touches everywhere

Oh am I comfortable with raunchy. Let’s see what I can write on my phone.


ETA: I’m comfortable with raunch but apparently I felt weird writing some smut with other people in the house. I’ll keep this in mind though ;)

Not that she’s kissed that many men to compare him to, but Krem is definitely the best one. He always seems to know what she needs, and the feeling of his soft lips working against hers makes a shiver run down her spine.

His hands are hard and calloused, but his touch is gentle as his fingers roam over her skin. He touches her everywhere, fingers fluttering over her neck and down her back, to her hands to tangle with hers, then back up to cup her face, not content to just have part of her.

She loves it. She melts against him and wraps her arms around his neck when his hands leave hers, letting him support her as their kisses deepen and their tongues begin to play together.

She makes a little noise of need, almost a whine, and he laughs low against her lips. He pulls away only to move down to her neck to press kisses there.

She rips her head back and her breath catches in her throat as she feels his teeth joining his lips teasing her. Her hand scratch against his back, clutching in the tunic stretched across his shoulders.

His hand slips up her waist to her breast, squeezing gently before he flicks his thumb against the hardened nipple pressing through the fabric of her breastband.

“Krem,” she murmurs, voice hoarse as another shiver runs through her at his touch.

He moves closer, stepping so that his thigh is pressed between her legs and her back is against the rough wall of her room. She arches her hips against him, chasing the little promise of pleasure she finds there.

“Nis,” he says, voice hoarse as he kisses up to press his lips against the sensitive shell of her ear. “Let me take care of you.”

It’s all she can do to nod as his lips and tongue attack the point of her ear, but he waits for her to gasp out her answer before his fingers move to the waistband of her leggings.

Krem. Yes…”

anajuli-mirkstone  asked:

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪ = *nosebleed*

Everywhere you touch,
as a living goddess,
a revolution follows.

Turning dreams,
into expeditions.
Turning nightmares,
into dust.

You have a vision, my dear friend…
and I can see your courage.
You are to be a legend,
a sweet dream in motion.

((I never wrote a poem for you yet. So… here you go @anajuli-mirkstone ! *You are really one of my favorite writers! *))

The most painful second of television.

My First Dream: Town of Crystal

“ooohh! i’m soo excited!!”

“I dunno Mamoru…”

“Aaahhh This room is so bright and cute!!”

-Crying real tears because this room is to die for-

“Soooo softttt =w=“

“This house is amazing!!!”

“Nice to meet you, @mayorchibi!”

MERANGUE!!!!” -dies-

“Aahhh how pretty!”

“Have some food little fishies!”

Rare Pre-Viking ‘Frey and Freyja’ Erotic Mount, 3rd-5th Century AD

A bronze mount in a form of a standing male and a female couple, each with a right hand holding a stretched left hand touching each others genitals, a female figure decorated with incised belt decoration; lower part of male legs missing.

Several scholars argue that this image represents the marriage of god Frey and giantess Gerd; however it may also represent a union of Frey with his sister Freyja. From later sources, it is known that the Vanir, an ancient race of gods, had a custom to marry or have intercourse with their siblings. Njord, the father of Frey and Freya was from this tribe, and sources suggest that they were conceived with his sister-wife. She might have been the mysterious Suebi goddess Nerthus, which Roman historian Tacitus wrote about in Germania. Her statue was kept in a sacred grove on an unknown island, drawn in a holy cart and only priests could touch her. Everywhere the goddess came she was met with celebration of peace and hospitality. After she returned to the temple, everything was washed by slaves, who were drowned short after. Her connection with fertility, peace, and water, definitely points to the Vanir race; and she shares several similarities with the later worshipping of Frey. This mount probably represents either Njord and Nerthus, or Frey and Freyja, and may had been used as a votive offering or worn as an amulet to invoke the fertile powers of those gods.

A parallel to the style and pose of this 'couple’ can be seen on several small bronzes inspired by Roman statuettes representing gods. However, similar bronze statues were already known in Scandinavia since the Bronze Age and were most likely of a ritual significance. The specific crossed hand on a chest is a puzzling symbol, possibly symbolising a gesture of a specific god, ritual act or blessing. Some facial similarities can be seen on the Broddenbjerg man, a wooden statue with a strong phallic symbolism, most likely pointing to fertility. Another similarity can be observed on rock art in Scandinavia, especially the long neck features and the image of a 'divine couple’, a strong motif found extensively in the late Iron Age on many golden sheets, known as guldgubbers.

One thing I will never be over is Oliver’s left hand when he wraps it around Felicity’s back right before he picks her up.

… his fingers graze her hair, a soft, cool contrast to her heated skin. She pants his name their breath mingling, making the air hot. She arches into him, pressing her lips to his temple  and forehead, dropping tiny, loving kisses along his hairline. She wraps her arms around his head, cradling him, pulling him closer. He wants to touch her everywhere and anywhere at the same time. He drags his hands her spine, reveling in how her gentle muscles react to his touch. He kisses her chest, tasting her, eliciting the most beautiful breathless whimpers from her. His tongue traces her collarbone before he dips his head, his stubbled chin slipping over the top of her breasts. He wants to lean her back and wrap his lips around one of her nipples, but at the same time he wants to keep her close, wants to feel every inch of her pressed against him as tightly as possible.

She’s life and light and sunshine and happiness and purity and it’s more addicting than he could have ever dreamed.


Her hips rock against him, her heated core grinding against his hardness, the seams of their pants pressed tightly together. Hot needy desire rockets through him and he moans her name in such a way that it makes her shiver, sending goosebumps erupting across her back. His skin burns for her, his body yearns towards hers…  


One hand slips down over her hip, sliding over her delectable ass that he’s been dreaming about for years now as he wraps his other arm around her back. She surrounds him, taking over everything, drowning him in her love and for that one single second, he lets go, he gives her all that he is, letting her in so completely that he doesn’t know where she starts and he ends. 

He needs to be closer, needs to feel as much of as her as he can, needs to cherish as much of this - of her - as possible because some tiny part of him knows that this moment - this precious, perfect moment where everything he never though he’d get, everything he never believed he deserved - won’t last forever…

The moment that really, really slayed me here was when his fingers slide under her arm, over the sensitive skin there, brushing against the inside of her left arm. It’s so intimate, startlingly so. They’re both naked, in so many more ways than the physical sense, and every single time I see his fingers slipping under there right before he picks her up, right before he digs his fingers in to hold her closer, it strikes me again how incredibly tender this moment is.

This scene is so magical, so intense, so intimate and gorgeous and beautiful and loving and it still kills me dead.

My pain is so tangible; I can reach out and touch it. It’s everywhere; consuming me. I don’t even realise how long it’s been eating away at my insides until I finally cave in and crumble helplessly, crashing, spiralling down, hopeless and helpless.

The terrible tightening in my chest, the constriction of my lungs, the deep shuddering breaths as I try to hold back the inevitable - but I break.

I always break.

The painful wracking sobs, screaming silently, my damaged self- seeping out through the cracks that I flimsily repair each time I fall apart, countlessly over and over again.

Although; this time those cracks have split wide open; leaving gaping holes in my own body.

I wail for a long time, weeping pitifully as I cry myself a pool of self- sympathy, until I’m empty, benumbed and finally turned completely inside out.

The actual, physical ache that I feel in my chest and in my bones when I’m so sad is fucking awful, and it will never go away, despite how much I push my emotions aside and believe that I’ll be a stronger person in the long run.

I think about the hurt people go through when relationships or friendships break down and fall apart. How we’re expected to just get on with things and be okay when we’re barely capable of a thought or memory that doesn’t involve the other person. When you really care about someone, genuinely and deeply, it doesn’t just vanish, no matter how terrible the ending is.

Keep reading

Cat Papyruses - A 2/22 Edition Shitpost Notes

(I miss the Cat Day without drawing stuffs and now I am sad so you all now have to listen my Papyruses cats prompts because boi oh boi cats mmmmm)


  • All white fur
  • Always clean himself for “look good and cool”
  • Has a cyan ribbon tied on his tail which is given from Sans
  • Spend equal time at indoors and outdoors, he like both. Indoors for staying with Sans and outdoors for playing around
  • That one cat that will completely erase your “all cats are prideful” bias as being extremely friendly and energetic to everyone, will nag and follow you around passionately that make you feels like he is actually a dog.
  • Has no vigilance from other cats to strangers on street.
  • Likes to call Sans to play with him when Sans is taking naps, sometimes stays and sleep beside/on top of him.
  • Will never push cups off from table.
  • Touch spots: everywhere


  • All black fur
  • Gains many little scars on his body from fights
  • Shitty temper, will hiss and scratch everyone who tries to touch him
  • Bite Fell Sans 24/7, but doesn’t hate him, this is a way to show affection, at least he thinks it it. 
  • Fucking. hates. collars. Fell Sans tried wear a ring collar on his neck once and he spent the rest of days scratching and biting his own neck historically.
  • Very defensive on his territories, most fights is for defending his land. Many cats are afraid of him expect Papy and Honey.
  • When injured or feeling sick he will get very close to wherever Fell Sans is, curl himself up and become very quite, this is his own sign of something is off.
  • Will always push cups off from table.
  • Touch spots: N O

Swap Pap (Honey)

  • White and orange tabby fur.
  • A little bit messy, rely on Swap Sans to comb his fur a lot.
  • Always looks sleepy, as in fact sleeps a lot. Yet actually nimble and smart on movement, very good at dodging.
  • Spend most time outdoors that people may think he is a stray cat. Only go beck to Swap Sans for food, and of course Swap Sans.
  • Doesn’t really like people to touch him but still chill with it, only like how Swap Sans massage his head.
  • Like catnips, like catnips a lot, secretly steal and hide many catnips in different places.
  • Basically that one chillest stray-looking cat you can find on street.
  • Will only push cups off from table when out of people’s sight.
  • Touch spots: Forehead, neck, sometimes his back

“Is this okay?” Bittle’s voice is hushed, and Jack can’t look away from the sweep of his eyelashes or the flush of pink suffusing his skin. There are freckles across the bridge of his nose, faded and light.

Jack leans in, presses a kiss to the curve of one cheek. Pulls away just enough to move to the other, press a matching one there. “Yes,” he says. “More than.”

The corners of Bittle’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. Jack can feel the heat of him everywhere they touch—his hands, his shoulders, the insides of his thighs—and everywhere they don’t.

I feel like Remus is the type of guy who would have his hands all over you during sex, always. His touch is everywhere.

Meanwhile, Draco, I think, would have his mouth everywhere possibly imaginable. And I do mean everywhere, again. He’d start off with your neck, then your chest, then he’d travel down your stomach, to your navel, before flipping you over and sucking and nibbling at every inch of your back until your spine is arching, begging him for more.

There’s still something there, some lingering fire between us, beneath all the small talk and shy glances. It’s like a rainstorm has showered down and put out ninety-five percent of it, but there’s still that five percent burning at the bottom of the hill, where it first ignited. Rapid and unyielding, screaming at us to be heard – to be acknowledged. It’s all around us – in my chest when I hear his name, behind his eyes when he looks at me, in the atmosphere when he touches me… Everywhere and nowhere all at once. I’m addicted to the way he makes me feel, to the flare in my chest when he’s in the room, to the ache when I try to suppress it.  To the wildfire that is us, waiting to explode.
—  from my journal this morning 14/1/17

I awoke this morning to find no boxers or briefs this morning in my drawer. I looked at my wife and said babe, I have no underwear what happened. She gave me the sorry I have been busy and couldn’t do laundry excuse so she pulled her drawer out and said will these do for you? I was staring at a pair of sheer black panties with a red bow across the top. I shrugged my shoulders and said yea I guess they’ll have to do. Handed them to me with a smile on her face. She snickered after I slid them on and they had no problem covering me. The elastic band touched everywhere. As I’ve heard from her before she slipped out, a real cock would bulge not be suppressed… 😉

Wether your here or your gone, it all feels the same.
cause when your here, your not really here in the way that you used to be, you don’t look at me the same and you don’t talk to me the same. and when your gone, your still everywhere I look. Your fingerprints are still everywhere I touch, as if I were touching you through them,  except its all too damn cold, and that coldness reminds me of you in words I cannot describe and I miss you in all the same ways. I miss you when we’re friends, and I miss you when we don’t speak. I miss you all the damn time, and it all hurts the same.
every single part of it hurts.
because you’re just not here anymore, and I’m just not the one you think of anymore, and now I’m starting to question if I ever was.
and all I ever do now, is sit there and over analyze every single conversation we ever had and I’m taking everything apart as if it was jigsaw puzzle, only the parts cannot go back together anymore and now their sitting in a box at my desk and I just want them to be put together again.
I just want you here again, but when your here, you only look at me as a friend and that hurts so damn much.
I don’t know if having you in my life is for the best or for the worse,
It all hurts the same.
—  i don’t know how to fit what I’m feeling in proper sentences, I’m hoping you understand.