#tseorphic

[tseorphic]

vibrating at the genius of the story playing in my head.

remembers I can't telepathically download it to my phone

realizes I gotta write it down to actually read it

proceeds to write for 20 hours straight, fueled by caffeine and then leave it unfinished

REMINDER to myself

EITHER WRITE THAT FUCKING MASTERPIECE DOWN OR FOREVER BE HAUNTED BY ITS UNWRITTEN GLORY

[tseorphic]

THE GAMBLE OF SLAUGTHER

excerpt from my series

his solace, his sin, his escape;

original charcaters: iznek mehdin x kiasta iyandika

dark low fantasy, original story

cw: smut, shower sex, cheating (sort of, not really), heartbreak, mentions misogyny and sexism, nipple play, emotional sex

They asked, "do you love him to death?"

I said, "speak of him over my grave and watch how he brings me back to life"

He feels... good.

Water trickles down my spine, lukewarm and indifferent, barely registering against the inferno he has ignited inside me. 

Tiles press into the small of my back, cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the heat blooming in my core. 

I do not flinch. Not now.

Not when he is like this.

He is a beautiful contradiction, a storm wrapped in a sleepy whisper.

Every movement, deliberate and hurried, speaks volumes.

The way his pale, slender fingers dig into my hips, leaving imprints that will probably bloom into bruises by morning, tells a story of possessiveness.

Not ownership, never ownership with him. It is a desperate plea for anchorage in this chaotic world, a silent "do not let go."

Do not let go? 

We are both drowning, just clinging to different pieces of the wreckage.

This, this desperate, raw connection, a fleeting moment of respite before the undertow drags us under again.

I know the drill.

Yet, here I am, arching back against the cold tiles, a whimper escaping my throat as he hits a particularly sweet spot. My nails dig into his toned arms, white crescents against the pale skin.

A silent plea of my own, a desperate "hold me together" even as I know it is a losing battle.

He grunts, a low, guttural sound that sends shivers down my spine. Not with fear, but with a twisted sort of longing. 

It is the rawest form of communication we have, a language forged in stolen moments like this.

No empty promises, no declarations of forever. Just the raw truth of our bodies locked in a desperate dance.

There is a vulnerability in this silence, a terrifying vulnerability.

We both know the score.

This Is not a fairytale, there is no happily ever after for broken things like us. 

He is a ghost in my life, a recurring dream that leaves me gasping for air when I wake up.

And I am a moth, drawn to the flame again and again, knowing it will only singe my wings.

But right now, in this moment of shared oblivion, the thought fades.

The world shrinks to the press of his body against mine, the frantic rhythm of our breaths, the shared symphony of grunts and moans. 

And even as the ache in my heart intensifies, a counterpoint to the feverish pleasure coursing through me, I can not help but think – for a fleeting, fragile moment, I feel almost whole.

Almost.

My fingertips trace constellations on the smooth expanse of his back, a desperate attempt to map a territory I am about to lose.

Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, is a silent plea for an extension, a renegotiation of this cruel deadline.

Tomorrow, a diamond ring will brand him as another's. A symbol of loyalty, a promise whispered under the promise of forever. 

He tenses beneath my touch, a flicker of something that might be guilt, might be frustration, crossing his face.

He swats my hand away, a single, dismissive gesture that speaks volumes.

His thrusts become frantic, a desperate attempt to outrun the inevitable.

He slams into me, but there is a distance now, an emotional chasm that even the press of our bodies can not bridge. 

I let him. 

What is the point of a fight? 

He is a moth to a different flame now, a flame that promises warmth, security, love and family. 

Everything I can not give him.

I am the dying ember he once sought, a flicker of forbidden excitement now replaced by the comfort of the mundane.

A choked sob escapes my throat, a pathetic counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of water against the shower stall.

Tears sting my eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his throat tightens with each frantic thrust.

Is it pity I see there?

Or maybe a flicker of regret, a fleeting pang for the wild, reckless passion of the forbidden? 

It feels more real than ever. Like a dying star, burning brightest right before it collapses in on itself.

A jolt of sharp pain lances through me as he bites my nipple, a searing counterpoint to the blossoming heat blooming in my core.

I gasp, a strangled moan escaping my lips.

Whore.

The word hangs heavy in the air, a judgmental echo from a life I both crave and despise.

Unmarried, unblessed, a scarlet letter burning invisible on my skin.

But Kaizan ... He is a beautiful oblivion, a drug I crave with a desperation that borders on self destruction.

Men.

Society pats them on the back for their conquests, celebrates their insatiable appetites.

Yet, here I am, the only woman to ever grace his bed, the sole recipient of his forbidden desires. A secret both thrilling and isolating.

"Kai- Kaiz- Kaizan," I plead, my voice thick with a desperate mix of pleasure and surrender.

My pleas hang unanswered, lost in the symphony of ragged breaths and the frantic rhythm of our bodies. His grip tightens on my hips, a possessive hold that borders on cruel. 

Pain? 

There is no room for pain when he is like this, a storm brewing beneath the calm façade. 

I feel alive, undeniably alive. Not in the righteous, sanctioned way society dictates, but in a raw, primal way that makes my soul sing a forbidden song.

Is it wrong? 

My back throbs with a dull ache, a symphony of pleasure induced pain that stretches along the curve of my spine where it repeatedly met the unforgiving wall.

Each thwack against the cold surface is a tiny betrayal, a reminder of the limitations of this stolen space.

It does not matter. 

My breasts, the usual targets of his gentle affection, are now a battlefield. His teeth rake across the sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of sharp nips that sting and spark desire in equal measure.

His tongue, once a soothing caress, now explores with a relentless hunger, mirroring the frantic urgency in his movements.

These are not bruises of shame, these are love letters written in fire, a testament to the raw, unadulterated passion that consumes us.

The pain, yes, the pain. 

It is a strange companion in this forbidden dance. 

It is a reminder, a grounding force amidst the swirling vortex of pleasure. A masochistic part of me welcomes it, a confirmation that this is real, that I am not just a figment of his imagination, a fleeting fantasy before he returns to his sanctioned life.

My nails dig into the taut muscles of his back, not with malice, but with a desperate need to anchor myself to this fleeting moment.

He hisses, a sharp intake of breath that mingles with his hot gasps against my ear.

His arms, usually secure and steady, now tremble slightly beneath my thighs as he hoists me off the ground, my legs instinctively wrapping around his trim waist.

The erratic rhythm of his thrusts speaks volumes. Gone is the controlled precision of our usual encounters, replaced by a primal urgency that borders on desperation.

Each slam of his hips sends shivers down my spine, a delicious counterpoint to the aching pleasure blossoming within me. 

He is reaching, searching for something, some elusive peak that hangs just out of reach.

His mouth abandons my breasts, the heat of his breath now searing the sensitive skin of my neck. 

He is frantic, a caged animal finally given a taste of freedom. And I, the unwitting warden, find myself both enthralled and terrified by the power I hold over him.

The knowledge that this freedom is temporary, a stolen moment in the grand scheme of things, adds a bittersweet tinge to the pleasure. 

He will leave soon, return to his life of propriety and expectation. But for now, in the confines of this hidden space, I am his everything – his solace, his sin, his escape.

Water droplets cling to my lashes, blurring the world into a kaleidoscope of glistening light.

I squeeze them shut tighter, shutting out everything but the inferno raging within me.

Pleasure, raw and untamed, claws its way up from the epicenter, a tidal wave threatening to drown me in its intensity.

He fuels the fire, a relentless force consuming me from the inside out.

My fingers, slick with sweat and mingled desire, tangle in his wet hair, a desperate anchor in this storm of sensation.

Each thrust ignites new sparks, sending tremors through my body that translate into breathless moans that escape my lips in a feverish torrent.

Our bodies writhe in a tangled mess, slick and wet, a carnal tapestry woven with urgency and raw passion.

"Our death," he once called it.

A morbid joke for a feeling that bursts forth from me like a supernova.

But in his arms, under the relentless assault of his touch, death feels like the furthest thing from it.

Here, in this hidden sanctuary of sin, I transcend the numbness that has become my constant companion.

I am alive, undeniably, exquisitely alive.

The world shrinks to the press of his body against mine, the frantic rhythm of our breaths, the symphony of moans and gasps that fill the air.

He tenses, a tremor running through his body, and I know the end is near.

My own climax mirrors his, a white hot explosion that rips through me, leaving me breathless and trembling in its aftermath.

A wave of sweet oblivion washes over me, momentarily erasing the weight of the world on my shoulders. 

As the aftershocks of our shared climax fade, a sense of bittersweet contentment settles in. He will leave soon, melt back into the life he is expected to lead. 

And as I open my eyes, the water droplets on my lashes shimmer like tiny diamonds.

The world tilts, a dizzying descent as his grip on my hips loosens. My breath catches, a strangled gasp as the unforgiving tile floor meets my back with a jarring thud.

The air whooshes out of me, a physical manifestation of the emotional free fall I am experiencing. 

He does not move away completely, though.

His body presses against mine, a welcome weight in the sudden emptiness. 

He is slumped over too, bracing himself against the cold, damp wall. Silence descends, heavy and thick, broken only by the ragged rhythm of our breaths echoing in the tiny confines of the shower stall.

His kisses fall on my skin, featherlight and apologetic. They whisper promises unspoken, apologies for the roughness, the desperation that colored our encounter.

But apologies can not erase the vulnerability I feel now, exposed and spent.

His fingers trace patterns on my back, a slow, meandering exploration that speaks volumes. 

It is a return to a familiar tenderness, a reassurance that the storm has passed, leaving behind a bruised but strangely beautiful calm.  

He does not only feels good...

He feels right.

[tseorphic]

23

reach out by @tseorphic

[tseorphic]

16th:

brown eyes by @tseorphic

brown eyes are the most underappreciated gift bestowed upon humanity

the first digital art i ever shared online

I'm very busy and this is a very small piece i worked on yesterday to distract myself.

DON'T REPOST. Reblogs are appreciated. Give credits if you use. Don't remove the credits.

[tseorphic]

HOW TO STEAL THE MOON

an unrevised snippet from my series...

The world always dims whenever I squeeze my eyelids shut, but the echo of Mom's words always hangs heavy, like cobwebs in a mausoleum. "Change stings," she would say, a martyr to her own truisms, "The pain is proof you are alive. It is supposed to hurt." 

Everyone nods along, a morbid fan club to the symphony of suffering. They wear their scars like badges of honor, trophies from battles fought within. Cracks in their facades, supposedly beautiful testaments to some grand metamorphosis. But to me, it is all grotesque performance art, a never ending freak show of self flagellation disguised as growth.

The "why" and "how" circle my head like hungry vultures. Why is progress this relentless meat grinder, chewing us up and spitting out… something? And how do we navigate this hurricane brewing in our chests? Mom's answer, ever the pragmatist of the apocalypse, was a shrug and a hollow, "You just do. There is no other way."

Then, a bloom emerges from the wreckage, a sickly, pale flower pushing through the debris of the past eight years. Eight years. Eight agonizing rotations of the Earth, each one carving a deeper chasm in our connection, a grand canyon of estrangement. Eight years of a gaping hole in my chest that throbs with a dull, relentless ache.

This is not some cosmic middle finger pointed directly at me. It is a universal truth, as indifferent and cold as the stars flickering out one by one, like dying embers in the vast emptiness. The universe does not give a rusty fuck about whether I bloom or wither, does not even blink as it spins us all towards oblivion, a giant, rusty machine on a suicide mission.

And in that horrifying realization, a strange peace washes over me. It is not about me, not anymore, because it never was. It is about surviving the relentless onslaught, about clinging to the wreckage until my fingers turn white and numb. 

[tseorphic]

HE, MY ONLY MUSE.

Life blooms vibrant and beautiful, like a rose unfurling its petals to the sun, only to wither and crumble back to dust. We are no different – fleeting bursts of color against the vast indifference of existence.

The world whispers secrets in a language we only learn through the cracks in our childhood wonder. We cling desperately to the things that ignite a spark within us, because in the grand scheme, what else is there to hold onto?

Tonight, the wind howls a mournful song, a lament for all that is lost. Listen closely, for it carries the echoes of forgotten dreams and whispered promises. It speaks of a time when the world held endless possibilities, and love, like a shooting star, blazed bright across our naive hearts.

But love, like a spilled cup of wine, stains our hands with its bittersweet memory. In my palm, a crimson echo of a muse, the one and only who ignited a fire in my soul. Now, only the ashes remain.

We chase understanding, like children chasing butterflies, only to find it a fleeting wisp that disappears the closer we get.

He, the one who ignited the spark of creation within me, my muse, my only muse, is gone, dust to dust, like the flower, like the wind’s song.

We are all transient whispers, flickering flames in a boundless dark. But oh, for those brief moments, the world burns so very bright.