musing blog @etheryls - Tumblr Blog

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

#.pinned

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

#faeloriah #ship: sunren #leaves the convent to drop this and runs

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”.

#musings.

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.

#isms.

"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. )

#paramythas #ship: xunday.#he is being a tease #ending up with sunday in bed means you get subjected to a lot of bodyworship #and a lot of teasing if your name is xun it seems

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.

#saved.#casually saves it here because them