#she feels

Ada: These.... feelings of grief are new to me.... I’ve never lost anybody before..... please tell me it gets better.....

So I'm in a role play rn and Toga just said she feels stabby so-

Race through my mind.

Your fingers trace down my spine and I begin to spiral out of control into a place I do not wish to be.

My stomach,

It churns and feels uneasy as you take every peice of my sanity I had deeply ingrained in my bones.

You slowly take what I had left and apply it to your stash of hearts you've accumulated.

To me it meant the world.

To you ;another trophy in the cabinet.

It's like I WAS worth something.

Guilt for the days to follow.

Everyday a new type of pill to swallow.

Darkness is no ordinary mystery. It takes you deliberately— closes in, patient and certain, before thought has time to resist.

It conceals with purpose. It commands without raising its voice, teaching your body to listen, to respond, to not overthink to feel before it sees.

In darkness, sensations sharpen. Breath slows. Resistance loosens its hold, not forced— invited.

I know that light would reveal too much. That’s why… Only a measured trace is granted— enough.. just enough to catch the outline of authority, enough to feel the pull of it, and to recognize the quiet, willing pleasure of taking your place within its reach to find your truth in darkness. That’s the beauty of darkness. It lives deep inside you, your mind, your soul.

Once, she was the canvas— posed, perfect, made into someone else’s masterpiece. Every inch arranged, every gaze rehearsed, a beauty admired, but never owned.

Now— she paints.

And her strokes are not gentle. They are hungry. She doesn’t dab. She devours. Color spills like moans across linen, her wrist flicking, hips swaying— not with technique, but instinct. She paints like she’s being touched from within.

There’s sweat on her neck. Smudges on her thighs. The studio breathes with her— alive, pulsing, wanting.

She paints breasts like ripe fruit, veins in wrists, nipples stiff with unseen wind. She paints thighs parting, mouths open, flesh beckoning. Each canvas a confession. Each figure a mirror of herself— not just a body, but a body in heat.

This is no longer art. It’s worship. It’s her fingers slipping into oils the same way they slip beneath fabric when the night is long and memory tastes like skin.

She no longer waits to be desired. She is desire— translating lust into color, longing into light.

And when she steps back, nude under her paint-streaked robe, she sees it:

The curve of freedom. The ache of truth. The woman she used to hide, now dripping from the canvas, unashamed, and achingly alive.