new strategy to cope with all-encompassing grief. stop tearing at your hair and covering yourself in ash. instead , commission a glorious set of shining bronze armor and just start attacking people
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i've planned more for my funeral
than i have for my future.
i've known what i want
my own tombstone to say
since i was twelve years old
but i can't decide on a major.
i can't hold down a job
or keep friendships unless
i turn into a version of myself
that i don't even recognize.
i can't tell you if i want
a family someday, or if
i could ever even believe that
i might be worthy of having one.
when they asked us what
we thought our lives would
look like in five years,
i drew in a little question mark
and tried my best to ignore
the look of concern
in my teacher's eyes.
but the five years have come and gone
and i still feel like i'm
living inside of that question mark.
if anything, i'm only more confused.
i only have more questions.
i never thought i'd get this far,
i don't know who i'm supposed
to be now. i don't know that
i really want to be anyone.
-mars
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For Thursday thots can I request some cockwarming for either Simon or Konig. They’re away for so long that they want to be with you and in you as much as possible.
So I don’t think Konig has the restraint for cockwarming. Man is fidgety, touch starved, needy. Man can’t contain himself.
Ghost? Ghost…
It’s an exercise in control.
With so many unknowns in his line of work, he likes to know one thing for certain- and that’s that you can make you pliant, docile, obedient, begging for him, eyes glassy and unfocused.
He does it when you both need a release, too tightly strung but in need of rigidity, structure, a framework on which to paint the illustration of your passionate affair. He works you up, teasing, groping, kissing you until you pant hotly in his mouth:
“Need you in me, LT.”
He fulfills your demand. Of course he does. How can he not? Not when he’s endlessly drunk on the raw, heady sensation of your moans spilling down his throat, sweet and lascivious like the sweet caramel undertones of Kentucky bourbon.
So he forces you to straddle him, watches every pinch and little expression flicker across your face as you sink down onto him, feeling yourself stretch around him. You can feel the weight of him in your belly, your hips, can feel the needling pleasure of him spark outwards in a full body tremble that has you shiver into his arms. Your voice a reedy whine as a hand reaches up to cup your face, forcing your fluttering gaze to narrow on him.
“Fuck, pet.” He snarls. “Gripping me like a bloody vice, making such lovely little noises for me.”
Your tongue flicks out over the web of his palm, between his thumb and forefinger. Smiling, cheeky.
You see his eyes flash then, and when you try and raise yourself up and off of him his hand digs into the flesh of your thigh and you whine.
“Not yet.” he tells you, voice low. It’s an order without him having to say so, the rough, grinding dip of his tone enough to convey all possible meaning to your lust addled brain.
“Let a man enjoy for a bit.” He tells you, and you try to frown at him despite the desperate, pleading noise that escapes you. Cheeky bastard.
It doesn’t stop him from touching you though. Doesn’t keep his hand from skimming across your chest, squeezing a nipple so you gasp, arch against him and it somehow drives him deeper. His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, rhythmic circles that have you folding against his front, nails digging into his bare chest and you beg him, voice a hushed whisper. Yet every time you try to ask his touch vanishes from you and somehow that’s worse and better all at once.
You’re glowing like an ember, flickering brightly with his hot breath drawing heat from your body in the form of wrecked, shuddering pleas. Yet every time you burn too brightly he vanishes and you’re suddenly cold, needing him, reaching out for him in the dying light.
“P-please, Simon.” You sob finally against him. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good, I promise, so please.”
He hums into your kiss, catches your hands when they fly to his face.
“I’ll take care of you, love.” He murmurs, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Just keep being good for me, let me hear those sweet little noises of yours.”
When he begins to fuck you, hips thrusting up to meet yours, you realize you have no choice.
Not that you mind.
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