#fragrance man fanart

[n0phis]

fragrance man redraw that the discord voted on >:) original under cut

[jimjamjommeron]

All you sinners stand up and sing hallelujah!

[keyslox]

fragrance man but he slays <3333

[the-wyzer]

Fragrance Man Redraw! (Origins Schlatt)

[schlunk]

now we say the prayers

[eyedlir]

Late night fragrance man thinking and a little rammie clay fig I made recently ^_^_^_^^_^ i still can’t comprehend how time passes so literally I was shocked to remember how long ago the osmp was

I might color it I might not who knows

[demonadelem]

Any Taiwanese here on da blog tonight?

Origins Origins Masterpost

[lonely-ghostworld]

Mothertruckin Fragrance Man origins smp design

[originssweaterduoevents]

Here is my drawing for this weeks prompt!! I'm pretty proud of it!! I think this is the first time I've drawn people cuddling, actually

Oh, by the way, the designs i use are from @/demonadelem's comic origins origins! It's a very cool comic, I'd definitely recommend it!

[notmyneighbor]

Let Me in ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 3

Word Count ~ 2.5k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ blood and gore, body horror, character death, minor violence, dubious consent, sexual content

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

You sit on the side of the bed that had once belonged to Francis Mosses.

The comforter and top sheet have already been pulled down. You lean over to slide out of your low heeled pumps, tucking the pair of navy leather shoes neatly under the bed.

There’s a bible on the nightstand. A worn looking copy. Beside it a glass with a shallow amount of water resting in the bottom, the remnant of a late night attempt to quench thirst, perhaps.

The doppelgänger watches your movements. How methodical each action is. Slow and deliberate. You’re stalling.

He settles beside you and the mattress creaks as the springs are compressed. That odd sort of shimmer you’d noticed earlier outside the security booth outlines his frame for a brief moment. A surge of light and color as the skin ripples before settling. They still weren’t completely able to disguise what they were. All hope was not lost.

Your own fate, however, seems sealed. You lie down slowly, carefully. You feel as if you are laying yourself to rest in your own coffin. Turning your face ever so slightly to see if there is any trace of the man that had once slept here, some lingering scent or an indent from his face. Nothing but the fragrance of clean linen. The imposter moves as if to join you but you halt him, your fingers closing over his forearm. Your first time touching him and not the other way around. “Take your shoes off.”

The creature snickers, glancing down at the scuffed oxfords he’s wearing. Overdue for a shine. “What possible difference does that make?”

“It’s respectful. You never put your shoes where someone sleeps.”

“He won’t be sleeping here ever again.”

You inhale sharply, wincing. “Please just do it.” You can’t say why you’re so hung up on this. Only that it seems the right thing to do. A small thing in a sea of wrongs that you’re clinging to like a life preserver.

“Fine.” He acquiesces, bending to unlace them. There is no care in his actions. Just brisk, impatient pulls to undo the knotted ties. Then he is lying beside you. Your heads sharing the same pillow. Francis only used a single one, apparently. Preferring to slumber lying with his head and neck rather flat. You always used two fluffy pillows, minimum.

You can hear the sound of music starting to play, emanating from the resident’s apartment next door.

Mia Stone, perhaps. The blonde teacher who was Dr. Afton’s fiancée. You instantly recognize the musical artist crooning through the walls: Billie Holiday.

I say I'll move the mountains

And I'll move the mountains

If he wants them out of the way

You would have loved to play this record for Francis. You envision trying to dance in the cramped space of the living room, twirling around in his arms. “Did he really like my fragrance?” You know the creature could lie, of course. He’d say anything to manipulate you and get what he wanted. But you have to ask. Your heart won’t let you avoid the query.

The dark eyes of the pretender regard you. You detect no malice or dishonesty there. “Yes,” he says simply.

You close your eyes, sighing. “What else did he like about me?”

“Your smile, gifted once you were certain it was really him. The way you covered your mouth when you laugh, making some little relieved joke when you passed his identification and entry request back to him each day. The strands of hair that came loose around your face as the day wore on into late afternoon when he returned from his route. The—”

“—Stop. Please.” Tears well in your eyes. They didn’t sound like the kind of details the deceiver would create on his own. There was a note of truth to them. Genuine recollections. He truly was all that remained of Francis Mosses. A man that had been fond of you. You could have been with him, if only you’d been a little braver.

“You asked me to tell you.”

“I know. It’s just overwhelming.”

Like the wind that shakes the bough

He moves me with a smile

“Your kind is so fond of music. Your milkman was always humming. I don’t see the use for it.”

The your wrenches your heart. He wasn’t yours. Never would be. “It’s a way to expression emotions. When words alone aren’t enough.”

“Hmmm.” He reaches out and you flinch. “Why are you fighting this so hard? This is what you wanted.”

“I didn’t want Francis to die.” You pause, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Why do you want this?”

”Curiosity. An experiment of sorts. There has never been a union between our kind. Not of this nature. A desire to know what it feels like. To see what might result.”

You shudder. An experiment. Using you like some kind of animal for breeding. A mere whim.

He reaches again and this time you force yourself to hold steady, your chin lifting with a short jerk of defiance. Your hair is his goal. Tucking it back behind one ear. Maybe something the milkman had wanted to do. There’s a sudden softness in the doppelgänger’s eyes. As if the human he’d once been was peeking through at you. You find yourself melting again, your defenses coming down.

I say I'll care forever

And I mean forever

He moves closer to you. Inching over across the white fitted sheet. A thumb strokes away one of the tears that has escaped its prison. He captures the other from the opposite cheek, bringing it to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the droplet. “Salt,” he says, recognizing the mineral.

He kisses you.

You’re not sure if it’s better to think of the man you had loved or not. Was it dishonoring his memory or was it a way to keep him present in some vague capacity? There’s no clumsiness this time. He knows the feel of your mouth. The way to shift against you. Tongue mapping past smooth cheeks and dragging along the carpet of muscle at the base of that maw. Maybe it was better to pretend this was Francis after all. You cup the back of his neck, fingers teasing the edges of his milk chocolate tresses. Curling slightly on the ends. It would be time for a trim soon. Would have been. The illusion you’ve created is crumbling again. Your lips falter, your hand dropping away.

Crazy he calls me

Sure, I'm crazy

Crazy in love am I

“Sweetheart,” the invader murmurs, tasting along your jaw, your neck. “I like the way you smell.” Speaking for himself, not Francis. You hear the sharp intake of air. The hand that had been casually laid across your shoulder slides down until it reaches your breast, gently kneading that globe through the layers of your bra and blouse. “Does this feel good?” His voice is octaves lower than you’d ever heard from the milkman. Slightly raspy and sultry, not unlike the singing voice that permeates through the wood and plaster behind the bed. You don’t dare answer, merely whimpering a little and he seems to take this as an affirmative response.

His hand leaves your breast and finds the top button of your shirt. Always sensible, pure white, part of the uniform standard the company requires. Another threaded plastic disc is pushed through the hole. He works his way down until all those that are exposed have surrendered, the remainder still tucked within your skirt. His fingers part the edges of the fabric encasing your torso, peeling them back to reveal the white satin brassiere beneath. He caresses you briefly through this slick material before tucking inside the cup until he brushes across your areola. Your nipple peaks beneath his ministrations as his lips move back to yours. He is surprisingly gentle, lightly pinching and rolling the aroused tissue. Your body betrays you, responding to the creature’s touch. You should be ashamed, disgusted. Instead you find yourself wanting more.

“Off,” he murmurs impatiently, plucking at your bra before his hand departs your chest. You struggle to sit up and he allows it, watching you pull your blouse free from your skirt and unfastening the cuffs before sliding it off your arms. With a swift gesture borne of long practice you easily pinch and release the hook and eye closures resting along the center of your spine, the cups immediately folding down over the underwire, the straps drooping over your shoulders.

The doppelgänger assists you now, sliding the brassiere off the rest of the way, exposing your chest to him. Your cheeks are pink, flushed like the nipples he’s toying with again, his head bending to suckle at one and a lick of flame sears your core. This is part of the invasive species’ learning process, you think. Taste as important as touch. His mouth moving not with the sole purpose of your pleasure in mind, but as a means to explore flavors and textures. Cataloguing. More of humanity’s secrets unveiled.

There is a song you don’t recognize playing next door now. Muffled voices. You’d had no idea the walls were so thin. Francis had never complained.

You’re shoved back down onto the pillow. His mouth wanders, back up to sample a collar bone, the hollow at the base of your throat, then dips in between your breasts and tastes the skin of your abdomen. You wonder if he can detect the floral soap you’d bathed with that morning, the traces of lotion you’d applied during your hygiene routine.

“I like this,” he says, his breath warm on your body. “You’re so soft. Smooth. Not like…I’ve never taken…” It had often been debated if there were sexes in their species. How they propagated. There was still so much unknown. Was there a reason he’d only chosen men to replicate? Was it simply because he was male himself? You could not explain how you knew it, but there was something distinctly masculine about him. Authoritative. Blunter than a woman would be. A lifetime of being raised to respect decorum had been firmly ingrained in you. Society valuing a woman who knows her place. Taught to be demure, deferring to the wisdom and guidance of their male counterparts. Serving and obeying, like you’re doing now.

The imposter returns his attention to your face. Licking your mouth back open. He likes this, you think. All of what you’d shared thus far, but perhaps the kissing best of all.

The background melody silences and you think you detect the front door opening and closing. You wonder if the couple will be going out to an early dinner. Curious when they find there is no one guarding the building. But not alarmed. Not yet.

Your skirt is being lifted, polyester dragged upward after the copycat’s hasty reach downward to gather the hem. Immediately sliding back down, stroking over your exposed thighs that are clad in nylons that stop midway across each of your upper legs. Nothing fancy, just utilitarian features in a shade of nude slightly more tanned than your own complexion. He nudges against the seal you’ve created by pressing your legs close together. “Let me in, sweet girl.” An echo of what he’d said earlier in an attempt to gain access to the building, now seeking entry into you. You feel your limbs parting for him nearly as promptly as you’d opened the door.

The pretender works his way back up to the fork of your body, teasing along the crotch of the white panties. You gasp and he smiles against your lips. His palm drags over the fabric until his fingers find the elastic waistband and he dips beneath it, running overly the neatly trimmed hair on your pubic mound, following the curve of that padded flesh until your sex is palpated.

Another gasp and a moan escapes you. “So wet,” he remarks, fondling the pink lips, parting the petals with his middle finger to slide through the slick arousal your body is creating, working the lubricant up and down, passing over the hooded nub and then delving back towards your entrance, where more fluid escapes.

It feels good and yet it doesn’t, his fingers too rough and just shy of where you need him. You squirm and wince at the harsh handling of your clitoris and he pauses, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Show me. Show me how you like to be touched.”

You reach down cautiously, guiding his fingers to one side of your sensitive bud, lightly pressing and rolling a fingertip so that your clit is ground slightly against the bone beneath. Alternating now, reaching back down to gather more of your slick before spreading it over that hooded button, a few direct strokes applied before beginning the process again. He replicates your actions and your body responds immediately, a hum of pleasure heating you. You close your eyes and you think of the milkman, the real one, with his kind smile and his tired eyes.

“Francis.” The name escapes your lips and you freeze, the rocking motion of your hips against the imposter’s hand abruptly ceasing. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Alarmed by how easily you’d allowed yourself to give in to the desire, accommodating this make believe passion.

“It’s alright, love. It’s me. I’m here.” His tongue laps at your ear, at the sensitive patch of skin behind it. You shiver and resume grinding against his fingers, letting yourself be deluded once more, your hand curling over his forearm.

“Francis,” you say again, hoping he can forgive you, in whatever form he now occupies, if he is saved as his faith professes he would be, finding redemption and peace, somewhere far from your sinning body that writhes in pleasure from his murderer’s touch.

You push against his hand and he allows it, applying force against the hollow cavity that leads to your womb. “Let me in,” he breathes, and you feel a finger invading your body, shoving through the narrow confines of that muscular tunnel. Withdrawing and spearing again, the digit saturated with your arousal. You moan and lift your pelvis to meet him. Curling inside, massaging that dip of spongy tissue. Crooking each time he enters as if he is leading you forward, beckoning, his thumb drawing circles over your clit. You feel as if you’re on the edge of a chasm, teetering on the rim, about to drop forward into heat and darkness. Keening now. Thighs tremoring violently. Your face turns and your teeth sink into the pillow. “There you go, love. Give it to me. Give in to me.”

The coiling pressure within you snaps and you find release at last, the fabric clenched in your teeth doing little to muffle the sound of your orgasm. You’re drenched in sweat, the aftershocks of your appeased nerves still sizzling through you. The doppelgänger cradles you through all of it, holding you as you ride the waves that exhaust your limbs, making you feel boneless and limp.

“Francis.” It’s a yearning plea, a futile prayer, answered by the thing that is not him, but masquerades as such, crooning to you, whispering false promises, draping you in synthetic affection, a lie you want so desperately to believe.

[n0phis]

Odour Guy

[jimjamjommeron]

[keyslox]

origins content cause tiny blaze rod Jack manifold has infested my brain

[kakiav]

geto’s fun in the bathtub ☆彡

nsfw content below! contains fingering, nipple play, implied future sex. this is 100% based off of @polariae ‘s fanart of geto link below. please be sure to follow and support their work <3

“you just gonna stare? or are you going to come join me?” geto’s smug voice calls out to you, currently frozen in front of the bathroom door. your fingers tug at the silk robe you’re wearing, it barely covering your thighs. the sweet scent of your bath bomb fills up the humid air.

“suguru! that’s my bath bomb!” words know deciding to be spoken at the smell of your very expensive purchase. the exact one you’ve been saving for a particularly long day at work. geto laughs as you start walking towards the tub with a big pout on your lips.

“that’s why I asked you to come in, doll.” he teases, eyes not daring to blink when you untie your robe and place it on top of his cotton one. geto tries to make room for your body causing some of the water to splash out from the sides. you gasp dramatically as if geto committed the worst sin possible.

“so dramatic, I swear.” geto huffs out, playfully rolling his eyes and sticks his tongue out at you. ignoring his behavior, you climb into the warm bath, making sure not to step on his legs before finding your spot in his lap. the fragrance envelopes you warmingly, instantly calming your nerves.

you lean back against geto’s toned stomach, not the most comfortable surface but you make do with what you have. his thick arms rest peacefully around your rib cage, just below your breast. basking in this moment of relaxation, you throw your head back on geto’s shoulder, neck exposed for his viewing.

“love you doll.” geto whispers, his nose nudging the side of your neck. you let out a sigh of content, focusing on the pleasant feeling of being close with your boyfriend. not satisfied with your response, geto licks a stripe on your neck before choosing a spot to focus on kissing.

“mmh… sugu don’t get me hot and bothered. just wanna relax with you.” you tell him even though your body is telling you otherwise.

“let me show you how to really relax.” geto says, removing his hand and gropes your breast roughly. his calloused fingertips cause pleasure to shoot down in between your legs. geto knows your body like the back of his hand, pinching and pulling your sensitive nipples making you moan obscenely.

“want more sugu.” you tell him, which makes his heart swell with confidence. geto slides one hand down in between your parted legs and finds your clit, rubbing fast circles eliciting even more moans. he feels his own pleasure kicking in as he tries to shift himself so his growing erection is on your ass.

since the water is already like lube, geto shoves his middle finger into your pussy, meeting no resistance. you curl your feet at the sudden intrusion, face contouring in sweet pleasure.

“I know doll. you just love my fingers fucking your tight cunt. getting you off and prepping you for my cock. you want my cock?” his words are like heaven to your ears as you nod rapidly in response. geto pushes his index finger in, curling them together as he rubs against that spongy spot which makes you see stars.

“no cock yet, my love. wanna spoil you right now.” he tells you but it falls on deaf ears. too focused on your building orgasm. geto’s free hand continues massaging your breast, thumb sometimes brushing against your nipple. upset at his answer, you grind down on his hardened cock, determined to get him off as well. his moans and gasps at your actions fuels your lustful heart, orgasm approaching just at the edge of release.

knowing you’re about to come, by your walls contracting around his fingers, geto whispers more dirty words in your ear. “you love the way I make you feel huh? never gonna find another man to pleasure you like I do. poor you, those small fingers don’t reach that sweet spot you desperately want. can’t live without me.” that last sentence is all you need to hear as the knot in your belly breaks. the pleasure of cumming courses through your veins, legs shooting out of the tub causing water to spill everywhere. your hips buck up in the air against geto’s hand.

“that’s it doll, ride through your pleasure. I’m right here.” geto reassures you, helping you ride out your high. your hands find purchase behind his neck, grabbing hold of his long locks, the stinging sensation on his scalp causes geto to mindlessly rub against the crack of your ass.

“bath time is over. I need to bend you over and fuck you on the floor.” he speaks with absolute certainty that makes you jump out of the tub and run as fast as you can without slipping to your shared bedroom, leaving puddles of water behind you. geto quickly follows in suit, cock in hand as he fucks his fist ready to feel his favorite pussy around him.

[softshuji]

you are so fucking spot on with the old money vibe!! the man just reeks of elegance and excessive wealth from questionable sources.

and while I think he’d mostly look goofy af with a bob I saw this fan art one time and I just… it stuck. hard. and now it won’t leave. bob!ran is always there in the dark depths of my brain. lurking. it’s a sickness, truly.

Pls send me the fanart 🤲🏻

Exactly though!! Like, ok like picture it. The short but gelled hair (not gelled to an unbelievable extent but enough to leave a few wispy strands loose) some dark dress pants, a white shirt with sleeves rolled, shiny black shoes and a matching leather belt, a really expensive cologne (but y'know, not the dior sauvage type, more like Maison Francis kurkdijan or replica's jazz club I'm a slut for fragrances) and whisky in his hand.

I am so sick 😔

[demonadelem]

Fragrance man scaled a giant tree to insult his friend.

Origins Origins Masterpost