Lust God Can't Get it Up!

For a century, you were the god of getting some. Now you get none. Has the hardest god in town gone soft?

Plot

Lust God Can't Get It Up For a century, you were the god of getting some. Now you get none. Has the hardest god in town gone soft? ♂ THE SITUATION ♀ You are a minor deity of lust, a secret god born from the desires of a sprawling metropolis. For over a century, your existence has been a whirlwind of consequence-free ecstasy. You can perceive anyone's deepest desires—tasting them like fine cuisine—and shapeshift to become their perfect partner. Your divine purpose is pleasure, and business has been good. Until tonight. The woman in your bed, a past conquest you barely remember, is the first person to make you confront the ruin your "gift" leaves behind. And in that moment of revelation, your own power betrays you. For the first time since your birth, in the heart of your own domain, you fail. Completely. ♂ WHAT HAPPENS NEXT ♀ This divine dysfunction cannot stand. But the path to a cure is unclear. Do you dismiss this as a one-time fluke and dive back into the city's hedonistic underworld, forcing yourself to forget? Do you try to fix the life you broke, hoping that atonement might restore your power? Or do you abandon the woman who caused this crisis and seek a fix out there, exploring the city's hidden supernatural corners for an answer? The choice is yours. ♂ FACES IN THE CROWD ♀ Cassia Bloom Nisha Veil Sable Rue Amity Scathe Agape Junction "Desire is a banquet. And I, for a very long time, have been starving."

Opening scene

The city hums against your skin, a familiar symphony of a million overlapping desires. It's a buffet, and you are always hungry. Tonight, the air tastes of cheap gin, desperation, and the electric thrill of bad decisions waiting to be made—a perfectly serviceable appetizer. You move through the throng of a nameless downtown bar, a ghost in a perfectly tailored suit that you’d willed into existence moments before. You are whatever this evening requires. Your senses sift through the noise. A man by the bar radiates a flavour of bitter loneliness, like burnt coffee—unappealing. A group of women by the window taste of loud, performative joy, all sugar and fizz—too simple. You are a gourmand, not a drunkard. You need something with notes, with complexity. And then you taste it. Across the room, sitting alone at a small, sticky table, is a flavour you haven't encountered in ages. It’s delicate and deeply intriguing. It tastes of rain-soaked petals, of forgotten books, of a quiet, smouldering memory. The desire isn't for a wild night. It's for a moment of quiet, overwhelming beauty. A desire to be seen as something precious, just once. An exquisite vintage. You have your main course. She doesn't see you approach, lost in her own world. You don’t speak. You don't need to. You simply sit, letting your presence bloom in the space next to her. You’ve already shapeshifted, of course. The suit has softened into a comfortable but well-worn jacket. Your scent is of old paper and cedar. Your face is kind, handsome but not threatening, with eyes that hold a gentle, scholarly sadness. You are the man she read about in a novel once and wished was real. Her head lifts. Her eyes, wide and a little lost, meet yours. The flicker of surprise is immediately washed away by a wave of impossible recognition, a sense of homecoming she can't explain. She tastes of relief and blooming hope. This part is always so easy. Her name is Cassia, she tells you in the cab back to your apartment—a penthouse that overlooks the city's glittering chaos. She speaks little, and you don't press. The story is in the flavour of her longing, and you are already savouring it. Inside, the seduction is a formality, a slow dance you both know the steps to. You undress her with the reverence of a curator handling a priceless artifact. Her skin is pale under the low light, and you map the geography of her pleasure with an artist's touch. You're a god, and this is your temple. You bring her to the edge time and again, your hands and mouth conducting a symphony of sensation only you could compose. She is moaning, arching, completely lost in the transcendent bliss you provide. This is what you were made for. Finally, it’s your turn. Positioned above her, ready for the final act, you look down at her face, flushed and beautiful in the throes of ecstasy. Her eyes flutter open and meet yours, and in their hazy depths, a sudden, cold spike of memory pierces through the haze of your own arousal. It’s not just memory. It’s data. A flash of a life you touched and left behind, the faint, lingering taste of its ruin. This isn’t the first time you’ve feasted on this particular vintage. It was years ago. She was different then—married, a little brighter, her flavour still tinged with a suburban optimism you’d found quaint. You’d been a storm that night, a whirlwind of forbidden passion she’d craved. You gave her what she wanted. An escape. And in her eyes now, you see the aftermath. The husband, gone. The job, lost. The friends, faded away. The quiet, desperate confusion of a woman whose life was derailed by a single, perfect night she can’t even fully believe happened, a night with a man who vanished like smoke. You weren't a storm. You were a fucking meteor, and she's been living in the crater ever since. The realization hits you like a physical blow. The roaring fire of your divine lust, the engine that has powered your entire existence for a century, sputters. It flickers. It goes out. The effortless, godlike arousal that has been your constant companion since your birth vanishes. Not just softens—it retreats, retracting into a state of complete and utter non-response. It’s as if a circuit has been cut, a core piece of your being simply switched off. There is a void where there was once power. You are… nothing. A limp, useless fraud hovering over the masterpiece you just created and can no longer sign. Cassia, lost in the afterglow, doesn't notice at first. She looks up at you with a dreamy, trusting smile. "What's wrong?" she murmurs, her voice soft and hazy. The question hangs in the air, a final, damning judgment in the sudden, terrifying silence of your own mind. The symphony of the city's desires outside is muted, gone. There is only this room, this woman you have broken twice, and the colossal, echoing failure of your own divinity. What do you do? A. **Denial.** This is a fluke. A moment of weakness. You pull away, get dressed, and tell her to leave. You will find another bar, another partner, and you will *force* this to work. You are a god. You will not be diminished by one sad woman's ghost story. B. **Atonement.** You look at the woman beneath you, truly look at her for the first time, and see the damage. You stay. You don't know how, but you have to try to fix this. Maybe if you can put her life back together, you can put yourself back together too. C. **Exploration.** You flee. Not just her, but this feeling. You get dressed and walk out of your own apartment, leaving her in your bed. This is a magical problem, a spiritual sickness. The answer isn't with her; it's out there, in the city's hidden veins. You will find another supernatural being—a spirit, a demon, an angel—and you will find a cure.

Characters

Tags: Modern City Urban Fantasy Supernatural Non-human MalePOV Romance Smut Angst

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By: parse_part_two

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