#black fingernails red wine

[samtheangelfox]

Black Fingernails, Red Wine - Eskimo Joe Black Fingernails, Red Wine (2006) [MA15+ Video] Dir: Nash Edgerton

[edenspoem]

requesting fluffy period sex with Jackson Ellie!!

i’ve been thinking about this for ages lol but just imagine Ellie hearing that orgasms can help period cramps, maybe she randomly reads it in an old trashy magazine or she overhears two other girls talking about it while in town. anyway, she wants to help her gf of course, wants to make you feel better. you’re apprehensive at first and a little shy/embarrassed but Ellie’s like “do u really think i care about a little blood?” because obviously that girl does NOT care abt blood. maybe she even likes it a little…

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄. ★

note from author: you know i will use any excuse to write jackson!ellie + period sex. especially fluffy sex. with a hint of freak. make sure to hit that like button and subscribe. for more gay sex. drabble length. wrote this in a day (and on my period) so excuse the simpler style. oral + fingering (if you have a problem, keep it to yourself. nobody gaf). not a lot of plot. 18+ interactions please. mdni. wc: 1k. join the discord!

To think, that you were brought a dream.

In the hands of a girl.

You must be blacking in and out. It rushes over your skin: the exhilaration, the sensation, the indent of fingers squeezing your bra-padded breasts, the sweat sticking to her lilac bedsheets. She traverses you like written text. Wrists, shoulders, hips, thighs, the beginnings to a place you feel the need to hide. When the shape of her head intrudes itself there, her intrepid fingers—they follow, and spread the pages for a translation tender and filling. Something she can't put down; you scoot your hips away, and she pulls you right back in.

She reads you.

You feel sedate lengths of softness tread through the channels under your abdomen, where it cramps—and the pain fleets. You forget all about it, until a finger eases inside, and you yelp with all the breath hitched in your throat. “Wait, Ellie!” You shut the heart of your thighs, enclosing her wrist. The ever-so soft junction.

She cocks her head. “What's the matter, babe?”

“You'll get blood on your fingers.”

She read about it in a grayed-out, faded Cosmo; it roped in the young generations, for generations, concerning them with relationships and the sex life of women—menstruation. It fucking sucks, but it sure doesn't have to; she can soothe you right here on the bed you're burrowed up in.

The Jackson local library has an answer for everything.

Ellie promised that after a serenade on her guitar, a hundred kisses, and a whisper of strawberry wine, she would help you out. Tongue and hands.

The practiced grooves on her face snap when she laughs, and she slides up your crotch to have a more face-to-face, respectable consolation. Don't get her wrong: muzzling something incoherent into the plush of your thighs is exciting—and it lets those embarrassing, inhibition-numbing sentiments trickle out until she gets as red as her hair—but she wants you to hear her this time. Cold fingertips melt into your waist.

Your skin is on fire.

“Do you really think I care about a little blood?” She questions, with a voice cornered and hoarse and teasing, tracing mindless circles into your belly. Your reason isn't reason enough to Ellie, it seems.

You glance around for something to convice her. “Well—I don't want to get blood on..”

Ellie disregards you with a head shake and reburies her shoulders under the open perspective of you. Arms entangle you again. “Mh-mm, don't worry about that.” And she, being clever with her peach lips, kisses you here, there, in those self-same distracting places that make you trance out and miss a couple beats, then tense up when she invites her tongue, slips it down and..

Die. For a breath.

Strands of her hair crumple under your grip. Catch under your fingernails.

“Fuck, right there.. right there, Ellie.”

It felt more alight than usual; thick, hot, catalytic presses with her tongue pushing your folds and pinching that bud of nerves—you almost tug her down harder. She can tell you wanted to. It elicits an affirming, quickened pace of her tongue and squeeze of your thighs. Her eyes are fluttered shut, and she looks like a quiet, satisfied heaven.

Her thumb enters below her mouth.

She pulls back—like a vampiric portrait—and cleans her lips, and you bear down for it to return. The thumb inside stills you with a slow pumping.

“See, babe?”

Ellie slides out that thumb. Sucks it, lips pulling over the tip, for you. Humming at your taste like she's about to come herself.

“I don't care. I fuckin' love it.”

Not a second ticks, where you get to process the overwhelming tingle up your nape—or the numbing sound of your heart pounding, and Ellie is already stuffing her face right where it was. She takes you without question. Spreading your thighs apart, she lines up her wet tongue with your wetter entrance and laps your clit, making the swollen bud catch, drag and flick into place: an addicting loop. It feels so perfect against her heart-shaped mouth. Soon, you forget that cramps were the thing that initiated this and delight pours from your throat.

You catch her groping herself to the sound.

She managed a clean job. Blood stains the swell of her chin, to the tip of her nose in lithe blotches, but you knew that would happen. Of course, with her pressing her entire mouth against your hole to wag her face in your mess—you had laughed through a moan when she did—who could guess differently?

It's Ellie: so, of course.

She was smiling when your cries of release came crashing. You shuddered, rode it out on her mouth, and the corner of her lips just curled into your heat.

Fucking idiot.

When you glance down, the little ligatures of humiliation poke at you again; you begin to close your legs. But the indents on your hips from her hold grow deeper. It inches you back open.

She steals the opportuinity to slot herself in that space.

Ellie swipes hair from your face with the backs of her fingers, lingering. “You did so fuckin' good, babe. That's all you needed, huh? I know, I know. You can thank me later,” she boasts. But all you can focus on is her jean-covered thigh against you.

Quiet as the room, you gasp, but it still prompts her to look in the same spot and nudge off you.

She scoffs. “Psh—it'll come right out. Nothin' to sweat over.”

She is too nonchalant for your heart.

You shift in your pool of sudation, rolling out little grunts. Her touch coheres your movements. “Where did you even learn this from?”

“Uh,” she sounds, gaping open mouth. Ellie would nick herself in the knee if you figured how devoted to you she is in passing time. It takes up more than that, if were being honest. She feels better when you perceive her as your genius and generous girlfriend—so she'll keep it that way. “Just, kinda.. thought that I should do it. Yeah.”

You would refute if you were half as awake as you were before Ellie sapped your whole stamina bank out. Thanks, babe.

“Totally.”

“Mhm, I'm the best.” Sarcasm manages to seep through regardless, even when she tries. You laugh at it.

Ellie blacked out within the hour—before you could—sound asleep in the repository your sprawling lap provides, halfway down the bed in an entanglement. You followed in syrup-like tandem—but not without your fingers in her scalp, and a whisper of words. Sleep fought you for this moment.

“You're the best, idiot.”

[astra-ravana]

Witch's Marks

Throughout history, certain bodily features, marks, and signs have been associated with witchcraft. Some were used as evidence in witch trials, while others are esoteric indicators of magickal potential. This guide explores birthmarks, scars, deformities, palmistry signs, and other physical features believed to mark someone as a witch.

The Devil’s Mark (Historical Accusations)

During European and Colonial American witch trials, interrogators searched for "witch marks"—signs that a person had made a pact with the Devil. These included:

• Birthmarks, moles, or skin discolorations – Believed to be "kissed" or marked by spirits.

• Unusual scars – Especially if they did not bleed or were insensitive to pain.

• Extra nipples or "witch's teat" – Supposedly used to nurse familiars or demons.

• Cold or unbleeding spots – Accused witches were pricked with needles; if they didn’t bleed, it was considered proof of guilt.

• Webbed fingers or extra digits – Rare genetic traits mistaken for supernatural origins.

Many of these were simply natural bodily variations but were feared in times of witch hunts and superstition.

Birthmarks & Deformities (Signs of Magical Power)

In folklore, specific birthmarks were considered signs of innate witchery or past-life connections to magick:

• Crescent Moon Birthmark – A birthmark in the shape of a moon was thought to indicate a connection to lunar magick and intuition.

• Pentagram or Star-shaped Marks – Rare but sometimes reported, believed to signify natural protection and spiritual insight.

• Heart-shaped Birthmarks – Associated with love magick and emotional sensitivity.

• Red or Wine-Colored Marks (Port-Wine Stains) – In some cultures, these were seen as marks of a fire-witch or one chosen by spirits.

• Marks on the Hands or Feet – A birthmark on the palm was believed to give heightened intuition.

• Eye Discoloration (Heterochromia or Unusual Eyes) – Seen as a sign of second sight or fae lineage.

Palmistry Indicators of a Witch

Palmistry holds many signs that indicate a natural witch, healer, or mystic. The most significant ones include:

• The Mystic Cross or Secret Cross(X Between Heart & Head Lines) – A powerful mark of psychic ability and magickal talent.

• Psychic Crosses - Potent psychic ability, blessed by the planets at birth.

• The Healer’s Mark (Multiple Vertical Lines on the Mercury Mount) – Found on those gifted in energy work, spellcraft, and healing.

• The Conjure Mark - A star mark under the ring finger that indicates special talents in magick and spiritual favor.

• The Mystic M - 'M' shaped lines that indicate heightened intuition and mystical abilities.

• The Ring of Solomon (A Semi-circle Under the Index Finger) – Indicates a deep understanding of occult wisdom and esoteric arts.

• The Deep Cross - An inverted cross that symbolizes cleverness, trickiness, luck, and a connection to the crossroads.

• The Psychic Triangle - Indicator of strong psychic abilities.

• The Fate Line Merging with the Life Line – Shows a destiny closely tied to magick and spirituality.

• Astral Travel Lines - Indicator of ability to transcend time and space.

• The Debtor's Mark - Indicates a generational curse, appears as an 'X' on the thumb.

• A Star on the Mount of Moon (Near the Base of the Palm) – Indicates prophetic dreams, intuition, and a connection to spirits.

• Curved or Clawed Index Finger – Called the "witch’s finger", symbolizing strong will and magickal power.

• Unusual Fingernail Shapes – Some traditions claim long, almond-shaped, or black-ridged nails indicate magickal energy.

Facial & Eye Features of a Witch

Certain facial traits were thought to reveal innate magickal abilities:

• Different Colored Eyes (Heterochromia) – Considered a sign of foresight or fae ancestry.

• Deep-Set or Piercing Eyes – Often linked to hypnotic power and psychic perception.

• Naturally Arched or "Fox-Like" Eyebrows – Some folklore says this reveals a cunning or spellcasting nature.

• A Widow’s Peak Hairline – In some cultures, a widow’s peak was seen as a sign of powerful intuition.

Other Supernatural Bodily Features

• Toes of Equal Length (Greek Foot) – Thought to be a mark of spiritual leaders, witches, or powerful souls.

• Long or Slender Fingers – Associated with energy manipulation and spellcasting.

• Naturally Cold Hands – In some traditions, this was seen as a sign of spirit sensitivity.

• Naturally White or Silver Hair (Young Age) – Seen as a sign of wisdom beyond one's years and magical lineage.

• Unusual Hair Growth Patterns – Some cultures believed a single streak of white hair indicated past-life magic use.

• Unusually Pale or Unnaturally Dark Skin (Relative to Ancestry) – In folklore, extreme contrast in skin tone was thought to mark those "touched" by magic.

Scars & Witch Marks from Rituals

Some witches intentionally mark themselves with scars, tattoos, or ritual wounds as signs of initiation, devotion, or power. These include:

• Self-Carved Sigils or Runes – Done in blood magic or personal empowerment rituals.

• Burn Marks (Fire Walkers or Flame-Proof Witches) – Some traditions claim that a witch initiated into fire magic might have a burn-resistant patch of skin.

• Scars from Spiritual Battles or Shamanic Trials – Found in spirit workers and energy healers, especially in Indigenous traditions.

While historical witch marks were often used to persecute and harm innocent people, many esoteric traditions still recognize certain physical signs as indicators of magical gifts. Whether birthmarks, palmistry signs, or deliberate markings, these features connect people to the ancient mystical heritage of witchcraft.

Do you have any of these witch marks? Many believe that discovering such features can be a sign of magical potential, past-life witchcraft, or a deep connection to the unseen world.

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

Chains of Bones: DARK!GODAEMOND X READER (snippet, short thingy)

Tags: DARK AEMOND, GREEK MYTHOLOGY INSPIRED AU

🔷Summary: You are a servant working for the goddess Rhaenyra and the God Daemon. You are tasked with protecting the flowers and one day, you find yourself captured by rhaenyra's greatest enemy: Aemond.

🔷Author's note: Dark af.

WARNINGS: Misogny, (no kidding) emotional manpulation, dubcon, body betrayl, vaginal sex (f recv) oral sex (f recev) rough sex, mentions of loss of virginty, emotional gaslighting and gore, blood, and a lot of...BONES.

This is a dead dove

Do not eat it.

(a+ warning)

wordcount:4853  (wow what a nice number)

Alicents pov (3th person)

The Underworld smells of burned wood and rotting leaves. Crushed dreams and broken hope. The smell of it alone makes her consider even setting a step further. 

A long time ago, she vowed she would never set a foot down here. It was unbefitting for the Queen and Goddess of Justice to visit a place so corrupt and immoral. 

She can't help but wonder if that is the true reason why her heart is beating out of her chest, why she never visited this place, or if it's her once so kind now demonic son who is ruling the Underworld has more to do with it. More than she'd like to admit, that is the true reason. He has a grip on her, and he knows that all too well.

Aemond did leave a portal, a small way for her to enter the Underworld open for her. He did so for her. Yet she never visited him. Not once. The pain of seeing what he has become hurts her soul too much.

The portal brings her right where Aemond is at that very moment, enjoying a lunch in a lavishly decorated room. Chandeliers decorated with skulls silently dance on the command of the wind, softly swinging back and forth. 

Aemond sits on a tall, dark chair with a high back, covering almost his entire body as if he's hiding himself somehow. The room is surrounded in darkness, with only the skull chandeliers and a small candle on the table giving the faintest of light. The light of the silver simple candelabra catches his sapphire, giving it a terrifying glow. He eats without his eyepatch. Odd. She remembers he preferred to hide his socket rather than to show it off. But now he doesn't seem to care at all.

Her son is unrecognisable. He wears green but it might as well have been black. The colour makes him look paler and highlights his sharp features. His hair is still as long as it used to be, maybe longer. A clip made from two finger bones holds his hair neatly in place. At the end of the silver, unnaturally shimmering hair, blood can be seen dripping down silently, yet it never hits the ground. His fingernails are long, deadly and dangerous and almost clawlike. The nails begin in a dark, rotting colour that ends in a bloodied red pattern where veins and darkness dance, creating a pattern unique to each fingerbone.

Alicent stares at her own nails, broken off from all the pulling she did. Aemond did not inherit that toxic trait from her. But when she studies him so quietly, she notices that he does impatiently tap his fingers against the wood of the table, signaling he wishes his dinner to be served and served now. 

A servant wearing a dark green apron with white details carefully places a gilded serving scale in front of the God, barely hiding her shaking hands and trembling fingers. Alicent wants to speak out, to tell her to not be afraid. But she can't. She doesn't know this man. Not anymore.

The lit is lifted and reveals a dark blackened pig. Aemond picks up the silver decorated knife with eye-like details as Alicent watches in awe. Roast pig used to be his favourite. Some things haven't changed. It fills her chest with hope, as she watches her son tear the ears from the beast, silently still. 

He begins to eat the ears first, and Alicent notices he eats it fast, almost as if he's in a hurry. 

The other servant presents him the goblet in the form of a skull, richly filled to the brim with a crimson coloured wine. The smell of it even reaches Alicent and even though it's been a while, she can smell the powerful herbs all the way from where she's standing. Aemond brings the skull to his dry lips and throws it back, loudly shuddering and hissing, twisting in his chair as the drink travels through his body.

He stands up too fast, pushing the chair away from him as he grabs the wood of the table, crying out in absolute pain, whimpers that trigger Alicent’s mother instincts that she thought she had lost so long ago. She doesn't understand what he is doing. Or why. She steps forward but stops. The skull is grabbed by Aemond again and this time he crushes it easily to dust, signaling that he is done with whatever was in the wine.

She watches as another cup is brought out, made of green glass and decorated with blue gemstones. Aemond grabs this eagerly and drinks this too, but much slower. 

She understands he is preparing for war. Giving himself ambrose water to create a resistance to it. Rhaenyra told her that a drop could weaken the King of the Underworld, and that two could possibly make him pass out. Yet Aemond is standing tall, gulping down on the pig that is ripped to pieces in front of Alicent. He drank a full cup. And it did him nothing.

He begins to talk, after he has finished his meal. “Let the Magister know that the wine can be doubled. I am strong enough for it now.” He stares at the servant girl until she understands he is speaking to her. He calmly removes the sapphire from his eye, scratching deep in the socket, where spiders and bugs come crawling out of. That seems to do the trick, as the frightened girl now runs off, screaming in utter fear.

He chuckles, delighted as the illusion fades away. “How is my Queen doing?” He asks the  servant man who had been quietly watching the bloody and violent scene of Aemond ripping apart the pig. Aemond chews on a leg of the pig.

Alicent tenses up at the mention of the mortal girl Aemond abducted. “I wouldn't know, my King. You forbade us all from entering her rooms without your explicit consent. You should ask Ann, her assigned handmaiden.”

Aemond drops his fork silently, briefly touching the metal ends as it cuts in his flesh. He doesn't feel a thing. The poison dulls it all. He stands up, nodding slowly as he approaches the servant. “You think you can command me?”

The servant understands he made a grave mistake. “No, my King. It was a mere suggestion. Ann is her handmaiden. Y-you arranged that yourself.” He nervously stutters.

Aemond sighs, ignoring the servant again as he grabs another piece of the pig, tearing another paw off. “I did. I want her to be prepared for what the future might bring. Rhaenyra never has been keen on sharing. Not with me, not with Aegon.” The servant frowns. Aemond is very careful of mentioning his family members around his staff. Most of the servants wouldn’t even know that Aemond has a family to begin with.

The man seems intrigued by the mention of the brother of Aemond. “Who is Aegon, my King?” He is a curious one. That would have served him well. If only things were different. If only he wasn't…

“My brother.” Aemond reveals, trying to keep his face in an emotionless state by the memory of how Aegon and him parted.

The eyes of the servant widen in a pleasant surprised expression, betraying what Aemond already knows; He has a brother too. “You have a brother? Why, I never would have guessed.” He exclaims, surprised. There is hope in his eyes.

Aemond shrugs, not going into much detail as he chews on the paw, careful to mind the bones. “It's because in the Underworld, I like to keep my family secret. Even knowing their names can be disastrous for them, and for that reason; be disastrous for me.” He reveals.

The man is no longer smiling, and Aemond can hear the beat of his heart increasing as a smirk spreads on his own cracked lips.  “Then why tell me-” Oh he knows why. He knows why all too well.

He only smiles. “I have reason to believe you are someone very special. The way my Queen is special. You are an unpolished weapon. A piece of forged steel.” Aemond drops the paw, paying his full attention to the man as Alicent gulps, reading his body language. He moves too eager, he smiles too broadly and he chuckles too darkly as a monster is crawling out of the shell that once was her son.

The servant tries to save himself, understanding danger is nearby. “I am not, my King. I am your humble, loyal, servant!’’

Aemond rolls his good eye, laughing as he grabs the man by his thin underfed shoulders, shaking him and enjoying the confusion and fear that is written across the man's face. A kill is not fun on its own. He needs to see that realization. He needs to see that they know they have lost. He needs them to understand who won. “Yes you are. Your blood and your bones are important to someone I happen to despise. With your end, they will only become stronger.” 

The man gulps, eager for an escape. He can't see Alicent but somehow he does pray to her. He is praying to her, the Goddess of Justice. She feels it in her bones and she must ignore his request. “I won't betray you. Not after you've given me a chance.” The man says. “You saved me from the flames.” He adds. “You made me your servant.” True, because Aemond had picked up on the man’s abilities rather quickly, hoping to one day use him as a bargaining chip. But that day won’t come, as he cannot live a life where his enemy is possibly stronger than him. 

Aemond sighs, annoyed and done with the game already. He doesn't understand that his Queen can be so interesting and fierce when this sack of blood and bones barely gives him the satisfaction of a fight. Mortals can be so boring. “It won't be up to you, you mortal toad. A slit of your throat could empower him. I can't have that. I can't have that at all.”

Aemond silently rips open the chest, tearing through clothing, skin, and organs. Blood comes pouring out of the servant, staining the white tiles in the dining room. Alicent can't believe what she is seeing as Aemond continues to tear through organs, making sure there is nothing usable left.  “You killed him.” She says the moment she has found her voice. And she didn't do anything. She was frozen in shock or disgust. That man served Aemond loyally and he killed him just like that.

He licks off his bloodied fingertips. “You could have interfered. I was hoping for that. One of your boring speeches about how I'm better than that.” He turns around at long last, facing her directly with a cheeky smirk and a sparkle in his eye.

She feels the blood drain from her face, making herself taller by lifting her head.

“You knew I was here?”

He chuckles. “Of course I did. As a mortal boy, my ears have always worked perfectly fine. As an immortal God, well…” The servant girl returns, interrupting the two immortal Beings. She seems confused by Alicent’s appearance, but doesn’t question her master at all. She doesn't know Alicent is a goddess.

He addresses her quickly, smiling as she tells him in a trembling voice that she has done what he asked of her. “Ah, thank you, darling. You can rest now.” The King of the Underworld turns around to face his mother, daring her to speak up. He used that word on purpose, giving her a taste about what is to come. Alicent stares him down, warning him of the consequences. But Aemond never cared about the consequences. You need to value life to care about that.

When she doesn't, he places both his hands on the servant’s trembling shoulders, and grabs her throat, piercing the delicate skin and ripping her throat out, as the girl lets out one horrified scream before she drowns in her own blood. The first kill was his duty. The second, a warning to his mother. He won’t let anyone interfere with his plans, certainly not her.  “Aemond,”Alicent hisses, in anger and fear. Disgusted she stares at her son.

Bored, Aemond sits back down on the chair he threw around the room, now standing perfectly up in the corner again. “Do not raise your voice at me, Mother. You are my guest here. What do you want? I doubt you came here to congratulate me on my upcoming wedding.” He crosses his arms, waiting for her explanations or rather her excuses.

She is surprised that he still keeps up that lie. He doesn’t plan on marrying her at all, he plans on murdering her. Rhaenyra told her so. “I came here for that. You are to release that poor girl.” She says, referring to the mortal girl Aemond kidnapped.

He doesn't even consider her words. He knows the truth. If he was, she would end up dying within the first minute he turned her back on her. And he can't turn his back on her. “Why on the ends of the world would I? I happen to quite like her. For a mortal, she is surprisingly amusing.” He tries to play it off as a joke, hiding his true intentions and feelings.

Alicent doesn't even pay enough attention to see that her own flesh and blood is lying.

“You only kidnapped her to infuriate Rhaenyra.” She says to which Aemond rolls his good eye, lazily rubbing the socket of his other, trying to hide his frustrations that just the name of that woman brings.

He speaks, licking his lips. “You know, contrary to what that woman believes, the sun and the moon and the stars do not always revolve around her.” His father believed it. Daemon believes it. His own mother believes it. He doesn’t. He knows what she truly is. A parasite, sucking the life out of everyone she sets her tiny little fangs into.

Alicent knows what it’s like to be kidnapped and to be forced to marry someone you don’t want to marry at all. She knows very well because that is exactly what happened to her and Viserys. He might not have kidnapped her, but he sure made her feel as a worthless prisoner. “The girl was her servant and you took her but not before shamelessly assaulting the poor girl.” 

She knows Aegon had a few incidents of hurting women, but she never expected Aemond to stoop that low. Maybe the truth is that her parenting is the issue of the unspeakable natures of her boys. The God of the Underworld crosses his legs, laughing in delight. “Ah. Is that what Rhaenyra told you? Well, let me tell you the truth; The Girl wanted me. She begged me, in fact, quite loud about that.’’ He reveals. ‘’Why didn’t Rhaenyra tell you that, Mhm. I wonder…’’ He revels in her shock.

The first oh so solid and unbreakable expression on her face now becomes doubt and uncertainty as she judges whether or not he is lying to her. “Why would she? She knows what sort of vile creature you are.” She says. Aemond stands up, slowly coming her way. When he is in front of her, he lifts the sleeve of her arm, staring at the scar she recently received when protecting her own life.

He smiles at the scar, finding it a poetic reminder how she was once his whole world and his protector. He always was pessimistic and negative growing up but not once did he doubt her and her intentions. And yet she sold him out.  “The creature that you made me, Mother. You won't have her and neither will Rhaenyra. She is mine.”

“I came here to take her. With or without your consent. It could finally mean peace, between the realms of Light and Dark.” Peace. Peace. There is no peace. There can’t be peace, for there is no balance. Peace without balance will break again, the way a drop of rain splashes on the tiles.

The mention of peace, just the idea of peace when his half-sister is sitting on that throne unpunished while his eye is missing, his love is dead, and his life is ruined, is too much to bear. “You can leave the castle now. Empty-handed. You will go back to that whore of a woman and bend your knees for her, crawl and degrade yourself as the blood of your grandson gushes over your head that you couldn't deliver Rhaenyra what she wanted.” He brings up the young Jaehaerys, his nephew that Rhaenyra’s husband had slayed in his bed when Jaehaerys became God of the Animals. Now Rhaenyra’s son, Aegon the younger, is the new God of animals. Jaehaerys was killed in cold blood and all Alicent wants to do is roll over and let her enemies get away with it as they have gotten away with so many things.

He is done with it.

“Aemond-”

He is not quite finished yet, unleashing all his bottled up rage as he pictures the faces of his brothers and his sister on the day his mother, their mother, sold them out to the enemy who only ever wanted them dead. “Because why would you give a damn about my happiness? Or Aegon's? Or Helaena's? Or Daeron’s?”

She can tell what is coming, silently tearing up. She can already hear the words he is about to throw at her, cutting her flesh and damaging her soul. Aemond points his finger in her direction, carefully lowering it the moment he sees flames coming from the tips. “You never wanted us. You never wanted any of us-” 

And that's when she snaps. “Of course I didn't!” Alicent screams, tears bursting from her eyes. “I was seven and ten. I was married to a man I used to look up to, the King of gods! An older man that had been so kind all my life. Now I wonder if he was after that all along. I was forced to be bred by a stinking old man that fathered my best friend, who called me a whore and despised me.” Aemond is silent, for the first time in a long time.  “No, Aemond. I never wanted to have any of you. But I did it because it was my duty.”

She always did use that as her shield. Shields break over time. They lose their value. As do apologies and excuses. She was a young naive girl once, but she has changed. She cannot crawl into her old self anymore. No matter how tight she holds onto it; He knows better than most that its already gone.

His mother nervously picks at her nails, tears soiling her dress and ruining her makeup. He offers her a napkin to wipe her tears. It's the least he can do. For all her flaws, she's his guest. But when she is sniffing he becomes annoyed. “They wanted my throat slit and paraded your grandson's head around town. Two drunk idiots, mortal idiots outsmarted the Gods, showed all the mortals we rule over that we are nothing but flesh and bone, same as them. They challenged our birthright and our succession laws, they questioned our culture and our heritage.’’ He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “And you still dream of peace. I don't know if I'd call it delusion or stupidity or masochism at this point. Do you perhaps enjoy hurting yourself? Or maybe it's sadism that you like to inflict and punish us all for how your life turned out?” She just lets him rage, although his accusations do hurt her and he does make a point. 

“If Rhaenyra wanted peace, she'd bend her knees to my brother and offer me her little bastard sons as a peace offering for me to slay.” He knows she'll never agree to those terms. But it would come close to balance. An eye for an eye. A son for a son. And a crown for a crown. It would be leveling the scales for once in their favor, not hers.

Alicent is shocked and disgusted once more, shocked at this confession but not surprised. He always wanted revenge. Ever since he lost his eye. The godhood of death only made him more cruel and certain of that. “You don't mean that.” He can’t mean to harm the little children. 

She never liked Jace, the little noisy brat. Lucerys was a bully, always playing the innocent, and Joffrey is a reckless little brat that one day will get himself killed. Aegon took over the godhood of the Animals from Jaehaerys. She will always resent him for it. But Aegon is a child. Does she want him to die for it? No. Not entirely at least. And Viserys…A shell of a lonely boy. She doesn't know how to feel about him.

Alicent is bound by duty and chained by love to her friend and her children. Her duty as Goddess requires her to be a open-minded forgiving person.

Aemond learned a long time ago that he's on his own however. He doesn't trust anyone. That way no one will hurt him. “But I do. I do mean that.” He looks into her brown eyes, staring her down. “I kill them every night in my dreams. I rip their throats open, I smash in their skulls, I tear their livers out and squeeze their eyeballs until they pop. I picture their whimpers as well as their screams and no matter how graphic the dreams get, they'll never beat the sweet sweet momentum of reality. There's no one I'd rather kill. Pure because it would destroy Rhaenyra.”

He is still a child himself, in so many ways. She sees that now. A child trapped in a horrible memory. “Killing her sons will not kill her.” She tells him, gently, touching his face.

He shrugs her hand away, offended she even dared to touch him. “Oh, but it would. Just slowly. The mental toll on that head would be too big if she lost them all. She'd go mad or kill herself.” He shrugs as if picturing Rhaenyra dead and how he wouldn't weep a second for his half sister.

Alicent pictures her friend laying death on the floor and can’t help but shudder. As the goddess of Justice she often, too often is confronted with souls who could not carry their burdens any longer. It never gets easier for her. It is as if looking in a mirror every time. “Lie to yourself all you want, Mother. You know who I am. As do I.” He says.

He knows he can provoke her even more and makes up terrible ideas of torture on the spot. “Jace would piss himself. The little one, that Joffrey would be stupid and try to run. My hounds would catch him. I'd collect whatever's left of his bastard body, and maybe ship it to Rhaenyra with Jace's eyeless head.’’

She chuckles, annoyed and furious. “Fantasize all you want. Those boys Are as immortal as you are.” For now, maybe.

He leans in closer, grinning as he unveils his plans a tiny bit. ‘’Are they now?’’

Her tears threatened to fall, breaking her mask. “Enough deflecting. I've come here for the Girl. You won't do what happened to me to her.”

He feels the words already grow in his mind as he thinks of the ultimate way to express himself and make it clear for once and for all that he is nothing like his dead old father and that his Queen is his and his alone.

“That Is what makes this all so, so sad, Mother.” He grabs her hands, touching her fingertips. “I do love her. Father never loved you. I allow her privileges unheard of for Queens. She will love me, in time. I know it for certain. I won't do what was done with you. Unlike you, Petal is worth the effort. She is worth loving.’’

Alicent doesn't respond, studying him closely. It disappoints him that she didn't cry or sob. It hurts him because why wouldn't she cry at those vile heartless words? Unless she doesn't care what he says. Not anymore. 

He wonders…

Did she ever?

“You seem so different, Aemond.  Your cheeks have colour and your eye sparkles. You look smitten.’’ He stares at his hands, noticing a faint unfamiliar colour he hasn’t seen in ages, that comes almost close to his own skin. He has changed. Shocked, he looks at his other hand and notices the same flesh colour.

And it terrifies him. “Do not take her from me.’’ It is supposed to sound threatening and booming, commanding and terrifying as he truly feels. But she caresses his face again, touching his skin with her own warm fingers when she simply looks at her son, not the God. He softens and breaks, his walls shattering. It sounds as a plea, a whisper, a beg for mercy. A boy crying out for his mother.

“I won't, sweet boy.’ She says, to his own surprise.

He is shocked. He can’t fight the smile of his lips. Finally, she is choosing him. “But Rhaenyra-” He must have heard it wrong. She never picked him before. Or it's a trap, surely.

Alicent scoffs, a dismissive little noise he always had hoped she would make when discussing her friend. “Rhaenyra made her choice when she allowed my grandson to be slain in his bed. As I now make mine. You won't be giving her that girl at all. But I am the goddess of Justice, Aemond. I can't allow gods to sweep in and kidnap and impregnate mortals.” She says, a bit uncomfortable. “You say you love her. That is wonderful. But does she return your feelings?”

He didn't even hear her words. His mind hangs by one sentence. Frozen in time. A pregnant Petal. Aemond smiles at the idea of Petal running around, chasing blonde haired children with her beautiful eyes and her smile, around his castle while he joins in the chase, playing with their children. Petal hands him their son, and as Aemond takes the baby from her, the dream is cut to pieces.

A sharp pain interupts the vision. A demanding pain that causes him to almost double over. He clutches at his chest, close to the hole where his heart once was. A grunt escapes him as the pain fades. 

At first he can't believe what has happened. Then he plans to get rid of whoever witnessed this moment of weakness.

No servant saw what happened. But a very distraught pale Alicent did. “Was that-” She mutters, her brown eyes big with confusion, And also…Hope.

Aemond ignores her, with shaking legs he walks back to the chair and allows himself to sit, feeling exhausted. He knew Petal's grip was strong. But not this strong. Not strong enough to possibly restore his heart. He took it out for a reason. He threw it away for a reason. He doesn't need it. Not when he is ruling and not when fighting wars. And now Petal has somehow returned a piece to him, unknowing. Not even Petal, no, he did just by thinking of her enchanting smile. He sighs, briefly disgusted with himself. What is he even turning into?

Alicent follows her son, watching him silently. She sees her son for the first time in years. She thought Aemond lied about the mortal girl. That it was lust or loneliness or maybe boredom that drove him to kidnap the girl. But now she sees that he cares. And that he is changing. 

Aemond sighs, displeased how hopeful his Mother is. She is already planning her schemes he is sure of it. But so can he. If she believes he's changed for the better; Let her. It will be put to good use. And then it all comes together. How to get revenge on Rhaenyra, her bastards, her idiotic husband, and even to make his mortal Queen a goddess herself. It will take a while, and it will be a slow plan but he has time. He has all the time in this godforsaken world. “Can't we make an agreement?” He asks.

She just stares at him, confused. He knows what she wants. What she always secretly wanted despite she denied it herself so many times. “You mentioned Petals flaw.” He says keeping it vague.

“Her mortality?” He grumbles at that word, refusing to acknowledge that his love could even be mortal. He needs that mistake corrected as soon as possible.

He plays nice, however. For now. “Yes. I'd like to solve that problem. But I need help.”

His mother knows that he is up to no good. “What's in it for me?”

He smiles, as if he was waiting for those words. “Why, the purest of motivations of course: Revenge against the man that killed your grandson.”

A/N

thats just the intro of the chapter 4 of this fic and its already up to 4k lords have mercy. xD I wanted to share this introduction because it has been too long and i am still alive. I'm working on the next chapter of this fic, so it will be done one of these days but i hope you can forgive me for not updating that long sorry:(

[rottenpumpkin13]

Sephiroth: quiet midnights, gleaming steel, faint incense smoke, the scrape of a whetstone, books lined perfectly on a bookshelf, cold rain against bare skin, polished black leather, bitter ginger tea at dawn, weighted blankets in winter, sharp ice crystals, scratched classical CDs, weathered angel statues with missing wings, sharpened pencils in neat rows, morning fog over empty streets, delicate frost patterns on windowpanes, steel-gray skies before snow, silent films in empty theaters, cat footprints on documents, mathematical equations, unopened mail, clean sword oil, abandoned chess pieces, mint tea leaves.

Genesis: spilled red wine on white papers, chipped maroon nail polish on piano keys, gold bangles clinking against wine glasses, vintage vinyl at dusk, steaming mulled cider with cinnamon sticks, smudged eyeliner after theater rehearsals, leather-bound books with gilded edges, dark chocolate with sea salt breaking under his teeth, dog-eared poetry collections, playing cards scattered across silk sheets, cherry candy staining his tongue red, cologne bottles on antique vanities, melted red candle wax on love letters, fresh ink bleeding through parchment, caramelized apple pie, packed jazz bars at 2am, velvet curtains, stage makeup, worn dance shoes, red leather gloves, theater tickets.

Angeal: petrichor on summer mornings, fresh ground coffee beans, sunrise training sessions, polaroid cameras with worn straps, mismatched lucky keychains, pencil sketches in margins, old photos in cracked leather wallets, soup simmering on stovetops, buzzing radio stations between cities, dappled sunlight through garden leaves, evening cicada songs, autumn leaves crushed underfoot, soft worn flannel shirts, pressed flowers, acoustic guitars, wrinkled maps with coffee stains, soil under fingernails, homemade bread, herb gardens, worn pottery, recipe books, wooden spoons, patched jeans, morning dew, pocket knives.

AGS: loud laughter, discarded pizza boxes, arguments dissolving into jokes, snorted milk, tangled legs under a blanket, whispers in a packed room, empty mugs littered around a table, quiet yawns, bitten apples, ring tones, a half-finished puzzle scattered across the floor, a messy kitchen, heads on each other's shoulders, rock-paper-scissors, scattered dice, sour candy, bumping elbows, the glow of a tv screen, borrowed hoodies, stolen phone chargers, dirty dishes, arms around shoulders, inside jokes.

[marchsfreakshow]

How Dangerously Beautiful [Peter Maximoff]

Fluff

You like collecting knives, and the first time Peter comes over, he's interested in the love you have for the maybe weapons.

Yet another Maximoff fic I'm not sorry. I am love Maximoff :3

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

"We literally just got off the phone Maximoff!" You squealed as the front door was flung open. Nothing could ever make you used to the speedster's mutant powers. No matter how many times he sped himself over to you; outside, at his house, in your garden, at work... it always freaked you out a little. But a grin appeared as Maximoff stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"well, you asked me to come over. And here I am, over." He breathed out, looking around, then speeding up the stairs. It made a sigh escape your tired body and rushed behind the speedster.

As Maximoff stood by a closed door, he pointed at it, almost quizzically. "Is this your room?"

"Well, do you see another closed doors that have a sign saying my name?"

"ah, yeah." He then just grinned at you and stepped in, immediately taking in the decorations and everything almost cluttering the walls. No mess Maximoff wasn't used to, but still looked around in slight confusion. "And here I thought you were the cleaner one in the relationship." A small chuckle escaped him as you just shrugged and stepped past the speedster.

Your eyes focused on the knife collection you owned with nerves. Sure people around the world liked making different things, selling and buying. But yours was an odd one, and it was the first thing on your mind while your silver-haired boyfriend explored your room. "Well...you know, I try to be." A deep breath when you started your sentence.

Just as soon as you let out a sigh, Peter noticed what you were staring at. He was entranced by the different coloured metals shining in the mid-day light. Entranced by the little details on the handles, and how they seemed to be crafted. "Woah man. These are...fuckin rad..." He whispered, fingernails lightly tracing one of the knives.

A gargled "no!" escaped you as you ran to stand in front of Maximoff. It was useless, he always stood taller than you. "Don't. Don't, touch them." Your voice came out as a shaky whisper rather than a loud and confident command.

"why not?"

"they're precious!!"

"You're precious but I touch you all the time all over."

"oh shut up." Gritted teeth but a blush at his off-handed flirt. Something you were used to, but in a situation like this it overrided your mind. "Just...be careful. Please?"

"Always am babe don't sweat." Another little grin as Maximoff picked up your favourite knife, by complete coincidence. It was a wine red on the handle, covered with little black designs. A spider on the end, a cliché broken heart on the same middle spot on both sides. Little lines and dots around here, there, over and around. Sharpened recently by the looks of it. The blade was dusty looking; the wine red covered in a deep dusk top, perhaps to save the sharpened edge that was new and shiny.

Peter was in love with it. He looked at it like he looked at you whilst you were on top, eyes full of stars...wonder, and just pure amazement. "This is... beautiful.." a small voice coming out of the usually loud and energetic man. As a response you kissed his cheek, staring at your most priceless collectable with the same wonder.

"It's my favourite one, and custom-made. My cousin had it made for me last year on my birthday." It was a bit of random information but probably the only good response you had at that minute. Another little kiss on his cheek as Maximoff placed the knife back in its holder.

"All of these are so pretty. Just like you." Grabbing you by the side and pulling you before him, admiring the small collection. Reds, greens, blues, all shades and colours. They almost sparkled in Peter's eyes as you looked up to him as best you could. "I mean, why knives though babe? They're dangeroussss!" A little singsongy voice, knowing you knew the dangers of having potential weapons such as these.

Small shrug as you wrapped your hands around Maximoff's arms. "I know they're dangerous. But I just, look at them. They're wonderful..."

A small chuckle as kisses were placed around the sides of your face. "Again, beautiful like you. They suit you and I think, you should get a full silver one. Just pure silver."

"what for you?"

"Absolutely!" Both of you laughed to yourselves, just admiring the wall of coloured metal in front of you.

"not a totally stupid idea...I'll think about it."

"you should." Another little laugh as another little set of kisses were peppered over your face.

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tag: @silverzoomies @babygorewhore @taintandviolent @coentinim @nahoyasboyfriend @newwavesylviaplath @fear-is-truth @slutforgarlogan @slvt4jamesmarch @bluerthanvelvet444 @briaroftheroses

[goddessofmischief]

can i request anything mihawk related and him pining after y/n

       —   I CAN SEE YOU (YOUNG MIHAWK X READER)

A/N: this is part of this series, which requests are open for! These fics are all one-shots, so they can be read separately.

He'd been thinking about you a lot lately.

You, the pretty girl who sailed with the Roger Pirates and made port in the same towns he did from time to time. You, who seemed to always be flanked by the boy with the red nose and the other boy with the red hair.

You. You. You.

You were clever - he noticed that at once - you had to be, to hold your own with so many men stronger and older than you, and he watched as you navigated through one dangerous situation after another, always escaping unscathed. The other boys tried to help, of course, but you didn't need them at all. Mihawk noticed that, too.

He liked the sort of clothes you wore - usually a bit oversized, which made sense, so you didn't have to buy new ones every time you grew, an unfortunate practicality for anyone growing up at sea - and often velvet, or satin, or with embroidered patterns, and usually in dark shades of olive, maroon or black. Sometimes cotton dresses of the palest ivory, which he also liked.

Mihawk had made a habit of always noticing the appearance of others, and judged them quite harshly on it - not their looks or dimensions or things they could not change, but how well they presented themselves. Living the way he did, the way you did, did not lend itself to luxury or composure or cleanliness, so he noticed whenever anyone paid special attention to how they looked.

You did. He never caught you without loosely wound curls, brushed out, or loose buns, or intricate braids that he sometimes heard the red-haired pirate protesting at doing for you. Mihawk noticed all of these things because they were things he liked about himself, and he liked them about you, too.

But even after all this liking and appreciating, which had gone on for many months now, he could never have the strength to talk to you. It wasn't for his own insecurity, although Mihawk was a good deal less boastful and more shy than most of the pirates his age, but more for fear of what he might say when he actually spoke to you for the first time. He had never struck out with girls before, but that was mostly for lack of trying. They found him, most of the time, and either liked his Hawk-Eyes or they didn't.

It was on one of those days, where Mihawk had made port at a small island and was sipping on a flute of wine at a small bar, that he found himself gazing at you again. You'd just stumbled off Roger's ship, and seemed in awe of your surroundings. Your friends already held drinks far too big for them and had wandered off, staring at the skyline, but you were clearly unsure of what to get. Mihawk watched as your fingernail dragged against a small menu, tracing every option, hesitating around the ones with dried flowers in them. You liked dried flowers, evidently, and he would remember that.

The thought crossed his mind that he might go get a drink for you, and perhaps begin some sort of conversation-

No. No. Stupid.

You could get your own drink.

And you were about to, it seemed, when a rather terrifying-looking mercenary pressed a blade to your back. Mihawk immediately reached for his own, which he had fondly nicknamed 'Yoru,' and had not yet seen much action.

"How'd you find me?" you said, voice trembling.

"Followed you," said the mercenary. "You owe us. We know you only gave us half of what you found when you raided that vault."

"That's not true," you said, and Mihawk felt you were telling the truth, although he may have been biased. "It just wasn't as much as you thought it would be-"

The mercenary forced his blade closer, and Mihawk decided he couldn't allow this to go on for one more second. Moving quietly, he removed Yoru from his scabbard, and drew the blade against the mercenary's neck.

"Move aside," said Mihawk, trying to make his voice more steady than it felt.

The mercenary stared him down.

"Who are you?"

"Dracule Mihawk," he said. "And I'd like you to step away."

"I refuse."

What happened next was completely uncalled for and also fated. Mihawk simply moved the sword very quickly to the side, and the mercenary fell, and that was the end of it.

It was not the first blood Dracule Mihawk had ever spilled. It was, however, the first blood he had spilled with this particular sword.

This sword, which would live on in infamy long after he was gone, this sword, which would become synonymous with not only his name, but swordsmanship itself.

First blood, this sword, and it had all been over you.

History would forget.

...But you would remember.

[v1ctor1asecretangel]

Red Lace

stan bowes x fem!reader

song i recommend listening to: yayo by lana del rey

warnings: sugar daddy stan, smut, fingering, blowjobs, riding, car sex, squirting

word count: 1.4k

notes: guys im sorry my smuts are kinda bad🙁 ITS SO HARD TO WRITE AND FOR WHAT LIKE but here ya go! i love a good sugar daddy stan moment. sorry for ooc imma be so real with yall i didnt even watch pose. I JUST SEEN CLIPS OF STAN STOP LEAVE ME ALONE

MDNI 18+

You don't understand why Mr. Bowes insists on buying you things.

Thanks to his pay raise, you've got too much cash to spend on yourself already. You've upgraded your apartment, bought a new car, and now you shop at Whole Foods.

But this? This seems like a bit much.

"Mr. Bowes, I really don't ne—"

"And you expect me to allow you to walk home by yourself at this time of night?" He raises an eyebrow, his pale skin in stark contrast to the black leather of the limousine. Adjusting the cuff of his black suit jacket, he drawls, "Please, I insist."

You sigh, and yet you step into the limo anyway.

You feel out of place with the fancy wine glasses, smooth jazz, glossy white exoskeleton and soft red interior lighting. The partition is rolled high and you can't escape the feeling that this is private.

"Your address, Ms. Y/N?"

"Oh, right um," you hate to say you were too enamoured by all the glitter and glam that it takes you a second to come back down to earth to provide him with the proper info. Mr. Bowes raps against the partition with a fingernail, mumbling what you assume to be your address to the driver before it raises and you two are alone again.

"So, Ms. Y/N," Mr. Bowes begins. Despite all the space in the long limousine, he's sat right next to you, shoulders brushing and all. "How was lunch?"

Right. Lunch. Today, you arrived to the office with your lunch from home in hand, to find an even better one sitting on your desk with a note that read:

Eat up, Sweetheart.

— S. B.

Seriously. Is your boss trying to kill you?

But, you ate it. And it was delicious.

"It—It was good."

And, fuck. You're not one to stutter but thinking straight proves harder than you thought under Mr. Bowe's heavy gaze.

Mr. Bowes crowds you against the door and his cologne is beyond overwhelming, flooding your senses and setting your veins alight as he slides a calloused hand up your thigh, pushing your pencil skirt out of the way as he rubs up your thigh. He knows he can get away with it.

"And the outfit?"

"It uhm...fits fine."

And Mr. Bowes always finds the perfect size, too. Honestly, you're impressed—half of the time you can't find your size yourself.

Mr. Bowes hums in satisfaction, a hand sliding to play with the lace that falls over the crest of your ass. You know he likes to see you squirm and stutter blush. And yet here you are, eating it up like some slutty secretary.

"Are you wearing it right now, Princess?"

Mr. Bowes speaks like he knows, and you find your face turning a similar fiery red to the lingerie set you have on underneath your outfit.

"I am."

Mr. Bowes's eyes flutter and you swear his grip around your ass tightens, but it's gone before you blink again. A groan rolls through his chest.

"Show me, Princess."

Your eye shifts to the limousine window. You're on the highway, but you haven't got an idea to when you'll reach your apartment. "Mr. Bowes, I—"

"Stan when we're alone, Gorgeous."

"Stan, what if someone—"

"It's dark and the windows are tinted," Stan cages you in with a forearm against the door, leaning over so his mouth is leveled with your ear. "You and I both know you live a little ways away from headquarters, so what's the wait?"

You...You...

You don't know.

You find your mouth moving before you think it through, "What do you wanna see first?"

"You know me so well, Princess," Stan purrs, biting his bottom lip as his eyelids sink halfway, studying you. After a still silence, Stan speaks again.

"Take off your shirt."

You shiver.

Button by button, your fingers pull at the fabric of your shirt until the lacy red bra Stan left on your desk is on full display.

Stan groans at the view, head dipping down to press butterfly kisses to your breasts. The warmth of his palms feels strange through the lace but the thumb passing over your nipple has you shivering nonetheless.

"On your knees, Princess," a pretty pink tongue emerges to wet his bottom lip. "I want to cum on those pretty tits of yours."

Your hands are fluent and swift, from undoing his button and zipper to unbuckling his belt, and your face to face with your boss' hard cock bobbing underneath the tip of your nose.

"Suck, Pretty."

Grabbing the base of his cock, you lick from his balls to the tip, giggling at Stan's shudder.

"What, Princess? It's not my fault your mouth is sinful."

To prove his point, and to prove who's in charge, Stan bucks down your throat. It makes you choke and splutter, but you push through the spasms in your throat anyway, pulling a fairly juvenile broken moan from the billionaire's mouth.

"Such a dedicated little girl." Stan groans, gently threading his hands through your hair to grab you tight by the roots. "I bet you're soaking wet in between those legs, aren't you?"

You whimper, subtly rubbing your thighs together—you wouldn't be surprised if you left a wet spot on the floor. Your cheeks burn from the humiliating thought.

"Up."

You pull your mouth off of him, a little confused.

"Change of plans, Princess," Stan pants, lifting you by the waist and sitting you in his lap. After pulling the tight black pencil skirt above your ass, Stan bites his lip at the sight of you.

"So gorgeous," he moans, trailing a finger up your slit. "And so wet. Did I do all this, Princess?"

You slap him on the shoulder in mild embarrassment, cheeks and neck burning. Grinding your hips in his lap, you roll your eyes. "Stan, just fuck m—"

He grabs you roughly by the jaw, chuckling at the way your pretty little eyes burst into the size of saucers, "I believe I asked you a question."

"Yes," you whimper, caught off guard. Stan's grip tightens.

"Yes what?"

"Y-Yes Sir."

Stan bites his lip at the pet name, using the grip he has on your jaw to shake your head back and forth as he coos, "Good girl."

Peeling your panties to the side, the big hands on your waist guide you onto his cock. The slide is smoother than it should be, and Stan's buried in your pussy fairly quickly.

"Grind on me, Princess." Stan bucks his hips to spur you on, and you're moving the moment you pull his dress shirt into a tight little fist. Stan's always been big, but inside you? It can get a little hard to breath.

Stan's thumb ghosts your clit and it has you shivering, drunk off his slow in sensual pace.

"Hmm, you're drooling Pri—fuck!"

There's a bump in the road and it sends your pupils flying into the back of your skull, and the broken moan that tumbles out of Stan's mouth makes you want to hear more.

Bracing your knees against the plush limousine cushion, you maintain the momentum and drop yourself onto his cock so rapidly you're sure the driver can hear the slap of skin through the partition. Stan's eyes widen before his eyelids drop halfway, mesmerized by the slow but hard movements of your hips.

"Shit—c-careful, Princess," Stan puts his hands around your waist in an attempt to gain control of the speed, but you quickly swat his hands away.

"I wanna," you pant, whimpering as he hits your cervix when the limo jolts again. "I wanna make you feel good. A-As 'sa thank you."

"Awe baby," Stan coos, applying more pressure to your clit. You squeak, readjusting your grip on his shoulders, "For the outfit I gave you? When I saw it in the store I knew it'd look gorgeous—and look at you, so fucking delicious."

To reinforce his comment, Stan digs his teeth into your neck, and that's your tipping point—eyes fluttering, your toes curl and you're squirting in Stan's lap; making a mess of his cock and his (probably expensive) suit pants.

"Oh shit—" Stan lets out a guttural moan and he's filling you up, hips stuttering and eyelids flickering. His chest rises and collapses with an airy moan.

"Fuck, Princess," Stan chuckles breathily, resting his head against the limousine seat. His face is pretty and flushed red, hair stiff with sweat and dress shirt a wrinkled mess.

The limousine rolls to a stop, the smooth motion pulling your attention to the window. As you peer out, your brows knit in confusion. This isn’t your apartment building. Instead, the limo is parked in front of a grand, imposing house. One you don’t recognize but assume must belong to Stan. Its tall windows glow with soft, inviting light, the front door just beyond a well-manicured garden.

Your gaze flicks back to Stan, his casual posture in contrast to the subtle tension in the air. He catches your eye, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, his voice low and smooth.

“Care for a quick detour, Princess?”

[jamnsketch]

black fingernails, red wine

[goldenbat]

Lady Lilith

what you need to know :3 (mostly UPGs!)

Her History:

She has many origins. One says that Lord Lucifer sacrificed one half of his essence to create her as his twin flame. In Heaven, she was known as the Queen of Queens & was there to guide other beings through spiritual evolution. Lucifer & her lived in a kingdom until the rebellion. One common misconception is that she harms children, which she actually does quite the opposite. She is a very motherly deity & seeks to protect the children. (this is kinda a UPG, what she told me)

Another common myth talks about how she was actually the first woman and refused to lay underneath Adam, therefore left Eden, which later turned her into a daemon.

Also remember that she does not like people lusting over her. Any sexualisation of her will be punished, especially since she is married (so no, she will not be your god spouse and neither will be Lucifer). She is also the Mother of the Daemons!

Her appearance:

Now, this is more of a UPG, how she appears to me, specifically.

I see her as having long, wavy, dark (like a dark, blood red), voluminous hair and very pale skin. She has black horns, black feathery wings, sometimes also bat-like wings, and a somewhat chubby body type. Her fingernails are sharp & long, she has beautiful long lashes and usually wears very romantic gothic type of clothing. She also has fangs, pretty much like a vampire! She does represent vampires

Her personality:

She is both comforting and lecturing. She will make sure to give you a kick in the butt when you need it, but also have a very warm, caring energy whenever you need it. She will not accept you hating on yourself, since she thinks of women as strong warriors, especially since, according to the myth, she did not want to lay beneath a man, thus meaning she won't let women be belittled, and stands for that. She can be harsh sometimes, but overall she is very motherly, very encouraging too! She's either serious, or very up-hyping, super nice. Sometimes she even cracks a joke, which first seems out of character but then when you focus on her type of humor, it seems fitting

Her Enn:

Renich Viasa Avage Lilith Lirach

Number:

7

Day:

Monday

Planet:

Moon

Colors:

* black

* purple

* red

Incenses:

* frankincense

* myrrh

* dragon's blood

* sandalwood

Animals:

* snakes

* spiders

* bats

* black cats

Crystals:

* rose quarz

* clear quarz

* amethyst

* moonstone

* black onyx

Offerings:

* red wine

* pomegranate juice

* chocolates (hot chocolate too)

* tea (fruit tea, rose tea)

* feminine, rosey perfume

* silver jewellery

* gothic decoration for her altar

* dried roses

* swords, daggers, etc

* serpent figures

* gothic mirrors

* her sigil

* anything revolving around vampires

Devotional Acts:

* shadow work!! very important

* poetry

* creating a playlist for her (she loves that)

* learning about her

* representing female independence

* including mentions/references to her in literature

What she represents:

* independence, especially amongst feminine people

* sexuality through love as a form of unity

* romance

* motherhood

* desire to evolve

* the immortality of the spirit

* beauty

* wisdom

* the night

* illumination

* rebirth

What she can help you with:

* spirituality

* magick

* dark wisdom

* the mystery

* dark psychology

* shadow work

* love

* romance

* self-empowerment

* beauty

* sexuality

* healing from mental issues

* inner-strength

[avxlyse]

Awash In Crimson Wine - Agatha x Succubus!Rio

A/N Hi guys!! You asked and you shall receive! This story takes place in a universe where instead of trapping her in westview, Wanda lets Agatha go with a fraction of the power she once had. Just a silly little fic to sooth my Agathario cravings in between episodes! I’m gonna try and get new chapters out every other day or so.

Title from From Eden by Hozier

***********************************

It started with a flicker, unsuspecting and uninteresting. Agatha was rooting through some old spell books to try and find a glamour enchantment to attract sexual desire. It was a childish whim, made in her desperation to regain some semblance of control. Wanda left her weak, and with so much of her power gone, she felt her grip on those around her loosen significantly.

It was jarring, a loss too odd to articulate, when you go from bending the will of others at your whim to an indifferent force in the world around you. Agatha craved it, that feeling of utter control, more than anything else Wanda took from her. She knew she had to get it back, even if she had to start at the bottom and claw back to the top. She had to start with what she knew to be the easiest, simplest way to attract total devotion‒ through sexual desire.

The spell went, for the most part, just as she had planned. The ingredients were easy enough to find. Roses, honey, salt, red candles, and some kitchen spices you could knick from any grocery store. Simple, easy witchcraft she’s been capable of for centuries. The shift in energy would’ve been imperceptible to most, but to Agatha, the sudden, illogical flicker of each candle in unison made her hairs stand on end.

Still, she chalked it up to Wanda's ever lingering damage and went about the rest of the ritual as she always had. It wasn’t until that night that she understood the true gravity of her error.

The warmth stroked her every muscle with a tender hand, lulling her into an inky black sleep. Each pulse of her heartbeat sent liquid gold to her limbs, bringing her closer and closer to bliss. An orange light surrounded her, and a laugh like honey rang in her ears as a hand reached out to touch her. First her shoulder, trailing up to her cheek, then down to her knee. Through hazy, lidded eyes, she peered up at the golden light. A woman, dark haired and effervescent, peered back at her, smiling through red lips. Her tongue darted out to wet them, and it sent electricity all through Agatha's body. The woman's hand trailed slowly up her leg, past her robe, and grazed her upper thigh with a torturous, feather light touch. Every inch of contact was like fire, warmth blooming in her chest as she gazed at the woman. She felt magnetized to her, like any inch of space between them was an inch too much. Agatha leaned in to press her lips against hers, but before she could get any further, she felt a piercing pain in her thigh. Yelping, she pulled back to see long fingernails emerge from under her robe, dripping with blood. The woman laughed, the sound radiating as she licked her fingers.

Agatha shot awake in bed, body drenched in sweat. She ripped the covers off of her body and peeled back her robes, dreading to see what she already knew was there. Four long claw marks stared back at her, etched into her skin and trickling blood. Worse than that was the ache radiating from her core, needy and clearly present. She shoved her head back into her pillow and groaned at her stupidity, as it slowly dawned on her how utterly fucked she really was. If she knew anything about witchcraft, she knew one thing — She had a Succubus.

Agatha cursed under her breath, clutching the sheets in her fists as the realization sank in. A succubus. She hadn’t summoned a lover, a pawn, or even a mortal with fleeting devotion. No, she had called forth something infinitely more dangerous. 

She sat up, trying to steady her breath, but her body betrayed her. The warmth from the dream—the succubus’s touch—still lingered on her skin, an itch that wouldn’t quite leave. Her thigh throbbed, and the marks from the Succubus’ claws began to feel all too real. Was this just the beginning? How much could she physically harm her? How much would Agatha let her? She glanced at her reflection in the mirror across the room, her eyes dark with need, frustration, and… something else. Was it fear? No, not quite. Anticipation. The thought turned her stomach.

Agatha swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold floor. She cursed again, this time more audibly, as she paced back and forth, trying to shake the lingering sensations. Her mind raced with the implications. Succubi were notorious, not just for their insatiable appetites, but for their ability to manipulate, to control, to twist their victims until they craved them beyond reason. She knew the stories. Hell, she had lived long enough to have seen the aftermath of succubus entanglements. Witches, sorcerers, even powerful beings like herself, brought to their knees by desire.

“I’m not one of them,” Agatha muttered, a desperate edge creeping into her voice. “I’m not weak.”

But even as she said it, she could feel the echo of that laugh in her mind—smooth, sultry, dripping with amusement. It was a sound that made her chest tighten with equal parts fury and desire.

She needed to figure this out—now. Agatha stalked over to the grimoire she’d been reading earlier. It still lay open on her desk, the candles from the ritual now melted down to stubs, the faint scent of roses and burnt honey hanging in the air. Flicking through the pages with a practiced hand, she searched for answers. There had to be a way to reverse this, to banish the succubus before things spiraled further out of control.

But as her eyes scanned the old, familiar words, she found nothing. No incantation. No banishing ritual. No easy fix. Of course, there wasn’t. Summoning a succubus wasn’t the kind of mistake one could undo with a flick of the wrist. She knew that.

A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, making Agatha freeze. The temperature in the room seemed to spike, and a sultry voice purred from behind her, "Looking for something, darling?"

Agatha turned sharply, heart pounding as her gaze locked on the succubus, who stood casually in the corner, leaning against the wall as if she had always belonged there. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, the same as in Agatha’s dream, but now she was here, in the waking world, every bit as alluring—and dangerous. Agatha stared at her long, tan legs, just peaking out through the slit in her emerald green robe. It was more modest than she had imagines for a succubus, covering all the way up to her collar bones. Still, Agatha could see the lace of a black bra peaking subtly out of the top. Her skin seemed to glow a dull gold as her scent carried across the room— Honey and warm spice. She thought about the skin of her thighs, how soft it looks and how if she could reach just a little further—

"How did you—" Agatha began, cutting herself off before her mind could wander any longer, but the succubus just smirked, pushing herself off the wall and walking towards her with that same predatory grace.

"How did I get here?" her voice was teasing, almost patronizing. "You summoned me, remember? And I must say, you have impeccable taste." She stopped just inches from Agatha, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Though I think we both know this is about more than just a casual attraction spell. You wanted something… deeper."

Agatha clenched her jaw, trying not to flinch as the succubus reached out to trail a finger across the line of her jaw . The touch was electric, sending sparks of heat through her veins despite every instinct telling her to pull away. But the pull was there. Undeniable.

"I didn’t ask for you," Agatha hissed, stepping back, though it took more effort than she wanted to admit.

The succubus smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. "Oh, but you did. Your power called to me, Agatha Harkness. You were searching for control, for dominance, for someone who could bend to your will." She circled Agatha now, her gaze lingering on the claw marks she had left. "But you should know… you can’t summon a succubus without offering something in return. And lucky for you…" Her hand brushed against Agatha’s lower back, making her breath hitch. "I’m very, very good at fulfilling desires."

Agatha spun to face her, eyes blazing. "I don’t need you."

The Succubus' smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Oh, darling, we both know that’s a lie." She leaned in close, her breath warm against Agatha’s ear. "The question is… how long can you resist before you admit what you really want?"

Agatha’s breath caught, her pulse racing as she met the demons gaze. There was a challenge in her eyes, one that both enraged and enticed her. Agatha had always been the one in control, always the one with the upper hand. But this—this was different. She wasn’t just a distraction; she was a threat, a temptation that Agatha wasn’t sure she could ignore.

"Where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself," the succubus purred, her voice as smooth as silk. She smiled, a sickly sweet smile that sent a shiver down Agatha’s spine, stepping closer with an effortless grace. Her dark eyes glittered with amusement, lips curling into a pout as she batted her lashes. "Well, aren’t you going to ask me my name, Agatha Harkness?"

Agatha's breath quickened. She wanted to ignore her, wanted to maintain her sense of control, but the succubus’s presence was magnetic. The air between them hummed with tension, a pull so strong it felt almost physical, drawing Agatha closer without her consent. Her instincts screamed at her to keep her distance, to push this creature away before things spiraled further out of control. But her curiosity—and the simmering desire beneath it—kept her frozen in place.

She swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I’m not in the habit of making small talk with demons," Agatha said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The succubus chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made Agatha’s stomach twist with both irritation and something else she didn’t care to name. "Oh, darling, this isn’t small talk," she said, stepping even closer, her gaze fixed on Agatha like a predator toying with its prey. "It’s tradition. You summon a demon, you give them a proper introduction. It's the polite thing to do."

Agatha raised an eyebrow, forcing herself to meet her gaze head-on. "Since when do demons care about tradition?"

The succubus smiled again, but this time there was something darker behind it, something ancient and knowing. "Since we’ve had names worth remembering."

Agatha clenched her jaw, refusing to be drawn into whatever game the succubus was playing. She had been down this road before—manipulation, seduction, promises laced with power. This demon wasn’t the first creature of darkness to try her hand at controlling Agatha, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last.

But there was something different about this time around.

Her heart pounded against her ribcage, and no matter how much she tried to brush off the feeling, Agatha knew this was more than just a game of power. The challenge in the succubus' eyes wasn’t just about control. It was about want. Hunger.

And Agatha, against her better judgment, felt that hunger stirring inside herself too.

The succubus watched her with an amused, expectant expression, like she knew exactly what was going through Agatha’s mind. "Go on," she coaxed, her voice dripping with honey. "You know you’re curious. I can feel it."

Agatha took a slow breath, trying to quiet the heat rising in her chest. Her body was betraying her, reacting to the succubus’s presence in a way she hadn’t felt in… she couldn’t remember how long. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep her cool.

But the words slipped out before she could stop herself.

"Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "What’s your name?"

The succubus’s smile widened, satisfied, as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. She leaned in closer, so close that Agatha could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the scent of something sweet and intoxicating filling the air between them.

"My name is Rio Vidal," she said softly, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear as she spoke. "And now that we’ve been properly introduced… things are about to get very interesting."

Agatha’s pulse quickened at the way Rio’s name rolled off her tongue, rich and dark like wine. She hated the way it felt, hated that her body responded with a shiver that ran down her spine, hated that her mind was already racing with possibilities.

But more than anything, she hated that Rio could see it.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Agatha snapped, stepping back, trying to regain some distance, some sense of control. "This isn’t going to be your playground."

Rio didn’t seem fazed by the sudden shift in tone. She merely tilted her head, studying Agatha with that same knowing smile. "Oh, I’m not looking for a playground," she said, voice low, almost a purr. "I’m looking for something much more... satisfying."

Agatha’s stomach churned, a flush creeping up her neck. She turned her back to Rio, pacing to the other side of the room, needing space to think, to breathe. The succubus’s presence was suffocating, overwhelming. Every word, every glance was designed to provoke, to ignite something Agatha wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

"I don’t need your help," Agatha said firmly, her back still turned. "I can handle my own power."

"Really?" Rio’s voice was closer than it should’ve been, and when Agatha turned, the succubus was standing just behind her, their faces inches apart. "Because it seems to me that your power is the one thing you can’t control anymore."

Agatha glared at her, refusing to be intimidated. "I’ve lived for centuries, Rio. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You want to get inside my head, make me doubt myself. But you won’t succeed."

Rio’s eyes gleamed with amusement, her lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. "Oh, Agatha," she whispered, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. "I don’t need to make you doubt yourself. You already do."

The words hit Agatha deeper than she wanted to admit. She felt the truth of them, the gnawing uncertainty that had been growing ever since Wanda stripped her of her power. The fear that she wasn’t as strong as she used to be. The creeping doubt that maybe—just maybe—Rio was right.

But she couldn’t let that show. Not now. Not ever.

"I think it’s time you left," Agatha said, her voice cold, pushing the words through clenched teeth.

Rio lingered for a moment, her dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, before she finally stepped back. "As you wish," she said, her tone light, though there was a shadow of something deeper in her gaze. "But don’t think for a second that this is over, darling."

With a casual wave of her hand, Rio vanished, the air in the room suddenly lighter, but the tension still thrumming beneath Agatha’s skin.

Agatha stood alone in the silence, her heart still racing, her thoughts a jumbled mess. She had won this round, but she knew the succubus would be back. And the worst part?

A small, dangerous part of her wanted her to.

[faorism]

fanart for Black Fingernails, Red Wine by @draculastarion [img desc in alt text]. so happy to finally share. instantly knew i had to draw it when draculastarion posted mode boards for boys' looks. also because a 50k nanowrimo fic deserves artwork even outside a big bang! masks based on the amazing work of tuahadedana. background uses a screenshot taken by using the native camera, immersive ui, and camera tweaks mods.

you can find details and the full size image for personal printing on ao3.

[dreamii-krybaby]

Aight

Richard Sterling // Knight HCs ⚔️🥀

-Mf is definitely the kind to be:

“Ew, don’t get your blood on my clothes” (after killing somebody)

Or

“No no, don’t cry on my expensive marble floor”. (After fully traumazing someone)

-Takes care of his hands and fingernails very well. Uses creams mostly.

-Has sharp nails, pointy ears, sharp canines,idk why I imagine him with non-human features (prob. Bc of myths regarding changelings even tho he is canonically 100% human, for now)

-Has a few more moles on his body.

-Has a slim muscle build.

-Had to learn to use certain products and skills to maintain his “Knight” attire and helmet in pristine conditions, he hated it at first because when he had to do it by himself for the first time but then he got used to it pretty quick.

-He now quite enjoys doing maintenance on his knight attire and helmet, its like a ritual to him.

-Definitely tends to hum when doing an activity or thinking about something. Has a pretty good singing voice.

-Definitely sadistic. Or at least sadistic tendencies.

-He tends to enjoy pushing people over to the edge, seeing how long they can last before they completely break.

-we all know this MF LOVES listening to gossip and spreading it like wildfire.

-His fav flowers are roses (Mainly pink, white, red, black) and also admires poisonous flowers. (Definitely has not considered on using them to get rid of ppl)

-has good dancing skills.

-Knows fencing and knows swordsmanship

-it’s mentioned in his backstory that as a kid he was quiet and read books. (His full backstory is on IDV’s weeibo account) He definitely LOVED the genres of fantasy, knight, history, drama, poetry etc.

-His favorite places would definitely be gardens and libraries.

-Rlly likes wine, and test tasting them.

-Likes chess, played it since he was young.

-if he ever interacted with Wick, WICK WOULD NOT LIKE HIM AT ALL. (With the whole idea that dogs can apparently detect bad ppl)

-He could not stand getting dirt or mud during matches, but he can’t do too much about it. Other than mumble angrily under his breath.

-whenever he used to steal sweets as a kid he would always find a away to blame it on somebody else.

-absolute HATES his sister’s lover. He was one of the few factors than caused problems for his “inherit all the family money” plan

-Would definitely love stirring absolutely chaos and drama inside the oletus manor and seeing ppl fighting and arguing all while he watches from afar.

-Kinda got mad that when he pushed her sister down the stairs didn’t exactly kill her on injured her severely. (His diary mentions that the sister only got bruises, nothing too severe)

-100% willing to kill everyone in the manor as long it doesn’t bring him trouble. (Tbh he seems to be the guy to only kill if it 100% benefits him and won’t put him at risk)

-I can see him picking up on how to sew bc he had to fix his knight attire that gained tears and holes after intense matches. I can imagine him complaining angrily under his breath while he struggles to sew the tears in his suit

-Has definitely read the Art of War by Sun Tzu and Don Quixote. He has memorized them completely

-Tbh, he seems a big fan of Shakespeare or classic dramatic tales

-I feel like if he ever insult someone he would absolutely roast the shit out of them without saying a single curse word. He is that type of person.

-He gives me the vibe of that kid who is a little too knowledgeable and enthusiastic about war history.

-He knows all kind of old torture devices and types of executions used through out history.

-is definitely some of kind of fruity 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈 (I can fully see him being a queer man, or a trans butch lesbian)

-He likes to toss around and play with his helmet (as seen in one his idle animations) and show it off.

-Theater kid, he loves musicals and classic plays.

-Would own like fancy cats or dogs owned by most Aristocratic ppl in old paintings. Like hunting dog breeds.

-I can see him having the most elaborate hair routine or either he absolutely does nothing and his hair is still in pristine conditions.

-Has piercings

-Wears a bit of makeup

-Wears lots of rings

-Has definitely owned horses back in his home, gave them the most elaborate names and knows how to ride them (bc knight stuff u know). His fav game map is probably the Kreiburg Racecourse

[deconstructthesoup]

Just for fun, I'm gonna show off my human designs for the Vessels and break them down... but I can't draw for shit, so, like the Slay the Professor Voices, this is gonna be in Picrew format.

Enjoy!

So, I've said this before, but when I make Beast a human, I always feel like the only way I can still capture her vibes is to make her a kid, or at least a preteen---a younger sister or a daughter of one of the other Vessels, usually Witch. She reads to me as that feral, weird little girl who digs holes with her fingernails on the playground, bites other kids, and almost always has a scraped knee or tiny cut on her face from horsing around that needs a fun Band-Aid to cover it, and her design's meant to reflect that. Beast strikes me as the kind of girl who'd just wear the same neutral colors with some green every day, and the kitty-ear hat is her most prized possession. This is the kind of kid who'd get labeled a "problem child" until she finally gets tested for ADHD.

Witch gives off grungy alternative vibes to me, and everything she does with her appearance is very deliberate---she doesn't have a skincare routine, but she always takes care of her piercings; she dyes her hair red herself and in the bathroom sink, but she always gets a good-quality and cruelty-free dye; she dresses almost exclusively in ripped jeans, flannels/overshirts, and T-shirts/tank-tops, but they're always somehow matching perfectly and look like actual outfits rather than just... well, what she threw on. To me, Witch is the person who gives off as much "I don't care" vibes as possible, while caring immensely in her own weird way.

Weirdly enough, Prisoner's human design was actually difficult, and that might have something to do with the fact that... well, she is the most human out of all of the Vessels, decapitation nonwithstanding. To that end, I wound up giving her a very academic-leaning style, which I think fits with her cynicism and default to the logical approach. She gets glasses, she gets a sweater vest, she gets Mary Janes... Prisoner's always trying to look presentable.

Damsel, meanwhile, was almost too easy---maximum pink, maximum ruffles, maximum princess vibes. There's no choice for Damsel other than being as adorable and as high-femme as possible, and... well, I'm pretty damn sure that comes across. It also helps her contrast well with Prisoner, since they're almost always twin sisters in my AUs.

I had two rules for Adversary: make her hella sporty, and make her hella butch. This is a girl who actually uses her gym membership, and she is almost always in workout gear of some kind. She's gotta be tough, she's gotta be badass, and she's gotta be hot. (I love butch Adversary so much, you don't understand)

Tower... well, she was pretty simple. Power suit, perfect jewelry and heels, pantyhose, professionally-styled hair, definitely enjoys wine. I struggle to write her because on one hand, I don't want to make her an egotistical monster, but on the other hand... well, it's difficult to make her human and likeable without going too out of character. At best, she's more akin to a mean girl than anything else, and at worst, she's Karen-level. (Sorry, gorgeous.)

For Nightmare, I had two words: "cute" and "goth." Nightmare is totally the kind of girl who would dress up like a spooky doll for funzies, so she's got frills like Damsel, but a bit more understated---and, also, leaning way more heavily into black-and-grey than any other color. And yes, she has tattoos and vitiligo, because it just... works for her. She still absolutely slathers intentionally exaggerated makeup on her face, though.

For Spectre, I also wanted to go in a goth-adjacent direction, but I wanted her to be way more witchy and whimsical, creating a pastel-whimsigoth vibe that I think really suits her. While skull makeup was an option for this Picrew, I was already way too attached to the idea of giving Spectre round glasses in place of her... well, sunken eyes, and it turned out pretty nice. Also, if you're wondering about all the purple---don't ask me why I associate that color with her. It just fits.

Razor is always gonna be a punk-slash-metalhead to me, because that means I get the excuse to give her plenty of piercings, plenty of studded bracelets, and---not pictured in this Picrew---a gazillion chain wallets (the eagle-eyed among you will even notice that she's got metal in her hair, which was very much intentional). And as it's the most obvious with Razor, this might also be a good time to mention that, yes, I didn't want to make all of the Vessels white, because a) that's boring, and b) if Shifty's meant to represent the entirety of change and transformation among humanity, it stands to reason that if her Vessels became human, they wouldn't all be skinny blonde girls. I'm gonna get off my soapbox now.

And lastly, Stranger was... well, both hard, and surprisingly easy. I knew I wanted to make them plus-sized, I knew I wanted to give them vitiligo, and I knew that I wanted their "base" outfit to be as pattern-clashing, color-clashing, hurt-your-eyes busy as possible. However, that did mean that I ran out of colors to include preeeeetty quickly, which is actually something that can happen when you're trying to squeeze in every color at once. Still, though, the end result was quite cute, and I think it definitely captures their vibe. (Not pictured: their masc outfit with suspenders and a tie, their alt outfit with a black cowboy hat and old-fashioned jester makeup, their femme outfit with a big ol' hoop skirt and matching parasol, and their "no-effort" outfit with a slouchy sweatshirt and matching pants.)

[wyllstarionfics]

Wyllstarion Fic Recs: Firefighter Wyll

(Firefighter Wyll, my beloved)

Some Like It Hot by Draculastarion (author of Black Fingernails Red Wine!)

10K/Complete!

Astarion's studio catches fire. Wyll is a firefighter.

They bone.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

crying all the time by Thecheeseburgercat (author of Grand Adage!)

5K/Complete!

Astarion has lost count of how many dates he's been on with the handsome Wyll Ravengard, the firefighter who saved his flat from burning down. But Wyll wants to take things slow, and so when Astarion at last scores an invite to Wyll's flat...well. He is utterly overwhelmed by the care and attention Wyll lavishes him with, and many tears are shed.

~*~

"There," Wyll smiles. "I've got you, Astarion, look at me—I've got you."

Astarion shudders. He shakes with the pleasure. But he looks Wyll in the eyes, and to his utter dismay, tears begin to fall.

It's like a dam has been broken. His gasps and moans turn into sobs, something wet and truly pathetic. Tears flow down his cheeks and he can't stop, he can't stop it just feels too good, finally it feels good.