#They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound: Romance

[black-queen-rising]

Waking to the sound of Daemon’s voice was a pleasure even nearly fifteen years of marriage could not dull or render Rhaenyra dispassionate towards. The responsiveness in which his body moved to hold her even closer as she began to stir, how their movements were so subconsciously in sync they could almost pass for one soul split between bodies, his very presence all at once the greatest reassurance she could ever wish and a gift she guarded more jealously than any else she had been granted in this life. For years on end her father had insisted the Iron Throne was the greatest gift the Gods could have bestowed upon their family, and in turn, that he could give to her. But at only six and ten such sweet considerations for their Kingdom’s seat of power were cleared away easier than polishing murky glass; Rhaenyra had offered to give up her heirship, and with it any pursuit of ruling their kingdom, so long as her father would allow her to wed Daemon. The Iron Throne was never a gift, it was only another form of obligation, a different state of matter for that same thing Viserys had insisted was called love.

She wakes now, however, with the awareness that she is truly, finally Queen settled in her mind as clearly as the weight of the twins she’s carrying against her side, and the comforting presence of her love. As sunbeams have begun to stream through the gossamer, mauve curtains in their bedchamber, the first three things that always slot into her mind first on waking are precisely where they should be; she is still Queen, the babes she’s carrying are just fine, and Daemon is beside her. Then the fourth follows suit, a reward for all three being as they should. Rhaenyra had won.

She was hardly delighted to wake to the sound of Daemon mocking Otto Hightower conspiratorially to their twins, but she still grinned as the words made more sense with her dawning consciousness. Anything to do with that man was not what she’d like to begin any of her days considering, even if she would appreciate the day he finally did them all the decency of dying as much—and in some ways even more—than Daemon. But the grin apparent in his tone and quiet, low laughter that came not a minute after it became clear she was awake was worth far more than any topic at all. “You agree with me, don’t you?” If Rhaenyra had been fully awake she would’ve laughed properly, but even her still somewhat drowsy response seemed to satisfy him, which was after all her favorite pastime, in all its forms.

“They have been good to me,” She assured, trying not to fall fully into the warm, slightly stupid feeling hearing Daemon call her “My girl” still gave her after all this time. “And I’m sure they will continue to be just as much, they’ve clearly inherited their father’s duty to those he loves.” Rhaenyra turned to kiss him, and took a long moment to savor it, before adding, “I am not going anywhere, I have only just begun all we’ve waited and wished for now that I’m well and truly Queen.” Then she paused to properly enjoy the kisses he planted all down her arm, taking the opportunity after he’d gotten down to her fingers to adjust herself in bed so they were properly facing each other, and seized the quiet moment to place her own line of kisses across his collarbone.

“I love you,” she breathed the assertion once, twice, and then a third as she rested her head against his shoulder, and then kissed his neck to seal her words. “No matter how many times I say it, I know in some way it will never truly be enough for either of us. But at the beginning and end of everything in this life, there is only my love for you. We may belong to the realm, this family, our children,” Rhaenyra shook her head and laughed softly as she continued, “And fuck knows there’s no greater meaning in The Seven’s Vows. But I am yours, and in equal measure you are mine, and that—above all else—is the greatest blessing of my life.”

𖤓 COME MORNING LIGHT 𖤓

(Starter with @black-queen-rising)

The morning light slanted through the sheer curtains, gilding their chambers in soft gold. Warmth lingered in the air—lavender and the faint ghost of last night’s embers—while beyond these walls, the city stirred to life. Vendors hawked their wares, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer rang in the distance, and the laughter of children wove through the streets.

A morning like any other. And yet, here, all was still.

Daemon lay sprawled across their bed, his head resting lightly against the curve of Rhaenyra’s belly. His palm splayed over the taut skin, fingers tracing idle patterns, feeling for the quiet flutter of movement beneath. Their children were restless this morning, shifting and rolling under his touch, tiny feet pressing against his palm, asserting themselves already.

It should have amused him. And yet—

His Nyra was still. Too still. It was wrong.

She was never still, never quiet. A livewire, always in motion, her mind forever racing ahead, hands busy with the next battle to fight, the next thing to set right. And when she wasn’t, Daemon was there to wind an arm around her, to draw her into their back-and-forth, teasing smiles out of her, reminding her that she did not have to carry it all alone.

He could feel her watching him now. Not speaking, not moving. It gnawed at something raw inside him.

A muted kick against his cheek pulled him back.

"Ah," he murmured, amusement curling at the edges of his words. "So you do hear me. Hello, children."

He tilted his head, pressing a slow kiss to the swell of her stomach before continuing, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Listen well, my little tyrants, it’s your father and his unmeasurable wisdom talking. The first thing you must learn in this world is the art of proper mischief. Your elder siblings have done well enough, but I expect far greater things from you. That is why I must teach you something of utmost importance."

He drew back slightly, his thumb gliding in slow, soothing circles over Rhaenyra’s belly, as if already preempting any protests. "Now, this must be done right. No half-measures. When you are old enough, and strong enough, I want you to waddle your sweet little selves to Otto Hightower’s grave and piss on it. Both of you. At the same time, if possible. Think of it as a bonding exercise."

Above him, Rhaenyra exhaled sharply. When he lifted his gaze, her glare was waiting, violet eyes smoldering with barely restrained exasperation.

Daemon grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Oh, come now, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy it."

Her silence was pointed.

Daemon sighed, ever dramatic, and rested his cheek against her belly once more. "Fine, fine. But in my defense, if the old cunt were truly dead, we’d hear birdsong in the streets. Joyful music. The smallfolk would weep with happiness and build statues in your honor. Instead—" He gestured lazily toward the open window, where the city hummed on as usual. "No celebration. Clearly, the bastard still draws breath."

A sharp jab to his jaw made him chuckle, and Rhaenyra’s fingers threaded absently through his hair, the way one might stroke a lounging cat. By the Seven, he’d purr if he could.

"You agree with me, don’t you?"

Rhaenyra’s exhale was suspiciously close to a laugh.

Daemon grinned, victorious, and kissed the swell of her belly once more. "I knew you would."

His mirth faded after a moment. His fingers stilled in their gentle tracing, and he let his forehead rest against her skin, eyes half-lidded.

Something bad will come of them.

Despite all the good they set out to accomplish, despite all the battles fought, Daemon could feel it in his bones. A slow, creeping certainty.

And so he held onto the moment. Let it settle into his memory, let it burn into the backs of his eyelids—Rhaenyra’s touch in his hair, her warmth beside him, the ghost of her smile still lingering.

"You’ll be kind to her, won’t you?" Daemon murmured. "Both of you. Don’t make your mother suffer too much when you decide it’s time to greet the world. You are dragons, yes, but be gentle."

His free hand slid up, covering hers where it lay curled in the sheets. Together. Always together.

"She is strong," he said, as much to himself as to them. "Stronger than all of us. But she is still my girl, and I will not lose her. Not for you, not for anyone."

Daemon exhaled slowly, his breath warm against her skin as he pressed his lips to her belly once more, lingering this time as if committing the moment to memory. Then, with reverence, he kissed her knuckles, lingering over the rings he had gifted her on their journey to Highgarden. Another kiss followed against the fluttering pulse at her wrist, where the bracelet he had chosen for her coronation gleamed in the dim light, a perfect match to her crown.

Let the newlyweds fret over Westeros. Let the rest of the world scheme and claw.

For now, he would stay here.

They could worry tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when the Dornish lord arrived.

Tomorrow, when Rhaenyra’s smile would still be there.

Tomorrow, where they would still be safe.

[swandeamour]

they wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound

[studiopeached]

THREE, TWO, RUN. ft. Peter Dunbar

♡ SUMMARY: After fleeing from your boyfriend, it isn’t long before the two of you reunite, against your will or with it.

♡ CONTENT WARNINGS: pwp, afab, fem!reader, ex-boyfriend!peter x reader, peter being a serial killer, moderate description of gore, NONCON/DUBCON, fingering, oral (fem receiving), big dick peter—not great prep, p in v sex, rough sex, biting/marking kink, fear play, predator/prey dynamics, size kink, bondage

♡ WORD COUNT: 2.4k plot, 1.9k smut. 4.3k total

♡ STREAM NOTE: SMUT BELOW THE SECOND NSFW BANNER. this is a spin off from my @peachedtvs blog called 'Til Death Dont We Part'

♡ MASTERLIST. cumming soon! Main blog @peachedtv

Peter felt you were quite silly, even from when his eyes first laid upon you through the windows of your diner.

So silly, in so many ways.

You were silly in the way you spoke. Expressive, lively, words filled with kindness and rhythm. Words Peter wanted to lock away for only him to hear. Your voice always melted into his mind like honey. Soothing, calming, just like the music he’d hum to silently as he got rid of your recent obstacles. A heavy saw in his hand slashing back and forth, splitting bone into two before stuffing remains of human flesh into a black tarpe—or when he'd bring the nuisances back alive. Screams of pain, terror, and torment vastly contrasting a smooth melody muffled through his earbuds.

Your smile was silly too. Loud, boisterous laughs pairing with it each time as you’d close your eyes tightly, breaths jagged as you’d brace your stomach from the joy. Your smile so mesmerizing Peter wanted nothing more to lock it away behind a key. To melt away in the melody of your laughter, to spread it across his lips and adorn the smile as sweetly as you do.

What was even sillier was how silly you made him feel. On the surface, the twist in his stomach was sweet. An admiration, an appreciation of something so pure. Although,

Peter always fell apart.

Even in the room of his own heart.

Every silly thing had something inside of him twist. A strange twist, a bubbling feeling that had his gut wrench around itself—curling around and laying discomfort deep into his heart, where it stood mockingly. Unable to be buried beneath other thoughts, placed behind distractions, or replaced with another. And this bothered him.

Peter was always in control.

Control of his job, control of his victims, the police, his therapy, the growing police patrols in your city. So why couldn’t he control this?

What were you doing to him?

He thought it was uncomfortable at first. But that strange feeling was quite addicting, stacking tenfolds in intensity ever since the first time he felt it with you.

“Are you okay?”

By now, this memory had occurred over 3 years ago.

The first day you two had met, Peter was not in a good mental space. His family was in ruins, the relationship between he and his mother deteriorating until he had finally decided to storm out of the house and leave for good. Leave his home for good.

With nowhere to go, and a rumbling stomach, Peter decided the best course of action was to first fuel his appetite. Damn Diner was loud, painstakingly so. There was a mess of voices, the clash of plates, cutlery, dragging of chairs against tilted floors, chaos that hummed against a muffled out melody of tunes through the ceiling speakers. Everything was so loud. There was a child in the booth next to his. A mess of ketchup and mustard spraying everywhere, a glob falling onto his cheek as his eyebrows knit together in annoyance. There was a couple in the booth across, arguing over the cries of their child whining for a crumb of their attention. There was yelling from the kitchen, scolding as a worker had done something wrong and sent an order to the incorrect table.

And then, there was you.

Timidly, you rushed over to his table. Clumsy and expressive as you stared down to him with empathy, apologizing profusely as you explained the mess around the diner. And there, all the loudness stopped. Your voice muffled, muffled until it became strikingly clear and the diner around him seem to slow. Peter's eyes traced your face, how you were out of breath, how kindly you looked to him, how you asked if he was okay. And in this world of distain, you were pure.

And there was the first twist.

Peter spent nights going crazy.

Absolutely insane.

When he had first broken into your apartment, his heavy steps drowned out by the moans of your roommate through the paper thin walls, he thought he would melt into the floor when he first inhaled the scent of you room.

It was a soft aroma, something that had his eyes rolling into the back of his skull when he saw you laying peacefully on the bed. Your head was smushed between a folded pillow, covering your ears as your face was scrunched in discomfort.

"Lucy's being so loud tonight, isn't she, Darling?" Peter spoke softly, the back of his hand gracing your cheek as he sat on the edge of your bed. Careful to dip your mattress slowly so as to not wake you. Carefully, his other hand trailed up the curve of your torso, hip to waist, before entangling with your fingers.

Your hand felt right in his.

Soft, smooth, and warm against his cold skin. And there, he knew even fate was in his hands the moment he had yours in his.

When Peter had mustered up the courage to approach you in the park, he felt his heart beating out his chest, his mind going hazy from everything he wanted to do to you—from hearing your voice up close again. It had been nearly a year since you two had first met at the diner, and it seemed as though you had forgotten him completely. Luckily, Peter knew enough about you through his year of...supervision, and was soon able to swipe you off your feet. There, he became yours.

Your boyfriend.

And you, his girlfriend.

Often the two of you shared late nights after your dates. The hum of cicadas drumming into the background as you'd lay into the grass of the park the two of you 'first' met in. Your hands would intertwine together as the other would hold the grass below. In this park, the two of you would often talk about your dreams, aspirations, or talk shit about whatever seemed to bother you in your life at the moment. And Peter always listened.

In other moments, the two of you enjoyed each other's company. A silence paired with the ambience of howling wind, crickets, and a glint in your eye from the reflection of the moonlight and stars twinkling above. And through this silence, your heart spilled.

“I want to be with you forever, Peter." You spoke softly, you eyes still stuck on the starlight above.

A twist, something twisted once more.

For the first time, Peter eyes looked away from you—a blush traveling to his cheeks, a pale red hue over his soft features.

“Forever, then, Darling."

And forever meant forever.

Years together flew by, and you both had your own jobs—despite Peter's insistence for you to stay at home and allow him to care for you. Although, you wanted to work. You wanted to experience the world. But what you didn’t want were the unreasonable hours of overtime your boss had subjected to you. Much to Peter's dismay, many late afternoons he would return to an empty home. Full of furniture, light, decoration, but never with the person he truly wished the presence of. Every evening, you would trail home hours after him. Enervated, dragging your feet along the floorboards as you slumped into his open arms.

“I missed you, Peter.”

Your voice was like honey.

“I missed you more, Darling.” Peter greeted you softly. There it was again. Something twisted. Peter looked down to your visage. Dark eyebags staining your soft skin, a pout dragging your lips, your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you sighed from exhaustion. His gut was twisting stranger than usual. A mix of annoyance for those who have exploited you, an annoyance that made his stomach curl inside.

Peter did not want you to continue working.

Your boss had gone missing for a couple days now.

The company was in disarray, having strangely lost employee after employee ever since you were recruited. The once bustling, lively atmosphere became quiet, dull, and empty. And with the new loss of your employer, there wasn’t an office cubicle you could return to. For the first time in months, you returned home before Peter.

Although, something felt off.

With Peter home, it was always lively. The ambiance of bustling trees against the wind outside, a hum of the dishwasher from the kitchen, a low vibrato of your home's ventilation system, and the comfort of your boyfriend's presence. He was such a soothing soul. Without him, the home felt strange. You felt the presence of another, many, an overbearing amount. As though invisible strings clumped together to weigh you heavier into the floor boards, creaking the dark oak louder than usual.

Without Peter, it felt as though something was calling for you—and curiously, you began to explore. Exploring the home you resided in, as this home empty of your lover didn’t feel like a home anymore. And that lead you to the door that stood at the far end of the first floor. Tucked beside the laundry room, you stood still and seemed confused.

Was there always a lock?

A sturdy lock it was. Heavy metal weighing it flush against the wood, holding the door firmly shut to keep everything in out. There was a strange smell, too. A scent that leaked from beneath the dark oak doorway, filling the air with a musk of cooper and spoiled eggs. Your hand reached for the lock, flinching when built up static pricked your skin. A warning. But you held firm. Giving a cautious, downward tug as the lock went slack. It was open. You pushed the door back slowly, a low creak humming your presence, a flood of a strange meat stinging the view in your eyes.

Firmly, a familiar hand held your shoulder.

The hand of your boyfriend.

You were terrified.

“Darling, what are you doing?”

You couldn’t think.

Not with the view of mangled flesh, the smell of copper and iron so strong your head began to haze strangely. No, you couldn’t think. Even more so with scattered limbs decorating the floor—being the remainder of the morbidly intact heads of your former colleges and employer, of your missing boss. Pieces of them did not fit like a puzzle. Limbs, skin, so much of their bodies were missing.

What was that dinner Peter served these passing evenings?

And it seemed as though fate enjoyed sparking your memory.

This time around, nearly three years later, it was not scatttered corpses, blood, or flies that greeted you. You stood before the door of the fourth apartment complex you were going to apply to. Advertised as a gated community of safety, an exorbitant lot you were willing to hack up the money for to get away from him.

Although, just as three years ago, just as you were able to arrive to the complex, nails dug into your shoulder, holding you in place. A voice low, strange, and terrifyingly familiar. The grip dug into your flesh this time, keeping you from running—just as you did in the home you shared with him. With a door you shouldn’t have opened, and a hand on your shoulder that felt larger than usual.

Your boyfriend's hand.

“I missed you, my Darling.”

You didn't know what was happening.

You scrambled fruitlessly, trying to shove Peter's hand off your shoulder when a burning wet rag was drowned upon your lower face. You kicked, muffled screams and sobs as you dug into the palm that pinched the bridge of your nose, your body growing increasingly more limp. You didn't know what was happening, but by the next moment, it seemed as though you were melting into the floor—the world around you sputtering and glitching as your vision faded out and back in as you fell back onto a large bed.

You couldn't recognize the monster that was before you.

You didn't want to recognize the monster that was before you. Although, a rough, large hand gripped the lower half of your face, covering your mouth and pinning you down into the plush duvet to muffle horrified screams, forcing you to look deep into a being empty of a soul.

Even back then, you always felt Peter’s deep eyes had an errie glint. They seemed dull, strange, and detached from any wonder or interest. All until his gaze would flit upon you. A spark of light dashing his iris, a soft smile spreading his lips. He only looked human when he looked at you.

Peter still kept that smile. A smile that had morphed after his descent into maddness. Sharp teeth and bloodshot eyes that contrasted against sharp blues. He looked terrifying. His forearms were scattered with scars and wounds, peeled back scabs across his skin—likely from the amount of struggling you had done while in his arms. Your name was etched into his skin. Over and over and over, hearts and sharp lines littered as keloids formed in the place of his artwork. His size dwarfed you, a wolf to rabbit. Predator to prey.

“Pe—“

"You remember the time when you'd say it back, don't you, Darling?" He leaned down by your neck, breathing in shakily as though he couldn't believe you were finally here. With him. All to himself. "When you would say you missed me too." His voice was disfigured. A mix of insanity and dark undertone to his speech making your head spin and eyes well with tears. Your entire body was trembling, the skin on your back burning as every nerve in your brain set off sirens that resonated throughout your head. You felt too fearful to even choke out a pathetic sob, wanting to blend into the sheets below you.

Meanwhile, Peter felt himself going crazy. He couldn't help the way his mind ran a mile a minute as he stared down at your dicheviled form. You were always so pretty, absurdly so. Even as the strands of your hair fell misplaced over your face, even as you looked up to him with so much fear, hatred, and terror, his stomach twisted just as it did three years ago. That strange feeling laying addiction down into the lining of his stomach, soothing his body that felt run dry of how you made him feel.

He needed you. Now.

Peter brought a hand to his lips, hastily removing his right glove as he bit the fabric covering the tip of his middle finger, tugging his glove off by his teeth. His free hand pinned you pliantly down into the mattress by the lower half of your face, the other sliding beneath your shirt to tear the fabric off your body. You thrashed, muffled sobs and tears running down your cheeks, wetting the palm of his hand.

Your terror only fueled him further.

His hands groped and fondled every inch of your skin that one could imagine, a long tongue pairing with his touch as Peter licked a long stripe up your neck—sucking deep blotches and bruises of dark blue and purple hues across your neck and chest. Peter marked you as his, bit your flesh like a meal, and ruined your soft skin for his pleasure.

The mattress beneath you was in shambles. Inch deep tears lay by your head as Peter held back the urge to squeeze you blue, from ripping into your flesh, the torn mattress a goreish display of holding back the brutal cuteness aggression Peter got from the sight of you.

His hand slid from your mouth, gripping your neck tightly to restrict precious air from flooding your throat. He wanted you ditzy anyway. Nothing but a lifeless shell of who you were once he was done.

Pilant.

Obidient.

And what better way than halfway choking you out?

Your hands held his wrist desparately, nails scratching into his skin as he only smiled wider in response, stitches appearing on the corners of his mouth to prevent his face from ripping in two from his pure display of euphoria.

You hadn't stopped crying this entire time. Desparate pleas falling on deaf ears as you begged Peter that this was enough, that you'd listen, that you'd stay. And as convincing as it seemed, Peter was not giving you another chance to escape him. Not again.

His hand trailed down until it cupped your clothed cunt. Nothing on your body remaining besides your panties. A gift, perhaps—the best for last. Peter pushed your panties to the side, experimentally swirling the pad of his thumb onto your clit, causing you to wretch out a struggled moan.

"P-Peter—!" He only smiled in response.

"You've always been so sensitive, huh? It seems you haven't changed at all." His thumb pressed harder onto your cunt, rubbing your clit side to side as the palm of his hand pressed firmly down upon your womb. He watched you fall apart with glee, sliding his other hands between your thighs and gently nudging a finger inside of you. You threw your headback into the sheets, grabbing the duvet desperately, your hips trembling as you felt your sanity waste away to the pleasure wracked into your body.

You always fell apart so prettily.

Your hand shakily reached out to Peter, your lips quivering as a second finger curled into your cunt—the heel of his hand hitting the underside of your puffy clit as he kept toying with the bud. It burned, terribly so. Considering how much larger his stature was to yours, how much larger his finger would be to your own, it was a miracle you weren’t ripped in half yet. Although, it sure felt as though you were.

Peter stretched you out relentlessly, scissoring inside of you before curling the pads of his fingers plush against your g-spot. You arched your back desperately, crying out as your hips stuttered in response. And Peter kept prying there. His fingers pounding into your cunt, hitting your g-spot over and over and over until you felt as though you'd die from the overstimulation. As you reached out to Peter, he pulled a length of manila rope from his back pocket—grabbing your wrists before tying your hands together and in front of your chest as through you were praying—and perhaps you were. Praying to Peter to slow down, to be more gentle.

A third finger was nudged deep inside of you, pairing with the speed of his thumb on your clit increasing. His fingers pounded into you feverishly, sounds of your arousal soaking your inner thighs and his forearm—dirtying the sleeve of his pinstriped coat. You couldn't concentrate, no longer resisting against the firm hold his shadows had upon your wrists. No longer holding back your sweet moans.

A burning desire began to pool in your gut.

"Peter, p-please—"

A hand gripped your throat.

"P-Peter, please— I'm gonna cu—m!" He smiled to you. You were always so easy to please.

"Cum then, dear." His fingers sped up their speed inside your cunt, recklessly pounding and curling into you, bruising your g-spot painfully as you sobbed out, clenching your pussy around his cock as you squirt onto him. Peter smiled, leaning down to suck your clit and swirl his tongue around the bud as your mouth opened silently. Your hips struggled away, and yet his shoulders spread your knees firmly, the underside of your thighs thrown over them. Peter continued to bully your pussy past your orgasm, sucking and licking your clit as his fingers continued to curl and pound into you to ride out your high. You were crying endlessly. Begging him to stop, that it was enough. And yet, he didn't pull out his hand until you were merely twitching and whimpering in his bed. Broken.

"Have you lost yourself in the pleasure, Darling?" Peter was manic. Your pleasure felt like a high he couldn't describe. The way your fingers clenched around him, he felt as though it was a sign. A sign that all your struggling was only to encourage him to fight against you, a sign that you were only pretending to be scared.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" Your eyes widened open when you felt the tip of his cock slide between your folds, Peter having removed his clothing now too. You struggled, trying to sit up when his hand once again held your throat warningly, choking you lightly against the mattress—gently enough that you could take slow, shallow breaths.

"Peter, it's not gonna fi—!" Your mouth fell open silently as Peter suddenly shoved the head of his cock inside of you. Your pool of arousal allowing him to slide in with just a minor amount of resistance—minor to his strength at least.

Meanwhile, your eyes blew wide as you whimpered out desperately, struggling against the binds on your wrists as your cunt stretched around him. He was big, painfully so. And you were thankful he decided to slide the remaining of his length in slowly, inch by inch. And yet, even when he was just halfway, you felt as though he was already plush against your cervix.

"Is she resisting, hmm? I guess I can be a little rough, you were always into that, anyways." Before you could understand what Peter meant, he slammed the remaining half of his length deep inside of you as you screamed out, your hands curling tight fists as your nails dug deep crescents into your palms.

Before you knew it, Peter pulled out to the tip, and slammed right back into you. His pace was unwavering. A hand gripped on your neck, the other pressing you into the mattress by a palm against your womb as he split you on his cock. Peter pounded into you, skin against skin as you soaked his cock, splashing your arousal onto his pelvis and lower stomach. He was big, too big. Tears streamed down your face, and Peter only wiped them with his thumb before licking it into his mouth. He wanted to taste your fear.

He wanted to rip you apart.

Your chest heaved as his thumb came down to your clit once more, roughly pressing onto you before swirling it harshly. You arched your back, clawing at the wrist on your throat as you moaned, crying around his cock when the underside of it would press into your g-spot, when the head of it would slam so deep against your cervix you felt he might fuck himself into your womb. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, a hand gripping the torn sheets below you as you cried out when your pussy clentched around him.

"Please, please, can I c-cum—" You sobbed, looking down to where you and Peter where connected, seeing your cunt stretched impossibly wide for your ex-boyfriend's cock.

"Don't you dare."

"Please, Baby."

Fuck.

You drove him fucking crazy.

Peter swore he could’ve cum on the spot from hearing you finally call him baby once more, the name you neglected from him. The only name you should be calling him. Peter laughed.

"You truly know me so well, Darling." Peter's pace increased. His cock pounding into you hard enough to have your tits bouncing and the frame of the bed on the verge of giving out—your cunt clentching onto his fat cock even more.

"You can cum in three seconds." You nodded stupidly, too desparate to think.

Peter pulled back to the tip, slamming back inside.

"Three," His palm pressed into your womb, feeling the buldge of his dick against his hand, his cock dragging against your velvety walls. You swore you were going to die if you couldn't cum soon, Peter's counting teasingly slow as he fucked into you like a fleshlight. Like a pet.

"Two." Your pussy fluttered against him, Peter's fingers swirling your clit viciously.

"One," You whined, sliding your hands to his upper back as you raked down his skin.

"Please, please, please, let me cum." You were going crazy.

"Cum." You threw your head back, near screaming his name like a mantra as you clencthed around him, squirting for the second time that night as his cock continued to pound deep inside of you. Peter let go of your throat, his hands sliding beneath the underside of your thighs to push your knees into your chest—fucking you meanly in a harsh mating press as he refused to slow down. You felt like your soul was going to fall out your body, your pussy spasming as Peter continued to pound into you without any concern to your fresh orgasm and painful overstimulation that burned your walls.

"B-baby, Peter—please, I can'—"

And for the first time since three years ago, and for the first time together—Peter kissed you.

His kiss was soft, gentle, loving. His hips never stilled, continuing to rip orgasm after orgasm out of your poor little pussy. Although, his mouth was soft against yours, eyes closed and hand holding your neck lightly as the tips of his fingers graced your bruised skin. Bruised with the marks of his love, his obsession.

He held your face as kindly, as though you may be gone if he didn't keep you in his arms forever. Peter's tongue slid into your mouth slowly, and you moaned around him—letting him in. Your body missed him so much.

Maybe you still love him, even after it all.

Peter's pace became staggered, his hips slowing until he kept his cock deep inside and came directly into your womb. His load gushed out from the sides of your hole that stretched around him, stuffing you full. Peter allowed your thighs to rest by his hips, laying you back against the mattress as he continued to kiss you. His hands massaged your body, comforting the bites, hickeys, and bruises.

"I love you, Darling."

Peter spoke softly, pulling away from you. Admiring your fucked out state.

"So don't you leave me ever again."

You're watching...

© Studio Peached 2024

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

“It wasn't about anything so shallow

as physical desire.

They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.”

— Micah Nemerever, "These Violent Delights"

[lucifersresources]

quotes about That Person pinterest inspired.

edit/alter/change pronouns etc as you see fit!  

you and i will always be unfinished business.

i tried to love you into loving me... that's not how love works.

loving you was a sacrifice. i gave you the power to destroy me, and that's exactly what you did.

i gave you the power to destroy me, and that's exactly what you did.

you will always have a special place in my heart, and that terrifies me.

i won't ever forget you, and maybe that is the only forever the two of us were meant to have.

i'm sorry i had nothing to say that night.

i was so interested to see how you'd break my heart.

you planted flowers inside of me... foolish of me to think you'd water them.

it's pathetic, really, how much i still hope it's you and me in the end.

you said you'd be here.

hell exists... it's 3am, here, without you.

i'm scared that loving you is the only thing i got right, and it still wasn't enough.

i regret the end, the way we couldn't leave one another without wounds.

we made it seem as if all the love we shared was wasted time.

i will always remember the way you folded me at my corners, like there was a part of me you wanted to come back to.

you made me feel, and i don't like it. stop it.

i wish the best for you, i just wish that i was the best for you.

maybe in another lifetime, we get it right.

you had my heart before i could say no.

loving you is the most exquisite form of self destruction.

fuck you for giving up on me.

the worst pain is being hurt by the same person you explained your pain to.

you fucking broke me, and i'm still the one apologising.

i broke my own heart loving you.

now you're just a stranger with all my secrets.

sometimes the beginning is the same as the ending.

what if no one makes me feel the way that you do?

you made it look so damned easy to walk away from me.

you were the hardest lesson i ever had to learn.

you didn't say goodbye, and part of me keeps believing that means you're coming back.

i would've left the entire world behind for you.

you leave teeth marks on everything you love.

all of your devotion turns violent.

you let me go, but you left claw marks.

i don't think i'll ever know how to love someone without swallowing them whole.

love is supposed to turn you soft... i think it only ever turns me brutal.

we wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.

[sobbingscripter]

DAY 7: Seven Swans a-Swimming

☃️A Together Christmas☃️

Tags: [ex-husband!Booster Gold][fingering][cunnilingus][hear me out][he's 6 foot 5][Santa costume][fingering][strong womanxman child][uses of "miss"]

A/N: my Beta reader is asleep so it's not proofread T-T

❄️☃️❄️

"You don't look a day over 40."

If there was one thing you learnt in the 4 years of being married to Michael, it's that he will always try to provoke you whenever he sees you.

And right now is prime time for him.

Rip wants a 'together Christmas', where his divorced parents sit across from each other at the dinner table, passing various dishes rather than insults and nefarious commentary, and act like they can be in the same room without wanting to choke on a horizontal chicken wing.

"Michael, don't make me beat you with a hot muffin tray." You seethe, eyes locked on the tray of muffins that you're carefully pulling out of the oven, warmth and the scent of vanilla filling the kitchen.

Michael watches the curve of your neck as you carefully inspect each muffin, popping them out of the tray and setting each on the cooling rack. There's a smeer of batter just below your left eye, and before Michael knows it, he's dragging his tongue across the side of your face.

You grimace at the sensation, nearly gagging before letting out a shriek.

"You sick freak!" You grunt, rubbing your cheek along the cable knit fabric over your shoulder to rid your skin of the sensation of Michael's wet... Long... Superiorly skilled tongue.

Before Michael can respond, Rip toddles into the kitchen, bookbag slung over his shoulder before dropping it at his feet, a toothy grin at the sight of Michael who immediately scoops the 7 year old into his arms.

"Hey buddy," Michael grins, "How was school?"

"I won the Spelling Bee!" Rip brags, zipping open his heavy and thick parka jacket, before boastfully showing his father pinback button on the front of his hoodie, a bee with spectacles being the character on it.

You brush past the two, pressing a sweet kiss against Rip's temple before grabbing the cookie dough, the bowl clasped in your hands and you listen to the way Michael boasts and brags about his... Hero thing.

If there's one thing that makes you so bitter, it's that you can never shit on the way he parents.

He's a good hero, and a better dad, which... If you think about it, balances out the 'shitty husband' part. Well... A lot of things balance it out when you look at it from the fact that Michael could dick you to the core of the Earth.

The mere thought has your grip on the spoon tightening, and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fix your expression but those ocean blue eyes are already locked on your pensive expression, and Michael's gently ushering Rip towards the staircase.

"Go do your homework, buddy. And turn the TV up, mommy and me need to talk." Michael hums quietly, and Rip nods his head, leaving Michael alone with you in the kitchen.

Slow steps bring Michael towards you, his hands resting on the counter on either side of you, and a warm breath brushes against your ear as Michael dips his head lower.

"Weirdo." Michael teases. "Getting all hot 'n bothered 'cause I'm a good dad."

You grimace, a snarky remark on the tip of your tongue but then you smell that cologne. He smells like cinnamon and wood chips, an expensive and heady scent that you just know is bougie enough to give you a headache if you're around it too much.

And your words stutter in your throat, dying down their and converting itself into the crimson heat that overtakes the back of your neck as his hands slowly creep under your sweater, warm palms pressing against your even hotter flesh and Michael lets out a shuddering breath.

"You smell so good, miss."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Michael lets out shuddering breath, his nose nudging at your clit as his tongue drags long, sloppy stripes along your messy slit, slick threatening to dribble down your thighs but never getting the chance, with Michael's eager tongue.

"Mhm... Missed you." He breathes out, swallowing as he looks up at you through blonde lashes, his eyes already hazy as his broad, muscular fingers grip the backs of your thighs. He kneads the fat of your flesh, memorizing the feel of your plumpness in his palms out of fear that you won't let him near you ever again.

Michael's lips (more moisturized than yours) wrap around around your clit, and he sucks on the needy little bud, watching as your hand moves to cover your mouth, eager to not make any sounds for fear of traumatizing your child. And Michael lets out a low groan, the rumbling vibrations making your legs turn into jelly and if it weren't for his hands anchoring you, you'd have melted into a puddle by now.

"Michael..." You breathe out, your fingers moving to card through his golden tresses and you watch the way his eyes nearly roll back in his head at the feel of your manicured nails raking against his scalp and you feel his fingertips dig into your flesh.

"Fuck, you taste so good." Michael praises quietly, his hand moving to your inner thigh and raising your leg, propping one of your sock covered feet onto the counter, and your hip cracks at the strain.

A loud sound in the quiet kitchen, filled with the soft 'tic tic tic' of the oven, and bated breaths shared between the two of you.

And a boyish laugh tumbles from Michael's lips before he can even stop it, pulling away to peer up at you.

"Nobody's working you out, huh?"

Michael teases, before dipping two of his digits into his mouth, and you watch as cobwebs of saliva decorate his muscular digits before he slowly drags them down your already sloppy cunt and Michael watches you shiver.

Before slowly sliding those fingers into you, long, thick digits stretching your hole and your nails dig into the chub of your cheeks, as your other hand tightens it's grip on his hair. Tufts of blonde strands poke haphazardly through your fingers, and Michael groans at the sensation.

"That's it, baby, pull my hair." Michael croons, lowering his head back down and his tongue drags over your clit, and he watches as your eyes roll back.

His fingers curl, knuckles pressing at your plump and sopping pussy lips, and you feel the rough pads of his fingers press against that gooey spot that makes drool threaten to dribble down your chin, and you wipe away the sliver of slobber, eyes locked on Michael.

He looks in his element.

Nose brushing against your mound, tongue circling and flicking against your oversensitive clit and two fingers, pumping into you, chilly golden rings kissing your lips with each thrust. His hair's messy but you keep carding your fingers through the strands, just to hear that low groan that seems to rumble in his broad chest and you watch as his brilliant blue eyes flutter open to meet your gaze just as your orgasm crashes over you.

And it's like the world fucking stops.

The furrow of his dark blonde brows relaxes, and he pulls his head away, your slick trickling down his two digits and wetting the sleeve of his powder blue Henley, and before either of you can either...

Michael's standing between your thighs, one hand keeping your thigh lifted and anchoring your foot onto the counter, while the other slowly thrusts his fingers into your pouty mouth, soft lips wrapped around his digits, tasting yourself on his skin.

Just as he whispers quietly.

"Be a good girl and put it in."

Michael's instruction makes your stomach dip inward, arousal peaking and you swallow, nodding your head and your shaky hands fumble with the drawstring of his sweatpants.

"Just the tip." He adds quietly, brows knitting into a little adorable frown as your hand messily and uncoordinatedly strokes him, thumb tracing over his slit, and he swallows heavily, breaths deep and unsteady.

When you notch Michael at your entrance and slowly ease his flushed tip into your goopy and slick channel, he leans forward, his forehead resting in the curve of your shoulder as he whines quietly.

"You're so tight."

He shudders, pearly white teeth digging into the skin as he slowly bites down, eager to keep quiet because he knows that he's the loud one.

Hands move to bracket your hips, keeping you in place as he slowly fucks into you, savouring the feeling of your walls gripping his tip. And only his tip.

It's nowhere near enough, but the stretch is almost stupid.

It's unfair that Michael's got everything. Smarts, looks, body, dick. Not so much common sense but he makes up for it with his stupidly big heart.

You watch as that pink tip keeps disappearing behind your folds, and reappearing, slow strokes and you let out shaky breaths, hands moving to rest on either side of his neck, raising his gaze to yours.

Staring down at you with those sky blue eyes, lashes fluttering and your thumbs brush along his strong jaw, feeling the soft skin beneath your fingertips and Michael sighs, leaning into your touch.

"I lied." He murmurs softly. "You look like... 23, tops."

And Michael lets out a sigh before shaking his head, Prince Charming-esque bangs falling over his forehead.

"I need to pull out." Michael mutters.

"Why?" You question, brows knitting in confusion but you merely shiver as Michael pulls out of you, his cock still hard and pulsing as he tucks himself into the waistband of his boxers.

"Rip has math homework." Michael explains quietly, eyes lowered as he hooks his finger around the gusset of your panties, before covering up your cunt once again. Giving it a gentle and sweet pat.

"And he's... Half you so...." He hums. "You know how that'll go."

[inquisimer]

For arlow and viago 😭 ❛ i don’t want to understand, i want you to stay. ❜

THANK YOUUUUUUU I am ALL up in my feels about them ;-; this is set well pre-canon, right after Arlow is released from (my version of) "how not to get possessed" Crow Edition

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 972 words | cw: implied/referenced torture, child abuse | @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

-

She is ragged, rubbed raw when they dump her on the stoop of Viago's estate. They rap on the door, once, twice, three times, because she could not lift an arm to do it herself. And then they leave her there, shivering and utterly drained, still bleeding where the manacles had held her. Still aching where the Fade had dug its claws into her.

But she is alive. That is more than most of the others can say.

Viago opens the door himself--of course he does, because he does not employ a staff, would not give anyone such access, no matter how thoroughly vetted. She wonders, as a soft string of curses fall from his lips, how they even knew to leave her here. Its location is a closely guarded secret.

(She will never know about the gold and threats exchanged, when first she was taken. As soon as she has passed, he insisted. Not a moment longer.)

His arms are gentle, slotting carefully under her legs and at her shoulders; he is trying to avoid the bruises, the welts, the weeping wounds. If she could find her voice, she would tell him not to bother--there is nowhere that does not ache, in some shape or form. But he is trying, and she focuses on that, rather than how the world spins as he lifts her, carries her down the hallway to a familiar room. It is not hers, but she spends a great deal of time here, being poked and prodded--poisoned--pressed for answers and learning how to describe what he needs to know.

The cot she usually sits on is made up with softer blankets and pillows than is typical. As if it were waiting for her, and knew that she would not be in a state for the harsh, cold crinkle of paper. But that is foolish--there is no one in the estate except Viago, and Viago is not the type to prepare such creature comforts. If her mind were not so muddled--

She blinks, and Viago presses a vial to her lips. He does not need to tell her to drink; she lets him tip it down her throat without hesitation. Bitter elfroot, and acidity. At her side, over her knuckles, and where it is seeping down her temple, blood clots as her skin knits itself back together. Though the gash over her shoulder blade only gets about two-thirds of the way there, and she knows that it will be a scar.

Experimentally, she reaches for it with her magic. It is new, this power within her, and awkward like a third arm, or second tongue. It is also weak, drained by the price the Crows have exacted. But she has paid it--she is alive. She has been judged, and not found wanting.

For once. Perhaps for the last time.

"Stop that," Viago snaps, as if he can sense that she is pushing past limits that have long since been flattened. "You will make it worse."

The tendril of mana blinks out into nothing. He cuts her ruined tunic away, pursing his lips together as each snip reveals bruises, burns, and more ribs than he'd been able to see three weeks ago. But he is not surprised. Necessary, as so many painful things are. When the pain fades, confidence will take root--in confidence, safety.

With short, clinical strokes, he cleans her skin and a tiny sigh parts Arlow's lips. She has nearly forgotten what it is like to be touched with an intention that is kind.

He takes his time. Tends each of the wounds with the appropriate salve, or balm, or serum. His gloved hands are more gentle than they have ever been when he urges her to lean forward, but he offers no apology when he draws the needle through her flesh, sealing another mark into her skin.

When he is finished, he wraps her in fresh clothes and brings her to rest before the fire. Hands her another potion, diluted this time, and gives strict instructions to sip, slowly.

Despite the fire, despite the ghost of his care lingering over her skin, Arlow feels a chill. This is the part where he leaves. She knows--understands, even. So much more than a child should have to. Of all the ways Viago covers his skin, he has never treated her with kid gloves.

She does not want him to leave. But it is not her place to ask him to stay.

Her eyes drift closed; for a moment, her heart stutters, afraid of the darkness that waits behind her lids. But the fire makes it warm and orange; the cold and dank to which she has been relegated remains firmly--if a bit too near--in her memory.

In that halfway place between waking and sleep, she imagines tender hands tucking a blanket around her. Shifting her on the pillow so that her neck will not be so terribly cricked in the morning. It is nice of her mind, to cushion her recovery with such niceties.

Gloved knuckles brush a stray hair back behind her ear. A softness that she will not remember in the morning, nearly gone to the Fade already as she is. Which is why he offers it, of course.

"Well done, parajito," Viago murmurs. She will not remember that, either, or the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. When he is stern and exacting in the morning, she will not remember that he was proud of her, or relieved to have her back under his purview.

But that does not change the fact--he is.

He tucks the blanket more snugly under her chin, smooths the wrinkles over her legs. For the first time in three weeks, she is resting easy--and he leaves, for the first time in three weeks, to do the same.

[professionlgeeker]

I just read These Violent Delights it fucked me up so bad.

Like what do you mean I'm supposed to be normal after reading that book.

What do you mean both Paul and Julian expressed my own exact feelings at different points in the book.

Also the fact that even though it's told from a 3rd person point of view it only really delves into Paul's point of view, making it so it's hard to see the truth behind Julian. It shows accurately how easy it is to misinterpret everything someone does, even if you are very close, even though the other has a truly deep understanding of you. It also does such a good job of delving into the dangers of obsession, love so hard you would kill for someone, you would do anything. Also I think some sort of sociopathic tendencies. It's just such a good book I could hardly put it down and finished it in 3 days. Also it delivered some of the hardest quotes ever it was insane.

"It was a relief and a horror to be known so perfectly"

"All they were- all they had ever been- was a pair of sunflowers that thought the other was the sun."

"I killed them because they're beautiful, and it's the only way I can keep them."

"They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound."

"He endured it to punish himself, and to prove to himself that he could; the only two reasons he ever chose to do anything worthwhile."

"They reminded him that his body was a thing that could be taken apart."

"He wanted to tear through Julian's skin and map the shapes of liver and lungs, to memorize the path of every artery with his fingertips. He wanted to break Julian's body open and move inside it alongside him, rib cages interlaced around a single heart."

"Everything hurts you. You just keep hating yourself, no matter how much I try to show you that you shouldnt."

"You were right. I think I likes you better before."

"It's both of us. It's always been both of us, it's mutually assured destruction, that was the entire point. And it didn't do me a damn bit of good, did it?"

"You loved it. It's the happiest I've ever seen you."

"How sick is that? I'm just as much of a monster as you are."

"I'm not- Julian, I'm not doing this to hurt you, it's not a punishment-"

"I don't want to hurt you, please don't let me."

"But he was also stronger than he should have been. He had to be."

"God you're so boring when you get your feelings hurt and decide they have to stay hurt."

"But when they were alone, he could promise himself that he and Julian were each other's birthright, and that the only unnatural thing was the fact that their blood was divided between two bodies."

"Thank you for trusting me with this."

I could go on and on, but yap session over!

Signing out this is toxicobsessiveyaoilover49!

[armorangels]

“and if you hate me, please don’t tell me.” ethel cain, gibson girl

“if you love me, keep it to yourself.” ethel cain, vacillator

“they wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.” micah nemerever, these violent delights

[natkhat-sa-shyam]

It wasn't about anything so shallow as physical desire.

They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.

[arylleth]

The strangeness of it sometimes took Paul aback. What existed between them shouldn’t share a reality with the world outside; it should be its own truth, self-contained and defined on its own terms, the same way that a dream was true. But at odd moments the two realities converged as he watched Julian’s body move through the world and remembered how recently and how intimately they had touched.

He would notice the angle of Julian’s wrist as he turned a doorknob and remember twisting that wrist behind his back—letting his teeth cut a slim black bruise into the flesh of Julian’s shoulder, only hours before, a wound so fresh that Julian must still feel it sting. Now and then there was a stray note in Julian’s laugh that rhymed with the way the right touch could make his voice break. The familiarity drew an uncanny bright line between two moments that should never have been able to reach each other. Look at you, Paul would think, in a voice he despised because it imposed itself from the outside. Look what you’re doing. What’s wrong with you? But when they were alone, he could promise himself that he and Julian were each other’s birthright, and that the only unnatural thing was the fact that their blood was divided between two bodies. He could believe that even calling it “sex” was incorrect, because it wasn’t about anything so shallow as physical desire. They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.

[jetwhenitsmidnight]

"They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound"

THIS GOES SO HARD

[sourfacedlemon]

"hold it in your mouth for a minute (real hunger has a real taste)"

"It wasn't about anything so shallow as physical desire. They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound."

Written for cac0daemonia (@cacodaemonia) for the 2023 Smut Wars Exchange (@smut-wars-exchange)!

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Relationships: Clone Trooper Glitch/Savage Opress, Darth Maul & Savage Opress Characters: Savage Opress, Clone Trooper Glitch (Star Wars), Darth Maul Additional Tags: Force-Sensitive Glitch (Star Wars), Canon-Typical Violence, Clone Trooper Mistreatment (Star Wars), space racism, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, First Kiss, First Time, Savage Opress Does Not Have A Big Dick, Anal Sex, Bacta as Lube (Star Wars), hatred and rage for using that tag :/, One Night Stands, Feral isn't a character tag but he's here with us in spirit as he should be in all Savage fics, Unsafe Sex, Alien Biology, Bittersweet, Hopeful Ending Collections: 2023 Smut Wars Exchange Words: 5,600

[zalrb]

How come you like watching romsnce( I’m assuming here, pls tell me if im wrong) but dislike reading romance heavy books

I don't dislike romance heavy books, I just mostly dislike romance books. So, a romance heavy book could be, like,

Norwegian Wood

“I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it -- to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once. ”

“So what’s wrong if there happens to be one guy in the world who enjoys trying to understand you?”

Their Eyes Were Watching God

At five-thirty a tall man came into the place…. She knew she didn’t know his name, but he looked familiar. “Good evenin’, Mis’ Starks,” he said with a sly grin as if they had a good joke together. She was in favor of the story that was making him laugh before she even heard it.

She couldn’t make him look just like any other man to her. He looked like the love thoughts of women. He could be a bee to a blossom—a pear tree blossom in the spring. He seemed to be crushing scent out of the world with his footsteps. Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took. Spices hung about him. He was a glance from God.

The Song of Achilles

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.

Simple Passion (though it's more about obsession than romance)

One afternoon when he was there, I burned the living-room carpet down to the weft by placing a boiling coffee pot on top of it. I didn’t care. Quite the contrary. I was happy every time I caught sight of the mark as I remembered that afternoon with him.

Quite often I would write down on a sheet of paper the date, the time, and “he’s going to come,” along with other sentences, fears—that he might not come, that he might not feel the same desire for me.

Same with These Violent Delights

But when they were alone, he could promise himself that he and Julian were each other's birthright, and that the only unnatural thing was the fact that their blood was divided between two bodies. He could believe that even calling it "sex" was incorrect, because it wasn't about anything so shallow as physical desire. They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound

I can even understand the appeal of Normal People and I actually did enjoy The Fault In Our Stars and there are some YA books like Some Mistakes Were Made that really captured the intensity of first/high school love that I really enjoyed

Easton Albrey is fine.

He graduated high school surrounded by his family. Had a big party at his house. He got to do all the things people are supposed to do when they say goodbye to high school. It makes me feel like the tide is pulling out from under me. It makes me do something I shouldn’t.

I call him.

My fingers dial the number I’ve had memorized since the day he got it, but I block my own. Most people don’t pick up blocked calls, but Easton does, every time.

I hold my breath as I wait for his voice to come on the line.

“Hello?” It’s exactly like I remember it. Deep and a little scratched, like he’s pushing a feeling back down.

I don’t speak.

And then . . . and then I listen to him breathe on the other end of the line. Of the country.

In the end, it’s me who hangs up first.

But not until I’m done crying every last silent tear.

But romance books like Icebreaker or The Hating Game or what little I read of ACOTAR, even the romances in what I read of The Atlas Six, I don't like the writing, whether it's the dialogue or the characters or the style, it's not to my taste, and I never believe the romances.

[holdonletmegetthisout]

A note on infatuation

“And I thought, ‘he’s so pretty I could cry.”’ Pretty boy, with pretty hair and pretty eyes. “And he’s mine.”’

“They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.”

“Stay away from the ones you love too much, those are the ones that will kill you.”

“But everything is about you; I hear your voice in my head, I picture your face in my dreams, and I like it this way.”

[v7lgar]

61, 62, and 97 for the askss

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?

and what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the greeks or our own, than to lose control completely?

the secret history

forgive me for all the things i did, but mostly for the ones i did not.

the secret history

let god consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. then spit us out reborn.

the secret history

but when they were alone, he could promise himself that he and julian were each other's birthright, that the only unnatural thing was the fact that their blood was divided between two bodies. he could believe that even calling it "sex" was incorrect, because it wasn't about anything so shallow as physical desire. they wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.

these violent delights

i almost do not exist now and i know it; god knows what lives in me in place of me.

the idiot

62. seven characters you relate to?

andrew minyard, canon barty crouch jr and canon regulus black, henry winter, victor vale, jude duarte, katniss everdeen.

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?

three. mine, my mom and my father's.

ty for asking!!