youthful innocents

So I started watching Hello My Twenties on Netflix because the premise sounded cute. The daily lives of five girls living in this adorable house. But two episodes in and one girl says she sees ghosts, another has a cursed bracelet maybe, and I am not sure but I think one of them may have killed someone.

This is not the type of show I thought it was going to be at all.

How does Peter Parker differ this time from his previous two incarnations?

You’ve seen the billionaire, the scientist, the soldier. Now it’s time to see the kid. And every decision we make on set is based off how would a kid react in this situation, so every fight scene we have is designed in a way that’s almost child-friendly, so he never actually punches anyone. It’s all done kind of by accident. I think the biggest difference is his youth and innocence.

[C]hildhood and femininity are deeply co-constructed and intersecting categories: women are infantilized and children are feminized, female youth and sexual innocence are prized while childhood innocence is eroticized, and women are historically treated as legal and social minors subject to paternal power.
—  Tyler Bickford, “Tween Intimacy” in WSQ’s Child (69)
The Pevensie's Scents

A Narnian Preference
by yours truly, @edmundsfreckles ♡


What would the Pevensie’s smell like?


Lucy:
The youngest would smell like white lilacs. The girl thought the flowers so were gorgeous, that she had to be like one. White lilacs symbolize youthful innocence

Susan:
The gentle would smell like gardenia. Gardenia is a flower that tends to be waxy, and shiny. They’re symbolic of self reflection and clarity.

Edmund:
The just would smell like warm cotton, or fresh laundry. Why? Because all he wanted was a fresh start when he got back from the witch’s.

Or he’d smell like a good ass smelling cologne. a sassy boy needs a sassy scent.

Peter:
He would smell like sweat from all that damn sword fighting in lww + pc.

4

~Sinja week day 4~: Innocent, innocent

White calla lily: Innocence, maginificence, beauty
White lilac: youthful innocence
White carnation: innocence, pure love
White daisy: innocence, purity, loyal love
Purple lilac: first love

anonymous asked:

Little!Dan (please and thank you :3 ❤)

(bad) little!Dan hc’s I’ve done in the past (x) (x) (x)

❥ Dan loved the praises he received when he was a good boy for his daddy

❥ “Such a good boy. You’re taking my cock so well, baby.” “You like when I fuck you good, baby? You like when my big cock opens you up?” “Such pretty pink lips, little one. Look so good wrapped around my cock.” Those are just some of the praises Phil gave him when they were having their special ‘playtime’

❥ Phil always spoiled his little one with pretty pastel clothing to dress him up nicely. It was a sense of security to Dan when he felt pretty for Phil

❥ Dan always had a pile of stuffies on his bed that he’d love to climb into and cuddle in with Phil. Phil would get him almost any stuffie he saw in the shops because he loved seeing the youthful and innocent happiness on Dan’s face whenever he was presented with a stuffed animal

❥ When Dan was horny, he’d get either quiet and flushed or whiny and clingy. Phil just happened to love both versions

❥ When Dan was the flustered kind of horny, he was bashful, and every single touch from Phil made his face go a bright red. His moans when he was fucked were breathy and quiet, and he was extra careful to be a good boy for his daddy

❥ Then there was the loud kind of horny. Dan would get whiny and he was attached to Phil’s side. He would always push Phil’s buttons, doing things that could earn him a punishment. When he was fucked, he was loud and essentially shouting in ecstasy. He always begged Phil for more, and was incredibly verbal, telling Phil how good his big dick felt in his ass and how good his daddy was making him feel

{。^◕‿◕^。} send me stuff {。^◕‿◕^。}

Sometimes I can look angelic😇.. but let’s face it. We know that’s not the truth. 😈

In all honesty though, sometimes I miss being as innocent as I was in my teens.

To all the kids following me and reading this. Enjoy your youth. Before bills and relationships and work and adulthood takes it. Because most of the time it’s not a gentle transition. I definitely miss being carefree and not having the responsibilities that I have now. Yes there are some freedoms I enjoy as an adult but over all, I’d give anything to be a kid again just for a day in the summer.

We spent every day doing nothing, talking about nothing and everything, all the things we didn’t understand, all the things we never would. We woke up every morning with nothing to do, and didn’t sleep till the sun was rising again. We watched our youthful innocence melt away in the summer heat, rising from the ground in shimmering waves. We kissed goodbye to world we knew, and turned to the one we had yet to explore.

I will never regret a moment of that summer we wasted away together. We ended in dust as the leaves fell from the trees, but you taught me how it feels to love and be loved, and I will never stop being grateful to you for that.
—  EMJ // Under Midnight Suns And Satellites

The Blood, Sweat and Tear music video was by far one of the most unique music videos of the year not just in Kpop, but in general. It wasn’t just any other video with cool effects and dancing. It was an intricate, cinematic piece that was layered with symbolism. A visual piece that was meant to be analyzed and through it’s imagery, told a story about youth and losing innocence which was done brilliantly.

I’m so happy that the artistic director and team behind it (along with BTS) received the Best Music Video award because they truly deserved it, and such work should definitely be appreciated ❤️

It started with the most innocent of touches.
Sprawled out on the floor of Jane’s bedroom, we were killing time in that familiar, lazy way that best friends had; shooting the breeze and flicking through glossy magazines, talking about boys and bands and the high aspirations of innocent youth. Then, without even thinking, I reached across Jane’s legs to retrieve the latest copy of Marie Claire, a bold headline catching my eye, one that I can’t even remember now.
As I reached, Jane shifted, crossing her ankles together, lifting her foot slightly so that her toes brushed against the underside of my arm. It was perfectly innocent, the briefest of contact, the kind of touch that had happened a thousand times in our long friendship, but there was something different this time.
With a gasp, I glanced down at her foot, an involuntary reaction caused by the minute tingle of pleasure that rippled lightly up my arm. My eyes fell on Jane’s toes, encased in soft nylon, five perfectly colored jewels muted beneath the tantalizing mesh of her pantyhose. As I watched, she absentmindedly bent her toes back, then splayed them out, stretching the light material that imprisoned them. It was captivating, mesmerizing, provoking a sensation that I’d never felt before, a sensation that shocked me with its intensity and insistence.
I sighed quickly, looking away from the hypnotic dance of Jane’s toes, a sudden rush of guilt and shame flooding my young mind. Then I grabbed the magazine and withdrew, trying to think of something, anything other than this new fascination that had imprinted itself on my thoughts so quickly and totally.
But the seed had been planted, taking hold in fertile soil, blossoming with notions and urges that were previously vague and unformed, but which now found substance with the haunting vision of Jane’s soft feet. My mind began to race with a thousand new thoughts. What would her feet feel like? What would they smell like? What would it be like to touch my face against them, to bury my nose in the space behind her toes? What would it be like to taste them? To soak her pantyhose in my mouth’s wetness?
My heart raced, my breathing becoming quick and shallow. I glanced over at my new obsession, following the lazy arc that her foot traced as she rotated her ankle, utterly oblivious to my growing interest. I became fixated with the bold line of the seam over her toes, perfectly outlining the undulating line of those captivating digits. Deep inside me, a warmth took hold, a tiny fireball that pulsed and grew with every sordid consideration or forbidden thought.
And then, with no conscious thought, I reached out and stroked my hand over her sole, caressing my fingers along the length of that impossibly soft expanse of nylon and warm flesh. She sighed and trembled at my touch, shaking her foot back and forth.
“What are you doing?” she said with a playful ignorance, unaware that my touch was anything other than completely innocent.
“I couldn’t help it,” I said distantly, gazing at her pale toes.
“Do it again,” she said, fixing me a suddenly deep and distant stare, “it felt good.”
I gasped, shocked and terrified in equal measure, unsure what her capitulation and permission signified, wondering where the line fell between innocent and sensual, but needing more than anything else to touch her silky soft foot.
I reached out again, and stroked my slender fingers slowly over her sole, gripping her toes and lightly tugging at her pantyhose. She squirmed beneath my fingertips and I heard her sigh. With a confidence that I couldn’t place, I began to massage her foot, wrapping my hand around her, sinking my thumbs into the yielding flesh of her sole, relishing the way she trembled in my grip. I shifted my body until I was lying parallel to her, top to tail, my head directly above her writhing feet, never once relinquishing my grip on my silky soft prey.
Then I inhaled, powerless to resist the animalistic urge to fill my nose and throat with the sensual scent of my best friend. My mind exploded, invigorated beyond reason by the hot aroma of her. An intoxicating blend of sweat and shoe leather and sweet perfume, the distillation of a long day at the mall. My pussy surged as Jane’s scent filled my senses, the fireball leaping outwards with throbbing pulses, saturating me with impossible sensation. I breathed again, filling my lungs, mouth hanging inches from her feet, eyes squeezed tightly shut. I felt wetness between my legs, a slick friction between my thighs as my pussy reacted to these new urges.
“Wh-what are you doing?” said Jane from somewhere far away, her voice nervous and trembling, thick with confused anticipation.
I panted, and turned to her, meeting her wide-eyed stare and fixing her with a look of hungry desire. “Do you want me to stop?” I asked.
She exhaled quickly, mouth hanging open, cheeks flushed with a ruddy pink glow. “N-no,” she replied, uncertain but sure at the same time, the compelling paradox of her forbidden desire giving her pause.
But I didn’t share her hesitation, I was no longer shackled by the limitations of friendship or the manacles of expectation. Something inside me had changed, desire given form by circumstance and sensation. I knew what I wanted, and there was no force in the world that could stop me now.
I turned back to her feet, soft and delicate and perfect in ways that I had never imagined. Then I leaned forward and wrapped my lips around her toes, wild now with a hot lust that made me hungry for her, desperate to complete the trifecta of sensation, adding taste to my portfolio of senses like a collector of pleasure.
We gasped in unison as my warm mouth began its sensual exploration, tongue flicking out and caressing her writhing toes. She tasted unbelievable, indescribable, a hot, musky flavor that ignited the growing conflagration in my body with its myriad dimensions. She moaned, and I felt her hand reach out and stroke my leg, trembling fingers tracing exploratory lines on my calf and thigh. But all of that was distant and vague as the focus of my awareness collapsed on the singular point of contact between my tongue and her toes, obsessively soaking her with my spit, greedily sucking and lapping at my best friend’s foot.
It seemed, for one shining moment, as though I had reached a pinnacle of sensation, as though nothing could top the indescribable intensity of ecstasy that my hot worship of her foot had conjured into existence. I felt lightheaded and dizzy, overwhelmed by it all, throbbing pussy roaring with every new discovery.
And then, without warning, without build up or escalation, Jane placed my toes in her mouth, completing the sinful symmetry of our unexpected tryst, causing my invigorated senses to explode with a supernova of sensation!
It had started with the most innocent of touches, but desire is frequently born of innocence. And as Jane and I explored each other’s young bodies that night, and on countless times in the weeks and months after that first, halting contact, I slowly came to realize that no touch is truly innocent.

Ella Ford is a dirty girl who writes sexy stories about lesbians, pantyhose and BDSM. Find more of her filthy works here: http://amzn.to/1iZSNgU

Unbroken wishbone

Yesterday’s blood seeps where it cannot go.
Yonder stars keep moving away, unchained,
Youthful innocence dies along their glow;
Yellow sun turns black, completely drained.

Yearn not the lost, this will turn to despair,
Years will teach what is now beyond belief.
Yield, this heart is breaking beyond repair,
Yet does it matter when it beats only grief?

Young we were, perhaps foolishly naive:
Yarn of soul, spun into a thread of hope,
Yin and yang, separate wholes interweave.
Yesterday’s blood taints the ragged rope;

Your light has become a distant memory.

Why– did you have to go without taking me?

- M.A. Tempels © 2016