Seen on campus March 15th
I took one
Some of my favorite books are still the ones I got as strange presents or found randomly at a library never to be seen again
#15. Experimenting with a Variety of Greens. The Big Book of Painting Nature in Oil. Oil. January 7, 2022.
The book calls this one a complicated subject, no disagreement.
The steps: lay out darks then lights, render trunk and main branches, do the greens, finish the branches, touch up the greens focusing on lights and darks.
Well, here we go.
The first layer never feels right.
This painting didn’t come together for me until I did the branches.
One up. I like how the bark and branches came out. I was more focused on the photo than their example, which worked for the branches, not so much for the foliage where I needed more guidance.
One improve. Struggled with the leaves, and ended up with several different styled masses. There’s a look, or perhaps a level of detail I kept trying to get but never quite there.
Listening to: My Monticello by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson. The short story readings were particularly excellent.
oh is it the squirrels
I have a boyfriend, everybody clap for me
It gets a little tougher in the #winter to identify #trees in the #woods. It helps to know the bark…and of course #conifers . This northern white #cedar I found is a good example of both.
Steve Harrington x fem!reader
[2.1k] soft, fluff, bed sharing.
Hawkins was dark as you strolled through it, following the white lines that led you down the middle of the streets. Houses and manicured lawns closed you in, cars parked on driveways, bikes abandoned on front porches as your watch told you it was nearing one am.
You sighed as you rounded the corner, cursing under your breath at the Harrington residence as you noticed another two cars were parked beside your boyfriend’s burgundy BMW. The other two vehicles were gleaming, not overly familiar looking due to the trips out of town they regularly took with their owners but you kicked a rock on the sidewalk, wondering when Steve’s parents had arrived home.
The spare key your boyfriend had cut for you felt hot and heavy in your shorts pocket, useless now that the house had more than one person inside. But the night was too warm and you were restless, unable to sleep and you’d spent an hour or two tangled in your sheets before you’d slipped out your own front door and walked the blocks it took to reach Steve’s.
Undeterred, you made your way around the side of the house, the sprawling mansion surrounded by thickets of plush, green hedges and tall trees. You groaned when you reached Steve’s window, nose scrunched and hands on your hips as you remembered the boy didn’t sleep above the garage roof like you did, that there wasn’t a drainpipe or ledge for you to easily hoist yourself up onto.
But you were so close and his window was open, the barely there summer breeze lifting at his curtains. Your chest ached a little at the thought of him sprawled out in his bed, hair mussed, eyes sleepy, skin soft.
You couldn’t lie, the climb up the tree took longer than you thought it would, your legs seemingly shorter than you had remembered. But you reached the taller branches, placing your old converse on the limbs that seemed the strongest before shimmying yourself out and across. The gap between your branch and Steve’s window seemed a lot larger than from where you’d originally viewed it from the ground and you let out a small noise of concern. Shit.
Your bare legs were scuffed from the rough bark and your movements were clumsy, but the night had been far too warm to consider anything longer than the cotton shorts you had pulled on before you’d left, one of Steve’s old basketball t-shirts falling to their hem. It had long stopped smelling of him, cedar and mint and his aftershave washed away after too many nights of sleeping in it.
All the more reason you wanted to crawl in beside him, you thought. And if it had anything to do with the nightmares you were still having after watching the boy get dragged into the depths of Lovers Lake, well, you weren’t ready to admit it.
The night was silent around you, the wind lifting at the loose hair around your neck and face and for once, the town felt peaceful.
Nothing. Your whisper was carried away with the breeze, swallowed by the trees around you and you huffed. If you strained your ears, you could hear the soft, snuffled breathing of the boy inside, his face most definitely pressed into his pillow.
“Steve!” You tried again, hands still wrapped tightly around the branches.
The soft snoring stuttered and stopped and you froze, listening for the sounds of movement that would let you know the boy had heard you. Sure enough, the curtains were pulled back, your boyfriend appearing in the open window frame, eyes wide.
He hissed your name and you grinned when it fell from his lips, sounding more like a swear.
“What the hell are you doing?” He whisper yelled, his gaze on you a little panicked as he took in your dirty knees and the height of the tree you had scrambled up.
You beamed at him, eyes roving over his bare chest appreciatively before you extended a hand to him, fingers wiggling.
“Hey pretty boy, you wanna give me a hand here?”
There was a fond, if not a little exasperated, smile on Steve’s lips as he leant out the window and grasped your hand. Stepping back a little, he murmured softly, telling you to be careful as you pushed yourself out of the tree. Your soles found the sill, your free hand wrapping around the open window frame and before you could panic at the feeling of balancing on the edge, the boy’s free hand wrapped around your waist, comforting and heavy.
He practically lifted you into his room, your body pressed up against his and you hummed happily at the feel of him, still warm from sleep. He let you slip down his front, his hands bunched in your shirt - his shirt, he noticed with delight - and as you moved, he exposed the bare skin on your sides, your stomach.
Steve couldn’t help but smooth his thumb over your navel, biting back a smile at the stray leaf that was stuck in your hair. Plucking it out, he grinned down at you. “What are you doin’ here sweetheart, tryin’ to to give me a heart attack or something?”
If he wasn’t already guiding you over to his bed, you would’ve pouted and asked him if he didn’t appreciate your tree climbing efforts. But the boy had wrapped a strong arm around your waist, humming contently as he pulled you back into the nest of white sheets that smelled like him.
You weren’t close enough until you were both sharing the same pillow and Steve pressed the bridge of his nose into the column of your neck, drawing lines over it until you caught the hint and tipped your head back for him. Shivers raised across your body as he pressed kisses across the skin there, your arms winding around his neck and holding him to you.
“Just wanted to see you,” you mumbled, already feeling soft with sleep and Steve. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He pulled back to look at you, brown eyes knowing as he let his gaze roam over your features. Steve noted the slight downturn to the corner of your lips, the dark circles that started to shadow the skin underneath your eyes and he frowned.
But he didn’t question you, didn’t push it, ‘cause you were pressing yourself further into him, the need to be close becoming suddenly overwhelming. You pushed your face into the crook of his neck, your fingers finding the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck and you twisted them around each digit.
You sighed into him, soft and sweet and Steve smiled when he felt your lips press into the spot underneath his ear.
“And here I thought that I was s’posed to be the one sneaking in through your bedroom window,” he whispered, his hand sneaking up the sides of your top, warm palm running flat across the curves of your waist, teasing the soft skin on the underside of your breast.
“Thought I’d give you the night off,” you answered, toeing off your converse and wincing when they thumped to the floor. You both stilled, listening for any movement in the quiet house. “I didn’t realise your parents were home.”
Your legs tangled with Steve’s, wrapped around the light sheets, both of you too warm for anything but the other's body heat. Your hand travelled down to his chest, smoothing over the ridges of muscle there, the leftover marks that were starting to scar on his side. You worried your lip between your teeth as your finger flitted around the edges of the raised skin and he bumped the tip of his nose into yours to gain your attention, his hand wrapping around yours.
“Hey,” he scolded gently, bringing your hands between your bodies, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, to your fingertips, “you either gotta stop worrying or tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
You let out a huff of breath, pulling away just enough so you could meet Steve’s gaze. His brown eyes were gentle, still soft with sleep and concern for you but he didn’t let go, his arms still wrapped around you, fingers ghosting over your curves.
“Just struggling to sleep, y’know?” And he did, god Steve did. You closed your eyes, let your forehead fall into the boy’s bare chest and you pressed your lips to the dip in his collarbone. “Bad dreams.”
You didn’t offer any other information on the matter, you didn’t really need to. Because when the boy closed his eyes at night, he was at the bottom of the lake looking up, watching you dive into the darkness after him. Except in his dreams, you didn’t reach him and he couldn’t break free to find you.
He woke up sweating, panting, more often than not. Alone and on edge, awake until the early morning sun bled through the cracks in his curtains and he deemed it an acceptable hour to call your house phone and wake everyone up - he just needed to hear your voice.
So he nodded, silent and understanding, fingers picking at the flyaway lengths of your hair and he tucked them behind your ear, the slow, methodical movement of it all lulling you into the most relaxed state you’d felt all night.
“S’nice,” you told him, voice softer and slower as sleep settled over you.
Steve hummed his reply, his smile hidden in the noise and he wondered what it would take to have you in his bed every night. He’d given you a spare key months into your relationship but you hadn’t had to use it all that much, not until the world decided to implode again, not since monsters and nightmares came crawling back out of the splits in earth.
When you did, it was usually ‘cause he was in a shower after work and he always delighted in the surprise of you appearing in front of the frosted glass, giving him a show as you slipped off your clothes, letting your underwear stutter down your hips and pool at your feet before joining him under the spray.
But then again, his parents were never home. They’d arrived back from whatever business trip they’d been on for the past few weeks when he was already tumbling into bed, his mothers head appearing from his door, checking that her son was indeed alive.
If she noticed the marks on his side, the silver stretches of skin that were beginning to heal and scar, she didn’t say shit.
“Can I stay here tonight?” You whispered into his skin, and then you added a soft please, as an afterthought, as if the boy needed convincing.
He chuckled into the crown of your head and you felt his smile as you grabbed at the waistband of your shorts, still too warm despite the open window, the lack of sheets around you both. You wiggled out of them lazily, rolling onto your back for a second as you kicked them off your ankles, leaving you in Steve’s shirt and a pair of underwear that said ‘Wednesday’ on the front.
It was Friday.
“Hot,” Steve grinned, only half joking, and he smothered a laugh when you slapped at him without any real heat, letting him wrap you back into his arms.
“You really think I was letting you crawl back out my window?” He told you, a hand roving quick and appreciatively over the curve of your ass before it snuck back underneath your shirt, pressing against the small of your back.
You shrugged, yawning, despite knowing the answer, despite knowing that there wasn’t a chance in hell the boy was letting you go. It was easier together. The world turned softer, slower, when you were with Steve. The night seemed less dark, and the chances of monsters creeping out from underneath your bed seemed slimmer if you were in his.
“Not a chance sweetheart,” he told you and despite sleep pulling your eyes heavy and closed, you lifted your head blindly to him, searching and needy.
He gave you what you wanted immediately, lips pushing against your own, soft and warm and you could taste the traces of spearmint that sleep hadn’t taken from him yet. Despite being wrapped around him, half naked in his bed, it was a kiss that made you feel safe, at ease.
A kiss that made his arms wrap around you a little tighter than before, a kiss that was sleep slow and languid, and by the time he pulled away, nose nudging yours, your head sunk into his pillow even further.
“Get some sleep, yeah?” You heard him murmur into your jaw, lips pushing extra kisses there and making you smile. “You got me all night.“
And wasn’t that just something fantastic?
Alternative Plants for Burning
Don't want to use white sage or palo santo, here are some great alternatives. This is no doubt a small list so please feel free to include other suggestions. Never burn anything is a room with pets!
Roses Petals & Leaves
Lavender Flowers & Stems
Blue or Black Sage
Red Raspberry Leaves
Basil Leaves & Flowers
my toxic butch trait is that i Must be better dressed than my male professors
Cryptidclaw's WC Prefixes List!
Yall said you were interested in seeing it so here it is!
This is a collection of mostly Flora, Fauna, Rocks, and other such things that can be found in Britain since that’s where the books take place!
I also have other Prefixes that have to do with pelt colors and patterns as well!
Here’s a link to the doc if you dont want to expand a 650 word list on your Tumblr feed lol! the doc is also in my drive linked in my pined post!
below is the actual list! If there are any names you think I should add plz tell me!
EDIT: I will update the doc with new names as I come up with them or have them suggested to me, but I wont update the list on this post! Plz visit my doc for a more updated version!
Saltwater fish and other Sea creatures (would cats be able to find some of these? Probably not, I don't care tho)
Bass (Saltwater version)
Bream (Saltwater version)
Eel (Saltwater version)
Insects and Arachnids
Flowers, Shrubs and Other plants
Rocks and earth
Weather and such
Cat Features, Traits, and Misc.
sevika x maid!reader
at first, you were her maid. but master liked you just enough to make you her mistress.
word count: 4.0k
warnings: amab!sevika, age gap, sevika cheats on her wife, slight spanking, spit, vibrator use, master/servant relationship, breeding kink
“what a gorgeous colour.” her fingers ironing the corners of her lips, mahogany lipstick cleansing from the cedar skin in superlative fashion. she was objectively sumptuous, a classy woman surrounded by old money and platinum basin sinks; an easy life enough that she didn’t even have to raise a finger to apply honeydew exfoliation masks to her glistening skin. “don’t you think?” she stares at you through the mirror, umber eyes fanned by silky lashes - lids glossed with everlasting lustre of golden butterscotch, tempted to believe you could see your reflection if stood close enough.
“yes, madam.” you nod, fingers clasped onto a hanger, vintage dress glittered with merlot gemstones fluorescent against the sapphire tiles of the floor. you weren’t lying, it was a gorgeous colour. and madam wasn’t particularly sinister against you, or even sinister at all..
“you filthy pig.”
“don’t you dare touch my antiques.”
“look at you, fix this messy hair. i will not have guests over whilst you look like a disgusting hooker.”
“vika loves this colour.” she sighs, french-tipped nails tapping against the argyle jewellery around her neck. her scent of prevailing pumpkin spice suffocating you momentarily when she turns around, taking the hanger from your grip; you’ll watch as she lays the dress against her body, feminine curves of her hips accentuated through the garnet jewels as she subtly twirls around. she hum, lashes batting through the scrutiny before she shoves the hanger into your chest hurriedly. “be a dear for me and tighten the waist.”
and sure, you don’t expect the best of treatment regardless. you were on the back burner, disposable in every aspect with your dull shirt collar; onyx skirt tucking in your buttons and the driest of hands from the constant polishing. “yes ma-“ a shrill bark interrupts you, and it’s when you turn around that you see a woolly poodle, pastel frilly dress, wiggling through the door.
“ugh, pinkiebear! what are you doing, my baby snuffles?” and just like that, as madam scoops the pup into her arms, you’re left alone in the bathroom. moroccan rose handwash beside her gold-plaited cosmetics, pomegranate face serums and emerald earrings; you’d wondered what the oils would feel like on your fingertips, the creaminess against your skin soaking with pulchritude. it feels like bait when you see that one tub is already open, pale watermelon serum calling your fucking name - she won’t notice, there’s no way.
so you tenderly swab at the surface, the velvety touch on your skin.. it already makes you feel pretty, glammed up, like her. and the dysphoria only amplifies ironically when you massage the pearly ointment into your cheek, the winsome highlight when you turn your head not going unnoticed.
wine glass and plate in hand as you approach sevika’s master’s study, nudging the door with your shoulder. it was smoked salmon and caviar, and if you weren’t so fond of her, it would be rational to believe she was intentionally inflicting the purgatory of starvation onto you. but she was not resentful, her muffled tone of come in prompting you to amble inside; the air murky from her cigar smoke, illuminated by dim apricot from the scattered lamps. and she’s there, with every inhale, you can decipher the ocherous flame between her lips - her fingers clearing her desk when she sees the wine bottle tucked under your arm.
“thank you, darling.” she murmurs within the fever dream, fumes seeping through her lips to which she fans out when you’re beside her desk. it’s elixir to taste, and although it’s toxin on your tongue, it’s contradicting - plate and wine glass settled against the oak, careful to avoid her disarray of books and orderly inklings when you pour the currant. she examines this, raising an eyebrow before tapping the tobacco against an ashtray. “are you hungry?”
fuck, you have no idea.
“no, master.” you shake your head, because even though you could feel your organs internally booing inside from the withering, you were under an obligation of being polite. and hell, it was reasonable for her to concern herself with your wellbeing per se: she was older, much older; yet you merely took it as manners, sympathy that you weren’t born into such opulence. so when you finish pouring, tenderly placing the bottle beside master’s glass - it’s paralysis when her coercive words refrain you from leaving the room as you intended. “come here.” she instructs, virescent globes eclipsed with hues of oxblood when you maintain eye contact from your awkward distance. she’s manspreading, white button-up loose against her chest, and the uncertainty only amplifies when master’s tone becomes demanding. “come.. here.”
so you shuffle towards her, and you’re not sure if it’s the nicotine or the peril brunt of her influential stare, but your blood pressure raises when you stop - that maybe you’d said something wrong, gotten a wine she didn’t like, or you were vicariously responsible for the chef’s error. but the neurotic thoughts plummet when you see her slice an intricate cube of the salmon, fork held out to you with sincerity.
“try it, it’s good for you.” she advises, and you’re under automatism to obey - her fingers scraping against yours when you take the fork, examining the glassy block. you’re not sure what it’s seasoned with, only able to distinguish the honey glaze and sprinkle of pepper; you couldn’t even fucking describe what salmon tasted like, a luxury that your flimsy uniform never got to see up close. and you feel emotional when it finds itself between your teeth, erupting with foreign rich oils and glacé syrup.
you want to appreciate it, had you not interpreted the investigative glances she’s giving you. skeptical eyebrows dipping in, defining the droopiness of her lids and the eclipse of gunmetal in her narrowed pupils - they search your face, because there’s something about you that master just can’t pinpoint. “you’re glowing.” she mumbles, fingers branching out toward you and framing your jaw ever so tenderly; thumb stroking along the curves of your cheekbone, the familiar and velvety texture of your skin no stranger to master. “you’ve been using my wife’s stuff, haven’t you?”
of course, how could you have been so recklessly fucking dense? you’d just swabbed a few thousands onto your face and expected that nobody would’ve been able to put two and two together, and now you’re stood here like a fucking embarrassment whilst her conquering globes assess you. master was going to obliterate you for even contemplating putting your filthy wilted fingers on her wife’s belongings, and you’re just waiting for her to call the chef over to slice you into little pepperonis and use your torso as a fucking piñata for her fancydancy din-
“looks good on you.” she mumbles, and the harmonising words nosedive into your stomach with more adamantine force than waiting for her to beat you to a pulp. her fingers streamlining down your jaw before she picks up her plate, ludic smirk concealing the mulberry on her lips as she offers her plate towards you. “don’t tell.”
you look back and forth, and it’s only when she nudges the porcelain into your stomach that you realise what she meant. she was only really interested in the wine, and within her hospitality, gave you something to eat for the night.
“your muscles are all contracting, just relax.”
“you should really look into tai-chi, saves me hours of making these for you.
i’ll be back tomorrow,
ice or magnesium for any muscle pain,
is that a chip in the wall?
anyway, i’ll see you tomorrow, my lovely~.”
you’d been waiting outside her room for about forty minutes, folded blouse and dress shirts in hand; although you liked to consider yourself respectful of master’s private conversations, not even the bricky walls and thick interior of the hallways could muffle vanna’s voice. she was an elderly woman, slightly crazy in the politest of terms, a massage therapist that garnered the most obnoxious and jarringly piercing voice - one that only amplifies when master’s door opens, the tiny woman pootling herself down the hall with a bowl of water, peppermint leaves floating within the misty pool.
it’s rosemary and eucalyptus when you inhale, frissons of sweltering air blossoming your way as the door closes over only slightly. but you’re prudent, you’re conditioned to be, waiting outside her door for her to have her few minutes of privacy - but she calls you in when she identifies your shadow against her marble tiles, eyes absentmindedly tracing the silhouette of your hips.
and when you walk in, nudging the door ever so slightly, she’s face-down on the master bed; surrounded by canary silk pillows and lime basil candles, her wine cellar visible from where you stand. you approach the palladium drawers, and whilst your job was plainsailing, the difficulty of having to avert your eyes from her bare back did it’s due diligence to make it just a little harder for you. but you stay silent nonetheless, the palatable glimmering against her burly shoulders, one that made you envy vanna’s expertise as you organise her shirts.
“you have pain, master?” you mumble, clearing your throat when it starts to disintegrate at the mercy of her tensing shoulders, glorious muscle twitching. “my shoulders, darling. it’s not so bad.” she doesn’t move, and although you seem satisfied with the composed silence, the thought of leaving in it made your stomach sour.
“is there anything i can do?” you offer, graphite eyes piercing into your body when she turns her head against the pillow - you can tell she’s engrossed in those retrospective thoughts of hers by the way she’s zoning out, clouding globes that flutter over you before she pats the mattress.
“lay with me..” she mutters, black pepper fragrant when she inches away, leaving you a temptingly delectable space beside her. it feels wrong, and your ears can already feel the wrath of madam’s scream when she finds out you dared even the slightest courage to lay in her bed, beside her wife.
but master was at the top of the food chain.
so you reluctantly obey, not oblivious to the raw sensation of eagerness when her bare abdomen raises slightly from the mattress - she’s toned, noir curves that only excite the vim when you’re slithering into the space she’d left you. but it’s not enough to dilute your inhibitions, your body rigid when her fingers flutter against your waist; she notices this, intoxication when her whisper caresses against your ear. “relax, relax.” she whispers, the suggestive timbre diminishing you - she waits until you slump into the satin, plumose textures under your fingertips, before her arm cases over your waist and trails you against her bare chest. it’s morally profane, warmth from her breasts contagious on your spine, skin sweltering idyllically - kittenish and lewd and wow you’re getting horny.
it’s silent for a few minutes. but you feel dirty, her vanilla comfort something you ruined.
“you remind me of my wife when we first met.” the vanilla wisps against your jaw curdling into vulgarity when her fingers tenderly clutch at the hem of your skirt, and although one part of you feels like nothing more than a doll for her to use the one night her wife is out attending a dinner, another is relieved when the wintry air strikes your thighs.
“young,” her fingers lifting the skirt enough that her perverted eyes can search your hips, the way they embrace the black straps of your underwear.
“pretty,” her nails glissading against your inner thighs, forefinger sinking between them enough that they’re under automatism to separate. you try to convince yourself that it’s because you don’t want to get into trouble, disappoint that streak of high expectations you managed to leap over the past few weeks - but by the vim in your clit, it was disgustingly undeniable it was because fantasy was becoming reality.
“fertile.” she delicately taps your clothed clit, subtle sensitivity that already gets your hips rolling into her crude touch. her engagement ring flaring in your peripheral when her left hand slinks around your body, black opal glinting as her palm rests against your breasts. “look at me.” her lips tickling against your cheek as you turn to her, hues of predatory oxblood glossing over her lead pupils. she likes that she owns you, conditioned you to be her little pet, dominated your identity to nothing more than her servant.
so the overly obscene taste on her lips when she’d pressed her forehead against yours, skin searing with wealthy indecency was no shock. she was impulsive, lips against yours, unseemly sounds of anticipated smooches as you drink up the taste of peppermint. she wants to be delicate for you, but the instinct outlasting the grace when she hears you hum. you’re heedless of your sloppy grinding, shaky exhales which only worsen when she pulls away; her thumb draping your bottom lip down only slightly. jewels of her spit streamlining into your mouth, your tongue absorbing the droplets filthily. “pretty girl.” she swallows, eyes darting along your jaw, her spit slowly drizzling down your neck.
you want to tell her that this is wrong, that she’s a married woman, but the night already feels drilled into stone when her fingers manipulate the buttons on your chest, cleavage satisfying her sadistic eyes with every one coming undone. your shirt loosens, sinking down your back and accentuating the feminine enticement master was under whilst her fingers revel in the linen cotton of your bra, the straps cunningly draping off your shoulders. “these would look gorgeous in some silk.” she whispers, your breasts tingling when there’s nothing there to cover them anymore, her fingers folding your bra down to your stomach.
“would you like that.. me to buy you some pretty outfits?” she mumbles, admiring the way your nipples harden under her fingertips, delicately pinching the responsive buds. you nod, because you expect her to want you to, flinching when you roll your hips against her sturdy thigh; thick imprint of her veiny cock paralysing you momentarily.
“do me a favour.. lean over in that drawer.” she gestures to the bedside cabinet, and you’re sceptical when you lean over, your skirt hitching up ever so slightly. and if the humiliation of having your ass presented to her like a fucking showpiece wasn’t degrading enough, the barbaric strike of her palm against it was. you squeak, flinching necessarily - her palm easing the inflamed area intricately, before walloping back down onto your skin. you want to fucking weep, blinking through the blur of your tormented tears, opening the drawer to which a plaited vibrator lays.
“that’s the one.” she confirms, taking it from your fingers as you lay back into the mattress, ass ignited with scorching goosebumps from the brutish force behind her arms. you go to defend yourself, because honestly, you feel lower than the bottom of the food chain - you were no blossoming mighty oak, but rather a withering sunflower under her assertion.. but she knows what you’re about to say. “master, i haven’t do-“
“you’ll be fine, we haven’t used it yet. it’ll make you feel good.” she sits up, and although she intends to comfort you, it only intimidates you further when her tongue wets her lips; fingers slewing the fabric of your underwear to the side and leaving your slit prey to her predacious stare, only amplifying when she unveils how truly drenched your folds are. but she doesn’t say anything, only leaning over whilst a bullet of her spit seeps between her lips and missiles itself against your clit.
you already feel numb, the heavenly pressure of seventh heaven when you hear the whirring of her vibrator, your thighs quivering with the company of your stimulated whines when the tip purrs against your clitoral hood. “that’s it, atta girl.” she praises, her breasts pressing themselves against your bare spine when she situated herself beside you again. it’s nirvana, humping against the vibrator so primitively, erogenous arcady to hear your incessant whimpers echo throughout the room. you’re sweating by now, at peace with the fire and brimstone breeding on your skin - but you want more, your fingers grazing over the stiff imprint of her desperate cock.
her breath is jagged, submerging the vibrator harder onto your clit, your ankles starting to twitch at the susceptibility. you’re not sure if it’s enough to make you come just yet, but that thought deteriorates when her finger glissades down your slit and streams itself inside of your hole. “fuck.. you’ve made my cock all hard.” she sighs against your cheek, your walls greeting her indiscriminately; spasming with every hum against your clit. she’s testing the waters, fingertips taking a liking to the spongy textures when she tenderly twines it upwards, the pornographic desire in your clit to orgasm more reckless than ever. but you’re not the only one suffering, because sevika is finding that her cock is actually starting to fucking hurt from the distress of not being able to just have her way with you again and again and again.
but she’s patient, finger gliding itself in and out of you; assaulting that carnal pit in your walls as your thighs tremble as she fucks you with them. instinctive sobs leaving your throat unmonitored, and honestly, you wouldn’t be able to describe it even if given a fucking thesaurus - sneezelike corkscrew ballooning itself inside your hips when she hooks another finger inside, arousing squelching with every hammer against your folds. “please..” you whisper, unbeknownst to the soreness in your fingers as they lock, clenching tightly on her belt.
and when she’s satisfied with how vulnerable you are under her, the sensitivity just right, she’ll admire the quavering of your hips and the tightening of your thighs before dragging the vibrator away from your clit. “huh?” you squeak, cunt clenching around her fingers at the sudden loss of her manipulation. you’re about to complain, wail about how much of a fucking tease she is, but she relieves the anguish by leaning over your thighs; her tongue replacing the device and doing its dirty work when it swipes over your hood, delving between your folds and schemingly flicking over your erect bud.
just like that, you’re shaking again, thigh hoisting itself up and planting itself on her bare, burly shoulder. your mewls of master twirling repeatedly in a rabbit hole of ecstasy when her damp lips envelop your clit and suck with cruelty, fingers maintaining their agonising operation; battering into you with precision and artsy discipline, like she’s done this too many times before.
but it’s dispiriting for her, because she wants to be a lovemaker for you, wants to appreciate you for the fine young woman you are - yet the throbbing in her cock conquers that yearning, and it’s then that she pulls away with such self-hatred. “are you gonna let me put my cock inside your cunt, darling?” she exhales, fingers slewing out of your brimming hole, selfishly drizzling your discharge over the mattress and coating over the sable leather of her belt when she goes to unbuckle it.
“yes. yes, master.” you comply, ultramarine daze when you blink; pixels of orchid blooming in your vision when you even did as much as look down to her belt. fingers tackling the every latch, submerging as they frame her veiny shaft - cock springing out and admittedly, inciting nothing more than disruptive thoughts of am i going to fucking live to see tomorrow after this.
she’s thick, and monumental.. fucking handcrafted by gods with such clarity. enough that all of that internal envy becomes more.. not envy, because you know this is gonna really fucking hurt, and you’re not liking how much she exceeds your expectations at the expense of what’s gonna happen to your poor fucking vagina. “you still want it?” she murmurs when she notices the hues of uncertainty in your eyes, superficial doubt that she interprets easily - it’s an ego boost, artificial concern to conceal her everlasting inclination to ruin you. but you blink at her, flickering between her eyes and the slightly palatable mulberry tip of her cock, before you nod.
it would be cruel for her to nosedive straight into you, and even she knows this, her tip glissading through your folds and lubricated with your slick. she’s slightly sensitive, the warmth of your cunt only amplifying the immense throbbing, but she’s consistent this time - your clit rubbing against her head only instantaneously as she accustoms herself with your textures.
“this might hurt, just a little.” she whispers against your jaw, fingers grappling at your hips as her own angles forward, tip insidious as it skims into your walls; your body merely a betrayal of your conscience when your walls welcome her. but it’s smooth, as she pushes herself in with such fucking entitlement, your insipid moisture coating her cock.
because she owned you, every little fragment.
her mindless breaths against your bare shoulder, the subtle rocks in her hips purely intuition. she hasn’t felt this in years, the vehemence of her girth wrapped around such a fine woman, and it motivates the urge for her to start thrusting your hips back into her. your whimpering sobs with every cudgel of her skin against yours, the indignity of her abdomen pounding against your spine and the raunchy heat of her cock assaulting your cunt.
influx of adrenaline when she hears you mewl, her sloppy kisses on your nape sultry and blistering. “i know, i know it feels good..” she sighs, both hands clenching at your thighs, your hips, your waist- anything to feel herself become adaptable inside of you, anything to get a taste of the rapture inside of herself.
“pretty.. pretty girl..” her muffled groan echoing in your ears as she gets herself off into you. she was dictating your self-worth, dictating your fucking life.. and although some of it felt as if it was just pulling the pieces together, another felt it all shatter into irreversible ruins as her left hand compressed itself onto your clit; engagement ring ever so slightly abrading itself against your wet folds.
and that’s when you feel it.
the sheer pinnacles of rhapsody so distinct as her fingers roll your clit in circular motions superlatively, cock swollen and erect. “please.. please..” you sigh, the jagged timbre exposing how receptive your bundles of nerves were; fingertips touching the very eminent icicles of orgasm when she speaks her foul language in your ears.
“i’m gonna come inside you, do you want that?”
“gonna make you the mother of my fucking kids..”
and then it erupts inside, whirlwind of frenzy that you could only compare to what felt like being edged for hours. your clit numb and jaded, the overstimulation aggravating as your walls pulse around her cock so tightly that she doesn’t even need to continue pummelling into you. conclusively, you were a mess - her palm sealing itself over your lips to repress the uncontrollable cry, tone it down ever so slightly, arms that confine your body as you tremble and do your upmost fucking best to recover.
and after a few minutes of her rocking a few inches back and forth into you, the dishevelled grunt and adhesion of her bangs against your cheek; quivering fingers against your lips and hips that airbrush themselves to divinity let you know that she’s just came.
and something feels off, seriously off. so full and saturated, and it’s when her cock slews itself out of you that you know there’s no way you’re the only one behind all the mess; looking between your legs and flinching at the pearly cream drizzling out of your hole, thick and balmy. your juices meshing together in such harmony that you feel disgust, and yet hypnosis. because she never wanted a maid,
she wanted a mistress.
Grace Munakata (American, b. 1957), Cedar Bark and Sky Blue, 2013. Acrylic and collage on gatorboard, 48 x 50 1/8 in.
i had an idea for u to write if u like it (steve x reader)
something like having a picnic day and playing capture the flag with the kids. The reader and Steve are in opposite teams because no one could stand them being in the same team, but when they run into each other in the woods, they make out and stuff forgetting about the game
oh for this to be my life :( i wrote this as a baby blurb bc i thought it could just be cute and short so i hope that’s okay <3
halfway through searching the forest for dustin’s teams flag, a twig snapped behind you, a leaf crunching and you whirled with a frown, prepared to scold whoever was there but the area behind you was empty. your eyes narrowed, hands rising to rest against your hips in a gesture that was very steve. you clicked your tongue and toed your shoe into the ground.
“lucas, i swear to god if you’re hiding out there with your stupid sling shot i’ll strangle you with it.” silence followed, just the soft whistle of wind through the trees and the distant yell of “touchdown”. it wouldn’t the first time during this game of capture the flag that lucas, and max who was practically glued to his hip, had tried to attack you with his make shift weapon. being on opposing teams, they’d popped up every now and then and pinged you with a pebble laughing like idiots as they made off to find another target. “seriously, sinclair, i’m not-umph!”
a hand clamped over your mouth, a body pushing yours back into a tree, large and towering and just as you were about to scream, knee almost jerking between their legs, a familiar scent washed over you. cedar wood, something a little musky and mint. steve. his head lowered, lips brushed teasingly over the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning over the exposed skin of your neck until goosebumps were rising over every inch of your body.
“gotcha.” his whispered words were coloured in a smirk, taunting and seductive all at once and once the pounding in your heart had dulled somewhat you shook your head. he grinned when he finally met your gaze, slowly drawing his hand from your mouth and pressing into the bark of the tree behind you. his other hand had caught your waist, tugged your lower half firmly into his.
“idiot! i thought you were a murderer or something.” despite your words you were smiling, laughing a little breathlessly at the stupid but oh so pretty boy in front of you. he looked a little disheveled, cheeks a soft pink and your body reacted, hips pushing a little harshly against him. “y’know you’re supposed capture the flag, right? not me.” you arms circled his neck, fingers slipping into the soft strands at the very nape. his eyes seemed to twinkle with untold mischief and you knew fine well neither of you were carrying on with the game.
“really?” his feigned innocence made you smile, his head dipping so he could drag the tip of his nose along your jaw, nipping lightly at the skin over the curve of it. “i thought the rules were capture the pretty girl and kiss her senseless?” with his words he dropped his head into the crook of your neck, pressed wet, open mouthed kisses wherever he could, revelling in the subtle hitch of your breath. he was trying not to smile, brushed his thumb beneath your shirt to stroke the soft skin of your waist.
“i must have missed that part.” you turned your head and brought his face up to yours, caught his lips in a kiss, slotted your mouth perfectly over his and swallowed the soft sound he failed to hold back. it was a surprised moan because in the same moment you’d shifted your hips, pressed into the softness of him to cause some sort of reaction. steve’s hand fell from the bark and slipped around the back of your neck, tilted you and pulled you closer as he tugged playfully at your bottom lip.
“unsurprising, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me during team tactics. i don’t even wanna know what filthy things were going through that pretty head of yours.” you scoffed, rolled your eyes and pulled lightly at his hair, grinning softly at the buck of his lower half against yours. you pressed your lips over his again, worked feverishly to slip your tongue over his, humming low at the taste of strawberries from the earlier picnic. steve tightened his grip on you, pushed you a little more firmly into the tree. “we’ve got about ten minutes before someone comes looking and i get shot in the back for being a traitor.”
the words fell into your mouth, your lips parting to breathe them in, tongue gliding languidly over his. kissing him was addictive and you never got tired, never got sick of the way he tasted and felt, of the soft moans he always let slip. his fingers trailed downward until he could cup your ass over the thin material of your shorts, kneading and squeezing the soft flesh until you were panting against him, twisting his hair and whimpering his name. this was exactly why the two of you had been placed on opposing teams, because neither of you could be trusted to keep your hands to yourselves, always finding places to sneak off and make out away from prying eyes.
“gonna get me in trouble.”
“robin’ll have your head, baby.” you laughed at that, nodded a little jerkily, kisses turning more desperate and messy, tongues curling and tangling, hands and fingers grazing and massaging over places far too inappropriate considering your position. steve branded kisses over your jaw and neck, grunted against your hot skin, sucked harshly at the delicate flesh over your pulse point until your head fell back.
“totally worth it.”
Jan Hopkins, Isadora, 2008
Alaskan yellow cedar bark, grapefruit peel, lotus pod tops, melon peel, and waxed linen thread.