musing blog

let⠀no⠀word⠀be⠀spoken⠀in⠀vain

[etheryls]

he   gift—wraps   self-sacrifice   and   calls   it   love;   he   has   never   known   how   to   love   any   other   way.   he   has   never   given   his   heart   in   scraps——   it   has   always   been   laid   bare，   whole   and   beating，   on   the   altar.

aesthetic sideblog @halothes

[whatthehellisgoingon9374-deacti]

I get my news from the only reliable source, cryptic symbolism in my dreams

[cavarage]

just vibes (aesthetics) → (1/?) saints and sinners.

[poemsforpersephone]

PERSEPHONE: i still wonder whether my fall was for or from freedom. they keep rewriting my life and there are only so many times i can rehearse these lines. ICARUS: i think the fall itself is its own kind of freedom, its own release. embrace the way your heart plummets and then rises stronger. rinse and repeat. if your memory fails know that your courage will not. PERSEPHONE: but did i jump? or was i pushed? all i know now is the whistle of wind in my ears  and how the ground always rushes to greet me. i feel like i am forever falling with no way to crash land. ICARUS: think of it this way; if midair is constant you do not fall. you fly. it doesn’t matter how far away the stars seem, nor how close the ground likes to pretend that it is.  [persephone pauses in all but descent, indecisive] ICARUS: if it helps, you are not alone. there are those of us who were born to fall, born to follow the flow of the wind or the changing tides as simply as Atlas balances the earth or as easily as Aphrodite loves. remember, once you accept the journey you can at least begin to enjoy it.

l.s. | PERSEPHONE and ICARUS on the concept of falling vs flight © 2018 

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“I am far from you, but I can dream of you.”

— Victor Hugo, from a letter to Adèle Foucher written c. March 1822

[etheryls]

[ mirror ] sender takes receiver in front of the mirror so they can both watch from blade. because he would.

the halovian's breath falters just for a moment. caught somewhere between control and something far less composed. his golden gaze lifts and meets itself in the mirror. sunday's body remained rigid, maintaining that characteristic composure even as blade's thick length continued to stretch him open. the contrast between his usual composure and the thoroughly debauched position he found himself in was stark.

❛❛  i...  ❜❜ his voice cracks, barely audible but there. his hands tighten against the sheets beneath them, fingers curling as though they might anchor itself. it doesn't work. the delicate wings at the sides of his head tremble slightly as one of the stud earrings catches the dim light of the room.

in the mirror, he sees his nude form, usually so pristine, now softened by disarray. his silver hair has fallen out of place, his breath is uneven, and his composure is slipping. behind him, his lover, whose bandaged hands move possessively over his body.

❛❛  blade... ❜❜     the name leaves him like a prayer. his back arches, seeking and betraying him. even as his mind clings to his dignity and control, his body does not listen. even as he spoke, his hips shifted to accommodate blade's movements. golden hues fixed on the mirror, pupils dilated with arousal as he held their reflection, unable to look away from the intimate scene. the wings rustled again, folding partially against his head, a telltale sign of his embarrassment even as pleasure continued to build within him.

❛❛  ah... haah... ❜❜ the sound escapes before he can stop it. his lips parted as he struggled to breathe steadily. warmth rises to his face. his hand lifts, leaving the sheets to find blade's wrist. not to push away but to hold. his thumb was tracing the bandages on the wrist absently. through their reflection in the mirror it looks something akin to a dream, beautiful and obscene all at once.

@faeloriah ⸻   send an unprompted charmony bird. always accepting.

[askthepandoranhero]

I didn’t do this for glory, or fame, or fortune.

I did this because I was so sick of seeing people around me suffer and hurt and die for no reason other than “that’s the way it is”.

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

Broke: Kind, helpful, idealistic character who is eventually broken by learning that the world is really a cruel place.

Woke: Kind, helpful, idealistic character who already knows the world is a cruel place and is determined to drag it back to decency inch by inch if they have to.

[etheryls]

"Please." Low and full of need, hands clawed into silk, restrained at his sides with nothing but his own will and the weight of Sunday's expectations. They're the only part of him that remains unmoving, body slick and sinuous as he squirms across the sheets, overwhelmed. There is only a soft hum from above, a gentle touch to his cheek — — the stroke of slender fingers down the nape of his neck a nail skimming the space between two overlaid scales. Xun heaves a wail that trails into a whine, hazy, thin-pupiled eyes peering upward sheened with tears. He's wicked. He's wonderful. He smiles, thin and knowing, and nuzzles into the crook of the dragon esper's neck. Xun remembers to use his words, but only barely, lids fluttering as he swallows saliva to slur syllables out through lips that still feel too dry. "Ah... it's too much — I know I wanted more but..." Leave it to his little hawk to teach him a lesson, like this, about his own greed, his penchant for indulgence. (He's learned nothing, and they both know it, but it's long past time for the pretense of remorse.) "Please, please," a trembling gasp, thighs splayed wide as though the strength to cloister himself away from any further touch has left him entirely. (It's nothing more than an invitation to his ruin.) "Have mercy, xīn'ài."

sunday's gaze lowers, resting on xun with something soft at the edges and a hint of amusement. his fingers trail unhurriedly along the nape of the esper's neck down further to his spine, following like a quiet descent. as though tracing the line of a prayer written into flesh. he feels it then, that shiver. ( it pleases him more than it should. )

❛❛  hush now,  ❜❜     he says with a low voice. ❛❛  you need not beg.  ❜❜ a pause follows as his thumb lingers, barely grazing the skin. ❛❛  this is what you wanted, is it not ?  ❜❜ he leans in then, before a feather-light kiss brushes the shell of xun's ear in a fleeting and almost chaste manner.     ❛❛  you were the one who started this.  ❜❜

he lingers there, because this too is a kind of worship. his hands move again, smoothing over the curve of hips with a care that borders on reverence. thumbs tracing slow, circling paths at the hollow where body meets body and he listens to every breath, every small sound. a choir just for him.

❛❛  patience, xīn'ài,  ❜❜ the name is breathed more than it is spoken. teeth grazing lightly at the earlobe before retreating. ❛❛  for now consider this a reward for your ... enthusiastic participation,  ❜❜ and then he closes the distance. lips meeting xun in a kiss that is anything but restrained. he lingers there, deepening it just enough to steal breath and to swallow every soft sound that escapes.

his hips shifting in a rhythm that promises more than it gives.

@paramythas ⸻   send an unprompted charmony bird. always accepting.

[serapholy]

☥ @halothes asked: [ control ] sender takes full control, guiding receiver’s hands, body, and every motion

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒, 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏. Even angels that were fabricated to be reverent to others, never to themselves, commit the silent and invisible sin of wondering what it is like to be the object of adoration of someone— anyone. It is in the name of love that lips accustomed to sing the praises of divinity out of perpetual consecration acquaint themselves in this slow waltz of two: careful to not defile, measured to keep the other's dignity... eager to bask in a whirlwind of emotions that neither would expect to be active receivers of another's devotion on a personal level.

Long fingers intertwine with silver lock in a loose embrace that does not seek to crowd. It means to cradle and keep warmth. To feel closeness and the flutter of a heartbeat within your ribcage, against the palm of her hand. The saint delights on the softness of your lips, the taste of your mouth when pearl-like teeth cease to be an incumbrance betwixt even hotter tongues. The gentle shift of muscles underneath porcelain skin utter delectation every time her digits discovers one more pleasure she marks like a map within her mind. Manicured nails close slow and steady against a rose bud now perked from the moment's stimulation with one and only intent in mind: to please, to prove that you, too, are as worthy of worship as the god you pray.

Cartethyia feels the hand resting on her hip give a gentle squeeze, a warning she does not quite see as such yet. Nor does she see the plea in your aureate depths as they open, unsure how to give voice to something that has not manifested yet. Lapis lazuli irises soften when your hand covers hers, when your fingers intertwine with hers. Your lips press against them in a reverent kiss before guiding her hand to wrap around the pale column of your neck anew. The Holy Maiden sees no wrong in it. Not yet as lips reunite in another careful kiss, slowly rising in tempo and intensity. She gasps in your mouth as your hand presses one bloom after another on her skin, nigh invisible hairs rising in the wake of your touch from favorable stimulation.

Her embrace tightens ever so gently, chasing the sensation of your nomadic hands that reach the summit of voluptuous signs of femininity— marvelling in how her body, a long lost puzzle piece slots with yours with envious ease. The union of both bodies is merely the beginning of everything she seeks, as she, too, takes courage to make you feel as beloved as she does. This time, frail fingers cascade slowly down your back, memorizing every rise and fall of your immaculate skin. Fleurdelys doesn't want to stay behind as hot palms feel the plush of her inner thighs, thus she anticipates herself to the next move and traces the length of your virility with one finger first. Roseate lips curl in a knowing smile when the rhythm of your breathing changes, subtle as it is. Another finger follows the first, drawing the shape of a vein that crosses the length. She is captivated by the chain of reactions, enraptured of a want for more. So do her fingers curl around the base of the manhood, ready to please— if it weren't because your hand rests atop hers once again.

The message is clear now: you want her to halt her attempts to please you. Nevertheless, that leaves nothing but silent confusion that reflects within cornflower irises. Did she do something wrong? Should she stop? Before giving the chance to more questions to rise within the confines of her mind, your lips meet hers in a chaste kiss. ◜Allow me, please.◞ No words could erase doubts better than those. Agitation and anxiety are washed away immediately as you step closer to her, hands on her hips to guide her to the bed. Her hands rest on your chest for purchase and for confirmation that she isn't just imagining things— that you truly wish to continue. As you lay her on the bed with the same care as cradling a wounded bird, it dawns on her: all this time, you sought to please, not the other way around. When she found the sensitive zone on your rising nipples, you evaded her hands but never sought separation. When she wanted to match your pace on your person, you did not push her away but verbalized your noble intentions.

Said declaration of intentions is not met without inner conflict of her own. For Cartethyia wished to show what it's like to be worshipped, to allow her to shower you in her love and devotion. Today doesn't seem to be the optimal day for that. But one day —she prays—, you may find it in yourself to permit yourself to be loved. So let her become the temple of your desires, instead. ◜Come to me.◞ Fill the empty gap of her arms as they surround you tenderly, aware that they must leave space for movement as you wish. Let her spread her legs as you intended before so she may welcome you entirely on to her. Listen to the aria that spills from her lips, as you open her like a book. Watch her melt into the gentleness of your fingertips as they discover the honeydew betwixt her folds.

May this become the cathedral of your wishes combined and one day you, too, allow her to chase the cold away until nothing more remains that isn't the enormity of her affection to envelop you.

[dvkev-alentino]

“All people are driven to the point of eating their gods, after a time.”

— Margaret Atwood, excerpt from Eating Snake

[sayyidakifalawi]

“Sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth because they don’t want their illusions destroyed.”

—

Friedrich Nietzsche

[words-and-coffee]

Let me tell you a story about hope it always starts and ends with birds

Victoria Chang, The Trees Witness Everything , Love Letters

[cryptotheism]

Stop memorizing my attack patterns. That's fucked up. Who let you do that.

[cryptotheism]

Mother fucker. You know what? I'm entering my second phase. Have fun with the choir arrangement of my theme ass hole.

[etheryls]

you will never be clean from sin. rotten children don't deserve heaven. there is no god who could give you your purity back.

[qilingxiong]

haha that's a nice starry-eyed ambition you've got there buddy. sure hope the narrative doesn't warp it into something ruthless and all-consuming

[wandering-whisperer-deactivated]

"I'll borrow of imagination what reality will not give me. "

~ Charlotte Bronte, Shirley