walls too. 

He feels your hand clamp around his cock as the tension in your body pulverises at any remaining restraint you have. He strokes over your mound towards your clit, and as soon as he touches it - that hard, pulsing nub - you both groan out in unison. His fingers push into your pussy, slow and thick as you gasp.

Your other hand fists inside his hair as your face draws nearer to his own, your eyes zoning in on his lips that are wet as he licks them.

“I will destroy you.” Ezra breathes, admitting defeat. “I have nothing to give you, pet.”

“I don’t want what credits can buy from you.” You moan as his fingers swipe over your clit. “You see me.” 

“I do. I see all of you. I like what I see.” He tongues at the skin at your neck. “You see me, too.”

“It’s kinda hard not to, you’re like a neutron star.” You smile. 

“You trying to woo me, pet?” He smirks, as he slides down your body, kissing over it as he goes, elbow pressed into the mattress for support. 

“Is it working?” You gasp as he abruptly buries his head between your centre, and lets his tongue go to work. 

Your head is thrown back in the pillows, your eyes greeted with that dark void of space; the stars turning in their spirals as time slows down and he pulls you out from the inside.

Marvelling at the true alchemy of his tongue as it laps at your wet folds and he slurps you up like water, dehydrated like he once was on Kerulon. Transcending above the highest point in infinity and still climbing as your eyes roll into the back of your skull. 

Your hand fists through his hair, drawing him closer; his nose dusting your clit as his tongue fucks deep and swallows all the sweet honey you have to give him.

“All I can do is take you to the stars.” He grunts. “Is that enough for you?”

“More than enough.” You whine as you come around his lips. 

Ezra then spends the rest of the night breaking you apart, piece by piece, and putting you back together again, just as he said he would.

His voice wakes you, but not from beside you where you expect him to be. 

“Consarn it, you fumbling bawheid!”

You quickly reach for a tattered robe and grab at your crutches, wooden and rickety beside the bed, and follow the infernal muttering to the kitchen where he’s standing around broken cups on the floor.  

Ezra glances up at you with razor wire for lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Were you making tea?” You enquire through heavy lids, and he turns bashfully from you, the broadest back presented and littered with constellations of freckles and moles. 

“Yes trying, but my cumber-world impairment-” he grits his teeth “-makes me sloppy. Fuck.” 

Your gaze lingers curiously over him, determining him not to be an apparition but real; half expecting him to have fled already. You glance behind you and the Aurelac gem is still there on the shelf by the window as he left it.

“I can make the tea.” You smile softly, a hand reaching out to touch the expanse of his back, and his hackles immediately soften. 

He steps to you, his singular hand finding the familiar shape of your waist as he pulls you close. 

You take in the detailing on his worn face again. The way the pores on the smooth bump of his nose are marred with oil, the thickness of his brow; the entice of his full bottom lip. 

Ezra wanders freely over your features too, from the shine in your eyes to the feel of your hair soft in his hand as he brushes his fingers through it like a comb.

He scratches up to your scalp massaging your skull as he steps closer into your personal space and your eyes close at the sensation of it, birthing millions of prickles across your skin; your nipples standing tall and hard beneath the slip of the gown you’d thrown on, like diamonds cutting through the thin fabric. 

“How good does that feel?” His breath is drenched in a stale warmth on your face and you breathe the notes in deep.

"Really good." You breathe, nuzzling into his ministrations.

"Is your body defeated, pet, or can you take more?" He whispers into your crown.

You smirk. "More."

"Greedy." He snickers. "You'd make a fine Prospector."

Something’s hanging around in the air between you; something that’s unspoken. You’ve noticed it growing between you as the eventful turn has worn on into the night and seeks the new light of the dawn glowering through the smog. 

It’s inside the delirious crookshank smile on his lips as he reveals it to you in between the comfortable silences when you talk. In his swampy brown eyes that take you in and feel as though he’s pulling you apart with them to see what’s really going on inside of your fibres and nerves. 

And it's here again now as you linger, watching Ezra watching you, sensing that when the time comes to part from the questionable consternation of his company, it'll leave ruptures somewhere inside of you.

The black lacquer thoughts slither up from your spine and germinate insipid sparks into your core; a groundless lust that dizzies you from the smooth tickle of his fingers brushing down your hip and across your thigh.

You gasp as his fingers stray too close to your swollen centre, still drenched warm with his copious spend and aching from the stretch of him. 

You’re weak for him; weak for those skilled fingers on his singular hand to be crawling inside of you and fucking you up, quite literally, as he weaves them in and out of your soaked pussy, curling them and wrapping you around them further.

“Ezra,” you gasp as he pumps them in and out, your balance swaying. 

“Hold onto me,” he says, as you rest your crutches against the counter and wrap your arms around his neck. 

He pulls your only leg around his waist once more, hard cock bobbing at your perineum, lifting you with ease; his only hand resting on your ass, and carries you back to bed. 

Ezra has you all over again, devouring, leaving his marks on your body. Revelling in the melodies of your panting chants of his name as he fucks deep and hard.

His lips part slowly as do yours, reacting to him. Drawn to him, drawn into him completely and controlled somehow like a puppet and he’s playing with your strings; plucking slowly and gently at you and you’ve no idea how.

No idea how you've gotten so willingly naked in front of a stranger, despite his strange appeal, and are allowing him to guide you like this. Thighs splayed open before him and showing him your most intimate self.

It doesn’t matter how, for it’s pure fucking bliss. 

You slide down on his cock and ride him slowly, gently as his arm wraps you up and holds you close to him, almost crushing the life out of you as both you exertions wane.

You gasp out, letting his lips go as he fills you up again, makes you detach and lose yourself in this moment inside of his arms - inside of him.

And that’s the crux of it, you want to give him this, make him see that he’s worthy of love and affection and tenderness. You know what it’s like not to have that.

Ezra smiles faintly at you, giving into the feel of you lavishing your love on him.

He reaches down to grope your knee gently, and you shudder at the feel of his fingers brushing against it. You run your hand equally down his stump, and you watch as his eyes glisten before he scrunches them shut and crushes you against his chest as he spills inside you once more. 

“The storm has quelled. I should take my leave.” He says distantly after, stroking over your smooth nub as it rests languidly across his torso. His gentle touch soothes better than the balm. 

“You should stay.” You murmur, hoping he hasn't heard the longing in it. But of course, the plucky sleeveen has. 

“We find ourselves in a quandary.” Ezra retorts as he draws circles over your skin with his fingers. 

“Dare I ask what stories these tell?” You put to him as your fingers trace the marred lines over his sternum. 

“Probably wise if you remain in the dark, Birdie. I was not a gentle man once upon a time.” His warning is stark, but his eyes are soft and velvety as you look at them.

“You know how to be gentle.” You sway. 

He nods. “To those who I feel so inclined.” He nudges his nose against yours.

The skin of your knee is so soft despite the roughness of the chafe. It’s a sensation that imbues you with warmth rather than discomfort; his thick fingers caressing gently, exchanging heat between your skin.

You’ve never let anyone feel it before, but he doesn't shy away. Neither do you as you kiss and flick your tongue tenderly over the stump of his arm. You let your tongue dip into the jagged welts and fleshy riverbeds of his scars.

He hums out with his eyes closed as you explore languidly and find your way eventually back to his bruised lips.

He makes you feel seen, he makes you feel whole for the first time. And it’s a feeling you don’t want to let willingly extinguish. You kiss him deeply, fearing it might be the last time. 

“Your hospitality has been most charitable, pet. The swell has dissipated satisfactorily.”

You sigh out. “This whole idea was just idiotic from the get go.” You’re already mourning the loss of him, another part failing to grow on your body, but he doesn’t move. 

“Something I specialise in.” Ezra muses. But his smirk downturns when he sees your face. “Is that sincere affection you possibly harbour?”

“You think this whole time I spent with you was a ruse?” You frown.

He shakes his head. “I hope not. Did I fall victim to a spell?”

“I want you to stay, Ezra.” You say, reaching for his hand. “But only if you want to. There’s a place for you here, with me, if you want it.”

He closes his eyes, your knuckles resting on his lips, his thumb stroking over the hilt.

“You definitely have me under a spell. There’s no other possible explanation.” He hums as his eyes find yours staring back, unwavering. “You and your magic tea.”

“No magic. Maybe you just want to stay with me.” You smile, knowingly. 

“Perhaps some things can’t be explained by the universe after all.” 

“Perhaps it’s the Aurelac.” You snort. “That Siren song you Prospectors can't resist.”

Ezra shakes his head vehemently. “Maybe it’s just you, Birdie.” He smiles as he leans in to kiss you. “Maybe I finally found my missing piece.”

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Ezra, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

EZRA MASTERLIST

[hael987]

I’m so very tired of people saying nonsense about KinnPorsche the series and trying to bring it down.

I cannot stress enough how much the show means to me. Firstly because I’m enjoying it but more importantly because of what it’s showing, what it’s bringing into the world.

As Mile and Apo have continually been saying the series is showing love is love, we’re no different than the cishets. It’s telling queer people that they’re deserving of such detailed stories too. We also deserve stories that delve deeper than the superficial.

Let us have our complex characters. The morally grey or even morally black. The unclear, contrasting motives. Let us see healthy and unhealthy relationships. Fluff and action and torture. Let us have it all for once.

When we’re finally getting the variety we deserve, stop trying to restrict us back into boxes. It’s light, but it’s not superficial. It’s dark but it’s not gritty, there’s always some beauty to be found whether it be in the storyline itself or the shots.

Fair enough if it’s not to your personal taste/you personally don’t like it but to say such media shouldn’t be out there is wrong.

We get a story full of various kinds of love. Discovery and growth that’s flawed and rocky, an uneven and complicated path. A show that finally explores multitudes. A show through which I can finally feel connections to my own queer experiences but it’s subtle enough it’s not overwhelming and the story is varied enough with action, mafia plots and fluff that it’s enjoyable for the wider audience too.

We’re given NC scenes that feel beautiful, emotional, real and not fetishised. The joy and elation we get to see from them existing together. We’re given NC scenes that are dubious and darker. It doesn’t focus on just one aspect, we get it all. Layered and detailed for once.

They struggle to be together but it’s not because they’re queer, it’s because their lives are complicated and messy. It’s the casual normalising of it, shifting the focus to the people rather than focusing it on the sexuality.

Their words of support interspersed throughout the entire show. Telling us we’re supposed to be here. We’re seen. The effort Mile underwent to get this story out there, the improvements all the actors and BOC made to make the story better, less homophobic. How they changed part of Porsche’s storyline from internalised homophobia and that consequential struggle into something far more beautiful and relevant: an exploration of his quintessential self and his roles in life, his journey of self worth and happiness. How valid that makes one feel to watch such a series.

Chay setting out on his youthful love. Porsche only having his first dating experience in his adulthood. Tankhun feeling unsafe when he leaves his sphere, his use of fashion as a shield. Kinn’s struggle of duty vs heart. Pete and Vegas beginning to remove their masks. These stories, it’s all reminiscent of the very real queer experience. The differing journeys. The sex scenes, the fluff, the darker side. These multitudes symbolise the variety and varying paths of what the queer experience can entail.

The nod, the acknowledgement that there are so many differing queer experiences and stories to be told without reducing the focus to be solely on the sexuality. That queer people are people — as flawed, as varied, as complex as everyone else. Queer people don’t just have to exist one way or fit your ideals. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable to see, it’s the reality of existence.

Every single one of these points is why the show is important, necessary even.

I’m not claiming it’s the first show to do so, but I would say it’s the first show to express it so fully — it’s in every single inch of it. Stop trying to bring it down.

If you don’t like it that’s fine, it’s not for you. It’s for me. It’s for me and everyone like me that finally feels represented and loved and shown that we’re allowed to be complex. That we exist on equal ground and deserve to have equally complex media. That like our queer selves, the queer media we have shouldn’t be restricted to certain boxes.

[saintsenara]

What do you think about mpreg in fics?

thank you for the ask, anon - especially because it combines really nicely with one i was sent by @sarafina-sincerity, and so now i have an excuse to talk at both of you...

my general principle in fic is that i’ll read anything once, and so i - like you - have read some genuinely good fics which feature mpreg and a/b/o as central plot points - indeed, my first introduction to fan-fic, when i was a wee innocent of eleven, was lord of the rings mpreg, and it slapped - but i don’t read either of them much nowadays.

the issue with mpreg - and i do think it’s really important that we’re aware of this, even though people’s reading and writing tastes have no obligation to matter when it comes to real-world issues etc. etc. - is that the men who are getting pregnant within the trope are pretty much always cisgender men.

and, obviously, in a fantasy world in which magic exists, literally anything is possible. there could be spells to enable a cis man to carry a pregnancy; there could be potions; i tend to dislike creature inheritance fics, but you could have your character discover they’re part veela and all amab veela also have the requisite anatomy to get pregnant; maybe your character is a metamorphmagus and he is able to modify his body in order to carry a pregnancy; the list is endless.

however i do think that it’s important to acknowledge the gender issue with mpreg as a trope, even while being happy to read it.

the way that mpreg is often written involves an author expending a lot of energy coming up with a magical way for a cis man to get pregnant instead of just… writing him as trans, and i do think we have to ask why we as readers are so often happy to picture our fave lads as pregnant, but not as transgender.

the fact that many authors fail to explain how pregnancy functions in mpreg stories, reducing it simply to comments about being full or bred etc. fetishises the bodies of anyone who can become pregnant, regardless of gender, in a way which can often feel uncomfortable.

finally, we need to be aware as readers and authors that lots of slash [the place where mpreg is likely to be found] reproduces heterosexual romance tropes, and everyone ending up married with children is one of them. we need to question why, in stories where a queer couple have children, we may prefer mpreg [and, therefore, the couple having a biological child] to them adopting. and so on…

and i think that, really, my view of a/b/o is that it’s hamstrung by the same issues - especially the fact that mechanics of alphas impregnating omegas within cis m/m pairings is never explained - combined with the fact that the biological hierarchy replicates gendered tropes i personally find quite tiresome in slash fandom more widely, particularly the automatic equation of bottoming with being small, submissive, feminine, or physically fragile.

this isn’t me saying that people shouldn’t read and write these tropes, obviously. but i do think that they’re tropes which are worth examining more critically than they often are.

[zot3-flopped]

It’s true that a lot of Larry-type thinking is about people (for whatever reason) not wanting Harry and Louis to have their own romantic lives, but it’s so much darker than that. They don’t want them to have any life that they don’t know about. Everything is up for investigation: their love lives, their random shags, who they party with, who they stand next to at a party (immediately those people become ‘friends’ - come on), their families, their friends, their families’ friends, their friends’ families, their music business dealings, their other business dealings, their promotional strategies, their homes, their gym, where they walk to and why. It’s exhausting.

And when the information isn’t forthcoming - which for the most part it isn’t because either that’s their private lives, or it’s business sensitive, or it’s nothing at all of significance, then they just lie lie lie and draw conclusions about things they have no understanding of. They don’t accept, or perhaps they can’t imagine, that they have absolutely no control over any of this, and they only see about 1% of Harry and Louis’ lives, most of which is not explained to them. So they bake things into the ‘canon’ and decide for these adult men that certain things were motivated by certain needs: not a shred of evidence or even fact but now they can spread those things as ‘reality’.

And what is it for? Some of them were maybe discovering they’re queer at that young age when romance seems very important - young teens - and they were sold a really potent story of forbidden love. I get it, but they have got to grow out of it!

Some of them are older women fetishising gay sex between young men (but let’s not forget Harry was a boy at the beginning of 1D; this is not some easy fantasy, it’s bloody dark). Those older women seem to want to shepherd the younger ones in some way, which is fucking creepy.

All of them seem to be really invested in fan fiction, like to a worrying degree. I wish they’d funnel that creativity in a way that didn’t perpetuate these fantasies for others.

Some of them just hate beautiful women, I think. I come from the UK and for me, the idea of shagging around a bit in your late teens/early twenties/late twenties is just kind of fine, some people do it and others don’t. I can see that if you come from a country where that’s a no, or a deeply conservative family in the US, say, then drivelling on about ‘stunts’ might make some warped sense. It’s phenomenally misogynistic, but they don’t seem to ever be able to analyse that for themselves. (I always think of Letdown nasty mod as one of these.)

But you know what’s saddest of all? That Harry and Louis are not even close to being special, throughout all this. Chris Evans fans are the same. Benedict Cumberbatch fans are the same. Outlander fans are the same. Supernatural. Name almost any male actor/tv series that appeals to online fans and the loneliest, most online of those fans are quietly generating a shit ton of crap. It eventually somehow becomes so intrusive that the object of their disrespect has to either say something, or conspicuously do nothing to pander to it. Cue more meltdowns every time. Larries are just another sad little group, out of a whole load of sad people who visit this disrespect on people they claim to love, but don’t know at all and never will. None of it is original. And then they wonder why famous people put on a bit of a persona: it’s to keep people like them away from their real lives 😖

Thank you for this! I agree with every word.

Many Larries do seem alarmingly puritanical. They believe that when Louis accidentally got a woman he'd only known a few months pregnant it was some deadly sin, but their notion that Louis is employing a child to fake being his son (which is illegal under child labour laws) is somehow fine because 'that's what happens in the entertainment industry.'

[admin-resources]

— 𝐥𝐞𝐭❜𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭: 𝐨𝐜𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐬

༊*·˚ what are they and why are they important

༊*·˚ what is an oc?

↳ ❝ oc = original character. this is a character created by your hand regardless on whether it is inspired or based off something else. an oc is separate from a real person in different ways depending on the context and platform and is a character you portray outside of yourself. ❞

༊*·˚ what are face claims?

↳ ❝ face claims are the faces given to specific ocs on various platforms to give those who interact with them an idea of what they look like. face claims can vary and are used in published books as well as video games. a face claim can be the base model for your character in which you build upon or they could look exactly like them. ❞

༊*·˚ finding and crediting face claims

↳ ❝ within the chatbot community, originally the face claims that were used were only k-pop idols, over time, faceless ocs started to pop up before influencers and western celebrities were brought into the mix. any person can be used as an oc but please be mindful and respectful about those whom have said that they do not want their likenesses used in these ways. when crediting the face claim, you can simply provide their user but it isn't always necessary. it's just a nice thing to do. ❞

༊*·˚ are there any differences between a chatbot that uses an oc and one that uses an idol?

↳ ❝ short answer: no. i will talk about the strange stigma around ocs below but there is no real difference between them. they are original characters regardless of using a popular face claim or an influencer. the only difference is that one uses the real name of the idol and one does not. the moment you change the person's background, concept, age, or anything, they become an oc. some people simply have a harder time separating the face claim from the real person when their real name is used. ❞

༊*·˚ stigma around female ocs

↳ ❝ without getting into the previous history of female ocs and how they were once targeted and treated by the community, the stigma around female ocs has always been a topic talked about, especially amongst those who have female ocs. part of this conversation will touch upon subjects such as selectiveness and sexuality which will be discussed in a different section in depth. female ocs were always viewed as an attempt to get y/n interactions and while, in some cases, this may be true, it isn't true for the majority. everyone has their own discomfort about female ocs but it can sometimes come down to the selectiveness around people not wanting to rp with a female character as opposed to a male character. of course, this isn't a 'one size fits all' type of situation and there can be many different reasons why female ocs as a whole are ignored but from personal experience, i've seen it boil down to three reasons:

people wanting to have gay ships. i've noticed there are a lot more male ocs who are gay and chatbots who only date other males. this is a preference that the admin may have and is, on most occasions, okay but there are some cases where some people fetishise and chase the ships of particular idols.

people only want their own female oc interacted with but refuse to give that same time and attention to someone else's female ocs.

the female oc has been thrown together and there is a lack of character and substance. this usually comes from people who are trying to get a y/n experience or simply do not know how to build a character from scratch. ❞

this is not to shame the people who do these things, this is simply something i have noticed a lot as a female oc admin and have heard similar stories from fellow admins who also run female oc chatbots. there should be no stigma, no prejudice or selectiveness around female ocs especially for this community to be inclusive for everyone. ❞

༊*·˚ faceless chatbots

↳ ❝ faceless chatbots are ocs who do not have a specific face claim and uses a lot of faceless pictures rather than a set person. while nothing is wrong with creating an oc like this, most people find it hard to interact with a character with no physical features or face. they have a harder time getting attention and interactions and take some perseverance to make work. ❞

༊*·˚ important note

↳ ❝ a lot of this information can be debated, talked about and edited but this is all coming from the things i have seen throughout the years and my personal experience. i run both ocs in the sense of changed names and real names and always notice the large difference in who gets interactions. ❞

[capseycartwright]

but isn't that fetishizing? like even with buddie we are y'all people so obsessed with watching people fucking?

i’m about to be fairly inarticulate about this because i’m hungover but here’s the thing: the whole sex scenes are bad nonsense is just puritanical culture being repackaged as fake woke bullshit and asks like this VERY much feed into that. sometimes there should be sex scenes for plot, sure. and sometimes there should be sex scenes because it’s a story about romance or whatever and in that instance a sex scene just feels fitting.

sex scenes are not necessarily necessary (ha) but going down the route of we don’t need to have sex scenes and shouldn’t ever be like hey, wow, that was a good sex scene, just gives into the implication that sex is a somehow inherently bad thing or something to be ashamed of - and i like to think we’ve come far enough as a society not to backslide into an era where sex is something we feel like we can’t or shouldn’t talk about because it’s ~ pRiVaTe ~ because fuck that, frankly. if you don’t want to watch sex scenes or talk about sex or read smutty fic that’s absolutely fine, but this policing of anyone who might ever say wow that couple kissing was hot af is wild.

fetishising is also a wildly different conversation and is one focused - largely - on lgbt folk and people of colour and how their sexuality has been fetishised as being something hot and not something that’s just. part of them. if i turned around and said i ship buck and eddie because i think it’d be hot if they fucked that would be fetishising. but i ship them for a whole multitude of other reasons and because for me, personally, sex is an important and interesting part of a relationship, that aspect of their relationship is appealing to me.

i like sex and i like talking about it and i just think buck and lucy are hot. nothing more too it. it was a good kiss. don’t be that person who’s being puritanical about sex and kissing under the guise of it being for a cause because it’s stupid and painfully see through. you clearly just don’t like lucy and are trying to find some grandiose and self important reason to judge me for the fact that i think her and buck kissing was firstly, pretty hot, and secondly an interesting plot point.

[itadori-san]

You do know that in multiple interviews in Japan Gege confirmed Gojo to be a straight man who’s only into women right? I don’t really get the whole force shipping. It’s uncomfortable to me. It’s also fetishing lgbtq community instead of protesting for real representation

hello anon. let's talk shonen.

the shonen industry has always focused creating male protagonists and (extremely frequently) other male characters in a sort of hypermasculine but also the 'we're-united-with-the-power-of-FRIENDSHIP' kinda way. and why do they do this? to try and replicate an inseperable and extremely important bond between these characters. they do this to generalise the nature of the relationship among the people in the fandom for everyone to understand, and then commercialise it back to the fandom.

in other words, they want you to invest in these relationships. they want you to speculate on who these characters are. this generates the business in their professions.

and honestly? these tropes you see in shonens are the milder tones of the relationships largely portrayed in shonen-ais and yaois. sure they're forced to stay in their own spheres and tropes, but the type of relationship they're trying to get across to you is quite similar.

now let's talk jjk.

you do understand this is fiction right? satosugu is among the biggest ships in jjk. hell, it even reached #49 on the top 100 ships on tumblr last year. this isn't 'forced' per se, given how the shonen industry structures its stories. if you're signing up to these stories with the sole intent of sexualising two fictional men, well THAT'S fetishising. to quote one of my friends on here (hi al!), we're just here because satosugu breaking up in front of a kfc 'reminds us of our first gay ass teenage heartbreak'. further, you can just choose to relate to it emotionally, and maybe you'd see parts of the fandom that speak of this emotionality and how delicate their relationship is (which is all i see tbh), not abt them fucking or whatever idk

sure, there are parts of this fandom that are freaky asf and mischaracterisation is quite a problem on here BUT don't misread the room here. this is, at the end of the day, a fictious story.

also the sentence 'gojo is a straight man who's only into women' makes me giggle.

[taikanyohou]

Can I ask you something? If Bls fetishize gay men, is there really anyway to ethically consume any series at all?

hiiii anon!!!!

oh good question.

ok. so. i think recent bl's, i'd say .... from 2020-ish, maybe even 2018/2019 tbh, have taken that step forward where, they're tryna move away from blantant fetishising, and become more progressive, not just towards gay men, but the asian queer community in general, and anyone who identifies themselves within that community.

that being said, of course there will be instances where queer asian people, including queer asian men, will be fetishised.

i think the biggest example in terms of progression has been in the sheer amount different genres of asian queer shows that are produced, and in addition to that, in the increasing number of people who both behind the cameras and in front of them identify as asian and queer too.

also i feel like the way sex is used in asian queer shows has shifted. yes, of course, there are still instances of rape/non-con/dub-con, but there was a time when sex was Literally Only used within asian queer shows For That Only. now? sex is used to explore dynamics, explore feelings, progress a story, progress a relationship. its treated as a character, in a sense, and given some meaning and substance. also, that includes the whole top/bottom discourse too. like. i think there's just more looseness and freedom to it now? like. yeah, some characters LIKE bottoming, some LIKE topping, some ARE versatile! for example, i call pete from kinnporsche a pillow princess ALL the time, and thats bc he IS. thats with no malice or rudeness or any intent to fetishise him as being all weak and delicate, usually the traits that are associated with "being a bottom", bc he isnt weak or delicate! but during sex, he LIKES being the taker, he likes receiving, and that plays a huuuuge part in his character's development later on in the show.

i'd also say "coming out stories" have recently not been .... THAT heavily used, within recent shows that i have watched? and thats not to say that coming out stories arent important! of course they are. or there's a lesser case of characters having internalised homophobia, filled with shame and self-loathing bc they realise they're queer, in recent shows i have watched. thats not to say they dont question who they are, they do, but they dont hate themselves for being queer. its more a case of exploration. and its so nice to see that for a change? asian queer characters being gentle on themselves, learning to treat themselves with patience and time to navigate their identity. and its so nice to also see asian queer characters for a change who are just, queer! loud and queer!

what i'm trying to say is that they are all stories at the end of the day. and all forms of story telling, from healthy to toxic, from stories of kids in school to students in uni to working adults, from coming out stories to stories that talk about sparking a political revolution, stories that are coming of age or a slice of life, stories that span all types of backgrounds and time periods, should be able to be told. and sometimes they'll have characters that are already so comfortably queer in their own skin and some that aren't, and there'll be some stories that are more tame in terms of how physical they are and like to explore the more emotional nuances of the story and some that like to explore sex in a multitude of ways. there's really no right or wrong in terms of wanting to set out a story and choosing which way to tell it. the scope is so huge.

now. like i said. not every asian queer piece of media will be faultless, and there will be instances of fetishisation. but i also want to look at how far we've come! i've been around watching asian queer media since ... god .... i cant even remember how long, its been that long, and ive seen how far we've come. as an asian queer person myself, it gives me so much pride and joy in seeing that!

and i think, the older and more mature i have gotten, my mindset has changed a lot. now, i like to see stories and media as a whole thing. that, yes, there will be faults and its not going to be perfect. but as someone who can compartmentalise, as a consumer, as an audience member, as an asian queer person, as someone who is watching this as a form of escapism, i'll recognise the faults and the things i'm not fond of, or that dont sit right with me, and put them to one side, and still allow myself to enjoy the rest of the story/media. otherwise, i'll never be able to enjoy anything ever again, if i scrutinise every single little thing and every little detail ethically. like i said, not everything will sit right with me, but i can work with that and say "yeah i didnt like that narrative choice" and put it to a side, and move on. and if its reeeeeeally bugging me, i'll just drop the show. now, some people like doing that (scrutinising every little detail through ethical lenses) and thats their choice in how they view media. but ig i'm not like that? and i can let myself enjoy asian queer stories that are trying to say something, to convey something, as a bigger picture.

and yeah, there will be instances where queer characters in asian media will get fetishised, there will be the whole "husband and wife" and "girls on campus stalking a queer couple" etc etc etc. but i can look at all that and say to myself, yeah, work needs to be done here, whilst also enjoying the rest of the show and what its trying to convey or tell.

so yeah, i do think you can, if as a consumer, you can appreciate the bigger picture whilst also understanding that we've still got some room for progress.

[rollercoasterwords]

hello!

this is a little bit away from your last post but i think a lot of “hot take activism” has stemmed from oh they have a point! i’m going to drive this in further so i don’t look like a bad person!

even though some hot takes are subject to opinion

for example a lot of fan fiction writers have been slated for their E rating on mlm fanfiction and many of the critics are cishet women, whilst men in the fandom have taken no issue

now if a man were to take issue that’s entirely valid however a lot of people critique unprompted which then leads to a kind of mob mentality in a way where all of a sudden all explicit mlm fics are crucified and deemed fetishisation (even though no one had a problem before this one critique)

a friend of mine had written a fic that had been quite popular in a small fandom and was basically bullied until it was taken down even after he explained that he himself was a gay male

i’m all for calling out harmful issues when necessary: call a spade a spade

but i think sometimes people’s intention can be misconstrued and imo more harmful than the actual writing itself

(i’m on 2 hours of sleep and i have more to say! but i’m gonna keep this anonymous just in case i wake up and think “i didn’t mean to phrase it like that” although i think i got my general point across)

yeah i mean. i tend to think that most online discourse which takes nuanced issues and boils them down to one or two sentences is more about virtue signaling and performing morality for an audience than it is any sort of real activism, because flattening what should be a complex conversation does more harm than good. i don't necessarily think it's all ill-intentioned though, more just....people falling prey to the social media panopticon unfortunately

one thing i do wanna push back on a little though is that it seems like you're placing a lot of emphasis on the identity of the critics/people being critiqued, and that is part of what i'm trying to stay away from. like u say many of the critics are cishet women, but is that true? how do u know? do they all have "cishet" in their bios or something? like i'm not being sarcastic here and i'm not trying to be snippy, i am genuinely just like. asking u to reflect a bit on this point and get back to me. because part of what i said in my original post is that even if u are 100% sure about the way someone identifies, it still is not productive to treat identity as a fixed and static category. someone who identifies as a cishet woman could identify as something completely different the next day, and that's entirely valid imo

similarly, when u say "well it's different if a man takes issue with it," i just...do not necessarily think that's true. obviously it is important to take into account the ways in which someone's gender identity will affect their personal experiences and inform their critique, but i think the content of that critique matters more than the specific identity of the person making it, y'know?

like, i don't want to unfairly represent either side of this conversation. and if one side is people going "oh everyone writing these explicit mlm stories is cishet women!!" and the other side is going "oh everyone complaining about fetishization is cishet women!!" do u see how. both of those stances are operating from the same premise. and will therefore never be able to have a productive dialogue with each other. personally, my impression is that the majority of the people involved in this conversation on both sides are not, in fact, cishet women--at least in the marauders fandom. i'm not going to say that's 100% the case because it's impossible to do any sort of statistical analysis, especially given the fluid nature of identity. but do u see how the fact that we have different perceptions of who is actually talking about this makes a focus on identity in and of itself a bit of a non-starter for talking through the issue?

i do agree w u that mob mentality is a big part of this though, and what happened to your friend sucks + is definitely an example of the way this sort of policing around who can write what is ultimately going to hurt queer people more than it does anything to like. dismantle systemic homophobia. but i just wanna reiterate that the core of the issue to me is not so much "people are taking the conversation too far" as it is "the premise of this conversation seems to rely on an understanding of identity that is rooted in gender essentialism."

[melodramaschild]

Funeral prompt :

Remus giving beating reader the “go ahead princess, see what happens” look from across the room (full of people) right before she does something bratty

Robie’s funeral

Funeral

In memory, prompt with any character you want. All your comfort characters are dead and you’re remembering them, just remembering on good old day when they were alive.

It is posted here!

And please before you read Funeral by Phoebe Bridgers:

Thank you so much for requesting that and reading this.

This story means a lot to me. It’s also a first story I’m writing after almost two years of a writing block.

I was so hard on myself those last three years that I felt I can’t write anymore. I felt like I’m not meant to write anymore.

I wanted to write something where I put some work into. So I did that. I gave myself the time to put my ideas a words down and I made that. With this story I’m trying to free myself from my bad habits so thank you so much for being with me and reading that.

I also wanted to write a story where I can say “Look what I made!” without feeling guilt of not working enough on that or without feeling shame that it’s too cliché and plot too fast.

So thank you once again for allowing me to present you that story.

Also: something that I do find very important.

First of all; I’m not black. But Dorcas is and she’s dark skinned too.

I read articles and some accounts on how to write for a black character because: 1. THATS LIKE THE BARE MINIMUM OF ME

2. I wanted you all to know that she’s black since Dorcas been whitewashed way too many times.

3. I didn’t want it to sounds like I’m fetishising her (I think that this is the word, correct me if I’m wrong please) because I listed to black women and they agreed that being described as “Dark chocolate.” or “Exotic fruit.” isn’t something that they desire to be described as.

Which I wouldn’t say, it’s only for the point here. If you get me.

So please, when you get into Dorcas part and you’ll see something that isn’t sitting right with a description of black woman, please definitely let me know.

4. Representation matters and since I’m writing Y/n as neutral as possible, I saw that as a right and the most bare minimum thing to do.

Second of all; I’m not disabled that I need to use walking cane.

Again; I tried to avoid any sentences that could look like I’m fetishising or overhyping it. But if you see any, please let me know.

Third of all; I’m not welsh. But Hope (Remus’ mother) and Remus are.

I also did my research on this one and used many websites and translations on how to use welsh slang or what are the most common welsh words.

So if you see something that isn’t… when you see that the welsh isn’t welshing also please reach out to me.

Also for some reason I wrote that they’re in Yorkshire because well… maybe they moved out there! Maybe they like there! Maybe it was just fitting to my plot!

Plus Remus looks like Yorkshire too- (like the ugly ass dog)

And also I probably didn’t use any of British slang, so sorry Sirius and James but I simply forgot-

Now it would be great and brilliant to say something about Y/n being dead but uh… whatever is fitting your imagination about why Y/n is dead… it happened.

Enjoy your reading 🤍

[illcasthealinghands]

welcome to my stream of consciousness because i’m bad at words: i’m so glad that i’m not on cr twitter and my corner of tumblr doesn’t buy into the weekly discourse from those who need to find a problem with the cast

like people who are still saying that sg was baiting because it wasn’t one of the main focuses of their arcs it’s almost as if asking the dm to spend more time on a romance would be unfair on both matt and liam because it takes time away from the actual plot and the other people at the table

sg wasn’t a focal point of either character’s story and it doesn’t have to be to be considered representation and to label it as malicious is exactly why mainstream media doesn’t touch us because it’s wrong to prioritise a queer relationship but also wrong to not do that? pick a lane and stay in it.

and people calling by predatory and fetishising because the cast make sex jokes and marisha posted about her lockscreen, it’s pretty apparent that the cast have a generally crass sense of humour and will apply that to whoever of their characters they choose (except caduceus after he said he ‘wasn’t into that’ wow so harmful) women having an interest in sex isn’t allowed i forgot.

people wouldn’t have a problem with this if marisha was openly queer but yes let’s pressure a group of people who are consciously private about their lives to justify the five minutes of outrage from people that have nothing better to do than consume the free content we get from these people and then spam abuse

wlw being comfortable in their sexuality after a campaign of growth and supportive moments is fetishising but because mlm didn’t kiss or fuck in game yet still got confirmed is baiting and you want to talk about fetishising queer characters that’s awful funny isn’t it

[eremin0109]

I read this amazing post by @anpanman95 and they literally wrote down everything I thought about that scene!

But still, to add to their train of thought--yes, sexual preferences do NOT matter. Not in a fictional space, neither in real life. And especially in queer relationships. That's only a tiny part of people's overall identity.

That being said, I can't express in words how important it is that they showed/implied Pran, a gay man, topping his taller, muscular bi/pan boyfriend. Usually in BLs, there's this very toxic trend of feminizing the gay dude in the relationship, especially if the other partner isn't exclusively gay too. Same with the "wife" trope, it's always the gay partner who gets called that. Now there's nothing wrong with being a feminine gay man, but when you continuously portray that single image as representative of a diverse community, it's so harmful to the men who are gay but do NOT fit that particular mould.

Pran is gay, but he isn't effeminate. He isn't as traditionally masculine as Pat either (who, let's be real, has many feminine attributes to himself as well). However, as is evident throughout the series Pran likes to be dominant. He likes being in control. It's just his preference. I'm sure he wouldn't mind being on the receiving end too, if that's what Pat wanted. They're flexible that way. If I'm not wrong, P'aof himself confirmed them to be switches/verses.

And this is a very, VERY significant thing when you compare it to how sex is portrayed in other BLs. You would usually expect a character like Pat to be the top. Why? Just because he's physically bigger/buffer than Pran and/or he's more outgoing, flirty, naughty yada yada. But most people, especially those who fetishise mlm relationships, don't realise that that's not how it works. Physical appearance and personality has NOTHING to do with what you prefer in your bedroom. So Pran could be reserved and even embarrassed in public when Pat gets handsy but be an absolute monster in bed. Ever heard of "Saint in the streets, Satan in the sheets"???? Both are not mutually exclusive Lmao.

Anyway, just wanted to reiterate why P'aof choosing to make it clear that Pran topped for their first time is such a big deal. Again ideally, it shouldn't be because it has no effect on either who Pran and Pat are as people or the overarching plot of the story. But it serves as a good slap in the face to folks who just couldn't stop enforcing their fetishistic hetereonormativity on the boys DESPITE the series telling them otherwise over and over again.

[140smashedguitars]

Something that I love about Cherry Magic is the way it ignores a bunch of tired/toxic tropes in stories about queer people. I'm gonna list them under a read more because this is gonna get kinda long.

No homophobia This is the big one, obviously. Every story about queer people involves the main character and/or the love interest fighting homophobia. You have the character(s) dealing with slurs, mockery, being isolated from people who they thought cared about them and potentially violently abused. Instead, the only thing vaguely homophobic thing we hear is episode 7 when Adachi is worried about the fact that they’re both men, but then moves past it and tells Kurosawa that he wants to be with him. The only time anyone is suspected of being homophobic is when Minato thinks Tsuge is being homophobic towards him and Rokkaku, a (presumably) cishet character, stands up for Minato and is ready to throw hands for him, until the mistake is quickly rectified. Homophobia just doesn’t have a place in this story, and I know that homophobia is rampant in the real world, I’m not saying it’s not, it’s just that so many stories are already about that and it’s nice to see a queer story focused on someone learning to love and accept themself and realise and accept that they are allowed to be happy.

No coming out Someone made a post about how mainstream stories about queer people are about coming about because that’s what affects cishet people and mainstream media wants to cater to them. I am so tired of this; cishet people being focused on/pandered to in stories about queer people. Our stories are not about you. The stories don’t need to be for you. You can enjoy them, but you don’t need to be the centre of them for that. Instead of having literally any coming out in this show, whenever anyone is revealed to be queer, it isn’t made to be an emotional, important scene. The revelation happens, and the other character accepts it and doesn’t make a big thing out of it. When Adachi finds out for definite that Kurosawa likes him, he doesn’t think “Wait, Kurosawa likes men?” He thinks “Wait, Kurosawa likes me?” Again, I know in real life that coming out is a big and terrifying thing for queer people, but it’s not the only part of our life.

No one is already in a relationship Films like Imagine Me & You and Free Fall (both of which I like) have one of the characters start the film in an opposite sex relationship which they seem happy in, until the other character of the same sex as them comes along and confuses them and then they either want to or do cheat on their current partner and then they have to choose who they want to be with and it’s just a mess. Queer people aren’t just homewreckers or need a special person to come along and make them realise they were gay all along. Bisexual people do exist and can have happy relationships with people of the opposite sex. Who knew! Instead, all 4 members of the couples are single until they get together. Kurosawa isn’t trying to avoid his feelings by being with someone he doesn’t really like and then breaking their heart. Adachi and Tsuge obviously aren’t in relationships because that’s the point of the plot and Minato is single as well. It all works out nicely. There’s no going behind a partners back or promising to leave the partner, but they don’t want to upset them. Just 4 single people who find each other with some bumps along the way.

No aggression at realising they’re gay Brokeback Mountain, Free Fall and a bunch of other films about queer men will do this and I HATE it. One of the characters will fall in love with the other and accept that part of themself, and the other character will start sleeping with him and then get angry and then potentially physically violent if not just verbally abusive because he can’t deal with being attracted to a man and the other character will just continue to love him and want to be with him despite that. Just. Why? Queer people aren’t just toxic or drawn to toxic relationships. This is an awful narrative, especially when the films are catered towards cishet people. Instead, Kurosawa loves and respect Adachi so much, putting his needs first, going at his pace, letting him make the first moves. In return, Adachi loves and respects Kurosawa even if he is nervous about it. He’s respectful of Kurosawa’s feelings and wants him to be himself around Adachi. They love each other for who they are. We get constant shots of them smiling at/because of each other. After Adachi reveals his magic to Kurosawa, Kurosawa doesn’t get angry or upset and only interupts Adachi after he starts insulting himself. And when they break up, again, Kurosawa isn’t angry (though he’s obviously upset), but doesn’t take that out on Adachi. Instead, he takes him back literally with open arms because he understands that Adachi’s problem is with himself and that he needed time to work on that. Kurosawa wants Adachi to see himself as a good person, and Adachi wants the reverse. And even though we don’t see much of Tsuge and Minato, we know that Tsuge is so happy to be with Minato and Minato is clearly happy with Tsuge even if he has a harder time communicating. They both respect each others boundaries as well and Minato goes slow for Tsuge their first time in case Tsuge wants to stop. The relationships have clearly made all 4 of them happy and it shows the queer audience that they can be in happy, respectful and non toxic realtionships too, as is what we deserve.

No fetishisation The fact that this show is based around the main character and his best friend losing their virginities yet there’s no gratuitous sex scenes or even a kiss from the main couple is quite astonishing. Most films about queer people (especially queer men) will have so much explicit sexual content, which is probably there for the cishet female gaze. All 4 members of the couples are treated with respect within the narractive and when one of them does get overly sexualised (Kurosawa) it’s seen negatively. It forces us to see all the characters as human beings and focus entirely on their stories. What wer get instead of the fetishisation is better as well. The first time Adachi and Kurosawa hold hands makes my heart swell. Kurosawa grabbing Adachi’s hand nervously is an amazing shot and it’s so wonderfully intimate that no kiss or sex scene could’ve beaten that. And when we do get a kiss (from Minato and Tsuge) it’s there to make a point. Like I said before, it shows Minato cares about and respects Tsuge’s feelings. We know they had sex, same with Adachi and Kurosawa in the finale but they don’t show it. They don’t need to. Also, Fujisaki is very intersting this aspect. She’s the only female main character and not only is she not fetishised, she’s aroace and it’s completely accepted by Adachi. She’s treated like a human being, and she doesn’t fetishise Adachi and Kurosawa.

No one dies and both couples get together and stay together Self explanatory, but how many stories about queer people do we know of where after everything, one of the main characters die, or the couple just simply don’t end up together? I’m sick and tired of watching so many stories where queer people fight to be themselves and be with someone they love only for that fight to be futile. What’s the point? So seeing a show with FIVE queer people in the main cast who are happy and 4 of them end up in relationships with someone they love that are not toxic that we know will actually last is so refreshing. The show takes the bury your gays trope and says ‘fuck that, we’re not about that’ and I absolutely love it for it.

This show all in all is quite fascinating. It’s 5 hours long and takes all these tropes and throws them in the bin. It tells a compelling, beautiful story that I and so many other queer people really needed. It gives us hope that maybe one day we can find someone who loves us for who we are, be it a friend or romantic partner. It shows us that there are other people like us and we can find them. We are not alone. It shows us that even if we don’t love ourselves, we are still capable of loving someone else and someone else can still love us.

I love this show, and it means more to me than I can explain. I didn’t expect this to get mushy towards the end, but honestly, I want to say thank you for everyone who made Cherry Magic the way it is. It’s a truly amazing show and it’s sad that more people won’t get to see it, but I’m glad I did. ❤️

[scriptlgbt]

I am a guy (trans actually but haven't told my readers) and I'm writing F/F stories. A minority of those are non/part human and one can physically change sex and has been M before. I don't get why many readers (the only ones I know the gender of are female) keep calling me being fetishising. I honestly haven't written any offensive and my lesbian friends tells me there's nothing fetishising. Then a few claim that it is a fetish simply for a male to write F/F. Uhh.. Help???

Honestly, you’re better off asking for an open call for the readers calling you fetishized to give you guidance on why that is and the details involved. What you’re talking about seems to be a broad range of stories.

Some things that might help to be transparent about as an author:

Why do you write these stories?

Why do these characters resonate with you?

To what extent are you writing for yourself and to what extent are you writing for others?

Have you had an actual (professional or otherwise) sensitivity reader help edit or advise?     (If you talk about this, do not use it as any kind of excuse, but only to express transparency about the fact that you are working on it.)

*Only if you’re comfortable with it* - what relationship have you had with F/F fiction and that community over the years? How has this genre and community helped you ?

There aren’t wrong answers to these, just answers that help establish a healthier relationship with this community.

There are a lot of issues with regards to power dynamics and dehumanization with men writing women characters in general, let alone writing WLW, that I’m sure you have some grasp on (because We Live In A Society and this is hard to ignore). It’s understandable that a lot of people aren’t okay with it regardless of what you’ve written. Our communities in general have a lot of diverse opinions and none of them are necessarily wrong.

Insisting you haven’t written anything offensive and that other people say there’s nothing fetishizing may help you with getting a diversity of opinions, but none of these opinions should get more gravity than others until you’re really at the root of it. Insisting these opinions are worth more to you is only going to instigate further backlash from the people who you are trying to stave off. I think you need to stop trying to stave them off. I’m not saying you should necessarily make them above the other opinions you’re getting, but equalizing the playing field with who you listen to matters. You need to be able to understand and validate where they are coming from in order to have a healthy relationship with a community that (I assume) you’re not a part of.

You need to be open to hearing out the people who feel differently than you and taking their guidance into account. Important note: Guidance involves something you can use as advice on how to move forward. Not all criticism counts as that because a lot of people understandably do not want to invest in pushing others forward or be around to hold you accountable. Shit is complicated. You need to be accepting of the complications and nuance and the way this kind of thing can be a complicated journey.

I also want to mention that asking lesbian friends is probably not enough to really grasp what’s going on here. Your friends are your friends and are more likely to share perspectives with you, for one.

I would genuinely look into hiring (if you can’t afford it, consider a labour trade) someone who is a sensitivity reader or consultant to help you interpret these kinds of comments and take them into account.

- mod nat