#even the first verse is all about the possessions that a man has in his room

[iris-nonsense]

I'm deeply fascinated by how Redecorate deals with some of the most mundane and tedious aspects of death and grief: a person died and someone has to decide what to do with their stuff, keeping it or throwing it away. It's not something that can be ignored or avoided, just like the bureaucracy of the papers and the funeral, and just like those things it feels like an intrusion of a person pain and grief but it has to be done. The question at the end of the chorus put it in such a simple and disarming way "should they keep it on display or redecorate?"

The rest of the chrous is just as powerful. The perspective is of someone contemplating death (be it by suicide, by illness or by an accident) and it's completely focused on material possessions, a room and the things in it. The real worry is not dying but the fact that their room is not clean, the real fear is the burden that this would leave on the people close to them who would have to decide what to do with it, the tediousness of it all. And the music is somber, almost detached, it leaves the space to contemplate. In this situation the pain is dull and what is left is how death is ordinary and how it brings very mundane issues with it, but in some way they still represent if someone is holding to the past or is willing to move on

[arminsumi]

more jealous sukuna please? and and sukuna smut too? your sukuna has been on my mind like a rotisserie chicken in microwave

LIKE YOU'RE MY QUEEN

“What would you prefer? Gojo spoiling you like a princess, or me spoiling you like a queen?”

4.9k

★ Featuring : boss!Sukuna, co-worker!Gojo

★ Synopsis : at a Christmas work party, your jealous boss Sukuna proves that he can treat you better than Gojo ever could.

★ Note : like a rotisserie chicken in a microwave?! 😂 best thing i ever heard

★ Warnings : 🔞 MDNI/18+, jealousy, possessiveness, rivalry between Gojo and Sukuna, reader x Gojo smut memories, bl*wjob + deepthroating, cunnilingus/facesitting, creampies, reader is on birth control, taking condom off (consensual), Gojo catching/listening thru door, +++

Sukuna steps out of a shower dripping wet.

He wraps a towel around his waist, and it hangs dangerously low on his hips, showing the definition of his V-line and his dark patch of hair. He wipes a clearing on the steamed-up mirror with his hand, then gets ready to shave – lines up all the products that he’s going to use. It’s funny; you wouldn’t expect him to have so many skin care products, yet he does.

Sukuna shaves his cheeks with a precise, beady eye on his reflection in the mirror. The razor makes small, sharp sounds when he drags it across his jawline, which he juts out a bit.

Why is he shaving so precisely? Well, Sukuna overheard you speaking once to a co-worker in the office, and you said something about being turned on by clean-shaven men.

After shaving, he puts on an Italian-branded moisturizer. He also dabs on a pea-sized amount of some special skin care product and using both his middle fingers he smooths it onto his skin in a sweepy pattern.

Apparently, you like it when men have a lingering moisturizer scent on their cheeks.

Sukuna spends a long time getting ready for the Christmas work party that he’s hosting tonight at his own penthouse. The whole office anticipates this end of year party from Sukuna, they’re very lavish.

You better notice his obvious efforts.

He knows you're an intelligent and well-versed woman. He likes that about you. And he likes your look, especially at the end-of-year work parties when you really glam yourself up for the occasion. But he likes your look even when you're scurrying around the office with messy hair and no make-up to conceal your imperfections, he still looks at you with the same lustfulness – like he needs to take you into his office and bend you over his desk for doing a good job.

Your boss distinctly remembers how you looked at the Christmas work party last year; your smile and glittering earrings like a treasured photograph in his mind.

He hopes you'll wear the thin-chained, diamond necklace that he gifted you. Whenever you wear it, he feels a bit delusional — he thinks you belong to him. But you’re just his employee.

Something your boss regrets is hiring a particular employee.

This employee is tall, sorely good-looking and charismatic to the point of making it hard for his co-workers (and Sukuna) catch your eye. Sukuna’s been battling to maintain his pride and not fire the man solely for charming you.

Sometimes you’ve noticed Sukuna clenching his jaw when catching you and this employee flirting by the water-cooler. He usually strides by and grumbles “Get back to work.” to disrupt the two of you.

Sukuna thinks this man has some audacity to get in your pants, considering the whole office knows that Sukuna has eyes on you.

When you first started out at this job, Sukuna was cruel and harsh on you even though you were clearly trying your best as a rookie – and what a cheeky move his employee made when he noticed this; he buttered you up after Sukuna yelled at you so that you’d take more of a liking to him than your boss.

One of the first things Gojo Satoru said to you was;

“Sweets, don’t listen too closely to the boss; you’re doing great for a rookie.”

And from that moment, you were enamoured by him. Your co-worker with white hair, standing at a big 6’3 frame, wearing an intoxicating Giorgio Armani cologne. You and him have a three year age gap, him being older and also a single dad… two things that turn you on.

Sukuna and Gojo may have the funniest boss/employee dynamic you’ve ever seen. They both act like they’re the boss.

Sometimes you follow orders from Gojo and say “Yes, sir.” and this makes Sukuna ball his hands into fists on his desk. He keeps a stoic, professional face. Gojo just laughs and usually replies with “Sweets, ‘m not the boss – he is. Right, Sukuna?” to which Sukuna quietly thinks of murder.

If Gojo wasn’t his best employee, you’re sure there would be a fight between them. It’s not the work ethic of Gojo that makes him a good employee, it’s the fact he brings in great business from around the world because he is just so incredibly charming and charismatic.

Sukuna appreciates and respects Gojo’s charm and charisma, yes. Until it’s used on you. Then he seethes.

At Christmas parties, Gojo’s always hot on you. But this year, Sukuna’s determined to make sure to corner you before Mister Blue Eyes does.

— ★

A dim-lit, lavish room big enough to accommodate the whole office of employees is decorated and filled to the brim. Servers sieve through the crowd. A glittering chandelier hangs from the tall ceiling. The work party is somehow even more lavish than last year’s, which you can’t comprehend.

Just like I said; Gojo is always hot on you at these parties. His eyes are on you (and blazing with lust) immediately after you appear. Tonight, you’re wearing a tight, glittery slip dress that you were gifted anonymously. And Gojo makes haste to compliment you as flirtatiously as possible.

“I think the chandelier is jealous.” He goofs, making you smile.

“Hey, Satoru.” You greet him.

“Hey.”

Sukuna watches from across the room as you two share a hug – and it’s a hug that tells a whole story.

You and Satoru have been clearly bonding as co-workers… especially this year, after you two went on that business trip together in Okinawa.

Well, now Sukuna regrets allowing you to accompany Gojo on that trip. Clearly the two of you spent the month steaming up the hotel’s shower and ruining the tightly tucked bedsheets.

And he’s right.

You and Satoru practically spent the whole business trip fucking like bunnies in as many positions as you could and in as many places as you could – both in the hotel room and around the resort you stayed at.

There had been a sexual tension between you and Satoru that built up during the work year since January, and it finally snapped during the trip in Okinawa when it was just you and him alone together. The first night? Gojo was so smooth it made you giggle uncontrollably, even while caged between his strong arms. He made sure to fuck your giggles out until they turned into screaming moans.

God he was skilled – really skilled. And you know what’s worse than a man who’s skilled in the bedroom? A man with a big, fat cock. Eight. A bit of a right-tending curve. Pale. Lots of veins – a prominent one running down the shaft. Pink tip. Taut balls, heavy with cum. No condoms as per your request after you saw it the first time. Creampies as per your demand since you had birth control. And be glad you had it, because Satoru’s cum was potent.

All you could babble as he fucked you each time was:

“God, your cock is so fucking big, Satoru!”

And he had a smug reply every time.

“I know, baby. But you love taking it, right?”

Satoru fucked you during that business trip like he was trying to burn the memory of how good he fucks into your mind. He nicknamed you his Sex Bunny because of how readily you hopped on his dick each time he flirted – and when the two of you were in the office again, he shortened it to just Bunny. It was like a little inside joke between the two of you, one that made you instantly giggle and feel hot in the face.

Neither of you counted how many times you two had sex in Okinawa, but tonight at the Christmas party you and Satoru reminisced about all the places you had sex in.

The hotel lobby with a remote-control vibe. The hotel bed. The hotel shower. Against the hotel window. Over a room-service cart. Standing by the hotel door – outside, not inside, at 3 am when no one was around but still it was risky. At the restaurant. At the other restaurant. At the beach. Twice. In the backseat of an expensive, rented car.

“… wish we could have ticked the plane off our list of locations.” Satoru smirks

“What are you two talking about?” your other co-worker, Nanami Kento, joins the conversation.

“Nothin’, just our trip to Okinawa last month. It was pretty fruitful.” Satoru holds back a laugh.

Kento nods, sipping his champagne. The three of you talk business for a while but then Kento leaves to go talk to Suguru who beckoned for him to come over to the other side of the room – introducing work people, you know.

“Satoru, you come here too. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Suguru calls for his best friend.

“Suguru, you’ll have to work harder than that if you want to tear me away from her.” Satoru jokes.

You feel your cheeks warm up. If it wasn’t for the professional setting of a work party, Satoru would be caressing your hips and kissing you as if you’re his to-be wife. Actually, Satoru seriously considers doing both of those things after hearing you laugh but then the two of you are interrupted by a familiar, strong-voiced man.

Sukuna seethes at Gojo’s audacity to stand so close to you. He purses his lips and tenses his abdomen muscles. He gets full-body fits of jealousy; his muscles tensing and lips pursing are common.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Sukuna asks stiffly.

“Of course – and you’re responsible for it.” Gojo cheeks.

There’s an underlying meaning to his response that Sukuna pieces together instantly – his jaw clenches but he maintains his composure.

You’re flitting your attention between the men.

Gojo is severely good-looking. Not just because he won the genetic lottery, but because he maintains his looks with high-end classy fashion and he refines himself to the point of looking ready for a model photoshoot.

Sukuna has a sensual, firm feeling to his looks. Jawline sharp enough to cut, and his voice cuts too – he’s sliced through the tension between you and Gojo. Cleaving Gojo is just something he enjoys doing. He’s a bit sadistic, he delights in Gojo’s downfall. You’re being charmed away by Sukuna with each word he speaks.

So Gojo flirts harder.

Then Sukuna flirts harder.

You feel a bit small with these two big, muscular men in suits clustering close to your tinier body. They’re like peacocks having a feather show-off competition to win you over.

Both men are trying to undress you with their eyes, their pupils peeling back the thin fabric cradling your breasts. Sukuna’s feasted on your cleavage many times when you’ve bent over in the office to pick something up. It irks him that Gojo has had the privilege of playing with your breasts and he hasn’t yet.

He’s pooling with jealousy; it’s spilling through his tone as he continues talking with you and Gojo.

Sukuna notes that you’re wearing the thin-chained, diamond necklace that he hoped you'd wear.

Your dress glitters.

Sukuna gets a little hard right then because he stares at you for too long. The dress hugs the shape of your body so that every kink and curve is unconcealed. It leaves little up to the imagination.

That's what he likes to see. His favorite employee wearing his necklace and his dress at his party.

The men talked business with you for a bit, but not for long.

"She looks like a goddess tonight, doesn’t she, Sukuna? I don't know how any man here is standing upright. Me personally, my knees are buckling."

Your cheeks burn, “Oh, Satoru, you’re laying it on thick, you flirty bastard.” You light-heartedly shove his chest.

Sukuna clenches his jaw.

Not only did your response to Gojo’s flirting irk Sukuna, but also the way you used his first name – you’re that close? And you touching Gojo was just the nail in the coffin.

“You talk a lot as usual, Gojo.” Sukuna’s professional tone slips for a second.

“I know, I know…” Gojo smirks cheekily, knowing he was chipping away at Sukuna. “But don’t you think that dress just fits her form so perfectly?” he emphasizes.

“Yes, it was made for her.” Sukuna replies. Gojo tilts his head in surprise. “I contacted a friend overseas and asked if he could have it made in time for Christmas. Good to see my efforts weren’t for nothing.”

Your cheeks burn as Sukuna reveals that he bought the dress for you. He’d gotten your measurements from your tailor.

"Oh! — oh my god, you really didn't have to do that for me, Sukuna." you reply humbly.

Sukuna smirks smugly after hearing his name from your lips.

"I absolutely had to. You deserved it after working so hard for me this year."

Gojo has goes quiet and purses his lips.

"Your efforts definitely weren't for nothing, Sukuna." Gojo chimes in smoothly.

"Ahah, Satoru you're really overdoing it. Thank you, though. Always nice to hear sweet things from your lips." you flirt a little.

You flirt a little.

Gojo flirts back.

Sukuna is teetering between being a boss of a company and being his old self who used to aspire to be a professional boxer.

Gojo is a man that gets everything he wants – you know, like he’s the chosen one and life was tailored to fit him. An excellent position at an excellent job, screwing his hot co-worker in Okinawa.

Just once, Sukuna wants to take everything away from Gojo.

Now your boss is itching to get alone with you. Gojo yaps, flirts, plays, never shuts up. Then finally, he readies leave.

“Alright, I’ll have to leave for a moment. Suguru has been wanting my attention since I got here and I’m such a bad friend that I’ve ignored him for your company instead.” He joked. “But I promise I’ll come back and spoil ya, ‘princess.”

No you won’t, Sukuna thinks.

And the split second that Gojo joins Suguru’s small group conversation, Sukuna steers you through the crowd and leads you up the stairs – holding your hand like a real gentleman, you thought. But Sukuna’s a gentleman with carnal, primal desires.

He looks at your neck, at the necklace, then his eyes trail down to your cleavage and he admires the dress as it shimmers in the dim light.

He decides that tonight he'll win you over.

Enough of this peacock war between Sukuna and Gojo. He's the boss, right?

— ★

You sit cross-legged on a lush, black sheet bed, giggling at the dirty jokes that your boss, Ryomen Sukuna, is muttering into your ear. He makes you wiggle your foot flirtatiously, your high heel slipping off a bit.

The party is still ongoing downstairs. Gojo Satoru wonders where you are but Geto Suguru is keeping him locked in a business conversation with Nanami Kento and Fushiguro Toji.

You act like Sukuna’s flirting is too hot and heavy for you to handle. A big grin is plastered on your face.

He leans in close to your ear. You catch a whiff of his intoxicating after-shave oil and his cologne; he smells spicy and expensive.

Then he asks you a question that ends the playful flirting and turns the atmosphere into a serious lust.

"What would you prefer? Gojo spoiling you like a princess, or me spoiling you like a queen?"

He sees your eyes light up and your body shift excitedly. His closeness makes your breath hitch.

"I-if I'm being honest? The latter."

“I think you’re lying.” He teases.

“Lying? Why do you think so?” you ask flirtatiously.

Sukuna’s lips graze yours.

“Because you’ve been flirting like a slutty little princess with him all night.”

You swallow. His cologne floods your head. You can’t think straight. You look down and see he’s got a bulge in his tight pants. It takes all your self-restraint not to reach out and squeeze his cock through his pants; it looks so delicious.

“Am I wrong?” he asks after you’ve gone silent for much too long. “Maybe you want both of us.”

“Of course I do.” You admit openly.

“Oh? You’re sluttier than I thought.” He smirks.

“Isn’t that why I’m your favorite employee?” you tease.

“Hmmm… I don’t know if you’re still my favorite employee after admitting you want both me and Gojo.” He replies.

“Aw… well, if I’m not your favorite employee anymore…”

Your fingertips reach out and touch the curve of his cock.

“… can I become your favorite slut?”

Those words go straight to his cock. It’s straining against his pants now. He’s so hard it’s getting jumpy, you can see it visibly twitching in his pants.

***

Pants unzipped, head tilted back, eyes shut in bliss, Sukuna palms your head up and down on his cock, making your lips slide up and down his cock.

You splutter when he hits the back of your throat, and gag when he starts to slide his big cock down your throat.

“Ghhhn.” You gargle and choke as his thick, bulbous cockhead stretches out your throat.

He tastes so addicting. That’s something Sukuna has in common with Satoru; tasting so damn good. Is it their lifestyles? Their diets? Who knows. You remember sucking Satoru dry in Okinawa because his cum just tasted so good.

Taking as much of your boss’ cock as you can, you let him keep you down on it for a few seconds before hastily pulling off for air.

He groans loudly.

“Fuck, maybe you will become my favorite slut after tonight.” He jokes. “Look how fucking sloppy you’ve made my cock.”

You wipe the saliva from your chin and lips, smiling happily at Sukuna’s slicked cock.

He changes positions. The bedsheets rustle as he lays on it, stretching his long legs out. His cock sways as he moves, you eye it out.

“Come here.” He commands with a beckoning finger.

You crawl over to him and straddle his lap. He rests his hands on your hips and looks at your glittering slip dress – it rises over the curve of your thigh. He squeezes the plush fat there, letting out a groan of satisfaction at the sensation of your flesh moulding to his hand.

“You’ve been a good slut to me, now tell me what you want first; do you want me to treat you like a slut or like my queen?”

“Like your queen.” you reply with sparkly eyes.

“Then come up here and sit on your throne, my queen.” He commands.

You look at him dumbstruck.

During the trip in Okinawa, Gojo wasn’t opposed to eating you out – if you asked him he would do it. But he wasn’t all too good at it, it was just for prep. You didn’t complain because he made up for it by luring multiple orgasms out of your pussy with his cock.

Your hips hover inches above your boss’ tattooed face. His eyes catch on the slick that’s dribbling out your hole and smearing across your inner thigh. He notices you hesitate to sit down on his face.

“Sit.” He commands again.

But before you lower your pussy onto his face, he does it himself – by grabbing your hips and bringing you down.

“Oh! Fuck! Mmm!” you gasp.

Sukuna wastes no time working his skilled tongue into your pussy.

At first he runs his tongue up and down the slit, not quite parting it yet. Teasing, light licking up to your clit, he grazes circles around it with his pointed tongue. You squirm your hips, so he holds them more firmly.

“Don’t you fucking squirm. Stay right here, my queen.”

Sukuna’s words and breath go right against your puffy clit. It’s buzzing and sensitive, needy for attention. You gasp loudly when you feel him kiss it. Then he kisses it again – sloppier, and starts making out with your clit as if it’s your lips.

“Oh, fuck! S-sir!” you breathe excitedly.

He hums against your clit, smug that you’re still calling him ‘Sir’.

Now he starts to suckle your clit gently, massaging his tongue into it while he does. His big hands caress up and down your shuddering thighs.

“Mmm!” you whine, pinching your eyes shut and feeling good on your boss’ face.

He pulls his lips away, murmuring “Bet that asshole never made you make these noises, hm?” he says proudly.

Sukuna’s tongue flattens out and swipes upwards, he starts lapping like a thirsty dog. You hear him breathing and lightly groaning. Sukuna’s using all his tricks on your pussy.

You place your hands on the headboard in front of you and gulp, pinching your eyes shut even tighter. He can’t see it, but he just knows your lips are forming that O shape right now. His tongue wiggles into your hole, and he starts tongue-fucking you hard and fast. His lips press against your squishy folds. He can feel your juices start running down his chin as he continues.

“Oh my god!” your moans quiver. Your body trembles a bit. “That’s so fucking good!”

Sukuna smirks into your pussy and keeps fucking you with his tongue. You clench tight.

Sukuna works his tongue against your clit. He builds up your first orgasm of the night. His tongue goes faster and faster against your puffy clit, lips latching on and suckling it. You feel your orgasm nearing and your mind goes fuzzy. You’re dumbing out on Sukuna’s tongue.

It feels too good, you can't help but hump your hips back and forth on Sukuna's face.

"That's it, fuck my face." he groans and switches from thrusting his tongue into your hole to suckling your clit again. He points his tongue at your bud and flicks it rapidly.

"Fuuuck! Oh my god that's so good that's s-so fucking good! Please don't stop! MHM! Oh my god I'm gonna — cummm!!"

You roll your eyes back and feel your orgasm working up in your pussy as Sukuna sucks your clit harder. You zone out on pleasure and focus on cumming.

Sukuna groans into your pussy, feeling you gush all over his face. He’s a mess, his cheek splattered with your watery cum as it dribbles out. He keeps licking you through your orgasm, making you shudder and scream.

Sukuna lets out a naughty, humming laugh that gets muffled onto your pussy. You cum all over his face and shake violently, feeling your pussy convulse and contract.

There's just one thing you have to say to Sukuna for him to toss you off his face.

"Need your cock, please!"

He licks your inner thighs to clean them up.

“Sure, queen.”

— ★

Gojo's still enjoying the party, but now it's been an hour since you disappeared and he wonders where you are until he realizes Sukuna is nowhere to be found, either. Hm,

You've got your legs pushed back as Sukuna eases his cock into your pussy. He slowly stretches you open, savoring the feeling of pushing past your entrance.

Then he groans while he starts to fuck his inches into you one by one. Big hands keep your legs pushed back into a mating press.

You let out quivering moans and roll your eyes back. Sukuna's jaw slacks and he tilts his head off to the side. His fat cockhead prods at your G-spot and that's when you squeal;

"Fuck! Right there!"

"Oh, right here?"

"Mhm! Fuck! Right theeere, Sukuna! Oh my god, S-Sukunaaa!"

"Ooh, you're gettin' loud for your boss’ cock, huh?" he grins as he starts thrusting hard, sweeping thrusts into your G-spot. “I like that. Let everyone hear who’s fucking your cunt so good.”

He stares down at the place where you and him connect. Your pussy feels sticky all over as he fucks your juices out. His cock works in and out of you at a mean pace and you moan louder and louder as he goes faster and faster, totally turning your brain to mush.

"Ooh fuck!" you gasp each time he reaches a new depth with his tip.

Sukuna thumbs skillfully at your clit while pushing his cock as deep as your pussy will let him go.

He doesn't know where to look, because your breasts are sluttily bouncing in your dress and your exposed lower tummy is shuddering with each thrust of his big cock.

His breathing gets ragged, and he grunts, positioning himself at a better angle so he can reach deeper.

At this angle his cock has you seeing stars. Your mouth makes an O shape and you go silent, unable to moan because of how good it feels. How funny, he thinks. He's fucked you so good you can’t even moan, your voice is gone.

But then it comes back louder than ever.

"S'kuna!! Fuckfuckfuck moreright there please FUCK ahhhh god fuck I loveyousomuch pleasedon'tstopfuckingme!!"

His ego inflates after catching that ‘I love you so much’.

"That’s it, love me – never him, understand?" he growls seriously, and suddenly stills inside you. “Say it. You love me and not him.”

You gasp, feeling his tip pressing against your cervix.

"Yes! I love you, not him!”

Sukuna grunts and keeps pressuring your cervix with his cock. He roughly squeezes your hips, your stomach, your breasts like a primal lover.

"Tell me I fuck you better than Gojo Satoru. Scream it.”

His rough, animalist thrusts start up again and your eyes roll back, mouth hung open and teeth bearing when it feels too good.

"Y-you fuck me better than Gojo Satoru!" you scream.

Sukuna keeps making you scream this over and over.

"Keep fucking saying it, I'm getting so close." he groans.

Then a feeling comes over him, like someone's outside the door. He smirks and gives a glance behind him at the closed door.

"Say it again." Sukuna commands you, eyes still on the door. He's pure evil.

"You fuck me so good, S'kuna!" you babble, "You fuck me better than Gojo!"

"That's a good fuckin' girl.” He growls nastily, “Now keep telling me how much better I am than him while you take this fucking cock." he growls and starts thrusting into you harder and faster until his sticky balls slap into you loudly.

Sukuna keeps fucking you until your body jiggles at the force of his thrusts. You shift up the bed and cling to the headboard, Sukuna sees your tiny hand grab it and he puts his hand over yours.

Hands off your body, he fucks you full of his cock and makes sure it's as loud as possible.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum! Nnnh don't stop!" you gasp, feeling a G-spot stimulated orgasm building up in your pussy.

"Yeah, cum. Cum for me and only me." Sukuna growls and pounds into you.

"Fuck, S'kunaaa 'm cumming on your b-big cock!" you scream, unable to keep quiet at all with how his cock is fucking you.

You shake from head to toe and feel your pussy constrict tightly around his big cock. He watches your eyes roll back and your body tense up as you cum long and hard. Sukuna groans and feels your milking contractions and it gets him close to his own orgasm.

"Hear that?" he talks, but not to you. "This pussy’s all mine now. I’m gonna fuckin’ claim it.”

He leans down and asks you clearly; "Baby, do you want me to take the condom off and cum inside?" he asks.

"Yes! Yes please! Fuck me raw, cum inside!" you cry, feeling his cock continue to pound into you after your orgasm.

"Good girl. Taking my fucking dick so good." he slides out and pulls the condom off his cock with a little difficulty, his fingers slipping. He gets a grip on the end and peels it off his cock and tosses the condom onto the pillow next to your head.

Sukuna enters you again and gets right back to the same pace he was fucking you with earlier.

"Fuck!" you gasp, thrashing your legs around. "Fuck, oh my god!"

"I'm close..." he closes his eyes and tilts his head back.

You look behind you to see him, eyes catching on his tattoos and flexing muscles. He's sweating and grunting, pounding into you like he's proving a point. Because he is.

"Fuck. I'm cumming, take it all." he growls and holds your body almost suffocatingly tightly.

You roll your eyes back when you feel him push himself as deep as he can go. Hot ropes of his sticky cum spurt out of his cock, filling you up so much that you can really feel it. Your pussy milks him through his orgasm and he moans brokenly.

"Fuck..." he slaps your ass hard, and thrusts a little bit more inside you just so that sloppy sound fills the room.

"Listen to that creampied pussy. Sounds like it's all mine now, huh Gojo?"

You blink dumbly.

Gojo smirks behind the closed door and walks away, shaking his head, muttering curses under his breath at his boss.

Well, how unfortunate, Sukuna fucked his jealousy out into your pussy, but now Gojo is throbbing with jealousy as he walks away from the door, defined jaw clenching tight and cock rock hard in his tight pants.

© arminsumi

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

[oozedninjas]

What do you think of possessive turtles with their s/o? What do you think they'de be like? Other than marking their s/o that is

Ninja turtles + possessiveness

Ah, the smell of toxic relationships!

18+ I Ninja guys are mind to late twenties I kind of dark!turtles, kind of what I think the toxic aspects of dating them would actually be like. I MDNI I General verses

Leo

This bitch is too cocky to even think you can cheat on him, or fall for someone else. Yet!! He's still a mutant turtle, what if you hang out too much with someone who changes your mind?

You haven't answered in half an hour? Calls you.

Oh, you don't answer? haha, funny

* proceeds to spam*

via text, via calls, via social media

He just has this controlling habit of wanting to know where you are, with whom, and what you're doing.

You hate it, but when you confront him about it, he's always like

:( What do you mean? I'm just worried!

The foot clan's out there, you know?

Passive aggressive, honestly

It's not that he's being possessive! he just wants to make sure you're safe. *coughs * gaslighting * coughs*

He's sore when it doesn't work.

Donatello

Yeah, I don't how to tell you this but, your phone is tapped.

Just as you are about to leave to hang out with your friends, he makes the century's discoverment. It's happening again — "Please stay; it's important!"

Just five more minutes! *263536 hours later he still isn't done showing you *

Tracks your phone (in case of an emergency, of course)

Scoffs at you when you point out he's being possessive

Raphael

Behold, the "I can take you there" man.

Do you need to go to the store? He drives you! Get on the motorbike, enjoy the city lights ;)

You're hanging out with your friends? Don't worry; he'll give you a lift! No? Why not? Hmm, are you really hanging out with your friends?

Well, if he can't take you there, he can pick you up. How's that? :D Really so annoying.

Oh, you're clubbing? Guess what?! He's patrolling just in that same area. Isn't that great? Now he can wait for you to finish and walk you home!

Stalks your Instagram stories knowing he'll probably get angry, and then confronts you about the most random screenshots. Why are you touching this friend on the shoulder in this pic?! >:(

Seriously nerve-wracking.

Mikey

Listen, listen, we gotta give Mikey all the coins!! All the points because he's so subtle you don't even notice he's being possessive until one day you're reflecting and * loud gasp * revelation.

He gives you a bracelet just like his own so you can wear it as a couple! In addition to many other things that are sometimes bought and sometimes handmade, the point is that they are all orange.

And you will say, how is that possessive?

BECAUSE, because, your friends ask, is orange your favorite color? And while it may be yes, it is an opportunity to mention that the color reminds you of your boyfriend.

In short, he gives you or does things that will force you to bring him into conversation with other people.

He is the first to comment on all your photos on social media, "How beautiful my angel!" which is a problem bc now your friends want to meet him * sweats * how the hell are you gonna explain? And what if someone in your group reveals the secret? * anxiety intensifies *

Everyone in your life knows that you have a boyfriend, which is not bad, but sometimes, Instead of his actions feeling genuine, it's more like he just wants everyone to know that you are taken.

[shineonyoucrazyyandere]

Which joestar do you think would be the worst yandere? And why

Pick your poison! I like to think the Joestar’s all have their little traits that shine the most based on their personality (so whose the worst can depend on what you’re uncomfortable with). Going to do just the og verse jojo’s for this 1-6.

Jonathan : Very sweet almost intoxicatingly so, but he tends to end up a bit overprotective/just a bit babying. Insisting he does things for you, if you have some issue somewhere else? Why not let him resolve it. Don’t fret over too much he has the means to take care of you. There might be a time or two your room might be locked if you’re a little more stubborn than usual

Joseph: What is this thing called “personal space” ? It almost sounds like a foreign language to this man. He totally didn’t mess certain things up so you happen to meet up with him. Not sure why your date stood you up? He couldn’t possibly give an answer other than they’re not worth your time since they didn’t bother showing up. He should take you to this great place he loves going to after a long day.

Jotaro: Stalking type usually, and mows past anything that he might feel gets in the way of you and himself. He’s used to punks, so he’s not afraid to pummel someone if they don’t get the message to scram. When it comes to classes, he’s glancing at you every so often, maybe there’s a “doodle” or two in his notebook. Need to walk somewhere? He’ll walk with you. If you’re hiding out to be alone, he ends up finding you. You’re probably the reason he learns any building’s layout in the first place. Clubs or class cleaning doesn’t stop Jotaro either, he’ll wait as long as it takes. Being sick at home doesn’t stop him either, usually there’s some kind of hot soup/dish that’s good to eat while sick sitting in your room somehow. (Not to mention potential kidnapping later down the line if you’re not really cooperating)

Later Parts like 4 and 6, he’s pretty similar in dropping you off things even if you never once told him your address. (He has a decent memory of these things). Similarly Jotaro has any phone numbers you have in his contacts, and he’ll have a talk personally with anyone that he isn’t fond of approaching you. He tends to have you in the back of his mind while out on his studies, or writing a paper, and yet again drawings somewhere he’s compelled to place them. Every so often he checks in on you (whether you want this or not doesn’t matter). Broken down car? It’s either replaced swiftly or he’s driving you places himself. Maybe he somehow (forces) nudges you to live with him.

Josuke : He’s head over heels for you, and similar to Joseph he’s going to take any opportunity to squeeze himself into your life. He just so happens to have some leftover lunch from that place you like? You looked sad when they had sold out of your favorite meal there, so why doesn’t he help with that? Speaking of, maybe your eyes are drifting somewhere else. He steals any potential love letters to a crush and rewrites them, making it look like you’re confessing to him. He may also leave one of your favorite treats you like in its place. It’s an enigma to you how he found that out.

Giorno : He’s the don of the Italian mafia, he’s almost constantly worried about you. So if he has eyes on you, it’s almost immediate you lose autonomy whether born in Italy or a tourist. He’s clever in his ways to trap you, whether you’re resistant or not doesn’t matter. (he does think you’re cute with a strong head on your shoulders). There’s some of that charisma he possess all the same just like his father. Even if it doesn’t work on you, it makes others around you to trap you easily. Giorno likes to think he gives you a lot of leeway with voluntarily coming to him. He’ll meet you casually in coffee shops or wherever you’re willing to shop at. The bill is covered without you having to say a word. Any cash you used is miraculously brought back to you somehow. The blond isn’t afraid to get his hands a little dirty however when it comes to you. If he has to take something for you to step into his arms (whether it’s your ability to walk around outside or someone close to you) he’ll do whatever it takes.

Jolyne : Sure she stalks somewhat, but like her father she can be bold in taking care of the competition. She’s not afraid to hold your hand or finding a way for you two to do so. Eavesdropping is something she does occasionally, and anyone that wants to stomp on your heart is going to get stomped themselves. She does delay you with stone free (or outright captures you) if Jolyne doesn’t want you to leave. It’s impossible to shake her off, no matter what you try to do. Of course she made a copy of your apartment key, what if there’s an emergency? Maybe she wanted to make you breakfast. Huh? What do you mean she can’t just walk in unannounced? Don’t be ridiculous.

[robin-evry]

Hi, so I love your work and was curious on if I can infodump on SpiderMan/Spidersona!Yuu. I wanted to create Spidersona!Yuu, but I ran out of ideas, so.... is it okay if I do so?

Thank you I'm glad you enjoy it, this gave me a brain rot about spider!yuu so I hope you don't mind me creating a headcanon about them. And sure if you want info dump me.

𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀!𝐘𝐔𝐔 ����𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 🕸️🕷️

The Spider-Verse is connected by the Web of Life and Destiny. This is a subsection of the Marvel multiverse that connects all versions of Spider-Man from across the multiverse in a series of shared events and attributes.

Imagine during the dwarf cave mind, yuu was bitten by a spider. When they reported this back to Crowley, he said that they would be fine since the spider that seems to bite them isn't that dangerous and doesn't seem to have any venom in it. So they sleep it off, and when they wake up, they have been greatly enhanced as well as given some magical abilities.

Or spider!yuu was their city's friendly neighborhood hero, saving lives and being a student. During one of their times saving a civilian from a robbery a black carriage appears in their eye sight and everything turns black and then wakes up in a coffin and wearing a robe.

Regardless they will still be their hero self but instead of their city it's in another world.

At NRC, spider!yuu has a regular reputation at school they are well known for being smart at subjects like potionolgy but by far that's it, they don't stand out a lot. But who cares such boring students there's been a new hero appearing at the island.

Using webs to stop robber injustice on the island, this hero manages to become a vigilante on this island as well as a friend on the island for anyone. ( NRC is located in an Island with a town and RSA, you can look up at )

Using the new technology and resources in the world, spider!yuu manage to build themselves a much better arsenal or equipment for them during their time.

Grim work as their sidekick sometimes helps them get out of situations that almost caught or reveal their identity, as well give them enough time to change into their suit.

After a day of crime fighting and studying for a subject, spider!Yuu would swing towards the highest point of NRC, take a deep breath of fresh air and admire the sun rise right there as well looking at the entire island.

During their time at NRC, they have gained and a few trustworthy friends that knew their identity ace, deuce and grim will work as eyes on the ground and idia figure their identity on accident but he promises on not telling their identity as well help them with tech and turning off any security cameras that may become a big problem

Even some students already knew their identity but decided to keep it a secret out of respect for what spider!yuus doing. Rook also managed to find out but decided to keep it a secret as a way of respect and thanking them for saving vil one time.

Malleus and their first interaction, was when spider!yuu was in their hero suit and saw malleus thinking about something and decided to hang upside down and greeted him. This of course caught the malleus off guard but found this situation amusing and they continued to chat for a few minutes until malleus had to leave.

Spider!yuu is also manage to learn how to build and create their own suit thanks to the help of their late-mentor as well some advanced technology. One of their most prizes possessions are a pair of advanced technology glasses.

Under ramshackle, spider!Yuu have built a lair with multiple suits inside for them. That insists on them in any situation, this place also becomes their and first years hang out place, talking about tech and other things, comic books and school it even has a lounge area for them.

Similar to their other variants in other universes, spider!yuu has the same abilities as them spidey sense, enhanced physical body as well the ability to shoot out webs but what makes them different from the others is that they are able to shoot webs using magic or channel or cast magic thru their webs.

Spider!Yuu can alter the properties of their webs with magic, creating webs that freeze, burn, or shock on contact. For instance, they might use an ice-infused web to immobilize an opponent or a fire-infused web to create a protective barrier. As well creating protective barriers, charms and etc. during times of them being busy in NRC they are able to create a clone of themselves to deal with their school or hero work when one of them gets busy. But they only can make one at a time.

Has an army of cats behind the ramshackle dorm, spider!yuu is notorious for feeding and giving shelter towards stray cats to the point they will follow them everywhere even during their hero time, this is almost revealed their secret identity due to the cats being able to recognize their scent.

Even without the suit, spider!yuu is naturally a good person and a mediator, they come across epel being Targeted by many rowdy students who just finish destroying his plant project for a class before it can escalate into something worse, spider!yuu In front of both of them and ask the bullies to go away. Epel was originally mad at them for letting them get away with his plant but spider!yuu decided to give their plant project to epel instead. Surprise by this act before epel can react, spider!yuu has already left the green house. In return epel gave them a crate of his grandparents apple juice as a way to say thank you to them, this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

Spider!yuu hero persona has become some sort of idol towards the RSA student, the student body seeing them as a hero or a knight in shining armor making them to idolize spider!yuu and drive their dedication to chivalry. A mascot and idol towards people in twst

Even tho they save lives and fight crime many people are still suspicious of them saying that their hero persona is nothing but a fake and will try to tarnish their name.

Even tho spider!yuu is accommodating to their new life in twst, they are still worried about their city and family doing without them as well being constantly burned out due to them always trying to balance their double life.

Since every universe is supposed to have a canon spiderman, I have this writing idea that helps connect spider!yuu to the spider verse or web of Destin, so basically spider!yuu dimension already has a spiderman so they don't need another spiderman, and so spider!yuu was teleported to twst to become its canon spiderman. In summary spider!yuu was Destined to become the spiderman of the twst universe and they were destined to come to / be in twst to become its canon spiderman.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

Replica (Part 4)

Summary: The iron cage has slammed shut and you will never leave it.

Perturabo/fem!Reader

Warnings: incest (kinda), possessive behavior, manipulation, humiliation, smut (finally :D), dubious consent

Word count: 2601

Finally, after a while, I was able to finish part 4. Perhaps I will write part 5 with the daemon prince, but I need some time for it. Updated the images (what I love about Tumblr is that you reblog the old version of the post, but by going to the original you can see the new version, it's very convenient). Specifically re-read The Hammer of Olympia for this one. I hope you enjoy it, it was a lot of fun to write.

Song: Mitski - Washing Machine Heart

You still remember the first time Perturabo kicked you out because you mentioned Dorn. For two weeks he did not meet with you and did not have a heart-to-heart talk, moving away as far as possible. You thought that the primarch would do the same now, but the very next day he summoned you to his chambers.

You felt awkward for the first hour, but gradually relaxed. But still wondered why the Iron Lord behaved so strangely in the baths. Of course Perturabo was hard pressed by his responsibilities, but his sudden rage was unusual. You haven't done or said anything wrong.

Maybe he changed his mind about you? He realized that he became attached to you when a primarch should not have weaknesses. Does he see you as more than a mortal friend? Does he think of you as a sister or... something more?

These thoughts made you blush, and you hid your face in the book while Perturabo worked on the drawings. No, this is unthinkable. Of course, you knew that the primarchs had families on their planets. Parents, adoptive siblings and friends. But could they have romantic feelings for mortals?

And did you want to become his lover?

You could barely restrain yourself from jumping out of your chair and rushing around the room due to the abundance of thoughts. Feeling a strange sensation, you raised your head and with a gasp saw the attentive gaze of the primarch. You swore he could hear your heartbeat.

“Very exciting poems” - you tried to justify yourself by telling half-truths. You really liked these verses and it would be better if the lord did not know your thoughts. - “I never thought that I would love Olympic poetry about love so much.”

The primarch continued to glare at you and you shifted nervously in your chair. Did you say something bad? Since Perturabo called you, it means he is not offended or angry. But why does every minute with him last like an hour? Why is the room so hot, and the mere sight of a man makes you tremble?

“You can call me Bo.” - the primarch said quietly before turning to the table. - “During this time, I became attached to you almost like a sister. So why not make our communication even more... close.”

You smiled softly, accepting such a wonderful offer with all your gratitude. Your heart was happy. Enough time had passed to experience grief and yet you missed your parents and brothers. It was nice to feel part of the family again. Even if it is so unusual.

You involuntarily rolled your shoulders, throwing off the recent strange hot sensations. It’s as if you felt someone else’s emotions and desires that are unusual for you. But as always, you tried to brush aside the annoying thoughts and continue living in your “dome.”

***

You continued to live carefree, not knowing the sorrows of mere mortals, from time to time forgetting about the monstrous actions of the primarch. He was terrible in anger and did not value people, regarding them only as a piece of meat. He despised the weakest sons, “covered with rust” and unworthy to bear the title of Iron Warriors. He pumped out all the resources from the planets that came his way.

He had told you about his deeds before, but only the tiniest bits. Enough to frighten you and force you to obey him in everything. But you spent much more time talking about more abstract topics. Beautiful and creative. But Fulgrim's betrayal and journey into the Eye of Terror took their toll.

Now the primarch began to pour out his soul to you more and more often, sharing the terrifying methods of the art of war and enslavement. He spoke about the crimes of other legions and the warp space that you recently visited. Perturabo didn't seem to care what you thought about what was happening in the galaxies. You are just an ordinary mortal girl who will not survive in this world without him.

But you were truly frightened when the iron lord told you about the betrayal of Horus, the demons of the warp, the World Eaters and the daemon prince Angron, with whom Inron Warriors would go to their greatest battle. Siege of Terra. The man saw the horror you were in, watched as tears flowed down your cheeks and how awareness gradually came.

“I understand how difficult it is to find out all this. But nothing can be done. The False Emperor must be overthrown, and we will rule the Imperium as we deserve.” - the primarch, grinning darkly, stroked your head. - “I promised to take care of you. And I will continue to cherish you. Nobody cares about you except me. You would have become a slave or fodder for fuel in the hands of my brothers or continuing to live under my father's rule. Without me, you are a mere mortal girl, one of trillions. You are nobody. Nothing."

The man’s words hurt painfully, and yet you pressed closer to him. Thoughts swirled in my head. Your home world was far from the Solar System and yet your life was quite acceptable. You had a loving family, you did not live in poverty, and working as a chronicler was your long-time dream. Rogal Dorn brought your world into harmony, improving life on the planet and you were glad to become part of the Imperium.

But now it was just a dream. A deception. No, the primarch could not lie to you. The Imperium is rotten and sooner or later an unenviable fate would await you. The world was full of dangers and you could not resist these horrors. You would have been torn to pieces, gutted and eaten alive long ago if it weren't for Perturabo. He saved you. If he didn’t need new personal slaves, if you weren’t noticed, then you would... you would...

“Bo,” you whispered chokedly, swallowing tears and trying to calm your breathing. Fragile fingers squeezed the iron lord's tunic with force. - "I'm scared."

The man stopped stroking and you held your breath until you felt the touch of fingers on your chin. The primarch gently lifted your head, forcing you to look straight into your eyes. You could only gasp in horror and the feeling of safety next to Perturabo.

“You mortals do not obey me. You don't know what's good for you. There is no peace and kindness in this world. Only violence.” - your lips trembled and you let out a strangled squeak, feeling the grip on your face intensify. Almost possessively, the man held you close to him, never breaking eye contact. - “You promised that you wouldn’t leave me. So continue to listen to me. Love me and I will build a perfect world for you.”

You cannot stand the excess of emotions and, sobbing, bury your face in the primarch’s chest. Some part of you knew he was fooling himself. He wants to destroy and recreate everything anew just for himself. And you were part of this vast plan, a chaotic and terrifying dream, recreated from the darkest feelings of a primarch.

But the world around you was disgustingly cruel and merciless. You won’t be able to take a single step, the monsters will immediately destroy your body and mind. You didn't have anyone. No family, no friends. There are no enemies left, and the strangers have disappeared. There was no human warmth around you and you didn’t notice how you were left alone in an iron cage. Only Bo was with you. You only had him.

And if Terra must fall for the Iron Lord to be happy, then so be it.

***

He lost. The opportunity to rise was taken away from him. He was deprived of his greatest triumph. The Solar War ended in victory only thanks to Perturabo. He alone bore on his shoulders the responsibility for the entire success of the traitors while the rest of the legions indulged in senseless violence and debauchery.

But the worst thing was that Horus did not allow him to storm the Imperial Palace. He was not allowed Dorn's creation to be destroyed. He was not allowed his once beloved father to laugh in the face, who preferred another son to him. The warrior turned out to be a slave of the Chaos Gods, having lost his power and strength. And his brothers would not have been able to contribute to the war if not for the Iron Lord.

He's so tired of it. Complete disappointment. Retreating to Mars, Perturabo continued to oversee the ongoing Siege of Terra. Rage and resentment overwhelmed him and he destroyed everything that came in his way. He did not spare his creations, nor his slaves, nor his sons. He was humiliated. Again.

He hated them all. And the Emperor, and the loyalist brothers and traitors. They all mocked him. No, that will not do. The Warmaster may win this war, but he won't be celebrating for long. Perturabo will not let them rest on his laurels, oh no. He will rise above them all. The Primarch was humanity's greatest creation, but that was not enough. He needed more strength, more power. He will become a deadly deity who will crush everything in his path. All galaxies will obey him. Everyone will fear and respect him.

He will rule over everyone. And with him his Legion. And with him...

The man stopped abruptly, sucking in a breath and slowly lowering the hammer. Containing his emotions, he slowly walked towards her chambers. How long had he been trying to drown out his feelings, to deceive himself? How long and unsuccessfully have he tried to suppress this desire?

She was a fragile mortal, unworthy of his attention. But she had been a part of his life since his childhood. Crafty and smart, so kind and beautiful. She was weak, but so pleasant and sweet to the taste. Only she was allowed to see his soul hidden behind the iron. He told himself that he almost loved her like the Emperor... No, he loved her much more than his father. And the whole world.

The primarch slowly opens the door and sees you cowering next to the bed, trembling in horror. Of course, you now know about what is happening in the world and what sacrifices Perturabo makes to make your life enjoyable. Besides, you probably heard him raging with anger. Well, now you just have to calm him down.

“Bo?” - your voice trembles with surprise and you almost sigh with relief. You rise to your feet, but you can’t even take a step from the tension. - “Is it over? I-I heard how angry you were. Are you-”

“Take off.”

It's that simple. No confessions of feelings, no long conversations. The primarch did not want to wait any longer. He let you close enough to him. Why use unnecessary words when you can strengthen your connection in such a primitive but intriguing way? You freeze and open your mouth in surprise. Hands tug at the dress, unable to remove the fabric stuck to the body.

The primarch notices a blush on your cheeks. Embarrassment is an unnecessary quality, but he likes to see you in this state. It's quite charming. But he doesn't want to waste another minute. With sharp steps, the man approaches you and with one hand, forcefully tears your dress, exposing your body. You scream and try to cover yourself, but Perturabo grabs your hands, not letting you.

The man swallows, looking at your perfect forms. On your femininity. This is an ordinary human body, nothing special. He had seen naked people more than once, and females too. But you aroused him. The Emperor removed such base desires from the Astartes, but the Primarchs were a different matter. They experienced a greater range of emotions than mere mortals. They knew and saw more. But the war for humanity and service for the Emperor did not give them the opportunity to experience carnal pleasures. To become attached to mortals in a different way.

But now Perturabo no longer serves anyone but himself. And he could do whatever he wanted. With these thoughts, the man begins to touch you, no, caress you. That's what it's called. His hands on your shoulders and waist. Touching your lips, kissing your breasts and stomach. Listening to your breathing. Lower and lower until it reaches your thighs. Primarchs grew up in flasks; they were not born naturally between their mother's legs. And you... you would have been a wonderful mother to his real sons.

The man throws you on the bed and takes off his clothes. It’s good that he took off his armor first. He couldn't stand waiting that long. The primarch climbs on top of you and is displeased to see the fear in your eyes. Because of the difference in height? Women can endure even more than that, and sharing the bed with a primarch should be the greatest honor. Especially with him.

Or is it because of the blood of slaves and sons that got on his face? Still fresh, it dripped onto your body and you shuddered every time. In truth, he doesn't care. Now you are afraid, but soon you will dissolve in him and thank him for this.

Perturabo abruptly enters you, tearing you apart and looking with ecstasy at how your face stretches out in pain. He feels your blood and cannot wonder if he is your first or if your tender body is simply not intended for a primarch. Even if it's not meant to be, you have to accept it.

“Be quiet. Control yourself. I don't want to hear your screams. I don’t want to see you hurt.” - He wants it in some way. Make you suffer for what you did with him. The man moves his hips and you bite your lip. - “I just want to hear your moans. You have to beg me for it.”

The Iron Lord continues to slowly fill you, peering into your face until he notices dramatic changes. How your mouth opens slightly and your eyes close from the rush of feelings.

“Bo, I”

"You were right. I crave love. I want love. And you have to give it to me, you have to.” - the primarch accelerates, not allowing you to get a word in. “They underestimate me, but it only makes things worse for them. I am the grandest, sister. I am superior to everyone in this world. I'm not a boy, I'm a man. And now you see it. You see it.”

Perturabo leans down with difficulty and begins to kiss your neck, leaving hickeys. He remembers the sound of crunching, he remembers blood and dead eyes. It wasn't you. It was a decrepit old woman who called herself you and dared to condemn him. Daring to mock him. And you, crying with pleasure, know your place. So continue to remain at his feet and he will show you a perfect world.

The man groans and pronounces your names, continuing to whisper about his grievances and shout about imminent divinity. Until he finally fills you and sinks onto the bed with a sigh. Burying your small figure with his massive body. Completely unaware of your tears and misunderstanding in your eyes. How a drop of love mixes with true horror.

But if he saw it, it wouldn't change anything. You belonged to him. You were his and only his. The iron cage was finally closed. And now the bird will sing only to him.

[neressma]

Danganronpa and the Paranormal

Danganronpa is extravagant, from it's deliciously unhinged plot to it's refreshing psycho-pop aesthetic. Ontop of all this, the series contains some paranormal elements, which some players tend to forget about. In this post, I'll go through every instance of paranormal happenings in the series; this includes the first two games¹, the spin-offs and novels.

I hope you'll enjoy it!

Spirits

Ghosts are a surprisingly reoccurrent theme in Danganronpa games. The most flagrant example is the revenant Komaru and Toko encounter in Ultra Despair girls: none other than Tokuichi Towa, the late father of Haiji and Monaca Towa. He appears and speaks to the girls, even revealing he has the ability to curse (though he refuses to do so, considering the act "lowly"). His death was caused by his own daughter, who ordered Monokumas to slash his throat after the man betrayed Junko. Tokuichi's soul is stuck in a tormentuous purgatory at the hands of Monaca, and thus, he begs the protagonists to stop the child (a feat which would probably lead to his soul being freed and moving on to the afterlife).

One might think this is the only case of revenants appearing in Danganronpa, but the first game might contain some as well. When considering that spirits hold the power of possession, it becomes clear that Chihiro Fujisaki and Kiyotaka Ishimaru might be victims of possession themselves. Regarding Chihiro, it's rather curious how his Alter Ego program emulates human-like behaviours and emotions. While this might simply be due to Chihiro's talent as the ultimate programmer, it is possible that a part of his spirit went on to possess his program, albeit in a subtle, barely conscious manner. Much less subtle and dubitable is the possession of Kiyotaka Ishimaru, who is overtaken by the ghost of Mondo Owada after the latter's execution. Taka reacts to his best friend's death by becoming deeply traumatized and entering a near-catatonic state, rendering his spirit feeble. Shortly after, he becomes white-haired, and exhudes a powerful, radiant energy in the form of a glowing aura. His behaviour, mood and even speech patterns begin to ressemble Mondo's. Note however that it stays at that - a ressemblance. The ultimate moral compass keeps a certain amount of restraint, by not daring to actually curse for example. One could blame this on a form of psychosis, or - the more likely option, ironically - possession. The following official artwork suggests as much.

One could argue that Hajime undergoes a comparable process at the end of the second game, when his spirit rejects that of Izuru Kamakura's, though this instance seems to be rather similar to an anime trope than something meant to be paranormal.

There's also a haunted grave at the Jabberwock Hospital in SDR2. However, since the island is apart of a simulation, it's likely that this is simply an addition of the Junko virus rather than a recreation of any "real" Jabberwock Island element.

Superstition

There are two types of superstitious forces in Danganronpa, the first being luck. As simple as it may be, it's a talent that proved itself to be a true function in the DR-verse. Makoto and Nagito both manage to use this "power" (though when it comes to Nagito, this tends to backfire at times). Both young men manage to have events unveil in their favor through the power of luck, despite not having any direct control over the talent. It's also known that Hope's Peak Academy's steering commitee even attempts to harvest this power through the Izuru Kamakura Project, in spite of scepticism surrounding the existence of luck. Regardless of such subjective opinions however, luck is undeniably real in the DR-verse.

Another superstition that's mostly present in the first game is clairvoyance. Yasuhiro Hagakure, the ultimate clairvoyant, is said to have a 30% success rate on his predictions. One turn out to be accurate (the first being about how Kiyotaka and Hifumi are the last victims of their killing game²) and the second is correct depending on the player's performance. In fact, if they fail at the last trial, they get the bad ending, which is a perfect display of a fate Hagakure predicted: him and Makoto fathering the children of the same woman (Aoi). Hiro's character is often portrayed as that of a shady con-man; these two true predictions however hint at the possibility of his powers being real.

Aliens

Not only is Yasuhiro Hagakure gifted with clairvoyance, he also had an encounter with an U.F.O. This U.F.O. (likely a flying saucer according to the artwork) flew to him one night, locked onto the hamburger he was eating with a ray of light, and then absorbed part of it before flying away. According to Hiro, whoever piloted the flying saucer wanted the beef from the burger (which aligns with the well-known trope of aliens stealing cows from fields). The scene is very much out-of-place and it's veracity is unconfirmed. It isn't the first or last time aliens appear in Danganronpa's universe.

Back in Kirigirisou, a parallel ending introduces the player to Rhinogradentias. Those aliens also appear in the third Togami novel³. They come in different shades of brown, with various specimens possessing diverse features; some have tentacles, others have hands, etc. These creatures are based off rhinogrades, or snouters, which are actual real-life mammals known for the fact that they "walk" on their long snouts. The Rhinogradentia are introduced in Kirigirisou as "super galaxy level invaders". They wish to take over planet Earth and get rid of of humans, which they deem too destructive and polluting. However, their limited intellect restricts them. Like the aliens Yasuhiro saw, they fly in U.F.O.s. The third volume of the Togami novel hints at their existence being purely theoretical, without any further confirmation.

Lastly, there is a group of aliens at the Jabberwock Hospital in SDR2, though this once again seems to be a gag set up by AI-Junko rather than any recreations from the real Jabberwock Island. They return in Danganronpa: Ultimate Summer Camp, once again as an easter-egg. The meaning of this scene, of these aliens standing next to an operating table, is very enigmatic.⁴

Notes:

Gundham Tanaka and his antics aren't included in this post, as he doesn't really have magic powers, but instead has Chūnibyō syndrome.

¹ I deliberately left out Killing Harmony, as it's parallel canon, and ontop of that it's events are confirmed to be in-game fiction. Hence, the paranormal events of V3 qualify as inauthentic.

² This first prediction concerns the 4th chapter. 4 is the number of death and bad luck in japanese numerology, fitting for the chapter with the most victims.

³ Kirigirisou's alternate endings are parallel canon. As for the Togami novels, whether or not they're canon is unconfirmed to this day.

⁴ I like to think there is some sort of hidden symbolism behind those aliens. In my opinion, it's related to Kamakura. There are 4 people in Monokuma masks, so perhaps they symbolize the steering commitee? I'm not sure what the aliens symbolize though. I like to think AI-Junko included the easter-egg as a nod to Hajime and his transformation.

[howtotrainabraincell]

Head cannon bc I can - The Assassin's belief in spooky stuff

A/N: In 3-month pre-honor of Spooky time (which is the best time) I'm gonna write a drabble about how I think certain assassin's would react to spooky stuff like ghosts, wendigos, vampires, etc. Thought it would be funny.

Ezio Auditore - He grew up religious so probably has that faith over fear mindset despite what he believes later on in life through being an assassin/meeting the garden tool known as juno (who doesn't get her name capitalized bc I don't like her lol). I mean exhibit A: This Florentine man just jumps off of a very high building and nails a superhero landing. The FAITH that this man had in his KNEECAPS to NOT SHATTER over the FEAR of his (very nice) legs snapping in half like pocky sticks. I mean COME.ONNNN. WILL LEGIT PERFORM AN EXORCISM IF HE GETS SPOOKED. He'll speak in Latin reciting Bible verses, he'll bust out the Holy Water and get the rosary, the whole shebang. He thinks that vampires are lowkey cheesy but is flattered when people think that he's one (because of the sexy factor around the bloodsuckers ya know) because they think he's HAWT. Wendigos freak him out because WHY DO THEY MOVE SO FAST?! He also does NOT mess with ouija boards and refuses to even be in the same room as one, cause the man's not trying to have the dang spirits of the borgias come after him again (cesare was annoying enough the first time, okay?). Werewolves? He's indifferent to. He likes dogs, he likes people (MOST of them), so long they don't bite him (too hard *wink wink*) that's all he cares about.

Altair Ibn La'Ahad - Vampires? Meh. They better stay away from him and his love or they'll get a fang omelet. Werewolves? So long as they don't have fleas or parasites, he doesn't see them as a problem. Altair does NOT believe in ghosts, and he is NOT amused when the others try to scare him and make him paranoid of the "other side" ooooo. He thinks it's all bullshlatta haha. However, when he's been smoking hashish...it's a different story. This cannabis product has a THC concentration of 5-15% so man is getting into the kite territory lol. He WILL get paranoid, and he WILL think that ghosts are on the front lawn PARTICULARLY the ghosts of French and English soldiers that he's fought. Will go get his love if she's there and pull her into his lap muttering in Arabic about "Stupid ghosts of the fallen. Not touching my woman." He'll beat Jacob's ass for moving the ouija board around and scaring the others but mostly because he didn't see Jacob, he just saw a big black blob coming at him and swung. He will also once again beat Jacob's ass for trying to scare him while pretending to be a ghost wrapped up in a bedsheet. Just picture him trying to strangle the poor top hat wearing British boy while Desmond and Evie try to talk him down and Altair's love gently tries to pry him off.

Love: (laughing softly as she pulls at his arms) Altair Habibi don't hurt him it was just a prank.

Altair: (yelling in Arabic) He's a ghost! I don't need any more of them in my life!

Desmond: Guys come on don't fight again.

Evie: (trying not to laugh) Uhh Mentor if you could kindly not strangle my dear brother to death, I would be grateful.

Ratonhnhake:ton/Connor Kenway - Being Native American he has been privy to myths and legends of mysterious beasts and malevolent spirits. The one that freaked him out the most as a little boy however was the myth about the wendigo. A myth that one if his tribe's elders had picked up from an Algonquian traveler passing through Boston. An insatiable beast created from humans and the hunger felt by them in desperate times with little to no food. He has heard multiple legends ranging from the spirit possessing those who are without food and influencing them to consume their fellow humans in cannibalistic practices, to the wendigo being a demon that possesses people for unknown reasons. How the beast is allegedly 15 feet tall, can wind walk, is extremely intelligent, and stores it's victims for food storage eating them at its leisure. But imo he's not afraid of them because think about. Connor vs a wendigo? I feel sorry for that wendigo lol. Man has fought bears, cougars, mountain lions, defied gravity, taken on an entire army and held up the middle finger to cannonballs meant to send him to his Maker. Requiescat In Pace to that wendigo haha. Vampires are lame to him he does not see the appeal, but he does find their teeth funny. (He has been exposed to a wide variety of different teeth via animals that he's hunted, but creatures that look human who have teeth like animals is funny to him).

Jacob Frye - Tell.me.WHY I just KNOW that Jacob would so totally take out the ouija board and put it in random places to scare the others lol. This would lead to Evie playing detective and staying up all night to find out what was going on, only to find that her baby brother is trolling everyone. Needless to say, Jacob's ears get boxed. He likes to play around and goof off about ghosts lurking about, but being serious he does not believe in them. Nor does he believe in contact with those who are passed on. He thinks that a place can carry bad things that have happened there, and the aura can be off, he believes the same with people as well. He could sense Starrick's craziness all the way in Crawley... It goes without saying that Jacob DEFINITELY believes in mental illness. He'd probably try to fight a werewolf to test his strength. And a vampire too. Would also probably carry treats for werewolves if he knew any and give it to them in their wolf form lol. Once the fight commences (and his inevitable loss follows) Jacob would ABSOLUTELY try to recruit them into the Rooks. He could use as many members as possible to say nothing of those with supernatural abilities. Would TOTALLY flip his flat cap over a vampire's ability to heal quickly. Like he would pull his signature Frye arm break and the vampire's arm would just *pop!* right back into place. He would lowkey be jealous because if he could do that think about how many fights he could win!

Evie Frye - DEFINITELY think that she would wonder if vampires were out there and she would be SO EXCITED if she met one. She would want to pick their brain about their experiences and hear the stories of however many lifetimes they have lived. In the game she is somewhat interested in the other side and the occult so she might dip her toes into the crystal ball and ouija board territory. She does it maybe once or twice and then quite because she doesn't get results from it (plus Jacob won't stop playing with the planchette piece using it as a monocle). She didn't like the ouija board because the rules of "Don't play alone" both annoyed her and made her weary. She would rather play alone due to the nature of serious questions she would ask about the afterlife (I honestly kinda think that she might try to make contact with her father through the ouija board but would be deterred when she heard that it could possibly be demons instead of her loved one). She's not really superstitious but she does take rules (within reason) seriously (and she tries not to break them if Jacob can behave himself lol). She has contacts everywhere and then some so hearing things through the grapevine she eventually hears the good old "things can get attached to you and follow you around" when messing around with supernatural things. This made her completely drop contacting the other side because this poor woman is already harassed by and followed by Blighters and Templars 24/7 365, okay? She doesn't need any ghosties or demons following her too. She finds the concept of the wendigo fascinating but has no plans to hunt one (unlike Jacob). The idea of werewolves makes her cringe because while she likes dogs the hearsay about werewolves having painful bone breaking transitions from human to wolf, disturbs her and fills her with sympathy for anyone who is one.

Arno Dorian - Ghosts? What ghosts? You mean the ones that haunt him on a daily basis? The ones that haunt him in his dreams? The ghosts of choices he didn't make, mistakes he made and regrets he has? Arno isn't afraid of ghosts. Not at all. Is interested in the anatomy of werewolves but is concerned about if they have parasites and fleas. (It is my own personal cannon that after the events of Unity a stray cat started harassing him like "Hey drunk sad human feed me". Eventually this led to Arno adopting the little furball). He thinks that wendigos are nothing special because they just remind him of customers at the Cafe Theatre hopped up on caffeine, he just stands there and is like "Madame/Monsieur calme-toi. Vous faites une scene." (Calm down. You're making a scene.) Doesn't put much stock in mummies but he is fascinated by the history of Ancient Egypt and their burial practices, he admires how so much care was put into their final goodbyes. People do in fact think that he is a vampire because look at him...I'll wait...enough said. He has the timeless sexiness of a vampire not to mention it just...suits him? He finds it amusing nonetheless and is actually flattered to be considered a "seductive master of the night". Werewolves he would just give them treats from the Cafe in hopes that they wouldn't bite him (Mademoiselle Whiskers - his cannon kitty - love bites him enough lol).

Bayek of Siwa - Somewhat accustomed to ghosts actually seeing as he is well acquainted with the Duat and members of the dead. He does take them there and deliver them to Anubis after all. Not afraid of them but does not want them to invade his personal life especially if they're the ghosts of the members of the order. (Man fought so hard to kill them all and then he might have to deal with them haunting him? No thank you. He's had enough.) CAN and WILL knock a vampires fangs out of their head if one ever tried to bite him because one: RUDE and two: he's not trying to catch immortality. He wants to go to the afterlife one day and I think we all know why. But besides that, he also has almost been bitten on numerous occasions by snakes, hippos, crocodiles, and even hyenas. Senu has NEVER bitten him (I refuse to believe that she even gives him love bites just lots of wing hugs, beak nuzzles, and she sees him as the sweet baby that he is so she cleans him like one lol). He gets a kick out of hollywood mummies and actually likes Boris Karloff in The Mummy, but all of the powers and curses and people being terrified of a dead body wrapped in linen strips gives him a little chuckle. He finds it quite silly to be honest. This man sees werewolves as big dogs and would probably befriend all of them because he seems like EXACTLY the type of man who has THE GIFT (aka the talent to befriend all animals). Man is a certified Egyptian Disney princess that Disney has denied us.

Desmond Miles - Man LOVES 80's horror change my mind but he does. That and 80's music so I'm not convinced that he'll scare easy. Not to mention the kind of life he lives as an assassin being in constant danger and living in paranoia with a lovely sauce of constantly looking over his shoulder (this poor baby I swear). Werewolves are cool to him because he loves dogs. Have a feeling that when Halloween rolls around, he busts out the old classics such as The Wolf Man with Lon Chaney (The Birds, Dracula, Abbott and Costello, etc). Vampires are cheesy but don't you DARE tell me that this man has not attempted to do the Dracula accent because he HAS. He's probably even binged vampire diaries (well what he could before ubisoft pulled a bitch move) and it's possible that he's even dressed up as a vampire too lol. His girlfriend lost her mind when he tried to kiss her with fake fangs in but they fell off making him a one toothed vampire lol. Ghosts aren't scary too him at all I mean...have you seen what he went through with the Bleeding Effect? Ain't no way he's phased by ANY kind of ghost that tries to do a little spooky brew haha to him. He'll just stand there exhausted with a cup of coffee as one tries to scare him and be like: "Great. What else is new?" Depending on which ancestor of his he's bleeding through the Bleeding Effect his reactions are a mixture of his own Desmond reaction and whoever he's bleeding.

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. ﹙ the snake deity of deceit. ﹚: zhào talisen  164 .𖹭 ݁

. . . scary? my god you’re divine !! 🍒 : “ i am the face that stares back at you in the mirror, tormenting you before your heart shatters like the millions of glass pieces that previously occupied the golden mirror frame you built for yourself ”

꒰ verse ꒱ 164

꒰ species ꒱ corrupt snake god, primordial rhytraari

꒰ ethnicity ꒱ chinese 

꒰ age ꒱ unknown ( millennia )

꒰ gender ꒱ male

꒰ mbti ꒱ isfp

꒰ alias ꒱ copper resentment, the copper rhytaari, copper primordial rhytaari, copper wrath ( by ecpd 781 ), copper siren, copper boy, the great snake, the serpent of the lake, duckling, emerald’s right hand, ( shrimpie ♡ )

꒰ story ꒱ 

a master of lies - the deity of deciet and great destruction. serpent to most, siren to some - a mad god is what he actually is.

a being of chaos, a chaos that hungers forever and on — craving discord and destruction, awakened by this. . . underlying hatred for the world, a hatred unknown. what caused this to stir in the first place?

taking form of a giant serpant that many write about in their numerous mythologies across the eras. too busy sucking out the souls from their physical bodies and luring them into the waters of his river, his lake. tearing them open and degrading them from entering the vicinity. stupid humans, stupid, stupid mortals.

why enter the ever dawn when it is rumored to be a place where none come out of once they enter? was their deaths not enough to satisfy their knowledge, did they truly have to go search? stupid, mortal, creature.

the being has no love for this world. . . why?

who is to say?

none will, the mouths that were once able to are dirt filled and bone now.

 

꒰ appearance ꒱

copper eyes with maroon undertones. slitted pupils 

long, straight black hair that trails behind him, he often has it up in some form of a half-bun. has copper streaks in his hair 

tan skin with copper glimmers all over his body. has copper freckles all over his face. androgynous and sharp facial features  

7’11” tall ( 241.3 cm ) with a slender figure 

hands ad forearms are stained in copper colouring 

snake features, such as eyes, fangs and general features 

rows of sharp teeth and an elongated tongue 

sharp talons 

typically dresses in lots of traditional clothes in regards to his culture. especially long, elegant hanfus

gold and copper chains and necklaces all around him. on his clothing as well 

red painted lips 

copper and gold bracelets crafted with opals and pearls 

lobe and upper lobe ear piercings 

gold nose ring 

midline tongue piercing 

opal navel piercing

can turn into a giant snake that often dwells within lakes and water bodies

 

꒰ personality ꒱

alluring and charming, a silver-tongued, cunning and deceptive being which thrives off of discord and feeds on resentment.

carries himself in an eerily calm manner, an effortless cool confidence following wherever he may step.

when displaying wrath and malice, it is usually put into a serene and calm font, his enchanting voice misleading you into false safety.

deceitful, loves spinning the truth and playing mind games on people.

sinister — you find him often delighting in chaos, unafraid to step on a few eggs if it means he can have his way.

a master of manipulation, the rhitaari indulges in sadism of the highest degrees and often gives into his violent tendencies.

a sociopath, far from forgiving.

eager to put people in their place and remind them of his power, all with a smile on his face, laced with kindness.

he is patient, yet determined and willing to do whatever it takes to achieve his goals.

in spite of his general aura of elegance and control, talisen can be quite erratic and even impulsive; something that can lead to catastrophic evens.

despite his malevolence, the rhitaari can as a matter of fact extend kindness to those he deems worthy of it. he does not fancy hurting the innocent. . . unless they can be used as leverage.

he is a possessive man, and has a tendency to grow beyond obsessive over the ones who hold his heart, which can result in quite the yandere behaviors from him.

though, he may be this confident being, it all ultimately falls short when the deeper parts of his soul are observed.

he is deeply wounded from the past. ashamed and guilty from the choices that he made and commit to. . . though, the show must go on, must it not?

 

꒰ with a lover ꒱

sweet and gentle with a lover, caring and nurturing

so many possessive undertones, hidden well by his deceptive behaviour. he is most definitely yandere esque. wants you all for himself — so that he can put you into his and his husbands’ cottage, and keep you there. where you can just simply be, and enjoy life them

always doing his best to assure that you are feeling good. and when you are not he’s immediately running to you to bring you comfort or whatever it is that you may need

dances you around the cottage or the forest grove, singing soft melodies to you

composes many poems and songs for you

very touch starved man, which means his hands are always resting on you, whether it be your hips, waist, thighs, shoulders — anything he can touch really

when you are not around him to touch, cuddle or simply speak to — he gets irritated very quickly

can be extremely teasing and flirty. especially with his words and touches. can get exceptionally touchy

can pretty much the definition of a puppy that forgets how big it really is. randomly picking you up and slinging you around gently, or simply just holding you close, stealing kisses and randomly throwing you into bed to cuddle

expect lots of random midnight walks

sooooo many kisses and huggles through the day

 

꒰ strengths ꒱

alluring song and beauty: his songs and beauty are enchanting, much like that of a siren. he is able to put people in trances with this and lure them to their watery demise.

he is proficient with enchantments, and often uses them for his mischievous deeds, causing discord and chaos wherever he may step foot. also uses enchantments to his advantage as a way of drawing in wanderers and onlookers into his river.

illusions: born with these illusionary powers even before he was a rhytaari, he has now mastered the skill of creating entire empires in one simple flick of the wrist. this means when you walk into one of his illusionary fields you may experience intense brain fog, nausea and start hallucinating, as you are walking into something that is seemingly real but isn’t. he uses this method to also lure people to him and kill them.

charms: he has taught himself charms throughout his years, using them to make people tell him things when they refuse to do so.

teleportation: the ability to travel from one place to another instantly, with so much as a thought. this includes multiversal and realm teleportation.

silver tongue: something he has always wielded, he can be both incredibly deceptive and convincing. able to work his way around someone’s head and pull at them like the strings of a puppet. he is talented in the ways of manipulation.

mind-reading: the ability of telepathy, however, he can only do such if he is deeply connected to the person or know the person very well.

shapeshifting: the ability to shift his form into whatever he so desires, this can range from different people and beings to animals.

divinity: he is considered to be a corrupt god and therefore obtains catastrophic abilities, that of which allows him to quite literally have the ability to rip into universes

 

꒰ weaknesses ꒱

. . . 

 

꒰ relationships ꒱

rishen herrera: husband, best friend, ‘deceased’ ( dies and reincarnates repeatedly )

alessio agresta: husband, work partner.

1311 rishen herrera: boyfriend, different universe ( verse 1311 )

9948e rishen herrera: close friend, different universe ( verse 9948e )

9948v rishen herrera: close friend. . . different universe ( verse 9948v )

zhào talisen: bullying victim, variant, different universe ( verse 781 )

zhào jìngyì: bullying victim, variant, deceased, different universe ( verse 9948e )

209 jìngyì herrera: bullying victim, variant, different universe ( verse 209 )

1311 jìngyì agresta: bullying victim, variant, different universe ( verse 1311 )

 

꒰ extra ꒱

he can turn into a small duckling when visiting people that he is fond of.

he is omnilingual yet his preferred languages are english and chinese ( mandarin )

he also knows all sign-language

he torments his variants ( doppelgangers ) across the multiverse, projecting his self-hatred onto them

he smokes with a kiseru pipe.

owns several familiars who were left behind by previous owners.

he can travel the multiverse with no restrictions.

[hyacinthusmemorial]

Marsyas Verses Apollo

I was researching for my story Forgotten Age yesterday, and I specifically was looking into the story about Marsyas, the satyr who played the pipes and thought he was just as good as the god Apollo. I had a lot of feelings that I needed to unleash before I could go about my day--and I just want to preface that this is an analysis of Lucius Apuleius's Florida and not other sources regarding Marsyas.

Lucius Apuleius recounts that Marsyas played music in the days when "the art was but newly born and only just beginning to grow." He was playing the pipe in early times of civilization, before it was truly developed. He only knew how to play simple songs that were entertaining, but they were great compositions. Lucius Apuleius says aptly that nothing can be perfect in its conception, its new, it has basic elements that need to be developed. High musicians were bound by what they knew, and they knew about as much as shepherd and cowherds. But, Marsyas's father/instructor, Hyagnis, was already developing the art, and he learned how to separate the pipes into two, he learned how to play with two hands, one breath for two pipes.

Marsyas became famous for his pipe-playing Phrygia, which is to say for comparison he was a bango player from Tennessee, pretty skilled at his pipe, but ultimately, he knew how to play a simple tune with energy. The problem is not that Marsyas thought he was good, or even that he wanted to prove he was good. The problem was that he insulted Apollo when he challenged him.

The scene of their competition that Lucius Apuleius describes is so interesting--Marsyas in his boisterousness, Apollo in his cool silence. Marsyas is cocky, loud, speaking of his greatness in comparison to Apollo while Apollo is a god, he is quiet, observant, almost snake-like in his serenity as he watches his prey make his moves. Lucius Apuleius takes great care to illustrate the dichotomy between the two, even down to the physical level.

Marsyas is described as being with "a filthy beard" and "grim and shaggy face of a wild beast." In fact, Marsyas may have been a man, not a satyr, but he looks so much like a beast--they will call him half man and half goat. "His body was covered with hair and bristles." As Lucius Apuleius says, "Twas hideousness contending with beauty, a rude boor against a sage, a beast against a god."

Apollo is described by Marsyas himself:

In the first place...his hair is smoothed and plastered into tufts and curls that fall about his brow and hang before his face. His body is fair from head to foot, his limbs shine bright, his tongue gives oracles, and he is equally eloquent in prose or verse, propose which you will. What of his robes so fine in texture, so soft to the touch, aglow with purple? What of his lyre that flashes gold, gleams white with ivory, and shimmers with rainbow gems? What of his song, so cunning and so sweet? Nay, all these allurements suit with naught save luxury. To virtue they bring shame alone!

Marsyas denounces Apollo for being Apollo: beautiful, wise, calm. Marsyas despises his pretty clothes and his pretty lyre.

Marsyas then makes an exposé of himself to Apollo--he shows off his unkempt body and his unwashed state, and he says he is the model of perfection, not Apollo.

This imagery of a savage man trying to tell god what perfection is and how he might obtain it. The god needs no instruction. Apollo says nothing in this account, the Muses and Minerva (Athena) are amused and laugh at Marsyas--not because he possesses any humor but because it is so outrageous. His insults are comical in their depravity.

They have their contest, Apollo wins, and you can see his quiet rage in how he kills Marsyas. "When this boastful piper had been defeated in the contest and had been skinned as though he were a two-footed bear, they left him with his entrails torn and exposed to the air." They treated Marsyas like he was an animal because he acted like an animal. But, Apollo seems to regret this savage action--"Apollo he was ashamed of so inglorious a victory."

Apollo, it seems, regrets the whole situation because it drove him to the same depths that Marsyas sat in. It seems more of a story about Savagery verses Civilization than a story about Hubris in Lucius Apuleius's work. Yes, Hubris is a theme, but the dichotomy between Apollo and Marsyas cannot be ignored either. It is directly called out, and when Apollo sinks to the same depths as Marsyas, he is ashamed. It's not a glorious victory.

[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. 

[nunalastor]

First Man!Alastor

Oooh, the idea of Alastor dying (Again) because of ADAM (....again) and it being an ACCIDENT - I love it! He dies and wakes up in heaven and is personally welcomed by Sera and the other Elders who are SO PROUD of him. They see he's become a new Seraphim and are like 'obviously its because he's so Pure and Untainted by Sin and able to Resist Temptation' and Alastor is like 'that doesn't sound right but I don't know enough about how becoming an angel works to argue about it.'

Also, Adam essentially committed manslaughter here. He's wrecked his family and traumatised his children - and even if he didn't mean to kill Alastor, manslaughter is still a crime.

So what if, in this verse, ADAM is accounted the First Sinner instead of Cain, and goes to hell? Him and Lucifer and Lilith meeting up would be hella awkward, but also imagine the reunion when Alastor follows Charlie and Vaggie down to Hell! But then who would lead the Exterminations? Sera would never let her new precious little brother Alastor be the one, any more then she'd have Emily do it - so, when she's creating the Exorcists, she takes care to make one who's stronger then the others and names that one General. None of the Exorcists have names at first - why would they? They're tools. Weapons.

Until Alastor comes across the new General and is like 'Ah. Lute.' And that leads to the tradition where he gives the Exorcists their names, and also cooks for them, and - Lute is so on board with not letting Alastor know about the Exterminations. She is as fanatically devoted to Sera and Exterminating demons as she was Adam in canon - like, this is literally her creator and the reason for her existence - but she's also fanatically devoted to ALASTOR, who has no idea what caused this and is just defaulting to treating her somewhat like Niffty. ALL the Exorcists are devoted to Alastor, and team up to keep the Exterminations secret from him so it won't bother him (little do they know he totally knows).

And then Charlie and Vaggie show up for their meeting with Heaven - and Adam along with them.

Also, now I'm imagining what the bible looks like in this verse. Without Cain and Abel, but with Adam accidentally killing Alastor, and Alastor even being mentioned in it - I bet it gets perceived as a metaphor for 'Lilith is independent women and show why women must be submissive, Eve is that women are weak and easily tempted and show why childbirth and periods are painful, Adam is Man as Hunter/Gatherer/Protector and Alastor is man as Inventor/Philosopher/Great Man (TM) and the idea is that men are supposed to be a mix of them, or maybe that being the smart man is better then the strong man, and also how to resist temptation because Alastor never ate the apple or slept with Eve' and also 'the first murder was an accident based on envy, and possessiveness (instead of in our bible where it was deliberate and based on envy and wrath)'

Honestly, I just really want to see what religion is like in this world lol.

👀

[vympirestake]

— Michael Myers NSFW Headcanons

— Michael Myers x GN!Reader, 🔞, possessive Michael

— oral (both receiving), generally rough (mention of bruising), edging

═════════════════════════════

first things first, the mask stays ON

really, until you have firm trust and understanding built together its going to stay on at all times

that said Michael is rough in every sense of the word, especially at the beginning of the relationship

it's less that he intentionally does this and more that he just doesn't know his own strength, or really care to know at least right now

he's absolutely a virgin but I think, if nothing else, he's stalked enough horny teens to get the general idea

even so when you're both finally comfortable enough and start making movies, he's almost timid

or at least as timid as a 6' something deadly legend can really get

he allows you to take the first steps, guiding him, explaining to him what you're doing and how to touch you

he doesn't say much, which won't really change through your relationship, but you can tell he's watching and listening very intently

still, it comes as a suprise when he holds your thighs open, his grip almost bruising as he explores your most intimate area with his fingers

it really feels like he's just experimenting, almost toying with you in how he pokes and prods to see what makes you squirm or moan

please give this man head

the first time you do it he becomes so uncharacteristically flustered

hands are anywhere he can put them, he's breathing like crazy, you might have hallucinated it but you could swear you got a whimper out of him

when he finally cums he tangles one hand in your hair to hold your head down on him, hips thrusting up into your mouth trying to chase his high

but when he finally buries himself in you, he is like a man possessed

grabbing your hips or waist so hard you know it'll bruise, anything to drag you as close to him as he can get while he pounds without any real rhythm

once he's a little more seasoned his edges smooth ever so slightly

his grip is a little more calculated, especially for when he's feeling possessive as he does secretly love to see the bruises, knowing he is the one that made them

now he's versed in what really makes you tick so he can indulge in his newest kink: edging

his day job is stalking people in their own homes for hours on end, he has enough patience to keep you waiting on the edge all night

and he doesn't really even want anything out of it, just enjoys watching you arch and plead over and over "michael, please, please, please, michael, let me come"

when he's comfortable and trusts you wholly and completely he will take off the mask

immediately dives in to give you head

he doesn't have much of a technique, just finds what makes you feel good and figures something out

but anything he lacks in technique he makes up for in a surprising amount of enthusiasm but, really, this is everything he enjoys about being with you

watching you writhe around, holding you down/your legs apart in turn making wonderful new bruises, and keeping you completely at his mercy

now that he's maskless he has also discovered the joy of leaving hickies on you

possessive possessive possessive

because of his secluded nature, just stalking you in the day isn't enough. he needs everyone around you to know you belong to him

so the moment he gets you in his grasp, he's sucking and biting marks into any available flesh though especially where it can be seen easily

you've got dark bites along your thighs, purpled bruises like a necklace along your neck, and suspiciously hand shaped marks across your hips 25/8 all day everyday

═════════════════════════════

[punch-love]

Could you give us some of your fic recs as well? 🙏🏼

I've been waiting for this ask. * is for all time favorites.

Classics/Required Reading:

Between Apollo and Arachne. / He is Soundless From Afar. / Blood Sickness. by elastic honey (infernoconcealed)

I got into this fandom specifically because of this author. I think all of their work is incredible but, these three are my favorites and also the first bookmarks I ever made. I like the ways they explore their dynamic, and they often explore darker scenarios between the two of them with a lot of heart and nuance.

How To Get Physical by Wilt

I like their writing as much as I like their art, but this one in particular is a consistent re-read for me. It's a trans Peter written by a clearly trans writer, and it's soft and kind and good-hearted in a way that really, really sells the history between them.

Up to the Sun (Full Speed Ahead, Mr. Parker) by SleepsWithCoyotes

The first AU I really enjoyed and also one of the best. Eldritch horror Wade that goes from a massive tentacle creature to an off-putting mercenary that gets attached to Spider-Man. It's great. The whole verse is great.

for the wrong reasons by orphan_account

This is one of my favorite Wade character studies of all time. He gets hit with a truth serum and ends up at Peter's apartment. It's sad and complicated and perfect, and I've read it more than a few times.

gunpowder and firewood / steel and flint * by periodically_puzzled

This is forever one of my favorites. It's the best first-person POV in the fandom hands down and is just so fucking good. It's got everything, idenity porn, grindr, complicated explorations of emotional manipulation, bromance, and it's so very funny.

Snake Oil by BunsofHoney

This was so good that my writing group chat temporarily re-named our chat after it. Peter is a preacher and Wade is a possessed snake oil salesman. It's very good, and also you will learn something about the 20s as it is immensely well researched.

Blazed (Smoking Weed is Gay) * by GreendaleHumanBeing

This is one of my all-time favorites. Peter is coping with his midlife crisis by being a huge stoner, and Wade has mellowed out and joins him for long smoke sessions. It's very slice of life, intimate, slow burn friends to lovers. It's one of those reads that just feels really, really good and relatable.

Paradise (spread out with a butter knife) by Sarah_Sandwich

A soulmate/slice of life work that really will make you feel something profound by the end of it. I read this one at four in the morning and didn't sleep until I was finished with it. It made me feel something big.

Dog Years by androgynousdouche

This is the only unfinished work on this list but man, is it a hidden treasure. They really build a foundation for the relationship and the intimacy between these two is so....it's really good. I wish it was finished, but even though it's not, I still think it's worth the read.

Porn:

Tip of the Tongue * by TimidTurnip

I think this is probably the work I go back and re-read the most. It's got everything. Peter Parker's insane oral fixation, his inability to come to terms with his own bi-sexuality, homies who are mean to each other dynamics, and worship based blow jobs. It's great. You should read it.

i could show you and stop (don't stop) by jilliancares

I think this is probably two of the most infamous smut works in the fandom but they both really, really deserve the hype. The first is the eating out fic of all time specifically for me but also for a lot of other people and the second is my favorite situational porn.

Meeting Minutes */ Pitter Patter by WhoopsOK

These are hands down the best watersports fics in the entire fandom. I've read the entire tag, I would know. The first has Peter being hit by a truth serum and telling his fantasies to Wade who intentionally does not sleep with him, and it's hot and good dynamic wise. The second is just a very hot scenario where Peter pisses in Wade's mouth while he works behind the counter. Great stuff.

a luxury few can afford by three-fingered (calciseptine)

I love the way this author writes them so much. It's fun and fresh and so good at building up some good old-fashioned tension. It also has some great character study moments inbetween blow jobs (my beloved)

Fucked Up Shit:

she's not going to die today / Songs for the Zombie Apocalypse / Need You Like A Gun To The Head * by (zerospoons_onlyknives)oprime

I also consider these classics/required reading but they are all very dark and go places that fans of the classic dynamic might be surprised by. SNGTDT is the best and darkest soulmate AU you'll ever read. SftZA is not only an incredible zombie AU but also one of my personal favorite pieces of zombie fiction period. NYLaGttH is one of my favorite smut fics of all time and one I often re-read (the title should be taken literally)

twisted, baby by jilliancares

The Peter "adrenaline kink" Parker work. It's dubious and intimate and exhilarating in a way that never gets old.

tap out whenever by periodically_puzzled

also known as "the fic that triggers me so bad that I've never commented on it despite reading it eight times" this is like. One of the darkest works in the fandom, hands down and if you can relate at all with the content, will put you in some sort of headspace. It's excellent. It's horrifying.

Because You're Mine *- WaterMe

I absolutely love this one. It's a sex-pollen turned non-con work that is very dark (mind the tags) but if you want to go there, this is the place to go. I always come back to it and find something new to appreciate. Also the only second person work I've ever enjoyed/felt affected by in the way I think second person is supposed to do. (honorary mention by this author: their Arbor day fic)

Sinking by coveryourheads

This one is hard to describe, but if you're interested in some really nuanced work on sexuality, this one will sit with you for a while. Peter and Wade are in an intense D/s relationship that is both abstract and personal in ways I've never really read about before.

[the-apocrypha]

Hello!

I've had a brain worm about your cottagecore verse stuck in my head for a month now, so I'm finally sharing it.

The mob that stormed Hob's cottage in Eskham didn't come out of nowhere. Someone has been spreading rumours about a dangerous creature in the hedgewitch's cabin for some time. Someone who doesn't particularly like their older brother. Desire knew that they would have to stoke the tension in the village carefully, so that when the villagers' fear got the better of them, Dream would not be there to save Hob. They knew very well that even armed with torches and iron, a mob of peasants wouldn't stand a chance against a fae prince. That didn't matter though - Desire didn't need the mortals to hurt their brother directly; he just needed to be taught a lesson about taking human lovers. Getting banished from the realm of the fae just wasn't enough. 

What Desire didn't expect was to be on the recieving end of a similar fate as their brother - turns out that Mother Night does not approve of her children taking human consorts, even if that child might excel at cruel games and bargains. Long story short, when Desire falls in love with a travelling sorceress named Unity, they are yeeted out from their mother's court much like Dream was.

I think it would be funny if Desire ended up getting tossed into Hob's garden while Dream is away doing fae things™️ in the forest. At first Hob panics (understandably, they aren't really expecting visitors in the middle of nowhere), but once he recognises that the being currently squishing his strawberries is another fae, he brings them inside (does he hope that seeing another of his kind might make Dream happy? Maybe. Think of it as enrichment for your lover). Needless to say, Dream isn't exactly thrilled to see his sibling, especially when they let slip that they're rather surprised to find them both alive and (relatively) well. Oopsie, your sibling might have had something to do with your recent troubles, Dream (who would have thought).

I'm hoping for some sort of reconciliation and some reflection from Desire? Maybe being shunned by their kind might help them reconnect. After all, Desire's gonna need all the help they can get if they are to find their beloved out there...

OMG I love this so much, thank you for sharing this glorious brain worm! I love the idea that Desire is out in the mortal realm doing market research for plotting his brother’s downfall and in the process meets Unity and—I’m imagining it wasn’t quite so Love At First Sight, because sorceress!Unity definitely knows better than to tangle with the fae and wants nothing to do with any of Desire’s shit. (Desire’s always liked a challenge.) But eventually, somehow, despite both of their better judgements, the love does happen. 

Also love the idea of Desire getting dumped into the (Dream’s! Special!) strawberry patch—they’re probably not looking too hot, ala Dream when he was first exiled. Hob absolutely takes them into the house as soon as he sees the ears. He’s learned to be wary of his fellow mortals but he’s still a sucker for fae, especially ones who bear a familial resemblance to his lover, and especially ones who are all alone 😩 and hurt 😩. (Dream obviously is unimpressed with all of this, but Hob is at this point well-practiced in tuning out Dream’s Are You Trying To Get Yourself Killed, I Don’t Care That You Survived Thirty-Three Years Without Me, You Won’t Be Surviving The Next Five Minutes If You Don’t Start Apologizing, You Useless Fragile Mortal Tirade).

Also! The idea of Dream and Desire hissing faeish insults at each other over the dinner table while Hob is desperately trying to steer the conversation back to English—hysterical. Dream getting possessive of Hob when Desire looks at him a few seconds too long, and Desire being like “I absolutely do not want your grubby little bear-man, Dream, calm your tits. Unlike you, I have standards.”—excellent. I love it all. 

(Though let’s be real, in this particular AU the moment Dream finds out Desire was the reason that Hob got shishkebabed, this goes from a family feud to attempted murder real quick. IDK if Dream would get over that for… at least a few decades. Desire would be turfed out of the house so fast their head would spin. Their only saving grace might be if Hob suggests that the faster they find Unity, the faster Desire will be out of their hair.) 

I’ll be honest, the possibilities for fae!Dream + siblings are limitless and wonderful, and I’m constantly sad that the cottagecore ‘verse ended up constructed in a way that means—without some very exceptional circumstances, as you have crafted here—we won’t ever really see Dream interacting with his family ever again. At least, not in the official version. Please feel free to tell me all about the elaborate ways in which fae!Dream and Desire get forced into a metaphorical Get Along Shirt, or Death dropping by with little fae care packages with all the stuff Dream misses from his home, or Delirium going on forest walks with Dream and asking him ten million questions about all the strange mortal animals and plants. Dream deserves better relationships with his siblings than what I dealt him in this ‘verse. <3

[withasideofshakespeare]

In light of recent discoveries, I will be changing the name of this blog to honor the true author of these 37/8 plays we all know and love: Christopher Marlowe.

It has been unequivocally proven as of this week that Marlowe did not in fact meet his judgment in 1593, but rather lived on to continue his career as a great poet and playwright.

Previously, it was believed that his works left unfinished and the body identified as his were solid proof that the plays he wrote under the name of “William Shakespeare” could not have been written by the same hand as the great Tragical History of Doctor Faustus and Hero and Leander.

But as of this week, it has been proven that this evidence has long been misinterpreted. It is true that he left behind unfinished poems and that there was a body identified as his. In fact, it is even true that the body identified that day was his.

Where generations of scholars went awry, however, was in their lack of consideration for the spirit of the man whose body died that day. Using modern technology including EMWA (electromagnetic writing analysis), it was discovered that William Shakespeare did physically write the plays, but it was the spirit of the great Christopher Marlowe who was behind them via the ancient art of human consciousness possession (HCP).

Yes, you heard that right: it has been scientifically proven “Shakespeare’s” posthumously published folio which brought us some of our most beloved plays is simply radiating with electromagnetic particles that suggest the mind behind the text was not Shakespeare’s but Marlowe’s, in possession the former’s body.

I study English rather than paranormal writing analysis, so I can only explain what little I know about the subject, but from what I understand, analysis of an original printing of the first folio produced these results. Modern paranormal expert Sam Winchester says of the discovery: “It reshapes the fields of both English literature and paranormology. Most cases of PoP [Possession of Poets] are fairly low-profile. It’s rare to see a case like this. We studied the folio by analyzing the IPs [inspiration particles] and comparing them against a text authentically written by Marlowe and then one we could expect Shakespeare’s possession by Kit wouldn’t have influenced—his will. The IPs analyzed from over six hundred lines of the folio were similar in shape, color, and potency to those detected from lines of Marlowe’s Faustus, Tamburlaine, Edward II, and Hero and Leander but markedly different from those of Shakespeare’s will. The variations in the hue of the particles between Marlowe’s writings while living and those produced after his death via his possession of William Shakespeare showed that “Shakespeare’s” plays were consistent with the particles we see in other cases of PoP, proving that they were in fact written posthumously by the mind of Marlowe and the hand of Shakespeare.”

Anne Hathaway, actress and immortal wife of the late William Shakespeare said that she was “not surprised” by the new development. “Will sure seemed odd after ‘93—sorry, that’s 1593 for you all. He became suddenly obsessed with writing plays and sonnets. I was pretty excited about the sonnets initially until I realized most of them were written to some twink and not me. I suppose that’s how these things go. I still think Will would be proud of his legacy even if it wasn’t entirely his.”

Winchester recommends that “Shakespeare” scholars worldwide “acknowledge Marlowe as the true author of the plays, sonnets, and poems both out of respect for the mind behind the verse and to avoid being possessed [them]selves.” He says that paranormologists have “no reason to believe that Marlowe isn’t still out there waiting to add a few more plays to his repertoire.” In fact, he and his team are currently analyzing Tom Stoppard’s plays to rule out the possibility of another case of possession by Marlowe.