#i am looking with unabashed lust

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

Edwige did not need to slay these looks as hard as she did yet she chose to anyway

IL SUFFIT D'UNE FOIS // ONCE IS ENOUGH (1946), dir. Andrée Feix

[keisurou]

kiss me like you love me. | gojo satoru x f!reader (mdni)

hellooo my loves <3 i’m back after a year with our beloved gojo :3

warnings: handjob (m!receiving), misunderstandings (gojo and reader are both in love with each other but reader thinks he loves shoko), implied masturbation (m!receiving), slight god complex, unnecessary storytelling. rushed ending i’m working on it i swear

          the first touch feels electric even though he expects it, fingers curling around the base through the layers of his cotton pyjama pants. it’s hard but he wills himself not to squeeze or apply any sort of pressure. 

         “satoru,” there’s a soft knock on the door. his stomach clenches, muscles flexing as he painfully stops, a new sudden wave of lust shooting through him. “satoru, can i come in?” 

         he bites back a groan and gets up with a pillow tucked under his arm. it’s better to have something to cover with on the chance that you do actually come in and decide to talk. you’re dressed in sleeping clothes, a plain yellow tee with the old cotton pants he remembers from years ago and he bites back a smile; you always did have a hard time letting go. he opens the door wider but doesn’t move an inch and when you squeeze past him, the curve of your hips brushes against his thighs. he hates himself for not making the gap even smaller. 

        gojo hears the creak of the bed before he closes the door and by the time he reaches you, you’ve already wrapped yourself up, head poking out as you stare at him, almost unabashed. it’s almost unnerving having your entire attention on him, especially while in his bed and he can’t control the snarkiness in his voice when he finally opens it “what do you want?” 

        you frown a little and then sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. it makes the material of your pants taut against your skin and he has to force himself to not stare at the curve between your ass and the back of your thighs. but once he looks up at your face, he can see your cleavage, the way your shirt is on the verge of gaping open if you just–

        “you seem way worse off than i thought.” 

        his mind stutters to a stop. that was an insult.. right? he blinks back at you slowly, almost dazed. it was a bad idea trying to engage in small talk while all he could think about was how good you’d look underneath him. “i’m worse off?” 

        you look away this time, almost embarrassed. he can tell with the way you hug yourself a little tighter with your feigned air of nonchalance. you were never fooling anyone but you look far too cute for him to say anything. “about the engagement.”

        “i’m happy for them.” he settles into bed on the edge, closer to you but not close enough. “aren’t you?”

        “of course i am!” you push out your legs, not meeting his gaze yet. your feet lightly brush across his calves. “i was just.. worried about you.” 

        “about me?” his lips twitch into a grin, and he inches a little closer. he knows perfectly well what you’re talking about; he’s surprised you hadn’t come to him sooner about his. both shoko and suguru knew about his little crush on you for years, but you? you were still under the assumption that he liked shoko in high school and that the tiniest of lingering feelings were still there. “are you going to make me feel all better then?” 

        “i’m not going to do anything to suguru and shoko,” your voice is soft as you look up at him from under your lashes. “but if there’s anything else..”

        yeah, he knows that; you’re too righteous and stubborn for your own good, and his best friends breaking up is the last thing he wants to happen. “there’s something, but you can’t do it.”

         it garners the reaction he wants; you let out a cry of protest as you shuffle closer to him, just as expected “i can, just tell me.”

        but he can’t. he’s too busy staring down your shirt because in your haste to get an answer out of him, you hadn’t realised just how close you’d come or just how flimsy your clothing is. by the time you do actually realise, it’s too late. you gasp lurching back, your arms coming around to cover your breasts over the shirt and before he knows it, gojo is reaching over to grab your arm to pull you back closer. “i thought you were going to help me,” his smile stretches into a smug grin as he cages you in his lap. “why are you running away?” 

        “it’s rude to look down someone’s shirt.” your words are soft, or maybe it’s just soft in comparison to your thundering heart beat. “especially if it’s not someone that you like.” 

        “it’s ruder not to pay attention to something so pretty that’s begging for attention.”

        you’re a spluttering mess at this point, and you try to shift away, but he’s got you caged in, a hand resting on your hips, his fingers dangerously close to the waistband of your pants. “i’m not pretty or begging for–”

        “you are.” he cuts you off, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. you feel the flex of his thighs underneath you and you swallow a whimper. he chuckles softly, fingers splaying across your naked back before whispering once again. “i’ve thought about you begging for me many times...” you fail to notice the way he inches the material of your sleep shirt up until you feel the chill of the night air, hardening your nipples to peaks. “..and it’s the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen.”

        any words of protest die on the tip of your tongue as you frantically try to make sense of what he says. because why would he ever think about you when he’s heartbroken from shoko’s engagement? why would he call you.. pretty, even for a second? unless.. 

         unless he was looking for a rebound. “wait, wait—” you press a hand against his chest, creating the slightest bit of distance. gojo doesn’t move you any closer but his thumb is insistent, petting along the underside of your left tit. “what.. what’s going on?”

         he blinks at you from under his lashes, and you’re momentarily stunned into silence with how pretty he is. “well, i was hoping i’d be able to get you to sit on my face.” 

         you’re surprised at how level your voice is. “that’s all?”

         he raises one perfect eyebrow, before he finally lifts the shirt hanging off your shoulders up and over your head. “if you can stop at that.” 

         the challenge is unspoken but it’s confirmed your doubts; he does want to forget and he’s chosen you. it should be considered a blessing, considering how long you’ve been suppressing your feelings for him but would you be able to go back to normal after tonight?

        “you’re thinking too hard.” his voice has dropped an octave, thumb brushing over a peaked nipple and your breath catches in your throat as he does it again. “what are you thinking about?”        

         “sometimes..” you murmur, trailing off as you focus your gaze on his hair, the silver locks shining even in the dimmed light. he wills himself to stay as still as possible, even when your lips ghost over his “sometimes i feel like.. you’re too perfect to be human.” 

         “yeah?” he swallows, hand ghosting up, up, up your skin and the softness of your stomach before cupping both breasts. “why’s that?”

         you’re taken aback, body freezing up momentarily; you didn’t know he was the type to want validation. but you're already trailing fingers along his jaw, your hips shifting closer to rock against his over the flimsy layers. “you seem almost invincible.” he rewards you with a hot kiss below your collarbone and another just a little below, his tongue tracing along the path he takes. 

         “invincible?” 

         “like a god.” 

         he squeezes the fat of your thighs in response before dragging you closer. it’s easier to lose yourself this way; you can feel the heat of him, the hardness of him all at once as you rock against him and it makes you a little dizzy, makes you want to pinch yourself to see if you’re actually dreaming. you quickly realise he’s saying something while sucks along your chest, breathy mumbles under his breath every time he manages to tear himself away from mouthing at your tits. “you’re so fucking wet.” his voice is raspy when he says it out loud, eyes squeezing shut and his words make whine a little. “you’re soaking through my pants—fuck”

         oh god. oh god. you don’t know if you should feel embarrassed or not and try to shift away off his lap and he lets you. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—” your gaze falls to his lap and you see that he was indeed right; there’s a wet patch against the straining material but you’re not entirely convinced it’s all you. “let me take it off for you.”

        “no.” he says it too quickly, swallowing visibly when you crawl closer to him. you can’t help but smile a little; who knew gojo would be the one to give you a power trip? “i won’t last, just—” he chokes on his words when you slip your hand inside his pants and wrap your fingers around the length of cock. it’s much hotter than you expected, the skin silky smooth with a random vein running across the edge but once you reach the tip, you can feel the wetness of his pre-cum. his moans are filthy, almost pornographic. “princess, please—”

       “please what?” you grip him at the base a little tighter and he ruts up into your hand. it’s a delicious sight, his eyes glazed over as he tries to futilely bring you closer. you pull at the waistband of his pants to take out his cock. “please harder?” you circle the head, thumbing the slit. it’s hard to keep the grin off your face when when he physically shivers with every stroke of your hand, his gasps and groans echoing in your ears. “or please suck—”

        it’s only a second but it’s long enough for him to push you onto your back. his frame looms over you, one thick muscled arm holding his weight up while he spreads your legs with the other. thick fingers pull at the edge of your underwear before letting it go and watching it slap against the fat of your hips. and then he’s pulling it down, eyes wide as he watches the way the your slick is smeared along your panties. he’s tempted to pocket it for later but you whimper out his name, your fingers spreading the folds of your sex for him. grabbing ahold of each thigh, he lowers himself down until he can feel the heat of you, hear the squelch of your fingers as you tease yourself. 

       “make sure you hold onto something.”

[druidrot]

Okay 1 and 13 from the sultry prompts list feel VERY Gale to me, if that inspires you at all!

Your honor, based on provided evidence the jury has come to the conclusion that Gale Dekarios is indeed guilty of being a munch. Not actual smut but like pretty damn suggestive. It borders on it. It’s dirty. Don’t talk to me 😭😭

Real talk I’m sorry this has sat in my drafts for so long. Anon, you deserve better but work has been draining lately and tonight for some reason was the night my mind decided to work. Anyways muah i love u thank u for requesting, i hope you enjoy!!

Pairing: Gale Dekarios x Reader

Prompts:

1. A kiss to the thigh

13. You are constantly finding new ways to surprise me.

Rating: Explicit - MDNI

warnings: foreplay, like lots of it. this came out a lil worship-y but gale is a fucking loser and I’m so weak to that shit. i say that with the most love but 😭😭. allusions to good ole’ cunillingus babey!

unsure of the word count

Gale takes his time tonight.

There is no urgency in his actions, no desperation–just pure, unadulterated adoration. His hands are gentle against your skin, soft, like too much pressure might shatter you like glass. He is resolute though, driven, unyielding in the face of his desire for you. He knows exactly how to touch you; he knows exactly where to touch you. It's like your body was made to be known by him, to be loved by him.

You sit comfortably in the big armchair he has nestled in his study, legs spread wide to accommodate his frame. He is kneeled before you like a man devoted; like a man pious, besotted and yearning for you . He looks so very hungry when he turns his gaze up to meet yours, though his smile is soft, beckoning, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. You answer his smile with one of your own, smoothing a hand through his hair as he begins to creep his hands under your dressing gown.

"I will never tire of this," he murmurs, reverent, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your knee. "I will always be starved for you, my star. I will never have enough; there will never be enough to satiate the hunger you inspire.”

You can’t help the silly, lovesick grin that pulls at your lips. To you, he is breathtaking in his want for you, unabashed and proud. You love the way he loves you, so fully, so complete, like this is what the two of you were made to do together. It is intense, all-encompassing, makes your insides twist and turn.

“You spoil me rotten,” you whisper, all sweet smile laced with heavy-handed desire. “I burn for you, Mr. Dekarios. You make me ache.”

He offers a punched-out sound, a chuckle, and his molten eyes darken in the heat of his want. His kisses grow heavy, then, hot where they land on your skin, teasing where they trail up and up and up…

“You are my renewal and ruin all at once,” he breathes, sticky with need. “I am lost to you, my darling. Eternally lost to you.”

You mewl, tangling your fingers in his chestnut hair. “Show me, my love. Show me how you love me.”

He grins a wickedly handsome smile, pressing another hard kiss to the soft flesh of your thigh. He bites down gently, teasingly, basking in the sultry moan that rumbles in your chest.

“Gale,” you urge, pleadingly. “Let me see how lost you are. Let me see what I do to you.”

He squeezes the flesh of your opposite thigh, tongue laving over the little indents his teeth left in your skin. His eyes are sharp, heavy with lust, and you think you might drown in their depths forever.

“How desperate you are,” he teases, hands now moving to push the fabric at your hips up higher and higher. You can only sink further into his touch as his intentions become clear.

“You are constantly finding new ways to surprise me,” he muses, eyes locked on your pleading gaze. “I sometimes forget how eager you are to have me. But no matter, my star. I will happily oblige your desire to be tasted.”

You can only gasp, body pliant, mind foggy, already drunk on him as you surrender to the heat of his mouth.

[potato-lord-but-not]

(originally sent accidentally to @ samglyph for I am a great fool)

No but like seriously, noel the monsterfucker is incredible and I love the idea of him and monster!john exploring it together, because they are both so traumatized by the concept it would do them both good.

For noel it's a place to be able to explore both his trauma and his attraction in a safe place. He knows john will stop if he asks, he knows he can trust john to hold him down, and noel knows john will let him hold john down. He might even trust john to hurt him someday, knowing that in the end, they'll curl up together, and it will all be fine.

As for john, it's freeing both to be loved in his form, to not turn in on himself with self loathing. He knows arthur will always love him, monster form or not but there is a difference because noel sees john in a way that arthur never truly can. Especially with john always looking so terrified in his monster form, it's good for him to experience unabashed love and lust from noel, to learn he is desirable.

Also...if you have any noel/monster!john (or even just general noel monsterfuckery) fic recs i would be most thankful...

As always, your work is glorious!

YOURE SO REAL FOR THISSSS like like like !!!!!! Noel gets to explore that area of himself in a way that’s not putting himself in danger, cus as you said John would never actually hurt him, he’d stop if Noel asked. AND JOHN NOT HAVING TO COMPLETELY GIVE UP A PART OF HIMSELF OUT OF SHAME GAHHSGSHSHJ I’m unwell about them 10/10 ship it makes me ILL

[hitomisuzuya]

Scaramouche x fem!reader. Bondage. Blindfolding. Manhandling. Degradation. Rough sex. Mean Scara with a dash of Soft Scara at the end.

a/n: I took a little more time on this than I expected.

Scaramouche's smirk widened when he saw you shiver, rubbing your thighs together as he tightly blind your wrists together. Giving the knot a good yank, his fingers brushed down between your eyes and over the blind fold darkening your sight.

His cock was hardening at the sight of you bound and blind folded. This was a new way for him dominant you. "Now I am in complete and utter control," He said huskily, glaring down you with lust filled eyes that you couldn't see.

"I can yank you around as I please," Scaramouche taunted, sitting on the edge of the bed. Giving the slack a good yank (he preferred to think of a leash of sorts), he drug you into the floor, pulling you up onto your knees.

"You like being tied up and used like this, don't you, slut?" He brought your arms to drape over his lap, pushing your head down. "Open up and start sucking," He pushed his cock into your waiting mouth.

Your tongue lapped and curled around his cock, moaning happily as you began to suck. Scaramouche twirled the end of the leash between his fingers, his free hand gripping your hair, holding your head in place, ruthlessly pushing his cock deep into your throat.

You gagged, coughing as you choked. Scaramouche laughed. He dearly wished he could see the tears burning in your eyes. He gave you a few moments to adjust to breathing through your nose, the impatient scoff that you heard him emit while he waited soon melt into in a husky groan of pleasure when you started sucking.

"That's my good girl," His grip on your hair loosened for a few moments, his fingers stroking lovingly through your hair. You nuzzled your cheek against his pelvis, returning his affection.

The way it looked worshipping to him made him melt.

Pulling your hair, he guided his cock out of your mouth, relishing in the sight of your drool running down his cock. "Ha, what a slut you are, drooling happily all over my cock like that," Scaramouche held your head in place, pushing his cock halfway into your mouth before pushing down on your head, forcing it all the way inside your mouth.

Your mouth became nothing but a tool for him to get off on. You sucked as best you could, letting him guide the pace of your head, lapping and flattening your tongue, sucking obediently.

"What a good fuck toy I have, sucking me off like a total whore," He moaned, fucking himself into your throat as he pleased, his cock squelching in and out of your mouth. "Fuck, I am close to coming down your stupid, slut throat." He babbled, panting moans of pleasure poured unabashed from him, making him glare down at you a little for making him sound so vulnerable.

You swallowed, feeling cum ribbon into your throat. You sucked until Scaramouche felt he was satisfied.

"Okay, kitten, let's take a feel at how wet you are for me, hm?" He said, pulling on the "leash", he pushed you onto the bed, batting your legs apart impatiently.

You gasped in pleasure, bucking your hips needily into his fingers as they searched and rubbed between your dripping folds, your clit throbbing with need. Your feeling of sensation was heightened from your vision being obscured.

Scaramouche plunged three fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out of you a few times before pulling them out. "It astounds me how wet you get from me degrading you. Your greedy cunt was already clenching around my fingers, begging me to fuck you raw. What a shameless slut you are."

Holding both of your bound wrists above your head, Scaramouche was inside of you with a harsh snap of his hips, not even giving you time to adjust to his sudden penetration.

Putting a hand on your throat, his fingers prodding at your windpipe as he slammed his cock in and out of you. His teeth bit harsh and indiscriminate, determined to leave deep imprints in your skin.

You screamed in pleasure, writhing down against the bed. Your fingernails dug into your palms, your legs wrapping around him, pushing his cock deeper inside of you.

"That's my good girl, my precious kitten, letting me use her as I please. Complete and utter subservience. Archons, I fucking treasure you so much," Scaramouche groaned, tearing his teeth from your flesh to nuzzle into your neck.

It only took a few more harsh snaps of his hips before he came, his pace never relenting until your orgasm washed over you, only pulling out of you when your pleasured whimpers sounded the sweetest in his ears.

[muddyorbsblr]

rules of conduct: the checkout queue

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Summary: in which Loki learns the ways of having to wait in line

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 964

Warnings: smut (minors & pearl clutchers, don't even think about it); vaginal fingering; exhibitionism-adjacent; 1 cuss word (not even remotely sorry, Rogers)

Things to be aware of: teammates to…y'know what even I'm not quite sure what they are by the end of this…partners in smut? 😂

"And after crossing out every item on this list, with a considerable amount of ancillaries…" You had to roll your eyes at Loki's comment about the boxes of Pop Tarts and grape sodas and Vanilla Cokes that took up more than half the space of your cart. "We can finally leave this market teeming with the mundanities of man?"

"Not so fast, Mischief," you called out to him, stopping him mid-stride as he made his way to the exit. "We have to pay first."

"You do not simply walk away with what you desire?" You shook your head at him, holding back your laughter as the concept visibly confused the god. "That was how merchants were to me and Thor back in Asgard."

"Well you're on Earth now. And I'm not royalty, they won't just give me all this for free unless I have an arsenal of coupons or they find me pretty enough to give me a 'friends & families discount' in exchange for flashing them my tits or giving them my number."

"But I am a prince—"

"Not here, you're not," you cut him off. "Some people barely even want to acknowledge that the Earth isn't flat, good luck getting them to accept that there's anything beyond the solar system. Let alone more intelligent and superior life forms." The corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk at that last bit. "So here you're an alien. Not a prince. Not a god. Well…unless we find people who heavily subscribe to Norse mythology so I gotta make sure we keep you far away from that." 

He took a look around the marketplace, two fingers hooked at the front of your cart and not so subtly dragging it, and you, along with him as he made his way through the aisles. You made the split second decision to place your feet on the bottom rack to give your feet a break from walking and letting the towering Asgardian do all the work instead. 

"Wait. Loki where are you going?" You avoided the pointed glares of the people in line that he passed, the irritation quickly melting into unabashed leering stares as they took in the way his black jeans and dark emerald shirt clung to and perfectly accentuated his lean, godly form. He looked back at you, breaking out into an amused grin when he saw how you were standing on the rack of the cart, his other hand pointing toward the cashier as if to answer your question. "There's a line, Mischief. Gotta move to the back and wait our turn. You know, just like everyone else." 

Loki let out an exaggerated huff before turning the cart around and walking to the back of the line, the sound morphing into a faint chuckle when he heard your muted 'wheeeeee', only dismounting from the rack when you two finally stood at the end of the five cart queue and causing the women to risk neck pain from looking back and shamelessly checking out your teammate. 

Your breath hitched when you felt his large hands resting on your hips, the lustful glances of the women in front of you once more becoming scathing as they switched their focus from him to you, and just how closely he stood behind you, the tip of his nose tracing the shell of your ear. "Okay now what're you doing?" 

"Simply waiting our turn, darling." You could feel him smirking against your skin as fingers played along the waistband of your jeans, briefly dipping under and stroking the skin underneath and making you grip the handle of the cart so hard your knuckles were turning white. "Do you not think this would be a much more…titillating way to pass the time?" 

"You are going to get us into a scandal, Laufeyson," you hissed under your breath, struggling to keep your composure and subtly kick him so that he'd stop fucking around as deft fingers undid the button of your jeans, sliding the zipper down at an agonizing pace. "If you wanna incur Pepper's wrath because you were horny during this stupid acclimation effort that Stark assigned me to, be my guest. But don't drag me in with you--"

"Did you truly think I would let any of these inferior prying eyes see what we were up to, little mortal?" he whispered, breath tickling the tiny hairs at the side of your head. "All these people are seeing is your ever affectionate lover, my arms wrapped around you, the two of us engrossed in our own conversation. Every now and then I would press a kiss to your face." As if to emphasize his point, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, humming against your skin as he did so. "Just like that." 

"Cameras," you hissed. You couldn't find it in you to voice the rest of your sentiment. You are not my lover, and I'm not your darling. 

Mostly because you wanted so desperately for his illusion to be your reality.

"Under the same illusion." He kissed a path down to the corner of your mouth. "Tell me to stop." He groaned as he pressed another kiss to your skin, his fingers slipping under your panties and slowly making their way down. "Tell me you don't want this, too, and I'll stop--"

"I can't," you blurted out, a whimper slipping from your mouth as he finally pressed his lips to yours.

"Then you'll need to keep quiet for the remainder of the queue, darling." He captured your lips in another kiss, muffling the moan that escaped you when his fingers traveled further down and met your slick arousal, running up the length of your slit and rubbing tight circles against  your clit. "Or else we shatter the illusion." 

A/N: so…welcome to 'rules of conduct'! requests for this series/collection will forever be open, so if you have any scenarios you want to put these two blorbos into that fit the theme of the story, send them over and I'll see what I can do 😄 (also I don't have that many ideas on what exactly I'm gonna have them do next after this other than another shot at fitting room smut, maybe public library, and then that's about it)

‘everything’ taglist: @sailorholly @loopsisloops @unlucky-number-13 @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @sarahscribbles @kats72 @kikster606 @evelyn-kingsley @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @dangertoozmanykids101 @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina

Loki taglist: @calumance @severuslovebot @moonlightreader649 @i-stand-with-loki @nixymarvelkins @infinitystoner @lokisgoodgirlbackup @purplegrrl27 @thedistractedagglomeration

'rules of conduct' masterlist: @acidcasualties

[jev-urisk]

OC Deep Dive Tag ✨

@the-golden-comet may be a pirate-wrangler, but I'm the one who keeps stealing their tag games. 🏴‍☠️

Oh y'all know I'm starting with Kazimier from 🌐7 Circles🌐

I am however adding a cut bc some of this is pretty spoiler-y. 🙊

Phobias: Hemophobia (his own blood, specifically), medical needles. People whose lust tastes of sadism.

Other fears: IVs, feeling not in control, being drugged, being poisoned, getting cut/stabbed, healthy fear of death. Fear of falling in love.

Pet peeves: Naivety, 'baby-talking', clingy people, sometimes even having sex is a peeve.

3 items in their bedroom: Something to lounge on like a chaise, garish clothing, a lot of rope.

First thing they notice in a person: The sound of their voice/how they pronounce things, the way their face moves as they talk.

Scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?: Hmmm...4.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? Freeze, followed by fight, flight, fawn (fakely), or fuck.

Do they have a big family/are they a family person?: Does being in a gang at age 10 count as being adopted into a family? Could be a family person if he let himself care about people like that.

What animal represents them? A cat. So particular, weirdly hyperfocused sometimes, likes toying with vermin, can't tell if he'll roll with you giving him attention or try to claw you.

What is a smell they dislike? Cleaning solution

Broken any bones? Maybe, he's almost 300 so it would be a miracle if he hadn't yet.

How would a stranger describe them? Each stranger would describe a completely different person. Kazimier is a shapeshifter. If a stranger somehow saw his 'neutral' form, they'd say he looks fuckin' weird. Horns, green hair, mis-matched eyes of red and green, strange red markings on his cheeks, fangs, black claws, dressed like an 80s rockstar and has this crooked smirk on his face... the fuck?

Night owl or a morning bird? Night? The place he comes from, Du'Preve, barely has a day and night, it's always pretty dark.

A flavor they hate and a flavor they love? Hates sadism, loves desperation. (Kaz is an incubus, and you can discern those feelings from the taste of their lust)

Any hobbies? Sewing (very helpful for a shapeshifter), games like chess, billiards, darts, clue- anything that keeps his mind engaged. Also enjoys doing other people's makeup/make-overs but does this very rarely and is a dictator during the process.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises? He's already thinking about how much he's going to make everyone suffer. Flip a coin as to whether he shuts it down immediately or plays along up until people get hurt. There is one (1) spontaneous asexual vampire gal who could get away with doing this.

Do they like to wear jewelry? Yeah, and he owns a lot of it.

Neat or messy handwriting? Neater than you'd expect, large unabashed spacing and snarky loops.

The two emotions they feel the most? Fear and curiosity.

Favorite fabric? Hahhahahahaa.. yeah it's cashmere.

What kind of accent do they have? New York-ish, like Baccano. The quality of his voice is not unlike Todd Haberkorn's normal speaking voice, brassy, abrasive, animated, wry and snarkish.

Taggames list: @katenewmanwrites @smellyrottentrees @wyked-ao3 @lychhiker-writes @fortunatetragedy @cowboybrunch @zackprincebooks @urbiggestfan-01 @quillswriting +Open Tag! (No pressure tho!)

[likethelightfromorionabove]

The Exquisite Heat of a Dying Star: Chapter One

Characters/ Character Pairings: Dark Urge/Enver Gortash, Dark Urge/Astarion, Gale, Karlach

SPICE Rating: 3/5 While the focus of this fic isn't smut it is present and very plot relevant.

Chapter Content Warnings: Mild Choking, Mild knifeplay, Sexual content, Violent Dark Urge ideations, general Durgetash nastiness, heavy angst, infidelity  

Spoilers: Act 3, Dark Urge Plot Line

Canon Compliance: While I am very committed to keeping the characters in character, this is a reimagining of the events of Act Three and the post game had Durge decided to return to Gortash's side and save him from himself. So after a certain point, the canon is dead.

Other Notes: “The assassin” AKA durge in this fic is nonbinary, AFAB anatomy. If you prefer to read on AO3 you can find this chapter here.

Songs on Repeat:

Family Tree by Ethel Cain

Give myself up to him an offering

Let him make a woman outta me

Let Christ forgive these bones I've been hiding

And the bones I'm about to leave

Bad Timing by Blindlove

I swear this isn't like me

Give it up and I'll sink to the bottom

But I'll be here waiting for you

This love is unlikely

Let's blame it on bad timing

Smut below the cut dolls! Enter at your own risk!

The archduke’s dark eyes on them could only be described as hungry. The gleam behind them was reminiscent of Astarion’s eyes when he fed, down to the unsettling tenderness behind the ache. His hand had outstretched for just a moment, as if he intended to touch them and then thought better of it. As the archduke played his lapse off as part of a wider gesture, the tin ringing in their ears started up.

He wants to touch you. He wants to touch you. Hack it off! Hack it off! He’ll never get to touch you again!

Again? They tried to push deeper into the urge’s meaning and were only met with an overwhelming surge of bloodlust. Their hands twitched, aching to release their dagger. The archduke was still talking, though they had stopped fully listening and it seemed he wasn’t fully listening to himself. His eyes had fallen from their face to their hip, where their blades were slung. If he had looked hungry before, his eyes on their blade were positively ravenous.

He wants you to hurt him. He always wanted you to hurt him. A royal, loyal little lapdog, awaiting your command. It would be so easy to hurt him. Get him alone and slice, slice, slice. He’d thank you for it after.

They tried to swallow back the bile rankling in their throat as the urge gloated. He had asked them something, something they hadn’t heard, but his hand was outstretched expectantly. The usual quiet background noise that was the urge surged into a frenzied scream as their eyes fell on his hand.

Hackitoffhackitoffhackitoffhackitoffhackitoff!

No one can ever touch you!

Astarion’s hand at the small of their back provided sickening punctuation to the urge’s manic squealing. Back outside their mind, the archduke’s eyes were bearing down on them, hunger slipping into unabashed lust as he skimmed their body. The ringing in their ears almost drowned out the sound of their own voice speaking words they hadn’t fully intended to say.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, tyrant.”

They couldn’t be certain, it happened too quickly , but a brief pained expression flickered across the archduke’s face at the honorific. Then, his eyes met theirs, his pupils fully blown, and his mouth spread to a wolfish grin. Something about it pulled in the back of their mind, the faint memory of blood, the taste of salt and a phantom caress up their back. 

“I should certainly hope not, assassin.”

Their body acted without the instruction of their mind reaching out to take his hand as though they had done so a thousand times before. They felt Astarion’s hand cling to their back before his touch faded as their body moved away from his. The archduke’s grip was feather light, yet there was a firm undercurrent that guided them to follow him. The cool metal tips of his gauntlet lay carefully at their wrist, pressing in just enough to make their presence known. The tin ringing drowned out all other sound, leaving only the urge to gleefully sing.

Turn around, turn around, turn around and look! You know you want to see. You want to see how hurt he is. You want to see it on his face. You want to hurt him. You want to see him suffer. You want to see how far you can bend him ‘til he breaks. Turn and look, turn and look, turn and look!

They tried to focus in on the beat of their heart, desperate for anything to drown out the urge’s delight. The archduke had released their hand, but his eyes never left them. They avoided his stare, choosing to fix their gaze on the stone behind him. A white hot feeling passed over their body as the public nature of the archduke’s coronation and his evident passion settled on their shoulders. Something in the clarity of revelation drove them to bring their focus back to his face. His attention was focused on them entirely, as though he wasn’t listening to the grand duke’s words as he repeated them with grand empty gestures. His mouth maintained a small smile, his gaze still starved as they slowly met his eyes, staring into two dark pools, deep enough they feared they might drown. Their heartbeat slowed to the pace of a dirge.

Suddenly in a flurry of motion the ceremony was over. They were able to find their retreat in the flood of patriars, all clambering to gain the favor of their new archduke. They finally turned to face Astarion in their newfound freedom, but he wasn’t facing them. Instead, he was further away than they expected, clustered in a tight circle with Gale and Karlach. He appeared to be arguing with them. 

They know what you did. They know who you are. They know who you are even when you don’t know who you are.  They always knew who you were. They’ll never trust you again. Deep down they never did. 

The urge was cut off by Karlach’s raised voice. Her voice reverberated off the walls, yet none of the elite seemed to hear her. She stormed from the hall with Gale following quickly in her wake with a rueful glance  in their direction. Astarion didn’t hesitate to turn back to the assassin. Even though his expression was difficult to read, they could tell he was displeased with the conversation. They started toward each other in tandem, Astarion’s hand reaching to them. Just as he was about to reach them, his expression darkened and they felt someone close in behind them.

The sudden prick of cold steel at their hip sent a wave of ice over their body that was quickly replaced by the warmth of the body behind them. “Meet me upstairs. Later, when your camp is settled. We have much to discuss.” he said, his voice so low it would have been impossible to hear were it not for his proximity. The archduke’s breath was hot against their ear, the hand on their hip just slightly tighter than was appropriate around so many people. He lingered with them for slightly longer than he should have, his body flush with their own. Their face turned to him slightly, just enough to see what he was looking at. Just enough to catch the piercing eye contact he was making with Astarion. He held Astarion’s glare for an agonizing moment, then stepped away and released them from his warmth.  

The archduke left them with an ostentatious salutation of “My friends”, followed by a meaningful look to the assassin. Astarion resumed his usual posture beside them, his arm curled possessively around their hips. Where the cool of his body would have been comforting, they found it a jarring difference to the archduke’s warmth. “I’m not certain how I feel about the way he looked at you, my sweet.” Astarion murmured, making a small show of pressing a kiss into their hairline as he stared daggers into the archduke’s back.

“I’m not certain how I feel about it either.”

Outside in the bright light of Wyrm’s Crossing, Gale struggled to keep pace with the tiefling as she stormed back to their camp. After several paces of jogging to keep up the wizard stopped to beg her to slow down. Karlach obliged, but her nervous energy next to him put Gale on edge. His own anger was blistering just under his skin and Karlach’s louder, lower boiling point was making matters worse. When the decreased pace and uneasy silence seemed to prove too much, Karlach’s words exploded from her as though they couldn’t leave her mouth fast enough.

“They were working with Gortash! They were involved with him! Did you see the way he touched them? The way they took his hand? And Astarion just stayed there with them. Like he wasn’t even angry. Like he understood!”

Gale bristled at Karlach’s accusations and attempted to quicken his pace. “Astarion has never made his affections or allegiances a secret.” he quipped, attempting to seem nonchalant.

Karlach stopped in her tracks, face morphed with an incredulous look. Gale tried to keep walking but a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “You don’t have to defend him, soldier.” she said, her voice softening with her gaze. 

 “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” he replied, heat flowing across his ears and down the back of his neck “I am simply stating that our allies and friends, may have their reasons for what happened in there.” Karlach’s engine blazed a few degrees hotter in response to his words, bathing Gale in heat. 

“They’re dangerous, Gale. Both of them. They’re dangerous apart and even more dangerous together.” she half-shouted, the strenuous effort it was taking her to remain sympathetic clear across her face.

 Gale just swallowed hard, his gaze drifting over Karlach’s shoulders to the figures approaching. Astarion was still wrapped around the bhaalspawn, his pale hand at the usual place on their hip. The elf leaned into them as he walked, murmuring some unknown pleasantry in the bhaalspawn’s ear, his easy, teasing smile gracing their presence as always. The hand at their hip pressed in as Gale could surmise he was making some lewd joke about the pompous archduke and his blown out ceremony. As he watched the two spawn a familiar aching spread across Gale’s chest and he felt as though his heart were beating in his stomach. 

Karlach had finally noted his distraction and looked over her own shoulder. When she realized who he was watching, she released a disapproving sigh and marched off. Gale turned halfway to follow her, torn between his anger with the Bhaalspawn and his desire to walk beside the vampire draped across their shoulders. In the time it took him to try to come to a decision Karlach was gone and the lovers had nearly reached his place on the road.  He begrudgingly held his position for them, unable to prevent the glare that covered his face. 

The bhaalspawn sighed as they reached him. “Don’t look at me like that.” they pleaded.

 Gale felt his scowl deepen. “I’m not entirely certain I have anything to say to you at this moment. Beyond that this whole turn of events has been wholly unsurprising.” he snapped. The bhaalspawn’s jaw twitched, but they didn’t engage him further.

 It was Astarion who cut in on their behalf. “Gale, don't be petulant.” he drawled, “Yes it would seem our esteemed leader is in fact the evil bastard who landed us all in this predicament in the first place, but there are bastards who are even more evil than they are who have been passed the torch.” Astarion threw a wink in the bhaalspawn’s direction as he wrapped an arm around Gale’s shoulders. Gale tried not to focus on the vampire’s touch, swallowing back the knot of emotion that formed in his throat. 

“What took you both so long anyway?” he grumbled, trying to lean away from Astarion’s chest in a subtle manner.

 “Actually that is a good question.” Astarion said, turning his attention back to his paramour, “What exactly did his eminence want to say to you?” Astarion’s voice was dripping in the kind of venom he usually reserved for speaking about his master. Gale wondered if something had happened after they left the coronation hall. The bhaalspawn tittered a moment before speaking.

“He wants to meet with me…alone.”

Astarion let out a barking laugh that would have come across as nonchalant, if Gale couldn’t feel his body stiffen next to him. “Well of course you shouldn’t do that, darling.” Astarion said with an airy wave of his hand, “That would be supremely foolish.”

Gale noted the small flash of irritation in their eyes before they spoke, not quite so deadly as he had seen before but still worth keeping an eye on. “I want to speak with him.” they replied, “He knows who I was before.” 

“Now my sweet, let’s not play dumb.” Astarion hissed out nails digging into Gale’s shoulder, “We both know the tyrant doesn’t just want to talk .”

Gale regretted not following Karlach, but the damage was already done. The lovers both briefly seemed as though they each might draw a weapon, the air thick with tension. As he realized the bhaalspawn’s gaze was fixed on Astarion’s hand on his shoulder, Gale shifted away from the rogue. His body briefly mourned the loss of Astarion’s touch, but he preferred his organs in their appropriate place.

 “Gortash is getting desperate. He’d likely say anything you wanted to hear to get you to his side.” he said, attempting to diffuse the energy flowing between them all.

 “Or it’s a trap.” Astarion tacked on, “And I know a trap better than any of the rest of you.”

The bhaalspawn didn’t appear keen to back down on the subject, yet with an unsettling smile they shifted and extended a hand to Astarion. “You’re both right.” they cooed, their tone sickly sweet, “It was a foolish thought. Let’s get back to camp. I’m sure Karlach has already spread the news of my…unfortunate, former alliance.” Astarion took their hand and all tension dissipated with a kiss. Gale started down the path to their camp, his stomach churning. 

The assassin was right, Karlach had already informed their companions, settling a tense quiet over the camp. Their stares of mistrust weren’t unfamiliar, if anything they were reminiscent of the days following the bard’s death. The ringing in their ears that had become so loud since they reached the city was becoming unbearable. They retreated to their bedroll, hoping tomorrow would bring some peace and a clearer plan of action. 

Yet between the ringing and the urge’s incessant taunting, peace eluded them. Even when Astarion joined them to feed, the dread in their chest never lifted. Astarion’s presence was usually accompanied by a heady lightness and soft chill like a balm against a burn. His cool fingertips were often enough to chase the urge back to its quiet background noise, but tonight all that came of it was cold. Their body had felt cold since the archduke had touched them, as though his warmth had drained them of their own. The isolation from their companion’s, Astarion’s jealousy, his hand on Gale, all swirled through their mind, fighting for dominance over what the urge would use to further tear at their psyche. 

You could earn their trust again. Eliminate the tyrant. Scurry off to his office and bathe in his blood. Tear into his flesh and they’ll sing your praises like a hero. Kill him and your vampire will feel warm again. His warmth will never taint you again. 

They were on the road in Wyrm’s Crossing approaching the Rock. They couldn’t even be certain when they had decided to go or how they had gotten there. There was only one thought in their often empty mind. They needed to see the tyrant.

Access to the fortress was surprisingly simple. They expected to run the gauntlet, steel watch. Flaming Fists, trained assassins, but the path to the archduke’s personal quarters was cleared. Only a single Fist who merely nodded them along as though she had been expecting them. The quiet was unsettling, leaving them with only the urge whining over the lack of bloodshed. 

Kill the tyrant extra bloody, then kill the rest of the sorry souls in this fortress. Show them your prowess, make them regret letting you in. Make them bleed.

The archduke was at his desk, poring over some documents with a glass of wine in his hand. He looked up from under his heavy brow as they entered with a soft, dangerous smile. “I’m glad you accepted my offer, assassin. There’s much to be done.” he said, waving them in from the doorway. They entered cautiously, unwilling to break the archduke’s stare. He held out a glass to them, gesturing to an empty seat near the desk. “It’s a vintage you favored.” he said, as they started to decline. Begrudgingly they accepted, giving the liquid a quick sniff. The archduke chuckled. 

“Poison isn’t my preferred method, my dear.”

“That’s funny, I would have pegged it as your style, your grace.”

“Why should it be? Up until recently I had the finest assassin in Baldur’s Gate at my disposal.”

The assassin glared at him, but took a careful sip. The tyrant was right. If they were to choose, this would be their preference. It reminded them of the bottle they had shared with Astarion the night they had celebrated their victory over the goblins. Sharp, acidic, with undertones of earth, pepper and a dark fleshy fruit they couldn’t name. Clearly a finer vintage than had been available on the road, but with the same hint of vinegar. 

The archduke was watching them again, clearly pleased with his overt knowledge where they lacked the ability to remember themselves. He was making his point rather beautifully. The desire to wipe the smirk off his face in blood nearly overtook them. Instead, they scowled into their glass before they spoke again. 

“Your security measures are shockingly subpar, your grace. I waltzed right in without so much as a second glance.” 

“But of course, dearest. Their orders are simple. You are free to come and go as you wish and no matter what they might hear, they are not to interrupt.  I expect my orders to be followed to perfection.”

“And you find that a wise choice, archduke? To allow me as close as I would wish? To allow me whatever my twisted psyche might drive me to do?” they asked. The assassin placed both hands on his desk, leaning over him as every ounce of malice thrummed through their body. He looked up at them with a nearly hopeful expression, as though he was eager for whatever harm they might intend him. “My assassin, my dagger, my love,” the archduke purred, “My life has long been yours to forfeit. If you have decided tonight is my end, then I willingly lay myself at the mercy of your blade.”

NOW! NOWNOWNOW! DO IT NOW!

They had started to laugh, the low, throaty chuckle of a madman. The archduke was either supremely stupid or just as insane as they were. Yet his every word rang with sincerity. Who was this man? Who was he to them? The urge recognized his presence when even they could not. Their wild laughter had hunched them over the desk, gripped by the urge’s wild screaming and the utter insanity of it all. Then something warm touched their cheek.

The archduke had placed a hand on their face, wiping away the tears they couldn’t source the emotion behind. Their own hand acted once again without their command, clasping on to the hand at their cheek. Fixed on his dark eyes, a sense of comfort and self flooded their chest, chasing down and destroying the doubt they were clinging to like the mast of a ship. His eyes reflected their own image back to them with the kind of intimacy reserved only for the beloved. It ripped at their memory so viciously they wondered if they would leave this room with their mind intact. The room around them tilted as flashes of memory flickered across their senses. 

As their knees buckled, they were abruptly surrounded by warmth. The archduke was holding them up, face angled down to them, close enough that his dark hair tickled their skin. The assassin had to pull back from the instinct to close the distance between them and relearn the taste of his tongue. His expression was just as intense as the moment they first encountered him, but now coloured with a fond softness. His body felt familiar, like a homecoming their very soul had been waiting for since they set foot in the city, despite their mind not holding a single memory of him. 

“Hello, assassin. Welcome home.”

They moved back, noting their reluctance to break from his warmth. Their body undeniably craved his presence. “Who are you?” they whispered, uncertain that was the question they meant to ask.

 “Enver Gortash, Archduke of Baldur’s Gate.” he replied with a smirk, “But to you, my dearest? Tyrant, lordling, would be duke. Occasionally darling or even Enver, if I behaved.” His tone was fond, as though he were telling a dear friend the story of his greatest love. Perhaps he was… 

Their heart was beating in their throat. This had been a mistake. Astarion had been right, they had to get back to him. They had to leave, to get back to camp. They just needed their body to move, to listen to their commands once more. A task that proved to be outside their own purview. 

Without thinking they moved to the window rather than the door, only realizing they had done so as their fingertips were brushing the sill. They had settled on the faintest grooves in the wood, slotting perfectly into place. The faint smell of cloves and tobacco brushed their senses. Their other hand raised, pressing lightly into the cold, warped glass of the pane. The blood pounded in their ears, drowning out their senses until there was only the urge.

You came here to do something. Don’t leave now. Soak the sill in blood. Let it run over the wall. Get him here, lean him out and slit his throat. Do it. Stop waiting. He wants you to do it. Give in and do it. Do it. DO IT.

Warmth enveloped their body. The urge fell silent as Enver’s chest molded to their back, a large arm wrapping their chest. The stubble of his chin prickled at their neck and at some distant sensation that could have been lifetimes ago. “You remember more than you think you do, assassin.” he crooned. His weight pressed them forward against the pane, the harsh cold of the glass countered by his warmth. Their mind vaguely conjured the feeling of Astarion’s chest against their skin the first time they had laid with him in the forest. Their hand twitched towards the latch of the window, but something in them couldn’t finish the motion. 

“Your body remembers. Though if you’re so inclined, I would be glad to give it a reminder.” he continued, a clawed thumb rubbing slow circles against their hip. He paused to wait for their response, his lips pressing at the base of their neck. When their words failed, the hand on their chest drifted across their stomach. Their grip on the window sill tightened, deepening the slight grooves by another notch. As his hand toyed at their laces, their fingers splayed against the glass. A brief thought raised from their fog, comparing the cool, smooth texture of the glass to Astarion’s chest. The heat of Enver’s shuddering breath chased the thought from their mind as he pressed them forward, his hand sliding under their waistband and across their slick folds. His thumb swiped across them, teasing at their clit with a level of dexterity that could only be attributed to intimate knowledge. 

Their heavy breathing was fogging the pane in front of them. When he finally pushed a finger inside them their forehead hit the glass, allowing their body to rock into his hand with the arch of their back. Enver’s breath was hot on their neck, his lips alternating between lingering kisses and sighing soft moans. His hand continued to work them over intimately, nothing about his strokes hurried, but carried by a desperate undercurrent that grew with every moment they were connected. The gauntlet left their hip, reaching up swiftly to take hold of their hair and pull their head backwards. The second it pierced their scalp the urge reared to life with a shriek.

TOUCHED YOU! TAINTED! Taintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtainted. No one can touch you! Rip, tear, cut, slice! Make him regret touching you!

Without a second thought the assassin drew their dagger, whipping around to bring it to his throat. The blade sliced into his skin, ruby droplets spilling over its silver edge. In turn the archduke’s gauntlet closed around their neck, pressing down just hard enough to silence the urge once more. Their pulse quickened, only heightened by the crimson trickling across their blade and his fingers still thrumming inside their cunt. Enver’s expression remained steady, consumed only by a ravenous desire. 

Their body leaned into him again, allowing him deeper. His head fell against their own, pushing the blade deeper. “Enver…” they whimpered, their free hand gripping his hip, desperate for anything to hold them together. “Yes.” he groaned, pushing them so hard against the glass it felt as though it might break and send them both tumbling into the street. Somewhere distantly in their mind, the urge purred at the thought.

 Their eyelids began to flutter, an overwhelming sensation crawling up their back. “Eyes on me, assassin.” he commanded. Their eyes flew open, locking their gaze with his intense stare. Time slowed for just a moment as their climax hit, eyes fixed on Enver’s, just before he pressed their mouths together. He rode their pleasure with his tongue in their mouth, their blade still stuck in his throat, prolonging it as long as he could. 

When they finally came down from their high, he slowly pulled his hand from their trousers, softly brushing their soaked folds as he did. He held his covered hand up to the light, admiring it a moment before bringing it to his lips. As he did an image flashed across their empty mind. Astarion, hand covered in their blood as he swept it in his mouth. 

The thought of Astarion brought them crashing back to their reality. Their hand slipped behind them, finding the latch to the window. The click drew Enver’s attention away from his hand. “You’re leaving?” he asked, making no motion to stop them. The assassin could only nod. He sighed softly. “Back to your camp?” he continued. Another nod. “Even knowing what you know now?” Enver pushed further, “Why?” The answer caught in their throat but they pushed through it to give him their reason.

 “Astarion.” they whispered, his name falling out like a dead language. 

With a low growl Enver pressed his mouth against theirs, forcing them to taste themselves on his tongue. They melted back against his body, the will to go faltering for a moment. Yet the hand behind their back pushed against the pane, opening the window and letting the cold rush in. Enver pulled back from them, disappointment clouding his eyes.

“Very well.” he said with a tut, “Return to your camp, fight against our plot, until you can no longer resist your true nature. I’m quite accustomed to waiting on you, assassin. Once you made me wait an entire month. You’ll find I am exceedingly patient.” He left a final kiss under their jaw before retreating to his desk with a lingering glance. The assassin slipped from the window, down the stone walls and back into the street.

He was sitting up when they crept back into camp, crimson eyes glowing in the dark. Astarion’s face painted a picture of anger, betrayal and concern all rolled into one. They considered avoiding him, returning to their bedroll as though nothing had changed, but his eyes drew them to him. “Hello darling.” they whispered, fighting past every instinct to run.

 “We agreed you wouldn’t meet with him alone.” he hissed as they approached him. They could only nod, swallowing back the knot in their throat. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” Astarion snapped, “I came out of my trance to you gone and you’ve been gone for hours.” In the low light of the candles at his tent, they could see his hair wasn’t coiffed quite as perfectly as usual, his shirt slightly rumpled and an empty wine bottle at his feet. He had been waiting up for them, possibly as long as they had been gone.

They both stood in their second tension filled silence of the day before Astarion sighed and reached for them. They relished the cool touch of his hands, settling into the crook of his neck. Their body felt overheated, flushed, tense in spite of their release. Astarion’s body against them provided a certain safety, the reminder that if he had not interceded, the camp likely would have dispatched them long ago. However it lacked the warmth and comfort Enver’s had provided. The realization created an aching hole on their chest.

 “I don’t enjoy being worried for you, you know?” he grumbled into their hair.

 “I know,” they replied, “I’m sorry, I just had to know.”

 Astarion sighed again, cold fingers tracing patterns across their back. “Did you at least get the answers you were looking for?” he asked.

 The thought to lie flashed across their mind as they dredged up a partial truth, muttering something about how they weren’t really certain. Astarion gave them some sympathetic tuts, and as he pulled their face to his the urge began to sing.

Do you think that he can taste the tyrant on your tongue?

[thecameronchronicles]

Sessions

TW: Dark(ish) Rafe. Therapy. Smut. Language. 

SUMMARY: As Rafe’s therapist, you have become immune to his attempts and fantasies…until his intimidation takes control over prior reservations…

WORD COUNT: 2700

*Requested*

Sessions

Rafe Cameron had become your patient six weeks ago. After a mental breakdown to his father and a handful of questionable life decisions between cocaine and brutality among those of a lesser social class, he sat across from you with those preying eyes you ignored as you made notes upon your memo pad. This was how the sessions always started. In silence as you would feel him analyze you in carnal conviction. Beginning at the point of your heels, he would luxuriate his analysis to your legs folded across each other, andu upwards to the two buttons unclasped to expose just the right amount of cleavage without being too sultry, until his eyes finalized to your lips. 

"Have you had any more of those thoughts, Rafe?" You questioned, finally lifting your eyes as he was unabashed when noticing his eyes lift from your chest. Not a blush or even an apology, just an adjustment on the couch before he nodded. 

"And what do you do when they intrude your mind?" 

"I think about you..." 

"Our sessions, you mean?" You corrected as he shook his head, no, before leaning his elbows onto his knees. 

"I mean you." 

"What about me?" You played blase, just as you had every time he would make some flirty comment that crossed that line you'd never even been tempted to cross with any other patient. But he was intimidating in a way that made your thighs press together when his eyes trained on you. He was damaged but not to such a degree that was beyond redemption, which pulled at your heartstrings. And if you were primarily vain, you couldn't deny how attractive he was. Those soft blue eyes darkening with lust, those long fingers sliding across the curve of the chaise lounger, and his muscles always on view beneath his polos and button ups. 

"All the things I want to do to you..." Your eyes paused for just a moment as you thought of your own vision. Bent over that chaise, skirt lifted enough to learn how he'd make your panties sticky with slick by his voice alone. His fingers wrapped within your hair as he pounded into you with melodic tunes of skin-to-skin contact sounding out between you. 

But you were a professional. And these fantasies were just that. So you played to his words to a certain degree before you would alter it for the sake of the delicate lace between your thighs. 

"Are these violent thoughts, Rafe?" His jaw clenched to the way you spoke his name, almost like a loving mother on the cusp of reprimanding him but with a sultry timbre that would have given Freudian assessors a field day to analyze. 

"For you, yes...But in all of them, you're smiling through your tears..." 

"Why am I crying?" 

"Because you took me so well and you were choking on me." 

"And do these thoughts make it easier to handle the ones of violence?" 

"They are distracting..." Your eyes moved to him with focus, reinstating the dominance you could feel slip prior to your questioning. 

"And what else do you do to get rid of these thoughts?" 

"Are you asking me if I jerk off thinking about you?" Your curiosity was piqued, and yet you were intrigued. Of course, you'd had former patients come on to you, but it was either direct or just by a gaze alone. But with him, he treated it like a game. You would look, he'd look away, vice versa and then he'd comment about being lonely and single, describe his methods of intercourse and his reviews from past lovers, all while you maintained professional-barely. 

"Does it help?" 

"Every day. Every night. Anytime I’m alone…Just before I came here, in fact. In the shower...imagining you were on your knees for me..." 

"Do all of your fantasies have me that way for you?" 

"Only the ones I'll tell you about." 

"And the others?" 

"I'd rather just show you..." 

"I think you understand how inappropriate this is. You want to get my reaction. But there isn't one to give..." 

"No? Then why are you blushing, doctor? Why are you always pressing those thighs together beneath that little clipboard for just the tiniest bit of relief from the friction that shift gives? And why don't don't look me in the eyes when I talk about sex?"

"It's common that you may feel a way about me because of a predetermined maternal-" 

"No. I sure as hell know when I'm not wanted, alright? But you..." He now stood, licking his lips, and moving painfully slowly towards you. 

"You want me...And I'm here...And if I have to take another hour talking about my feelings and my father...my lack of a mother figure...I'm gonna do it with you either riding me or me pounding into you-" 

"Rafe, I need you to sit back down. This isn't-" 

"Appropriate..." He slowly nodded as you matched his vertical positioning, fluffing the lines of your skirt flat, before moving towards the door. 

"If you can't behave, we'll have to cut today's session short..." You were able to take hold of the door knob, breathing a sigh of relief to know that in a few feet you could relieve the blaring pulsation between your legs once in your main office. 

"My dad pays for the hour. How am I supposed to explain coming back early? I'm cured?" He chuckled, "We both know nobody would buy that...I'm as sick as they come and the only thing that makes me feel remotely sane is the idea of being inside of you..." He had towered over you from behind, your breath hitching as you cleared your throat from the lump left by a lack of verbiage desperately trying to remain professional. 

"I'm not the outlet you need, Rafe. I am sure there is a nice girl-" You were suddenly shoved against the door, wrists bound by only one of his hands as it was taken above your head, as your clipboard and adjoined memo pad fell between you. A gasp of genuine surprise left your lips. 

"I don't want a good girl. They're boring. I want a woman...someone who knows her body enough to tell me what she wants and take everything I can give..." He took his second hand to your jaw, turning your head so he could speak against your cheek. 

"For hours...even days..." 

"Rafe-" 

"You have all of these theories about me, right doc? How my lack of a mother figure makes me cruel against women...but what about you? What event happened to you that made you willing to be treated the way we both knew you want?" 

"I-" 

"Daddy issues? Asshole exes too nice to make you come the way you need but too mean to listen to you? Maybe just curiosity?" He scoffed. 

"I'd listen to you..." 

"Another theory..." He pointed his finger as if having been offered a sudden epiphany, before moving it across the buttons of your shirt in a descent, taking one open as your lips parted to correct him, until he interrupted you into silence. 

"I'm your favorite patient. Just like I look forward to every Thursday at ten...you get excited in a way that is...inappropriate...never really acting on it because you're afraid the fantasy will be ruined...But I'd make every single one come true..." He pulled your blouse apart with a forceful test, buttons flying in every direction before his lips were on your exposed breasts, only a bra staring back at him. 

"Against this door. Over that couch...against that window..." His hand now moved to your skirt, lifting it enough to see the matching black panties in wait for him. 

"Just for reference, I prefer red. Next week, I want to see you in red..." 

"There won't even be a first time, Rafe..." 

"We both know that's not true. There won't only be a first. But a second and a third. Until one of us gets tired of coming or by some miracle you actually manage to make those thoughts go away. But until then..." He pulled his hand around your neck. 

"Everything alright?" Your assistant asked upon hearing the commotion on your side of the door. His hand was quick to squeeze your neck so the only thing you could say was a weak whimper of his name. 

"Tell her everything is fine, or I'll fuck you over the desk out there for everyone to know the lengths you go to for your favorite patient-" He tightened his grip enough to where you began to see those black spots of nearing unconsciousness. 

"I'm giving you one chance to listen, or I swear you'll regret it." He released you in the nick of time as the question was asked by your assistant once again. 

"I'm alright." 

"Tell her to cancel your next appointment." His eyes looked to the clock set on the bookshelf on the far side of the room. 

"Tell her to clear your whole day-" 

"I have other patients-" 

"And I'm losing mine. You do NOT want to push me, doc. I have a lot of frustration and you're just lucky enough to be the outlet for 'em. So do it." He spoke behind a clenched jaw as you nodded. 

"Clear my day..." 

"Are you sure? Your next appointment-" His fingers rubbed at your clit as your body arched towards him. 

"I'm sure!" You spoke quickly as he smirked. 

"Good fucking girl-" His grin widened as he brought you to the center of the room, his belt taken around your neck, tightened just enough to allow you breath, but easily pliable by his domineering hold. 

"I've thought of this every fucking time...and you're gonna do it exactly how I want...right?" 

You paused, looking towards the door before he pulled the belt. 

"You don't get to leave. But by all means, go ahead and scream...I'm still not stopping until you come...and talk back or disobey...and you won't even get to do that." He pulled the tail of the belt upwards so you were forced to look at him. 

"Open." He watched as you produced your tongue, his spit now on your tongue by his projection, before his second hand made quick work of his belt. 

"You're gonna spit it on me...rub me until I say...Now." You nodded before taking him from his pants, his fingers relaxing the belt enough to give you enough freedom to obey, before he then pulled your hair with his second hand, but more in appreciation than domination. 

"Good girl...Nice and slow for me..." You spit the excess of saliva onto his shaft, massaging his shaft with the mixed lubrication, before taking him to your lips. 

"I didn't say to take me yet!" He scolded, "Try it again and have good luck explaining to your other clients why you can't sit for a fuckinf week-maybe two..." You nodded. 

"Keep stroking me..." You obliged as you watched his head cry for you, beads formed on his tip. 

"Eyes to me while you put it in...Slowly..." You obeyed in careful precision. 

"Good. Now keep those eyes to me..." You took him further, his body tensing and relaxing to your focus and motions. 

"I knew you would be a goddess on your knees...maybe a bit of a devil, too, yeah?" You nodded. 

"Now work it for me...I know you've thought about it...Let me hear you choke on me, doc..." 

You weren't able to assess how long you'd been on your knees for him due to the tears on your eyes. But by the ache in your knees and burn of your stretched and battered throat, you knew it had been in length. And you had continued beyond your own limits until hearing him curse and moan over you as your eyes continued to fixate on him. 

"Give me those fucking lips-" He pulled you around him and into a straddle as he carried you both to the edge of that chaise. Removing the rest of your clothes, he brought you onto his cock as you groaned at the relief of its pressure. 

"Keep fucking riding me...but don't come until to say...yeah?" You nodded as he smiled, his eyes falling to the space between you as he took in every action of your body against him. 

"So many dirty thoughts and tensions doc...and you're gonna fuck em all out of me..." 

You nodded. "So then do it...make me come...I know you can..." 

You stabilized your fingers into his shoulders before he removed the belt from your neck and used it to bind your hands behind your back. 

"I want you so fucking sore that you don't feel tempted to let anyone else touch you...I'm gonna mark you and drain you until every single part of you belongs to me...and you try to fight it..." He stationed himself, still speaking against your mouth.

"And I'll breed you until you've given me all the little Cameron's I want...Keeping you at home...where you'll wait for me every night...in what color lingerie?" 

"Red..." 

"Good..." He returned his hands to your hips. 

"And this?" His thumb moved over your clit. 

"Not even you get to touch it...It's mine...like these..." He took one of your breasts in his mouth, basking in the soft skin and hard pebble of your nipple as you rolled your hips. 

"And this-" He slapped your ass. 

"And you're gonna be a good girl and listen...Because you want to please me...to fix me..." He chuckled. 

"And right now...fuck me...right?" 

"Yes..." 

" Louder." 

"Yes!" 

"Louder!" 

"YES, Rafe! JESUS!" 

"Good girl...now I want you to come for me...think you can do that for me? No hands." 

You nodded.

 "I'll even help..." He sped the flicks made over your sensitive flesh as you rode him with every ounce allowed as he was manic beneath you, silencing your attempts to control the pace, before feeling his hand wrapped around the back of your neck for stability. 

"Beg for it-" 

"Give it to me Rafe! Please!" 

"Yeah?" 

"Oh God, Yes! Please!" 

"Keep asking for it...keep begging-fuck!" He grunted as you smirked. 

"You like that? Huh? You like begging for me?" 

"Mmmhmmm..." You answered. 

"Then keep fucking going...I’m so close...gonna paint you, doc...make you drip with me...with us..." He tightened his grip on your neck as you moaned into whimpers. 

"Yes! Rafe!" 

"Come for me. Right now! Give it to me! Right fucking now!" He demanded as you felt your body tremble as he was quick to follow. 

"Shit! Fuck!" He clenched his jaw, nails tracing the sides of your legs as his eyes slowly pulled open. 

"Got any theories about that?" He teased as you tried to move from him, guilt and fear of your career made vulnerable by this indiscretion, you felt him pull you back into him. 

"That shouldn't have happened today..." 

"You're right. It should have happened the first fucking session-" He had unbound your hands by now, but still kept you against him. 

"Rafe, it can't happen again. It won’t-I want you to get better..." 

"And for the last hour, I haven't thought of hurting anyone...of anything but you...and you want to deny me that…progress?" 

"There are other things you can do, a different therapist-" 

"Not for me." He moved effortlessly across the room, taking hold of the tape recorder. 

"You try to end this between us...you try to get out of it in any way and I go to the board with this..." 

"Rafe..." 

"I'm expecting that red lingerie next week...no panties though...and no touching yourself until then..." He would dress quickly and leave as you sat in awe, wondering if this therapy session was more for you or him…

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @obxxrxfes @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @rafesbae

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Split

08.19.23

Thudding, dull pain is something that reminds me I am alive

The emotions course through my veins in a way some may call sadistic

Trailing along my curved spine, I mentally picture someone there

Their face is blurred to me, their hand one I know not

Words drip from my mouth as though a leaking faucet

Our main difference being that many hear the repetitive tap against the bowl

The words that spill forth convey so much, yet those who read them realize so little

If I showed this to you, would you understand?

Would you know yourself of nights spent in unholy water, trying desperately to make up your mind

One hand grasping a razor

The other your own wrist

The mental debate one you've heard so many, too many times

Would you believe me if I told you how sore my able heart beats against the bones that are used against I and every woman?

Would you listen when I ponder how said bones resemble a grasp around us, the design effective and symbolic?

And while I let these thoughts drip from my red, swollen lips that tremble and bleed from the cracks I bite into them

Could you find Aphrodite in such an unabashed display of humanity?

Would you find beauty in the way the water spirals down my hair?

Would you take care to notice, stranger, how the color sets shame to fire, beautiful even in the artifical light?

Would you see my eyes, which I long to hear described poetically, peak between too long of bangs, tears trapped in blonde lashes that do not sit evenly

And see the rage that fuels me?

Would you find beauty in my nose as one once did

His words unlike any ever spoken to me

Held in a diary I've kept, used to decode myself and others

Would you run your hands along my body?

Not in a way to bring lust into your heart

But to tell me you see me

You feel me

Would you admire me as I admire you, stranger?

A figment created long ago when it became clear to me that when I cried, no one would come

Maybe this is why God the Father has created us

Maybe he too has spent endless nights in this porcelain trap

Tapping his head against a hollow wall

Begging for salvation

Maybe he too knows not what he did

Does God also have a father that damned him?

A mother that begged him?

Is this why he chose to send his child into the gallows?

All say mercy

I say an eye for an eye

Would you look into mine and see redemption?

Would you cup my aging face and tell me I've done nothing to cause this?

Would you press your forehead against mine and whisper the thoughts I whisper to others?

"You are not broken,

You are loved.

This world feels your warmth

And will one day allow you to exist without lessons to remind of how mortal you and I are"

In my mind, this figure takes the razor and places it away

Wrapping their arms around me

Allowing me to feel the air my lungs have refused to breathe

But in reality, my fingers are pruned and the razor taunts me

I am too weak, it knows

And I stare back, begging myself to show strength and allow myself to slip away in a crimson pond

In this pond, I dare the selfish thought of maybe being worth compared to the beauty of Ophilia

Would I be an example worthy of art then?

In my mind, the stranger carefully lifts me and wraps me in cloth that soothes my tender, self admired skin

In reality, my bones feel as though knives carve away the detested excess of my body

A body my mind knows not how to view

Mentally I lay in a soft bed

Sheets and pillows surrounding me as a stranger sings sweet songs to me

Combing through my hair

They trace shapes upon my cheeks, their touch making me smile

Physically I begin to see the water lap at the drains that prevent it from overflowing

The water and stinging tears the only warmth I'll ever deserve

I exist in two worlds

I always have

Since I was a child, I knew how to balance such things as this

But as I grow older I realize there is no point in such niceties

The delusion of love for me makes my back ache more and more

It was promised to me once

It was given to me

Yet this love was not for me

This love was for an idea

Now I live in fear I am but a horrible, intrusive thought

Something my makers conjure and bat away, uncomfortable with my existence

I chant and cry

"I am worth it! I am good!"

But silence is all that echos in this small room

Eyes look but they do not perceive

I am but a paperweight

Occupying space better taken by someone other than I

I wonder who all have died to allow me to continue living

Is there a limit to those who are allowed to be?

If so, why does God continue to let me take space?

"You are worthy," the stranger tells me

"I have done nothing," I respond

"You need not do anything to be worthy" he implores

"But I do; for why should I be given rewards with no work?"

In my dreams they pull me into their embrace and remind me of how much I do

How I burn pieces of myself to keep others warm

How I let others occupy space in my mind

Thinking of ways to make them happier with me

Even those I hate, I still long to see them smile at me

I long for their praise and I long to hear laughter as they feel joy that I have caused

I do not wish to be worshipped

No, I ask for something more selfish

I ask that I bring every person I meet happiness

True, unfiltered happiness

And in return, I ask for just one human to return the warmth to me I cannot help but give

"It is not selfish to be loved."

No, it is simply damning.

Yet this damnation is my favorite sin

I crave it as one would crave water or food

I would willingly sacrifice the latter for the former

And this sacrifice, which is not truly a sacrifice

Is one that brings me joy I cannot describe

Lean on me and I will feel useful

I will go to bed that night feeling worthy of my place in this world for but a moment

For when I wake, I will crave another dose

As is only natural for an addict

But reject me and I will reject myself in a way I do not know if Eve could have comprehended when the snake seduced her as they often do me

I will remind myself that this is not fair to anyone

How I deserve the pain that thuds and thuds against the cage made of Adam where I contain my selfishness

And this stranger looks at me with pity

But this stranger is myself

And I tell him "leave; no one is less worthy of this self indulgence than you."

Once more, the stranger disappears

And I sit here in this tub, finally free to press the blade to my vein

And free myself from this apple I would consume again and again

In a garden given to all but me

If only I wasn't a coward.

[anthrotographer]

Challengers (2024) | A review w/ spoilers*

Tumblr is not going to like my review, I already know. I acknowledge this movie wasn't made for me, but I feel I give credit where it's due.

Last night I had a staggering movie going experience. I felt like I was being sold a lie a minute sitting through the agonizing commercials, the movie previews, and till the end of Challengers. Back to back promos for military branches, painting them as organizations of peace and innovation (a rally during war time). I understand there’s nothing new about that experience. Consumerism and propaganda tactics have a long tradition at the cinema. We’ve been advertised a false reality for so long it’s hard to think about our world without using the images fed to us to line that canvas. Take how modern horror treats rural living. It’s very common to see (in fact I saw) a movie trailer where a young couple vacations in a secluded part of the country to get away from it all. The idea of ruralism as a peaceful alternative to stressful urban living is benign and actually has some merit to think about in a country as urbanized and unhappy as ours. Yet the common movie trope is that there are evil forces lurking in the dark outskirts, that living ‘out there’ turns people into kooks or murderous cultists. One movie by itself with this premise can be harmless, but within a whole genre that trends this way it feels insidious. Almost like we are supposed to all fear each other. Challengers is another example of a genre movie that warps human reality into a lifeless opportunity to sell things. 

When a movie feels more like a commercial or a music video then why even bother with the movie going experience. The distinguishers between television and film are fading away over time. In one particularly unabashed scene we cut between three different product placements for Coke, Adidas, and the U.S. Open. It was shameless, the way Josh O’Connor was most likely told to hold that CocaCola label perfectly centered in the frame. Those three brands are far from the only ones displayed. Tennis, and sports events in general, flash a ton of advertising so I understand that the film’s stuck in that universe. Still there are ways to artfully sidestep brazen product placement. 

I don’t want to spend much time trying to analyze the relationship between Tashi, Art and Patrick. The film doesn’t give you enough about why these three are fatefully attached to each other besides vapid attractions. Yes all three are enamored by one another but what’s the motivation to stay in this toxic ménage à trois dynamic for so long? Zendaya plays Tashi, a master manipulator trying to mold her husband Art Donaldson into the star tennis player she was supposed to be before her injury. And her “little white boys” Art and Patrick feel like pawns that are content to be pawns. Men who don’t have any freewill and are solely motivated by their lust for this supermodel of a woman. In a way I don’t blame them. My disconnect comes because there’s a lack of depth with the characters and their relationships. Each of them seems to have a singular focus; Tashi wants vicarious glory through Art, Art wants to be loved, and Patrick wants Art’s life. But there is no depth to the desires. Time is never spent on why Tashi loves tennis more than people or why Art and Pat let their, supposedly strong bond, get broken so easily by a “home wrecker” that forecasted her own home wrecking. And look, as a seductive art piece it succeeds, for the most part, but as a story about real people it reduces its characters to their base desires while pretending they are complex. Maybe I don’t understand Romance—as I’ve been told. I am content to treat it as just a romantic fantasy and give it credit for being hot, but it was also a long drawn out tease. 

There was no reason for this experience to be more than two hours long! Half of it was in never ending slow-mo where I felt like the same tennis ball was being served for half an hour. The dreaded slow motion, which can be good for a sporty movie to capture athletic movements and build suspense, but here it was overused to a point where it left us thinking “get on with it already”.  Thank goodness some of my theater neighbors were also moaning about this because I felt alone, trapped in a drugged fugue state. So much of the film was disorienting. For a period you are meant to feel like a tennis ball being battered around through the camera. Editing wise this movie had the same problem that so many modern movies have; death from a thousand cuts. And the slowly unraveling chopped timeline executed so many arbitrary flashbacks and flash forwards. Eight weeks before, two days forward, then a five year flashback, all when you could tell this story sequentially with similar suspense building and less confusion. 

Seeing this movie was a spur of the moment, going in blind experience. I know now that I was not the target audience. Today I mentioned it to a friend and he ended up watching the trailer. The text I got back: “looked like a bit of a teenager movie”. I don’t mean to spoil the enjoyment for anyone with this review. From a certain angle I did have fun with Challengers. Sometimes simply devouring some eye candy is what the mood demands. 

If you found my writing at all interesting please visit and follow it on Substack!

[butchviking]

re: the top surgery convo, it rly makes me upset too the way some radfems on here throw around the words "mutilated" and "disgusting" as if a lesbian cant like a girl without boobs. not to play this card but there are women with p much naturally flat chests and theres women whove had double mastectomies for breast cancer. as a lesbian i like the look of certain transmasc bodies and i'd hope that other lesbians could like the look of mine.. but i feel you SO hard on not knowing where youd fit in after top surgery. i think it can be easy to get into the mindset of "normal real world lesbians could NEVER love a mutilated woman without boobs" while on radblr bc theres many close minded women on here who like to think theyre not online but .. lets face it we are all too online lol.

yeah i am definitely too online 😔 but while I know the radblr girlies are not representative of the lesbian population as a whole (im sure regular ass dykes would NOT say the shit some of them say abt transitioned women) it is also true that normie lesbians love tits a lot too and by god do they make sure u know that 😂 lesbians will see a lady with large breasts and be like is anyone going to mention how hot she looks and not wait for an answer. (which is ofc not a bad thing i love & support unabashed lesbian lust. it is my own personal insecurity that is the problem here)

ultimately i just need to log off, go find a gender/dysphoria therapist to talk things thru with, and hang out with normie women of all kinds. but for the most part im actually really enjoying being chronically online rn lmao, i phase in and out of the internet every few years and i do have a lot of fun when im here and make a lot of online buddies and even meet a few of them! and this is where all the gerard way images are stored.. how would i survive without gerard way image 😔 perhaps next summer i will log off. perhaps.

[projectcaramel]

Narcissism (1) - Obey Me! Asmodeus

I have a very strong dislike for Asmodeus. 

It isn’t that I’m jealous of him, no matter how much he claims that is the case when I tell him I don’t like him. Well, maybe I am a little jealous of his looks; he frequently looks more feminine than me, and he’s a guy. But I’m not petty enough to try tearing out his hair or anything trying to bring him onto my level or something like that.

What I hate is his unabashed, insufferable love for himself. I’ve never gotten along well with people who think too much of themselves, so Asmodeus was the last person I would have normally chosen to associate with. The man was actually in love with himself, to the point where he actually wanted to kiss himself. Wasn’t lust supposed to be a sin that required two people to commit?

“Delli, what’s with your hair? Are you going to go out like that?” I glared at Asmo for the comment.

“I’m not going out, no,” I replied through gritted teeth. What on earth was wrong with my hair? I washed and brushed it; wasn’t that enough? “And stop calling me that; my name is Adelene.” 

“But Delli suits you soooo much better~” Asmo hummed, even as he took a picture of himself for Devilgram. I think that was his third one this morning. Come to think of it, I also hated the way he talked. “I could fix your hair up for you, you know. Then you wouldn’t have to be so jealous.” 

“Asmo, I’m not jealous,” I replied, struggling to hold my temper in check. If I’m jealous of anything, it’s the way you can’t seem to detect how frustrated I am with you. Sometimes, the only reason I was civil with Asmodeus was because I was afraid he would get angry and hurt me. “I don’t have any desire to be a wax figure that spends all my time on looking good. If I want someone to call me beautiful, then they’d better do it regardless of how I’m dressed or how my hair looks.”

Asmo frowned, even as I stood up. “I changed my mind. I am going out.” 

...

“Adelene? What’s the matter?” Satan. He’d been returning to the House of Lamentation with three books under his arm, only to find me lingering on the steps. It wasn’t something I normally did, so I supposed it was natural that he approached me.

“...it’s nothing,” I lied. It wasn’t nothing, but how could I say something like “I’m finding your little brother unbearable to be around right now”?

“It’s clearly not,” Satan replied dryly, and I glanced at him. “Come on; you know how hard it gets to live here when you’re upset about something; dodging around your moods is like trying not to step on landmines.” 

“I’m not upset,” I mumbled. “Just...annoyed.” 

“With Asmo?” Satan guessed, and surprise entered my system. “We’re not idiots, Adelene. Asmo’s probably the only one who can’t tell when he steps on your toes. Unfortunately, he thinks you’re fashionably incapable because of that baggy clothing you always wear and your aversion to make-up. If you want my advice, just accept his help. He might give you up as a lost cause.” 

“I feel like you openly insulted me in there, but thanks, Satan.” 

“No problem,” he replied before he stepped inside the House of Lamentation to leave me brooding over the solution to my problem. Let Asmodeus give me a makeover...? I didn’t really want to, but... if it would make him shut up...

...

“Alright! Sit down there!” Asmo ordered with enthusiasm, and somewhat uneasily, I pulled myself into the chair he’d designated, only to be shortly overwhelmed as he started scrutinizing me, flitting from side to side and framing my face in his fingers as if fitting me for a portrait. And, in the next moment, Asmo was pulling out makeup, hair and skin care products, nail polish, glitter, dresses... it was all a little overwhelming. 

“Is... all of that really necessary?” I asked hesitantly, and Asmo gave me a slight pout. 

“Necessary? Of course! This is the bare minimum!” For an ugly woman like me to be beautiful, is that what you mean? I thought bitterly, although I held my tongue. I didn’t need him to agree with me. “Now, first off, we need to neaten up those cuticles, so put your hand in the bowl while I start prepping your face.” 

“...right,” I mumbled, even as Asmo started directing me this way and that. Tilt your head a little bit. Yes, to the right. A little up. Keep still; I know it tickles a bit, but I don’t want to mess up. 

Asmo softly hummed to himself in-between directions, a faint, contented smile on his face as he continued with his make-over, and I finally found it in myself to glance at his mirror when he moved away to address my nails. He’d covered up my acne scars, and in their place was a faint, rosy hue—it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. 

“Delli, what’s your favorite color?” 

“Stop calling me that,” I grumbled, even as I looked at the demon wielding several different kinds of nail polish. “And it’s... pink.” 

“Really? That’s so cute!” Asmo cheered, even as he happily unscrewed a pale pink bottle and started delicately brushing the polish onto my nails like a professional. Well, I supposed he probably was a professional at this point. 

My mind drifted somewhat as the session continued, and I absentmindedly went along with everything Asmo said, even as I contemplated the male himself. I liked him better right now, I think. I didn’t usually care for powders or creams or sprays, since it usually felt irritating on my body, but Asmo wasn’t using as much as I thought he would, nor were his results flamboyant like I expected. It was still his style, per se, but it was almost as if he’d taken my tastes into account. It was surprisingly refreshing. 

“Alright, last but not least~!” Asmo’s excited voice turned me away from my musing to look at him holding up a dress. 

“...do I have to wear that?” I complained, and Asmodeus gave me a disappointed look. 

“You said you’d let me doll you up, Delli; this is all part of it.” I sighed, even as I stood from my seat and took the dress from him. 

“Fine...” Still, when I left to put the dress on, it was only to find that it was clearly made for someone with more cleavage than me. Somehow, that felt incredibly insulting; was Asmodeus trying to say that I wasn’t a real woman when I couldn’t wear these beautiful dresses? “It doesn’t fit me.” 

“Hm? Where?” 

“Asmo!” I flushed as I saw his head pop into the room. “Don’t look!” My protest, however, was swallowed by Asmo interrupting:

“Oh! We can fix that really quick~ I keep forgetting that this dress is too big for me, let alone you. Here, put your arms up.” 

“Asmo!” I tried again, but he was busy tightening the dress from behind me, and for a solid second, I was very keenly aware of where he was and what he was doing, unlike earlier. A single movement was all it would have taken for him, the avatar of lust, to... 

“There we go!” Asmo said cheerfully, and I turned towards him to find him smiling. “All fixed. Mm, a good job if I do say so myself!” Asmo pushed me towards a mirror so that I could look for myself, and I was startled by the reflection looking back. I had thought I would look too gaudy with all the things Asmo put on me, but instead, I looked... cute. Maybe even womanly. “This has to go on Devilgram! Adelene’s first makeover~” 

“Please don’t,” I begged, and Asmo gave me a strange look. 

“But why would you make yourself up if you won’t share it? Come on, we’ll get so~oo many likes!” Asmo’s eyes shone with a kind of forceful enthusiasm that I didn’t have the strength to refuse, and I ended up submitting to the torment of having my picture posted online. The only upside was that Asmodeus promised not to use my name.

Next >>

[madmilkproductionplant]

makes me grin real wide that you have no idea who i am (i hope it doesn't come off as creepy, i'm just very into how freeing and unabashed the anonymity is (and also kinda find it hot cause i'm into consensual exhib a lot))

how does it feel knowing someone is down bad enough to give you full control over their basest, most lust-driven instinct; to describe their feelings and fantasies in details to you, and to have no idea who it is ? I wonder if it makes your brain's gears turn trying to figure it out :33

(👉👈 anon)

not creepy at all, i totally get it! same on the exhib, it’d be so hard to pull off in practice but damn if i wouldn’t want to be shown off to a bunch of people, even better if they touched and degraded me too while medic uhh i mean someone spread me open for a better look

i should write mediscout exhibitionism with the rest of the team being participants*….. hmmm yessss…… throw that on the idea pile boys

*obligatory except spy

it feels awesome! oghh it’s pretty freakin hot knowing you’re always there, watchin my blog, waiting patiently (or not-so-patiently) for my next answer, my next instructions for you :3

and you’re right, the anonymity is really freeing. it’s super nice to not worry about being judged and just let the pure horny juices flow. (literally and figuratively hehe)

it does make my brain gears turn 😭 i’m not super worried about figuring it out, i like the mystery :3 i just enjoy feeling smart when i figure out who someone is hehehehe

[wornhandwornmind]

Notes on Space, and the Importance of Pacing

12/4 

I didn’t get out of bed until 1pm, as I was thinking about my alternative lives where the unattainable lies within my grasp. 

In terms of my headspace, I have realized how much I love to stick my hand in the dirt, in the privacy of my own room. I looked at Orion Carloto’s instagram post this morning where she talked about her attachment to spaces of which she can call her own, whether it be permanently or periodically; and I just thought about how valid she. 

There truly is something special about having a place hidden from the eyes of others. A place to shed the outside skin. Having a space to pace, a bed or chair to sit and ponder.

The act of sitting, pondering, and pacing are interwoven in my being, serving as my strongest methods of escapism. It is something I can only go about doing alone. It is the time where I feel the most free.

For extra context, when I have my dorm to myself, I tend to put on music or thought provoking YouTube videos (about different philosophies and modes of thinking throughout the years), get worked up in the melody or wrapped in different modes of thinking , and I begin to walk up and down the narrow hallway of my dorm. I can go about this cycle for hours. I sit down, play about three seconds of whatever video I am watching, and then within the next two seconds I am back on my feet walking back and forth. 

During this pacing, I reflect on the art/media and try to find ways to insert myself/my personal touch into the media/art itself. Questions of how could I make this art mine run through my mind. How can I make others fascinated by the inner-workings of my mind? For this limited time I feel smarter than I truly am, more desirable than I am. It’s almost as if I, mentally, take on a new form; I exist in the body and mind of another. It’s always a wonderful feeling: feeling more important or clever than you really are.

In a world where one can feel lost in the sea of greater ideas, louder speakers, etc. it is crucial that I create time where I feel like I am actually contributing to something greater. That I hold something of my own, something valuable, something covetous. While I pace up and my hallway I bear gifts bewildering to others due the intensity and gravity of them. 

In retrospect, this sitting down then getting right back up to walk back and forth sounds like a build up to hysteria, or just mental unrest, but in terms of the second diagnosis, it can be good to let the mind roam, it’s how new ideas come about. 

In my English class this semester we read an excerpt from Charles Dickens’ daughter, in regards to the methods of her father constructing characters for his novels. She notes that he had a mirror which he would stand in front of and try to take on the form of the characters who he intended to write about. Although it seems like I cannot really compare my hallway pacing to Dickens’ methods of character transfigurations, as he actually had intention in his contrivances, I still would like to think that this aids to my previous testament of how having a space to pace, and move allows for new ideas to form. Maybe the idea of having a space to take on a new form is what I enjoy? 

Moving on to my bed. (more abstract)

When I sit on her, I’m bound to stand and pace within seconds of my but meeting the sheets. When I sit, I ponder, I take in information and I contort it, bend it to my will; however, when I lie down on my bed I’m in a completely different realm. When I sit and pace, remnants of reality are still there and come to me in flashes. Yet when I lay down reality is forgotten, left behind. I’m in a new world completely. This is the moment, as I referred to earlier, where I reach deep beneath the dirt without the shame that accompanies the act on the other side of my bedroom door. 

I revel in the impossible, the grime. Consciousness is left behind. My bed is my chrysalis of unabashed pleasure, contentment, lust, happiness, insecurity, misery, and more. There, I can embrace feeling. Emotions of all kinds roam wild, and there is a person in this scape who helps me make sense of them, perversions and all. My bed is a place where I feel less alone, more room for the imagination to take up the empty space on my bed or just the blank spaces in my life as a whole. My bed is where I find fulfillment from unplanted grains. The grit of possibility resides beneath my sheets. 

It is not something that I do when I am intentionally trying to come up with ideas, like how one might do when they are in a staff meeting and are trying to come up with pitches for a business venture. I feel like I have to do this. There is something in my body that just will not allow me to sit down for more than 2 minutes when hearing or seeing something. My pacing in my dorm room is somewhat essential to my sanity.

[thewalkingchipmunkk]

a fictional tale #4

<forgiving>

- Life of Shane Parker

I like how my free-spirited self is embedded underneath the manufactured behaviour of mine. This vicious society perpetuates us to obey the social rules and laws dictated by the elite, the corrupt, the “scum” of the earth. We are afraid to do anything to defy the majority, provide a fresh voice amongst the tainted and norm, and write our own legacy with our unabashed honesty and rigour in our views and beliefs. How is it possible that as days go by, we are becoming carbon copies of one another— we think alike, we feel constrained and limited, we feel used, we feel our huge reserves of potential are slowly going to waste, we feel we are rivals, not allies, and every opportunity is meant for us to outrun each other, we feel…

Can someone be original, be authentic, and please, be the scent of my life? Put the stop to this madness and fast-paced competitive rat race that will put us all to shame and devastation as we yield to lust and temptation. Let’s not throw our wealth away, and be conniving creatures. Let’s not destroy each other for no apparent reason. Let’s try to uplift each other. Let’s start from scratch, and build from there— like lego blocks, every piece emphasises the essentiality of teamwork where only with its presence, we can achieve greater things together as one.

As I say this, I fear for my own madness looming ahead. I am bounded by my own years-long inner loneliness and grief, unable to escape my own ill fate. I resent the people not able to see through my mask. Is it that it is silicone and I wore too long that I forgot it was a foreign entity, not my flesh and bones? Maybe I just am too guarded by the “nasty artworks” and whisperers around me that I know for sure knives would penetrate deep in me once my back is exposed to them. Maybe I am just too hurt by my past ordeals that opening up was not an option because I deserve lasting peace. Is it wrong to be a little well-tamed robot and lost my own originality and spark? I so yearn the days I can see myself being highly ambitious, witty and playful, treating everything at face value, once knowing I am safe in the arms of my comrades swimming around me.

What’s worse, recently, I have stopped my Oscar-worthy life performance and decided to just put on the misery expression, to denote a “I’m a gloomy boy, please begone” face. I’m sure they know how many times my face was begging for desperation to be seen and understood and appreciated. Yet, they still choose to assume as a well-fed and grown adult, I can still function and perform demanding tasks without fail (which I assure you, I am capable and equipped). Knowing there should not be any room for error, and chasing after my elusive goals, with my perfectionistic nature coming into play strong and undefeated, I am soon my own demise. I repeat, to suffer in this ill-fated life. As my brain keeps churning of endless possibilities and question marks, I live in anxiety and stress, not wanting to make a foolish error and live in perils and shame anymore. I do not want to be seen less, and feel inferior to the rest I show no respect to. I do not want to be worse off than these people— merciless creatures that were so ready to crush me when I was so down and fell so hard. To underperform and let myself down is like a first-grade crime committed.

I know, everyone, I should not push myself like that. But then again, am I to be blamed? I will say no to victim-blaming because I need no pity party, and like how many here fail to sympathise someone’s plight, I shall say no more. Life has hardened my skin, thrown salt on my burning wounds, and cracked my skull with its velocity. I am a broken individual, unseen and unheard, unwarranted and unwanted, unconfident and unknown, as I sauntered down the dark alley, with tears glistening my face, into the raging sea cheering at the sight of its prey. At my final stretch, I look into the reflection and saw nothing humane but the face of cold-blooded murderer with a crooked smirk.

“You take him or me,” I bellowed against the roaring night breeze as an empty vessel emerged above the horizon casted by the dim moonlight.