Cerescries - The Spider's Garden - Tumblr Blog

Seeing so many people talk about having *their butch* and I'm not gonna lie, I'm just thinking "when will it be my time pls pls pls" like... I will serve myself on a silver platter, I will pack myself into a pretty little box, I will get Doordash to deliver me to your porch please 🥺

I just want my throat crammed full and my body to be broken it's really not a big ask 🖤

Maybe I'm telling on myself when I say this but there is no collection of sounds more beautiful than sitting on a dyke's face. Like. Idk how to even convey how enamored I am with these sounds I can't even put to paper, the slurping and licking and gasping between deep, shuddering breaths. Especially if she's touching herself at the same time like omg??? Who made this so good????

Thinking about the subtle harmony of pillows scrunching as I press her into them. How delicate her pretty face is as I drag myself across. I can barely contain myself thinking about those little moans between my thighs, nearly stifled by the headboard's rocking as I'm holding onto it for dear life, shaking like an earthquake on her mouth, drenching her face, trying my hardest not to scream over her because I could not bear to miss a single noise she makes. By all the goddesses who have ever walked this earth, you cannot find a symphony more captivating than those precious noises she makes when our thighs clench in synch, moans in matched tempo, orgasm erupting through both of us like our own personal cataclysm.

Being a switch is crazy because some days I'm the most helpless little thing and some days, well...

I want her in my lap, grinding on the bulge in my pants, and I want to kiss her forcefully while she's doing it so that my little upward thrusts end in her moaning into my mouth. I want to see tears streaking down her face as she begs for me to abuse her holes. I want her on her knees and I want to smack her pretty little face with my strap and watch her struggle, fruitlessly, to get it into her mouth.

Fuck, I need to eat her until she's sobbing. I'm not going to feel sane until I've got her clit dancing on my tongue while my fingers do that little pitter-patter waltz on her favorite spot. I want to eat her ass so deep my nose is dipping into her pussy, not seeing but feeling her back arch beneath me, my hands gripping her thighs so hard it leaves bruises.

I'm losing it thinking about how bad I want to feel her squirt against me, my hips rocking into her again, and again, and again as her voice replies with that toe-curling "ah-ah-ah" I adore so much. I want her twitching and clenching until she can hardly breathe.

I want to make her beg for me to stop, only so that I can push further and further, using every part of her body until she's got nothing left to give. I want to ruin her for everyone else.

I just want a butch's hands around my neck. Is that so much to ask for?

Okay, maybe I want a little more than that. Maybe I want them to grab my wrists with one hand and pin them over my head and tease me til I cry with the other. Maybe, just maybe, I need them to make me beg, beg for them to hurt me, for them to use me. It could be that I won't feel complete until I'm a sobbing dripping mess, soaking through the bedsheets and drenched in sweat. Maybe maybe maybe...

Getting myself a "Nevertheless, she persisted" pillow for my couch because I managed to survive being horny at work for another day.

I want my exhibitionism taken literally. I want my nude body to be an exhibition in some high concept women-only museum where I'm just another object to admire. Or maybe I'm a hands-on piece and passerby are encouraged to treat me however they please ~

Ugh I get so wet thinking of how many hands might be on me, smiling faces waiting in line, femmes and butches and everyone in between standing on their toes to look over the crowd and see what the commotion is about, and it's me, my face buried in someone's crotch, my legs clenched tight around someone's hand, dripping all over the floor, every part of me being used for someone's pleasure...

And then I think of you. Sitting patiently behind everyone, waiting calmly for the crowd to die down. Like an artist admiring her own work. I think about the hunger in your eyes and the fear in my own, knowing just how badly you're going to ruin me after seeing how much I liked all those strangers.

It's 4/20 and I just want to smoke with you and see how long we can resist each other. I wanna smoke a blunt and sit just a little too close together, thighs brushing against each other, hands absentmindedly wandering around each other's waists and hips... I want that rush that comes when your head is all fuzzy and suddenly everything melts together, lips tingling on each other in electric cascades, my arms wrapped around your neck as I sit in your lap and grind your thigh helplessly.

I want to feel the shiver that runs through you when I whisper in your ear, begging to taste you, begging for permission to make you come on my mouth. Anything, anything, just don't let the heat stop building. My face is already so red from being this high and I'm so drunk on you, blushing so hard it looks like I might pass out, and you're twitching beneath my touch, doing your best to keep your composure and keep up the act that you're any less lost in this than I am.

I want to make the world disappear in a puff of smoke and I want to replace it with you.

This poem is a boulder. by Ceres

This is an older piece I like to return to sometimes. This was where I formed my ethos as an artist, the inflection point where I decided violence would be the true nature of all I create.

I imagined Sisyphus happy and it filled me with rage. I chose to make the man into words, and I chose to make those words miserable. Now he and I are bound eternally by the web I've wound between us. Within these pages I am writing him, forever. Unchanging. Every wound you inflict upon the page remains there, even if you write recovery upon the next.

The word is undying, and the word is me. And it's you, and you, and you. All of us.

Another untitled one. I've found myself hating the ordeal of titling my works of late, bc it's honestly hard to make them not sound corny as hell. Makes finding a specific piece in Google Docs kind of a pain in the ass though 🫠

I need someone to rip through me. I want to be torn into a pile of trembling ribbons, saturated by the well springing from what remains of my center. It has been too long since I felt like prey, not for entertainment or satisfaction, but purely for the need, the craving, the drive for nourishment. For hate.

By the goddesses, I want you to hate me.

And when you've caught me - as though it was enough of a struggle to say you "caught" anything - make me your meal. Shove that hate wherever it suits you, and I'll lay still and dead, just the way you like. Take what you want, and I won't make a sound. I promise.

Eat the dark meat and leave the rest to rot.

Untitled, by Ceres

Men and minors DNI, thanks.

"God of the Gaps" by Ceres

My name is Ceres and I make violent art.

Minors, men, heteros, DNI. My work isn't for you.

The webs I weave are meant only to torture the hearts of those marked by Sappho. The words I spill (like a bite of overripe fruit, whose juices run down your neck) are made with love, hate, or a mess of the two, and nothing besides. I ask not for your love or your hate in kind, but merely for your pain. Hurt for the beauty that can never be, hurt for the beauty that should not exist, hurt for the beauty that you wish you'd never seen, and you will hurt for me.

And remember, I will always love you.