#my beautiful man lite

[heretherebedork]

Asami has missed Yuki for so long and then he loses him so easily to his love for him, to the flame he's carried for years. This boy breaks my heart.

[machineluv]

WHAT IF I HATE IT THOUGH 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I want like..... everything except the fat redistribution to my torso. I like my waist 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 T please have mercy

[asfdhgsdkjhgb]

i dont think ive ever gotten a "she uses he him pronouns" but i have actively twice now in the exact same circumstance just a different year gotten "they use he it pronouns"

[queermasculine]

Im a binary masc trans man, the stealth is the goal type. And I've been uncomfortable with butchness because of having the label forced on me by transphobes. Your blog has showed me what & who butches really are. Cishet transphobes had led me to believe that butch was just the "trans alternative" or ftm lite, instead of a gender identity and subculture in it's own right. Your blog has made me a lot more comfortable with butchness. I see now that trans men and butches (and all the lads in between) aren't enemies or natural opposites, we're bros. And we belong at the bar shooting pool together, or maybe at a nice hockey game

So, thanks. :)

man, what a beautiful sentiment. so honored to have played a part in changing your mind. we're bros for sure, always have been, and trans men have played a huge role in my life personally. my best friend growing up was a trans guy, wouldn't be the same without him. much love & thanks for sharing!

[b00tyliciousbabe]

hey i don’t know if you’re taking requests but if so can you write a bottom male reader x himbo Jordan Riki where they’re fucking at home after the game and Jordan is horny as fuck and wants to celebrate the win?

thank you so much :)

THIS EATS SO HARD! omds i love this. and of course, imma try my best to write. ENJOY!

update: my apologies to whoever sent me this request, life’s just been lifin’ - STREAM SUBMISSIVE BY DESTIN CONRAD!

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ＊*•̩̩͙

trophy

jordan riki x male reader

summary: for jord’ you’re the only prize worth playing for.

notes: AHHH! my first request. lowkey kinda exciting, but i went way off on a tangent. nonetheless…still spicy xx

song rec: ‘lite’ by downtown kayoto

a few minutes passed as you admiringly watched him pop champagne for the celebratory pictures. ‘Y/N!’ a young woman screamed. you turned back to see it was sienna, who was going out, with jordan’s best friend, jock. ‘omds! i ain’t seen you in forever, how’ve you been?’ hugging her, you match the excitable energy her smile expressed. it was so nice having someone who understood the pressure of being with a sportsman and how demanding it was. the championship was being held in scotland and thus, the NRL had paid for the entire team to stay in the most beautiful hotel. on the walk back, you and sienna spoke about your plans for the future, mostly on the topic of marriage. ‘i hear congratulations are in order, i am so happy for you and jock!’ you smile at her ‘took him long enough,’ sienna joked as she flashed the engagement ring. ‘i cannot wait, plus as my man of honour, we need to start prepping real soon.’ she says going into bridezilla mode already. ‘trust it’s gonna be the best day ever.’ you sigh stopping in your tracks, ‘what’s wrong, Y/N?’ sienna expresses concern. ‘I’ve just been thinking a lot about how my relationship with jordan,’ you start to tear. ‘sometimes i feel like he will only ever see me as his teenage crush, and not something more.’ you finally admitted and it was like a weight off of your chest. ‘Y/N, i completely understand, but jordan is obsessed with you, he’s always telling me and jock about how he’s just waiting for the right time to pop the question.’ her words were so comforting, and left you with a calming sentiment.

you made your way up to the hotel room, and as you opened the door, you were greeted with roses on the floor. you looked up to see the chiselled figure of your man lying naked on the bed and shimmering in the moonlight. ‘jordan, what is all this?’ you asked, stunned by his grand gesture. ‘i couldn’t celebrate knowing that i left my boy on his own’ he got up and began to undress you. towering above you, he lifted your chin to place a sloppy kiss on your lips. you’d never seen him like this before, dominant with his touch and so submissive with his heart. you pulled off your baggy jeans with one swift move, as you knelt down wearing a vest and boxers.

‘such an eager slut aren’t you,’ he spits into your mouth as you look up at him with bright eyes. ‘careful now,’ you whispered, teasing the underside of his cock with the tip of your tongue ‘i don’t have to suck you off.’ to which jordan snickered at your attempt to manipulate. without warning he shoved his dick inside your mouth. ‘ahhh,’ he breathed ‘much better.’ your lips felt so warm around him and he always appreciated how you were always there to use as his own. he began thrusting deeply, as the percussion of his balls slapping your chin made a beautiful symphony of pleasure alongside your gagging and slobbering on his rod. ‘fuck you look so pretty.’ He groaned ‘I could marry you rn.’ a request he subconsciously muttered under his breath. this sentiment was not lost on you and you stopped to deepthroat him fully, suctioning at the this base of his large dick. ‘SHIIIIIIIIIIIT.’ he grunted, holding your curls in adoration. jordan pulled you off him as you giggled with pride watching how he was entranced by the slick you painted on his pole.

you rise onto your feet, staring up into his eyes. wrapping your arms around his broad neck as he placed light spanks on your ass, kneading your dough with his big, coarse hands. jordan invaded your mouth, using his tongue to fast himself on your lips. his fingers spread your thick cheeks apart as he circled around your taint. ‘jump baby.’ he said deeply as his passion overcame him. you obliged as he placed you lovingly on your back, the bed of rose petals adorned your skin, making this erotic painting all the more romantic. your bf climbed onto you and raised your legs above your head. like a jigsaw, you molded them to fit onto his shoulders, with jordan’s piece knocking at your entrance. your pussy lips puckered at the prospect of getting wrecked, making it easy for him to slip in. ‘jord…’ you moan at how full you felt, signalling to him that he needed to go slowly. ‘easy baby, let me know if it’s too much.’ he reassures, adjusting himself inside you slipping in the last couple of inches. ‘I’m all in now love, I’m gonna go faster okay?’ He kisses your neck as you stroke his biceps.

he bowed his head into the crook of your neck, rutting into you viciously as you cradled his head. ‘fuck babe, fuuuck.’ you both scream ‘marry me…’ he mutters again, you clearly heard it this time. he continues pounding your pussy as his breathing gets deeper. ‘marry me already…’ slipped out as he moaned in ecstasy. ‘fuck yes, I’ll marry you babe,’ you matched his energy as he stopped in his tracks. he stared at you like a lost puppy. ‘shitttt, it wasn’t meant to be like this, i had a whole thing planned afterwards, we were gonna go on a walk, i was gonna go down on one knee and-‘ you cut your man off with a kiss that reminded you of the early days of your relationship. ‘I love you jordan, it doesn’t matter where we are or what we are doing, but i will never stop loving you.’ he started tearing up. ‘Y/N how am i the one crying when it’s you that ain’t gonna be walking for the next week?’ he joked to lighten up the mood. ‘aw babe,’ you whined, kissing him once more ‘if it makes you feel better, i can erase what you said from my memory?’ he smiled into yet another tongue dance ‘nah, don’t even worry about it sweetheart, imma fuck u so dumb you don’t even be able to remember your name.’ he threatened, pressing on your abdomen to feel how deep he was inside of you. his dick twitched as your slick hole was doing so well cockwarming him.

by the end of the night, he had dumped his load into 4 times, and while you laid on his chest, he couldn’t stop thinking about his win. not just the game or player of the season, but how he had won your heart. so while you were asleep , somehow so tired to the point you’d completely forgotten his proposal, he looked up at the ceiling and dreamt about your wedding.

@gayaristocrat dacre is up next ml <3 what typa scenario are we thinking?

[luvbugs-blog]

gyutaro h/c with blind s/o

pairing: gyutaro x reader

POSSIBLE SPOILERS

a/n: super sweet h/c about gyutaro! ALSO, i tried to make this gender neutral as possible, so I'm sorry if there's a bullet point that doesn't reflect that. I'm also trying to be inclusive in my writing (so i don't always include able-bodied readers) but if something is incorrect, please let me know! love you all!

even before turning into a demon, gyutaro wasn't happy with the way he looks

poor little baby was getting bullied, beaten, and shunned

so coming across someone that cannot see his face might help that insecurity a little bit (not that he wouldn't want someone who could see him, because if you truly loved him, it wouldn't be a problem)

how did you two meet? (in these scenarios, pretend like daki and him are separated/he isn't inside her body)

scenario one: you bump into him at night in some alley in the district trying to find your way back to your house. and he waits for the squeal of terror directed towards his face, or for you to run away. but instead, you bow, apologizing deeply. it's then that he notices your cane. you go to brush off his clothes when he grabs your hand and insists no harm was done. let him walk you home. why is he acting so nice? he doesn't know. but he doesn't like it. he hates humans, disgusting creatures. but this one seems ok.

scenario two: daki grabs you for your beauty, but he stops her from devouring you. why? who knows? maybe it's because he recognizes you from when you were kind to him. either way, you're his now.

just like when he was the primary guardian of his sister, he would love to feel like he was protecting you, even when you don't really need it

he would follow you around to make sure nobody would be mean

he would make sure there were no sharp objects around that you could potentially run into in areas you weren't familiar with

one night, the two of you were sitting on your futon, talking, hugging, doing whatever s/o and demon bf do, when you reached up to touch his face. he tensed up a bit, a little nervous of your soft hands feeling the uneven skin, but when you smiled at him, he saw you were genuinely happy. he might've shed a tear that night, but who knows?

you could feel his body tense up next to yours, but you didn't cease your movements. your hands, cupping his face, trying to map out what you couldn't see.

"mmmm, whatcha doing?"

"just trying to feel what you look like."

"'fraid there isn't much there, love."

"nonsense. you are gorgeous."

(sniff. "are you crying?" "no it's just raining." "..." "we're inside.")

his hands reach up to cover yours, slowly entwining your fingers as he puts them into his lap. he rests his forehead on yours, and the two of you sit that way for a while before you reach up and press a small kiss to his lips.

"thank you."

"for what?"

"loving me as i am."

"and you, me." (<- a/n: this part was so rough for me to think of. i literally had a brainfart and was like, how do you respond to this... 'ditto?' 'same here?' i wanted it to be romantic lmao.)

this man wouldn't hesitate to kill for you. fr. you saw what he did to that samurai that got ume. he would annihilate them.

i'm trying to think... how would he respond to you aging? like would he just let you die of old age? would he turn you into a demon? like this man has never felt so loved and accepted by someone (who wasn't his sister), and i don't think he would let you go that easily.

love languages: physical touch. this man was STARVED of loving physical contact as a child. please hug him.

words of affirmation. mans doesn't regret becoming a demon, so don't say anything like that. but maybe, "you're so pretty", or "best bf ever" or "you're too good to me." mans would be one of three things.

one, weeping. crying his eyes out. hugging you, or your waist (depending on where the two of you are)

two, bashful. little embarrassed about his reaction, but he loves and CRAVES the attention. little head kisses as thanks.

three, literally throwing you onto the bed and just going crazy.

fucks you into next week.

his love languages towards you: acts of service. physical touch. enough said.

very loving though. just don't flirt with anyone else, even to get a rise out of him. toxic gyutaro fr. mans is a demon. how else would he react?

a/n: AHHH hope this is enjoyable! let me know if you want more h/c from characters. i'm literally obsessed with demon slayer rn...

[starberry-cupcake]

I shouldn't be making another one of these because I didn't even give you enough time to catch up and I'm sure you're tired of me (I'm probably losing mutuals over the length of these) BUT I FINISHED ACT II and I think this is the right place for an update recap. I'm so sorry.

previously, in harrowlana the ninth (reference I might explain one day):

this happened

currently, chapters 20 - 22 (END OF ACT II!!!):

we start with a killer epitaph from harrow for her own grave that I absolutely 10000% need in a tshirt yesterday

"Here lies the world's most insufferable witch"

alleged gideon the first, here known as ortus the first (but I am so sure about this one) has tried to kill harrowbeanie 14 times

I honestly don't know how harrow is going through this without outright telling emperor johnny man to go and insert this entire planetary situation right in the center of his bolthole

we're over here working overtime for you and your sorry ass of a plan that is probably terrible for everyone who isn't you

and we have to put up with zombies (we'll get there), the terrible attitude of your remaining lyctors, very questionable food, very questionable decor, very questionable non goth fashions, and also a man who tries to kill harrow at every turn

this is the worst

at least in canaan house we had gideon's humor and camilla's perfection

ANYWAY

emperor john tells alleged gideon the first (if I'm wrong about this, these are going to be embarrassing looking back on) "she's your responsibility, not your punching bag" to which alleged gideon the first answers "I find the responsibility a hard one"

I'm not sure if this is alluding to baby lyctors in general or harrow in particular, or if anything related to the gideon-involvement narrative I'm imagining has anything to do with it

emperor johnny boy tells harrowbean that this guy's problem is that he made a pact with an "authority he has no power to gainsay" to protect emperor johnny john and that alleged gideon the first thinks harrow is a danger to the emperor

I SURE HOPE SO

I SURE HOPE HARROW KILLS THIS MAN

I HOPE ALLEGED GIDEON THE FIRST IS RIGHT

harrow then mentions how she's "lyctor lite" and emperor john of nottingham says he doesn't think harrow fucked up the lyctor thing

he says only one person fucked it up and it was nasty

it was the ninth lyctor, Anastasia (and a song someone sings, once upon a december)

the vacant room harrowbean has taken residence in was meant for her, but she never made it there

she asked emperor john the asshat to kill her and he said no because he's that kind of a person

"she had much more to give"

I hate this guy

he also says "I had a body and I needed a tomb"

harrow asks the question everyone is asking themselves

aside from where tf are gideon and camilla

"God, who did you bury?"

he gets all vague and cryptic so he can avoid taking about what the fuck he's doing

and he quotes Annabel Lee

edgar allan poe's Annabel Lee

this is a bit more in my wheelhouse than shakespeare

to which harrow notes "Who was A.L.?"

now, I have SEVERAL THINGS TO SAY

first, and most importantly, I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS

THAT ICE CUBE BARBIE MIGHT BE A.L.

I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS, FAM

here's more magic knight rayearth art of the vibes I get from them to celebrate

second of all, Annabel Lee

I do have Annabel Lee in one of my EAP books, but not the one with the pretty Lacombe illustrations

so here are some Ligeia illustrations from it that have the vibe we're going for, as a treat

now, not to be all ortus over here, but I'm gonna be reciting some poetry

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

gonna put that in the 3d model

in the middle of it, like a centerpiece

let's bring back the barbie

this man is doing the whole wife/madwoman in the attic gothic trope but instead of an attic it's a tomb in pluto

another madwoman archetype to add to the list, we've got a whole collection

CHAPTER 21

we have summoned ortus by reciting poetry, because we're back in the gideon-less version of canaan house

so, the sixth is dead in this version

the sleeper or random rifle carrying person shot them in the face a bunch of times

what I wanted to do to not!dulcinea

harrow mentions not having seen camilla or palmolive much in this gideon-less version

devastating for her not to have met camilla

so then protozoa and dulcinea come in

notice I didn't say not!dulcinea

that's because this is the real deal dulcinea and the alive non zombified protozoa

we can know this by their descriptions (especially the hair), the fact that dulcinea knows who tf palmolive is, that she has a breathing tube that palmolive designed for her (this guy istg), that she can identify them and calls them "cam" and "pal"

I was so caught up on this book I forgot to read the short story that came before it btw

anyway, we also know this because protozoa speaks, but we'll get to that

before that, ortus calls the sleeper "the waker" and it's giving me the vibes of the citadel deck

wait, I'm gonna take a pic of some of the cards that give me the correct tlt vibes, so you know what the hecko I'm talking about

(I'm going on unplanned tangents but maybe someone appreciates them)

(we've moved from 3d models to me fetching books and decks from my shelves, what has palmolive done to me)

so, as previously established, protozoa speaks, which is how we know he might be the real one and not the zombie version

he then proceeds to recite poetry

ortus is feral about this

I thought initially that they were gonna have to make room for protozoa in the polycule ortus is in with the fifth, but he doesn't like protozoa coming for his gig

abby says "we're all in this together" which reminds me I did make a high school musical connection with magnus before, so it's funny that it turned out that way

abby asks real dulcinea, aka "dulcie" to her, to bring in mayonnaise uncle because he'll listen to her

why is everyone always into her in all the aus, idk

this one is less bad than not!dulcinea though, but the bar for that was on the subsoil

magnus (who is very much in love with his wife and he's pointing it out every chance he gets) is in charge of looking for martita

harrow is in charge of regina george twin (and yandere twin)

abby thinks regina george twin is the most relevant one

apparently also they're flooded with the rain

which was me last week, so I feel you fam

and we get our traidtional quote, this time by real dulcinea

"Is this really how it happens, Lady Pent?" "No. It's not" "Does it get—better than this? Do you know?"

real dulcinea is saying goodbye to palmolive and the love of my life, who I refuse to accept is in any way harmed in any timeline

and harrow "felt something in her core, though she did not know precisely what it was"

palmolive had a filmsy and we love flimsies because they have what I have started to call "harrow texts"

or "texts which can only be read by harrow"

OP is still ranting, a continuation of the egg rant

I'm gonna transcribe all of it and bold the new part, for my own access, even though everyone who has me in their dash will hate me and block me

The eggs you gave me all died and you lied to me so I did the implantation myself you self-serving zombie and you still sent him after me and I would have had him if I hadn't been compromised and he took pity on me! he took pity on me! he saw me and he took pity on me. And for that I'll make you both suffer until you no longer understand the meaning of that goddamned word. Him I'll kill quick because she asked me to and because that much he honestly deserves but you two mummified wizard shits I will burn and burn and burn burn until there is no trace of you left in the shadow of my long-lost natal sun

could the self-serving zombie be emperor john? could gideon the first be one of the people alluded to? has Annabel Lee anything to do with any of this? since OP mentions a long-lost natal sun? who's "she"? has gideon's mom anything to do with any of this? is this totally not related? is this the actual present? does 'mummified wizard shits' stand for lyctor? because I kinda live for that

ortus, on the other hand, sees an S

ortus in this timeline knows how his dad died, apparently

and we end this part with harrow and ortus finding rusted pipette needles

CHAPTER 22

harrow has killed 13 planets in this practice, which is insane and nobody's asking any questions about it

she was dreaming with ice cube barbie annabel lee and she told her to wake up

harrow mentions the sword sleeping next to her in a loverlike position and it reads like a gideon body pillow to me

remember when I said we should have flushed not!dulcinea into space?

GUESS WHO WAS RIGHT

nobody ever takes the not!dulcinea threat seriously but me

I have to do everything around here

she's a zombie now, which is protozoa's revenge from behind the veil

there's a moment in which she trips but still looks at harrow and it's very creepy and well narrated but I can't help but think of the dracula dead and loving it scene with hypnosis

"it was as though a magnet were stuck in the meat, a magnet that craved some polar force within you" wonder what THAT is about

much like the sleeper/waker, not!dulcinea can pass through wards apparently

harrow goes to wake up yandere twin and says "septimus is walking"

yandere twin doesn't understand at first "the name that had never been cytherea's" and later says "tell her I want my arm back"

which relates to the fact that I've been thinking

if real dulcinea is there in the gideon-less ver

how was not!dulcinea even involved?

because harrow seems to have memories of killing her, of fighting her, of her doing damage in some way, of her being a threat, of her doing it to lure emperor johnny boy to canaan house

so we have some big missing link between the gideon-less canaan version and the emperor's bolthole timeline

she can't be the sleeper/waker, because harrow wouldn't call her "septimus"

so harrow remembers not!dulcinea posing as real dulcinea, which does not happen in the gideon-less version, as far as we can tell atm

AGAIN, DON'T TELL ME ANYTHING, LET ME BE IN DISTRESS

last but not less important

remember not to hint me anything at all and thank you for being patient with me all this time ♥

[imaginesforeveryone]

Arranged (Part 5)

Pairing: Finn Shelby x Y/N Summary: You were the youngest child of you fathers, being part of a mob family in the heart of New York, your family had many enemies in the city, and even further away, and your life was about to change after a Peaky Boy barged into your life. Warning:smut, fluff, comforting

Giggling as Finn picked you up bridal style before walking through the threshold of his home, that is now your shared home. Setting you down softly on your feet.

"Wow, this is beautiful." You said looking around the dimly lite home. You could tell it probably wasn't Finn who decorated this home. More then likely is was Ada or Polly.

"Yeah, Ada did most of the decorations. I just moved the heavy shit, and live here." He said with a light scoff. You smiled looking around. There was a painting that hung above the fire place. Tommy, Arthur, Polly, Finn, Ada, Lizzie, then there stood one man between Finn and Arthur. You didn't recognize him. He wasn't at the party last night. He was very handsome, icy blue eyes like the rest of them, and a tooth pick in his mouth.

"Who's this? Did I miss him yesterday?" You asked pointing up at the painting. Finn cam ever with a glass in hand and giving it to you. You took it and sipped it. He cleared his throat a little before looking up at it.

"That is John." He spoke plainly and took a sip from his drink. You looked at him with confused eyes.

"He's my older brother. Second youngest. He was killed a few years back. Lucca Changretta took him from us, while he stood on his own porch." Finn explained, with what looked like tears forming in his eyes.

"Oh, Finn." You said looking up at him and placing your hand softly on his cheek.

"No, no, it's okay. Unfortunate, But we can't go back now. We just remember him everyday. We don't have his kids anymore. His wife took them all and went off on the road like gypsies do." He spoke looking down at you. You gave him sad eyes, and all he did was grin down at you.

"No time for sadness. Come, let me show you around." He said kissing your forehead softly, and taking your hand. You followed behind him, now walking into the kitchen.

"This is the kitchen." He spoke, going to the basket that was full of fruit and grabbing an apple and taking a bite out of it. You looked around. It as a beautiful kitchen, and you couldn't wait to cook in it. Yes, you cooked. You had maids and cooks all your life, but you had one cook and maid, who taught you how to cook, clean and all those duties.

"We have a live in maid, that cooks and cleans so you won't have to worry about any of that." He explained sitting on the counter.

"Well, I do enjoy cooking and cleaning, so if they ever want a day off that is perfectly fine with me." You said walking over to him and taking the apple from his hand and biting down.

"A Gotti women that cooks and cleans?" He asked looking down at you confused.

"Yeah, my father didn't like it too much, but the maids and cooks I had growing up taught me. Well, because I wanted to." You explained with a smile and handing him the apple back.

"Well, lucky me, ey?" He said getting off the counter, with a smile. He walked through a door way into the dining room.

"Dining room, where most of the time, the boys and I just get drunk at." He said laughing. He turned the corner and went up a flight of stairs, and down to the end of the hall where a door stood. The only thing on the wall. He opened it, and you walked into a large room that had a king sized bed up against a large window behind it. There sat a couch in the middle of the room with a table in front of it and two other chairs in front of it. A fire place crackled in the corner, radiating heat off of it. You watched as Finn stripped off his jacket, and took his watch out of his pocket, along with his case of cigarettes, and placed them on his bedside table.

"The maids took all your things and put everything away. The vanity is in the bathroom with all your personals, and our wardrobe is over there in the corner. Make yourself comfy." He smiled as he took his vest off, then unbuttoned his white shirt and removing it.

"Take a bath with me?" You asked walking over unbuttoning your jacket and throwing it on the bed.

"Now? Aren't you tired?" He asked looking down at you, looking a bit nervous. You unbuttoned your shirt and took it off, revealing your naked chest in front of him. He looked down taking them in and grinning. You turned around to head to the bathroom, removing a piece of clothing with every step. You heard Finn behind you fumbling with his clothes. Getting to the bathroom you were completely naked. You leaned over starting the water and throwing a bit of bubbles in there. You turned to see Finn standing in the doorway also now, completely naked. You scanned his body up and down. His pale white freckled skin, looked soft and untouched, other than the scare he had on his arm from wha looked like a bullet. He walked over to you almost felt like it was slow motions because you just couldn't see your eyes off of him. Wasn't very sexual, even though his length and girth were quite impressive, you just thought he was beautiful.

"Come on, let's get you in." He said caressing your cheek. He slide into the large claw tub first, and he held his hand out for you to grab and slide in, in front go him. You leaned your back on his chest, feeling his warmth against you, along with the warmth of the bath. You left no lights on and just the candles. You took a deep breathe and relaxed even deeper into him. You felt his fingers very softly glide down your arm in effort to help relax you more.

"Finn." You said with your eyes closed.

"Hmm?" He hummed up as if he was also relaxed into the bath along with you.

"You wanna know what I was thinking right before I walked down the aisle and also what I had said to my mother?" You asked him, wanting to tell him every feeling you had.

"What's that, love?" He asked relaxing his arms on the sides of the tub, with his legs slightly bent on either side of you, due to him being so tall compared to the bath.

"I was afraid that I wouldn't be safe. I was afraid that you would be mean, and that I would be treated like shit in the middle of your metal yard. But, I was proven wrong. I judged a book by its cover, and I just want to say how sorry I am about that." You spoke spilling your emotions out right in front of him. He huffed under his breathe as if he was laughing a bit. He took his hands and began massaging your shoulders.

"Well, I mean you're half right half wrong. I honestly had no intention of actually having feelings for you. I honestly just thought that you were just a wop. I was not happy to being forced to marry an Italian. But, much like you love." He said sliding up and turning you face to look at him.

"I judged a book by its cover, and realized fairly quickly, that I'm lucky. You are beautiful." He said kissing one cheek.

"You're sweet." He said kissing your other cheek.

"You fiery." He said with a giggle kissing your forehead.

"And." He spoke getting close to your lips.

"You're mine." He whispered feeling his warm breathe over you lips, and clashing your lips together. Getting up quickly, making the water splash over the side of the tub getting the ground wet, you straddled him pushing the kiss deeper, and deeper, till you were eagerly yanking at his hair, and he was leaving scratches on your back.

"Finn." You breathed out between kisses trying to catch your breathe.

"MMM" He hummed still with his lips interlocked with yours. You pulled away and looked deep into his icy blue eyes.

"We still have to consummate this marriage." You spoke with a devilish grin on your face and quickly one spreading on his face. He went back to abusing your lips as he got up with you still stranding him, and he carried you out of it. You smiled and laughed as he did so.

"Don't drop me." You warned him.

"Never, love." He said as he walked out of the bathroom with you still wrapped around him like you never want to let go. He laid you softly down on the bed on your back, hovering over you with his hands planted on either side of your head.

"Are you sure?" He asked pulling away from your lips.

"You're my husband, and I'm your wife. I promised you to have and to hold, to take care of. So, here I lay to take care of you." You said all while tugging at his length and watching his eyes roll back, and felt it get hard quickly in your hand.

"Og fuck, love. And I'm going to take, really, really good care of you." He said attaching his lips to your neck and replacing your hand with his, rubbing the tip of his cock and your already wet hole yearning for him to be in there.

"Already wet for me, eh?" You asked looking up at you.

"Hard to fight it when I have you in front of me." You whispered to him with a smile. Teasing your entrance more and more you whined out.

"Finn, please." You cried out begging him to get on with it, and with that he slide into you, stretching you out and causing a gasp to escape your lips.

"Fuck, you're so tight." He groaned out.

"And it's all yours." You whispered snaking your arms under his and grabbing his shoulder from behind him to bring him closer.

"That's right. All mine. No one else's. My property." He whispered into your ear and began thrusting deeper and hard.

"Oh shit, fuck, yes, yes, yes Finn. Right there, don't stop you're going to make me cum." You yelled out as with every thrust he was hitting that sweet spot of yours.

"If you keep tightening like that, I won't be able to hold on any longer either. Fuckkk." He said through deep breathes. You let go of him so he could get better leverage as he sat up on his knees between your legs, getting a better angle making your body start to shake from the orgasm building so much and eventually you couldn't hold it any long and tightened all around him.

"Ahhh, fuck I'm cumming!" You screamed digging your nails into his wrist that held you at your hips to keep you steady.

"fuckk, me to, love." He raised his voice as his thrusts began to become shaky, and with no rhythm. Soon feeling his ropes of seed fill you up. Riding out your highs quickly, and he fell to the side of you.

"Fuck, love. I haven't cum that quick, well ever." He spoke sprawling his arm out across the bed.

"And I've never cum that hard ever either." You told him with a giggle. You moved up to lay your head on his arm. He turned over still with his arm under your head, and softly moved a piece of hair out of your face and behind your ear and just looked at you .

"What?" You asked starting to get nervous.

"Nothing, just looking at my beautiful wife." He spoke with a smile as he caressed down your arm, with his eyes now closed looking tired.

"Finn." You said softly.

"Yes, love?" He asked still with his eyes closed.

"I love you." You said almost in a whisper as you thought it was the wrong thing to say and nervous to see his reaction. He fluttered his eyes open, now looking into his beautiful blue eyes.

"I love you too." He said with a smile and kiss to your lips. You smile letting out a quick breathe. He pulled you into his embrace, and quickly the two of you fell asleep in each others arms.

[netherfeildren]

Forfeiting My Mystique

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

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

-OR-

An Ezra Art Collector AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 12K

Read on AO3

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They fall on Ezra now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Everyone was watching you.”

“Not like you were–”

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

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

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

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

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

“A drink then.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

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

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

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

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It is. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not particularly – perhaps a bit stiff.”

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

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

“So just the right amount?”

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

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

“Yes, I’d like that.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

He feels his cock begin to leak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Won’t you do it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y–Yes, yes–” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But–”

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

“Goodnight, treasure.”

“Goodnight, Ezra.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me help.”

He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

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

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

“Let’s play the question game.”

“The question game?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“That’s easy?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you do this a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Make things purposely difficult.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me?”

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

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

“No, I’m an only child. Do you?”

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

“I’m so sorry.”

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

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

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

“I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

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

“What about it was unconventional?”

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

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

“No?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cruel to you?”

“To the world.”

“Why?”

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

“She died?”

“Yes. She killed herself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?” he presses.

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

“Three years? Why?”

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

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

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

You go next: “Are you lonely?”

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

“Do you think everyone could see it?”

“No.” Good. You only wanted him. 

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

Without hesitation: “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“I think I like being stolen.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please, please. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes – anything you want.”

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

“Will you let me take you somewhere today?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Brazil? I’d show you the farm.”

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

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

[lucysgraybird]

to show hospitality to angels

pairing: billy the kid x reader

warnings: discussions of religion (brief and light)

title source: hebrews 13:2. i think

a/n: hello ! i am not catholic and thus don't know protocol for catholic mass. generally im like religious lite so im really sorry if my discussions of God are sacrilegious in this, it's just how i conceptualize religion. also i don't think they are sacrilegious, im just preemptively apologizing

Billy was not a religious man, but that didn't mean he never went to church. Call it Catholic guilt, call it respecting his ancestors, but he made it to mass on Easter and Christmas and on rare Sundays if he was particularly missing his ma. 

This particular winter morning saw him in the sanctuary for the Christmas morning service, doing his best to be still and silent. Though these holiday services were longer, he preferred them to the ones on Sunday – the church was prettier, decorated for the season, and there was usually more (and nicer) music. The choir stood behind the pulpit, though admittedly he wasn't paying much attention to the full picture, searching for one singer. Someone had a lilting soprano voice that made the world soft and a little fuzzy at the edges; maybe not trained, maybe not clean, but the kind of voice that played on the outskirts of memories of sleepy childhood nights. Through First Noël and Little Town of Bethlehem he scanned the right of the choir, but couldn't identify quite where the voice was coming from. 

Then, for Silent Night, you stepped forward, a worn book of music clutched open to your chest as you gathered your red-and-green ruffled skirts. Billy had made the early New Year’s resolution to be a little more careful about falling in love, but the moment you began to sing he knew that was out the window. There was a slight tremble in your hands, betrayed by the fluttering paper and betraying your nerves at this solo, but your voice soared clear through the chapel anyways. Every worry Billy had went out the window – the cold and snow that were rolling in, the bounty still on his head, the insecurity of his whole life, all gone at the sound of your voice. There was only here and now, the sweeping melody wrapping around him like a blanket.

It was over in a second. The solo, that is. The feeling it had brought him, the peace he hadn't felt in God knows how long, remained for the rest of the service, until he was standing and scrambling to the front after the final prayer to talk to you.

“Miss?” He said, the brim of his hat crushed in his hands.

You turned, face soft and open. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to tell you that you got a real beautiful voice.”

A smile just about split your cheeks, now dusted with a pink blush. “Oh, thank you! I was so nervous, so I'm glad at least one person enjoyed it. I've never seen you here before. Are you new in town?”

Now it was his turn to flush. “I've been here a couple months. I don't make it to church as often as I oughta, I suppose.”

To his surprise, no judgement sprung up in your eyes. 

“There's no set number of times someone ought to come to mass,” you said. “We all have lives. Church is always there when we need a break – or can take one.”

Such a sage statement coming from someone his age, maybe even a little younger, almost made him laugh, but it actually settled the nerves in his chest.

“I thought since you were in the choir, you'd be real pious,” Billy said.

Your mouth turned down in a conspiratorial smile, just this side of letting out a giggle.

“I slip out the back after we sing sometimes,” you confided. “I grew up a preacher’s daughter, and it seems more worth it to me now to go to church when I actually want to be with God, not just because I feel like I have to.”

“I like that,” he said thoughtlessly, and immediately felt stupid for the simplicity. 

It earned him a toothy grin, though, and you brushed your hand against his arm.

“I have to get home now, but I would like to see you again. I'm a teacher at the schoolhouse in town, so you can find me there every afternoon.”

His surprise at your interest in him manifested in silence, and you dropped your hand in shame.

“I'm sorry, that was incredibly forward of me. If-”

“No! No, I want to see you again too. I'll come by the school on, say, Friday? If you're not too busy?”

“Not at all. Just tell me your name, so I know who I'm welcoming?”

“William,” he said, something about you making him desperate to be proper, then desperate to be honest. “Billy.”

“Well, Billy, it was lovely to meet you.”

You cast a glance around the room, then rose on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek before leaving to get your coat. What a strange tableau you would've created, he thought, had anyone seen you: the lips of a preacher's daughter on the skin of an outlaw. It was almost something out of a dime novel. It wasn't until you were surely long-gone that he realized he had never caught your name.

[heretherebedork]

And this is exactly what this kind of love story is about. Taking the perfect man, the god-like one, the star that everyone worships but is also a world apart from them and making him human. Making him just a man who loves and needs and wants and craves and not the perfect and separate figure he's made himself out to be.

But now he is trapped in this world where he can see the love story he wants through the glass but is in a different world then them, completely apart, trapped in a place where he can't be honest about himself or with himself or even talk to his friend about what bothers him.

Because the only person who brings him into the world is the one he loves. With everyone else, he is the perfect and porcelain figure he portrays himself as, the perfect actor, the consummate professional, the one who is perfect in every way, the god above the cloud.

The warm light, the togetherness, the way there is a line between them but it's behind them as well. They're both together even if they're also apart and this is what brings him into the world. Only this. This love, this pining, this need, this craving, the parts that make him human rather than a god and it shows.

[fishysos]

Skyrim. I have another gripe.

I really really wish Skyrim didn't lean into Dibella being the Divine of intimacy as much as they did. They didn't even really take a Goddess of Beauty route either? Which they could've, but they chose to make her solely a Sex God for no reason..?

Even how she's portrayed in her statues furthers that interpretation, and it really irks me bc she's my 2nd favorite Divine (1st is Mara). She is the goddess of music, art, beauty, AND intimacy

In Oblivion, her ties to art were prevalent and mentioned, even having a dedicated quest associated with that specific aspect of her (A Brush with Death). She was depicted fully clothed like any of the other Divines, she wasn't seen as less respectable to worship than anybody else.

But with Skyrim? Her priestesses came off as reclusive man haters, and the only other quest her or her followers are centered in require you to slut shame someone who follows her teachings. Do we not see how that's a poor depiction? And people just... went with it! A lot of people see Dibellan followers as sex fiends and the Temple of Dibella in Markarth (<3) as some sex cult.

I am not taking Regional differences as an excuse, I think it's a genuine bastardization of her character, and the fault is on Bethesda. Are you telling me there's no artists, no musicians who would respect her in the whole province of Skyrim? How does the BARDS COLLEGE make no mention of her? You are meaning to tell me that a SCHOOL FULL of MUSICIANS wouldn't have at least ONE dedicated shrine to Dibella. It makes no sense to me.

TL;DR: Skyrim made Dibella Sanguine-Lite, and I hate it.

[hayleysayshay]

I'm one of those ppl who think the equalist Asami plot for TLOK likely wouldn't have played out that well. I get why peeople want it -- giving Asami simply more to do is always a plus, and plus grey morality is interesting in characters, plus we get to flesh out the equalist movement as it is quite sympathetic.' The problem I have is that committing to a true double agent story takes time and I just don't think TLOK has it, and could easily fumble it. Plus I'm not that bothered about enemies to lovers, and I think Asami's 'redemption' arc would be seen as Zuko-lite.

So my suggestion to develop Asami more, but keep the story relatively uncomplicated for such a busy series with many elements in it:

-- Asami is an equalist sympathiser, not a full blown equalist.

-- She doesn't hit Mako with her moped. Instead, Mako and Bolin put an ad in the paper asking for sponsors. Who drops by, Hiroshi and Asami Sato! Asami accompanies her father as she is a bit suspicious of the probenders, sees probending as a farce. She's angry as benders killed her mother. But Hiroshi wants to sponsor the team, says some spiel about it being good business, gets Mako on side like the show.

-- Hiroshi is an equalist like the show. He decides to sponsor the Fire Ferrets as it gives him in an in on the probending world and the arena that he can report back to Amon.

-- Asami and Mako and Bolin spend some time together. She's suspicious but at some point prior to Hiroshi's reveal her and Mako have a talk. She vents about bending that she knows not every bender is evil but bending took away her mum. Mako says the same thing, bending took away his mother. But bending helped protect his little brother as they had nothing else to rely on. This helps Asami put somethings into perspective a bit-- as I think the discussion of opression in this universe cannot be solely limited to bending, it has to include class as well.

-- Like the show she is still fairly kind.

-- Mako and Asami do not date in book 1, but there is maybe some attraction between each other, but with Asami's bending reservations there is no chance for an immediate attraction in canon. Korra is still jealous of Asami just because she's beautiful and captures Mako's attention. I'm going to keep this version fairly similar to canon so Mako and Korra still date at the end of the series.

-- Asami still invites Korra and Bolin and Mako to her house when the arena is shut down as she's a nice person. Korra is like OWO at Asami. But then she finds an equalist glove in the house-- who would have that unless you're an equalist? And she and Mako muse that it would make sense if it's Future Industries tech, and since Asami lives in the house and has voiced reservations about bending before, it would make sense if she's the equalist and even making them.

-- Asami is heartbroken that her friends would suspect her like that. She's interviewed and released due to lack of evidence. At some point Mako and Korra and Bolin find the secret passageway, Hiroshi is revealed. LIke in canon, she makes the choice to side with her new friends. They apologise to her for doubting her and she forgives them.

The rest plays like book 1 canon (but with less love triangle stuff) and we could spend more time on the ordinary non-bending citizens being victimised by the police.

The reason I like this is that we get a more developed equalist subplot. Asami is kind, but she's wary of bending, and how it can hurt people. It's complicated. If the rest of the show supports that, then Asami is seen as a bit more complicated and reserved than just kind and perfect. She's a bit short-sighted in terms of her wealth giving her privilidge.

I think for the rest of the series, to give Asami more flaws and depth post book 1 you can a) play up her privilege and wealth and b) play more into her insecurities. Book 2 does show that she's worried about literally running Future Industries as a CEO. Instead of the show where her problems are fixed by a man (Bolin) punching Varrick, instead we can see her POV more and how worried she is, more time is spent on her handing over the company, and she also gets the chance to bring Varrick to justice. She can still date Mako and realise he's not right for her. She dates Mako in book 2 because he's there, comforting her, so that can still happen.

Book 3 and 4 can be similar to canon, just have more time with Asami. In book 3, we mention how she's angry and insecure and just needs a break from beng CEO, that she just doesn't get everything right-- which Korra validates her with and relates with her own struggles and pressures as the Avatar. They touch hands, look into each others eyes, they say they understand each other (the start of korrasami).

Maybe in book 4 she makes sure she's a voice for non-benders and intra-community relations, tying the plots from the start to the end together more. And more time spent on her loss of Korra and her anger at her Dad.

Idk. Maybe I just don't see the solution to Asami being underwritten is to put her into an enemies to lovers plot. There's plenty there in the whole series to build off whilst keeping her 'good' and relatively uncomplicated.

[nctsplug02]

i know your requests aren’t open but i’m writing this for when they are, I HOPE THAT’S OKAY 😭

okay so basically y/n and mark are at a party for their university welcoming the new people to the campus. they play a drinking getting to know you game where you have to drink if the thing applies to you. so basically the question was “if you have beauty marks in secret places” and y/n doesn’t drink but her ex sneaky link/fwb (any other neo) calls her out for lying and winks. basically mark gets jealous and leaves his mark on top of all of y/n’s beauty marks as a way of “marking his territory” a nice fluff and smut 😁

hidden beauty mark(s). LEE.M

GENRE: fluff and smut

WARNINGS: jealousy, possessiveness, drinking, groping, riding, oral sex (m receiving), mentions of beauty marks, kissing, protected sex, spanking, praising and slight degradation.

you look around while your tongue swipes the top of your lip. your hand interlaced with the hottest, quietest and cutest guy on campus.

the mark lee.

tonight was a night for newbies who were new on campus. and the frats were throwing a party.

you and mark make your way to the living room where there was two tables; one with several colored cups with labels and one with two different metal dispenser.

blue: taken.

neon green: single.

neon pink: it’s complicated.

purple: just looking for some fun. AKA sex.

mark let’s go of your hand for a quick minute and grabs a blue solo cup. he presses down on the dispenser handle and a blue liquid squirts out. mark hands it to you and pours himself one.

mark takes your hand again and leads you outside to where several crowds were and a lite bond fire flared. “yo, mark! over here, man!” mark gives a glance back at you and gives a small crooked smile before he gave a tug on your hand and brought you toward the group gathered around the fire pit.

there were several people; johnny, taeyong, jaehyun, haechan, jeno and yangyang.

jeno, your previous link.

“what’s up, guys.” mark says finds an empty seat and sits, pulling you on his lap. “we were just about to play a little game of, drink if it applies to you. you guys came just in time.” taeyong says and gulps the last of his beer.

his neon pink solo cup makes you tilt your head. he and jess weren’t working?

“hmm, who’d like to start it off.” johnny asks, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “why don’t we have mark go?” haechan was tossing a slight glare at you and mark.

mark clears his throat and adjusts you on his lap. “whoever has a.. tattoo, drink.” everyone drinks with a sigh afterwards.

“baby,” mark shakes you and his leg that you’re on. “wanna go next?” you puff up your cheeks and swish the air side to side as you think of something. “uh.. drink if.. you aren’t a virgin?” haechan and yangyang snicker while smashing fists.

“wow, y/n. making it sexual, already? that’s usually my thing.” haechan scoffs and everyone laughs before taking a chug out of their cups.

haechan sits up and looks around with low eyes. “since we’re on a sexual topic,” you tsk, “it wasn’t even that sexual.” haechan rolls his eyes. “whatever, let me finish.” haechan clears his throat. “drink if you.. if you’ve had sex in public.” haechan says that with a wicked smirk that you wished you could slap off.

you look towards jeno who was staring you down with a hungry smirk. “drink,” he mouths with an eye raise. your eyes twitch before you lift your cup to your lips.

“grrrreeeaatt! now, share.” haechan demands and yangyang agrees. “there isn’t a story to share. i could barely remember who i did it with and what we did.” you snuggle into mark who was clearly full of jealous and rage.

you throw another look at jeno who slightly shakes his head. “lies.” he mouths and drinks but, no one seems to notice. instead, moving on to another topic.

“i’m interested if anyone has any beauty marks? there’s supposedly a meaning behind it but, i’m not sure. so, drink if you have any beauty marks.” johnny says, bringing his cup to his lips.

everyone does and mark watches as you down the last of what was in your cup. “hm, you have beauty marks?” mark questions and you nod. “just simple ones.. on my cheek, arms, legs and.. yeah, that’s pretty much it.” you shrug.

“tch,” everyone looks towards jeno as he scoffs and looks to the side. “what’s with the, tch?” taeyong asks, leaning forward with full interest.

“ah, nothing,” jeno sighs. “just that.. y/n has a beauty mark under her left ass cheek. it’s very pretty.” you adjust your placement on marks lap when his arms clench around you.

you couldn’t tell what it was or meant?

jealousy?

anger?

you and mark had only been dating for about nine months and the both of you stuck to strict rules. one of them being, no sex until after a year. sure, there can be sexual chemistry and tension but, it never led to sex.

“ahem,” mark sniffs and stands up, lifting you back onto your feet. “we’ll be back— we need to refill our drinks,” he turns to you and you were frozen. “don’t we, baby.” you look at the others before looking at him.

his eyes telling you to not look at them. “r—right. uh, we’ll be back.” you go to take marks hand and he yanks you around the house and to his car.

“m—mark,” you bite down on your lip and whimper as his grip gets tighter. “my wr—wrist!” you’re able to pry your wrist from him once at his passenger side.

“when the fuck did you fuck him.” you hold your wrist with a slight pout. “mark, i—it was only a few times, i swear. it was freshman year when we got together and hooked up.” you shamefully admit.

marks jaw ticks. “so, he gets to fuck you and i don’t?” he tilts his head and you look to the side. “i want you but, we promised—?” mark backs away when you reach for him.

“get in the car,” mark reaches for his keys. “where are we going?” he unlocks his car and goes to open the passenger side. “i’m taking you back to your dorm.” you stop him. “i don’t wanna go.” mark deadpans at you and you give him your sad eyes.

“fine, then stay. have jeno take you home, later.” mark goes to walk around the face of his car before you grab his arm. “mark, i wanna go home with you.” you play with his fingers.

“what, did you say that to jeno, too.” ouch. “fuck you. just because i hooked up with him a few times doesn’t mean i’m a whore.” the huge lodge stuck in your throat when you poke marks chest. “y/n, i didn’t call you a—?”

“whatever,” you wipe your nose. “get in your car and leave. maybe, i will have jeno take me home.” you sniffle and turn back to the house.

mark grabs your wrist and twirls you back around, making your back hit his car. “i’m sorry,” he mutters and you look to the side. “i was overreacting and i’m sorry.” he cups your face and wipes under your eyes.

“let’s go home, yeah?” home, his home. you nod and mark opens the passenger side for you, helping you in before running to his side and driving off.

marks playlist plays at a quiet volume while your nose ran causing you to sniffle repeatedly.

“mark,” your voice whimpered before you cleared it. “yeah?” mark quickly takes his eyes off the road to glance at you before bringing his eyes back to the road. “thank you for apologizing.” he softly chuckles and squeezes your thigh.

“could you pull over?” your sudden question brings mark to glance at you several times. “why? did you wanna go back to the party?” you shake your head. “just pull over please.”

in the middle of no where?

mark slowly breaks on the breaks as he turns his wheel to the right. he puts his car in park and turns his head to you.

“what’s wrong?” you unclip your seatbelt and you climb onto your knees. “i wanna please you, please?” your hands run over his crotch over his jeans.

you bite your lip and undo his jeans. “baby, we’re in the middle of—?” you pull out his cock.

it felt like a cartoon where the MC would open a chest to see a shit ton of gold.

you lean down and wrap your lips around his tip. mark lets out a groan. he tosses his head back and lets it hit against the headrest.

“oh, shit.” mark exhales and gasps repeatedly. his hand reclines his chair slightly back and he bucks his hip up. mark can’t help but moan as his eyes roll to the back of his head.

“baby,” mark gasps for you. you bob your head and groan around his dick.

his cock was so long that you gagged several times. his tip tickled your throat as you took him in quickly. “oh, baby.” you squeak when a heavy hand drops on your head.

mark pushes your head down while thrusting his cock down your throat. your eyes water as he holds down your head.

“ugghh,” mark groans and allows you to sit up for air. “m—mark, y—you—?!” you could barely get a sentence out before mark grabs your head and shoves you back down.

mark heaves as he pants and bucks his hip up. the sounds of your throat making the prettiest noises as mark has his eyes closed and a lazy smile propped on his face as he pounds your head down.

“o—oh, god.” mark stutters and lets out a shaky sigh.

nearly a years worth of cum spurting into your mouth.

you push at his thighs and gasp for air. “w—wow,” your voice croaks as you suck up your saliva from your bottom lip.

“are you okay?” mark asks you, swiping your bottom lip and giving you his big eyes. “i’m fine,” you grab his wrist and smoosh your cheek into his palm. “but, i don’t think i’ve had enough.” mark sees hungry and lust flash in your eyes.

“fuck, i’ve been waiting for this moment.” mark softly chuckles as you throw yourself onto his lap. “reach in the glovebox department— i think i have a box of condoms in there.”

you sneer your top lip and squint your eyes while reaching over to the glovebox. “why the hell do you have a box of condoms sitting in your glove department?” you hold the box and mark gulps.

“i got them on our nine month anniversary— i thought we were going to.. have sex.” mark shamefully admits with red ears and red cheeks. “oh, mark.” you open the box and grab a roll of condoms.

you rip a pack off and bite your lip before tearing a slit perfect for the condom to slide out. “go on, baby. slide it on for me.” mark jerks his chin while watching you play with the condom.

you lick your bottom lip and slide it on his shaft that was red and leaked precum. mark watches with hooded eyes and his lip caught between his teeth as the lubricant feeling squeezes around him.

“fuck,” mark exhales and throws his head back. “can i?” mark looks at you and nods, he could tell by your eyes that you wanted to ride him.

in a hurry, you lift your dress and push your panties aside before you lower yourself onto marks cock. “oh, baby.” you and mark both groan, you hide your face in the crook of his neck while whimpering quietly.

“we should’ve done this a while ago— if i knew you’d fill me up this perfectly, i wouldn’t have held back.” you sigh, rocking your hips.

“god, you’re made for me.” mark hugs your waist and cups your ass, helping you rock your hips. “mark,” you cry and hide your face into his neck. “feel so g—good and fu—full.” your hips move faster, wanting more pleasure.

mark stills your hips and pounds himself up into you. his balls slapping your pretty plumped ass as he pounds his thumping dick into your cunt.

“give it to me, mark.” you whisper, listening to his pretty grunts and groans as he corners his climax. “fill me up,” you speak, clearly not remember the condom wrapped around his dick.

you grab marks jaw and you smash your lips onto his, swallowing up his pretty moans. you shriek as mark bites down on your bottom lip. his hips stuttering up into yours as he dumps his load into the condom.

“oh, god.” mark huffs, his arms loosening around your waist.

your body goes limp against mark and a few minutes past. “should we drive to my place with you on my dick?” you softly laugh and nod. “first, we have to turn the AC on, the windows are fogged.” mark starts the engine and turns up the AC.

“can i spend the night at your dorm?” mark puts the car in gear. “duh, why do you think we’re heading to my dorm. i want you in my bed, all cuddled up with me.” he drives out of the parking spot he was parked in.

“and, i can’t wait to see that pretty beauty mark on your ass. ‘m gonna kiss it and mark it as mine.” he pinches your ass making you swat his hand away.

“i have a feeling we’re gonna get pulled over.” you mutter, eyes feeling heavy.

“trust me, we won—?”

WHOOP WHOOP!

oh, shit.

[greenhappyseed]

MHA #406 review lite

Yeah, normally I do a “leak reactions” post but the timing for that didn’t work out, so instead I’m looking at the full chapter! (Reminder for newcomers: I don’t look at leaked images or fanscans until after the official chapter is out.)

Aoyama and Hagakure are adorable — love how he puts his jacket around her and is using his bare hands to direct his navel laser. Now update me on how Fatgum is doing!!!

We finally get our first view of Gashly and, I believe, our first Ryukyu sighting during this battle!

Tsukauchi is falling apart more and more each chapter. Horikoshi is delighting in torturing this man.

Nagant’s lying down on a rooftop. All Might and Edgeshot are lying down on rooftops. Is the Rooftop Trio on a rooftop?? Only time will tell.

Speaking of not looking so good, Izuku is huffing and has some really dark rings around his eyes. He dramatically says “it ends here, go beyond” and…we cut to Bakugo and AFO just as Izuku looks like his middle finger is about to Gearshift + Air Force flick Tomura into next year.

Love how Bakugo calls AFO a filler character as AFO calls him a pointless pebble. I especially like how the English translation uses the “pebble in my path” phrase that Bakugo previously used to describe Izuku. (I haven’t checked yet to see if the Spanish versions use the same lines.)

I know there’s a lot of discourse surrounding Bakugo’s power up, but it reads to me like it’s not a new “power” so to speak. Rather he’s using his honed instinct and insight into his own body (remember how he’s always coming up with new ultimate moves on his own?). But, instead of focusing on the outcome (e.g., victory, or being the strongest) he’s focusing on the process. Much like All Might recapturing his own smile from the joy of helping others, Katsuki is finding joy in the simple act of pushing himself and his quirk. That’s something AFO doesn’t understand. As much as he wants to live forever and mess around with quirks forever, he really only enjoys simple quirks that combine well with others. AFO doesn’t like the process of exploring his quirks or honing his skills with them.

Seeing Mitsuki and Masaru cry is giving me FEELINGS. Horikoshi didn’t have to include them but he did and oof.

AFO talks about “the hatred I harbor” for Second, whose name is revealed as Kudo. Kudo is, apparently, the one that AFO loathes “above all others” — even All Might, apparently?? — because it Kudo hadn’t reached out his hand to Yoichi, then OFA wouldn’t have been created. This is AFO’s side of the story we heard from Yoichi way back in Chapter 310: “The moment you [Kudo] reached out your hand to me was when One for All was truly born.” After Chapter 369 came out last year, I wrote some meta about why AFO might be crying while he force chokes Kudo, and ventured a guess that AFO harbored a deep hatred for Kudo, either because he created OFA or possibly because they knew each other. I don’t think there’s anything in 406 that changes those posts significantly, though it does seem that AFO’s hatred for Kudo lies primarily in the fact that he reached out his hand to Yoichi….though AFO still knew an awful lot about Gearshift and how it was “supposed” to work…

Ugh, I really, really want the OFA/AFO backstory now. Like if it’s 3-8 chapters of backstory I’m ok with that as a breather/precursor for Izuku vs Tomura (see bullet #5 above re Izuku about to exhaust his body from overuse of Gearshift).

Finally…I LOVE KATSUKI CALLING HIMSELF “KACCHAN”!!!! Izuku reclaimed “Deku” a long time ago with help from Ochako, and now Katsuki is embracing “Kacchan” with help from Izuku. Yes, Bakugo’s hero name is still Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, and that name was fully approved by All Might last chapter. In 406, however, Katsuki is referring to himself as a civilian and using the name “Kacchan” with no fear whatsoever of sounding diminutive in front of AFO (or the cameras) …and it’s absolutely beautiful and I love it. He’s not posturing one bit, he’s free to be fully himself, and even his parents can tell. He gleefully taunts AFO about being senile despite AFO looking like a child, which is just the perfect amount of teen boy prickishness that this fight needs.

[starlordcumidk]

New Kind of Love

~chapter 1~

word count: 3.2k

notes: slight ooc, reader wears glasses, this is an AU of TASM!Peter where he is a fraternity brother. reader is portrayed as rude/stand-offish. reader is a tad neurodivergent. playful banter. please read this knowing that i am a newer author and the plot is based on a song.

warnings: not proofread, minor cursing? does that count?

Enough of "Love Lite"

And "I Can't Believe It's Not Love!"

Monday, October 21st, 2024.

School started back up eight weeks ago, frat, sorority, club rushs and event posters making anyones head spin. There were at least forty parties that happened just in the first six weeks of school, none you attended. Right now, the school was setting up for their next pep rally, big decorations all over the place, even in Siebert’s courtyard. 

Empire State University was known for its largely populated campus, even for a private school. Truly, the scholarships they offered were the biggest reason anyone was able to go. Those from out of state were even encouraged with extra offers, you included. 

You have been living rather normally, even with the hussle and bustle through the dorm halls every night, your favorite being the RA catching the girl down the hall with two gallon size ziplocs with coke and her boyfriend naked in the hall in the middle of September. 

It was refreshing, almost. Being back in New York always puts an extra pep in your step, especially after a very long, very hot, very southern summer spent back at your parents house. Not only was it over one-hundred and five degrees most days, the humidity was consistently breaking the ninety percent mark.

Even though you weren’t as lucky this year with housing and got the road facing room, six floors up— with a broken elevator nonetheless– you were comfortable. The room was decorated meticulously, just the way you liked it. Warm lighting from lamps, the big light never on, a rotary fan at the foot of your bed. Perfect.

The cool seventy degree weather was a welcome breeze as you opened the window, allowing yourself to get the dry, definitely polluted air into your lungs. Looking down at the road, even though it was nowhere near as beautiful as the courtyard, filled you with excitement every single time. It was a beautiful swarm of colors, bright jackets and scarves creating a moving mural with the fresh morning sun.

I missed this. The thought floods your senses as you feel your first genuine chill of the year.

This was home. Being surrounded by tall buildings, loud and awful people, hagglers and one very fit red-blue spandex hero, was comforting. Back home, there were no heroes to swoop in if you were threatened. Spider-Man was always a welcome guest, and you’ve definitely seen more of him these past few months than before. 

Maybe your paranoia was bad, but the idea of a sticky-gross-web man sweeping in and saving you made those thoughts calm down. Even if you thought the idea of being part spider was less than exciting. 

It was Monday, all of your aggravating and mundane classes were scheduled for this morning. It took effort to get dressed and go to your first lecture, but eventually you did.

As you walked across campus, you messaged back and forth with your close friend who still lived in your home state, so many thousands of miles away. 

Delilah: girl u have to go out and make more friends. i’m tired of being your only one. you: you know that isn’t happening right now. people find me too abrasive and that makes it hard enough as is. Delilah: ok well maybe be nice to people babe ? you: ehhhh not really my thing but maybe i’ll try for you < 33 Delilah: u better !!!!!! Delilah: hugs n kisses < 333 i gtg, reed is here you: it’s not even 9am so idk how you’re already at it with him… have a good day lilah.

You shake your head at the quick interaction and feel a moment of missing her before shoving your phone back into your pocket and taking a deep breath. Opening Dr. Howards lecture doors and seeing that you’re the first to show again, a small smile graces your lips as you make your way to your seat. 

It’s not long until the small, bubbly, blonde seventy-year-old woman walks in, big binders and a mug in hand. Following her are more of the students, none of which you know or care to know. You look away for a few minutes to gather you notebook and pencil to scribble nonsense notes to try and dissect later. 

And the lecture begins. 

—--------------

Peter, frankly, was over everything. He was the one who had to organize where people would be sleeping, how they’d fit into the chapter house and he even had to argue with the stupid underclassmen asking why he was the one with a private bathroom. Being in a frat was tiring, he was only here for the scholarship and housing opportunity. 

It was always the same, but luckily this was his last year he had to be involved with it. 

After this year, his bacholers in hand, he could just worry about graduate school. Everyone and everything outside of bioengineering and Spider-Man would wash off of him. His hands clean and life lonely, just as he liked it to be- with the exception of May. 

Even if one fleeting conversation leaves him enamored with the wrinkle of your nose, the way it caused the inner corners of your eyes to crease. He hadn’t been this way since highschool, it was scary and unwelcomed. Something he’d rather kill off and walk away from, but every day in the courtyard or the times you happened to be on the Q train at the same time as him, the weird adrenaline rush would light him on fire.

Mondays, Wednesdays and select Fridays were the worst. He was sure of it. 

Environmental Managment, a dumb class, but he took it to get his credit hours up, hoping to balance out his GPA…. Somehow, you were here too. Almost like a curse, he has to look at you from the back row of the class, the closest seat to the back entrance. You sat alone, front and center of the lecture hall. You were always there on time, which urged him to be too, it gave him extra time to stare. Even with this, he was never sure of your name.

—--------------

The teacher was droning on about some mudslide somewhere in California, babbling about the random effects it had on the surrounding citizens, the heavy rain that caused it. Your pencil was etching into the paper lazily with each slide. 

A small timer went off which indicated the end of class, but before you could react there was a loud clap and Dr. Howards mic was turned on. She only used it for important announcements or when the frat boys in the back wouldn’t shut up. 

“So, this semester is going really well. Many of you are keeping your grades and positivity up! But, we still need to discuss our final exam.”

A symphony of deep groans sound from the back, you feel your eye twitch at it. 

“Thank you, boys.” A pause and a glare, “Anyways, I have decided your final will be a presentation on a hypothetical scenario. In groups of two, that I assign, you and your partner will have to decide on a catastrophic event, it can be any of the ones we have discussed or any you find in your books. After picking the event, choose the setting, it can be close to home or even Australia, just make it realistic. No monsoons in New York. You two must decide how devastating it is and how the community will recover. The groups are in the class Canvas. Take care! Go Otters! Excelsior!” She closes her laptop and is out of the room before anyone can complain about her groupings.

You are quick to start thinking over ideas, most of which are tornado-centered. You’ve never experienced one, but the movie Twister was a classic at home when you were little. Quickly, you write down some ideas, tornadoes, hurricanes, mudslides…. 

You pack your books away and look into the list the professor had composed on your phone, scrolling through too many names before your gaze lands on yours next to… oh no.

Peter Parker. 

You feel dumb for a moment, you hadn’t realized he was in this course let alone the same exact class as you. Turning around to look for him, it’s hard. The cluster of bodies was too big to just be pairs discussing their ideas.

Then, your eyes meet a messy mop of brown, leaning over a laptop and the same sweater from back in summer all the way in the back. You feel nervous just looking at him, but you swallow the hard lump and start towards him. Of course he’d be all the way in the back, surrounded by sport and frat bro’s. 

With a deep breath, you tap on his shoulder. It causes him to jump, and for a moment he looks as nervous as you feel, but it disappears quickly and is replaced with a smile. 

“Hey, I know you.” Peter says it with a warm tone.

“Yep. Uhm… we were partnered for the project?” You say it coolly, staring down at him.

“Ah- so that's who you are, huh?” He tilts his head, slowly shutting his beat up laptop and leaning back in his chair. He says your name a few times under his breath, as if reciting it to himself. 

“Uh-huh….” You nod, something weird stirring in your stomach at the timbre he uses when whispering your name to himself. “So, what days are we meeting for this thing?” 

“Uh- we could use the free period on whatever days you want. As long as it isn’t at night, I have a job.” He shrugs, looking up at you and his smile falters. 

“Monday, Wednesday and Friday it is then.” You decide, grabbing the paper you scribbled ideas on and hand it to him.

He takes it and looks it over, his brows furrowed for a moment before looking back up to you. “We can’t meet today, but if you give me your number I’ll look these over and text you.” He is so soft spoken compared to the other frat guys around you, it is almost shocking.

“You have my school email. Use that.” You shrug, your tone almost rude as you speak. “Sorry, I mean- just email me about it and we can talk Wednesday….” It’s kinder this time, but the tone correction feels embarrassing.

“Oh- okay. Sure thing.” He nods and starts to gather his things around, looking you over before slinging his backpack over his shoulder, you couldn’t help but notice the skateboard sticking out from it. “See you then.” He says your name then he is gone, quickly leaving to go wherever he needed to be.

—-------------- <pbparker@empire.edu 

Sent at 2:27pm 10/21/2024

Let's do the hurricane and Louisiana idea. Meet me at the library at 12:30. 

Peter B. Parker

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—--------------

Wednesday, October 23rd, 2024

You walk into the library, your eyes scanning the large area. Peter and you had agreed to meet on the first floor for ease of finding one another, but he hadn’t specified if he was at a table, a computer or in a private study room. You groan at the fact you never asked for any more specifics.

The building had three levels, ground floor was all peer-reviewed journals, textbooks, anything that was used for research and could be ran through scribbr for essays, the middle floor was dedicated to fiction and had very limited stock, only a few of the books were actually worth a read, the top floor was just old archives, nothing that was allowed to leave the library. 

It was a very tall, circular shape. Each floor visible from the entrance, glass sidings and the small tables or armchairs pressed against them. Red and gold quotes painted along the walls. Your personal favorite was by Madame Curie, it was directly above the checkout desk.

"One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done." 

Slowly walking through the shelves, looking at each and every table and bean bag, you can't seem to find that stupid mass of brunette hair and slushy posture anywhere. In all seriousness, you’re getting angry. Had he stood you up? Was he running behind after he set up the whole meeting in the first place? 

Just as you were about to give up you felt a hand fall on your shoulder, a breeze of honey and pine enveloping your nose. 

“Finally, I found you!” Peter's voice was easy to recognize, especially with how sweet he smelt. 

You turn and look up, giving him a skeptical look. “Where are we going to study?”

He took a moment before pointing at the private study hall, his smile smooth and easy to take in. With a quick nod, you walked towards the hallway, looking in each room to decipher which had his items in it. To your delight, it was easy. Every other room was filled with people, some studying, others playing some tabletop games. You walked in, sat at the empty seat closest to the computer and started pulling your notebook out. 

He was right behind you, closing the door and settling in across from you. In one foul swoop his legs were propped on the table and he leaned back a bit. “So do you really think this assignment is going to take ten weeks to research?” He sounded so… carefree.

You respond with a shrug, looking at the page on natural disasters. 

Peter hummed a small ‘mhmm’ and drummed his fingers on his chest, staring at you. “So, are we gonna challenge ourselves and use just our textbook as a reference?” A small smile.

“That's dumb.” You scoff and put your book aside, logging into the school computer and doing a quick search for Louisiana and scrolling through its map, trying to find the city to zone in on.

“Oh. Okay… uhm….” He sits forward, dropping his legs and leaning forward, craning his neck a bit to try and get a peek at the screen.

“New Orleans is probably a good one. Super populated, a staple for tourists. It would be a big tragedy for it to get destroyed.” He pointed at the spot on the screen, his tone still just as warm as usual.

“No, too predictable.” It comes out like an insult, and you internally kick yourself.

There's a pause before a defeated sigh and he points out another spot on the map, it’s random and his smile is gone now. “What about there? Grand Isle?” 

You take a long look at it before nodding and writing the town name down, looking over at him with a forced smile. “Cool.”

“You know, we’re gonna have to talk like real people eventually, right?” It’s frustrated and a bit.. sad. Another internal kick.

“Listen I-” you pause, not sure of how to put it at first, “I’m not good at talking. Never have been.” 

“Yea, I’ve noticed.” He shrugs and pulls out the most beat-up laptop you’d ever seen. “But, that night in the courtyard you seemed pretty chatty.”

The memory flashes in your mind and you touch your nose, your new pair of glasses hasn’t arrived yet. “It was a momentary lapse. Probably won’t happen again.”

“Why not?” He stares intently, a stomach turning, heart flipping look on his face as he asks.

“Why would it?” You stare back, your hands starting to fidget with your jean pocket.

“Cause we’re friends now.” He spoke so nonchalantly.

“Not friends.” A groan

“Oh come on, you’ll learn to love me eventually.” His voice was soft and he brought the backside of his fingers against his chin, batting his eyelashes.

“Eh, doubt it. I’ve had enough of love lite.” You said it, genuinely grossed out.

There was a moment of silence, the buzzing LED above you making you think you won Peter's yap battle.

“What?” It came out after a hearty laugh, one that felt like it had to come from his stomach.

You roll your eyes, looking into Grand Isle, writing its population count down as you respond. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

“So you think I’m pretty?” He gasps, his hand pumping in the air as if he’d won something.

A shiver runs down your spine but you don’t let it show. “Sickening thought. Thanks, Mr. Aracnophile.” You grimace, making a fake gagging sound even though deep down you were enjoying this stupid conversation with him.

“Oh ew- never call me that again. What did I ever do to you?” His hand flew over his heart, squeezing his pullover with a dramatic gasp.

“You haven’t shut up since we got in this room.” You looked him in the eye, an almost unamused expression on your face outside of the small smile that was fighting its way past your ever slipping mask.

Peter is quiet for a moment again before rolling his shoulders back and sighing. “Got you pretty chatty though, didn’t I?” A shit-eating grin and a teasing tone accompanying his words.

You go to speak but nothing comes out. He did get you chatty. For some reason it makes your face heat up and you roll your eyes before looking back at your computer screen. “I’ll look into the town, you look into the likeliness a hurricane would destroy it?” 

He nods and opens the laptop, it has several cracks in the screen and duct tape holding a few of the plastic parts down. You take a mental note not to ask about it right now, but maybe later. 

The next hour progresses quickly, handwritten notes torn out of notebooks and stacked neatly into a pile in between the two computer screens. There are a few sneezes and quick exchanged glances while you work, but you ignore it. No reason to think too hard about it. 

As you start to type a few sentences into a digital outline, your phone buzzes, indicating your next class would be starting in twenty minutes. You sigh and start to boot down the computer. Peter lifts his head, looking at you and furrowing his brows a little bit. 

“Got somewhere to be?” He says your name so smoothly, you almost miss that he said it at all. 

“Yea. My next block of classes is about to start.” You shrug and sift through the different notes he and you had written, letting your eyes graze each one to see what’s what and how you should organize it in your folder. 

“I can take those.” He gently taps the top of the papers and you’re reluctant to hand them over. It was hard to say yes, because what if you needed to double check them and retrace your steps before- “I’ll scan them and send them to you after work tonight.”

A wave of relief washes over you, and you nod, letting his hand take them from you. “Sounds good, Spider-guy.” You say with a tight lipped smile and start to leave the study room. 

“Hey, wait. Let me walk with you.” He calls out to you but you put your earbuds in and pretend you didn’t hear him. 

—-----------------

<pbparker@empire.edu 

Sent at 3:06am 10/24/2024

2 attachments (4 MB)

Here you go, just as I promised. Oh, also, here’s my number, you know, if you want to be a normal 21 year old someday. Also, can't meet Friday. Something came up.

See you soon, trouble.

(xxx) xxx-xxxx

Peter B. Parker

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