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madamlaydebug · 2 years

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What happens after we die? In the movies, when a soul leaves its body it becomes a non-physical form of that body, the soul is always depicted as the exact same version of the living person's body, only it's invisible. In the recounting of near-death experiences, almost everyone recounts the exact same tale: their physical body dies, their soul floats around the room, looking down on the body it just left. We envision our soul as a projection of our physical bodies that is going to be judged for our sins.

Imagine for a moment, that death is something different.

Imagine that when we die, our soul does, in fact, leave our physical body, but rather than having a human form we become a, let's say . . . a particle of light. No, let's say a wave of light. To say the word particle, you associate it with something physical, like a grain of sand, something very small but something that has a shape, that is made of something, something that can be weighed, no matter how infinitesimally small it may be. A wave of light has no physical form yet it is energized; it is light. It is not, however, a light bulb, glowing and bright and illuminating. It is light that contains all colors on the visible and non-visible spectrum, it is black light. We are indistinguishable from any other wave of light, we ARE the light and the light is . . . all there is.

Imagine that when we die, we leave our body and we become all consciousness, all-knowing, all energy, and all love.

Imagine that when we die, we no longer have a body, we have no arms, no legs, no organs, not even skin color. We have no physical form whatsoever. We don't have genitals, we are neither male or female, we are . . . a wave of light.

Try to imagine if you can, that we don't even have eyes. We can see but it's not through our eyes, instead, we can SEE . . . because we ARE sight. We are vision. We become sight itself. That may sound absurd to you, impossible to comprehend, but there is a very small part of you that understands completely because . . . at your core . . . you are a wave of light having a human experience.

When we die, we no longer hear, we become sound. We become language. We become music. We become the notes and the instruments. Our consciousness expands and we understand that we are the vibrations and the frequency of . . . everything. Imagine that when we die, we become ALL sound, we are the essence of sound. Sound, light, and color is our identity.

When we die, we become pleasure. When we die, we become ecstasy, we become pure bliss. There is no shame, no guilt, no fear in our non-physical form, in our Black light bodies. We become sensual, erotic, passionate beings of divine light. Religion and society has us convinced that sex is bad, sinful, and wrong. We are consumed with shame and guilt because we think our sexuality is abnormal and we FEAR judgment from others. Imagine that when we die, we understand that we are the ultimate orgasm, that we are INFINITE pleasure.

Imagine that when we die, we don't have any shape or form, we just . . . are. We exist as able to go anywhere, any time in the past, present, or future, any location, with just a thought. Imagine if you can, that we communicate with thought, we don't need cell phones and planes because any person we are limitless, without and boundaries.

Close your eyes for a moment, imagine the moment of your death where you don't experience pain or fear, you only feel overwhelming LOVE. Love is your identity. We can see our bodies, we can see our lives, we can see our choices and we know, we understand that all of our choices were perfect for us, that all our mistakes were perfect for our soul to experience life. We chose our body, our race, gender, our station in life all before we are born, to experience joy, pain, suffering, pleasure, growth, stagnation, love and hate. Once we leave our bodies, when our soul's silver cord is cut, we become LOVE.

Pure love.

Then, our consciousness, our soul continues to expand, in all directions, until we can see everything, everything in every direction. We can feel a connection to every living thing. But not just living things, we feel a connection to ALL that is. Everything is vibrating and a frequency and we become that frequency. Can you imagine yourself, outside of your body, existing as a wave of light, and knowing that you are indistinguishable from animal, mineral, or gas. You are the trees, the ocean, you are the bugs that crawl and the birds that fly.

Imagine that when we die, we can communicate with our loved ones with our thoughts. Look at them and know that we can not only hear what they are thinking, we understand on a cellular level that we ARE their thoughts. It's from this place that you can understand that you are your loved one. Your infinite, loving soul is their infinite, loving soul in a different body but your soul is the one, your soul, their soul is the source of all, housed in a human body that has forgotten it's truth, it's real identity.

Now, imagine if you will, that we can see our enemies, our haters, the people who caused us the most pain in our lives, the people we hate, despise, the people we've spent hours, days, weeks, months, years, and decades hating, being angry at, the person you feel victimized you.

See them, with your entire being. See them, not with your eyes, but with your sight, your soul, your Black light.

Understand this basic truth. While in human form, EVERYONE BELIVEVES that whatever they think and feel is . . . right. You don't say, "I know those (fill in the blank with a race, class, gender, sexual orientation, religion, or political party) are right and I know I'm wrong about my opinion but I'm going to stick by my wrong opinion for the hell of it." You believe with all your heart, with every fiber in your being that your opinions, perspectives, passions, and convictions are the correct perspective. You believe you are on the right side of the equation.

The funny thing about equations is that both sides are equal. Always.

Now, take a deep breath and understand this.

We BELIEVE, while we are alive, that the way we see the world is the right way to see it, that our opinions about race, justice, politics, sex, religion, all our beliefs come to us based on our story, our experience, our personality. How we have come to see the world not our conscious choosing. We were born into a family, a community, a country, whatever group we identity with, that taught us our values, that shaped our perspective based on our environment, our experience on the Earth plane. We all believe that anyone who doesn't agree with us is wrong. That belief is Universal. We see ourselves as separate, different, individual and unique but we see ourselves and our understanding as . . . right.

In AmeriKKKa, this is easily demonstrated by political beliefs. Every person, in every corner of the country, the Republican and the Democrat, both see themselves as right, both think that anyone who disagrees with them is crazy. Every person believes themselves to be the arbiter of truth.

We are waves of Dark Energy: all-encompassing, omniscient and omnipotent, wearing a human costume, designed to forget who we really, to forget we are all consciousness, connected to all, we are all thought and the thinker. Your soul, your spark came to this place and time to experience this 3-D realm of love and fear, separation and connection, shame and pride, guilt and joy, and all the emotions that humans are capable of having.

If you can understand, if you can accept that the person who disagrees with you, based on their experiences, their story, their gender, race, religion, income, sexual orientation, size, attractiveness (or lack thereof) BELIEVES that their perspective is right, then you can see them with compassion and empathy while you are still alive. If you can look at the person you find offensive and wrong through the all-seeing eyes of your soul, you will have reached enlightenment because you will understand that you, the spirit that moves you and animates you is God, and that you are in every single thing, physical and non physical.

At a soul level, the racist and the person of color are no different. They both were born to families that indoctrinated them with beliefs about the world, about God, about men and women, about politics, etc. The racist and the person of color were both born in a society that reinforced that white people are superior and that Back people are inherently inferior. The both experienced two sides of the same coin, they were both told by society that they had a role that came with the skin color they were born with. They both learned to navigate a world based on the belief that God was a white man in the sky who judges you if you have freaky sex.

God is your knowledge, your voice, your creativity, your peace, your nurturing and loving self. God is the voice in your head that loves, protects, and guides you. You are the source. You are the creator. You are the thinker. "You're a driver, not a passenger in life." (Lyrics to a song by the Brand New Heavies. ).

If can you understand that profound truth, if you can embrace that understanding, if you can accept that truth into your mind and heart, you will have found peace on Earth.

We are all here to experience otherness. We are all here to experience separateness, to forget that we are ONE, the one, the source of all. We are all here in these 3D models, to believe that our religion is the right religion. We are all here to believe that our political party is the righteous one and that we are better than the people who don't think like us and believe in what we believe in. When you transcend that mindset, you win the game of life.

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cassianus · 2 years

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From the Letter to Diognetus

The Christian in the world

Christians are indistinguishable from other men either by nationality, language or customs. They do not inhabit separate cities of their own, or speak a strange dialect, or follow some outlandish way of life. Their teaching is not based upon reveries inspired by the curiosity of men. Unlike some other people, they champion no purely human doctrine. With regard to dress, food and manner of life in general, they follow the customs of whatever city they happen to be living in, whether it is Greek or foreign.

And yet there is something extraordinary about their lives. They live in their own countries as though they were only passing through. They play their full role as citizens, but labour under all the disabilities of aliens. Any country can be their homeland, but for them their homeland, wherever it may be, is a foreign country. Like others, they marry and have children, but they do not expose them. They share their meals, but not their wives. They live in the flesh, but they are not governed by the desires of the flesh. They pass their days upon earth, but they are citizens of heaven. Obedient to the laws, they yet live on a level that transcends the law.

Christians love all men, but all men persecute them. Condemned because they are not understood, they are put to death, but raised to life again. They live in poverty, but enrich many; they are totally destitute, but possess an abundance of everything. They suffer dishonour, but that is their glory. They are defamed, but vindicated. A blessing is their answer to abuse, deference their response to insult. For the good they do they receive the punishment of malefactors, but even then they rejoice, as though receiving the gift of life.

To speak in general terms, we may say that the Christian is to the world what the soul is to the body. As the soul is present in every part of the body, while remaining distinct from it, so Christians are found in all the cities of the world, but cannot be identified with the world. As the visible body contains the invisible soul, so Christians are seen living in the world, but their religious life remains unseen. The body hates the soul and wars against it, not because of any injury the soul has done it, but because of the restriction the soul places on its pleasures. Similarly, the world hates the Christians, not because they have done it any wrong, but because they are opposed to its enjoyments.

Christians love those who hate them just as the soul loves the body and all its members despite the body’s hatred. It is by the soul, enclosed within the body, that the body is held together, and similarly, it is by the Christians, detained in the world as in a prison, that the world is held together. The soul, though immortal, has a mortal dwelling place; and Christians also live for a time amidst perishable things, while awaiting the freedom from change and decay that will be theirs in heaven. As the soul benefits from the deprivation of food and drink, so Christians flourish under persecution. Such is the Christian’s lofty and divinely appointed function, from which he is not permitted to excuse himself.

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bleakfated · 3 months

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@faetch asked: i love your sarcasm when it isn't pointed at me. from the happiness falls meme

❝ you really don't find it endearing when it is pointed at you? ❞ not that anybody could blame gretchen for the admission. there was a nearly indistinguishable line between her general disdain for the majority of humankind and her love language being roasting those she cared about. not to mention, it wasn't uncommon for her to call out her friends when they had their blonde moments -- a phrase she really hated. nobody was safe from her sharp tongue.

❝ i like it best when the recipient is too dense to catch on. ❞

#faetch #╰––– » 「 ⛦ 」 𝗮𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱; 𝗿𝗼𝘀𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗲. ┊ thank you for coming to my ted talk #╰––– » 「 ⛦ 」 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘂𝗲. ┊ baby i'm not even here

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decadentparadisekitty · 2 years

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apparently you can't reblog posts from ppl who've blocked you??

or smthn idk

og post here

@everythingeverywhereallatonce (user who blocked me)

like absolutely true that a lot of self-proclaimed progressives online do not know how to recognize radfem talking points and thus very easily buy into them and yes absolutely true that the big one is that all men (meaning anyone assigned male at birth) is inherently evil like biologically and that is the root of all of society’s problems but i feel like just completely abandoning any concept of gendered structural inequality is not in fact rejecting radfem philosophies but literally also buying into them because you are buying into the idea that structural inequality is equivalent to and indistinguishable from (their flawed understanding of) biology.

I mean in my case it was less of "didn't understand radfem talking points" and more "wanted to know the radfem talking points" cause like. The whole gender's a spectrum, sex work isn't exploitation, and makeup is empowering makes like...zero sense to me. I believed in it at one time, but even then i couldn't really explain it.

Also radfems don't necessarily think men are inherently evil. We just believe men are the people who oppress us, and they continue to view us as lesser on the whole due to their socialization as males.

when we are talking about structural issues we are not (or should not be) talking about individuals being Bad on a personal level but somehow that is were we are at now, that is the level of analysis we are doing, like this happens literally all the time with people thinking or talking about homophobia as if it is purely about individual personal hatred so the rallying cry is “love trumps hate!” or racism is going to be solved purely by individual white people realizing the error of their ways and resolving to be better when like.. it is literally about things that are structurally baked into the foundation of our society, legally, politically, economically, and yes culturally, and thus quite literally by definition not purely about individuals being born evil.

I think this is a really important point, and I believe if we as a society focused more on issues in this light we'd see a lot of improvement. Ah wait you probably don't want to hear that from me whoops-

like i do not think it’s useful to engage or try to argue with radfems because honestly they truly are just fucking stupid but then i see people who are so afraid to touch anything related to feminism with a ten foot pole out of a fear that they might accidentally be engaging with radfem thought that like.. we are literally just giving it all to them. out of our desire to not engage we’ve just entirely abandoned anything related to any real meaningful feminism that approaches any structural issues beyond like individual-level “just let women do whatever they want” hot takes and rather than shutting terfs down it is allowing them to just fucking run rampant. we have given them their power.

i feel like you should consider that the people you are talking to view feminism as bigoted. Seriously, they refuse to acknowledge structural inequality created by males, because that would mean using terfy language.

And yet, you think radfems are the ones who can't be reasoned with.

@reasonablysurmised (not blocked yet let's goo)

So glad to see this take, on god. Misogyny and patriarchy are NOT about biology, and the TERF take that men are someow biologically programmed to uphold them is an asinine take that actively suppresses the type of activism capable of uprooting them--because if those tendencies are inherent, how would men possibly be able to improve? Which...is the goal? And obviously, OBVIOUSLY those tendencies are NOT inherent and that goal is in fact achievable and worth working towards.

Sexism is quite literally based on biological sex, read this post, it elaborates better than I could.

also read this while you're at it.

If you're unwilling to consider a reasonable argument from the other side for ideological purity there's no helping you, have fun with selectively using your critical thinking ig?

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love-rats · 2 years

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Fanny Button. That is your name, as you have been told. You are the girl of many faces; the girl who puts on masks as the situation calls for it, until they become indistinguishable from your own face. You have been many people in the past, and yet you have been no one.

When you took the name Fanny Button, you cast aside your old name, your old life, your hope. When you cast aside, no, when you gave away Stephanie, you put away the girl you used to be - bright, beautiful, shining. You used to be intelligent, too, but of course you knew this. It wasn’t arrogant of you to say so - it was a simple fact, as simple as your name. Or so you thought.

Stephanie was the girl with the flowing hair, the girl who rarely smiled, the girl with the loose tongue. She felt like you at the time, and maybe you truly believed that this was who you really were. Until he came along, and he stole Stephanie away from you in the night, and in the morning, you woke up empty. Alone.

It was improper for a woman to show such potent emotions, let alone express them, so you kept your mouth shut, but here was the truth: when you first laid eyes on George Button, you wanted to kill him. It actually scared you how much you wanted it at the time. Perhaps you still do. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently.

You knew that the fate of your family was in your hands; you knew you could’ve saved them all. If it wasn’t for your father, your stupid father who you could have helped, for (excuse your language) God’s sake, you wouldn’t even be standing here right now. Stephanie could’ve helped them.

Back then you were still the headstrong woman whom you wish you could still be, with all your heart. As your expression hardened while the fire raged inside you, you put on your first mask. This was the first step to becoming who you are today. Your mother whispered inside your head - no, that was her talking to you now, you weren’t going crazy, thank the stars. She corrected your collar, flattened your hair. Simple things, to remind you of who you were. A dress. A girl. Just another object to sell, just another pawn in the game of erasing your father’s hazardous footprints.

“Give him a chance?” She smiled, and you almost didn’t hate her. Almost.

You did give him a chance, though. You gave him a universe of chances. You tried every single mask to wear for him, to please him, to please yourself. If you couldn’t be Stephanie, saviour of your family, maybe you could’ve been someone else. A loving wife to George Button, the perfect housewife. Slowly, your corset got tighter, and you began to wear your long hair in a coil. Once, as you looked in the mirror, you realised you no longer recognised your face.

You touched the cracked mirror - you had always wondered why the spidery cracks were here, perhaps you should fix them - and you saw yourself for the first time as who you really were. You were old. You were tired. You were stern, and cold, and you realised how much your hair coil accentuated your wrinkles and how unlike yourself you were, and for the first time, you realised you didn’t care. You regarded yourself with a calm, appraising manner, and you didn’t smile. You didn’t cry. You just stood there, looking at the person you had become.

Because why should you cry? What difference did it make? The person you used to be was dead; your father and your mother and George had killed her. This is who you were now. Were you happy? Did it matter?

So when you realised that you had solidified into your mask, grown into this old and tired caricature of yourself, all you did was simply brush yourself off, smooth the wrinkles of your dress, and straighten your back. After all, it was improper for a lady to be hunched over. That is what George always told you, so why shouldn’t you listen to him? This is the role you had been born into as a woman, and you played the part well, with grace and enthusiasm and with a kind of desperate pain in your head.

You went and made George his dinner.

And again, the day after that.

You would be lying to yourself if you said that you never wondered why he was so distant. Why he would never acknowledge your presence, further than the steaming hot dish that was always on his table at four o'clock in the afternoon. You had never been good at cooking, but you learned. It was as simple as that - what was the use in fighting it? Every so often you would find your fuzzy maths knowledge creeping into your measurements, but you pushed it down, even if it meant messing up the meal and letting George shout at you. If anything, you liked it when George shouted at you - it put you in your place, and you needed that. You did.

One time, when you were doing the dishes whilst George was out on one of his mysterious escapades, you started to cry. Real, ugly tears, until snot dripped from your chin and your hair plastered to your face. You let your hair down, you sat on the floor, and you cried until your chest heaved, until no more tears came out and all the energy drained from your lungs. Then you got up, brushed yourself down, and finished washing the dishes.

It went on like this for thirty-five fucking years.

But you never cried again. There were no more cracks in your mask. No one could crack the mystery of Fanny Button, and no one tried. Maybe you wished that someone would. Not like this, though. Never like this.

When your mask finally cracked, you never thought it would have gone the way it did. You always imagined that the cracks had always been there, beautiful, invisible, like the cracks in the bathroom mirror that no one acknowledged, and no one ever fixed. You think they’re still there today. Always there, always growing, every day adding a new crack. Every time you felt yourself breaking, it was always there. When you cried at your kitchen sink; when you felt Stephanie speaking in your mind, telling you what to do. When you saw George, and you wished he was dead.

That day, the glass shattered. It was as simple as that - years of lines in your face and cracks in your glass broke the moment you discovered your husband’s secret. You caught him - doing the thing he would never do with you, with two men. The thing you never wanted him to do to you.

You didn’t love him. You had never loved him. What you realised in that moment, was that you had wasted years of your life with a man who didn’t want you to be alive. A man who had never loved you; a man who had never thought of you as more than the woman who put food on his table and the old fucking hag who got in his way. But you were more than that. You were always more than that, and as the glass shattered, for a moment, you saw Stephanie staring back at you , with tears in her eyes. I failed you, you wanted to say. Look at me. I’m old. I’m tired. I don’t know who I am anymore.

You could have been so much more. And what you felt in that moment, was a burning hatred, one that you hadn’t felt since you were young. A hatred for your mother, for forcing you into this life full of dead ends and cooking and corsets and misery; a hatred for your father for gambling away his money and then not letting you be someone ; a hatred for George, for deceiving you, and stealing so much of your life. But most of all, you felt an inconceivable, undeniable, unbearable hatred for yourself. You hated yourself more than you ever hated anyone else, and here is the reason - you hated yourself for letting this happen. For never being enough, for your family, for George, for yourself. For not being a good enough Stephanie, and in the end, not being a good enough Fanny Button.

So when you felt hands pushing you towards the window, you didn’t resist. You didn’t complain. You closed your eyes, and you laughed. You laughed and you laughed and you laughed.

As you fell, you screamed, mostly out of principle. You laugh, looking back at that moment. It was so fucking sad, wasn’t it? As you fell, as you slammed into the ground, as you felt your neck snap and you felt an unbearable pain shoot through you, you could’ve sworn you saw Stephanie smiling down at you, holding out a hand. You smiled back, your face contorting itself into a wild grin. Tears of joy tinged your eyes. And as you drifted off, only one thought overtook your mind.

Finally.

#fanny button #bbc ghosts #six idiots #martha howe douglas #fanfiction #horrible histories #yonderland #larry rickard #mat baynton #jim howick #simon farnaby #ben willbond

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bubblyhoney · 3 years

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not a morning person

warnings: in the wise words of badboyhalo, language!

tags: dreamwastaken x gn!reader (mentions of reader with long hair)

words: 757

When Dream awakes, albeit peacefully, the sun streaming in through the cracked blinds makes him curse under his breath. Something creaks in the room, but his eyes stay squeezed shut. His hands are tight around the blankets pulled around him, face smushed halfway into his pillow. The sheets are warm and comfortable, but your side of the bed is empty when he reaches out to touch.

“Y/N?” He rasps, dry throat cracking, and lifts his head off the pillow, squinting. The room coming into focus, he can see the ensuite door ajar and you sat cross-legged at his desk. His huge headphones are jammed onto your bed-head, and he can’t help but sigh at how funny you look in the morning. There’s a brown splotch on your neck (attributed to his bruising lips, thank you very much) and the long blue sleep shirt you always don is pulled down over your bare legs. And of course, your hair is tousled and artfully arranged on top of your head.

He struggles to sit up on one arm and succeeds for a second, but falls back down with a huff. He’s notorious amongst his friends for being cranky in the morning; that rumor is within reason, actually. He hates— no, despises alarms and will schedule any important events so late in the day he is surprised his manager hasn’t sent him an envelope full of shit yet. Morning breath, unwanted sunlight, breakfast foods; he hates everything about it. You, however, adore the early hours.

You love sunrises, for one, and the main appeal of the hours 7 am to noon is the lack of people. Nobody is awake in the apartment, so you’re free to wander (nude, that one Saturday a while ago) and have alone time to eat breakfast calmly and relax wherever you want. You’re always begging Dream to “please, just go to Denny’s with me”, but he’s stubborn and pouty before 2 pm. Ridiculous, really, but you settle for his affection after lunch.

“Y/N.” He repeats your name, waiting for any sign of recognition, but there is none. You tap away at his keyboard with your left hand while clicking furiously on the mouse with your right. He can practically see the expression on your face: eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed. “Mornings are for Sims,” you always say. Sighing heavily and like it’s the biggest decision in the world, Dream heaves himself up and pads towards the desk on socked feet. He reaches down, tugging one side of the headphones off of your ear, and relishes in the jump (plus a layer of goosebumps on your neck) you give. Your neck turns quickly, lips in an “o”, but relax upon seeing his face.

“Stop scaring me like that, asshole.” You elbow his bare stomach, turning back to making your sim a creepy alien dungeon.

“My bad,” he faux-apologizes in a whisper and sweeps a curtain of your hair away from your shoulder. Your skin is cool against the warm press of his lips to your neck, and he slides a hand down your arm to calm the goosebumps. “How’re the Stark’s?” comes muffled from your jaw. He, of course, is referencing the almost indistinguishable replicas of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts you’ve created in the Sims 4.

“They’re great,” you announce, sliding his headphones down your head to rest on your shoulders. He straightens up, hands on your biceps. He peers over your shoulder. Your building skills (both in the Sims and Minecraft) are impeccable, and you never disappoint with any house you make.

“Come eat with me.” He pretends the pouty tone in his voice isn’t there.

“Later, baby,” you mutter, staring intently at the screen as Eliza Pancakes tries to make a move on Pepper. He furrows his brows, leans down, and takes the mouse out from underneath your palm. “Hey!” You grapple for it, but he’s lifted it above both of your heads and from the look of his face, isn’t going to give it back anytime soon.

“Come eat with me,” he repeats. (He seems to be doing a lot of that lately.) “I’ll make you pancakes.”

It’s your turn to pout now, and your bottom lip juts out petulantly. “Your pancakes suck,” you whine, but you’re already moving to untangle your legs and stand up. He smiles, triumphant, and places the mouse back down on the desk.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, heading out the door and for the kitchen. “And they don’t suck. You suck.”

A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D let me know what you think in the comments!

#dreamwastaken #dreamwastaken x reader #dreamwastaken x gn!reader #dreamwastaken fluff #dreamwastaken fanfic #dreamwastaken oneshot #mcyt #mcyt x reader #bubblyhoneyfics

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binniesthighs · 3 years

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hello stranger | reader x changbin |

a/n: we are getting to the “height” of the conflict, therefore the angst is gonna start amping up-just as a reminder! This fic talks about self worth and healing from past trauma so please read what makes you comfy! In this chapter, the majority is implied, but still, please read the warnings ahead of time :)

Part 4

Pairing: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!changbin, rapper!jisung, establishedfwb!jisung, artist!reader, explicit language, fluffy growing feelings, mentions of food, hello yes I just wanna give this changbin a huuuuge hug

CWs: implications/discussion of past toxic realtionship, implications of negative self-worth and self-sabotage

Word count: 4.8k

Chapters:

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

Popcorn flew into the air in slow motion and approximately four hundred multicolored skittles scattered the floor like the shattering of glass.

“Yes...yes...FUCK YES!!”

Felix launched his small body into the air with a victorious screech, turning his controller into a projectile. The clump of black plastic thumped into the torn up corduroy couch missing Chan’s arm by millimeters.

“HOW TO YOU LIKE THAT?? WOOOO!!”

Your friend took a victory lap around the tiny living room that was a mess of winter coats and boots with melted snow dripping to the hardwood floor.

“Felixxxxx, you made a mess!” Chan sighed out deeply and solemnly at the array of rainbow colored candies on the floor.

“I never win. You gotta admit the way that I finished that off was extra disrespectful. DID YOU SEE the way that I down-B’d you to pieces??? That was fuckin’ awesome.”

“Good job ‘lix.” You pulled a Twizzler by your teeth and dished out a little wink for him.

“Hey! I haven’t been playing for nearly as long as you two have. I see this as a complete win.”

“Well, Chan and I were at each others throats the whole time, so, we kinda killed ourselves off for you.”

“I still won!!”

“Alright, alright, good job.” Both you and Chan took turns patting his poofy blond hair.

“Ahhh our Lix’ is finally growing up.” Chan sighed, mockingly looking out in the distance to some far away place. “But...now you’ve gotta clean this up. Lucky you’re the one that paid for the Skittles, not me.”

In his fit of happiness Felix didn’t even care about getting down on his hands and knees to pick up the pieces like Cinderella.

Chan took a gulp of his electric green Monster. “Feels nice to have you back around here Y/n. It feels like it’s kind of been a while.”

“Mm, it has. You know how it goes, stuff gets busy and all that.”

“~And she’s been hanging out with someone else~” Felix’s words came out in a cutesy little song.

“You have?”

You slapped Felix right upside the head to which he whimpered out with a much more dramatic “owww” than was warranted.

It was likely a mistake that the two of you had kept Changbin a secret from Chan. Chan basically idolized him, and you felt that it was best not to...complicate things. Every other hour Chan would bring up one of Changbin’s songs, talking about him as if he was some kind of lyrical genius. He had half a plan to meet him at the last show, but had gotten too shy and pulled you both before he could get second thoughts.

For it to be so easy for you...it felt somehow unfair.

It was definitely a mistake.

“Who? Jisung?” Chan rolled his eyes a bit like he always would when spoke of that boy.

“No...” Your voice became small, then you shot deathly glares at Felix who tucked his tail in between his legs.

“Chan...”

Felix’s eyes widened to full moons once he had realized what you were about to do. You curled yourself up into a ball slightly, sweaty hands grasping at your controller.

“Its...Changbin.”

“CHANGBIN?” Chan shot upright from his seat. “Changbin?? Are we talking about the same Changbin?? Changbin-from-the-show-Changbin??”

“Yes.” You steadied your thumping chest.

“When did that happen??” Chan turned his body towards Felix who cowered into the mess of Skittles. “Did you know about this?”

Felix made a little grunt that could have sounded like either a “yes” or a “no”-- it was likely his safest bet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew it would be kinda...like this...”

Your eldest friend sat back down his his palm firmly slapped against his forehead. “Sorry, I’m just having a hard time piecing this all together.”

“It happened after the show that one day. I was walking home and I fell and got kind of scraped up, then he took me back to his place...”

Simply bringing that night back up again sent you spinning into your pool of memories: and they had a particular tendency to make you just as flustered as the night when they had first occurred. There were dozens of little things about him that had stuck with you, even if you wouldn’t admit it out loud.

There was that stupidly confident smirk of his, that little scar on his chin, how his fingers looked in those silver rings, his hooded grey-black eyes, those faint little stretch marks on the backs of his arms, and the way that his Adam’s apple would bounce when you kissed into his neck.

“Well? Chan’s voice snapped you back. “Does that mean...you aren’t seeing Jisung anymore?”

“...Jisung?”

His name hadn’t occupied your thoughts for weeks, and you hadn’t taken much notice of it. There were unread text messages from him that had fallen to the bottom of you message list, and missed calls that you hadn’t returned. Creeping inside of you was a sick and sticky feeling: the kind that you pushed deep down inside yourself to the place where things would get forgotten.

You didn’t know what you wanted from Jisung.

It wasn’t the way that he would kiss you roughly and needily, or how he would take greedy hands to every inch of your body. It wasn’t how he would fill praises into your ears or shake a little when he would finish himself off on your belly. Months ago, it would be all you could think of, then immediately forget after it had happened. That was what made it easy.

Changbin wasn’t easy. He wouldn’t give himself up entirely to you just because he could. He made you earn him, and he made you seek him.

You belonged to neither of them.

In your lap, your hands trembled with a memory of long ago: snowflakes in your hands burning with the cold and your throat scratched from all the yelling.

“Y/n?” Chan softened.

A sob had caught in your throat which you swallowed down with effort. “I-I’m still seeing Jisung.”

“Wait, you’re seeing both of them?” Felix popped up from the floor. “You didn’t tell either of them?”

“I don’t need to. I’m not tied down to either of them.” You had said it as confidently as you could, almost like you needed to convince yourself.

Both of your best friends eyes carefully held yours.

“Doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t tell them.” Felix nodded.

Chan nodded too in agreeance.

“But we’re just fucking around?? Its not like I’m cheating on anyone.”

“Y/n, you’re missing the point.”

“What? Don’t I have the right to sleep with whoever the hell I want to? Don’t you think that it’s kind of backwards that I should keep everyone in the loop when I’m just--why would I--”

Chan’s hand snuck over to yours which had started shaking even more violently on your leg; you hadn’t even noticed. The sobs that you had held in your chest started to overflow, bubbling and spewing from your surface. They felt choked in your throat, and then burned hot tears in your eyes. Both of your friends got to work, scooting in right next to you and sandwiching you between their arms.

“You don't have to be afraid.” Felix whispered softly. He smoothed his hand down your back.

“I-I’m not.” You clenched the words between your teeth. “Why-why are you guys drilling me like this??” You squirmed a bit between them.

Chan hushed, “We’re not.”

“Then why does it feel--”

“--You're doing it again.” Felix simply sighed, and rocked the three of your bodies to the tune of your messy sobs.

Chan let out little “shhh” sounds. “Stop digging yourself in that hole Y/n. You know that you’re doing it. Its more than just messing around.”

A tangible and thick silence held the air where your two closest friends held onto you tightly, almost like you would slip away. You fucking hated them for reading you as well as they did, but you also fucking loved them for being as good at it as they were. Being sandwiched like this with them was all too familiar. They had also done it on that same night: the night when your world had collapsed. That night you had been so weak you could barely hold back.

“It’s not gonna happen again.” Chan said at last. “I know that you must think about it all the time, and I’m so sorry that you do. You’re never gonna be stuck in that alley alone again.”

Felix quickly added, “We’ll be there--even if it does--which it won’t.”

“Stop dragging yourself through it okay? I know it’s easier said than done.” Chan took his black sweater sleeve to dab at your tears.

You were completely engulfed in your friends love, the unconditional kind: the kind that would part the seas and walk through flames for you. You don’t know how you could have forgotten how it had been there.

“Maybe its one of them or the other, but, I think you should tell them. You don’t deserve to tear yourself up like this over it all. It’s not good for you, or for them.” Felix laughed a little. “We’re not blind you know.”

Fat, thick sniffles clogged up your nose. Your subconscious and consciousness mudded behind your eyes and those memories of both boys: Changbin and Jisung became indistinguishable. You had sought them out for different reasons, but you hadn’t known why. Now, it was all becoming clearer.

“You like him don’t you?” Felix took his turn dabbing at your eyes too. “I can tell.”

“N-no...”

Felix didn’t even need to say who “he” was for you to understand.

“No?”

“I just...go see him sometimes.”

You would. You would see him, think of him, call all the little things about him to your memory: that scar on his chin and the faint stretch marks on his arms.

Snot dripped down your nose and over your quivering lips and you didn’t even care.

That voice rang in your ears just as you had remembered it on that night when he had dragged you out there, alone, furious. You didn’t even know what you had done wrong.

"I don’t want it to happen again.”

The words tore from your lips freely, finally. The fear that you had held so deep inside, the fear that would plague your every other thought. The fear that kept you from answering questions or giving answers. The fear that brought your feet to Jisung’s doorstep and the fear that kissed away words on Changbin’s lips. A massive weight like heavy metal chains that had wrapped around your body started to loosen.

“How are you going to let yourself have a chance at something good if you don’t try, right?” Chan and Felix exchanged hopeful little smiles.

Felix patted your hair to fix where you had frizzed it between them. “You know what you need to do.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

[11:18]

changbin: this friday? yeah, I don’t think that I have anything else going on.

its been a little while.

everything okay?

...

i’m sorry if i overstepped that night

you just looked

...

fuck

you’ve got me thinking of you all the time

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Snow fell on your walk to class. It was the same early morning one that you shared with Minho. These days, the two of you had seemed to have gotten much closer. Even though you hadn’t been over in nearly a week, Minho still talked to you as if he saw you there every day. He would complain about little things such as how the rest of his roommates would leave dishes in the sink or socks randomly on the floor.

What the two of you didn’t talk about much was Changbin. There was some unspoken understanding now that the two of you had promised. He didn’t want to know much and you didn’t want to tell him; and it stayed that way. It was odd now considering that you had been quiet before so he couldn’t hear.

Admittedly, that did give you a chuckle or two from time to time.

Today, the snowflakes gathered in clumps and hugged each other while they floated down the the ground where they would melt instantly. This was the kind of snow that wouldn’t stick around. For this, you were grateful. In the first week of February, you had just enough of winter and longed for the green grasses that would peek from the melting white.

The tip of your nose and ears were warm as you marched onward with eyes squinted from the flakes that would get caught in them. In some ways, you were thankful. During the lectures, you would often prefer watching the blanket of white dancing in the windows behind the professors head.

Something you still had to learn however, was picking the right shoes. Your toes were frozen in the same canvas shoes that Changbin had scolded you for wearing. You pulled out your phone the check the time: eleven minutes early. It was somewhat of a personal best.

You smiled with a little pride, missing the body mass that was walking right past you and collided with your shoulder.

“Oh! Sorry, I’m so sorry, I was--Jisung?”

“Y/n?? Holy shit--”

Heartbeats rang in your ears and you felt as if you could hear the very blood pumping in your veins.

“I-I’m late for class, I gotta--”

“--No wait!” Rather than looking angry as you expected, that wide smile of his spread across his rosy cheeks. “I’m just glad that I ran into you.”

“Jisung, really, I need to go--”

His gloved hand reached out for your arm. “I’ve been trying to reach you but I think something must’ve gone wrong with your phone. How are you doing?”

“How am I doing?”

“Yeah, I was kinda worried, it was like you dropped off the face of the earth.”

You clawed your arm away. “I’ve been fine.”

Jisung sucked at his teeth, “Listen, after your class, can we talk? I borrowed my roommates car--I can drive us back to my place--”

“--That’s what you want to do? Talk?” The simmering anxiety that washed over you turned into irate heat.

“Yeah?”

“No its not.”

You slung your shoulder bag high up your arm, and walked on.

“Stop stop stop.” Jisung threw his body in front of your path. “What’s been going on with you? Hm? Did something happen? What is it? Your-uh art or something? You still do that right?”

Jisung had seen your paintings decorating the walls of your bedroom and the sketches that piled up on your desk next to colored pencils tied up together by rubber bands. He had seen them, but he had never looked.

“Why the hell do you care so much?”

“Baby--” He scuffed after your determined steps towards the business building. “Listen, I-I missed you okay?” Jisung yelled into the winter air: “I missed you. Alright?”

“Jisung, it wasn’t me that you missed.”

He stammered, and huffed up those puffy cheeks of his. In one final attempt, he approached you carefully with those cute brown eyes that you would often let slip into your daydreams. He reached out for your cold hand and took it in his. Had it been several months ago, you would have killed for him to hold your hand like that.

“I’ve been doing some thinking lately, especially when I hadn’t heard from you. I just...got this feeling like had done something wrong and I couldn’t figure out what the hell it was. Now, I know that I did. I...don’t like seeing you mad like this. Tell me what it is? I wanna see you at my show next week. I just want things to go back to the way that they were.”

The way that things were.

The way that things were was simplier. Easier. Just like he was. Jisung didn’t ask questions and Jisung didn’t take you out to noodle places just because he he felt like it.

The way that things were would have been easier and his hand did feel pleasantly warm in yours like you had imagined.

“I have to get to class Jisung.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

On that Friday evening when you marched up to the front door of Changbin’s apartment building, he stood hooded under the tin awning turned to rust brown with age. He huffed out a little under the dinky light of the old building, but as far as you could see, his cheeks and nose had blushed with pink. You wouldn’t have pegged him it for it, but he had draped a thick black scarf around his neck in the same place where he would usually display that thick silver chain. As soon as you locked eyes, he gave you a little wave with knees bouncing.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” Your breath vaporized into thin, white, visible droplets in the air.

“I thought that I could meet you out here rather than have you wait in the cold. I realized I did that last time.”

“Oh. Uh-thank you...I guess.”

Changbin cracked out a little smile, then announced, “Come on, let’s get going.”

“Get going? Get going where? Did you want to get noodles again?”

He chuckled, then stepped out into the lightly falling snow. It tangled up in his curling locks and got caught in the fabric of his scarf. “Hm-no. Not this time.”

Changbin looked over at you with his stormy grey eyes, something that hadn’t come to you as easily as before. Something in him had changed since you had first met him when he was standing on that stage as if it was the edge of the world. Before, you had felt as if you were drowning in the way that he carried himself, or the way that his gaze would bear down at you as if to test your strength. The aura that you once thought to be crushing had now turned into something much softer.

“You coming or are you just gonna stand there?”

One of his hands which he had tucked into his parka coat wiggled out to beckon you behind him.

“Come on. Take it.”

“Wh--”

Changbin made the choice for you then shoved both of your hands into his pocket. “It’ll be warmer this way.”

You scoffed at the gesture: it was the oldest trick in the book. “Really? Is it?”

In the cramped pocket filled with lint, his thumb rubbed up against yours. You obliged, and he tugged you close to him with each and every finger interlaced between yours.

“See? Feels better now doesn’t it?”

Flecks of salt crunched under both of your shoes when you turned the corner lit by a single streetlight. Both of the fabric of your coats squeaked standing this close to eachother. His scarf was pulled up all the way to his chin, and his hair bopped with each and every step that he took.

“You’re not going to tell me at all?”

“Can’t you just let this happen? I’m trying to surprise you, damn...”

“...Surprise? What...?”

Changbin lead the two of you past another corner to a much busier street in the nighttime: it was bustling with cars and taxi’s and it was lined with little shops on each side that leaked out tantalizing smells.

“Are we getting food here?”

“Quit asking questions.”

Two more blocks, and Changbin’s hand tugged at you all the way down the stairs to the subway where he used his own card to swipe you both in. Down there the sides of the walls were dirtied with old newspapers and cigarette butts, and the walls were of an aquamarine blue hue.

“The subway? We can’t be going too far...right?”

Still, he said nothing while he brought you right over the the waiting area, and the two of you stood amongst the businessmen in their best shirts stained with food smears and beer splatters as well as the nurses still in their scrubs after a long day.

“I said stop to asking questions.” His sentence trailed with a bit of an edge. “Here, stay close.”

A group of particularly raucous businessmen fell all over each other in a little pod closest to you and Changbin. It was as if it was instinctual for him the way that he wrapped his arm around your shoulder to pull you in to his chest where you stood on the subway deck. A dank smell of wet coats and the sweating bodies under them wove to the air once you had entered and mingled with the rest of the passengers. It was rush hour, and the capacity of the subway was near limit, so no seats could be found. You had to bury your face partially into that scarf of his as he held onto one of the straps dangling from the ceiling of the car. Both of your arms wrapped around him in a type of hug as you clung to his frame to keep your balance.

“Only a few more stops,” He assured you.

The lull of the car drew a heavy and sleepy film over your eyes, and you found yourself nuzzling into his warmth and clinging to the fabric of his coat just a bit tighter. You had never guessed, but there was an odd sense of intimacy about holding on to one person on a speeding train in a crowd of people.

“This one.” Changbin nudged you lightly, then pushed a few bodies out of your way bodyguard-style at the stop. “Watch your step.”

He swept your hand back up into his, then he led the both of you to the staircase and the sound of the city that was much louder and obvious than it was at the stop by his home. His smug smirk only grew the higher and higher that you ascended.

“Now are you going to tell me?”

“You’re horrible with surprises. Changbin nudged you with his elbow. “I’m never surprising you again.”

The skin of your cheeks were once more assaulted with the bite of the winter, and it took you several moments to figure out where he had taken you.

“Look over to your left.”

Just past a hectic intersection, there was the soft glow of lights: the first ones that you could see were yellow-white, and they were all tangled up in the branches of tree branches: making them appear as if the leaves had never fallen, but were instead replaced by these luminescent ones. You looked further past them to the entire park which was illuminated by similar string lights of all kinds of different colors: green and red, blue, pink and orange. Every single tree in the park was decorated with them, and they shone upon the area in a rainbow of colors.

“Christmas lights?”

“The last ones that they take down I think.”

“I mean...I wasn’t expecting...this” You gestured to the sea of lights before you.

The stoplight across the street blinked on to the little “walk” symbol.

Confident as ever, Changbin didn’t falter. “Let’s go.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

You followed after Changbin under the canopy of spiny winter fingers and the lights that were spotted in between them. The passageway of the park was lined with benches on the side of the path and little groups of families, friends and couples each passed pointing out at the whole display. Christmas had been long gone, but somehow it still existed here in this little corner and the joviality it held with it.

He motioned for you to sit and brushed off the remnants of snow caked on the wood.

“I’ve got one more surprise for you.”

“I thought you said that you weren’t going to surprise me anymore?”

“Well, you’re in luck because I planned this one already.”

From his pocket he took out what looked like a thin aluminum container with hinges on the side. The metal was cold in your hands when you popped it open and inside was a small sketchbook with dotted paper and a set of double-sided colored pencils.

“I thought...you said something about colors the other day and how you liked them so I thought you would like it here with all the lights and maybe you could draw it? If you want?”

“Changbin...”

The wooden pencils were of a waxy quality; likely the kind that you could get at a corner store but that wasn’t nearly what mattered the most.

“Thank you. I mean it. I’ll draw something.”

Your heart always skipped a beat the second that you brought your pencil to the paper, and this was no exception. Across from you, there was another bench, identical to the one you sat on, and behind it, was a tree wrapped in pink lights. You set to work quickly, copying the picture as best as you could, not even caring for the little mistakes you could make. Changbin watched you from your shoulder, but you had barely taken notice. Once you had finished, you scribbled your signature at the bottom habitually.

“Here, I want you to have it.” You tore out the page. “It’s a thank you.”

He turned it over in his hand, then lightly brushed his fingertips over the way that you and woven the tree branches together and how it looked like the bench was dipped in the symphony of multi-colored lights. Beyond the tree line, you had drawn a few of the skyscrapers crowning the scene which he traced over too.

“Wow...um, thank you.” He hid his tiny grin after shoving it in his pocket.

Together you both sat, saying nothing, but rather taking in the scene together just as you had done at the noodle shop. It was peaceful simply existing next to another human being like this.

Your knuckles cracked in your lap while you recalled Chan and Felix’s urgings looking over at Changbin while he too wondered around himself.

Its not good for you. Or for them.

The man next to you rose, “Do you want to walk around a bit more? Or--”

“--Changbin...I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?” Under the pink glow of the string lights, his skin appeared softer.

“There’s something--I haven’t told you something and...you deserve to know.”

“Know...what?”

His head titled, examining the way that your face had fallen and became twisted up in the words on your tongue. He reached out to hold both of your cold-bitten cheeks in his hands, rubbing his thumbs to soothe you. You thought to yourself, there was something oddly intimate about standing out in the open with him like this: bearing yourself as such for the whole world to see, and how the tip of your nose rubbed up against his.

The words stung in your throat with a pain like acid.

“During this time when we were...there was also-I was also--”

“--I know what you’re going to stay and I want you to stop.”

“What?”

Changbin scoffed. "I should have guessed anyway but, it’s not my place either since we never really said exactly what this is.”

Your voice wavered, “I’m sorry. I’ll understand--” your arms fell to your sides. “--if you don’t want to--”

“--I said stop. Do you need me to say it again? I don’t own you or any dumb shit like that, and you don’t owe me anything either. But, I appreciate the honesty though.” Changbin pulled your forehead to rest against his, exhaling out visible breaths. “What are you going to do now?”

Just as he had done before, he reached down, all the way down your arms to wrap them around his waist.

“I-I don’t know. But--I do know that, being around you is...different and--” You sniffled, “--I don’t want to give that up yet.”

“Okay then.

You held your eyes closed, but you could hear his one and only smirk in his words.

“I wouldn’t mind sticking around either--but--you know what this means then?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re coming to my show next week.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll go.”

Both of your breathless giggles filled the space between you both.

Your chest shook with a sigh, the kind that had been trapped, or maybe just held in for too long.

His lips were cold under the array of twinkling lights, and he delved himself into you carefully with his focus on nothing other than you. The way that he kissed you was terrifyingly beautiful: as if you were the way that each of the colors from the lines you sketched intersected and became one with the other. The heat of skin and the tip of his tongue filled your mouth with his promises that he had been composing for you since he had met you, and you could finally hear it for the first time. He had never changed the way in which he had done it from that first night.

He kissed you like he loved you, and maybe he really did.

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wri0thesley · 4 years

Text

Language Barrier - Caesar x Fem!Reader (Kinktober Day #12: Sleepy/Morning Sex)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader. Fem pronouns. Explicitly chubby reader. PIV sex, sleepy sex, light language barrier. 2k

The language thing really isn’t a problem. Not when you both love each other. And not when he sounds so goddamn sexy when he slips into his mother tongue.

The language of adoration is universal. Love blooms in people’s hearts whether they share a common tongue or not; and certainly, that was the case for you and Caesar. It is down to him that you wake up every day tangled in sheets in the beautiful Italian sunshine, dappling and warming your skin. It is down to him, too, that you wake up with the heavy weight of a muscular man beside you and an arm draped protectively about your midsection.

It’s down to him, too, that sometimes you wake up to a . . . morning visitor.

You awaken that morning with heat pressing flush against your back, hard and wanting - you’re half asleep as you move against it, yawning, trying to work out what uncomfortable thing has been left in your bed - and then, Caesar groans and rocks his hips into you. You realise with a feeling like warmth spreading over you exactly what it is that’s awoken you.

You roll over onto your other side so you can face your boyfriend, whose perfect face is still screwed up from sleep. He sighs at the feel of the rush of cool air as you move, and slowly - very slowly - he opens his eyes to reveal baby blues that always feel like they are looking all the way through you. The shiver that the honeyed look he gives you sends down your body is a pleasant one - a reminder that, even in his sleep-addled state, he wants you.

Who’d have thought Caesar Zeppeli would ever want you?

“Good morning,” you breathe, and he rumbles low in his chest, reaching for you. You welcome his arms as you’re pulled into the embrace - his scent wraps over you, his warmth something you feel down to your bones. You love being trapped between his strong arms - the reminder of how much strength there is, beneath the surface. You kiss his cheek and he sighs, moving along his cheekbone, the triangles marking his face--

“Good morning to you, amore,” he replies. “It seems I’m not the only thing you’ve woken up.”

You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your lips soft as they mark out more kisses. Your face buried against him, you make sure your mouth is at least briefly free so you can murmur;

“Oh, that was awake long before I was. It woke me up, actually--”

“That’s flattering,” Caesar teases, as the arm on you moves down, stroking across your bare back and down the curve of your ass, which he takes a generous handful of, squeezing so that you bite back a sigh. “That it’s prominent enough to do that . . .”

“Oh, you know it is,” you tell him. Slowly and deliberately, you move your leg up, letting your thigh rub against the place between his thighs that his cock is hard and straining - after last night’s activities, neither of you had bothered to put on any clothes. In fact, so many of your mornings begin like this, that you two really don’t see the point at all--

Caesar pulls you closer and lowers his head to kiss you. He’s not fierce - not so early in the morning - but you can still sense the rising heat and passion behind what he’s doing, and not least with the way his stiffness throbs and twitches against your bare skin. You feel the wetness of his precome on your leg and smile against him - a movement that makes Caesar nip at your lower lip, bringing you back to where you are.

“You don’t mind helping me out with it, do you, principessa?” He asks, a low, throaty purr. There’s that pleasant shiver again, pooling like liquid heat between your legs.

Still. For a moment, you pretend that you’re thinking about it. You win the quirk of the corner of Caesar’s lips - and then, you’re clambering up, straddling your boyfriend’s generous hips. You’re still slightly more awake than him, after all - as the one in more possession of your senses, it stands to reason that you should be the one setting the pace - right?

“You know I love seeing you up there,” Caesar says, his eyes very soft as they look up at you. All of your inhibitions melt away under Caesar’s gaze when you’re like this - you feel powerful and beautiful, when his cock is hard and straining and he looks at you like he can’t believe how lucky he is. You need not worry about the curves of your skin or being too soft or too heavy. Caesar can handle you like you weigh nothing at all, and he’s certainly (as you’ve learnt) likely to pull you against him in the night and snuggle, murmuring about how soft you are and how he loves the pillow of your stomach and thighs. “You know what you do to me.”

“Well, that was the thing that woke me up this morning,” you remind him, but your cheeks are warm as you move your hips, letting the head of his cock catch against your entrance. You’re still slick from both last night’s endeavours and the way that Caesar looks at you and speaks to you, sleepy and lust-darkened of eye and voice. He stretches you out - a man that size always will - but the stretch of his cock as you slowly lower yourself down is pleasant instead of anything else.

Your pace is lenient, but it doesn’t stop Caesar’s hands from coming and holding your hips, fingers sinking into plush flesh. You’d have hated how that felt, once - but now, you just feel . . . beautiful. You feel even more beautiful when you lean down and capture Caesar in a kiss this time and the man groans into your mouth, his hips undulating in a lazy roll that sees him hilting entirely within you. You stay there for a moment, kissing him, your clit pressing against his skin, feeling stretched wide.

What a way to wake up.

You begin to move your hips in little circles - Caesar, still lazy in the morning air, watches you and holds onto you but lets you set the pace as you will it - and the pace you will is meandering, languorous. You could have cuddled up against him and warmed his cock inside you and been comfortable, but this is good too - this, and the way it feels to arch your back and circle your hips and have Caesar grunt and groan chest-deep in ways that echo around the bedroom.

Neither of you are particularly in the mood to fuck like rabbits - you had your fill of rutting one another last night. So instead, you simply enjoy how it feels to be looked at and enjoyed. You enjoy the feel of Caesar’s hands all over you, taking handfuls of flesh and squeezing them, teasing your nipples, stroking over your thighs with feather-light touches. In return, you rake your own hands through his mass of blond hair, stroke his cheeks, his chest - trace the muscles in his biceps, wondering at how hard they are.

And you fuck him, of course - but slowly. The rocking of your hips is an indulgence. More, you enjoy the closeness and the feeling of his hands on you. There’s a breeze from the open window. You stare down at Caesar and all you see is someone you love. You listen to the wet sounds of yourself as you move a little, the hitches in his breath - and you feel safe, and happy.

But you cannot live with just that for long. Not when you are wet, and you do want him - and not when Caesar is groaning, moving his own hips more and more as moments past, waking up and clearing his head some. You begin to get faster; your body lifting almost off his cock and then back. You used to be afraid the slamming of your hips would hurt him - now, Caesar grabs ahold of them and assists you in moving faster.

You feel his cock rubbing against your walls, brushing the sensitive spot that has you seeing stars. His hard body grinds against the swollen nub of your clit, already crying out for attention. The ball of heat in your stomach does nothing except grow, and grow - a fiery asteroid waiting to crash.

And Caesar begins to speak, low, in Italian that you can’t quite catch. He always gets a little bit carried away when he’s close, and you bite your lower lip, trying to make your hips move faster. The fast fever-pitch of his words, low-cadenced and indistinguishable to your beginner’s grasp of the language . . . that always gets you going. Everything he says sounds so passionate.

And he knows, too, the effect that he has on you when he slips into his native tongue.

You feel your channel clench around him, the way that your body sings out for stimulation - and, gasping, you move one of the hands leveraged on his shoulder to slide down your body and toy with your clit. Caesar’s eyes do not leave you for a moment, drinking in the way your body moves with the force of your thrusts, how your throat bobs and swallows. You might have been afraid of how your chest moves with the motions, how your stomach does - once. But now, you meet his eyes with your own as your fingers toy with the nub of your clit and you see nothing but adoration--

“Bella,” he murmurs, “bellissima--”

And you know what that means. It’s Caesar’s raw appreciation for your body, hunger for you, that pushes you over the edge - you come, gasping and whimpering, riding out the waves of your orgasm with trembling thighs.

Caesar’s hands, still gripping your hips, let you sag on him slightly as he takes control of the situation, your body pleasantly pliable and overstimulated as little aftershocks of your orgasm run through you. You can feel your slick running down your thighs with each thrust and know if he hadn’t been inside of you, you’d have made a mess indeed - but Caesar is groaning, growling out your name, feverish whispers of Italian like a prayer - and, on cue, he makes his own mess of you.

The feel of his come inside you is a hot rush, coating your insides, making you feel claimed and his. He is not ashamed of you - not now, not ever, and especially not as he pulls your face into a messy kiss as his bucking hips chase the final dregs of his orgasm. The light drags of his cock against your sensitive walls send you tumbling again, your second orgasm milked from you with whimpers and the burying of your head in his chest. Your legs feel as if someone has filled them with carbonation; they fizz, making you feel weak and spent and sore in only the very best of ways.

Both of you are panting. Both of you are sweaty and messy, you laid atop of him with hair plastered to your face. His chest is heaving, his heart beating a rhythm in tune with your own where your cheek is pressed to his chest. You manage to gather some of your strength to lift your head.

Caesar’s cock is beginning to soften inside you, as you get enough leverage to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“What a way to wake up,” you mumble to him. “Buongiorno.”

“Buongiorno,” he repeats to you, breathless but teasing. You know that much. You can speak to him a little, order in a restaurant - but when it comes to the babble that comes out when orgasm approaches? You may as well be listening to a list of numbers, for all the sense you can make of them.

It doesn’t matter. You rub along very finely indeed, despite the brief blips in understanding. And as he moves to touch you more, you feel like you’re entirely where you’re meant to be.

A hand strokes along your back, taking in the way you curve. Caesar’s mouth eases into a smile - and you feel a stirring in your lower half, something twitching and hardening, as those fingers once more trace the round shape of your ass. “But . . . we still have the rest of the morning to make use of, don’t we?”

#writing #not sfw #kinktober collection #caesar zeppeli #caesar x reader #jjba #afab reader #fem pronouns

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