confessthysiins

[confessthysiins]

FRAGRANT IS MY MANY FLOWER'D CROWN / SOFT ARE THE THROATS OF MEN

FRAGRANT IS MY MANY FLOWER'D CROWN / SOFT ARE THE THROATS OF MEN

FRAGRANT IS MY MANY FLOWER'D CROWN / SOFT ARE THE THROATS OF MEN

[confessthysiins]

Marie König-Ingenheim

[confessthysiins]

for @handtame ( desk ) - our muses have sex in an office, clothed

By the time he had come to terms with it, in all its tragedy, it was already too late.

The girl had crashed into him like a tide, mouth spilling hot over his, hands firmly locked about the collar of his shirt. Stricken with the shock of it he had barely reacted when she had pushed him back into his leather chair and climbed into his lap, bruised knees pressing into his thin waist. She had let go of him just long enough to tug his tie loose and a few buttons with it, a firm hand slipping beneath the linen to trace along his collarbone. A violent shiver had taken him. Weakly he had tried to say her name, but the word lost itself between lips that should never have met, like a hare torn apart by hungry dogs.

Above all he wanted to be appalled. He wanted to take the knot in his stomach and call it disgust, desperately wanted the crawling feeling on his skin to be named horror. But he knew too much of sensations to delude himself, and these two he knew very well, though they had been strangers now for long years. Hunger. Excitement. His body longed for hers in that animal way that was the logical end point of their lengthy game of cat and mouse. Sometimes, he was the cat; all feline smiles, stalking around the border of polite distance like a predator. Today he was the mouse, and she the ravenous one. 

She pressed herself into him, body a rolling wave, and against all reason a goading hand still gleaming with a wedding band came to rest at the small of her back. Miriam’s heart beat furiously against his chest when he whispered in her ear, breaths shallowed by the last restraints of his willpower: “This is what you’ve wanted, then, this whole time…? My undoing at your hands.” Her answer came as a thrum against his neck. He winced when Miriam’s teeth dragged against his skin, chattering with desire. He buried his nose in the crook of her shoulder in turn, silken hair dragging on her bared skin, hot sighs welling in the dip of her collarbone. “Didn’t you want this? Didn't you look at me with the same hunger?” she whimpered, hands pressing on his chest, wrapping around jutting ribs beneath the pale linen to drag her nails along his back. He stifled a groan in a gentle bite of her soft skin as the rhythm of her hips grew desperate, the kiss of her sex hot through the clothes that separated them, last bastion of discipline. His own pressed against the confines of his trousers, the ache meaningless next to the burning her words elicited in him. His confession was murmured close to the tender arc of her jaw: “I did.” His Miriam, his little starling, in his arms at long fatalistic last. How often has he thought of it, of the taking, the shame devouring him through her delicate lips and the warmth between her thighs. For months he has wondered where they would be when they would inevitably give in to reckless thirst, a thought that haunted and excited him in equal measure. He had hoped he would never learn the answer.

Yes, he wanted her. Her big eyes that shone like ice, her scathing remarks, her lithe legs with their knees always bruised rosy, her hands, her mouth. All for himself, selfishly, like he wanted everything. And he wanted to forget himself, only if for a moment, the brief moment of elation. Nothing now remained to stop him from chasing it - no morals and no thoughts, no reason. His short breaths devolved into moaning as thin hands wandered up her skirt and pushed her closer onto him. Miriam squealed when his thumb ran over her scarred stomach and navel, down to lips wet through light underwear. Shaking hands gripped at the arms of the chair, leather creaking as the girl’s whole body worked to stroke the length of his erection, every roll of her hips punctuated with a high pitched whine. “Look at me, Miriam, my sweet Miriam.” Her name on his lips had never tasted more of milk and honey. When her eyes met his, silvery mirrors of lust, she thought she saw tears. Her kind doctor, so beloved to her heart, the man for whom her death was made to wait; somewhere between his lips she thought she could dig out the kingdom of Heaven. Look at me and see a man unmade. His ring was cold against the nape of her neck when he took hold of it to press her into a kiss thick with desire. Oswald’s other hand was firm on her thigh, her skirt and sweater hiked up to bare her stomach, his thumb slipping under the hem of her panties to rub at her most sensitive point. 

Somewhere in the pit of his shame he had always known that it would come to this, that the dewy fruit of her desire was ripe for his picking. He knew it from the way she mirrored him, the way she would stare into his eyes when she would eat or drink as if to say, You’re next, the way she would press her goose-bumped thighs close together when he called her my girl. He could have slipped between those pale knees like a snake into Eden and she would not have stopped him. He resented that knowledge, it’s pull like a black-hole stain on his otherwise stable life. Miriam had crafted for him a beast that kicked and scratched at the doors of his ethics, at what little sense of morals he still held onto, a great horned satyr drunk with the pride of being needed.

Her panting moans between his lips sent his own body rippling against hers as their needy grinding reached a paroxysm. Through his trousers she could feel him hard and throbbing, desperate to be free, to be buried inside her where he rightfully belonged. She needed it so badly she thought she could go insane; the very thought of it threatened to render her so. Her thighs tightened shakily around Oswald’s waist, and she bit at his shoulder, the taste of his cologne filling her mind. Breaths mingled hot, skin against sweating skin, they saw together stars and light. Miriam came first, the sweet sound of her release barely muffled by Oswald’s hand placed hurriedly over her mouth. She bit at it as she rode out her agonizing elation, soaked and warm, tongue lapping at the silver ring, soft lips wet against his palm. A long and trembling moan escaped her as she took the thin fingers into her mouth, metallic bitterness giving way to the tangy taste of herself on his thumb. His breath hitched, stopped as he came in turn, pushed over the deadly edge by her voice and the heat of her tongue, staccato sighs pitched high with ecstasy. Her arms wrapped around his neck through the last jolts of satiation, planting kisses where she had bitten and sucked, soft purple blooms.

They remained embraced as such as they slumped into each other, Miriam’s head rested on her dear doctor’s shoulder, his hand in her tousled hair. He held her close, hearts beating furiously in their joined chests. In that moment there existed no one else, no world beyond the closed doors of the office where they had met, where they had come to know each other, where now they sat together on the chair he once used to lord over her - as equals. As lovers.

Oswald stroked her hair gently, and she purred with satisfaction, nuzzling his collarbone. He felt something bloom in his chest, in the stark foresight that follows release. Again he found himself wanting to name that feeling something else, perhaps love, or pride. But its name was grief.

“Miriam…” he whispered, voice still raw from pleasure. “Miriam, I love you. I love you and I cannot ever see you again.” His hand moved to her back, and he squeezed her tightly. He felt her body stiffen, a pained exhale when she stirred to look at him, brow furrowed sceptically. “What? What are you saying?” “You can never come back here. Do you understand?” he spoke gently into her ear, pressing his face against her cheek. He kissed it tenderly. “I could make you happy,” she spoke, trying to blink away welling tears. Cradled in his arms Miriam had felt happier than she ever had in years. She loved him, fully, with all her heart, wanted his voice and his thoughts and his body, as well. How could he say those things? He loved her too. She knew it, had always known it. He wanted this. Why was he throwing her away? The softness of his voice felt like a hundred thousand knives. Oswald held her still as he spoke, heartbeat slow against her breast, his arms around her and hers around him like a picture of young love. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, hands clutching at her shoulders, rocking her gently. He felt the tension in her soften, a sob wracking her body as she fell away from him. “I could love you forever,” she said, voice cracking with hurt. When he replied she felt her heart break into a million little pieces, sharp like glass.  “I know, my love, and that is why this must end.” 

Pain brewed in her stomach. She redressed from their embrace reluctantly. “You… you don’t mean that.” He suddenly grew cold. “Please.” No longer his Miriam. No longer his starling, his little stray dog, no longer his girl. She couldn’t bear the thought of it, of yet another man consumed and destroyed by her desires. Not him. Oh God, any man but him! Any man but the one she loved. She felt as though cursed. Shaking with shock, she got up, legs trembling, held herself as if his gaze had stabbed her. It might as well have. Every shaky step she took towards the office door felt a little bit like dying. She had thought of running away from here before; before she knew him, before he knew her. She knew exactly the steps. Eight. Six. Four. She couldn’t bear to turn away, even as his sad eyes threatened to tear her to shreds.

“Miriam-” Oswald called to her, one last time. He paused, head down, face sunken with heartache. She looked up to him, pale eyes full of tears, hope beating painfully in her chest. But all he said, calmly, with the weight of regret, was “I’m sorry.” She thought her knees, shaking and bruised, would buckle under her sorrow, her anger, the terrible weight of his apology and all that she heard in it;  I’m sorry it ended like this. I’m sorry I had to. I’m sorry I am selfish. I’m sorry I used you. I’m sorry I am the worst kind of man. How could it end so soon? He had been warm and welcoming and loving. Now he was terrifyingly cold. Miriam pulled her clothes back around herself with trembling hands. The office door slammed behind her like a gunshot when she finally ran, loud and wounding. Oswald’s head sank into his hands, hair messy about his frail frame, wedding band glistening still with the wet of her mouth.

[confessthysiins]

@confessthysiins said: ( auto ) - our muses have sex in a car

They have such a way of smearing, the lights. A carnival of glowing colors cartwheels past her and smudges the windowpane. Drunken angels, domesticated and defanged by tall and narrow alleys, by steam that reeks from manholes. She’s never liked cities. She doesn’t like that you cannot tell day from night, that there is always someone running down a street somewhere, desperate to catch a cab. Nothing stands still, nothing ever sleeps. The city throbs hatefully around her, the small foreign object lodged in its flesh. It knows in every powerline and cobblestone that she does not belong here. Miriam leans her head against the backrest of the passenger seat and watches the lights. She sees them blur and cast halos. Every last ray tries to grab her, to pull on her hair. They’d drag her out of the car if they could, and into the glaring heat at their center which is not love. Her gaze follows the coronas of a traffic light when it switches from red to its bizarre green-bluish glow. It leaves such a pain in her heart, the light. 

She pretends that the car spells safety, that nothing can reach her beyond the impenetrable tint of darkened windows. Around her, shadows breed and scatter. Blackness courts her edges and drenches her legs. It’s so much lika a burrow, somewhere underground with soil gently falling on her head. The darkness is accentuated by a red glow from the dashboard. Everything is cast in sharp contrasts. His profile must look handsome and stern in this half-light, a red glare glinting at the edges of his glasses. She doesn’t want to see it. She doesn’t want to chance a glimpse and catch his eyes darting away from her in contempt. She imagines them cold and narrowed in resentment. His thin long hands around the steering wheel, gripping it too tightly. Regret unfurls in her chest like some specimen of prehistoric flora, alien and insidious. Its blackened vines curl through her aorta and plug it up. That is why her heart seizes so painfully in her chest. She should not have called him.

There is a good many things she should not have done. His voice is still in her ear, silver and biting like smoke, driving tears to her eyes: Miriam… Oh, Miriam. 

It’s the pity she cannot stomach. He looked so sad when he wrested his hand from her grip. How ashamed he was, to look at her. He turned away and took all the warmth with him. She fills a chill coming on, the coiled bleakness of midwinter in her bones. It fills her lungs up with snow to sit here, curled up in the passenger seat with no say in what happens to her next. She feel sice creeping under her fingernails, tightening her blood vessels until all she can do is ache with it. He is going to find her some shelter, pawn her off. And it’ll serve her right. She’s proven many times over that she isn’t worth the trouble. Miriam is mortified by the nakedness of her soul. Perhaps she could have saved herself this indignity if she had just left it alone, let the police keep her. She wonders what he said to them to make them so eagerly release her to his care. Did he say, she is mine? Did he say, she belongs to me and you cannot have her?

All she knows is that he lied.

She wishes she were prettier. She wishes she were picturesquely sad. She wishes he hadn’t pulled away from her so easily barely consoling her with a caress. Miriam rubs her fingers over the spot where his thumb had been. He regrets coming to her aid, she supposes. Oswald likes being the savior, the knight in shining armor and to have her fall at his feet in gratitude, but there are lines. Tonight, she found one. And perhaps he resents her for showing him the limits of his care. Why is it so easy for him, for everyone, to find the point at which nothing else must be permitted? Why not for her?

Miriam inhales, breath trembling in her throat. If it had been him asking, holding her and not letting go, she would have given him everything. She would have never imagined that it might be too much. On the contrary: It is the least. The least! A moment of closeness, of contact and warmth, proof that she someone else is there in the dark with her. That someone is longing as she is longing. That she isn’t the only one who has ever been this alone. 

A sob breaks from her mouth like a rock from a cliffside. She is startled by it, by its high pitch, its force. But id she is startled, then Oswal dis horrified. His gaze is brightened by alarm when she cringes into herself. She can already feel the warmth of his palm as he reaches out to her, much faster than she thought possible. He tries to find purchase on her shoulder, do the gentlemanly thing. She feels his fingers grazing her there, but she is too curled into herself. His touch pearls off. It hovers helplessly over her, as if to abjure the grief from her. It seems to pierce him, tearing some wound in his pride, that he cannot console her. Not like this.

“No, no,” He mutters softly. His voice is a low purr in the dark, rasping against his tired throat. “No, darling, don’t…”

He calls her darling.

It makes her cry harder, drives the spike between her ribs. He twists the blade with his sympathy. Good enough to mother, to smother, but not good enough to eat. Her tears rip him from whatever darkened path they tread. She feels the car around her swerve and grind to a stop. Not harshly, no. He is very considerate in all he does. He does not mean to startle her. They are parked in some alleyway, an offshoot to the moon-glassy boulevard. It is quiet here and the car’s engine snarls softly, muffled by disuse. Miriam tries rubbing at her eyes, lapping cool air into her mouth to extinguish the heaving, the shuddering. With her vision so blurred, she does not see him coming. Suddenly he is right there, and she is swamped in his arms, the cool stiff fabric of his coat crowding her in. 

“Come here,” he whispers hoarsely in her ear. His eau de cologne goes right to her head, sharp and masculine. It clings to his collar rather than his neck but it wafts around her all the same. And below that: cigarette smoke and cheap coffee, interrupted sleep. “Shh, don’t cry,” he says. “Come to me.”

The pull of his embrace lifts her out of her seat. She is dragged across the barrier, crawling eagerly, like a frightened child into the fortress of his arms. She settles on his lap, weeping into the warmth of him. All the distance that was there before, evaporates. All coldness is dispelled by the warmth of one loving act. He pulls her close as if to hush her, his scholarly hands running up and down her back, counting the notches in her spine. Miriam is an eager penitent, slinging her arms around his neck and burying her small face in his soft, silver hair. Immediately, Oswald is all there is. Warm and solid beneath her, holding onto her so tightly that it hurts her to breathe. She feels the rasp of his unshaven cheek, the first touch of bristling teasing her earlobe. 

“I’m here,” Her sweet doctor whispers, almost reverent in his vows. The black glass has shattered and he is suddenly with her again. “I’m always here. Shh, shh,” His fingers run through her hair and scratch tenderly along her scalp. “My girl, my good girl.”

Each word hits Miriam like an electric shock, like tongueing a wall socket. She inhales the heat of his neck and feels her tears dry. This is all she wanted. This is all. Just him, holding her. Her lips spell it out against his artery, looking for the pulsepoint. She kisses him once, that spot that was designed by God for moments like this, to melt the spine. He freezes, ever steadfast. But he does not stop her. He does not force her from him like a nightmare riding his chest. He merely stills. A sharp inhale. Open-mouthed, honey-lipped, she scatters kisses up his neck, to his jaw. 

“Miriam…” He murmurs, attempts valiantly to find his voice against her. But he falters and her name sounds like a sigh rather than a reproach. This time she isn’t cowed. He does not stop her. He doesn’t pull away. She lifts her head from the spot she’s so tenderly bitten red, and looks up at him. There is an innocence there. A guileless honesty, too needy to be anything but disarming. Her eyes even look blue in shadow. It spells out what she’s whispered into his neck: She never knew where to draw the line. She told him. She will go as far as it takes her. She will go too far. 

But the car is dark and one must never underestimate to seductive warmth of darkness. God can’t see, the primitive mind will whisper while languously sprawling out toward unconquered flesh.It has this in common with confessionals. That’s why there’s latticework between a sinner and her confessor. There are no wooden bars between Miriam and Oswald when she looks into his eyes, skewering his gaze with her own. All the light in the world is gathered to her and reflected onto him. She watches the lust pool in, turn his eyes from silver to storm. It surges from deep within him, thick and loamy. His eyes drop to her lips. Then she has him. 

His resolve snaps like a leather belt. She arches into him as he clasps her cheek and draws her closer. The kiss is hard and hot, half composed of teeth. Miriam whimpers with relief, sags against him with her entire weight. His tongue slides between her lips, teases and caresses her. He is practiced at it, and hungry. She breathes the heat from his mouth, deep into herself. It throbs all the way into her core. She straddles his lap entirely, then, her hands in his hair hastily raking the low ponytail apart with her fingertips. She rolls her entire body into the kiss, her hips eagerly rocking against the bulge in his slacks. She can feel him through the thin layers of fabric, can feel him rising to attention for her. It’s a drug in her system, straight shot down the brachial vein. And it burns. Fuck, it burns all the way through. 

He tugs impatiently at her skirt, almost angry. Now he is here. Now it all has to happen at once. Weeks of hunger culminate in him hitching up her skirt without preamble. She smiles against his teeth while he makes a low, desperate noise. Miriam tugs on his belt buckle like you’d rein in a horse and on her call, he bucks. She wants him like this. Don’t play pretend, don’t use your long words. Say hot. Say fuck. Say cock. 

Miriam grinds against him, chasing the mounting friction, that sweet all-consuming ache that soaks her through until she feels her panties clinging to her skin. He sucks on her neck while it blooms in new shades for him. He learns her body fast, makes sure to grope a tit. He finds her nipple beneath the cheap polyester of her top and runs an urgent thumb over it. Rubbing it over and over, in tight circles, until a mewl drools from her lips, keening and breathless. They don’t have the space for great unveilings. All the magic must be worked between the backrest and the steering wheel. She squeaks anyway, a startled, lust-ridden sound. Like giving him the spurs. Oswald reaches down and undoes his belt, unbuttons his pants. The sound of the zipper is like angels singing. She can’t see, not with the shadows teeming, gnawing at their outlines, but she can feel him. God, she can feel him. His length slowly rides along her clothed cunt. 

“My girl,” He whispers in her ear until her nerves chime and glow. Does he know? Does he know what he does to her when he says those words, when he whispers ‘mine, mine, mine’ in every second sentence? God, he must know. She feels him hard and ready against her and her head spins. He studies her face, ever the observer. His voice is low and foreign to her: “This is what you want, isn’t it? My shameless little lamb, just look at you. Shh, I know. I want you to nod for me.”

Miriam nods. Fast. Eager. Precious little thing who is only ever trying to get closer. That can’t be a sin, it cannot be. Wasn’t there something he said, once, about greed? About starving the soul? Hers is glutting itself. She thinks she glimpses a smile as she melts against his chest and he runs his fingers along the edge of her underwear. One long finger hooks in, through the thin fabric of her nylons. Unceremoniously, he rips a hole in, forces access. “Oh!” She gasps and he hushes her. Oswald pulls her panties aside, brushes against the wet heat of her. “I’ll make you feel all better now, I promise.” 

In the dark of the Cadillac, her doctor impales her, a soft quivering body blushing and sobbing with relief. He releases a low satisfied groan when her tightness envelopes him. So brave, she takes him as deep as she can and never even whines. He strokes her hair, almost condescending while she clings to him, panting through the pain of first intrusion. But that is just his way and it feels so good to be caressed. He shifts, eager to start some animal rutting. She wants it to hurt more. If it hurts more, she thinks, then it means more. But she cannot dwell on such philosophies, not with Oswald slowly rocking up into her and tightening his arms around her. All the teasing, the uncouth urgency melts away when he realizes that she is trembling for him. “Oh… My darling,” he whispers, his voice strangled with pleasure. “My sweet darling, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” She closes her eyes, drunk on the sensation of him inside her. See, she wants to say, you found a way in after all. Is it everything you’ve ever dreamed? 

“—here.”

Miriam’s eyes snap open. Glaring lights greet her, sneering as they illuminate a familiar driveway. Overhead, there looms the decommissioned church. Miriam is in the passenger seat, thighs pressed together and stares out the window. Confusion catches up to her in bits and pieces, tattered at the edges where she’d imagined his hands, his mouth. She can almost still hear his voice, warm and eager for her, licking heat into her neck. But all he really said was: We’re here. And so they are.

“This is your house,” Miriam mumbles, almost dreamy, certainly quite lost. 

“Yes, I spoke with my wife. She agreed to let you stay the night. You can’t be out on the streets like that.” His door clicks shut when he rounds the car to unlock the front door. A warm golden glow is waiting for him inside. She must have heard the car, waiting up for her husband.

Miriam sits in the passenger seat, as empty as before. It hits her belatedly, like a cold front. Right. She reaches up and flicks away a stray tear still clinging to her eyelashes. Everything sinks. Everything heaves. Two figures, engulfed in the warmth of their home, wait for her by the open door, impatient. Far away. Not here at all. Just a trick of the light. Whatever the dogs haven’t eaten and calls itself her heart, it tightens like a fist. Humiliation burns behind her eyes. Sick girl. 

 She tugs her skirt over her knees and then gets out of the car. 

[confessthysiins]

HOW DO YOU NEED TO BE TOUCHED?

GENTLY. you need to be held as though you're going to break. you need someone to trace your scars like cracks in a wall, crumbling. their touch is almost painful; you've been without it for too long, without someone to hold you. but, you cannot bring yourself to pull away.

tagged by: @renatvvs, @handtame tagging: @yellowfingcr @through-fire-and-flame @hellweep

[confessthysiins]

"This place hums to the tune of debauchery. This city is filthy and deep in the thrall of unending sin, so saturated with the kiss of decadence that the sky threatens to buckle and crush all those living vivaciously beneath it in punishment."

Chloe Gong, These Violent Delights

[confessthysiins]

Have your muse confess something to mine!

Their love, hate, appreciation, dislike, or indifference to my muse. Maybe a fantasy or dream involving our muses together. Perhaps even their deepest darkest secret!

[confessthysiins]

🌶️ smutty starter prompts

🔞 adults-only prompts for spicy interactions. content warnings for bd/sm kinks, rough kinks, bodily fluids, etc. nsft below! all prompts are written under the context of mutual consent.

( wash ) - our muses have sex in a shower ( splash ) - our muses have sex in a bath ( cramped ) - our muses have sex in a closet ( auto ) - our muses have sex in a car ( cook ) - our muses have sex in a kitchen ( camp ) - our muses have sex in a tent ( fly ) - our muses have sex on an airplane ( tracks ) - our muses have sex on a train ( float ) - our muses have sex on a boat ( luxury ) - our muses have sex in the back of a limousine ( sand ) - our muses have sex on a beach ( desk ) - our muses have sex in an office ( glass ) - our muses have sex next to an open window ( stare ) - our muses have sex in front of someone else ( trees ) - our muses have sex in a wooded area ( skyline ) - our muses have sex on the roof of a building ( up ) - our muses have sex on a balcony ( dress ) - our muses have sex in a fitting room ( record ) - our muses make a sex tape together ( join ) - our muses engage in mutual masturbation ( fabric ) - our muses have sex while clothed ( tug ) - my muse pulls your muse's hair ( pull ) - your muse pulls my muse's hair ( close ) - my muse edges your muse ( cliff ) - your muse edges my muse ( smooth ) - my muse gives your muse a massage ( relax ) - your muse gives my muse a massage ( fixation ) - my muse worships your muse's body ( worship ) - your muse worships my muse's body ( ogle ) - my muse watches your muse masturbate ( witness ) - your muse watches my muse masturbate ( rub ) - my muse gives your muse a handjob ( stroke ) - your muse gives my muse a handjob ( oxygen ) - my muse chokes your muse ( tighten ) - your muse chokes my muse ( rope ) - my muse ties your muse up ( restraint ) - your muse ties my muse up ( cuffed ) - my muse handcuffs your muse ( clipped ) - your muse handcuffs my muse ( sit ) - my muse sits on your muse's face ( seat ) - your muse sits on my muse's face ( lick ) - my muse performs oral sex on your muse ( suck ) - your muse performs oral sex on my muse ( smack ) - my muse spanks your muse ( spank ) - your muse spanks my muse ( heat ) - my muse drips hot wax on your muse ( drip ) - your muse drips hot wax on my muse ( hungry ) - my muse licks food off of your muse ( taste ) - your muse licks food off of my muse ( claim ) - my muse puts a collar on your muse ( territory ) - your muse puts a collar on my muse ( edge ) - my muse holds a knife to your muse ( blade ) - your muse holds a knife to my muse ( rough ) - my muse facefucks your muse ( thrust ) - your muse facefucks my muse ( teeth ) - my muse bites your muse ( chomp ) - your muse bites my muse ( pet ) - my muse is your muse's pet for petplay ( tail ) - your muse is my muse's pet for petplay ( pour ) - my muse gives your muse a golden shower ( wet ) - your muse gives my muse a golden shower ( accident ) - my muse wets themselves in front of your muse ( mistake ) - your muse wets themselves in front of my muse ( mouth ) - my muse spits on your muse ( tongue ) - your muse spits on my muse ( swallow ) - my muse swallows your muse's cum ( mouthful ) - your muse swallows my muse's cum ( splat ) - my muse cums on your muse's face ( face ) - your muse cums on my muse's face

[confessthysiins]

— [To find a kiss of yours], Federico García Lorca (translated by Sarah Arvio)

[confessthysiins]

The haze of pain is still strong in the pardoner’s mind, but through it Laurentius’ warm voice rings like the roar of the sea. He listens as best he can, finds no strength to answer. Through him the fire dissipates slowly, through shredded muscle and broken bone, like liquor. Is this how the Undead feel, when Estus mends them? He doesn’t feel mended.

Haggardly he rummages through his discarded robes, finds within his most precious belonging - a lock of black hair, tied with a simple cord, thick and sticky with blood. Through his bared skin ribs thin and bruised look like the hands of death wrapped around his torso, his face sunken, blood and saliva dripping from a corner of his mouth. His tongue tastes iron and the salt of tears. He holds the talisman close to his heart, shaking, bent upon it like in desperate prayer. 

“Give me… but a moment.” 

His voice is hoarse, weak. Oswald’s breath hitches in his chest. The pounding in his head has scarcely subdued, and when he closes his eyes it is as though he can see his own pulsing veins, feels his heartbeat through wet lashes. 

Beloved Goddess, he thinks, the psalm unspoken but entwined in his ragged breath, I beseech you. Give me strength to mend these old, fragile bones. Give me strength to rise, that I may go to you. That I may continue to serve for as long as you will have me. I do not wish to die here. There is yet more I must do. On his bony and bloodied hand his black ring gleams like a crow’s dark eye.

A pale light rises from the ground beneath him like smoke. It weaves about him like a caress, through white hair that rustles as though in a breeze. Her breath of winter, like snow, mingles with the hot flash of the pyromancer’s magicks, leaving a pearly trail of tears on sallow skin. Oswald shivers. How long will She keep him at his side, mending his wounds with Her frigid kiss, infusing Him with the strength of her love? How long can it go on, this unholy union of man and divine? One day Her embrace will leave him and he will be alone, and he will break for good.

But not now. Not while She still needed him. Not while She still loved him.

He pushes himself off the stone floor, slippery with his blood, knees nearly buckling. A hand falls on Laurentius’ shoulder as he steadies himself. His hold on the pyromancer remains when he bends down to pick up his robe, heavy and slick with spent life. 

“I will be fine. Let us go.”

Had Oswald seen Laurentius' face at the old man's use of the word “burden,” he might have been frightened anew.

“You stepped in front of a bloody spell,” he murmurs, trying to stifle the fury coiling in his chest. “You saved me, you idiot. A burden? What burden bears the weight of someone else?”

He moves to sit in front of the pardoner. The man isn't undead; Estus won't help. He'll have to rely on his own miracles to stitch up broken bone or whatever other internal damage the blast did - Laurentius only kept him from bleeding out. But in the meantime, he's due a tongue thrashing for whatever discussion of self-value the shock might have prompted. 

“You are not a burden to anyone, much less me,” Laurentius says. “I'll not hear that from you. Pardon yourself, pardoner, if you must, but I'll not listen to talk of burdening someone whose life you bloody well saved."

He feels odd, being in a position to lecture the normally collected pardoner, but his indignance at the idea of someone being a burden seems to have outstripped his capacity for embarrassment, at least temporarily. 

“Take a moment to rest and see if you can heal yourself further,” he says, a little more kindly. “Then we'll off to a bonfire, where it's safe.”

[confessthysiins]

For a brief moment time is still. The music dictates a new tempo to their exchange, calm and deliberate. There is no space within the piece for fear, no silence where apprehension can take hold. Oswald lets himself be moved by the song, if but for a moment, the somber violin’s strings putting his thoughts in the order of notes. He wonders if Miriam likes classical music, if she has heard Chopin at all. He wonders if it put her at ease like it does himself. He wonders a lot of things about her.

If he is to be truthful, and surely one should be when demanding of another’s trust, he would say, I am interested in you. Such an ineloquent phrase, too easily misconstrued. He would say he feels a pull of curiosity, the bloom of a desire to know. Certainly a more graceful thought, but no good either. Still, he doesn’t lie - it would be unbecoming of a man who prides himself on learning truths like squeezing blood out of stones. “It’s quite simple, really,” he clasps his hands over his lap, mirroring her proper posture. “I think it can help you.” He regrets the connotations almost immediately; help, as though she needs it, as though she asked for it. Even back on the street where he found her she had not asked aught of him. He has taken her in his care as Hades took Persephone. Or rather, invited her into this piano-filled Erebus, for she came of her own free will, for reasons he is yet to decipher. There will be his first incision in this dissection of her psyche, he decides.

“As for payment,” he continues after a brief pause to sip at the coffee that rests fuming on his desk, “You needn’t worry yourself. A few sessions with gratuity are no object. You are not formally my patient, after all.”

He won’t say it, that most dreadful expression - charity case. But certainly she is aware that it is the reality of it. He does not want to see her as such, his concern and curiosity both genuine. There are not many in his profession who choose to do this difficult work for free, that much is true, and those who do are often publishers of research and other notes on their less fortunate patients. He refuses the thought of subjecting her to that indignity.

The song that fills the room rises and quiets. A small click and the grit of the player’s needle against the record take its place before another piece begins, Schubert’s Trio No. 2. Someday, he will remember this moment with scathing clarity, the thick smell of the room, Miriam’s closely pressed knees and her apprehensive gaze, the hesitant steps of the melody like the only audible expression of her thoughts. He will remember it at night, in his bed, long after they have parted. He will have known her, then, seen her as she wished him to see her. But he does not know this yet.

“You could view this as a favor, though one I do not expect returned in any way. My time’s worth will be in the pleasure of helping another. For that is its own saintly reward, wouldn’t you say?”

Is this how he sees himself, a saint on Earth, bringer of anodyne to the downtrodden and lost? She had certainly made him feel as such, when he plucked her from the pavement like Saint Damian did the ill, though surely the holy figure must have been a younger man, dressed in robes and not expensive woolen coats. He should be struck down for his arrogance, he thinks. He has not. The violin’s song rises to a quiet climax.

“You asked me why I am doing this,” Oswald recollects, mercury eyes shifting, head tilted lightly in interrogation. A slender hand comes to rest on his cheek. “Will you permit me to return the question? You came all the way here. Why so? What do you expect from this?”

Something animal to her, to her twitching and sniffing. He's right to second-guess himself. Might as well trap a fox kit in a jeweler's store. Her surroundings are so rich, so finely pressed and cared for, that she looks dirtier by comparison. She is embarrassed and feels very foreign. Her unsteady gaze flinches from one motion to the next, distracted by a stray ray of sunlight glinting on a shelf, and then there is the doctor himself, large and dark and commanding. He is the gravity well in this room, the center around which all else must turn. Miriam can feel it, a tingling under the second layer of her skin. A pull so gentle it borders on a caress, this urge to lean toward him.

So her gaze follows him when he walks over to the record player and delicately manipulates the needle. A music piece rears up, mid-movement. She blinks in the face of a lilting fleeting piano, advancing around her, dancing key by key. For a brief moment, foolishly, she believes that the music is no result of his actions. It seems to spring from nowhere, like water in the desert. He tapped the side of a stone and it split open. She listens, watches passively as the record spins, and lets herself be wounded by such happenstance beauty. Is this a piece she's heard before? Did his hands play it for her? Her heart folds in on itself over her failure to remember, to recall.

When Oswald returns to her, with a magician's flourish, she watches his broad feline smile. He acts as if he's performed some great miracle for her, that by his will the silence should disperse. And perhaps he has. Does she not prefer it, this babbling, the playing? It takes the gravitas out of the moment. She understands the subtle hint. One mustn't be afraid when such music is playing. He offers it like bread, something to share, to experience together. Or perhaps he just likes the music, and this is what she would do. Vile girl.

He offers her the right of the first incision. It highlights embarrassingly how unprepared she's come to him. She asked for so little herself that she did not think much would be asked of her in return. Come and talk, he'd told her. Find me. So she has. But she doesn't know what to do with him now that she has him.

She keeps her knees smartly closed and tugs at a chin-length strand of hair. Her teeth chatter and click. For all the warmth soaking her through in this fairy-tale room, enchanted on all sides, she looks close to freezing. One breeze through the window and her lips might turn blue.

"I guess I just wanna know what the point is. Of all this. Why are you doing this?" Why are you doing it to me? "You know I can't pay you, right?"

[confessthysiins]

la leçon de piano ft. @handtame

[confessthysiins]

[confessthysiins]

I cannot bear the little loves, and yet I cannot claim all of yours, and every day I see you now, immense, complete, and I but a fragment, wandering…

Anaïs Nin, from “A Spy in the House of Love”

[confessthysiins]

this post brought to you by @handtame

[confessthysiins]

[ let go ] after holding onto receiver's hand for a while, sender finally, reluctantly releases their grip

THE ROMANCE OF HANDS & TOUCH. / OPEN.

It’s a short ride from the police station to the waterside where Oswald parks the car. They rode in a tense, pained silence, the rumble of the engine and the quiet song of crooners on the radio their only reprieve from it’s seeming eternity. He didn’t know what to say, and he warrants Miriam didn’t either.

He’d gotten the call around 1 A.M. “ I’m sorry, ” Miriam had answered through dry sobs. “ I didn’t know who else to call. ” She’d been found huddled at the back of a Corolla in an old dealership in the industrial district, a cold girl just looking to spend the night anywhere with a door, with a lock. So Oswald had thrown on his coat and left the comforts of sleep for the station. “ I’ll be right there, dear. Just give me a few minutes, ” he had said, voice uncharacteristically rough with the unexpected waking. He’d driven safely despite the web of feelings being spun in his gut as though by a great spider. He was worried, of course - they’d taken her in on trespassing charges, but surely she didn’t have any ID. Had they checked her bag and inevitably found drugs? Had they been rough with her, or at all uncouth? He found it hard to stomach the thought of her alone in a holding cell, her only crime having sought shelter in the frigid night.

He’d been at the station by 1:30 A.M. Only a few minutes after talking to the officer in charge they were already gone. Miriam hadn’t hugged him when she’d been released, hadn’t spoken at all while they remained inside. She’d been quiet, apologetic in her silence. She looked tired and hungry, like a lost child, or a martyr. The cops teased them about the fancy car. Oswald escorted her out with an arm around her shoulders.

“ How’d you do it? ” she had asked as he opened the passenger door of the Cadillac for her. “ What do you mean? ” He sat himself. “ Get me out, I mean. How’d you do it? ” “ I lied, ” he had answered so naturally. He didn’t tell her that he said he was her father.

They’d pulled up at a drive-through on the harbor ( “ You look like you’d eat me if I gave you the chance, ” he’d said, surely meaning to tease, but his tone was tired and she found it unnerving. ) For himself Oswald took only a black coffee. In the confessional darkness of the car, Miriam apologized again. “ I must have woken you up. ” “It’s alright, dear. I told you you could always call me if there was an emergency, after all. I’m just glad I could be there. ” He’d sighed as they drove away. He sounded exhausted. Did he resent her for this? Maybe he’d have her make it up to him, somehow. She wasn’t sure how to feel about the thought.

It’s almost 2 A.M. now. They’re parked by the waterside under the cold halide lamps, at a small quay where older locals liked to fish and younger ones liked to smoke weed and make out. The pavement is strewn with broken glass. A drunk had puked up his night’s excess at the very edge of the cement. It’s just the two of them now. Oswald turns the key and the engine’s purr dies with a hot sigh. He clears his throat as he exits the car, closing his black wool coat about himself. Miriam follows him, her demureness reminiscent of the quiet apologia that follows an argument. 

He leans against the front bumper of the car, a cigarette in one hand, the other roaming his pockets. When he sighs mist enshrouds him in gold, white hair yellowed by the streetlights. “ Here I am, ” he smiled, the ghost of impatience ruining his usual genuinity, “ up at 2 A.M., smoking by the bay like a teenager. I havn’t smoked in years, you know? ” he adds, the patting at his pockets growing frustrated. “ Say, Miriam, dear, have you got a light? ” That was what he said. But what she heard was, You always find a way to bring out the worst in me. She looks out to the water, star-specked with the cityscape’s myriad lights. She gives him the lighter anyway. “ Thanks, darling. ”

He offers her one before lighting his own cigarette up, takes a long drag, head thrown back in the pleasure of old habit. Miriam fiddles with her bag. “ Come, ” he tells her, and she obeys, though she dares not look into his eyes. He’s tired and resentful, and she’s just waiting for the thunder of his anger to strike. But it never does. When he leans in close to light her up she shivers like soft grass before lightning. A smoky exhale trails behind him as he redresses, but something holds him back. Miriam’s hand is closed on his, holding the lighter. She doesn’t care for the trinket. Wet eyes are fixed on him, puffy with dried tears. She tugs ever so lightly at him, soft fingers searching for his own, thin and bony. This is her begging: Please, my God, let me have this. Just a moment, let me have this. And then I will ask for nothing more.

“ Miriam… Oh, Miriam. ”

He looks sad, with his white hair falling on his sunken face, when his thumb moves to caress hers, a soft and lithe touch, the only kind he can afford himself lest he forgive reason and embrace her. Poor lonely Miriam, with no one in the world but him. Right there in her icy eyes, he can see it so clearly. Right there alone by the dark water and the shining city lights he’s all she has. In another life, he kisses her hard and fast. But in this one, he slowly unwraps her hand from his, pulls away from the closest they’ve ever been to breaking. He cannot be her everything, can’t afford to throw it all away for her, skinny girl with her beautiful gaze that chills like winter, for her fascinating black-hole desires and all consuming, all consummating love. But he can at least bear her hurts, for now. He steps away, cigarette burning between cold lips, sighs as his hands reluctantly quit hers to hide in his coat. He closes his eyes, face like a mask of death under the lights, as another smoke-heavy exhale hides him, if briefly, from her burning own. 

“ I have to make a call. Would you wait in the car for me? ”

When he sits next to her again in the darkness the well of emotions in her ragged throat is unbearable. Touch me, she thinks, do anything you want, but please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. In silence he puts in his key and the engine roars to life. She’s been good, she’s been obedient. Surely he’ll forgive her her small transgression, her tentative peek beyond the boundaries of their doctor-patient relationship. “ Where are we going? ” she asks sheepishly. When he answers he fails to hide a certain irritation in his tired voice. “ I have a conference tomorrow-” a flick of his wrist as he checks the time, “ four hours from now. Damned Europeans. I’d like to get at least a little bit of sleep until then. ” She feels guilty, but says nothing.

“ Don’t worry, ” he tells her as they roll up on the highway. “ I've found you somewhere for tonight. ” She doesn’t ask what will become of her. After what he did for her tonight, he’d still be a saint for leaving her on a street corner to wander till morning. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t talk any more, nor looks at her. He just drives home.

[confessthysiins]