36. | because we are living in a material world, and I am a material kitty. | my cat, probably. Masterlist I
201 posts
Latest Posts by k-marzolf - Page 2
Thank you, Terry! I really appreciate your friendship. You’ve always encouraged me. ♥️💜🩷
Diet Mountain Dew.
I’m posting a few pieces I’ve posted before that are safe to post. I’ve also got new stuff in the works, but I am writing new content. It’s just taking time. I write slow these days. :) But I do have a bodyguard mini series planned.
1.2k words.
Tagging; @terry2227 @e-dubbc11 @aoi-targaryen @snowkestrel @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @danzer8705 @firexfate
x
It started where you’d come by, and help give him tools, “Here, Mister Russo.” You’d say, sweetly.
And if he said he didn’t imagine you calling him Mister Russo in different circumstances, he’d be lying.
You smiled, pushing up your large glasses, as though you knew, twirling the tools in your hand, and blowing bubbles with your gum, and changing his radio station to country music of all things.
He turned it back to rock, and you popped another bubble. “I was listening to that.”
“I don’t care. My garage, my music.” He said, lifting the hood of the car.
“You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?”
“Took you long enough to figure it out.” He smirked over his shoulder.
You rolled your eyes.
One day he was getting ready to leave when you popped your gum, blowing another bubble, waiting for him to take you home in the cold weather. You often popped into your neighbor's work to chat with him, while you waited for him to get off work. His business was near the bookstore where you worked, and he’d drive you home every day so you didn’t have to walk home with your bad knee, especially with winter right around the corner.
He wiped his hand off of the grease on an old cloth, “Need a ride home?”
You smiled softly, “Yes, Mister Russo.” And then popped your gum again.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. “You pop that gum one more time, we’re gonna have a problem.” He said, baring his teeth.
You blew a bubble, popping it.
The audacity.
He growled, kissing you hard, pushing into your mouth, knocking your glasses askew, and making you gasp. He pulled back, with your gum in his mouth, and spit it out in the trash.
“I wasn’t done chewing.” You said indignant.
“You are now, sweetheart.” He smirked, closing the garage down.
You followed him with your cane, “Asshole.”
Billy watched you apply your chapstick that was root beer flavored while he took a wheel off a car. “That actually work, or does it just taste good?”
You huffed, “It works.” You blotted your lips. “Wanna taste, Mister Russo?” You teased, puckering up.
He held up his can of soda, “I’m good.”
You sighed, “Too bad. I would have given you a kiss for a few dollars.” You teased lightly.
“Jesus, in my day it was fifty cents.” He teased back.
“I’m expensive.” You laughed.
Billy huffed, “Clearly.”
You stood in the hall outside your neighbor’s apartment with your cane, knocking on his door. Your leg ached.
He opened it, “Yeah?” He asked admiring you in your sweater dress, the way your hair was done up nice. He wanted to brush it, and play with it.
“My stove won’t work.” You said softly. “Can you come look at it?” You asked, pushing your glasses up, your sweater sleeves too long for your arms, and hung over your hands a little.
“For a few dollars.” He grinned, laughing, when you hit arm.
You ate chocolates, while he bent over your stove, looking at it and mumbling to himself.
You admired him in his tight dark jeans and green sweater. You may or may not have found things around your apartment wrong, just so he’d come over. So you wouldn’t have to be alone. Always alone, friends were hard to come by being disabled. You slowed them down.
You were too shy to ask him to have a movie night or something. And sometimes you just wanted to sit and read a book with your feet in his lap, while he read his own book, enjoying each other's company.
And he caught you at it, too. “You want me to come over, sweetheart, I will. Don’t need an excuse to see a pretty girl.”
Your cheeks heated, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
You sat there in his work garage watching him work on some old Chevy or something, you were terrible with cars, admiring how his sweater slid up exposing his naval and the little patch of hair there, you twirled a wrench or whatever it was, in your hand itching to touch him.
You pressed your thighs together, as he slid out from underneath the car, hands looking greasy, his sweater pulled up around his elbows. You imagined him staining your thighs with his handprints as he kissed you.
You imagined running your fingers through his soft hair, always slicked back and faded on the sides, before pulling on it while he kissed you, probably tasting like the soda he drank. And then you imagined pulling on his hair for an entirely different reason.
He looked over at you, smirking as he sipped his soda, fingers stained from working on the car. Uh oh. He must have noticed you gawking. He rolled over to you, sitting at your level on the thing he’d rolled under the car with (you were at a loss for the terminology), in his maroon sweater and black jeans.
“Want somethin’, pretty girl?” Billy asked, looking cocky.
“No.” You said, shyly.
“No?” Billy asked, smiling growing. He leaned closer, and you instinctively leaned in too. “Gotta be a good girl and ask for what you want.” He teased you.
“Mister Russo, you’re being an asshole.” You whined, seriously considering whacking him on the head with the wrench-thingy.
He laughed; “I think we both already know I’m an asshole.” He said, booping you on the nose with his dirty fingers.
“Can I have a kiss?” You asked, sweetly. “I helped give you tools all day. Froze my leg off here.” You said, patting your leg.
“For a few dollars.” He smirked.
You glared, “Fine, I’ll just kiss Paul down the hall.”
Billy huffed, “You think mama’s boy can kiss you right?” Billy asked, rolling closer.
God, he was being an asshole, but Paul was a mama’s boy. He did nothing without his mother’s help.
“Mister Russo.” You whined, “Don’t you wanna taste the root beer on my lips?”
“C’mere.” Billy hummed, and you leaned into him eagerly. He kissed you this time, making your insides melt, his fingers touching your thighs making you sigh. He gripped them, and yanked you closer, careful of your bad leg.
You gasped into his mouth, tasting Diet Mountain Dew on him. The feel of his tongue sliding against yours had desire licking at your insides.
You pulled on his hair roughly, making him groan into your mouth, and an ache built between your thighs.
He pulled back kissing you once, twice, three times before nudging you with his nose. “You taste real sweet, sweetheart. Better than root beer.” He husked.
And then you looked down to see your legs stained with grease, and oil. You grinned inwardly, that had been your intention all along.
“Sorry.” He said, not sounding sorry at all.
You giggled, “Next time I bake, I’m getting flour all over you.” You threatened.
Billy grinned.
God, you made work go by easily.
Later after he drove you home, you shyly invited him into your apartment, and you both ended up on your couch, you laying back, with him laying between your thighs, chin resting on your stomach while you played with his hair, listening to an audiobook.
He looked like a lazy cat, enjoying petting from his favorite human. His eyes were hooded as he watched you, feeling wanted after a childhood unwanted in the group home.
For the first time, you didn’t feel like a burden, alone with only the characters in your books to keep you company.
You didn’t know what you and Billy were, but you were content to let it unfold.
The ‘you’re mature for your age’ to sleeping with a bed full of plushies in your mid twenties pipeline is real
I feel like it's so easy in the plush community to always get caught up in looking for the 'next one' to add to the collection, I know I sometimes get stuck in this, so here's your (and my) reminder to value and cherish the plush you have, make fond memories with them, and love them! Always focus on the present and what you have rather than what you "could" have, plush are the best!
Thank you, Ericca!! I missed being creative, and I really like how this turned out. :) ♥️♥️
—The Wolf.
—slightly canon!Billy, alluding to oral (f receiving), implied poly, alcohol, drunk reader.
—526 words.
—I haven’t written in a long time. I felt a little inspired, so I wrote. :) I’ll tag a few who might be interested. If you don’t see yourself tagged, it’s because I can’t remember my taglist, lol.
— @e-dubbc11 @kayhi808 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @snowkestrel @aoi-targaryen @terry2227 @firexfate @danzer8705
You drowsily watched him work at his desk, leaning your chin down on your arms, feeling jittery. You probably shouldn’t have drank that wine with your antidepressants. “Sometimes I think Anvil is what you love the most. More’n me and Frankie.” You slurred, drunk from the wine he’d given you, and feeling like you’d stepped into a hot bath. The fire cracked in the background, light flickering in the dark room.
Billy leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen, dark eyes watching you. He reached across the desk, a finger curling around your hair. “It’s proof of how far I’ve come.” He said, voice low, making a fire burn deep in your belly. God, you wanted him. In every way, you wanted to devour him like the wolf in the woods.
“But Billy, we love you. Is it really worth everything?” You asked, taking another sip, sinking deeper into the chair, his answer wrapping around you;
“I loved my ma. Where did it get me?” His voice was sharp, as bared his teeth. A pin drop could be heard, and the wind blew outside, making you cold somehow despite the warmth of the fire.
“I could love you.” It was quiet, but he heard you as he pulled back, dark eyes like chips of onyx.
“It doesn’t matter if you love me. You’re mine.” The clock chimed midnight.
“And you’re mine and Frankie’s.” You said, shifting, the chair creaking underneath you. You remembered recently sharing a bed with Frank and Billy, nestled between them while they smoked. You felt an ache between your thighs even now, the smell of Billy’s cologne and nicotine.
Billy fidgeted with the pen, a frown between his eyes, and his lashes fanning over his cheekbones.
The room was dim, casting harsh shadows across his face. He dropped the pen and it rolled across the desk. He grabbed his glass of whiskey, Tennessee Honey, and finished it off. He looked at you over the glass. “There’s no such thing as fairytales. That shit is for the storybooks.”
“But maybe in the fairytale Red Riding Hood gets eaten, and she’s happy for it.” You said, wide eyed, and eager.
“And I’m the wolf, right?” He set the glass down, admiring how you pressed your thighs together under his hot gaze.
“Billy, who says you’re the wolf?” You said giggling, and he couldn’t tell if it was the wine. “I can eat you when you visit your mother in that home you keep her in. When you keep her—“
Billy clicked his tongue. “Careful. You’re clever and I like you, but my ma is off limits.” He said through his teeth.
“Oh, Mister Russo, won’t you keep me and Frankie locked up, too?” You continued, unruffled.
He closed his laptop, and stood up moving around the desk. He fisted your hair, “Alright, little bird. Let’s go to bed. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll eat that pussy.”
You laughed, standing up, running for the stairs, looking over your shoulder, beckoning him. Your hips swayed, taking the first step, and then laughed again racing up the stairs, Billy hot on your heels.
And hell on his.
It’s not about romanticizing the mundane but about being receptive to the beauty that’s already there. The mundane isn’t void of meaning or romanticism; it’s rich with stories waiting to be uncovered and retold, beauty waiting to be seen and acknowledged — a flicker of sunlight on a windowsill, a stranger's smile in passing, the muffled music from your neighbors through the wall, the way steam rises from a cup of tea. Yet, to see it requires more than just looking — it asks for a surrender, a willingness to let go of cynicism and to meet the world on its own terms. Perhaps this is where the art of living begins — not in searching for grand happenings but in learning to embrace the quiet magic of what’s already in front of us. The extraordinary doesn’t need to be created; it has always been there, nestled within the folds of the ordinary, waiting patiently to be seen.
hi, sorry, I just wanted to ask, and this is prolly going to sound super dumb, are authors chill with people commenting on their old fanfics and stuff?
just want to make sure that I'm not inadvertently being annoying
I believe I speak for most authors when I say they’ll never be annoyed by any positive comments from their readers
authors, reblog if you love receiving new comments on your old works
"Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.”
"Your days off are sure brutal on your lingerie" Jean Harlow as Lola Burns Bombshell 1933
I miss the old Tumblr, too. We used share ideas, and scream at each other in the comments about what we liked about a fic, people did fan art for fanfics, we supported each other. Now it’s just empty likes, or people only talk to the followers who are in their circle. And there’s so much ai theft going on that it makes writers reluctant to share their stuff. 😔
I keep refreshing the tag but there are no new fics...
I miss the old tumblr
Where you could barely keep up with the amount of new fics, they just kept coming, dozens per tag a day...
I miss the old tumblr
Where ppl reblogged with reactions and there were fics circling around on my dash too that I might have missed in the tags
I miss the old tumblr
And I miss so many of the fic writers that left since
Thank you, Terry! I’ve missed writing. I don’t know often I’ll write, but I miss being creative. And I’ve missed you, too. 💜
—The Wolf.
—slightly canon!Billy, alluding to oral (f receiving), implied poly, alcohol, drunk reader.
—526 words.
—I haven’t written in a long time. I felt a little inspired, so I wrote. :) I’ll tag a few who might be interested. If you don’t see yourself tagged, it’s because I can’t remember my taglist, lol.
— @e-dubbc11 @kayhi808 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @snowkestrel @aoi-targaryen @terry2227 @firexfate @danzer8705
You drowsily watched him work at his desk, leaning your chin down on your arms, feeling jittery. You probably shouldn’t have drank that wine with your antidepressants. “Sometimes I think Anvil is what you love the most. More’n me and Frankie.” You slurred, drunk from the wine he’d given you, and feeling like you’d stepped into a hot bath. The fire cracked in the background, light flickering in the dark room.
Billy leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen, dark eyes watching you. He reached across the desk, a finger curling around your hair. “It’s proof of how far I’ve come.” He said, voice low, making a fire burn deep in your belly. God, you wanted him. In every way, you wanted to devour him like the wolf in the woods.
“But Billy, we love you. Is it really worth everything?” You asked, taking another sip, sinking deeper into the chair, his answer wrapping around you;
“I loved my ma. Where did it get me?” His voice was sharp, as bared his teeth. A pin drop could be heard, and the wind blew outside, making you cold somehow despite the warmth of the fire.
“I could love you.” It was quiet, but he heard you as he pulled back, dark eyes like chips of onyx.
“It doesn’t matter if you love me. You’re mine.” The clock chimed midnight.
“And you’re mine and Frankie’s.” You said, shifting, the chair creaking underneath you. You remembered recently sharing a bed with Frank and Billy, nestled between them while they smoked. You felt an ache between your thighs even now, the smell of Billy’s cologne and nicotine.
Billy fidgeted with the pen, a frown between his eyes, and his lashes fanning over his cheekbones.
The room was dim, casting harsh shadows across his face. He dropped the pen and it rolled across the desk. He grabbed his glass of whiskey, Tennessee Honey, and finished it off. He looked at you over the glass. “There’s no such thing as fairytales. That shit is for the storybooks.”
“But maybe in the fairytale Red Riding Hood gets eaten, and she’s happy for it.” You said, wide eyed, and eager.
“And I’m the wolf, right?” He set the glass down, admiring how you pressed your thighs together under his hot gaze.
“Billy, who says you’re the wolf?” You said giggling, and he couldn’t tell if it was the wine. “I can eat you when you visit your mother in that home you keep her in. When you keep her—“
Billy clicked his tongue. “Careful. You’re clever and I like you, but my ma is off limits.” He said through his teeth.
“Oh, Mister Russo, won’t you keep me and Frankie locked up, too?” You continued, unruffled.
He closed his laptop, and stood up moving around the desk. He fisted your hair, “Alright, little bird. Let’s go to bed. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll eat that pussy.”
You laughed, standing up, running for the stairs, looking over your shoulder, beckoning him. Your hips swayed, taking the first step, and then laughed again racing up the stairs, Billy hot on your heels.
And hell on his.
you'll get the urge as an artist or a writer to say out loud the things you're worried about "the proportions are off" "kind of out of character" "i'm not good at summaries" "didn't get as much detail as i wanted" "i made a mistake and here's how" and that's the self-conscious part of your brain telling you "it's bad and if you don't tell them you know it's bad then they'll think you're stupid" but you've got to ignore that little voice and pretend you think it's good or else that little voice is going to ruin your life
—The Wolf.
—slightly canon!Billy, alluding to oral (f receiving), implied poly, alcohol, drunk reader.
—526 words.
—I haven’t written in a long time. I felt a little inspired, so I wrote. :) I’ll tag a few who might be interested. If you don’t see yourself tagged, it’s because I can’t remember my taglist, lol.
— @e-dubbc11 @kayhi808 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @snowkestrel @aoi-targaryen @terry2227 @firexfate @danzer8705
You drowsily watched him work at his desk, leaning your chin down on your arms, feeling jittery. You probably shouldn’t have drank that wine with your antidepressants. “Sometimes I think Anvil is what you love the most. More’n me and Frankie.” You slurred, drunk from the wine he’d given you, and feeling like you’d stepped into a hot bath. The fire cracked in the background, light flickering in the dark room.
Billy leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen, dark eyes watching you. He reached across the desk, a finger curling around your hair. “It’s proof of how far I’ve come.” He said, voice low, making a fire burn deep in your belly. God, you wanted him. In every way, you wanted to devour him like the wolf in the woods.
“But Billy, we love you. Is it really worth everything?” You asked, taking another sip, sinking deeper into the chair, his answer wrapping around you;
“I loved my ma. Where did it get me?” His voice was sharp, as bared his teeth. A pin drop could be heard, and the wind blew outside, making you cold somehow despite the warmth of the fire.
“I could love you.” It was quiet, but he heard you as he pulled back, dark eyes like chips of onyx.
“It doesn’t matter if you love me. You’re mine.” The clock chimed midnight.
“And you’re mine and Frankie’s.” You said, shifting, the chair creaking underneath you. You remembered recently sharing a bed with Frank and Billy, nestled between them while they smoked. You felt an ache between your thighs even now, the smell of Billy’s cologne and nicotine.
Billy fidgeted with the pen, a frown between his eyes, and his lashes fanning over his cheekbones.
The room was dim, casting harsh shadows across his face. He dropped the pen and it rolled across the desk. He grabbed his glass of whiskey, Tennessee Honey, and finished it off. He looked at you over the glass. “There’s no such thing as fairytales. That shit is for the storybooks.”
“But maybe in the fairytale Red Riding Hood gets eaten, and she’s happy for it.” You said, wide eyed, and eager.
“And I’m the wolf, right?” He set the glass down, admiring how you pressed your thighs together under his hot gaze.
“Billy, who says you’re the wolf?” You said giggling, and he couldn’t tell if it was the wine. “I can eat you when you visit your mother in that home you keep her in. When you keep her—“
Billy clicked his tongue. “Careful. You’re clever and I like you, but my ma is off limits.” He said through his teeth.
“Oh, Mister Russo, won’t you keep me and Frankie locked up, too?” You continued, unruffled.
He closed his laptop, and stood up moving around the desk. He fisted your hair, “Alright, little bird. Let’s go to bed. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll eat that pussy.”
You laughed, standing up, running for the stairs, looking over your shoulder, beckoning him. Your hips swayed, taking the first step, and then laughed again racing up the stairs, Billy hot on your heels.
And hell on his.
it wild to me that there are people out there who aren't interested in history
like wdym you don't think about the fact that women would tell stories as they made butter in the same way we listen to podcasts today? wdym you don't think about that one Chinese poet who wrote about how much he loved his cats hundreds of years ago? wdym you don't think about the fact that we found a gravesite of a young child surrounded by flowers from THOUSANDS of years ago? wdym you don't think about how people wrote "i was here" into the walls in Pompeii? wdym you don't think about the little egyptian boy who drew little doodles at the top of his school works more then a thousand years ago?
wdym you don't think about the fact that people, no matter the place, time, or social status, are fundamentally no different from you. that they loved the same as you, enjoyed the same things you did, dreamed about a better life the same way you did. that despite how seemingly detached you are from these people, in time, place, and culture, the things you do and what u are is so undeniably human that it transcends time and space
Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Leonard Woolf, featured in The Selected Letters of Virginia Woolf
The good feeling when a little cat rests their head against you like you’re a pillow is actually pretty significant
Committing myself to post more vtm art I've made after some Minimal bullying (but not really)
her name is Yuejian ‘Yue’ Li. she is a Brujah from Washington, DC. and was embraced during the early 2010’s.
shes Too anxious for the dots of Strength she has on her sheet lmaoo. but that probably makes sense, since she has the "Ingénue" merit.
astonishing how good it can feel to get some chores done sometimes. you’ll be sitting there like damn i am some type of horrid little smeagol like creature who should be crushed to death. but then you do some laundry and you’re like wrow. im actually gods most fuckable soldier.