WARNING, please read before you follow: This blog produces, reads, and reblogs nsfw as well as dark content (noncon/dubcon, somno, yandere, etc.) that will often be untagged. Alongside that, I may refuse to tag certain things simply because I don’t wish to. If my forgetfulness or refusal to tag something bothers you, or may lead to you being triggered, please feel free to block me.
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#my writing -> updated and moved to #strei.writes (will take you to everything fandom related that I have written; NOTE: does not filter out NSFW content)
#strei speaks -> updated and moved to #strei.speaks (the tag I use for when I post something that is NOT art or fiction; I also use it sometimes when I add a comment on a post)
#reply (the tag I use for responding to ALL asks)
#anon reply (the tag I use for responding specifically to anonymous asks)
#rebagel (I will reblog my own works every once in a while, and usually the day after I post, to keep things fresh)
NSFW content will not be tagged as this blog contains a lot of adult material
like the betrayal’s always going to be worse if they cared about you and it didn’t matter. someone discards you because they didn’t give a shit, then you can be angry about that, you can feel vindicated in that, you can get over it. but if they can look you in the eyes and say “I love you. I would make the same choice again.” You will never sleep peacefully again, is all.
“I thought they cared about me, but they were lying this whole time.” <- tired. boring. removes all the nuance of this relationship to make it easier to move on from.
“I thought they cared about me, and I was right, and every minute they were there for me, every time they said they were proud, every laugh we shared leaning against each other bruised and breathless, all of it was real. and they still left me behind. They could put their love aside. I couldn’t.” <- insane. will never leave you alone. reminds you that even the worst people are still people and can still care about even the ones they hurt the most and that undoes neither the harm nor the love.
✧Tw: Animal death as a metaphor (and as animal death)
You'd been a shepherd once.
Before Janusopolis had fallen and Okhema was overrun with refugees.
Golden fleeced sheep had wandered the verdant hillsides, and you- you had wandered amongst them. Hound by your side. Crook in your hand. Sun warm on your face and the silhouette of Okhema far behind.
You’d shorn even the strongest of them, flipping them with care onto their sides and tenderly running your blades over their fine hair. The weakest ones you’d fed from a bottle, cradled in your arms as though babes of your own. They had shimmered upon rocky ground like pearls of sunlight and meandered through tall grass like honey sweet dew.
The peace had felt endless. The horrors and tribulations of the world had seemed far away. You, alongside your flock, were small and insignificant and easily passed over by misfortune.
Until, one day, you'd been found. No rhyme. No reason. No warning.
Villages razed and families slaughtered. Forests desiccated and fields falling to no more than ash.
And your flock, golden and sweet and pure, a ringing final blow to innocence.
⟡☀︎⟡
Aedes Elysiae had been a small cove carved out within the greater world as well, your lover tells you. His fingers trailing along the curve of your spine. His breath stirring your hair. His eyes cast down.
There had been cattle and sheep and pigs, but none in his village had cared too intensely for the work of keeping livestock. The earth had been fertile. Wheat had grown rich in the fields. Fruit had hung heavy from their laurels. And the ocean- the ocean had been giving with her bounty.
There had been little need to raise life for slaughter in those golden days, he says.
Sickle in hand, he had reaped wheat from shaft. His mother had woven baskets for fish and for grain. His father had sailed home in the evenings laden with the day’s catch. Together they had lived a small and insignificant life.
He says this with a laugh. With a sigh. With wistfulness mingling alongside grief, wet in his eyes and trembling in the timbre of his voice.
You don't respond. In place of words that could never hope to reach across the gap of emotion and language, you cup his cheek in your palm. Time passes like that. Quiet and wounded.
Eventually your lover laughs and it's a soft sound. Full of apology. As though he's embarrassed to have wasted your time. It's no matter to you. The time would have passed anyways.
You tell him that you hope he can be insignificant once again. One day.
The hand at your back trembles and pulls you in close.
—
The Deliverer had come to save you.
The Deliverer had come too late.
Trapped below the earth, you had tended to your flock. Your hands bloodied. Your legs bruised.
They had nuzzled into you. Trusting and innocent. Their dark eyes implicit with faith as you'd apologized. Your voice had been laden with tears and mucous.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
Their blood had stained your hands. There had been no saving them. No way to haul three dozen injured sheep up the cliffside.
Alive. Not alive.
When the Deliverer had come to you, grief already shining in his eyes, you had asked him to bring you a blade. The sharpest he had.
He'd been shocked.
Did you not love your flock? Did they not love you back?
You had stared at him. His broken heart mirrored back in your gaze.
Did he think you would do this for any reason but love?
They had lain their docile heads upon on your lap and closed their eyes. The soft fur of their ears had tickled along the pads of your fingers as you ran each digit over them. Just as they had a hundred thousand times before.
You had called each by name. You would know them anywhere. By the musk of their bodies and the tender bay of their voice.
Darling.
Sweetheart.
Softest of hair and kindest of nature.
Most beloved of all beloved.
⟡☀︎⟡
When Flame Reaver catches you, it is in the home you have built with your lover. There’s a spare pair of shoes by the entryway made of thick Kremnoan leather. On the counter there are fresh vegetables picked just this morning. The curtain to hide off the doorway, bobbin lace twisted by hand, left open for the breeze.
He finds you standing on the balcony. Your gaze cast over the mountainside towards the sea. Behind you, Okhema is burning. Behind you the streets are running red. Behind you-
Flame Reaver steps through the doorway. You think that it’s a shame your lover never got a chance to break in those boots. Never made anything of the sprouts he had so excitedly helped nourished from seed.
You turn to see the bobbin lace, made of the finest of golden yarns, has been carefully pulled back over the doorway. Not a thread out of place.
Your name falls from Flame Reaver's lips and it is a sigh. It is a plea. It is a weeping.
You would know him anywhere. By the musk of his body and the tender bay of his voice.
⟡☀︎⟡
You had carried the weight of their bloodied wool upon your hands.
Sometimes you think you can feel the tack of their blood between your fingers where it had dried so many times. The way they had lain their heads into your palms and closed their sweet eyes. Their wool, like threads of sunlight, damp and dark beneath the weight of your violence.
Phainon flinches, his blue yes wet with tears. You speak to him softly.
This had to be done.
This was a mercy.
Your sheep would not live long. They would suffer if left otherwise. Illness and disease and hunger- all tragedies awaiting a helpless flock.
Better to be quick.
Better to be their final cruelty.
Together you had carried the weight of their still bodies up the cliff. Ropes and joists carefully bound together to lift them from the depths of the mountain. Ash had mixed with blood. The sand had wept scarlet.
Neither of you had spoken, though tears had fallen from the Deliverer’s eyes.
What a waste, he had mourned, as the two of you finally began to ascend - to join your flinted flock.
So many lives gone.
Not a waste, you’d reminded him and placed your hand upon his forearm. Still heavy with grief. Still tacky with blood. The two of you had stuck, unable to pull away from one another as he had stopped to look at you. Mourning and confusion in his eyes.
You had looked upon him kindly, if not with equal sadness.
Their wool would be shorn and spun.
Their meat boiled and eaten.
Their souls, each small and innocent and full of grace, beloved.
Not a single part gone to waste. Not a single drop left unsavored.
You had loved your flock, you told him. You loved them still.
Which was why your hand had not faltered as you’d committed your violent deeds.
They had lain their gentle lives beneath your palms in forgiveness- and in your love, you had not let them suffer. Better to let the sin of their blood spill over you than to let them suffer needlessly.
You could carry the weight of this.
You would love. And you would weep. And you would bear them forwards.
⟡☀︎⟡
You lay your head into your lover's palm. You close your eyes.
kaiser schedules his morning workouts so disgustingly early so that he has time to shower and then cuddle with you in bed afterward before he actually has to start the day
Kaiser initially likes that you get with him under bad terms, not that he knows how to get with someone under any other means. You're rebounding off of some debilitating heartbreak and so so so willing to take his cruelty and mean tendencies. You tell him that there are no feelings involved but he can tell you're lying. Not because you love him or want him or have some secret tender affections for him- no nothing as stupid as that. Something in you is hurting and rotten and sore- a wound that refuses to stop spitting out pain and infection- and he finds it absolutely delicious.
And you, terrible pathetic masochist that you are, can't help but goad him into tasting it. His lips on yours like nails over fresh scar tissue. Splitting you open to weep anew.
It's self harm, he thinks every night that you end up between his hands, for you to do this with him.
A good man would tell you to stop. Offer you things. A shoulder to cry on. A few words of reassurance. A condom.
Kaiser isn't a good person. He's not going to stop this tender scab of a thing between the two of you. You’re a grown ass woman and he gets off on the way you seem as if you’re on the verge of crying at every touch, every word, every fleeting glance. It doesn’t matter if he lays with you afterwards or leaves you alone to clean yourself off, he can hear the sniffles that fill the air either way. The first time the two of you had fallen into bed together, you’d wept openly and he- he had smiled. All teeth and predatory interest.
He’d broken his no doubles streak for you out of sheer exhilaration. You’d been fun. You’d been exciting. You’d been a whole new experience.
If you want Kaiser to hurt you, he'll do so happily.
At least. He does initially.
There's no singular moment that changes the dynamic between the two of you. It's instead a cascade of small instances. Microexpressions of tenderness. Fleeting moments of gentle affection. A tone shift in the way you say his name- a sound that slips into his chest like a splinter beneath the skin.
You just can't seem to help yourself.
You, still aching and breaking and rotting, grow soft on him. Warm and sweet. Not like a lover, but like a fractured thing leaking honey sweet affection. There is so much love in you that does not know where to go- it overflows. It squeezes out of the cracks in your crumbling walls. It spills onto him and when he goes to clean it off it lingers in his mouth.
(It is sweet so sweet. He aches for more. He spits it out. It satiates. It makes him hunger in a way that hunger never used to describe)
You cradle his head when he rests it upon your chest, fingers combing through flaxen strands until his eyes slide closed.
You turn to kiss the insides of his wrists when he lifts his hand to rest it on your head, your cheek, your throat.
You whisper his name under your breath, so soft that it barely rises above the thrum of his own heartbeat.
Michael. Michael. Michael.
No wonder you'd come to him so broken hearted, if this is what happens when you try to hold yourself back. He can imagine how flayed open you’d been for your previous lover.
(When you’re asleep in his bed and he turns his head to look up at you he thinks that he could have you like that. Flayed open. Chest spread wide. He thinks of how warm it would be to tuck himself between your ribs. To rest his cheek upon your heart, scarred and broken and still still relentlessly beating and bleeding. In the quietest moments of the night he thinks that he could give you one final scar in the shape of his fangs. There would be no other hands daring enough to dig nails into it. No other hands able to reach beneath your ribs or under your skin while he curls up inside of you. Ready to bite. Ready to savage. Ready to maul. The thoughts come to him like gentle dreams in the dark and haunt him like nightmares in the day.)
(He could keep you safe)
(He could keep you)
Kaiser gets meaner. Colder. Hotter.
You take it all in stride. He can see the way his words cut into you. The way his actions dig teeth into old, unhealed wounds. When he pushes you away you make a fleeting expression as if he has pressed a thumb into a bruise still purple-black with agony. You don’t complain. Don’t demand an apology or explanation. This is what you wanted anyways, right?
Something that hurts.
You’re crying beneath him, his palm resting on your tummy and his tongue buried in your cunt, when he comes to the startling realization-
Kaiser doesn’t want to be something that hurts you.
Not like this.
You make a confused sound when he pulls away. Tears slide down the sides of your face and into your hair as you open your eyes to look at him. For a moment he doesn’t know if you’re seeing him or someone else. If your tears are for him or for the ghost of some past lover.
It makes him unfathomably angry.
In retaliation he bites the inside of your thigh until you squeal. Sucks until your skin discolors and he knows, KNOWS, those pathetic little cries are for him. If you’re crying he wants it to be for him.
His barely assuaged pride prickles once again when he glances up and sees that you’ve screwed your eyes shut.
He wants you to look at him.
Look at him.
Look at him.
Kaiser seethes over you, one forearm bracing itself against the pillow beside your head. His other hand grabs you by the jaw and turns your head.
“Look at me.”
You open your eyes. Wet and shining with tears. Confusion and uncertainty swimming in equal measures.
It’s too much. He doesn’t want that much thought in your head. You shouldn’t be thinking at all. The only thing he wants in your pretty brain is the firing of your nerves. The overwhelming cacophony of pleasure so bright it burns into pain.
And him.
Only him.
“Look at me.”
He doesn’t give you any opportunity to turn away as he presses the flushed and dripping head of his cock to your pussy. The pinch of his thumb and forefinger across your jaw keep you from objecting as the raw heat of him slowly buries into you. The stretch and warmth searing as he uses the breadth of his body to keep you trapped in place.
Kaiser takes you slow and deliberate, scrutinizing every tiny expression you make as he carves himself into you over and over again. The flutter of your lashes. The twist of your brows. The way your eyes shine with tears that spill over your cheeks. He refuses to relent, even as you whimper and cry for him to let you go.
You’re vulnerable like this. Trapped on your back with your belly exposed. Appraised relentlessly like prey.
Seen. For the first time. Not just as a broken thing to play with, but as something that Kaiser realizes that he wants.
He’s vulnerable like this. Looming over you with his belly exposed. Enraptured relentlessly by prey.
The tears slick your hair to the sides of your head when you cum. Still, he doesn’t let you turn away from him. Refuses to give you reprieve as he grinds his cock into you and you beg him to stop. To slow. To give you a moment’s rest (from the scrutiny, from the pleasure, from the horrible vulnerability that is searing the both of you alive).
When he finally comes, he takes your hand into his. The painful memory of his grip on your jaw echoes into the kiss he presses into you. Your hips jolt as the warmth of his spend spills into you, his pelvis rocking into yours and setting your sore muscles alight.
Everything aches. Not as an echo in someone else’s scar tissue-but as a wound all his own.
Ship dynamics are always like Sunshine and Sunshine protector~ Cinnamon roll and their grumpy one 🤗 Well what about 2 cunts. They're both cunts and that's the dynamic. cunt4cunt.
four line sentences are good and okay. its cool. you dont need to end your setnence or that thought! add another comma or an em dash. everything will be okay. it makes sense and flows well. #awesome #mybehemothsentence
