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marchieval · 3 years

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HANDS ON ME

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⩩. OO1; 🌹： CHAINSAW MAN.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤmakima x reader nsfw drabbles.

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prompt： you asked Makima to put her hands on your neck and choke you.

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDAINTY AND LITHE fingertips had brushed against the soft skin of your pristine neck. It was a mere feather-light touch that reverberated down through your spine. The little hairs in the back of your neck stood up with just a touch, it was petal-like and a bit cruel. Manicured and well-groomed nails were shades darker against your unmarred flesh. Like velvet, there was a taint of crimson on your cheeks that were all flushed, and a side bitten inside by teeth.

Makima can hear every breaths you take, each inhale getting heavier compared to the last. You were bare from the aesthetic filters that you usually wore to work, a professional look that complemented well with your uniform as a devil hunter. Not only that, but you were also healed from the scars thanks to your master's abilities. Those scars were reminders of death, of blood— of devils roaming around the vicinity of the realm of the living. And yet you were healed by one, promises of an easy life were just a finger away from her palm.

You were an investment, a pet that have yet to be properly trained, a dog that desired to be leashed by her chains. And you, an art of hatred turned pleasure, were truly a mesmerizing sight to behold. Makima was willing to play along with your wishes, giving you a taste of heaven then introducing you to a whole new world of pain. She just had to see you break slowly, savoring every whimpers and cries, before taking everything you had, everything you hold dear.

“Is this truly what you desire?” Her question sounded genuine, her voice like silk against the deafening silence of the night. She stood there before you, her black blazer resting on the executive leathered chair behind. Her neatly pressed white undershirt was similar to a wraith, shadow-bounded against the glows of the city lights.

“What do you want, pet. Is it my hands on your neck?”

You nodded with eagerness and Makima had to stifle a laugh with your action. Her fingers travelled from your neck, gently massaging the muscles that made you arched forward, your body shifted closer towards her legs.

Now, her hand grasped your jaw, a finger prodding to your saliva-coated lips, prying it open with a gentle force, then spreading the slick wetness of your tongue to your lips. She watched the slick pooled in your mouth, dribbling slowly until droplets stained the lush beige carpet.

“I need words, pet.” She abruptly removed her hand from your face, walking towards her desk to retrieve a single Marlboro stick from her coat.

She can hear you swallowing, your nerves stimulated with the anticipation. With a flick of orange-bright fire, she took a breath of smoke along with your answer.

“Yes, please.” She raised an eyebrow at ypur response.

“Yes, please what?”

“I want master's hand wrapped around my neck!” You almost cried out. The frustration of your voice rolled in waves. Makima set her golden eyes upon your kneeling figure, a tight-lipped smile carved in the ends of her lips.

Her gaze was half-lidded, enjoyment dancing around the black circular ringlets of her eyes. She was contemplating whether to satiate your desire of pain or leave you hanging for good.

A fully bloomed rose would be a great emulation of your current circumstance. Whenever an avaricious individual plucked the flower out of its root, beguiled by the petals that curve along the edges, the consciousness of pain (blood dripping, pin-pricked by helpless thorns) will become primary.

After all, pain is always secondary when it comes to man's greed. Fear is born when they neglect the thought of having consequences from their actions. That's the beauty of conquering, the art of manipulation. And there was something with the way you pursed your lips, eyes all watery and wide, and your hands twitching to hold her, to plead, to beg more. To make her give in and just do it.

But most humans feel entitled to things they want, it's a subconscious apparition that set primal instincts of being alive— becoming of man in the name of sin and survival. Greed and lust were the two factors that Makima wanted to overcome, she was fortunate enough that she was a devil. Thus, when she retracted her hand from your neck, her nonchalant smile stayed the same while her eyes flaunted mirth.

And you remained silent, still on your knees, purple blemishes gradually coloring where the the carpeted floor meet your body.

At that moment, she took another puff of the half-finished cigarette and blown the smoke straight up to your whimpering face.

“We don't get to have what we want, sweetie.”ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ『 🥀：◜CSM◞：ㅤ起死回生｡』

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⁰⁰¹ㅤDRABBLE! NSFW! . . .

Feel free to send a request regarding Makima x reader drabbles. I don't have any specific rules when it comes to writing Makima.

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#marchievalwrites #chainsaw man #csm #makima #makima x reader #makima drabbles

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dailyadventureprompts · 4 years

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Mini Dungeon: The Desolate Climb

Adventure hooks:

With a large journey looming, the party will need to make a decision as to whether to take a large detour around a chain of impassable mountains, or utilize a notorious dungeon as a shortcut. The decision to go by way of the dungeon could shave weeks off their travel time, but will involve a brutal gauntlet of climbing and fighting as they ascend the ancient towers hundreds of floors.

A map has fallen into the party’s possession, claiming to present the location of a fabulous treasure secreted away by a master thief before her capture. The only rub is that this thief was an Aarakocra, and the bird-folk had no need of denoting WHICH of the floors she hid her stash in.

When attempting to teleport back to a spire or other ancient building, a mishap strands the party half way up the Desolate Climb and scatters them across differing floors. With no way to get their bearings, the heroes will have to regroup and fight their way free.

Background: Constructed by an ancient people as a means for travelers to make an otherwise impossible ascent without fear of wind or blanketing snowfall, the structure that became the Desolate Climb was sturdy enough to outlast the civilization that built it by almost a millennia.. Used by many successive cultures to access the same short cut, the structure eventually fell into ruin and monstrous habitation.

Challenges & Complications:

Storerooms, guard posts, and other, larger structures were excavated out of the cliff face for the benefit of travelers, though now these spaces more frequently provide lairs for whatever sort of beasts or brigands that live within the tower. Several of these dwellings also connect to natural caverns, allowing for subterranean beasts to wander into the high-altitude dungeon on occasion.

A system of elevators once allowed swift transit between the different levels of the tower, with a junction installed each dozen or so floors. Most of these mechanisms are broken beyond repair, but one is kept in a ramshackle state of readiness by a gang of similarly shabby undead. Made up mostly of lost travelers & mountianfolk, these shambling lift operators are directed by a wraith named Tremivilis, an avaricious spirit that’s held on since the dying days of the old empire. Interested in little more than extorting any traveler that has to pass through his section of the tower, he’s willing to exchange transport for tithes, though often at an exorbitant price.

Drawn always to ruin, a nest of harpies make their home in the uppermost levels of the tower. Their ability to fly means that the party may encounter them at any level of their ascent, though the higher they rise, the more dangerous these avian scavengers become.

#dungeon #mountain #treasure hunt #Wilderness #highlands #low level #undead #cave #ruins #Dungeon Crawl #D&D #D&D adventure #Adventure #homebrew #Homebrew Adventure #wilderness mountain

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oneironauto233-blog · 5 years

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American Prayer Two

Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike, climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd. The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed condom waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight Sex and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies. Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam

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