Bright Eyes

Em. Mid twenties. Queer. Poly. Kinky. These are some things I enjoy NSFW 18+ only please and thank you

[anothersh0tatlife-deactivated20]

Perfect set is perfect.

[ithelpstodream]

[vanilla-bean-babyy]

[1-800-garbage]

I’m super sexual but like also I’m super shy which don’t mix well

[vanilla-bean-babyy]

[arcusxx]

[southern-escape-deactivated2019]

𝕓𝕒𝕕 𝕓𝕒𝕓𝕪.

[5oil]

[nakedinasnowsuit]

Comfort.

[lovevanessa]

[despotsexpot]

💖

[flipphonegoth]

“god, you’re so tight” “thanks you’re pretty cool too”

[blackgirlhood]

[diesetdown]

I have to laugh

[thebookofloveislong]

@staff

[chrisweedpiano]

@staff

[taterthotcub]

@staff

[sleepy-chaos-cub]

@staff

[slutty-peanut]

@staff

[bethboxin]

Ron just got his howler from his mom yelling at him for stealing the car. He seems super embarrassed and most of the Great Hall is laughing. But here’s the thing:

Ron is 12 years old.

Ron stole a car.

Ron fucking stole a fucking car at the age of TWELVE.

I would not be laughing at him. Ronald Weasley is a fucking bad ass. When was the last time you jacked a car Malfoy? That’s what I thought. Bitch.

[dinosaurrainbowstarfish]

Harry woke up at 3 am, wrote this, and went back to sleep.

[yesemberposts]

I like two fingers inside of me, and five around my neck.

[savethebeesbby]

bdsm stands for

Bees Do So Much for the environment

[herdirtylittleheart]

She tells me her idea for her next painting while we’re texting. I love hearing her thoughts before they take shape on a canvas. It feels like a secret, hearing about someone’s future. She draws a quick sketch of how I should pose and sends it to me. I blush a little when I see it, already eager to please her. She lives in another city but she can make my pulse race from 300 miles away.

I strip down in the humid Summer air and sit on the floor, adjusting my phone so it’s at the right angle. I take off my glasses and shake my hair out of it’s ponytail, I hear the timer counting down. My cheeks turn pink as I spread my knees a little wider and think of her painting me like this, long pale strokes. I think of kissing her palms, pressing my lips to her fingers. I touch myself a little more as the camera clicks.

When I send her the pictures she’s running errands on a sunny afternoon. “I don’t know why, but they legit brought tears to my eyes,” her message replies. “I want to paint them over and over,” she gushes over the reference photos. I’m naked on the floor grinning like a fool, clutching my phone to my chest.

Two weeks later I’m sitting by the lake and my phone dings with a message. It’s a massive painting of me, hair tumbling down my shoulders, rubbing my clit, a feverish look on my face. I’m in awe. She’s put it beside her bed. She wants to paint one of herself in the same pose, placed on the other side, like bookends. Our bodies in pleasure standing guard as she sleeps. Separate but connected. I tell her we’ll take pictures when I visit of the two of us together, in her bed in between the paintings, tangled up in each other’s arms.