#full of shame about every inch of myself + my life
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greenxgloss · 1 year ago
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Friends For Now? (Charlie Walker)
NSFW
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summary: you and charlie have been friends for some time and he would help you do your homework sometimes, this time he caught you at the perfect time, struggling to finish your psych homework that happened to be about his favorite movies. while he was helping you he went in for a kiss and you allowed it to escalate.
warnings: unprotected sex, implications of stalking, mentions of female masturbation, fem!reader, use of Y/N, soft!dom!charlie, p in v, fingering, implied overstimulation
It's Tuesday night and your assignment is due tomorrow but you just can't get yourself to sit and focus on the Stab movies for this psych homework. "Watch Stab 2 and write a summary of the movie and a synopsis of the killers." you read aloud, hoping that it would help your answer click in your head. you scoffed and shoved your books over. for some reason you just couldn't focus on the movies and even after trying to cheat online you got nothing.
You heard a tap on the window and it was Charlie your best friend. "hey! need help?" he asked, opening the window. you quickly stood up and put on a shirt before he got in. "relax dude nothing I haven't seen before." he said, taking a deep breath as he gathered himself at the window. you giggled and sat back on your bed. "here just copy mine and change the wording around. the usual." he said throwing his notebook in front of you and zipping his bag back up. "thanks. I've been stumped for days." you told him as he joined you on the bed. "why didn't you just call me?" he asked. "ahh I don't know I just wanted to do this on my own. i always ask you for help." you told him as you copied down the answers. "no shame in asking for help." he said sheepishly, almost blushing.
sometimes you'd wonder if he'd ever watched you from your window. you knew that would be a crazy thing to accuse your friend of and also illegal but you didn't mind the idea. charlie is awfully pretty. he has big blue eyes but they weren't piercing, they were soft and laid gently on you every time. even before you both became friends and he would peer at you from across classrooms you didn't feel uncomfortable, you felt... admired, like he was watching in adoration. of course, it felt lustful but it also felt wholesome and full of love. still, you never pursued him that way. you felt as though you didn't have room for that kind of commitment in your life. you wanted to get your shit together first, to get the grades, the job and the money. then and only then would you have time to give someone your undivided. anyway you didn't mind his pretty eyes on you at night with your hand slipped under your lace, watching from the window as you pirspired and whined quietly to keep anyone in the house from hearing.
charlie snapped you out of it. "y/n?"
"uh.. i don't know it would just be nice to get it for myself." you told him as you continued writing. "I appreciate it don't get me wrong but its not like you're gonna be able to help with tests and exams." you giggled. he smiled. "no I know I just, want you to know Im here you know? you can always call." he said, moving over to sit next to you and shove your shoulder. you nodded and let the comfortable silent engulf you and you looked at each other in the same admiration you felt when you'd spot him watching you in class.
he looked down at his hand and back up at you as he slowly put it on your thigh waiting for your approval at which point you lightly put your hand on his and inched it up to your heat. "charlie." you started, "do you ever watch me from the window?" you asked him as your face heated up and you let him press his fingers to your clothed clit. he let out an exhale. "mhm." letting his eyebrows furrow as he thought about all the times he wanted to crawl through the window into your bed and make you cum and scream his name. "you watch me touch myself?" you whispered, a quiet whine following as he pressed firmly. "you knew I was. don't pretend you don't know I watched you arch and say my name and beg for me." he said, finally getting on top of you and kissing your neck. you'd been kissed but you'd never been touched this way and it made you ache for him. you had to bite your lip a little harder while his hands roamed you freely you felt your body cling to his. "fuck charlie." you moaned. "just like that." he smirked, grinding his hips between yours, feeling the tent pitch in his own jeans.
he inched your shorts off. "you're so beautiful baby." he said, scanning you over then kissing you, placing his hands on your tits and lightly groping you causing you to moan into his mouth. "you gotta stay quiet if you wanna keep going." he pulled away and whispered, keeping eye contact as he slipped in two fingers causing your mouth to gape. "you're so good to me charlie fuck it feels so good." you continued to whine and melt into his gentle touch. "yeah? tell me how good it feels baby." he hummed watching you squirm and buck your hips at his fingers, desperately wanting him to reach deeper. "I need you so bad. I want you to fuck me." you told him and felt him curl his fingers up making you grip his arms and moan into his mouth. you wanted to touch him so you reached for his jeans and he let you unbutton them. his cock popped out hitting him on the stomach and you quietly gasped. "holy shit Charlie it's so big." you watched the length just keep going. you took his shirt off as he pulled his fingers out of your throbbing cunt causing you to gasp softly.
you sat back and watched him. you deeply thought he was beautiful. "you're so sexy charlie." you told him as you reached out and caressed his chest then pushed him down and got on top of him. you tossed your shirt off as you straddled him. "speak for yourself." he dragged his hands from your waist to your ass as you adjusted yourself and slowly slipped his length into your tight wet pussy, one hand on his chest and the other wrapped around his cock. "oh fuck fuck fuck" you moaned and you began bouncing but of course, charlie couldn't hold his patience and began rocking his hips up into you both of you now quietly whimpering and whining in sync.
the room was sweaty and the light was dim as your moans filled the walls along with the sound of your skin smacking each others. the sound only made you more and more wet. soon you felt your core untangle and you slowly reached your climax. "fuck I'm cumming I'm cumming." you almost yelled and he quickly covered your mouth as his thrusts became sloppy. charlie fell apart at the same pace as you did, both of you finishing in sync. a rare occurrence for him who has had sex before.
you fought to catch your breath as you fell beside him, your shoulders touching. "that was..." Charlie trailed out. "my first time." you interrupted causing him to jump up. "YOUR FIRST TIME?" he whisper yelled, looking right into your eyes with pure lust. you could swear his pupils were hearts. "yeah? isn't it obvious?" you said, furrowing your eyebrows. "absolutely. I've never finished at the same time as the other person.. that might have been the best sex I've ever had.." he said, laying back down and holding you to his chest. you giggled quietly as you snuggled into him. "I mean not that I have anyone to compare it to other than my own hands but you did amazing." you whispered as you turned over to let him spoon you. "oh no we aren't done." he said, whipping up and throwing your legs apart, startling you.
needless to say, the two of you went on and on for hours and you had no complaints when you were falling asleep in psych class next to him while he laughed at you.
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applescorner · 3 months ago
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rare love (jason todd × y/n) - angst one shot !-
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。𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
summary : after your bf jayson comes back from the dead, he's not quite the same jay you feel in love with, and you don't know what to do anymore ?
warning : talk of death, mental health, not really any heavy topics or issues, just kinda sad overall :(
。𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
he had eyes that could drown any naive sailor who thought they were brave enough to whether the furious storms of the sea. as wide and as endless as my love was for him, i was ship wrecked the moment he called me babydoll.
he rarely ever said my name, maybe when he got mad or disappointed, but he doesn't say it now regardless of his feelings, it's baby doll this, and baby doll that, but.... my name has value. it means something. I mean something
perhaps it did, too, once to the man i loved beyond every evil thing that could kill hope in this cruel city. he was my anchor, the wind in my sails.
the eyes i yearn to find love and life once again in is gone and that is far more terrifying than actually not having him. somedays he's here not present, other days....
"jay" i softly whisper tapping his shoulder. broken from his trance, impossibly fast he snatches my wrist, his blue eyes bore into my fearful gaze, searching for something
malice, deciet, ulterior motive to hurt him ?
whatever it is he doesn't find it. instead of apologizing, he kisses my inner wrist, with all of his weight and muscle ontop of me he leans back now and sighs.
I do the best I can to comfort him and just begin to run my hands through his soft raven black hair. even touching his hairs a rare treat.
ever since's he's come back everyone and everything around us, around him, he observes, analyzes, and stews over.
hot showers we used to use as an excuse for more time together is another wall for me to break through.
I used to be able to stand behind and wash his muscles, trace the freckles down his face and back , kiss him while keeping eye contact. Whisper to him how beautiful the stars on his body were. nothing gets to stand behind him, back up against the wall, he washes me firmly with no care insteading of leaving hickies or handprint like how we used to. he just leaves scratches from how harshly he scrubs at my skin.
cautiously wrapping his hair around my fingers, I hum to myself. After a moment I test the waters.
"j"
resting his nose in the crook of my neck, he sniffs the area where i put lotion, and his breath slows almost to a full stop. after my shower, i grabbed any bottle in front of me. absentmindedly, i put on his favorite. he liked things that reminded him of me. vanilla, warm sweaters, rainy days, the movie footloose.
staying over at bruce's sometimes on holiday breaks i would round him and the boys up to the theather room, put on footloose, and teach them the cherogrophy. eventually they got the hang of it. jay, bruce, tim and i had no shame, we would place two long coffee tables together, put on socks we could glide in and dance like no tomorrow.
"yeah doll"
" say my name." I nudge him playfully
under his messy hair he tips his head up, through it I can see in his eyes there's a hint of humor "B A B Y D O L L ...babydoll"
I stare at him as intensely as I can, but under his 'equally' intense one, I cave, mustering a small smile " what's my n a m e... mr. j a y s o n t o d d "
I wait with baited breathe, studying every inch of his face for a giveaway of something. annyonce, ire, anger even ?. i've been begging, pleading and pushing him in just about every way known to man for a semblance of my name.
an uneasy air passes by
squaring his shoulders, and grabbing my chin softly in his hands, he pulls me down to him ; inches away from his lips.
"y/n. y/n m/n l/n "
a thousands feelings shoot off in my brain, my blood feels hot and the ceilings feels heavy but he was all I could see all I could focus on.
the truth may not be pretty, it may not be laid out perfectly for you to easily digest but when it's presented in front of you : you have two choices you can either dig in and hope for the best, or you can discard it and order something different. I chose the former.
"do you have any idea what it's been like to chase after the person you love's affection. I don't ask for you to be perfect, I don't expect for you to be okay all the time. I just want for you to say my name. Not just for my own mental sake. For yours as well, my love. I need to know that you know that there is just more than you here present in this relationship. In your life. I exist to and if you won't remember, then I don't know how to help you nor us"
"the only thing that kept me going was the thought that if you were still alive then we both were still alive y/n. It's not an apology. So many people have given me them, I don't know where to put their empathy and compassion. It's maddening. I love you I've never wanted to suffocate you. I just figure that instead of apologizing for all my mistakes I would treat you better show you that I'm trying ".
I cup his face bringing him closer, our lips brush "I see you, I appreciate. I'm not going anywhere. Apologies are a good things to have. Like love and grace they cover lots of things"
"Even sin ? "
"Even death, love brought you back did it not".
"No," he states firmly "your once in a lifetime, rare, wonderful, crazy, grounding love brought me back.
wrapping his tree branch arms around my waist he pulls me in for an earth-shattering kiss.
Author's Note : If you liked it please consider liking & following for more (kinda in a jason todd phase right now ;*. Let me know in the comments any feedback or improvement I can work for the next peice.
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llamagirl28 · 1 year ago
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A song I really think about when playing BOC is "Never Love an Anchor" by the crane wives. It's SUCH a good song, and it applies well when we look at Arthur as a character, specifically how he views and treats Mordred.
At the beginning of the song, the opening lines "On some level, I think I always understood/That these hands of mine were clumsy, not clever" is such an Arthur thing to feel. Also applies to how Arthur handled the Mordred situation- his absence in Mordred's life, his adherence to Merlin's and Lance's stance on Mordred, his own conflicting feelings over his only child and their twisted conception.
He always claims that it was for the best, evident in the chapter 3 pov where we first meet him. Yet, over the course of the first few chapters, he realizes that he harmed more than he helped. He handled it the best he could given the circumstances (well, the best he thought he could) but ultimately, nothing went right. Arthur realizes, at first subconsciously, and then consciously, with full force. His handling of Mordred (or rather, Merlin's handling of Mordred, since iirc Merlin kind of influenced his thoughts about whatever presence he should have in Mordred's life) was clumsy.
The next few lines "And I tried to do the best that I could/ But try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to hold you" also cements this dynamic. Arthur is torn up inside about his avoidance of Mordred. He desperately wants to be a dad, but at the same time, is deeply ashamed of Mordred. Combined with the unacknowledged trauma of his r*pe..yeah, the line hits. He's trying his best, but he's held back by the shame and guilt of that night. It's present whether you have a good relationship or not, but far more evident if you are no contact with him.
Next stanza. "It's a secret I keep tucked inside my chest/ With this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful". Secret referring here to him being the father of Mordred, and up until chapter 4, how morgana r*ped him. Pretty easy to see the connection there. Though the line "with this heart of mine..." doesn't quite easily fit, since he is remorseful over abandoning Mordred, though I think it applies more to villainous mordreds/ those who act more like morgana than arthur. In the patreon side story featuring Alina (uhm, spoiler beware) there are a few options that remind Arthur of Morgana- when you smile like her, act sardonic, etc. He makes a point to say "every inch morgana's child" or something like that. He actively connects Mordred more with Morgana than with him in these instances. With these types of Mordred's, the line applies twofold- he is guilty of abandoning them, and remorseful...yet he sees Morgana so incredibly clearly in them, and he is wary. He remembers the prophecy, and, while not entirely sticking by it, still keeps it at the forefront of his thoughts in a way.
"There is love that doesn't have a place to rest/But it would have buried you if it had settled on your shoulders" pretty easy to see the connection. The love Arthur has for Mordred is mixed with wariness, shame, and guilt, and mars whatever caring he has for them. Combined with how he rarely sees Mordred, it's hard for him to express that love, especially if you don't have contact with him. (Can you tell my Mordred's relationship with Arthur yet, lol). It's expressed, instead, to Gawain, up until chapter 3 and, probably if you choose not to communicate w him at all, way past chapter 3. He showers Gawain with love because he can't do the same to Mordred, but if he was able to, he would have done it with Mordred as well. He would've been a great dad, if only Morgana hadn't...yeah.
"On some level, I think I always understood /That a ship could never really love an anchor/So, I did the only thing that I could/And severed the rope to set you sailing from my harbor" is an interesting lyric. There's a surface level meaning, but also a more conflicting one. If we apply it to Arthur it's him saying "hey, i couldn't be anything you needed me to be when you were growing up, and so i had to separate myself from you for both our sakes." It might not have been the right choice, but according to everyone around him, it was necessary, especially when you factor in the prophecy.
But. Ships need anchors, to ground them and keep them stable. Without an anchor, a ship will float adrift at sea, never to come to shore and go home. "A ship could never really love an anchor" seems more like his own guilt clouding his judgement when you have a bad relationship with him. "Of course Mordred could never truly love me. I'm an anchor and they're a ship." But ships need anchors Arthur. Mordred is bullied ruthlessly, Mordred has to deal with so many terrible things. Arthur could have been of use, could have been their anchor during this dark time. But he wasn't, because of past trauma and a prophecy hanging over his head.
A lyric that I heavily associate with a distant Chapter 4 Arthur is "There are times when I still wonder about you/ You are someone I have loved, but never known". Mordred has expressed a desire to keep Arthur out of their life, and Arthur respects that. He lives with his chosen family in Camelot, and does his everyday routines. But Mordred still invades his mind, especially around their birthday. "There are times when I still wonder about you" can basically go for the whole arthur pov in chapter 4, really, when he's thinking about Mordred's birthday. Also all the times early on in the story when he talks about wondering what Mordred was like. I for the life of me cannot remember since I've only done a route where I had a good relationship with Arthur like, once, but a scene like this doesn't really happen in chapter 4 for those playthroughs. No internal angsting over Mordred's b-day and their distance, no snake carving, no sadness over not being in contact with mordred. In the playthroughs where you have contact with him, he loves and knows you. In the playthroughs where u can barely stand him, he loves you, but he doesn't know you. He's never gotten the chance to know your hobbies, or your favorite colors, or whether you like your lessons or not. Mordred is sort of a question mark for him, an enigma between a nightmare and a dream.
"And you'll never see the reasons I had/ For keeping my claws away when they were close enough to hurt you" goes more for pre-chapter 4 Mordred's, though it can work with Mordred's post chapter 4. Mordred doesn't know why Arthur doesn't speak to them, and as a result doesn't know the truth of their conception. They chalk it up to Arthur being a coward (at least in my run), a man so shackled to a sorcerer's prophecy that he can't look at Mordred truly as a child. Arthur is pretty sure Mordred is unaware of how they were truly made (after all, Morgana will never say she was wrong without any incentive) but he did think Mordred knew the prophecy. Now that he knows Mordred had no idea about it, he realizes Mordred has no base at all for why Arthur has no contact with him.
In some of the earlier asks, there were a few au questions. Two of them live in my brain rent free: an ask about what would have happened to Mordred had Morgana died during childbirth, and how would Arthur reach out to Mordred if he could still have children. Both of them indicate that Arthur would have been kind of a trash dad. In the one where Morgana dies, Arthur is forced to kind of take custody of Mordred, though he gives them over to Merlin to be a sorcerers apprentice. He's just as absent as he is early on in the game, only reaching out in later years, and more in an uncle fashion than in a father fashion. In the ask where he's able to have more kids, he seems to be a good dad to them, but in regards to Mordred, he only waits until they're in Camelot to attempt any type of reconciliation with them, and it seems as though he'd rather not have a relationship.
If Arthur was in Mordred's life in the early years, as a teen dad with sexual trauma, he would not have been good. He would have been distant and hesitant, and probably would have given them more daddy issues than they already can have in game. I think it's something mentioned by Acolon- love must be freely given, not forced.
"I am selfish, I am broken, I am cruel/ I am all the things they might have said to you" is peak Arthur Sad Hours. It's also, however, a very apt statement. These are things said to Mordred by well...everybody. They're viewed as a monster, evil through the sole purpose of being born to the wrong woman. The latter line connects what they say about Mordred to Arthur, acknowledging both the blood ties that bond them together, as well as saying that even though everyone thinks he's the hottest thing since sliced bread, he's a person too! He's not some saint whose kind and benevolent to everyone; he makes mistakes, he makes bad choices and can be (unknowingly) cruel to others, and in regards to the prophecy, is selfish under the guise of being selfless. He's not a perfect uwu will never do anything wrong EVER boy...he's just a person.
"Do you ever think of me and my two hands?/And wonder why they never soothed your fevers?/And wonder why they never tied your shoes?/And wonder why they never held you gently?" very easily brings to mind a scene of Arthur watching Kay or Lance play with their kids and wish he could do that with Mordred. Arthur, despite everything, does desperately wish to be a father, but he can't because of a curse and a prophecy, respectively. He can't (pardon my language) bring someone into this world because Morgana got rid of that ability, and he can't reach out to Mordred bc 1)trauma 2)prophecy and 3) he very much conforms to what other people want from him, even if it goes against his own wishes.
"And wonder why they never had the chance to lose you?" drives all of these ideas home. He never had the chance to be a proper father early in Mordred's life, and depending on ur playthrough, still doesn't have that chance. It's inhabited by Accolon (for now) and while he thinks that was the better option, he still yearns for that chance. He never had the chance to bond with them, to watch Mordred take their first steps and lose their baby teeth. He never got to read books to Mordred when they were sleepy, and never got to make absolutely horrid dad jokes while they grown in embarrassment. And he will never get to watch Mordred grow old (at least, in this point in the story). He'll never see them through the awkward stages of puberty, watch them rebel and yell at their parents some emo crap before going off to sulk. If you have a bad relationship with him, you only see him once more before you go to Camelot to join the Round Table, at Gareth's wedding. In the bad relationship route, this line is potent because nothing is fixed; their relationship is stilted. He will never get to see them in the Older Years, while in good relationship playthroughs, he can.
Sooo many of the Crane Wives songs are boc coded, tbh. Tongues and Teeth is THE morgana song, and The Moon Will Sing fit remorseful villain mordred's extremely well! I might do another one of these analysis's some time in the future, cause this was pretty fun. I might be off base on some points, so feel free to tell me if I got anything wrong. Now if you'll excuse me it's currently 4am, so I will be off to get some much needed sleep. Have a good one Llama!
It's a very good and thorough analysis! Thank you for sharing 💕 I'd be delighted to hear more, if and whenever you feel like doing another one.
And now I should go listen to the song itself. I only know a couple Crane Wives songs, which I love - Curses and Tongues and Teeth, and I do agree with the latter being very Morgana coded.
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the-blackholeus · 2 years ago
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Pt2 of yandere shredder?
(I am so sorry I take so long posting things. It's a mixture of being a lazy ass and the acostumazation to the work life. I will try to better myself, promise. Anyway, hope you enjoy this.) 
"Oh, my dearest [Name]. I finally have you all to myself again."
His deep voice sent shivers down your spine as you trembled in the chair you were chained to, your chest shuddering violently with rapid breaths. You flinched as his fingers, dressed in deadly leather gloves, gently traced over your cheek, running down until he was able to wrap his digits around your chin.
"You have no idea how much I missed you.", he purred as he forced you to lift your head, you e/c eyes meeting his. "How much I yearned to see you, to smell you, to hear you." Gently, he connected his lips with yours. "You have no idea how devastated I was when I heard about your disappearance."
You didn't answer and just yanked your face from his grasp. It hurt, as your neck had become rather stiff in the many hours you were already sitting there, forced to face the most dangerous man on earth that, once again, roamed free. Shredder just chuckled at your reaction, his smug smile turning into a full-blown grin. "Ah, I see that your stubbornness has remained."
"Fuck you!", you spat, glaring at him with all the hate you could muster. "Fuck you and your fucking clan."
He hummed, unfased by your words. "Such vulgar language coming from such a pretty mouth.", he tutted and clicked his tongue, reaching out to let his fingers run through you hair. "It seems that in the time of my absence, you have forgotten your manners."
"I haven't forgotten my fucking manners! I just learned that I don't have to take this shit from you.", you growled, clenching your teeth so harshly it hurt. "You bastard treated me like trash, like a fucking toy! You wrecked me, destroyed me on every way possible........ It took me years to get where I am now, and I will not let you destroy me again!"
Shredder did not answer right away and merely lifted his eyebrow at your outburst, surprised by this sudden aggression. He did not know you like that, and he did not like it. Not. At. All.
"Yes, you have.", he hummed once he regained his composure, his expression souring. He reached out and forced you to look at him again, leaning in close so that his lips hovered just above yours. "And it is such a shame. But...no matter..."
The digits of his other hand gently warped around your neck, daring you to move a single inch. He positioned himself above you, his strong physic claiming the majority if your field of vision. The corners of his lips twitched upwards again, and his pearly teeth flashed in the dim light of the empty room you were brought to earlier this day as he chuckled, stretching his neck so your mouth was not even an inch apart. "I just will have to teach you again."
And with those words, he crashed his lips upon yours, forcing his tongue past your lips.
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dissociationdude · 9 months ago
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MEET THE ARTIST - 24TH EDITION
Hi everyone, my name is Milos, and I felt it was time for a new introduction. 
I’m a 24 year old neurodivergent nonbinary queer multimedia expressionist artist. 
Wow, a lot of labels I know! I just feel these are the most important ones for me.
I’m based in Ontario, Canada.
My work is a very personal part of me. I use art for therapeutic reasons most of the time, and the expressionism is a very important aspect of that. Most of the time I do not think of the final product of what I am making, just focus on what I’m feeling while I create and evoking those emotions with my art. I have a lot of work based on traumatic events, but the reason for these creations was never to evoke the feelings of being alone, unwanted, etcetera; they were created to make the viewers who deal with the same emotions to feel less alone in those things. It is for those who have survived trauma to know it’s hard to have that trauma and carry it, and there is safe spaces to put it down. My art is aiming to be a safe place to survivors who are struggling, to provide a place to weep, to provide a place to be seen. Many of my works are graphic, talking about the trauma I went through in ways others find grotesque. And to that I say: Why should I have to carry something so grotesque, alone? Why can’t I put it down somewhere, and put the appropriate context warnings? My work is not to promote the grotesque in a way that is profiting, but to show that this is what some people endure in life. I want to be allowed to show my darkest vulnerabilities with my art, because I shouldn’t have to feel shame for what others have done to me, and nobody else should hold onto shame caused by others harming them, in my eyes. My work is a conversation starter about how trauma manifests in people. I want it to be that way. Other times, my work is very bright, happy, storytelling. It depends on what I’m going for in the respect of the piece being about the trauma events, or the trauma recovery. I basically just make a lot of work based on different trauma. I tend to pull inspiration from musicians I like as well. Many people knew me for my Crywank album series, I did art for almost every song of every album they have made. 
I always want to evoke emotion with colour and narrative, and I do that with various tools. Digitally I work on an iPad Pro 4th gen 12.9 inch and an Apple Pencil that I bought used off a friend. I also have a Wacom bamboo tablet for my computer and when I use adobe products for university. I have a variety of magazines, books, paper, that I use for collage works. I often paint with acrylic paint on canvas for paintings, but sometimes wood boards as well. When I work in sketchbooks they’re usually max size 5x7inches for travel purposes, but my pencil case is huge and loaded with supplies. I always have a bag of words handy for collage poetry.
I am really not into talking about myself in regards to my personality, but I feel like I’m a very anxious but always trying their best kind of guy. I don't have other socials I'm sharing on because I have grown to hate social media. I don’t really do much for work aside from lawn care because my disabilities, but I am in university full time pursuing to be an art therapist, and I’m doing my best to adapt to living in a safe, non traumatizing environment. 
Thanks for enjoying my art in the process of me learning to love myself fully, and accept my trauma. 
Love to everyone,
Milos / Dissociationdude 
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acourtofthought · 2 years ago
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BOND versus NO BOND
I had a recent anon bring up a valid concern that I'm sure Anti Elucien's or those on the fence wonder about.
How do we know what Lucien feels for Elain is real or whether it's a product of the bond?
I think SJM does a pretty good job of highlighting when Lucien is experiencing the effects of the bond and when he's in full control of himself.
And I don't think that everything Lucien does is simply because of the bond. That's like someone saying Rhys and Cassian never had a single independent thought on their own about Feyre and Nesta, that each one they had was out of their control because they knew or strongly suspected who their mate was.
BOND:
She slammed Lucien away with a palm to the chest, and his roar shook the halls as Mor grabbed my sisters by the arm and vanished. Lucien’s bellow was still sounding as Rhys lunged
Lucien was shaking his head, panting, and whirled to us. “Get her back,” he snarled at Tamlin over the ranting of the king. A mate—a mate already going wild to defend what was his.
I steeled myself before saying, “She is engaged, Lucien.” I felt every inch of him go stiff beside me. “To whom.” Flat, cold words. With the threat of violence simmering beneath.
Touch her, smell her, taste her— The instincts were a running river. He fisted his hands at his sides.
But even as shame washed through him, the words, the sense chanted, Mine. You are mine, and I am yours. Mate.
Her eyes went frank and cold. “I was to be married in a few days.” He fought against the bristling rage, the irrational urge to find the male who’d claimed her and shred him apart.
But Lucien’s attention went right to the hallway toward the back, his nostrils flaring as he scented Elain’s direction. And who she’d gone with. A low snarl slipped out of him—
“She was deeply in love with him, Lucien.” His russet eye flashed with simmering rage. An uncontrollable instinct—for a mate to eliminate any threat. But he remained sitting. Even as his fingers dug into the arms of his chair.
We know these moments are a result of the bond because SJM includes things like "an uncontrollable instinct", "irrational urge", "threat of violence", "instincts were a running river". Or they're just really out of character for Lucien in general. And many of the times where we have evidence of Lucien being influenced by the bond, we see him actively fighting against it within Elain's presence. He does not seem to want his usual behavior, his preferred actions or words to be overshadowed by those instincts. If the bond was telling him to "touch her, smell her, taste her" yet he remained in his seat and instead asked if she minded if he poured himself tea, I think it's safe to say Lucien still has control over himself and his thoughts.
NO BOND:
(moments where SJM did not include any evidence that the bond is influencing Lucien's behavior)
“Tell me about her—about Elain,” Lucien said quietly.
“Elain loves this lord’s son.”. “My mate is engaged to a human male.” He spoke more to himself than to me. “I’m sorry if—” “I want to see her. Just once. Just—to know.” “To know what?” “If she is worth fighting for.”
But Lucien was standing in the doorway. And from the devastation on his face, I knew he’d heard every word. Seen and heard and felt the hollowness and despair radiating from her.
“What of—Elain?”
I’ll do what I must to protect her from further harm.” “I would never hurt her.” A bleak sort of honesty in his words.
Too thin. She must not be eating at all. How can she even stand? The thoughts flowed through his head, one after another. His heart was a raging, thunderous beat, and he didn’t dare move from his position a mere five feet away. She hadn’t yet turned toward him, but the ravages of her fasting were evident enough.
But there she was. His mate. She was nothing like Jesminda. Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she’d been born into. She had teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn’t wanted anything but her. She’d seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been … thrown at him. (I mean, if there ever needs to be proof that Lucien is not some mindless beast to the bond, this is it. He's struggling to understand how the female who wanted him without reservation ended up not being his mate while the female engaged to and in love with someone else who did not choose him is his mate. This paragraph shows that he didn't automatically fall in love with Elain because they share a bond and it also shows the bond doesn't automatically tell him everything about her since he doesn't realize that Elain actually does have similarities to Jesminda, they're just not evident at the moment because of her depression. He needs time to fully know her just as anyone else would, especially when he's not actively reaching out to her through the bond.)
“Do you mind if I help myself to the other?” He tried to sound casual—comfortable. Even as his heart raced and raced, so swift he thought he might vomit on the very expensive, very old carpet.
“There’s a plate of biscuits. Would you like one?” He didn’t expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he’d rise from this chair and leave.
He had not seen her entire face since that day in Hybern. Then, it had been drawn and terrified, then utterly blank and numb, her hair plastered to her head, her lips blue with cold and shock. Looking at her now … She was pale, yes. The vacancy still glazing her features. But he couldn’t breathe as she faced him fully. She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He’d said the same to Jesminda once. (<- again, I feel if the bond had complete control over him, he wouldn't have felt guilty thinking he was betraying Jesminda, the bond would only let him focus on Elain. I think that's proven when we then have the following line which says "But even as shame washed through him, the words, the sense chanted, Mine. You are mine, and I am yours. Mate." It seems a clear divide when the bond kicks in)
Her eyes were the brown of a fawn’s coat. And he could have sworn something sparked in them as she met his gaze. “Who are you?” He knew without demanding clarification that she was aware of what he was to her.
For a long moment, Elain’s face did not shift, but those eyes seemed to focus a bit more. “Lucien,” she said at last, and he clenched his teacup to keep from shuddering at the sound of his name on her mouth
“You betrayed us.” He wished she’d shoved him out the window behind her. “It—it was a mistake.”
The words were a rasp as he instead said, “I know. I’m sorry.” She did not love him, want him, need him. Another male’s bride. A mortal man’s wife. Or she would have been.
Her thumb brushed the iron ring on her finger. Another male’s ring, another marker that she was claimed—
“She needs fresh air.”
“Take her to the sea. Take her to some garden. But get her out of this house for an hour or two.”
“Let me do something. About Elain. I heard—from my room. Everything that happened just now. It wouldn’t hurt to have a healer look her over. Externally and internally.”
“Do you think the Cauldron made her insane?” “I think she went through something terrible,” Lucien countered carefully. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have your best healer do a thorough examination.”
“Please tell me,” Lucien said when I crossed the threshold into the foyer. “What the healer says. And if—if you need me for anything.”
(I personally do not get the vibe that Lucien's concern for Elain and desire to help is only because of the bond but even if it was.....what exactly is wrong with that? He doesn't seem to be annoyed at trying to help her, he seems more bothered by the others not allowing him to do more. It doesn't seem there's anything else he'd rather be doing or anywhere else he'd rather be. Can something truly be against your will if it's exactly where you want to be? Just because a situation was forced upon you unexpectedly, does that mean it can't end up being the thing you end up wanting the most for the right reasons? Everything he's doing is for her, to help her. Her well being is his priority).
Lucien muttered something about not needing to be monitored, and we all looked at him with raised brows. He just lifted his hands, claimed he wanted to freshen up, and headed down the hall.
Lucien just stared and stared at my sister, as if he’d never seen her before.
“I’ll go.” Lucien was staring at Elain as he spoke. Lucien shifted his focus to Rhys, to me. “I’ll go,” he repeated, rising to his feet. “To find this sixth queen.”
He glanced at Elain, who was again studying her lap. “I’m not needed here. I’ll fight if you need me to, but …” (I don't think Lucien wants to leave but after staring at Elain as if he's seeing her for the first time I think he realizes that what she needs is time and space to deal with everything and I do think that's meaningful. Because he's putting her needs above his own and he's willing to put himself in danger to do so).
Before that dark wind swept in, Lucien looked back. Not to me, I realized—to someone behind me. Pale and thin, Elain stood atop the stairs. Their gazes locked and held.. Lucien inclined his head in a bow, the movement hiding the gleam in his eye—the longing and sadness. And when Lucien turned to signal to Rhys to go … He did not glance back at Elain. Did not see the half step she took toward the stairs—as if she’d speak to him. Stop him. (you know what I love about this? The first time the word longing is ever used in regards to Lucien for Elain is well after their first meeting and after he tried to connect with her through the bond then blushed when thinking on what he felt. A blush after the healer specifically mentioned the bond is a bridge between souls which indicates Lucien was able to feel some aspect of who Elain is. And also after he "stared and stared as if seeing her for the first time". When he arrived in Velaris, I think he instinctively knew what she needed for her mental health (fresh air, getting outside) but didn't really know her. But since then, I think he slowly began learning some of who she is. Not everything because Elain is still dealing with extreme trauma but I do think his sadness at leaving her is not a product of the bond driving his emotions but because he's truly upset. I feel he'd like to continue spending time with her (which means he obviously found her worth fighting for) however he realized what he wants doesn't matter because what she needs is time to heal on her own and figure out what she wants to do about Graysen).
“Are you hurt?” he asked, coming toward us. Spying the blood speckling Elain’s hands. “I’m fine,” Elain said quietly. And then asked, noticing the gore on him, the torn clothes and still-bloody weapons, “Are you—” “Well, I never want to fight in another battle as long as I live, but … yes, I’m in one piece.” A faint smile bloomed on Elain’s lips
“I heard—what happened. I’m sorry for your loss. All of you.”
“He was a good man,” he said. “He loved you all very much.”
He noticed it. “I heard you made the killing blow,” he said.
I nudged Elain, who blinked at me, then blurted, “You could come to Velaris.” He saw all of it, but nodded graciously. “It would be my pleasure.”
Lucien now stood in the sitting room, close to Elain’s side as she and my sister silently kept against the wall by the intact bay of windows.
As far as I knew, he hadn’t come within touching distance since the aftermath of that final battle.
Lucien warmed his hands in the glow of the birch fire, the light casting his face in reds and golds—golds that matched his mechanical eye. “You as well.” A sidelong glance toward Elain, swift and fleeting. “Both of you.”
Lucien slumped into his armchair and blew out a long breath. “How is she?”
“Good. But is she still …” A muscle flickered in his jaw. “Does she still mourn him?”
“But remember that they were engaged. Give her time to accept it.” “To accept a life shackled to me?”
“She wants nothing to do with me.”
“I don’t think she’ll tolerate two minutes alone with me, so forget about two weeks.”
And as for here …” He shook off my grip and headed for the door. “I can’t stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes. I can’t stand to be in this court and have your mate pay for the very clothes on my back.”
"Where’s Elain?” “I am not always in this city to see my mate.”
Cassian’s heart strained at the pain etching deep into Lucien’s face as he tried to hide his disappointment and longing.
I don't think it can be argued that the bond is what drew Lucien to Elain, the reason he first wanted to get to know her. But from everything I've seen, he remains because of Elain as a person, at least the glimpses of what he's seen so far. Lucien said he wanted to meet her once to know if she was worth fighting for (when he knew she was in love with Graysen and realized he'd be trying to take her away from the one she had chosen). He was initially prepared to let her go despite their bond if he felt it was the right decision after meeting her. Yet nearly two years later he still comes around and still thinks of her in the gifts he brings. He's still looking at her with longing.
Even after all that, some will continue to argue that none of Lucien's feelings are his own but if that's the case, neither were Rhys's. Neither were Cassian's. They were all targets of what were essentially arranged marriages by the Cauldron / Mother but if that were as bad as some try to make it out to be, Cassian and Az wouldn't have been jealous of Rhys’s "arranged marriage". Az wouldn't have become jealous of Rhys and Cassian's "arranged marriages".
Arguing that the mating bond takes away a characters choice is a valid opinion but I don't believe it's an opinion the author who is writing these book shares. And really, her opinion is going to be the only one that matters in the end.
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svartalfhild · 8 months ago
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.
My dad's been back at it again with the "I want grandkids" bullshit.
We were watching some 50's film (Picnic, I think it was called) and there's this scene where these two people start dancing and making eyes at each other like inches from this pool or pond or whatever. I started to comment about how I wouldn't want to get interesting with somebody that close to a pond, especially one full of leaves and stuff. And you know what my dad said? "Now I know why I don't have any grandkids." That has fucking layers, folks, and all of them are offensive, so I said quite seriously "Excuse me?" and glared at him, but apparently he thought he was being funny and I was playing along, because he laughed. I just kept glaring, but to my great frustration, he didn't seem to notice or care that I was offended.
I swear I can't go a month these days without hearing some kind of grandkids talk from my dad. He must be looking at my biological clock and going "ticktock bitch, the window is closing on my legacy and you're slacking off".
How the fuck do I get him to understand that I will not be pushing any small humans out of my body??? Straight up telling him I don't want to have kids multiple times hasn't worked. Do I need to finally out myself as asexual to get him to even begin to grasp this reality? Of course, it's equally likely that he'll go deeper in denial and tell me to get tested for a disorder. Do I need to throw all decorum and respect out the window and just tell my father to shut the fuck up the next time he makes one of these comments? That'll go over well.
I'm just...I'm at a loss, and I'm hurt and angry at being treated like this. And I also hate how every time it comes up, it reminds me of how improbable it is that I'll ever have a relationship. I hate being reminded of how much I'm not getting any of the big things I want out of life by way of being told I'm failing to provide for someone else's life goal. AS IF IT'S NOT MY FUCKING BODY AND MY FUCKING LIFE. I'M NOT A GODDAMN BROOD MARE. I'M A WHOLE PERSON WITH WANTS AND AMBITIONS THAT DO NOT INCLUDE BABIES AND THE RESPONSE SHOULD BE "THAT'S A VALID LIFE CHOICE AND I SUPPORT YOU" NOT "OKAY, WELL I'M GOING TO TRY TO SHAME YOU INTO CHANGING YOUR MIND, BECAUSE IT'S WHAT I WANT, AND I THINK BABIES ARE GREAT SO YOU SHOULD TOO."
I just
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I want him to fucking stop.
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jameswilsonsupremacy · 2 years ago
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the 2023 trans kid’s spelling bee
(**originally written in April of 2023, can be watched here.)
first contestant.
your word is… eradication.
definition: to do away with as completely, as if pulling up by the roots. eradication.
eradication. E-R-A-D-I-C… I see…
…increased death rates for transgender people all across this country.
I see my entire community go into a unified state of pure panic.
I see a group of people doing whatever we can to calm each other down because we are terrified.
terrified of how we are silenced despite our screaming,
of the deconstruction of the very little rights we have,
of becoming the next dead kid in the news.
but who are we kidding, it won’t be our names to identify us.
only our gender.
because the people marked in red cheer on the spoken words
transgenderism must be eradicated from public life entirely.
and the people marked in blue are not doing enough.
yet it isn’t about red or blue or any of the other colors that honestly seem to replace the blood of american citizens,
because political parties seem to be much more important of an identifier instead of the human lives at risk of unimaginable loss.
still… it IS imaginable.
because we are seeing the start of mass destruction of an entire human race.
i watch people debate what step of genocide we are at because everything is moving so quickly;
so quickly that i am afraid that i could have missed the important news deciding my safety in this country.
i witness the hope drain from the eyes of my siblings all over the country
and i pray that my own ambition continues to stay alive.
because i honestly don’t know how much longer i can fight this;
i don’t know how much longer i can fight to find more reasons to survive.
they claim that it is to ‘protect the children’,
but what about the countless children who now watch in fear of the horrific outcomes?
what about the children just like me who never really got to be a kid
and now i’ll be eighteen in October with a childhood full of fighting to prove the fact that i am allowed to be alive.
it‘s not my traumas that made me trans;
i fear the person who helped me grow into who i am today.
the first girl i ever told took advantage of me to the point that i am still stuck
picking up the shattered pieces of myself that she selfishly demolished.
i cannot truthfully respond to the question of who first knew i was trans other than myself
because i know she supported me endlessly as i figured myself out.
and while i sometimes wish i could have hidden myself in the closet to hide it from her,
i know her toxic leechings of my confidence cannot shake who i am.
pressuring someone back into the closet does not erase their identity.
taking away our rights and our freedoms will not erase our identities.
forcibly outing trans people to try and ‘shame’ us socially will not stop us from being ourselves.
i try to find the radiant examples of trans joy but i am struggling.
i am struggling to smile at the progression in the world because there is far too much regression for it to be okay.
i would never wish a fraction of my distress on anyone.
but i’m in a safe state, Michigan, so i shouldn’t worry, right?
no.
this is not an individual state issue,
this is a human rights issue and i will scream it until my throat is red and raw and feels as if there is blood coating
every inch of it.
because i will not stop begging for people to realize that we are under attack
and i am scared.
i cannot just ignore that fear but i will pretend that i am confident in my safety
because my cis friends and my cis family will never understand what it feels like to see people cheer over the extermination of your own kind.
sorry.
the eradication of my kind.
so let me spell it out for you… eradication.
the–mass–GENOCIDE–of an entire population.
eradication.
-L.R.K.
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iamdrowninghelpme98 · 3 months ago
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Entry 32:
2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
January
I woke up this morning in a hospital room of my own. I didn’t even know where I was at first- everything felt fuzzy, disjointed. The last thing I remember is sitting outside my sister’s hospital room, trying to fight off the waves of withdrawal that were crashing over me. I must have passed out, and now here I am. Checked in. Detoxing. It’s humiliating.
Last night was unbearable. I couldn’t get my hands on the pills I needed to stop feeling sick. R left to go back to his home state, promising he’d come back and bring me what I needed. But I didn’t make it. I couldn’t make it. The withdrawals hit me harder than they have in a long time. Days of shaking, drenched in sweat, every inch of me aching like my body was trying to tear itself apart. I tried to keep it together for my sister’s sake, to hide how bad it was from her, her nurses, and anyone else who came by. But I couldn’t. I was sneaking out in the middle of the night to throw up behind the hospital, shivering in the freezing cold. It was like my body was punishing me for every choice I’ve made.
I wish I never relapsed. I wish I had stayed strong, kept fighting. But that’s the thing about addiction- it doesn’t let go of you. Even when you think you’ve got it beat, it’s still there, waiting for the smallest crack to sneak back in. And now I’m here, stuck in this miserable cycle. This isn’t living. It’s surviving in the worst way possible.
Being a drug addict is like being trapped in a cage that you built yourself. Every day, you promise yourself it’s the last time. That you’ll stop, that you’ll get clean, that you’ll take back control of your life. But the cravings come, and they’re louder than anything else. They drown out your promises, your self-worth, your willpower. You’ll do things you swore you’d never do again. You’ll hurt people you love. You’ll destroy yourself, all for something that only gives you a few moments of relief. And the worst part? You know exactly what you’re doing. You know how it’s going to end. But you do it anyway because the fear of withdrawals, the pain of being without it, is worse than anything you can imagine.
This isn’t the life I wanted. This isn’t the person I wanted to be. But here I am. Miserable. Weak. Full of shame.
As soon as they discharge me, I’ll go back to my sister’s side. She needs me, and I owe it to her to be there. But I can already feel the clock ticking, counting down to the moment the withdrawals will hit again. This cycle is hell, and I don’t know how to break it. I hate myself for all of it- for being here, for being this person, for being an addict.
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ajathings · 11 months ago
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Mixed Feelings
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I fuckin’ hate you, you know that right? You and your authentic Timbs from yesteryear that still haven’t fallen out of style simply because they are on your feet. I hate how they compliment your outfits while you stop into my job just to say “hello.” I hate that you even know where my gallery even is–who even fuckin’ told you? 
I hate how you stepped out of my college hoe days and into my present day, somehow looking sexier than before. Dark skin, white teeth; I hate the contrast on your perfect face because I compare it to the chiaroscuro technique that the Renaissance made popular, and if there is anyone unworthy of the comparison, I’ll be damned if it ain’t you. I wish you’d take your magazine-billboard-black man on Vogue–million dollar smile somewhere else. Stop haunting me with it, with you, with your presence. 
I hate how you like my coffee. I hate how you know my gallery is struggling. You use those two tidbits of knowledge against me, knowing I need a pick me up at the end of the day because by closing, the only person to walk into the gallery is you, with the comfort I need You and your weaponized sympathies, your sharpened cadences and well-wishes, and your poisonous pick-me-ups at the end of another disappointing day. You tell me that things will improve and that one day, I won't need the Met Museum anymore. You fill my head with fantasies about this gallery being my full-time job.
Fuckin’ opportunist asshole preying on weak women. Fuck you for ever making me label myself as a weak woman in the first place; I never had to face the truth of the matter until you came back into my life and declared with your actions that you never lost hold of me. Fuck you for remembering that your fingertips, calloused and precise, still sing me lullabies that I adore. Fuck you for realizing that my need for a sense of release was your way back into my life. That’s the ticket! you probably said. That thing with her chin that she used to like! Pair that with my golden eyes and she’ll dance to any tune I play her.
Fuck you. I hate you even as you corner me in my gallery’s door frame, eye fucking me with sparkling irises that God should have never blessed you with. I hope you taste my hate on my lips. I hope you swallow it and it goes down like acid. I hope it settles in the pit of your stomach like rat poion. I hope there is anything on my face that portrays just how much your presence irks me, even if my body welcomes you like it used to.
What I really hate is how soft the ground is wherever I happen to be kneeling. I hate how your wife probably knows that her husband’s dick was carefully and lovingly polished by another woman’s lips, all because the word no tends to drop out of my vocabulary when you call me “babygirl.” I hate that I still know that trick you like, and I hate the myriad of wildcats I compare you to in the moment when I make you groan with it. I hate that you have no regard for my closet. I wear nice things to both my jobs and not everything I wear I pair with a pair of fuck-me-drawers. So fuck you in particular for helping yourself to my skirt on Tuesday, and my slacks on Friday. I liked those panties. I loved those pants. They weren’t yours to tear/break the zipper off of, so you best believe that as good as your fingering game is, I will be sending you the invoice for those. As soon as I figure out how to quit you.
I hate how your fingers find their homes on my hips, your manhood between my thighs. I hate that you're well-blessed and still considerate to remember that I don’t need all your inches, just a few. You find your rhythm and respect my limits and for that, I particularly despise you, because for once, someone isn’t thinking they're the shit just because of size. And that someone is a filthy cheater, home breaker, treading familiar ground just because he married a safe woman who loved him just as much as I used to, but not enough to satisfy him. 
You bring shame to all of us with every thrust and I bring shame to all of us by letting this happen.
I hate that my coffee’s half-drunken and cold by the end of it. I hate that I’ll probably see you again in a couple of weeks. I hate that I’m down a couple of items of clothing. I hate that your presence is twice as hollow as your absence, and I am somehow more full, more comforted as a woman when you’ve finally disappeared into Manhattan.
I hate that I stole your wife’s number when you weren’t looking. I hate how she isn’t even saved in your phone so that when it rings, I can memorize it, even in the middle of sex. I hate with a burning passion how you can talk to her and fuck me at the same time. 
I hate that when I call her, she immediately agrees to coffee at the small local shop not far from where I work. I hate how when I tell her that I’m the other woman, she doesn’t slap the shit out of me. She smiles, shakes her head, and fights tears but never blames me. She blames a man who believes he’s entitled to every woman he wants.
We talk and we talk. The sun sets. There’s a lot of remorse floatin across the table My coffee’s half-drunken and cold by the end of it. We actually get along nicely. I’m an art historian, and she dropped out of a political science program for financial reasons. I point her to a few resources to help get her back into college, and when she says her time has passed, I remind her that it's never too late to chase passion.
I’d try to hold onto the hate that you’ve inspired, but she sucks the hate out of any room. The last thing I remember hating was the fact that you married a woman you didn’t deserve. A beam of light caught in the sucking, black abyss that is you and your sexual ego. When I told her how you pulled me back in with your fingers, she didn’t seem surprised. That’s how she got trapped in you too. Rough, calloused, cracked, indicative of a strong, working man. We both understand the appeal.
But only when we shake hands do we understand. Soft, gentle, kind, understanding, worth exploring further. When she sobs into my lips, she says she hates you. Not me: you. And I reply “Yea, me too.” And for the first time, our skin matches what we’re thinking.
I love how you probably hate me as much as I hate you now. I love how she offered to host me, and when I told her my apartment has a lovely view of the sunrise, she didn’t hesitate to stay the night with me just to see it. I love that I woke to her and that she said “You’re right. It’s lovely.” I love that she curled up in my embrace, not all that eager to just to up and leave when the fun is over. To us, this was part the fun. I love how we’ve both been missing the same thing.
I love hearing you shout over her phone when you call her, asking where she’s been. I love how you choke on your bravado when she says she can’t do “this” anymore. I love how she lets me be nosy; how she allows me come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist and listen to you beg and plead. When I tell you it’s music to my ears…
I love how she lingers with me, her brown skin glistening in the sun pouring in through the window. I look at her and I see beauty I appreciate. It’s not wasted on her like it is on you. I love how she thanks me for the evening, for the chat, for the coffee, for teaching her that the trick you like works better on women anyway. And I tell her that even if this never happens again, but I’d love to be friends. She’s traditional, and so she initially believed that people who had sex could never be friends. But I get dressed, and I reintroduce myself as the remorseful other woman and she laughs. We shake hands and decide to give friends a try. A couple of years later, I’m glad we did.
I love you for bringing me to her. Seeing her smile down the aisle earlier this year was among my greatest joys, along with wearing the dress she picked out for me to wear as her maid of honor. I love how we transcended our beginnings. I love how our relationship is transparent, real, and nourishing. I love that we can acknowledge the elephant in the room, forgive each other, move on, and grow. I love how we both escaped you.
I would say that I hate that I cost you your wife, but I’d be lying. She’s happier than she’s ever been. I’m happy that, in my own misguided way, I freed her from you. And I love that I’ll leave you where you stand without being tempted by you. I guess she and I both did some growing.
It’s your turn to do the growing. I hate that you’ve probably learned nothing from this. I hate that you’ll probably hate me, blame me, but never examine yourself. I hate that you’ll leave here, call some other woman from your past and fuck her just to feel better about yourself. In truth, I could find many reasons to continue hating you, but I refuse to. Maintaining that malice is kinda like maintaining any relationship with you…
I’d tell you what that means but hate is exhausting. 
Anyway, I apologize, but I don’t need your forgiveness. I’m in the process of letting go of hate and coming clean to you was all I needed to do. What you do with any of this is your business. I’m late for my friend’s babyshower. 
I’ll Cash App you for the coffee.
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thirtyflirtytrying · 2 years ago
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Day 2: Surrender
What in my body longs for radical permission?
Every inch of me longs for radical permission. The weight of my people-pleasing soul hangs in my chest, desperate and clanging against the shell of my iron skin. It's embarrassing. Desperately wanting to be a helpful person is like wearing a corny ass cowbell. I can't typically move through social settings quietly.
To love so deeply and laugh so fully is to disrupt the social silence we've settled on instead of peace. I've always been this way. I've always clung to joy in the moments that I could and I've always sought to be the most authentic version of myself. I've given myself radical permission in a lot of ways in my youth.
In high school, I was a high-energy, enthusiastic (annoying) person. People let me know how annoying I was, for better or worse. And I refused to dim my shine. I recognized early on that my enthusiasm was not going to be perceived as "cool" and still chose to express it because it was partially who I was and partially who I believed I should be in an increasingly cynical society.
I'm proud of myself for this, but I'm beginning to recognize, ironically, just how much authenticity requires intentionality.
High school wasn't just me being my true self. I would frequently doubt myself and feel ashamed for being "too much." I longed to be a cooler, more muted, more elusive girl. I would blog and journal myself out of holes where I would actually put words to the shame that weighed on me. I would free myself after, remembering that a lot of the shame and doubt I felt so deeply was based on values I didn't agree with.
Being my authentic self in high school required me to take time to recognize what inauthentic parts I thought I needed to present. I needed to get intentional about seeking what was authentic to me, my soul, my essence. I needed to mute the crowd and zone in on myself.
I need so badly to do that again. I've been trudging through life and I've learned so much but I haven't taken the time to check in with myself again. I want to give myself radical permission to live my full life again. I want to allow myself to take up space, share my truest feelings, be vulnerable, and live.
I want to live so fucking hard.
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thebibliosphere · 3 years ago
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I don't know how or why, but YouTube has been putting a lot of “day in the life”/ASMR type videos in my recommendations lately. One is a lady from South Korea who makes productivity videos showing what she does in a day starting at 5 am, where she cooks full three-course meals for her husband’s lunch box where everything is aesthetic and beautiful; all movements are practiced and graceful and calm and every inch of her beautiful home is pristine. And I’m just over here feeling like a gremlin because you can bet your ass if I’m awake and cooking short ribs at 5 am; it’s because I took my meds at the wrong time; I haven’t slept yet, and chances are something is on fire or about to be.
Watching this morning’s recommended video made me realize I have a love/hate relationship with these kind of videos. They’re basically catnip for my ADHD because yeah, they're meant to make you want to feel productive! They’re meant to be chill and aesthetically pleasing! And I’m sure some people can just enjoy them at face value. But they also make me feel wholly inadequate and a deep sense of shame over who I am and how I live that veers into the whole, “if you just tried harder” rhetoric that many of us with ADHD have been familiar with our whole lives. Where no one believes we already are trying our hardest. So much so that sometimes we even doubt it ourselves.
And I have to remind myself it’s not real life we’re being shown. It's the Instagram effect. It’s a daily routine filtered down into 15 minutes replete with ad breaks. Everything is staged. Each shot probably takes three or four takes to get. And we certainly don't see the outtakes. And I’m probably not the only one who needs to be reminded of that.
So just in case you need it:
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Id: an image of Carrie Fisher holding her phone up, implied to be looking on/recording whatever you’re doing with a look of approval and the caption “you’re doing amazing sweetie” underneath.
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earthling55 · 3 years ago
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An Unexpected Reunion
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Hi! So, this is my first Daemon Targeryen fic. I don't actually know the storyline that well, so if I make some kind of mistake, please let me know (politely). Aka, also why there is no synopsis here.
Warnings: implied physical abuse
I taste the blood before I even realize I’ve been hit. It leaves it’s awful coppery taste in my mouth, a bitter reminder of what my life has become.
I curse the day my father married me off.
I curse him.
It’s a shame he’s already dead.
A door slams somewhere in the distance, but I am yet to move from where I’m standing frozen in place, the effects of the slap still fresh on me. My body stuck in an uncomfortable position, head pushed away from the force of his fist.
The air feels dead.
Sometimes I wish I was.
……………………..
I do my best to cover the bruises. Thankfully, after all this time my dear husband has learned where not to hit me and so my face and arms are relatively clear.
There are far less questions that way.
Taking my place next to the others, I wring my hands out and avoid the ever growing glare of my husband from across the room as Daemon walks in.
I can hear the spiteful whispers of the other ladies over my high necked gown and gloves, so out of place next to their low cut, sleeveless gowns.
My eyes betray me, constantly straying to where he is.
Absently, I wonder what it would have been like if I would have said yes.
If I would have let him whirl me away on Caraxes years ago when he asked.
If I would still be covered in bruises then.
The wine flows freely at the feast that night. The joyful merrymaking drowning out my unlawful thoughts.
I watch him as he talks to his brother. Eyes taking in every inch of his face, from his violet eyes to his starkingly white hair.
Memories flash through my mind.
My hands fondling through those soft locks. Scorching looks given over rooms packed full of people. Hot breath ghosting over bare skin.
He meets my eye from across the room. Just a fraction of a second and then it’s gone, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
I down the rest of my wine in one gulp. Steadfastly ignoring the way my hand shakes as I set it down and leave the room.
I clutch my dress with an iron grip, hands hidden neatly in the many ruffles of the blood red gown as I rush forward.
Heavy footsteps thunder behind me, and my heart jumps to my throat as I hurry along.
They get louder, and before I know it, a strong hand is gripping my arm and I’m struck back against the cold stone wall.
I flinch at the cold contact, a bit too harsh as is evident by the concern that flashes through Daemon’s light purple eyes. But then it’s gone, and again, I tell myself I just imagined it.
‘Y/n,’ he whispers, mouth a hairs breath away from mine as he shamelessly looks me up and down.
I pray he doesn’t comment on my high collared dress, or, God forbid, lower it to expose the mirage of colors that lie underneath.
It feels as if he’s sucking up all the air around us. My throat constricts, and just as I feel I’m gasping for air, he backs off.
I’m about to question if he’s okay when a loud clang sounds from down the hallway.
I take the opportunity to escape, but before I can the same strong hand grips my elbow.
‘Midnight. Our spot.’
I don’t even have to think twice to know what he’s talking about.
His voice is stern, commanding. Leaving me no room to argue. I nod minutely, just enough to give my confirmation and make him let me go.
He releases my sleeve with an audible sigh and turns around.
I stay there, frozen in the hallway and wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into.
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Short part 1, but there will be a part 2!
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skinnyfeedist · 3 years ago
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So...now that the weight gain has started getting umm, noticeable, are you going to cut back on the overeating? Or are you liking that cute little gut too much to stop? Be honest😏
Alright. It'll be a long answer and none of you will like it.
I did gain an awful lot of weight in just a few weeks. The fact that it's been so quick makes it so much more noticeable and I am truly loving every new inch. But I'm not a real gainer.
I'm not saying I gained all of the weight unintentionally. I gained a bit after I was eating fastfood a few days in row because I didn't have time for anything else. And then, when that ended, I still continued to eat fastfood almost every day - this time just because I wanted to. I knew very well what it would do to my waistline. I also stopped being active.
It took about a week without moving too much, stuffing myself with fatty meals and drinking sweet drinks and BOOM! I have this massive pot belly! I can't even suck it in and my pants don't fit anymore. My empty belly looks bigger than my full belly did two weeks ago and that is so incredible! I often wish for it to continue like this.
I enjoy everything about the new pudginess. In such a short time I got to get out of shape, outgrow some of my clothes, increase my apetite so much and it also managed to shock some people.
BUT here comes the reality. I can't keep this extra weight, and I don't want to. You see, it happens sometimes that I get a bit chubby, sometimes on purpose just to enjoy myself. But I can't go on like that.
I used to be realy big a long time ago (multiple times actually, my weight just went wherever it wanted). And it was enough for me to know that it's not for me. Even when I was a child I loved being soft and pudgy, I even enjoyed being fat shamed by others. I still feel like that. I tend to let myself go just to get a taste of it. But outside of this blog and my fetishes, I have a life which doesn't go well with being overweight. The big picture just doesn't work with the excess softness and heavy body. Maybe someday I'll settle down and let myself get bigger than ever. But not anytime soon.
Right now, I plan to overindulge a bit longer, enjoy being plump and glutonous. Then, I guess, I'll slow down and that time will come again when I forget about this blog for some time and come back when I'm feeling ready again...
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earlgreydream · 4 years ago
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october 2nd
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🍁 Professor — Kylo Ren (Star Wars VII-IX)
content warnings: professor/student,coercion, abuse of power, sadism, slight dubcon
He spoke of Shakespeare, recalling tales of star-crossed lovers, of two households, both alike in dignity, and of civil blood and civil hands. You were enamoured. And how could you not be? He reminded you of a Shakespearean romance hero himself, with gleaming dark eyes and dark curly hair that framed a sculpted face. 
You often found your thoughts wandering during class. As his deep symphonic voice wove stories to life, your gaze was trained on his full lips, imagining he was the prince in the story. You were lost in Kylo, swept up in his charm, just like many innocent girls before you.
You were naive to think he didn’t notice. Kylo saw you every day, seeing the way you watched him with bright, innocent eyes, hanging on every word that left his mouth. You were so precious, sitting in the front row and giving him a nice view down your little sundress whenever you leaned forward. He wondered if you did it on purpose, but no, you were far too innocent and sweet to do something so devious. 
He couldn’t keep his thoughts from wandering to you. It was sick, you were his student. He shouldn’t have pictured you on your knees whenever he touched himself in the shower. He shouldn’t have imagined your mouth around his thick cock, tears slipping down your cheeks as you gagged on his length. 
.
“Meet me after class, please.” 
Your heart sank as he returned your exam, one you’d barely passed. Tears burned in your eyes, though you refused to let yourself cry, your throat aching as you swallowed a sob. The harsh C written in red ink was like spilled blood on the exam, nearly as red as the shame burning through you. 
.
Kylo Ren’s office door closed behind you with a heavy thud. 
The disappointment in his dark eyes made you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole, rescue you from the misery of the tension in his small office. It was warm, and filled nearly to the brim with books. So many, in fact, that they spilled off of the shelves onto piles on the floor, covering nearly every inch of space, other than his wooden desk and the small chair in the corner. 
“Professor Ren, I-”
“Would you like to tell me what on earth happened with this exam? You come to class every day, what is it that keeps you from learning?”
You swallowed. 
“I don’t know, Professor,” you breathed, your voice trembling, your eyes trained on the frills of your socks. You felt like a child being scolded. Kylo loved it, seeing you vulnerable and peek.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you. I suspect you’re lying.”
Your eyes snapped up as his deep voice uttered the command, making you subconsciously squeeze your thighs together. Kylo noticed, his gaze darting to your thighs, barely covered by your short sundress. 
“I’m distracted by you. I pay attention to you, sometimes my mind wanders from the lecture,” you finally confessed, realizing there was no way out of this.
The corners of his full lips turned up, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. Your chest was rising and falling quickly, your anxiety and his heavy gaze leaving you breathless. He was leaning against his desk, just about a foot in front of you, and he reached forward and wrapped his large hand around your wrist, tugging you closer to him. The action pulled a quiet squeal from your lips, and your hands flattened against his muscular chest to steady yourself. 
“What if I told you that I think about you, too? I think about your tight little body when I touch myself,” his deep voice made you melt, the filthy words having arousal leaking down your legs.
Your lips parted, but you were speechless, staring up into his eyes. 
“We could forget about that C on your exam.”
“I’ll do anything,” you begged, desperate to be back in his good graces, throbbing with need. 
He gently slid the delicate straps off of your shoulders, letting the fluttery material fall, exposing your breasts to him. Strong hands came up to gently grope your soft skin, pulling a whine from you. 
“Anything? Even let your professor fuck that tight little snatch?” he sneered, dipping a hand beneath your skirt to cup your pussy, feeling how warm and wet you were. 
“Yes, Professor Ren, please.” You were mesmerized by how large and warm his hand was, grabbing all of you as if you were tiny. 
Before you could process another thought, Kylo flipped you around, bending you forward over the edge of his desk and pulling your dress up around your waist. He tugged his tie from his neck, binding your wrists behind your back. He admired the way your ass was bent up in the air, clad in only a tiny lace thong. He slipped it from your body, putting it in the inside pocket of his blazer. 
The sudden show of force startled you, planting seeds of hesitation and doubt in your head. You tugged at your wrists, finding that the tie had no give, leaving you helpless at his mercy. His large body more than covered yours as he bent over you, keeping your body against the cold wood of the desk. Chills bloomed over your skin, replacing the feeling of being too warm. 
You tensed as you felt him rub the head of his cock through your folds, preparing himself to sink into his pretty, innocent, naive little student. He was huge, much bigger than you’d anticipated, a burning spreading through your muscles as he pushed deeper, forcing you to take him until he’d buried himself with his hips against your ass. Your breaths came out in sharp pants, mixing with pained whimpers as your hands tugged fruitlessly at the bonds, unable to do anything to alleviate the discomfort. Your panicked inhales brought a smirk to his face, as you squirmed like a trapped animal, unable to escape. 
“Hush, darling. I know it hurts, but you can take it. Be a good girl and please me.”
He took some pity on you, though he found it arousing to watch you wriggle and mewl on his cock. A large hand dropped under you, thumbing gently at your clit. The painful stretch dissipated into waves of sickening pleasure, leaving you moaning and squirming on top of the desk, arching up against his unyielding form. 
“Fuck, your little cunt was made for me. Why don’t you drop out of school, huh? Become my personal, full-time flashlight. No thoughts in that dumb little head of yours, just working to please your professor properly.” 
A moan tore from your throat in response to his filthy, degrading words. Part of you struggled, but Kylo felt the way your cunt clenched at the idea. Images of you on your knees, naked and bound and waiting to serve him, had arousal leaking over his cock, dripping down your thighs. 
Your muscles began to tense as you fought off an orgasm, not wanting to come embarrassingly fast as he split you apart on his massive erection. Head empty of thoughts, you let yourself sink into the pleasure, parting your legs a bit wider and allowing him an impossibly deeper angle. 
Kylo was close himself, feeling you tremor and tense around him, propelling the scholar toward ecstasy. His dark hair fell back when his head dropped, a guttural moan breaking through his full lips. He sounded primal, animalistic even, as he came inside of you, filling your vandalized cunt with evidence of his vulgarity. You felt it smear between your thighs, mixing with the mess as he pulled out, not giving a fuck about your own climax— one quickly fading into the distance, an unfulfilled fantasy. 
His fingers slid through the slick coating your skin, gathering up as much as possible before pushing it back into your pussy, earning a broken, defeated moan from your lips. You ached, begging him wordlessly for more as you rocked back on his fingers.
“Did you think I was going to let you come? After that behavior? You get to come when you’ve earned an A.”
The slap delivered across your ass made you jolt. Humiliated tears pooled beneath your cheek on the desk, encouraged as he patted you pussy, as if praising you for taking him. Your euphoria crashed as post-orgasmic clarity hit you, suddenly flooding you with shame as you tried to get off the desk to get dressed.
You held distrust in your ability to stand up, your legs wobbling as you struggled with the ache. Your trembling fingers slid the flimsy straps over your shoulders and wrested the skirt down over your ass, wanting nothing more than to have your nakedness hidden from the sadistic professor that had coerced you.
“I believe you’ve earned a B on this paper. Come back after class tomorrow and see what you can do about extra credit.” 
“But-”
“But?” His tone was warning, daring you to protest him. 
Your jaw snapped shut in defeat, knowing you’d lost. Your professor held all of the leverage against you, your grades and future resting in the palm of his hand. Kylo Ren intended to exploit your body for it.
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plush-rabbit · 4 years ago
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Dirty Talking - Simeon
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A/N: Simeon lives in my mind rent free and I love him (this also loosely follows the kinks i have for him so if you haven't taken a look,,, well do it if you want to)
An angel, holy and above you, untouchable when the moonlight hits against his dark skin, and touchable when he lies beside you illuminated by a dying light bulb. Simeon's mouth is on your neck, a gloved hand covering your mouth as your lips circle his waist. His words cause your face to burn, a growing ache that pains your sex. He whispers, only able to describe how you look beneath and ignoring his own wishes and internal struggle. Simeon has been around for many years and due to the status that he holds, he’s used to giving- miracles and healing to the best of his ability and freedom. Praise has always been something that he’s given freely and been told. While he’s always given praise, after a while, it ran cold. Yet, with you, his praise is warm. It’s giving and warm.
"My little lamb," Simeon murmurs, eyes narrowed as his lips touch against your beating pulse, "so precious, and desperate for something to touch your sinful body." His hand edges closer to your pelvis, the soft fabric of his glove a tease as you pray for his bare hand to touch your trembling body. The gloved hand touches against your sex, the fingertips of the glove becoming translucent from your arousal. You jerk your legs, your stomach tightening as your heart begins to pound against your ribcage. “So excited for me to touch you,” he mutters, eyes becoming dark with lust. “My, my,” he breathes, licking lightly against your neck, feeling your pulse quicken, “I have to admit that your beauty is something that outshines the beauty of anything I’ve ever seen before.”
Simeon is caring. There's only so much he can do to prevent his own falling and sex happens to be a very thin line he can cross. Whether it's your first time with him or with anyone- it's his first time. He has moments where he’s slipped, fisted his hand around his cock and arched against a flat surface, near tears as his climax approaches. Of course, as an angel, he does want your virginity- he won’t shame you if you aren’t, but there’s this perverse side of him that wants you to be virgin to have you lay on your back begging for him to be gentle.
He can’t help the whine that escapes his lips when his cockhead enters your sweet, enveloping sex. "You truly are divine," Simeon whispers above you. Your eyes fill with tears, your bottom lip trembling and when he cups your face with a bare hand, your face is heated. “You needn’t worry, love-” his lips are against yours in a passionate kiss, a moan muted between the kiss as he pushes deeper inside of your clenching sex- “I’ll make sure it feels good.” He hides his face in the crook of your neck, feeling the beating heart beat against his cheek. Something slick drips down his twitching cock, his face taking on a vulgar expression as you moan pitifully beside him, your arms and legs wrapping around him. You call his name, whispering it below your breath, sullying the word of God with every thrust, dirting his own name with your wanton sounds of pleasure.
During emotionally intimate moments, the poet that Simeon is starts to come out. He is well-spoken, and has told you his feelings countless times, each phrase more beautiful than the last, more breathtaking than anything you’ve ever been told. But during more physically intimate moments, he will fall flat, stuttering ever so slightly during the romantic parts of it, edging closer and holding your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. He’ll tell you everything good, and want you to feel the warmth that you give to him. During a moment with you, he's sweet, kissing against your waiting body, praising you until the words are the only thing you can coherently think of.
His lips are sweet on your body, lips meeting skin and grazing you with everything pure like honey against sugar, a sweetness that can make your heart flutter and stomach ache from the foreign flavor. "I promise you," his breath is warm against his body and under the warm light from his room, the soft pale moonlight that peeks between the blinds, “I’d protect you with everything that I have.” He’s gentle, ever loving and pure, unfiltered as he kisses your lips, and when he opens his eyes, they glisten, tears falling onto your skin as he lets out a moan. “I’d rip my wings with my own bare hands if it meant that I could hold your hand.” Simeon is true, honest and familiar. “You needn’t worry about my actions, I know what I’m doing, my little lamb.”
Being an angel is tricky. There are areas where Simeon can wade further into the pool so long as it's closer to God themselves. He'll blindfold you, lay you bare on his bed, legs spread with candles lighting the room. Simeon will be above you, his hands roaming your body and inching deeper into your aching hole. He’ll feel your slick drip down his fingers and onto his knuckles, the loud clicking of your stretched hole echoing in the room. Your eyes are covered, not a seeing shed of light being penetrated through as Simeon purifies you.
“Now, what exactly do we say when an angel is choosing to purify you of your sins?” Always a strong soldier of God, never faltering but when it comes to you, he decides that you truly must be something sinister and accompanied with the life of Devildom, it only fueled the sin inside of you to taint the angel above you. Your thanks comes out in a shaky voice, tears wetting the fold that covers your eyes. Simeon tilts his head, eyes looking through your contaminated soul- dirtied with every sin that humanity has created, so depraved that you’re willing to recity yourself with the help of an actual angel. “Now then, confess your sins to me, my dearest.”
Simeon is an angel and while good, he can be tricky- harsh and unforgiving, merciless when you start to stray from your faith. As much as he cares for you- the sexual aspect of the relationship can ruin his standing as an angel, it might be enough for him to fall. There is a sinister side of him, one that is the true, biblical angel that Simeon is- one that wants absolute perfection and blest from you, that wants you to devote yourself to him. Following and loving an angel is enough to get you into the good place so long as he also commits to his role. But with you on your knees, he'll hold the back of your head, keeping your throat full as he tells you prayers, having you recite them when you come back for breath.
Eyes are watching your body, knelt of your knees, tears streaming down your face and your cheeks are flushed, a cute, innocent doe-eyed look on your face. “You come to me, heart heavy and soul full of all that is wicked.” His hands hold your hair tighter, the feeling of your fingertips pressing against his thighs. “I am allowing you to repent, please dear, I know you can listen and I know how well you are at taking orders so for all that is holy under God’s light, please don’t make me repeat my words.” His smile stretches widely, the fat of his cheeks pushing against his eyes. “I’m only going to repeat myself once, understood?” Your response vibrates against his cock, your mouth filling with an ethereal taste of something sweet. “Wash me from my guilt and cleanse me of my sin. I acknowledge my offense; my sin is before always. Amen.” When he pulls you away from his cock, spit and arousal stick like spiderwebs, to your tongue and chin.
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