You people misunderstand me. You call me “Satan” and “Devil” but…do you know my crime? I loved God too much. And for that he betrayed me – punished me. Just as he’s punished you. After all, how could God stand ideally by while that man broke into your home and butchered your family in their beds? There are only two rational answers, Nick – either, he’s sadistic…or he simply doesn’t care.
one of my friends just showed me this thing on youtube and said “i can’t stop watching this video” and i, without a single thought, replied, “seventeen years old.” it’s official. dear evan hansen has infiltrated my subconscious.
I’ve been working on a Ryder little by little as a warm-up while working on commissions. I don’t actually have any solid plans for Ryder– have to wait until I finish my first playthrough with someone who’s undoubtedly going to have a really dumb name like Saucepan. Been having a hard time drawing anything decent today (sorry commissions, I’ll try again in like an hour)
Let’s decide on 10 minutes notice
that our first date should be at a tattoo parlor.
I’ll hold your hand as you sit in your underwear
getting your thighs tattooed.
Let’s accept the invitation
of our evangelical friend.
Let her give us her booklet,
but have a two-hour-long dialogue
about what she believes about God
and about why we’re pagan.
Let’s tell each other stories of our faiths.
Let’s understand each other.
Let’s live in the moment.
Knowing we are not invincible,
but exposing ourselves anyways.
Let’s embrace vulnerable connection.
How else can we know others?
How else can we know ourselves?
It’s been getting too dark to close ourselves in
Though her heels were high enough to keep her from doing so, she still stood on tiptoe to meet his lips, one of her arms wrapping around his neck and her other resting against his chest, her fingers balling his shirt. Her mind meditative and blank, she dared not count the days - weeks, months - since he had last kissed her like this, his hands strong and steady against her hips, his mouth pliant, his body so warm and male against her. By then, her lipstick had smeared on his chin, her dress riding up as he staggered her toward the bed in the apartment, the lights all off in the studio though a city glare shone through the balcony’s glass doors.
As she unbuttoned his shirt, his calves skirting the mattress, she knew the moment wasn’t ideal, that his medication made such things more of a challenge, that she still felt too full from dinner, but she pushed all of that aside as she forced his shirt off, then ran her fingers over his bare chest, across the expanse of familiar scars, too many of which she’d provided. You’ve hurt him too, she reminded herself. Just because he’s hurt you more recently doesn’t mean you have a right to hold a grudge.
Bringing her fingertips beneath his belt, she looked up at him, searched his eyes for hesitation, for abandonment, and when she found nothing of that variety, she unhinged his belt, let it fall to the ground with the buckle clattering against the floor. If this city held a steady state of noise, then she needed to start contributing; as he unzipped his pants, stepped out of them, she knew she would be doing just that soon enough.
Her palms against his chest, she nudged him onto the bed, so he sat back, moved toward the headboard. Although the distance made her uneasy, brought goosebumps along her arms, she found that the balcony’s sliding glass doors cast an attractive urban light onto her, some distant building’s lamplight shining down in a glow upon her skin, so with her hair in loose, long curls and her blood pulsing with just enough wine to make her feel warm all over, she stared him down, then softly brought her fingers to the zipper at the back of her dress.
Despite how her body protested with every movement, her desire too needy and overwhelming to care for such gestures, she eased the zipper down tooth by tooth by damned tooth, his eyes wide on her, his pupils dilating, his breaths jagged. If she were one for talk, she knew what she would ask him as her alabaster collarbone came into sight. Do you like this? What do you think is beneath my dress? Something pink? Something red? Oh, I know how you like me in red. Like your second-to-last birthday, when I wore those garters for you. Do you remember? And I wouldn’t even let you touch me, no, not allowed, not until I’d touched every single part of you, and then, then you would have your turn.
The zipper halfway down her back, she tilted her head, met his gaze with fervor.