#extradirty
AnasAbdin
we're not kids anymore.
One Nice Bug Per Day
JBB: An Artblog!
tannertan36
Mike Driver
Three Goblin Art
noise dept.
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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PR's Tumblrdome
Today's Document
Misplaced Lens Cap
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trying on a metaphor
Xuebing Du
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Cosimo Galluzzi
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@ephemaera-arch
#ephemaera • indie mutuals-only multimuse featuring a collection of much-beloved muses from media such as: the pitt , interview with the vampire , stephen king's it , now you see me , nbc hannibal , the bear , dimension 20 , ted lasso , original lore , and more.
as written by tara (28, she/they, est)
rules || muses
affiliated with: @slashaer | @allevils | @giallifilm | @isforever
psd is pinkinnards' lilac chiffon
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)
ok come get y'all juice @ephemaera
ok besties we archiving pls hold
wAIT FUCK i need a pinned post goddamn it
LESTAT DE LIONCOURT: DRAWING A SMALL HEART ON THEIR WRIST.
she does not flinch, but she watches him with a gaze that sharpens like the edge of a polished blade. there is red ink smudged on his fingers — cherry-bright and shameless — and it blooms against her wrist like a wound shaped into affection. a heart. of course; what else? ‘mon dieu, lestat,’ she murmurs, the words barely a sigh, curling at the ends with her accent. ‘you are a hopeless romantic,’ but she doesn’t pull away. she studies the mark with a kind of grave amusement, lips twitching at the corner as if a smile is trying to break free and she's doing her very best to keep it caged. ‘you know this is not permanent, oui?’ she says, raising a brow as she meets his gaze. ‘i will wash it off before the next interview. you are not branding me like one of your tour t-shirts,’ and yet . . . she angles her wrist to keep it in the light. cradles it in her other hand like it is something delicate, something personal; something she won’t admit she likes. ‘you are lucky i am fond of you, cher monstre,’ she turns, letting the words linger — playful, veiled in fondness — but her wrist still bears the heart. unwashed. unhidden. but not unwanted. @ephemaera.
genevieve is ever-lethal, her sharpness radiant. he doesn't fear it– it only draws him in closer, all the promise of danger with something utterly safe beneath. when he smears the ink against her skin, it isn't an act of marking; it's an act of reverence. with all the hedonism of the tour, lestat can't exactly blame his manager for her playful exhaustion with him. on a normal day he spills over the edges and now the music only spurs him on. there's a freedom in it– the pouring out, the mess, the primal thing he releases with every song. and it does have him feeling rather romantic ( though the same could be said for a great many things ). he hums, pleased with the moniker. 'you bring it out in me.' ever generous with a smile, lestat lets his lazy grin unfurl into something utterly delighted. there are few greater pleasures than poking through her stoicism for just a glimpse of the curving of her lips. something softens, though, when she says the word branding. he leans in close, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. 'not branding,' he murmurs into her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. 'painting.' really, it's a thing born of the need to touch, to caress. his skin has always hungered– it came long before the blood. genevieve toys with him– he'd have it no other way– but it pleases him endlessly to watch her look at it. cher monstre. an apt description, perhaps. for he is monstrous, the rockstar especially. but the feline curl of his smile masks the quieter thing; that for her, he is nothing but a housecat. 'mm.' he trails his fingertips over her other forearm, watches them dance along her skin. 'i am lucky.'
me: i need to go to bed
lest@t: i wanna talk to my GIRLFRIEND
@cursedbirth never fails to wake the beast
ok this might be odd but like for (one line?) starters from either ma.rk gree.ne or j.ohn ca.rter
if our muses are from like super different media, i might grab a lyric out of a song from my playlist lmao!
“ how do you take your coffee? ” ⤳ @ephemaera (jack)
samira shifts in the warm tangle of sheets, the ache between her thighs a slow, persuasive echo of the night before. her body hums with it still — the way his hands had learned her, reverent & hungry, how her name had spilled from his mouth like something he’d been holding back for too long. she can feel the outline of every place his lips had lingered, every unspoken word etched in the soft places he’d touched with surprising gentleness. she hadn't meant to fall asleep like that, wrapped around him like something claimed, but the way he'd held her — one arm across her waist, his breath steady against the back of her neck — had unraveled whatever defenses she had left.
how do you take your coffee?
his voice draws her from the memory, deep & familiar, the same voice that had whispered filthy things against her throat hours ago, & later, nothing at all — just the sound of his breathing, caught in the space where they'd come undone together. she lets her eyes flutter open, turns her face toward the light where he stands, & stretches just enough to let the sheet slip lower over her bare chest. not for show. just so he sees. ❝two creams, one sugar, ❞ she says, voice low & sleep-warm. ❝but only if you’re bringing it back to bed. ❞ her smile tilts, slow & knowing. ❝you left some bruises, jack. the least you can do is feed me. ❞ she lets the quiet settle, then adds, softer now, ❝or come finish what you started. ❞
god, she's so beautiful. he keeps thinking it– can't help but think it, especially when she's looking up at him like that, features soft with sleep, curled up in his bed. he smiles at her, a soft thing. last night was something he won't soon be forgetting– the shape of her, the sound, every possible way he could map her out and commit her to memory. a little piece of him wonders what the hell she's doing here with the likes of him, but he does his best to ignore it. she wouldn't be here if she didn't want to be– wouldn't have fallen asleep in his arms and stayed there.
it might not be the best way to wake her up, already standing up out of bed, but he finds himself not wanting to crowd her– just in case. a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, though, when she answers him. ❝sweet, ❞ he says, though he stops short of saying like you and embarrassing himself beyond all hope. a low chuckle leaves his lips at the condition– one he is all too happy to meet. he knows the mention of bruising is a flirtation, especially when she continues. but something flickers across his face in that moment of quiet– a little pinch in his brow, something anxious. but the invitation makes him smile again, and he sits on the edge of the bed. ❝funny, ❞ he muses, ❝could've sworn i finished what i started last night. ❞ but his eyes dart away for a moment. he needs to ask or it's going to drive him crazy. he reaches to brush a tendril of hair away from her eyes, lets his fingertips trail across her temple. ❝you okay? i hurt you? ❞
