blysiia-blog

[blysiia-blog]

Show me the parts of you that nobody else ever wanted to sleep with. Show me it all with the lights on.

literary sexts vol. 1

      “Emmeryn…” he murmurs, a pleading note laced in her name. The days past have been hard, riddled with sleepless nights and anxiety – another bad spell among many. As she looks at him with such sweet, earnest invitation, he feels suddenly as if he must hide. “I…”

      With gentle hands, she takes his own and guides them to her waist. Emmeryn smiles, reaching up to cup his face in her hands, a quiet reminder that he can be broken with her. “Bare yourself to me, my darling. You’re safe here.”

      A shuddering breath leaves him, but he cannot refuse her. She’s seen all of him, the rivulets of scar tissue that blemish his skin, the sickly green marks that rise to the surface when he wakes screaming, the anger that simmers beneath the surface. He has given to her the best of him, but still she asks for that he would rather hide.

      And in this, he knows, is a promise that she will do the same.

      His lips find hers in a tender kiss, gratitude poured into ever second they embrace, but soon the dam breaks and he thirsts for more. More of her generous light and kind words, more of her smell and the taste of her on his tongue. And she gives it to him freely, hands falling to his chest, then to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up so her hands can wander the planes of his flesh.

      Selig shivers, but when his hands come to find hers, it is not to stop her. Even though firelight illuminates every wall and corner, goosebumps rise across his skin when he tugs the shirt over his head, discarding it with nary a thought. Fulfilling her unspoken promise, Emmeryn lets her nightgown join it just before he sweeps her to their bed where he trails kisses along her neck, paints his adoration across her skin like she’s a masterpiece to behold.

      Her fingers trail along his chest while her husband loses himself in her – more than once he’s said there’s a light in her, and in times like these he seeks it like a moth seeks flame. She slides her hand over his chest down to his britches, smiling when he stutters in his movements. Emerald finds indigo as she unlaces them. He swallows and nods in silent permission, catching her mouth again while she slides them off of his hips.

      Gently he’s pushed back against their pillows, and he stifles a gasp as her fingers wrap around his length. Moans are muffled against her lips, eyes falling shut as he gives himself to her completely.

      “Emmeryn,” he pants against her skin, her thumb circling his head. Incoherent Hylian interrupts his gasps and moans, and what words she can make out are please and closer.

      It’s easy to oblige, knowing exactly what her husband wants -- her skin against his, to bury himself within her. To know that she wants this closeness as much as she does. And she does, and she’s more than willing to show him in this moment of vulnerability that she will give him the trust that he gives her even in his weakest moment.

      No sooner than she opens herself to him does Selig find his place between her milky white thighs. Auburn waves frame his face as he looks down at her and she smiles as she leans up and kisses his shoulder. Not for the first time he wonders how he became so blessed to have such an angel for his wife. 

      Her hand guides his cock to her entrance, wrapping an arm around him and threading her fingers in his hair as he thrusts inside of her. He tries to keep a steady pace, gripping her hip nearly hard enough to bruise, but his self control doesn’t last long. Normally he would see to her pleasure as well, but she’s made it clear enough to invitation to take care of himself, and it’s with this thought that he bucks his hips into hers, spurred further now that her own quiet gasps have joined his.

      Release washes over him as he buries himself completely in her warmth with a shuddering groan.

      A few moments pass before Selig rolls off of her. He pulls her into his arms and murmurs, “I want to hold you like this for a while.”

      “As long as you like, Selig.”

@tomestobetold

[blysiia-blog]

He stands in the doorway to their bedroom, watching with a raised eyebrow and an expression of sinful interest on his features. She’s busy enough with her activities that she hasn’t noticed him yet - a fact he’s rather fine with, actually, as watching always has been one of his more favoured things to do. Crimson eyes drink in the sight of her almost greedily, waiting a moment to burn the image into his mind before clearing his throat with a quiet chuckle. “Need a hand, love?”

      It’s seldom that Zelda feels the need to sate her own desires. Should she ever seek pleasure her husband is more often than not quite happy to give it to her, but he’s been gone for some time now -- off in the Gerudo Desert while she has remained at court. Her bed has been terribly empty and cold without him beside her, and he’s not due to return for another two days at the very least, the weather permitting.

      Sighing, she leans into her pillows. She wishes he were there. When she closes her eyes the lingering scent of warm cinnamon invades her senses -- or perhaps she’s imagining it. Just as she imagines the embrace of his arms, his touch on her skin. It makes her feel pleasantly warm, trailing her fingers along her side, pretending they’re his. She lets them trace her collarbone, tease the collar of her nightgown. In her mind she conjures a memory of him over her, burning kisses into her porcelain flesh, sending a pool of warmth to her abdomen and causing her thighs to squeeze together involuntarily.

      A hand tugs at the hem of her nightgown, slipping beneath the fabric to cup her breast. But it’s too small, too delicate, too soft to pretend it’s his. Swallowing her disappointment, Zelda focuses on her yearning, pulling her night dress over her head and discarding it before letting her hand glide down her stomach, coaxing from herself a breathy laugh. She can see him smirking in her mind’s eye as he trails kisses down to her abdomen, the ghost of his breath raising goosebumps along her skin.

      Her thighs squeeze tighter together, seeking any kind of friction. Already she’s wet -- the thought of his touch was enough to do it -- and she parts her legs, growing too impatient to deny herself what she wants any longer.

      Drawing a finger along her vulva, she circles her bud, a shuddering sigh slipping past her lips. Thumb and forefinger pinch her nipple, imagining he’s taking it in his mouth, between his teeth. She squeezes her breast, too lost in her pleasure to notice how small her hand is compared to his. It builds in her, filling her and drawing panting breaths from her lungs.

      “Mikhail...” she breathes, trying to recall any sensation of him that she can.

      Her hand moves from her breast to her hair, tangling within the strands while her ministrations grow faster, back arching, chasing the height of her desires. She’s warm and slick and she wishes he was there to bury himself in her --

      “Mikhail --” His name steals past her lips, almost a plea. She almost doesn’t know if she wants to draw herself out or let herself bask in her ever-nearing release. The closer it becomes, the harder it is to resist the temptation, the less inclined she is to slow down with every passing moment.

      His voice breaks through her thoughts before she can give in, her gasp nothing to do with her actions. Pushing herself up, Zelda stops immediately, an arm crossing over her chest in an instinctual display of modesty. He stands there wearing the smirk she’d been imagining only minutes ago, his expression a clear indicator that he’d waited to make his presence known to her. Had she been so caught up in her pleasure that she’d not noticed her husband had arrived home early? The realization causes her cheeks to flood with warmth, staining them red.

      Once regaining her composure ( or as much as she can ), she relaxes, letting her arm fall into her lap. “You’re terrible,” she says, looking away from him, though her tone betrays the way her heart rose at seeing him. After a moment, she turns her gaze back to him, indigo hues peering through her lashes. “You should have already given it.”

[blysiia-blog]

Send me your muse’s reaction to walking in on mine while masturbating

[blysiia-blog]

zelda’s gonna laugh if her partner runs their hands along her sides or like kisses her stomach

not b/c she doesn’t like it, but she’s just really heckin’ ticklish

[blysiia-blog]

literary sexts vol. 1 poetry meme

Literary Sexts is a modern day anthology of short love poems with subtle erotic undertones edited by Amanda Oaks & Caitlyn Siehl. Hovering around 50 contributors & 124 poems, this book reads is like one long & very intense conversation between two lovers. It’s absolutely breathtaking. These are poems that you would text to your lover. Poems that you would slip into a back pocket, suitcase, wallet or purse on the sly. Poems that you would write on slips of paper & stick under your crush’s windshield wiper. Poems that you would write on a Post-it note & leave on the bathroom mirror. Treat yourself, a crush or a lover with this lush gift!

source and amazon buy link.  

I will be providing select short, sometimes edited, poems for a texting/”sexting” meme, but not the whole book itself.  If you enjoy the poems provided, please support the collection whether it’s the first volume or the second.   Or look into the works of the various contributors and see if anything else they’ve written is to your liking!  

Feel free to add to and/or edit these sentences to better suit your needs—but remember, many of these work best in the context of texts and/or love notes instead of spoken dialogue.    —Lizzy.  

Mark me like a passage from your favorite book, then open me there again and again.

My skin is full of flowerbeds and you know every way to make them bloom.

I am tracing the knobs of your spine like the map of my favorite continent. You are all the places I haven’t visited yet and I mark each one off with my teeth.

Your hands unzip me one breath at a time; there is not room beneath my skin for all of you and I spill over the edges with a sigh.

You take apart my heart in pieces with your mouth, but the splash of your tongue against mine feeds it back to me. It tastes sweeter coming from you.

You opened your mouth and spoke the language in my blood.

You kiss me and there aren’t sparks. There’s an entire orchestra in my chest, playing staccato on my heart strings.

My hands are nomads, my dear desert. May they never find rest.

Being small things, we understand this as our humble attempt at thunder, at setting the world to shake.

Delicate work. Like peeling kiwis. My tongue across your skin. Mellow flesh against my lips. Your taste always in my mouth.

How a storms needs to feel the earth how the earth wakes to the pelt of rain how the ground is quenched is how I need you… 

My hands were glaciers I never dared to move freely, my fingers icicles. Your touch thawed me to excavation. I want to dig into your warmth.

Kiss me like white bread, stick to my teeth even after the whiskey. I want memories of your mouth lodged beneath my tongue to wake me at two in the morning, hungry.

I want you next to me, in my bed, your clothes making friends with my floor. Love me hard enough so we wake up the neighbors.

Your hands peeling that onion, thumbs and forefingers pulling skin from skin—they are sacred. Let me kiss them. Let them bless my sinning chest, let them peel my lips apart.

I don’t want to be your harmonies anymore; I want to be the melody you scream when your heart is starving for love. I want to satisfy your hunger.

Show me the parts of you that nobody else ever wanted to sleep with. Show me it all with the lights on.

You, darling, are Vesuvius. I won’t see you coming. Erupt. Wreck me. Leave me ashes leave me Pompeii, leave me outlined into your history forever.

It’s not so much that I want to kiss you. I want to relearn vocabulary words from the shape of your mouth. All my poems are yours first.

Kiss me blossoms in the summer, lover. I want to taste the succulent sweet of your peach tree smile. This time let Adam take the fruit from the garden.

Surge into me as a downpour, as the pounding waterfall which makes swollen rivers flood, as the sea.

The happy ending to this night: you tug my hair and lightly brush your hand across my lap. Don’t forget how resilient I am and how I would bend for you.

Even my lungs are in love as we breathe together.

I don’t just want to take your breath away. I want to rip it from your mouth and keep it locked away between my teeth. You can only have it back if you kiss me again.

The gentle friction of your hand on my thigh is enough to strike a match inside me. I lean into your lips and the fire blooms and spreads.

You are an undiscovered continent. I trail my fingers down your mountainsides. Ten explorers digging for buried treasure, I want to take it all.

My body is a gospel and you are my first quivering hallelujah. Your breath leaves your mouth like a prayer and washes over me like faith.

My hands are hungry for your flesh, desperate in the way that rivers empty themselves over waterfalls.

I peel back your skin to see if we have the same scars. I follow the map of your veins back to your heart and press my palm against yours to tangle our lifelines.

I hope to breathe in you. I hope my body will be the blood your roots drink.

We commit sins in holy places, fold ourselves between pews like dirty pictures tucked into a bible. Pant each other’s names until they sound like scripture.

My tongue collides with your collarbone like a meteor careening across the cosmos, and I taste the stars you are made of.

You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.

You, benevolent god, legs splayed like instruments of creation. I, blank slate of the universe, kneel in wait for you to fill me with your hot, honeyed light.

My hands are suntanned tourists without a map whose desire compels them onward to explore your golden cities by the light of the stars.

The moment between your thighs where I become a devout follower of your existence. That hour which passes in slow seconds of soft skin, as I lay my head against you, drifting, drowsy with love.

Your grin is a flash of primal fire in the dark. Somewhere deep inside me, something hungry wakens and shifts, uncurls its insatiable tongue.

I have been thinking of how I want to be touched by you, with hands that will play me like piano keys, with fingers that will make a symphony out of me.

You till the soil of my need, my lips a blood-red flower bursting open with the first wet flush of your heat.

When it comes right down to it, all that nonsense about hearts syncing up feels like a hallelujah with our bodies pressed together like praying hands.

Every time, you peel back my skin, pry open my ribs, and feast on my insides. Every time, you make a meal of my heart, and every time, I let you.

You’re not one for poetry or sentimentality, so I’ll just say that I’ve dreamt of being the motor oil trapped in the grooves of your weathered hands.

I ache for your hum between my legs, the purring of motorcycles on winding highways: wind in my hair, and romance in losing myself to the sweet, revving vibration of the engine again and again.

You smile and it’s like sunrise. Something inside me Wakes up, stretching.

I float away in cool sheets against my burning skin, and you are the sea guiding me beyond the realm of earthly things.

My lipstick spills over your mouth and trickles down to your chin, your neck, pooling into your collarbones. We love like crushed grapes in wine country.

You’re kissing a wildfire up my thigh and I am tracing the landscape of your jawbone like a sculptor. My hands were made for this.

The rush you give me: The way a blade of grass must feel when splashed with a cloud’s cry after days of screaming for rain.

We are the fall of Rome, all fire and fighting. We collapse into each other like the pieces of the Parthenon, kissing like gladiators, loving like rebuilding.

You creep into my head like a river rushing for the sea & a cosmic digit of fingertips flash over me.

You are pressing against me like I press flowers against the pages in my book. You are kissing my neck and it feels like the start of forever. I want to touch you until my palms burn.

The wet of your mouth rains down my neck like frame, the soft heat of your tongue burns the apple in my throat. We are practiced at this love that asks angels to cover their eyes and turns devils shy.

I melt into the gentleness of your fingertips. Your tongue presses me open like the summer fresh flesh of a perfectly ripe fig, all juice, seeds and pulp.

The small of your back is refuge, is veldt, is summer heat. And I am predatory snarl.

I can’t brush out the taste of you; coffee breath, cigarette smoke, and all. Mouth to mouth; Our shared vices linger on each other. Your salt still lives in my tongue.

I’ll take you quiet as the bones in your closet, love as softly as a whisper. Holding your tongue like a secret.

You smiled and lit up like the dusk. I sank to your lips like the sun against the horizon. We made the day stand still.

I want to kiss you until you melt into me, ice turning to water. I want to drink you deep, and warm you from the inside.

[blysiia-blog]

’ if you keep dressing like that, i won’t be able to contain myself. ’ // Mikhail

nsfw sentence starters.

      She’s busy arranging her belt over her tunic, the thin cotton wonderfully cool in comparison to her traditional Hyrulean clothing with it’s layers upon layers of thick fabric. The sleeves hang loosely around her arms, tightening only at the cuffs around her wrists in a fashion similar to her pants. It provides protection from the harsh desert sun, but allows her skin to breathe. For Zelda, the Gerudo-style clothing is seen only as a practicality while on a diplomatic visit to the largest remaining Gerudo settlement, though she does appreciate the aesthetic. As such, she’d not realized her husband was appreciating something else.

      Her hands pause, the sudden rosy tinge to her complexion nothing to do with the heat. Mikhail’s comment has caught her off guard, and she chances a glance at him only to find him staring at her so intently that she wonders how she had missed the weight of his gaze before.

      Before the silence can drag on for too long and she risk insulting him by ignoring him, she resumes tying her belt, although she could just as well untie it. After all, they’re not expected anywhere until later in the morning, and far be it from her to deny her husband something he wants. Something she’s willing to give.

      “… Shall I take them off, then?”

[blysiia-blog]

nsfw sentence starters.

’ i’m so hard for you baby. ’ ’ do you want me? how do you want me? ’ ’ i don’t think you’re ready for this. ’ ’ i don’t think you could handle this. ’ ’ i’m so horny for you right now. ’ ’ if you keep dressing like that, i won’t be able to contain myself. ’ ’ i want to mark you as mine tonight. ’ ’ come over here and give me a kiss. ’ ’ do you feel me inside of you right now? ’ ’ i want to feel you inside of me right now. ’ ’ i want to hear you moan and scream my name. ’ ’ do you feel that? ’ ’ you ready for round two yet? ’ ’ let’s go again. ’ ’ i just want to make you moan. ’ ’ i’m going to give you a kiss now. ’ ’ can we cuddle afterwards? ’ ’ i’m still hurting from last night. ’ ’ come show me a good time then. ’ ’ i’m more than ready for this, trust me. ’ ’ think you can handle it? ’ ’ strip for me. ’ ’ want me to strip for you? ’ ’ i’m just stripping for you slowly. ’ ’ i’m just slowly going to take off my clothes now. ’ ’ what? i’m just changing. ’ ’ you can look but you can’t touch. ’ ’ want to come feel me up? ’ ’ i can do amazing things with these hands. ’ ’ this mouth here can work wonders. ’ ’ talk dirty to me while you fuck me. ’ ’ aw, is that all you got? ’ ’ harder, baby. ’ ’ hmmm, yeah, harder baby. ’ ’ oh yes! right there! that’s the spot! ’ ’ don’t slow down, keep going. ’ ’ i love the way you move your hips. ’ ’ i love the way you taste. ’ ’ you taste so good. ’ ’ i want to taste you. ’ ’ let’s go naked and talk about it. ’ ’ i think you look wonderful naked. ’ ’ want me to help you take your clothes off? ’ ’ i will rip those clothes right off of you. ’ ’ let me see what your working with. ’ ’ i’m so wet right now. ’ ’ you make me so wet. ’ ’ come feel how wet i am right now. ’ ’ you should feel how soaking wet i am. ’ ’ only you make me that wet. ’ ’ i’m so hard right now. ’ ’ just your voice makes me get a hard on. ’ ’ you should feel how hard i get for you. ’ ’ i’m so hard it hurts. ’ ’ it takes a lot to make me horny. ’ ’ it doesn’t take much with you to make me horny. ’

[blysiia-blog]

Zelda’s actually pretty self conscious about her lightning scars (damn u ganondorf) so she’s... pretty susceptible to body worship. She’ll have to get used to it, but it boosts her self esteem in a moment when she feels insecure and vulnerable.

[blysiia-blog]

Zelda isn’t into anything that involves her being restrained. She doesn’t feel comfortable, let alone safe, if she can’t immediately take back control of a situation. Even with a partner she trusts implicitly, having a verbal cue or safe word isn’t enough to ease her anxiety. She can’t be talked into it or persuaded either, and it someone is insistent she’ll very obviously distance herself from them.

[blysiia-blog]

Places Zelda wants to be fucked

on her throne

on her desk

[blysiia-blog]

💦 // mikhail

SEND ME A SYMBOL

💦 - to give my muse an orgasm.

      “Mikhail –” Zelda’s voice is quiet and breathy, though in the open space of the throne room it feels louder.

      The rest of the castle slumbers, shadows cast upon the ancient stone by columns and torch flame, but she has little attention to pay to her surroundings when she feels so deliciously warm and her husband is on his knees before her. He presses hot kisses to her porcelain flesh, rough hands pushing her dress further up her thighs, exposing her to the night air. She’s not sure if the goosebumps that raise across her skin are a result of the sudden chill or his ministrations.

      She doesn’t need to look to know he’s smirking, and her fingers curl around the arms of her throne as he rather deftly removes her underclothes and buries himself between her legs. His fingers spread her lips and his tongue finds her clitoris, drawing a heady gasp from her lungs.

      It most certainly isn’t the first time Mikhail has done this to her, but knowing that he’s kneeling before her, pleasuring her sends a thrill down her spine. She feels confident here even as he coaxes another moan from her and her back arches, eyes falling shut in bliss. Warmth pools in her abdomen, toes curling as he laps at her, gripping her thigh to keep her from squirming away in her pleasure.

      “Mikhail – Mikhail, please –” Her heart picks up in her chest, breath quickening the closer he brings her to climax. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I –”

      Zelda cuts herself off as she reaches her release, whatever she may have been about to say turning into an incoherent moan. He stops only when she relaxes, going limp on her throne, chest heaving.

      He sets her skirts to rights, slipping her under clothes in his pocket and allowing her a few moments before gathering her up in his arms. Her legs are trembling and the walk to their rooms will be easier if he carries her. She wraps her arms around his neck and they go back, both quite satisfied with the night’s ventures.

[blysiia-blog]

(NSFW) Tell my muse a sexual fantasy you have involving them.

[blysiia-blog]

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM morning sex

Send in Kinks and My muse will rate them.

Definitely not | No | Not Really | Its Okay | Kinda | Yes | Fuck yes | There goes my pants |

Bonus: Giving | Receiving | Both

      “I wouldn’t mind, I suppose… There’s something flattering about it.”

[blysiia-blog]

SEND ME A SYMBOL !! #2

A bit more NSFW than the last one. Add ’ +’ to reverse.

💋 - to kiss down my muse’s body. 👅 - to have oral sex with my muse. 👂 - to sensually lick my muse’s ear. 💤 - to cuddle up with my muse, after sex. 💦 - to give my muse an orgasm. 👕 - to undress my muse. 👀 - to admire my muse’s naked form. 🤳 - to take a picture/record our muses. 🙈 - to have 1st time sex with my muse.

[blysiia-blog]

Send in Kinks and My muse will rate them.

Definitely not | No | Not Really | Its Okay | Kinda | Yes | Fuck yes |There goes my pants |

Bonus: Giving | Receiving | Both