Wir sind nicht unsere Fehler.
Faye
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A04. Kein Zeichen
Ich baue aus Worten
neue Gedichte,
mit verschiedenen Gefühlen,
die keinem nahe kommen —
dem Gefühl, Sunshine zu treffen.
Aber so sind die Dinge im Moment:
Ein Leben ist mehr
als die Beziehung
oder Nichtbeziehung
zu jemandem,
der mir Freude bereitet
auf den verschiedensten Wegen.
Die Erde dreht sich,
Wasser fließt Berge hinunter —
egal, was ich mache,
wer ich bin,
wohin ich gehe:
Ich bin.
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Mit dir geht es mir wie beim Wolkengucken:
gedankenruhig.
zeitlos.
einfach nur so sein zu können ist alles.
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Did they really change the Frieren intro to include Sein the episode AFTER he leaves lol
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Something Holy (Sein x Reader)
𝗔/𝗡: 𝗶 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗿𝗼. 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗵𝗲
𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚!! 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝘃𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗲𝘅, 𝗢𝗢𝗖 𝘀𝗲𝗶𝗻 (𝗽𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆? 𝗵𝗲'𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝗹)
𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was drunk.
[[MORE]]Sure, he did pick you up at a bar. But you were already seated and served by the time he got there. And he was all up on you from the moment he sat down right next to you, buying you round after round while chatting you up. If anything, you should be the one who’s as drunk as he looks right now. The way he kept boozing you up and watching with interest as you spilled every little messy detail about your (current lack of love) life tells you that.
Either way, it was no surprise when he asked if you wanted to get out of there and go somewhere a little more private. You, already ready for a quick enough fill to make a new notch in your bedpost, happily agreed. If he’s bad, you can always just try to forget him in the morning. If he’s mediocre, at least you can brag about that pretty face of his and the fact that you bedded a priest. And if he’s good? Well…you weren’t exactly expecting good. But you should have. You really, really, should have.
Because maybe that would have prepared you more for what’s happening right now. Maybe that would have prepared you better for what you began to notice the moment you pulled him into your hotel room and locked the door behind you. Maybe that would have prepared you better to witness the way he looks at you. In the moments you’re facing each other. In the moments you step away to grab something. Even now, as you’re forced to face the mirror- forced to face him in the mirror and the way he looks at you. It’s strange. It’s strong. It’s intense. And in your eyes, it’s not the look of a guy who’s only had a couple of ciders. It’s the guy who’s plastered- lost on something. Hooked on something. And you don’t have the gall to say it’s all because of you.
“What a view…”
But he does.
“S-Sein…” You mutter, gasping softly as he suddenly ruts his hips and reaches deep inside of you. Through your pleasure-induced haze, you can see how his own cloudy expression locks onto yours as he utters something else about you. Something about how he loves to watch his ass move as he fucks into you. How glad he is that you said yes to his offer. How is he going to make you feel so good for as long as you’ll let him. And all you can really do is take it. “Fuck…you feel so good…”
“Squeezing…squeezing me like a vice…” He responds breathlessly, the raw confession punctuated by a particularly filthy groan as he momentarily loses the pace he set. He’s full of praise for you. Reverent words and phrases spill from his lips messily as you rock back onto his cock on all fours, trying and failing to keep up with him. The two of you are a mess right now. Aside from the dirtied sheets and the pile of clothes thrown haphazardly across the floor, you’re both a mess of sweat, arousal, cum, saliva (who knew a priest could be selfish enough to leave hickies on a woman who is not yet his own?), and possibly more.
At some point, he left a mark on your neck- one big and pretty enough for him to keep running his mouth back over it to deliver kisses and licks and nibbles that send shivers down your spine. At another point, you had torn his hair free of its ponytail. He could do nothing but flip his hair back out of his face over and over again. Although he stopped trying to deal with keeping it back once he found that you really, really liked having something to hold that wasn’t the sheets whenever someone was devouring your cunt.
The point is, he’s a mess. You’re a mess. You got picked up by a priest at a bar. You said yes to taking him home. And your biggest regret is underestimating him and believing the bedroom freaks couldn’t hold certain occupations. Now you’re stuck getting your mind and your back blown out. But honestly? He’s more than just a good fuck. He’s more than just a man who knows exactly what he’s doing and when to do it.
He’s the best you ever had. And you’re not exactly sure how to feel about that.
“Sein…” You whimper his name yet again, eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open as he lands hit after hit to g-spot with nearly practiced precision. In response to the soft call of his name, the man behind you grunts as his grip on your hips tightens. Doggy-style was his idea. As was fucking you in front of your room’s floor-length mirror. As was doing everything and everything to make you feel good- to make you feel worshipped. And because of that, there’s more than just praise. There’s more than just fucking.
There’s touching. And touching and touching and touching.
Tight grips. Lingering kisses. Slapping parts of you that bounce back at him. Stroking of your skin. Holding you tight. Holding you down. Stretching you out. Consuming you whole. You name it. He does it. And he does it all. Because of that, his hands move often. Never staying in one place- never praying to one place for too long. They jump from your waist to your hips to your love handles to your stomach to your ass to your breasts to just about anywhere else he can grab for leverage. Just to fuck you deeper. Just to make love to you harder. Just to hold you closer.
You swatted his hand away once. He grabbed hold of something- a part of you that you didn’t quite love like the rest of you. He responded by forcing himself closer. He wrapped his arm around your neck just enough for him to tug you upright and back into him. The shift in position made you gasp, his cock instantly hitting a new angle and depth inside of you as he pulled your body flush against his strong, toned body, and rolled his hips like a madman. In between strokes, he made you promise not to pull away from him again. In between desperate, gasping breaths, he told you that it’s been far too long for him. That he’s traveled so far. That he’s waited so long. That he can’t be stopped now. Not while he’s so close.
You had a funny feeling that some of those words weren’t exactly meant for you. That perhaps he had the image of someone else- of something else when he was muttering and mumbling in your ear. But then he unwrapped his arm from around your neck and pushed onto your stomach on the bed, and suddenly, you weren’t thinking about his words anymore. No, you were thinking only of the cock Sein had just slipped back inside of your wet, puffy, lower lips as he lay down on top of you and fucks you in the prone position like bedding you is his dying wish.
You’re not sure. You’re not selfish nor arrogant enough to assume that all of this is because of you and for you. Even if the kisses he presses to your shoulders are starting to feel less like those of a stranger or more like the start of something new, you’re not selfish enough to believe one night with you is all that’s needed to corrupt someone holy. You aren’t. You aren’t. But it doesn’t matter what type of person you are. It doesn’t matter what you believe. What matters is the low, breathless words he grunts out between the seconds he thrusts his cock back inside you. What matters is that…that and…
“…I don’t…don’t have to worry about you…going anywhere…right?”
…and whatever he’s bold enough to admit.
After all, when you brought him back here, he told you to just lie back and let him take care of things. Like you’re something deserving of that much care. Something worthy of that much attention. Or perhaps even something holy that he’s been searching for all his life.
If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was drunk. And in some ways, maybe he is. What he’s drunk off of, you’re not exactly at liberty to say. Not just because you can’t think straight. But because there’s more than one way for a priest to commit a sin.
It just so happens that these ways just so happen to involve you.
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Durch dich glaube ich wieder anderes daran, wie sich Gegenwart und Zukunft verwickeln und entfalten.
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I FELL IN LOVE WITH ANOTHER HOT OLD MAN- WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
HE IS SO AMAZING I LOVE HIM AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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Seit Monaten und Jahren sage ich mir, wieviel lebendiger ich mich fühle, fühle es, und freue mich. Ich bin stolz auf mich.
Gestern, gestern habe ich mich versehentlich gefragt, wann und wodurch ich mich wirklich lebendig fühle. Und mir wurde umgehend bewusst, daß ich genau das viel zu selten und wenig tue, nein, erlebe. Denn, ja, ich fühle mich lebendiger, ich bin lebendiger - doch im Vergleich zu diversen Momenten von vor Jahren. Im Vergleich zu dem, was ich überleben wollte, was ich verändern wollte.
Gestern hat sich mein Hirn selbst geohrfeigt und feststellen müssen: oh. Ja, ein ruhiges, sicheres Zuhause geschaffen und einen geschützten Alltag. Doch lebendig? Kaum. Viele Momente der Erleichterung und der Glückseligkeit und Freude. Auch alles irgendwie Geschwister oder Kinder der Lebendigkeit. Doch lebendig, daß ich so bei mir und in meiner Freude ruhe, daß alles andere geschrumpft zu sein scheint, falls ich überhaupt hinsehe? So lebendig, daß der Sternenstaub in mir vibriert und Muster formt und summt, daß ich vergesse die Bedeutung des Menschseins zu erkunden?
Das Schönste an diesem Moment war, und ist, daß ich meine Antworten die letzten bereits erkundet und schon mit ihnen getanzt habe. Ich kenne ihre Stimmungen. Nichts in mir hat mehr Angst vor ihnen. Ich will nur noch spielen, erkunden, experimentieren, staunen, fühlen - stolz sein auf jeden Moment, den ich wirklich lebendig gewesen bin. Wirklich gelebt habe, statt zu erleben.
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Der Abgrund im Bokeh
Es ist die unerbittliche, warme Täuschung dieser Lichter, die mich in die unendliche Weite des Nichts zurückwirft, ein Nichts, das nicht die Abwesenheit von allem ist, sondern die schreckliche Gewissheit, dass alles Seiende, einschließlich dieses zitternden Ichs, nur eine flüchtige, zufällige Ansammlung von Atomen ist, die sich weigert, ihre eigene Absurdität anzuerkennen. Wie kann die Wahrnehmung, dieses fragile, fehlerhafte Instrument, das die verschwommenen Goldkreise im Hintergrund zu einem tröstlichen Versprechen von Geborgenheit formt, gleichzeitig die scharfe Klinge sein, die den Schleier der Bedeutungslosigkeit zerschneidet und mir die unerträgliche Leere hinter dem Schein offenbart? Meine Hände, ineinander verschränkt wie zwei verzweifelte Fremde, suchen nach der verlorenen Kontur eines Selbst, das sich im Augenblick der Erkenntnis aufzulösen beginnt, dessen Grenzen porös werden und in die Dunkelheit übergehen, die nicht draußen, sondern tief in den Kammern des Bewusstseins selbst wohnt.
Jede Faser dieses Pullovers, jede Sommersprosse auf meiner Haut, jeder Atemzug, der die Luft mit der Illusion von Leben füllt, ist ein Paradoxon, ein trotziger Akt des Seins gegen die überwältigende, logische Notwendigkeit des Nicht-Seins, das wie ein stiller, unbeweglicher Ozean unter der dünnen Eisschicht der Realität lauert. Ich starre in die Ferne, doch was ich suche, ist nicht am Ende des Raumes, sondern am Ende der Zeit, in jenem unbestimmten Moment, in dem die Bedeutung, die wir so mühsam aus dem Chaos destilliert haben, wie ein Tropfen Wasser auf heißem Stein verdampft und nur die ungeschminkte, kalte Tatsache der Gleichgültigkeit des Universums zurücklässt. Bin ich die Beobachterin oder das Beobachtete, das Subjekt, das die Krise erlebt, oder nur das Objekt, das in diesem warmen, goldenen Licht ausgestellt wird, eine Skulptur der Verzweiflung, deren einziger Zweck es ist, die Frage nach dem Warum zu stellen, obwohl die Antwort, das gähnende Nichts, bereits in der Frage selbst eingeschlossen liegt? Der Zerfall meiner Identität ist kein plötzlicher Bruch, sondern ein langsames, methodisches Entschlüpfen, ein feiner Sand, der durch die Finger rinnt, während ich versuche, die Essenz dessen festzuhalten, was ich gestern noch zu sein glaubte, bevor diese unerträgliche Klarheit über mich hereinbrach.
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Menhirs on the Île de Sein island, Brittany region of France
French vintage postcard
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Let’s talk about GORGEOUS Sein looks in this commission I had gotten from @torection. I love Frieren and I love Sein.
And if you couldn’t tell, I love to comission people!!
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- Indications : Luminal (A ou B) néoadjuvant HER2 négatif
- Si CPS+EG ≥ 3 alors conseil génétique (BRCA1, BRCA2)
Sources :
- AstraZeneca, 2023 (lien du PDF)
- Stade USA : TNM UICC 8e édition
- GMG à Bergonié (texte)
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Texts from my mom. Looks like Facebook is serving her Bible verses with Sein. lol
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Something cool I noticed while rewatching Frieren - the reflection of Frieren’s zoltraak in Sien’s eyes. She was already casting before he even BEGAN to explain the situation. She’s so badass ❤️