#cw spider imagery
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lords in black trays
#starkid#hatchetfield#lords in black#pokotho#pokey#bliklotep#blinky#t’noy karaxis#tinky#nibblenephim#nibbly#wiggog y'wrath#wiggly#webby#ceramics#trays#ceramic trays#cw spider imagery
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Laplace’s Angel (Hurt People? Hurt People!) embodied. He may have taken like 10 hours but he’s done.
I love Web!Kayne, he’s such a little freak
Some little sketches (and a little bit of arkayne for the arkayne girlies [gender neutral]) below.
#malevolent#malevolent podcast#malevolent fanart#kayne malevolent#malevolent tma au#tma web#malevolent au#arkayne#artist on tumblr#digital art#digital painting#cw eye imagery#cw spiders
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‘pecador.’
synopsis— you bring the sinner out of miguel o’hara
cw— religious themes, blood, mild nsfw, 18+
“En el nombre del Padre,”
Miguel O’Hara was a sinner. Violence has always resided in his soul, along with anger that bubbled in his veins. It was evidently clear to him and everyone, even back then when he was younger. He could barely remember his first memories of joy with his mother nor a play with his brother, but he could remember vividly when he threw a punch at somebody who told him that he and his mother and brother were dirty.
And ever since then, he has not learned of a moment filled with peace. His father berated him and punched him as well because how dare he hurt the son of his boss. Because of it, his father had been fired, and they had no money anymore. But Miguel didn’t care. How could he when that little shit insulted his mother in front of him? He let his father vent his anger and frustrations on him.
“Y del Hijo,”
But a mother’s love was great, and his own mother couldn’t bear to see her son getting hurt, so she tried to stop him. She took her in his arms and protected him from his father. But she shouldn’t have done that. He wished his mother stayed put in place and come to him when his father was done with him. But she didn’t because her love for him was great.
His father grew furious at the sight of his wife hiding his son away from him and in wrath, he hurt Miguel’s mother as well. The slaps and the punches and the hair pulls were thrown at his mother and he knew it was painful. He tried to pull away from her as his eyes were wide and tears streamed down. He begged his father to stop and asked him to forgive him, he sobbed as he said to him to hurt him instead, just not his mom. But despite it all, his father turned a deaf ear to his pleads and his mother’s embrace was tight just so he would not get hurt.
“Y del Espíritu Santo,”
His father’s anger was a large fire that evaporated away his family’s water of tears but Miguel’s resentment was a burning fiery hell only reserved for his father. His rage was molten and flowed through like lava and it pulsed within his heart and consumed his rationality. His fury blinded him and he didn’t know what he had done until he regained his vision momentarily back to see his mother crying.
“Miguel, escúchame,” his mother whispered to him with a tremble as she took the bloodied knife that he didn’t know he was holding from his arms. He looked at his hands soaked in red and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.
“My baby boy, thank you for protecting Mama,” she hugged him and rocked him back and forth as she sobbed. Like instinct, he hugged her back weakly. “I love you so much, I want you to know that.”
“Be strong for me and for your little brother, okay? He has no one but you. Take care of him and yourself, alright?” her soft voice was full of sadness and he desperately wanted to look up to her and comfort her. He wanted to tell her that he also loved her very much and he will but like a lullaby, her voice sent a wave of sleepiness and his vision darkened.
But he couldn’t help it and then, he fainted. When he woke up in a hospital room with his little brother, Gabriel, snuggled beside him, nurses and the police greeted him. There, he knew his mother killed herself.
“Amen.”
He took his mother’s words to his heart and swore that he would protect his brother. He did not let anyone take him or his brother or relied on adults because he trusted nobody. He appealed to the court at 16 years old that he could take care of himself and his brother. Fortunately, he was approved and he took multiple jobs to sustain their needs. He didn’t go to school, no, he didn’t have any time but he made sure that Gabriel did. He worked tirelessly sleeping barely 5 hours a day just to bring food to the table and have a roof over their heads. But despite his busy schedule, he made sure to be there on Gabriel's important days.
Years went by and they had formed a mundane lifestyle. And he tried so hard to keep it that way. But violence resided in his soul and the sinner in him was rekindled once more when his brother was found dead one early morning. He received a call when he was about to go to work and rushed to the crime scene when he heard the news. When he saw Gabriel’s lifeless body and the blood that pooled around him, the remaining hope in his heart was crushed and rage once more visited him and burned fiercely. The police ruled it as suicide as he was found in an alleyway in between buildings. But Miguel knew that it wasn't because of his brother who was so happy and talked his ear off about graduating and becoming a billionaire so he could support him and would never give up on life like that.
“Padre nuestro,”
Miguel decided to join the underworld where mafias and gangs ran about. He took jobs there not only for quick cash but to form connections and information. He investigated more about his brother's death and found out that he was bullied for a long time by a group of kids his age. Apparently, they picked on him because he was sorry for being dirty and a son of a filthy murderer. There was evidence on the autopsy that was not reported that he was burned, with cuts and bruises littered all over his body. A camera evidence that was also not submitted and was deleted (but luckily saved by the corrupt authorities who tried to keep it as a blackmail opportunity) showed that they pushed Gabriel to his death and they all laughed about it. Not only that but he wasn't their only victim.
Miguel felt so angry at himself and guilty that he didn't know that behind his brother's insistence on being covered up from head to toe, lies numerous wounds. Knowing him, he probably didn't tell him so he wouldn't worry about him. He wished he did. He wished Gabriel was a little more selfish and made him worry about him instead because he would protect him better.
With this, he took his time to learn more about the arrogant pricks that murdered his brother. He moved to a different city, to Nueva York, so that he had an alibi. He stalked the conceited brats who did the same to numerous people and their rich parents who didn’t give a shit whether their children murdered someone. He learned their routine. Their schedule. And when the time was right, he put a bullet through their heads one by one when they least expected it.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, come on man, I’m sorry,” they begged with tears and snot dripping, crawling backwards under his shadow. “Don’t kill me, please, I’ll give you anything.”
“Money? Do you want money? I’ll give you hundreds and thousands,” they always said the same thing, thinking that money was enough for him to forgive the suffering they had caused to his remaining family that they took away, the bruises and cuts on his brother’s body, the damage they had done on him mentally. “No? Half a billion? No, no! One billion!”
His jaw clenched. Pathetic pigs. He cocked and aimed it at them.
“No, no, no! NO—!” they stuttered and screamed but were cut off by the sound of a bullet fired by a gun with a muffler.
He wondered if they at least felt some remorse or at the very least thought about how Gabriel or the other kids they tortured and killed felt as they begged them to not hurt them. But he knew people like them, he had seen them countless times including his very own father. People like them didn’t care about anything or anyone other than themselves. These kids were just the same as them.
He made sure to clean up his tracks, deleted potential shreds of evidence, and made some story that would make their case solved and closed easily. He left the city swiftly and came back to his new home. With this, he tried to leave his old past behind and began his life anew.
“Que estás en el cielo.”
Miguel hated himself. He hated the fact that he killed his father which resulted in the death of his mother so that nobody will know that he killed him. He hated the fact that he was so ignorant of his brother's suffering that he had to be pushed to his death for him to realize that his brother was in pain. He hated the monster he turned out to be, always out for blood and killing people like it was nothing.
The sea of guilt and remorse suffocated him and he drowned himself in alcohol and women. The money he saved up which was supposed to be for Gabriel’s graduation gift was used on his vices.
Day and night, his sins weighed heavy on his mind and not once, was he given at least a moment of peace.
“Santificado sea tu nombre.”
A knock snapped Miguel out of a trance as he smoked out of the window of his apartment. The wispy grey stench wafted in the air as he raised an eyebrow, wondering without much interest who could be knocking on his door. It couldn’t be the landlord as he just paid his month’s due. His past flings? Probably.
Knock. Knock.
He took another drag and inhaled as much as he could before he exhaled and extinguished it on the ashtray full of ashes and butts of leftover cigarettes.
“Alright, alright. I’m coming.”
He opened the door and found nobody, but a baby in a basket with a letter sticking out of the blankets wrapped around it. The sight of the baby filled him with anxiety and dread. He looked sideways, hoping to at least find who put the baby on his door but only the sight of closed doors greeted him. He had an inch of what was happening and he did not like it one bit.
With a shaky sigh, he took the baby and cradled it in his arms. God, he didn’t even know its gender. But the sight of him made the baby giggle and coo at him and he bit his lip. Fuck. He opened the letter with his other hand and the words written on it confirmed his suspicions.
“It’s your baby, Miguel. You were the last one I hooked up with before I found out I was pregnant and even then, it was too late. She was too grown and I cannot abort her anymore. I don’t have any papers of her because I have no money and I can’t raise her.”
Miguel could feel a migraine forming and he rubbed his forehead. The baby must have found his distress amusing because it giggled once more and tried to grab his fingers.
No. She. Not it.
Fuck.
Miguel wasn’t ready to be a dad, he doesn’t even think he was suited to be one because he was a piece of shit but he took another look at her that was so snug and comfortable in his arms as she looked at him with wonder, he thought it wouldn’t be so bad to try to take care after her.
“Venga tu reino.”
A few years passed by and Miguel accepted his role as a father. He named the baby Gabriella after his late brother. He got into therapy and went back to work so he could raise her with no financial problems and so that he wouldn’t be a bad father to her. Gabriella was a handful child. He slept countless sleepless nights, often waking up early in the morning because she was crying. Sometimes it was because she was hungry, sometimes she just needed help to digest the milk, and sometimes there wasn’t any particular reason for her cries. But still, he cradled her in his embrace and sang lullabies to her softly.
It felt like it was just yesterday Miguel opened the door and found her on his doorstep. Gabriella has grown into a bright young child. She took after his looks as she inherited almost all of her genes from him.
Oh, she was so lovely. She was the best of him, better than him and Miguel liked that because she deserved better. She made him believe that he wasn’t the worst piece of trash and that he wasn’t useless. She made him feel loved and he made sure she felt loved as well.
She was very much into soccer and he was so proud of her. He attended all of her games without a miss, winner or not. He was there with her by her side, teaching her how to be kind enough to not hurt anybody and allow herself to be hurt. He taught her to be emotional yet to also remain logical. He taught her to tell him anything yet also let her remain her own privacy.
Miguel loved her very much and she loved him very much as well.
“Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo.”
But he was a sinner and there will be time that his sins would catch up to him. He understood this one day when he got home one afternoon as he got home after work and was greeted by his child, his precious baby, his Gabriella’s lifeless body in her blood.
The tears came fast and thick. He immediately cradled her into his arms and rocked her back and forth. He begged her to wake up, to open her eyes for Papa. To surprise him that this was just a prank. Or a dream. Anything.
Please, wake up. You can’t die yet. I haven’t lived the rest of my life with you yet. I haven’t seen you on your quinceañera yet or your graduation or the first time you get a job. I haven’t seen you get married or surprise me with grandchildren.
I haven’t seen you live your life yet.
Please. Don’t do this to me.
“Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día.”
Violence has always resided in his soul and with his daughter’s death, he committed his one last vengeance. He visited his old life once more. He got back with his connections and his trusted friends gave him whatever he needed in exchange for nothing and as their condolences.
The killers of his daughter were related to his previous crimes. They were related to the families of the people he killed and they decided to kill his daughter as their revenge.
And in return, hunted them all down. He hunted all families down and despite all the scars, all the sharp cuts, all the black and blue bruises, and all the bullets that pierced him, he never gave up and killed them all. Multiple mafia familias were down and he made sure that they couldn’t even think of getting revenge and that all they could do was bow before him.
“Hahaha, you son a bitch,” one cackled as he spat on him, “you deserve it all.”
“You heartless bitch, you’re the reason why all your family’s dead. Fucking cunt, you think you can revive them? Dream on.” he babbled his useless mouth on and wheezed.
“I know.” How could Miguel not know? For not one second that had gone by, he could never ever forget how he killed his family.
“Your death will not bring my family alive but it will make sure that any other families won’t be killed.” And with that, he pulled the trigger and let the loud sound of the gun resonate through the room. His head spat out red and some solids of his brain decorated the wall behind him. His blood dripped down and it joined the pool of the blood of the other corpses that lay dead in the room. The rays of the rising sun shone through the window and it gleamed on the pool of red. Silence filled the room and only the sound of his breaths remained.
Miguel’s eyes gave up suddenly and he fell to the ground on his knees with a harsh thud. With a tear, his shoulders loosened.
Finally. It’s over. Everything’s over.
Miguel should be glad that all of his enemies were gone and nobody would even dare to hurt him anymore but what does it all matter when everyone he held dear was gone?
“Perdona nuestras ofensas,”
Due to the rules of the underworld, the top dogs with Miguel O’Hara leading, their identities would be hidden and they would not be allowed to surrender themselves to the government as it could overthrow the black society altogether. Partly because of this, he turned to God and moved to a quaint town. He became a priest with the sole purpose of repentance and earning forgiveness for his sins. He didn't know if he was asking God to forgive him or his family who died because of him to forgive his carelessness in protecting them.
It was ironic really because he never really believed in God despite the nightly mass he, his brother, and his mother used to have. The words he uttered were redundant, merely sounds he couldn't understand nor tried to. When his mother died, he and Gabriel did the nightly mass in honour of their late mother. And when he died, he could only attend Sunday mass in the church with Gabriella because of the ache of missing his mother and brother yet still continue the tradition of being faithful to God. He wanted her to grow up good and kind so he taught her the values and morals of being a Catholic despite not fully believing in God.
A hypocrite, that's what he was and usually thought about as he led the mass during his schedule.
And he still was when a quiet mysterious woman moved into town.
You.
“Como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden.”
You appeared so suddenly out of nowhere in this town. He lived in the Church but in such a small town, words tend to spread easily. In just two days of your arrival, he already heard of a young woman who had just moved in.
Miguel was a bit wary as this town barely had any people. Most residents were grandparents or older parents who were already retired and their children who left to move to the cities for bigger opportunities and education. He didn't know what you were thinking about coming here. Were you sent here by the underworld? No, it can't be. He was protected by his friends who ruled the underworld now. Did you have a past like him? Were you running away from something? He sighed as he shook his head. Then again, it was none of his business and it was most definitely not his right to pry.
The next Sunday was the first time he saw you. You sat there at the back, ushered by your neighbours, he presumed. In rows of people, you stood out so brightly. Your back was straight, there was elegance so blatant despite the plain clothes you wore. He met your gaze one too many times and noticed the way you hung onto every word he uttered.
And when the mass had ended he stayed around longer this time and talked with the locals a bit more. And without a doubt, your new friend introduced him to you.
“Oh good morning, Father O’Hara! Wonderful mass, by the way, I loved the homily, well, as usual, it really reflected my situation now with my son in college. Do you still remember?” Mrs. Lorraine greeted him with a handshake.
“Oh for God’s sake, Lorraine, yes Father still remembers that and I’m sure he appreciated that you love it. Don’t forget you’re here to introduce [Name] to him.” Mrs. Eleanor said, cutting Miguel off before he could even reply.
“Oh! Dear me, why yes,” with widened eyes, she laughed, “Yes, forgive me.”
“Father, this is [Name]. They just moved in here and I invited them to join the church.” she moved her body to show your figure and Miguel finally had a close look upon you. Your eyes stared at him and for a second, he felt like there were just the two of you. You looked at him with wonder and curiosity and Dios mío, you looked so innocent and he was reminded of the darkness that exists from within him. He felt like one touch and he could corrupt you easily. He clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow, desperately hiding any tremor in his composure.
“[Name], this is Father Miguel O’Hara. He moved into this town a little while ago and clearly, one of our only priests.”
“Oh, good morning, Father Miguel.” Christ, your voice was soft as a wind that tickled his heart. You held out your hand to him. “It's nice to meet you.”
“Good morning.” He nodded stiffly. He took your hand and shook it.
Even your palm was smooth and he forced the thought down to hold your hand longer.
“No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal.”
You were kind. Endlessly so. You sponsored this town’s community event alongside donations to the church anonymously but everybody knew it was you. Everyone just decided to keep their silence to respect your decision in keeping your identity.
You preferred to listen to others and learn more about them rather than talk about yourself. You always asked how everyone was doing and gave them gifts under the excuse of it being old despite it polished brand new. Whenever children or the grandchildren of the locals visited, you always stopped by their house and gave them little gifts as well.
Miguel had seen you interact with children multiple times whenever he was doing groceries and pass by at yours, he saw you giggling along with the children. He saw you reading books to them under the shade of a tree and rays of sunlight would gently decorate your faces and the winds would play with your hair. He saw you happy and the children happy with you as well.
And his heart throbbed at the sight of you each time but he swallowed the feelings forcibly down as his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“Amén.”
He hated you.
He hated the way you invoke feelings in him. He hated the way you tempt him unknowingly and he cannot blame you to take any responsibility for the way you make him feel. He hated the way you make him want to sin again, to unleash the beast inside him he had caged for so long but for another different reasons entirely which was you.
He was a priest, someone who he tried so hard not to sin but you make him falter in his beliefs so effortlessly.
So he hid himself who had become a sinner once more just at the thoughts of you.
“En el nombre del Padre,”
But he was so weak for you.
After a mass one sunday morning, you asked him if you could have a talk with him just the two of you and somewhere private. Miguel knew he should have said no. He should have turned you away and pretend he has not been watching you from afar and from the corner of his eye. But he was weak for you and before he knew it, he let you in on his office room.
“Father Miguel, why are you ignoring me?” you asked so suddenly and he knew it was coming. He has turned away from you, pretending he doesn’t see you coming and would walk the other way. But he was still caught off guard. You leaned closer to him he could smell your delicious scent. He leaned away because his patience with you was just so little he might lose his hard-earned control.
“Pardon me, but you’re getting too close.” He said with gritted teeth and tight fists. You looked hurt at that. With widened eyes that were soon filled with dejection, you slowly rubbed your arm. Guilt flooded his being and as much as he wanted to apologize, he couldn’t. Any second with you drove him insane and he could only take so much of this. He didn’t want to lose his reason, his morals, his values as a Priest. He couldn’t bear to. But any more second with you, he just might lose it all for you. You bit your lip.
“Why do you hate me so much?” you whispered with small tears welling up your eyes and Miguel hated himself more. There was nothing more he wanted to do at the moment than to hold you and wipe your tears away himself. But he can’t. It’s wrong. Priests don’t get close like that to their fellow believers.
“I don’t hate you—” he sighed as he looked away but you cut him off.
“Then why do you look away from me? Am I so undeserving for you to not look me in the eye? Am I so disgusting for you to get close to me? Am I so inadequate and worthless for you to treat me like you treat others?” you said harshly at him while tears slipped your eyes. You took a step at him with every word you said and he took a step back in every step you took until his back was pushed to the wall behind him. “So do not tell me that you don’t hate me when all you did made me feel like you despised my entire being.”
For fuck’s sake.
He grabbed your arm and turned your body, switching positions with his. He made sure to cover the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the wall too hard and he growled under his breath.
“I do not hate you.” he said with gritted teeth. “I want you.”
Your eyes widened at that.
“What?” you confusingly and breathlessly asked.
“Every time I see you, there is nothing more than I want than to be with you. I look at your pretty face and I want to kiss you so bad. I look at your nice figure and I want to hold and caress you. I want you.” he panted silently, the words he never dared to even utter to himself outloud was finally out of his chest. And now that they were free, he looked at your eyes to see how would you react. Would you push him away and slap his face? Would you be disgusted with him you’d never want to see him anymore?
He would understand but he didn’t know if he could bear with your hatred.
“Then take me.” your hand encircled his neck and the other gently stroked his cheek.
No.
“I’m right here.”
I can’t.
“Show me you don’t truly hate me.”
It’s wrong.
“Show me how much you want me.”
In an instant, he captured his lips with yours as his hand slid to the back of your neck. At the touch of your lips, the hidden lust for you blossomed. He pressed his face to yours and yours closer to his deeper, his kiss burning so passionately and fiercely. You opened your mouth with a moan and he invited his tongue in, and he nearly groaned at your fragrance hynotizing him and your sweet taste that ignited a new kind of hunger for him. His tongue swriled with yours and together, they danced a dance that left him breathless.
He pulled away slightly and a web of both of your saliva disappeared. He stared at you as you panted. You looked at him pleadingly and your stare sent a rush of blood down in his pants. He wanted more and he knew you wanted the same.
And with that, he plunged to the roaring sea and its waging waves of lust.
“Y del Hijo,”
For you, he threw his title as a Priest and became just Miguel.
All for you, he returned to his origins and became a sinner once more.
“Y del Espíritu Santo,”
Each day and night, you invited him into your temple and he worshipped you. What once was just thoughts that tortured him became reality that gave him a glimpse of heaven. Your aroma engulfed him and filled his never-ending greed of you and your flavor satiated his endless glutton for you.
“Amen.”
As he finished his prayer, he stood up from kneeling and bowed to the Cross of the Lord. He fixed his clothes and the sounds of his footsteps against the tiles of the Church rang as he left with thoughts of you.
He wanted to hear your melody that was akin to the trumpets of the angels again. He wanted your soft and supple skin to be against his dark and rough ones. He wanted to be pressed under you with your legs on the either side of his head and your juices spill in his mouth. He wanted your warm cavern envoloped around him and to feel you come undone by him.
With a silent chuckle, he thought about how he tried so hard to not corrupt you by with his wicked thoughts only to be corrupted by you instead.
For Miguel O’Hara was a sinner and no matter how much he tried to change that, he will always be one. Violence has resided in his soul, along with anger that bubbled in his veins but time changed him and has now become lust that occupied his being along with the infinite greed and glutton that only wanted you.
#blue writes! ✧˖*°࿐#spider man: across the spider verse#spiderman atsv#atsv#atsv miguel#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x gn!reader#cw religious imagery
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Virgil Sanders Stimboard
💜💜💜 💜💜💜 💜💜💜
#virgil sanders#ts virgil#sanders sides#sanders sides stimboard#Sanders sides stim#Emo stim#Purple stim#black stim#tw eyes#tw ommetaphobia#tw spiders#tw arachnophobia#anxiety sanders#Spooky stim#tw eye contact#cw eye contact#cw eye imagery#tw eye imagery#cw ommetaphobia#cw spiders#cw arachnophobia#stimboard#stim board#stim boards#stimboards#stimblr#Janus’s Corner
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Here's the full post from all the inbox trick or treating yesterday
This bitch that took me 7 hours 16 minutes and 74 fucking layers
#my art#nix does art#ID Later#tw eyes#tw eye imagery#eyes#cw eyes#scopophobia#scopohobia tw#fake knife#fake blood#tw blood#tw knife#cw blood#cw knife#Ask to tag#Spider#spiders#tw spiders#cw spiders
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Needed to draw something but the TMA finale used up all the brain power I would need to come up with something to draw. So I just drew that
#my sketchbook art#my tma art#<- I guess???#cw eye imagery#cw spider webs#cw webs#cw staring#cw language#cw caps#tma
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it's funny how you said that pugs are abominations because they kinda are. But what about chihuahuas?-🌟
Chihuahuas have less health problems and also probably shouldn’t exist, but pugs are much, much worse.
Pugs have been bred so that they are born unable to breathe properly. Their tails are deformed. Their eyes are prone to just falling out. They are ugly creatures who live their shortened lives in pain. Movies like Men In Black which featured a pug made them popular and more pugs have been bred (I don’t blame the movie, but any movie featuring an animal will have this effect, like Finding Nemo made kids want pet fish). When pugs are fitted with breathing tubes for surgery (which is common because they ar prone to organ failure), they don’t want them off. Unlike other dogs, who hate breathing tubes and find them painful, pugs are the opposite of desperate to rip them off. Its because they have a squashed face, and are unable to even get enough oxygen. There are programs to try and breed pugs back into a reasonable existence where they are more like actual dogs, instead of the inbred creatures they are. All of this is because the features of pugs were arbitrarily decided cute.
Pugs are not the only dogs which have been ruined through the selective breeding of humans, but they are one of the worst examples.
There are similar issues in other pets. Reptiles can be selectively bred to contain different colorations referred to as “morphs.” The hobby is huge, with countless breeders dedicating decades to achieving unique animals. Ever seen a photo of a solid black gecko? Or a snake with smiley faces? Those aren’t always photoshop. Sometimes, photos are uploaded with filters, but the most part, it is real. On websites like Morph Market, breeders can list reptiles for sale. If you sort by rare or expensive morphs, you can see these animals.
I’m most familiar with ball pythons. I have one as a pet and have done the most research on them over other pets. Ball pythons have hundreds, maybe even thousands of different morphs which have been selectively bred. Most of them are fine, great even. Countless beautiful snakes are out there with vibrant colors and patters. Unfortunately, certain morphs are linked to certain traits. For a harmless example, ‘banana’ morph (also known as ‘coral glow’) ball pythons tend to be male. Unfortunately, certain colorations which have been selectively bred over time are linked to various health defects and neurological issues.
The most common and well-known example is the ‘spider’ morph. The ‘spider’ morph is associated with a pretty spiderweb pattern, and one of the worst neurological issues. This problem (commonly referred to as a ‘wobble’) is linked to the gene that causes the pattern. Among other things, this results in a snake that cannot tell up from down. This results in the snake struggling to eat, and in some cases biting itself. Spiders are some of the most popular snakes with such defects due to their color. They sell, so they continue to be bred. Morphs containing ‘spider’ (as in, the when two snakes are cross bred to result in new morphs) are often names various ‘bug’ names (usually ‘bee’ is somewhere in there). Breeders will point to certain crosses or even individual snakes whose ‘head wobble’ is less severe, or even crosses the which seem almost fine as a reason why this morph should continue to be bred and sold. It should not and has even been banned from some reptile conventions. Some pretty patterns are not worth continuing to breed an animal which should not exist and is prone to moving backwards, upside down, and quite literally trying to eat itself. The snakes already exist, and I don’t see an issue in having a rescue as a pet, but breeders need to just stop bringing more into the world.
Spider ball pythons, pugs, even glow-in-the-dark goldfish. So many animals which should have never existed continue to exist due to selective breeding, capitalism and the barely-regulated supply and demand of pets. I’m not against selective breeding, but at some point there has to be a line.
This is not even getting into people who defend breeding spider ball pythons by comparing them to autistic people simply being allowed exist in this world and also to have children.
#I went off the rails. No hate to anon at all. I just went on a tangent.#I hate chain pet stores and also people who see animals as toys to be played with.#ableism cw#genetic deformities cw#brief disturbing imagery mentioned#pugs cw#ball python cw#selective breeding cw#snake cw#rant#💚 ask response but negative#ball python#spider ball python#pug#the pet trade#selective breeding#animal genetic deformaties#infodump#special interest#🌟 anon
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Inktober Days 1-3!
Day 1: Dream
Day 2: Spider
Day 3: Path
Please don't use/repost my art without my permission!
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Daily Doodle Day 70
<- Day 69 | All Days | Day 71 ->
Have a sketchbook spread in the works based around the song Kiss Me(Kill Me) by @jerryterry on YouTube, also available on Spotify!
#hope you don’t mind me tagging you#cw spiders#tw spiders#cw eye imagery#tw eye imagery#traditional art#daily doodle#daily doodles#onionart#doodles#fanart#doodle#fan art#🧅 art#spider art#eye art#caligraphy#colored pencil#coloured pencils#mixed media#sketchblog#sketches#sketch#art#Artist#small artist#small art account#small art blog#beginner artist
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Inktober Day 2: Spiders
#this design is mostly based off his comic design so I don’t want to see anyone saying I whitewashed him#his comic design is white as fuck and this Miguel design I made was before ATSV came out#+ normally I shade the skin and it looks darker after that#miguel o'hara#spider man 2099#marvel comics#my art#inktober#unsettling imagery#unsettling imagery cw
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Woe. Eye guy be upon ye
#spiderman#spidersona#spiderverse oc#across the universe#into the spider verse#large quantity of eyes#eye cw#cw eye imagery#he was also potentially gonna be a drag queen but idk if y’all would be into that (pensive)#really happy with how the corset turns into central eye turns into collar#there’s also boning along the knees akin to the knee braces I have irl#because she is doing the bare minimum to ensure she’s not in constant pain during her work#but it really isn’t gonna be sustainable in the long run yk?#anyway I hope y’all like them :)
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Unexpectedly Tender
A night of pleasure where Astarion is the only focus for once.
Astarion X Reader (18+ themes) cw: Astarion with afab anatomy, Cazador mentions, sexual content MDNI, oral (astar!receiving), use of 'cunt', fingering, hungry yearning even though you’re already together, and slight religious imagery? (I want to worship him, respectfully.) No other description other than you being taller and a drow.
7.2k words
Drows aren't particularly known for being the nicest of races, especially those sworn to the spider goddess with an odd sense of humor, yet the vampire spawn can use himself to prove that people can change, if not for the better. Of course, that's to insinuate this drow in particular was never anything but agreeable since the moment they met each other, even after the rogue pointed a knife at you for some answers fresh from the naultaloid.
That's not to say astarion liked you from the start, no there was an underlying bitterness on the spawn's part from your weirdly infuriating need to play savior wherever you went. The needy didn't stay the needy for long, and something so simple as retrieving a stolen pouch turned into a full-on family rescue mission. The whole heroic, spring-into-action type was someone that tended to get on Astarion's nerves, though he used to see himself the type to once marry someone like that.
Well, when he was about…13.
Regardless, you can only imagine how stupid Astarion felt when he realized that he liked your inherently nice nature, a major contradictory personality to his, and eventually came to terms that those feelings were a given.
Naturally, there were some chaotic times courtesy of Astarion's occasional goading to make a decision for the group's entertainment betterment, but you always took the change of plans in stride. Never angry, perhaps disappointed (expectedly), but forever the friendly hunk of underdark you were.
So, Astarion had to catch his neck from whipping off its swivel the moment your voice dipped off into a low growl at the woman in front of them, your eyes narrowed in irritation.
It would have been easy for Astarion, with the woman's (slightly creepy) persistence even after his third refusal, to simply allow you to give the alright to bite her should you ask. After all, what was one little bite in comparison to a rare, powerful potion? It would have been fine.
…Right?
'Just a small moment of disgust to get myself through,' but, surprisingly, you just stopped the spawn's half step forward and snapped, "he said no."
The tick in your jaw, the way your voice held no room for the usual patience and kindness, and lastly, the way your eyes darted to Astarion's in a flash of concern. You spoke with the authority of someone seasoned, as if your little group of lost souls have always been together, every one of your words carrying a stern weight and finality.
"Where are you?" You murmur, your words gentle and cutting through his mind like a knife through butter. There’s a small, nearly chaste kiss to his bare shoulder, and it nearly startles him.
The hands which were once gripping the spawn's supple backside above the fabric of his pants are now resting against the small of his back, gentle and not pressing, just below his ritual scars.
Astarion, coming back to his mind with you in your shared inn room, relishes in how the arms encircling him hold kindly, unburdened by the tension of restraint should he not want to continue, and he eases a quiet sigh.
'You'll never be like the others…'
"I'm right here, my love," he responds, his voice light and airy, bare from the false seduction dripping from the tips of his fangs.
You plant a kiss to the other's neck, careful to avoid the jagged skin that had healed two centuries ago, and Astarion closes his eyes when he notices that too.
"Are you sure? Because we can stop. I'm fine with just talking, or something."
The spawn slides his hand up your back and it comes to a stop on the back of your head, his slender fingers toying with the shorter hairs. You pull your head back in response to look at the vampire, and Astarion uses the leverage to pull you down toward him. If the awkward angle for your taller frame is uncomfortable, you don't say and only allow Astarion to do as he pleases.
"Or," Astarion exhales, his red eyes darting to your lips, "something," and then he's pulling them to his. Your lips slot together, moving a little out of sync only because of the temporarily different level of desire.
Astarion has always been hungry and hasty when kissing, all tongue and teeth and starving of the safety and affection he so desperately craved for the last two hundred years, like it would be snatched away from him. And, with Cazador around the corner, it could all very well be. The mere idea of it, never being able to see you again, seeing your smile as you walk the familiar path to his tent in the morning to ask him how slept, is detrimental to Astarion's psyche that had only just begun to snap its scattered pieces back into place.
You like to take your time, give slow and tender pecks that gradually press firmer and open wider when you pick up on the vampire's need for more, but there's always a subtle hesitation; a looming question you're unable to truly verbalize.
'Is this really what you want?'
Astarion is aware of this, of your innate sense of overprotection for him, of his trauma from being an alluring plaything for Cazador. He would never forget the look on your face the moment he told you a fraction of the hell he had to endure, all flared nostrils and pupils constricted in anger, and he would never forget the way he felt a subtle throb in between his legs. That called a different problem into question, however.
There was a conversation you had before about Astarion's reluctance for sexual intimacy, and you made sure he knew that you understood and was indeed obeying Astarion's request of going as slow as he needed you to.
The spawn remembers how nervous he was when he told you that he didn't think he was ready to be intimate yet, bated breath between his teeth though the vampire had no need to breathe. Being used for his body for so many centuries essentially defiled Astarion's views on sex, and he severely hoped you would understand his hesitance.
He couldn't deny that everything stirred at certain things you did, the ways in which you looked at him, how quick you moved to protect him whether physically or other, but he (with your steady guidance) grew self-aware. Realizing that, after discovering his decimated self-respect and self-worth, he wasn't ready, and he had the option to say...no.
And he wanted you to know that he came to that conclusion, deciding it would only be fair since you bestowed him the grace for self-discovery.
"Even though I know things between us are different," Astarion provided a forced giggle, his lips wobbling in the corners, the facade beginning to melt away into something unfamiliarly vulnerable, "being with someone still feels…tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing. I don't know how else to be with someone. No matter how I'd like to." You hadn't said anything for a minute or so, and Astarion still mildly adherent to his ways of self-deprecation had assumed you began to doubt whether or not to continue pursuing...whatever you were moving towards, especially being so soon after your previous conversation of Astarion's 'affection' being self-serving and under a completely false pretense at first, but before he could voice, 'It's fine if you think twice about us', you spoke.
"Astarion," your cadence was deliberate and measured, choosing your words carefully, "I'm not going after you for sex, and if I gave you that impression, I'm sorry. I'm ready when you're ready, I mean it. We can be together without having sex at all, if that would make you happy."
Astarion breathed a laugh, astonished yet still a bit half-hearted. "Now, now," he chided playfully, his voice smooth, effortlessly persuasive, "that almost sounds like a challenge."
But he wanted to believe that. He did.
He does.
But, even Astarion has a breaking point.
It took a while, fuck, there was no doubt about it. Several nights of seduction falling away to mentally drifting off at the beginning and apologizing profusely afterwards when Astarion began to feel uncomfortable and backtracked, but those moments of retraction didn't matter. You never showed signs of annoyance or frustration, as if you knew that was his way of pacing himself-his starting and stopping-and it would ease the tension weighing the vampire's shoulders when he saw you were only ever concerned. Your face would always be calm, sometimes peaceful, but your hands would hover in the space between your bodies, indecisive and unsure if the man wanted your touch in those moments or not. At times he welcomed it, releasing a little sigh when your warm palms caressed his undead skin, and other times, he needed a bit of space. You never showed disapproval, if you harbored some, whenever he would push away and leave a gap between you. You only waited for him. You always moved to the rhythm he set; stopping when he told you to stop, going when he told you to go, and Astarion was sure if he asked you to give him your heart, you would carve it out with your bare hands and hold it out to him with a smile on your face. It would surely keep beating in his hands, the love you so clearly shelter for him taking root within your arteries and replacing your frivolous need for blood.
It was an odd thing, foreign, being in control of a situation after centuries of enslavement.
However, Astarion feels a shiver travel up his spine as he drinks in the groan you release into his mouth, not unwelcome.
Without breaking your kiss, the vampire walks forward, pushing you back with a hand on your chest, and you simply follow, allowing Astarion to push and push until your back collides with the cushions of the room's bed. The plain brown blankets ruffle softly, a pillow falls to the ground with a gentle thud, the mattress sinks underneath your weight as your elbows move behind you to prop your upper body, and then there's a moment of pause. Astarion's lips leave yours with a wet smack, a thin string of saliva curving in the very, very small space created by the separation, but Astarion watches you take one, two, two-and-a-half breaths before he reconnects them with a muffled moan. It's not necessary for him to breathe and he hasn't for the past two centuries, but he tries to be considerate of you.
You, content, take whatever the vampire gives you, filling and all-consuming and your lungs burning in your chest from the lack of oxygen, but you easily conclude that you would happily die here before moving away from him.
Your mind momentarily calls to the revive scroll resting in your pack, and there's a fleeting thought it might certainly come in handy tonight. Hands fumble for clothing, and when it all comes off, Astarion isn't sure where his body heat ends and where yours begin.
Everything is burning, throbbing, aching, and there's a steady pulse between the vampire's legs he can no longer ignore.
His head almost fights the motion to pull away, as if the mere notion is blasphemous, but nevertheless, Astarion pulls back and slowly opens his eyes. Your face beneath him is mildly obscured by a stray, silver curl, illuminated a pale yellow from the candlelight, but Astarion's vision clears the moment your hand delicately pins it behind his ear. Your fingers barely brush the elongated skin, but the vampire figures if his heart was still working, the action would have sent a considerable amount of blood to his cheeks.
"…You're so beautiful," your lips twitch upwards in the corners.
Astarion can't fight the urge to smile back, fangs and all, and his eyes, reminiscent of polished rubies and piercing, sparkle in adoration unbeknownst to him, darting back and forth from one of your eyes to the other. Though there's evident lust present, it becomes overshadowed by an unsure tenderness, your desires restrained in the taut of your neck, and the tips of your splayed fingers flex along the back of Astarion's knees. It's clear you're holding back, anxious to go any further despite Astarion's clear want, and the man knows that if he wanted to stop here even after going so far to be completely bare, you would let him and do so without complaint.
The vampire's thumb strokes your cheek absentmindedly, and your hands are on his chest, tenderly caressing the small indentations as if second nature.
"…So are you, darling,” the vampire kisses the tip of your nose.
The air is soft, your touches kind, and your breaths fan across the other's mouth acting as a heated, wine-scented aphrodisiac. But, as much as you soothe and woo him with cordial romanticism, you seriously need to get on with it.
So, leaning into the shell of your ear, Astarion gives you a nudge to do so. The pulsating is beginning to hurt at this point.
"Touch me," he sighs, and is able to feel the surprisingly violent shudder that racks through your body beneath him. "Please, my love," he adds. You hum. "…I am," you respond before pressing a wet, open-mouth kiss to the vampire's shoulder. "I will, fuck," you exhale, "I will."
The kisses start to travel the expanse of his skin, hot and occasionally pausing to suck and bite, up and down and wherever they can touch, trying to gauge his egregious zones, trying to see what's a yes or a no for him.
Pleasure blooms just below his stomach even though you had barely touched him yet, your fingers lightly tracing along the milky skin of his thighs spread across your lap. The pressure of your fingers gradually presses further but never restricting, never painful, only using Astarion's body as a grounding measure against your own raging urge to simply ravish the man on top of you.
'Not too fast,' you remind yourself, tilting your head backwards to reattach your lips to your lover's in a sloppy kiss Astarion happily accepts. 'Not too fast. Slow down, slow...'
You know Astarion can feel your arousal against the back of his thighs, but you stop yourself from grinding up into him, because this is all about him.
Astarion was sure he had never been this wet in his life, the nearly foreign sensation of tackiness between his thighs a bit of a sensational nightmare, and the need for release is essentially screeching in his brain, bouncing around his skull with unrestrained vigor, "touch me, touch me, fucking touch me!"
It's bordering on overwhelming and somehow feels under-stimulating at the same time. Foreplay was never a grace bestowed to Astarion while he entertained Cazador's newest sacrificial rat, them usually opting to put their own pleasure first above all else, so he wasn't entirely sure if the new experience is something he likes or hates. It feels like teasing, in a way, he supposes. Touching everywhere but where he so desperately needs, the pure torture of it all, yet it somehow makes everything better, more.
The buildup isn't bad, it's the waiting after that messes with his head.
You pull back, your half-lidded eyes staring up at Astarion, intense and almost predatory, and tug the spawn's hips forward an inch in a way that causes Astarion's heat to graze the warm skin of your lower stomach. The slight friction calls for a small gasp, a bout of pleasure flashing down the base of his spine, but things still.
"Can I...?" The question hangs off in the air, your hand, palm facing the ceiling, rests below Astarion's belly button and stops.
"Please," the spawn's eyebrows come together, now unafraid to display his frustration, and he begs, his voice tilting into a feral grumble. "Do something."
Astarion, even in the state he's in, doesn't miss the look that settles over your face the longer you stare up at him, your eyes narrow. It's shadowed, dark and hungry and wanting and in over two hundred years of being him, he finds himself unafraid to be at the receiving end of that familiar gaze. So many others sneered at him, licked their lips at the thought of mounting him as if he were nothing but this curly-haired elven beauty to be conquered, and he would let them, for Cazador. Some he would sleep with to possibly gain a sense of satisfaction, a small act of defiance to show that he could still enjoy sex on his own, but it usually ended up with this crushing ton of self-loathing on his sore back.
But, this time, it's different.
The look you're giving him sets him on fire, more scorching than the blistering flare of the goddamn sun, and his bottom lip slots between the front of his teeth in a last dash attempt to smother this pitiful thing of a choke gurgling atop the base of his tongue. He needs you; your touch, your fingers, your mouth, anything and everything he's been deprived of throughout all of this time. He's ready. Gods, he's ready.
And he commends you for your self-control, because Astarion is sure that he can't stop himself from having you now, not when you look at him like that-like you just want to fucking devour him down to the last strand of silver curl.
So, when your hand finally slips between his thighs and presses against his sweltering mound, your fingers gliding along his cunt with careful but firm precision, Astarion’s eyes nearly live up to his namesake. His back arches, his torso pressing into you so much your hand is almost squashed between the both of you, but you manage to keep the pace. There’s a silent determination ruminating from you, your motions; a promise to let him experience every gratification you have to offer and it’s clear that you’re not disappointing him. Your lover’s face falls slack, his mouth parting into a sharp ‘o’, and you resist the urge to lick at the tip of his fangs that peak under the edge of his kiss-bruised lips.
You concede, your eyes fervently follow a bead of sweat floating down the line of Astarion’s pallid neck, that no painting, nor sculpture, nor Gods can compare to your lover’s beauty. It could be a harrowing notion to others, some devout worshipers would probably sputter in indignation if you were to say that outloud, (Gale certainly would be up in arms to defend Mystra) but it remains an undeniable fact to you. His moans, uninhibited by rehearsed parade and uncomfortable deceit, spread across your face reminiscent of a sweetened vineyard swaying in the breeze that you can taste on your back molars.
You decide, right here and now, that you worship only one man, and his name is brighter than any cosmic piece of heaven.
“I,” Astarion suddenly stutters, cutting through your glorifying thoughts, and you only now notice he’s begun to roll his hips against your hand, creating a quicker friction. “Oh, plea...” His plea dies.
“Tell me,” your head lolls to the side to catch Astarion’s eyes, but he’s too lost in chasing whatever he needs to feel, “tell me what you need so I can give it to you.”
Unintentionally, your tone dips off as you get dragged further into the growing rigidity of your lover’s spine, the last part of your sentence dripping with desperate authority, and Astarion whines at the command in your voice that’s always so recognizable, but has him clenching around nothing in this context. This is better than he could have ever imagined, and his past sexual encounters, he gathers, don’t hold a fireball to you. There’s a volcanic simmer beneath his skin, a faint buzzing behind his eyes and the tips of his toes that leaves him both wanting to pull away and longing for more, and it's delicious.
“What do you want, my love? You want me to go faster?”
You gauge his face, searching for any signs of discomfort or dissociation since you both hadn’t truly gotten this far without some form of regression, but you realize, with a swell of pride warming your chest, Astarion is completely enjoying himself.
The vampire’s hips stall for a beat, the candlelight catching the jut of his hip, before he’s nodding, frantically, a few curls falling into his face from their usual sweep. They’re too pretty and frame his angular cheeks too well to brush away, so you leave them be, and instead choose to absorb this rare picture; an unpoised Astarion.
Your wrist pangs, a cramp begins to form along your flexing tendons, but you’ll be damned if you don’t listen to his request and you speed up your fingers, the sound of sloshing wetness ringing beautifully in the middle of your ear like church bells.
You noticed when first getting to know the spawn that he carried this innate air of grace, from his years as an elven magistrate, you assumed, and even when he found himself flustered, there was always something graceful about it. So seeing him like this, keening for your touch and working himself along your fingers to clumsily chase a high he rarely got acquainted to, uncaring about how disheveled he looks…
“Yes,” he whines, “yes, I can,” he moans, “I can feel it..”
You let him do what he wants, what he needs, only keeping the pace of your fingers in their same, quick succession, lest Astarion say otherwise. The buildup is evident in the slow tremble of his thighs, in the hand he uses to instinctively reach out for you as he feels his orgasm steadily approaching, seeking a sense of ground amongst the unfamiliarity, and you promptly lean forward to allow it to snake around the line of your shoulders. Astarion’s head falls to your collarbone and his straight nose is tucking into the junction of skin beneath your earlobe, his other hand settling by his thigh and curling into a fist around the blanket.
Your eyes almost roll into your skull when his pants of ecstasy float into your ear; they’re so much closer, much more clear, and now you can hear a faint crackle, his voice rasping the longer he moans out into the dim room.
“Gods, yes,” your lover whimpers, the sound going straight to your own arousal, “yes, yes!”
Astarion stills and it takes no magic tower mage to know the vampire’s orgasm crashed down unto him, if the sudden creamy texture pearling the tips of your fingers wasn’t indicative enough. His head tosses back, his back curving into a perfect concave ‘c’, and you lean forward to pepper the expanse of his neck with light pecks, your fingers slowing down to a lazy roll as an aid in helping the spawn on the come down. The sides of your thighs pick up the motion of curling toes and twitching kneecaps that are forced to keep themselves open on your naked hips, and a small smile stretches across your face.
Astarion’s chest is still, his vampiric attributes unable to provide him the need to take deep breaths, but his eyes are hazed, trained onto a piece of random ceiling tile. You sit against each other silently, holding him by the waist when his hips eventually stop twitching, and slowly pull your hand back, your wrist screaming in relief from being released of its awkward position. Your lover’s arm spasms, a false release of air hitching when you graze his sensitive clit.
“You okay?” You murmur, keeping your voice low to help Astarion pleasantly adjust.
It seems to help, and your smile widens a bit when the man’s head lowers and his eyes meet yours, red irises little by little clearing from their orgasmic fog to focus on your face. It takes a minute, perhaps two-it could have been an hour for all he knows-but he eventually gets there, and his tongue darts from his mouth to salivate his lips before he simpers, knowing he probably looks extremely satisfied. You certainly notice it.
It’s an expression you’ve seldom seen on Astarion’s face save for when he finishes feeding from a particularly big bear, or you when you eventually gave him permission for your blood.
“I’m,” he pauses, “I’m wonderful, my love. That was…”
Your gaze falls to your hand, Astarion’s juices coating your fingers in a shine bordering hypnotic, and you nod.
Astarion, now able to think in coherent lines of consciousness, is able to get a good look at you. He watches you, notices how your eyelids droop, your facial expression mirroring what he can only describe as melted adoration when your gaze languidly trails over his body before they flick up to his face. He’s seen that look so many times; admiration, but it’s never felt genuine before. There’s a warmth he receives from yours, one that washes over him and melts into his bones, forming his skin and shaping the very flutter of his lashes when you call him beautiful. The gentle touch on his waist pulls him back.
Your lips brush his, “my love,” and then they’re slotting back together.
The kisses start lazy, relaxed and unhurried to simply have his mouth on yours, tongues dancing along each other in an easy rhythm even without music, but then Astarion feels your legs shift beneath him. He’s hiked further in your lap, but he simply lets it happen, assuming you need to adjust to get comfortable. Though, he comes to find that he’s sorely mistaken when you suddenly lean back, subsequently taking him with you. You both fall onto the bed, Astarion letting out an adorable, “umph.”
Neither one of you says anything, but you do lean forward to place a kiss to Astarion’s cheek, just below his faint beauty mark before you pepper his entire face. Your lips touch the bridge of his nose, his chin, above his smoothing eyebrows, essentially anywhere you could reach, and the domesticity of it leaves him speechless for once.
“My sweet,” you whisper, pausing in between every few pecks to speak, “can you do something for me?”
Astarion hums, his eyes closing when your lips find his neck, and you take that as a sign to continue.
"Can you get on top?"
"I already am, my dear-"
"-I mean," you licks your lips, "on top…of my face."
"…Oh."
There's a high-pitched giggle that bubbles in the base Astarion’s throat, involuntary but fleeting.
'Well,' Astarion thinks, his eyes widening, 'this is…also new.'
You, seeing how he pauses at the suggestion, move your finger in small circles on his hip in reassurance, and your eyes soften. "You don't have to, I just thought you might enjoy it."
"I," Astarion clicks his tongue, "I've just…never done that before."
A beat. "…No one has asked you to sit on their face before?" It's your turn to appear so incredulous, finding something like that so…so disrespectful. "Never?"
Astarion shakes his head, now beginning to shrink a little under your sudden bemused stare. He knows you aren’t mad at him, you’re never mad at him (which is why he tends to get away with minimal consequence), but he sees that your upset is genuine. And you are upset, because how can anyone deny this epitome of stunning, masculine monarchy, his ivory throne, adorned with anything less than the most lustrous jewels? What absolute madman, blind and deaf, surely, would give Astarion anything but which he truly deserves? Gold, silver, should fall between his slender fingers, molten and only his, the rarest silks and velvets hanging from his pallid limbs not unlike the knots lining a hangman tree; gorgeously morbid as he.
It makes you mad all over again, picturing those rabid animals all over Astarion, taking and mindlessly ravaging with no incentive to offer a modicum of benevolence. Hounds, the lot of them, soulless and only living to harshly breed the unwilling. How, your chest tightens as your anger makes way for a pang of sorrow, how much Astarion has suffered. You don’t want his torment to loom over him any longer, so you’ll just have to remind him; you are his, in his control. His to love, to break, to leave if he wishes it so. If he is to love you for the remainder of your long lifespans together, or if he is to simply use you to remember that he is more than the body that’s grown so foreign to him, so be it.
Your very soul clutches his, fist trembling, taut, and knuckles deathly white like a frightened babe clinging to their mother’s skirt; craving, clenching to prevent the scattered pieces of Astarion from slipping through your fingers. You’ll hold him forever, if he’ll have you.
You will provide all you can, and accept all he’s willing to give in return, if anything. You can only hope that he receives you well and chooses you like you chose him.
Pushing those feelings down, you kiss your teeth before pulling the vampire's hips forward even more until he is basically sitting on your chest, the unexpected drag shooting a shudder of pleasure up his spine, and you smirk. Your strength often comes in handy at times. "We need to fix that. Now."
Astarion tries to hover at first, a bit too hesitant to allow his full weight to rest on your face even if his fear was a bit irrational; he’s seen you fight for Gods’ sake. And you aren’t having it. The grip on his hips grows unyielding as if they leave no room for further argument, and his puffy, flushed cunt is slowly lowering, taking its rightful place, against your open mouth. A stolen heir reunited with his true birthright, you surmise.
The pleasure that consumes you is almost too powerful, his taste flooding your senses and clouding your mind in an impenetrable smog of bliss, and you instinctively curse, your lips curling around the letters into his slick folds. Astarion releases a low whine, his head already falling towards the ceiling as if the fictional crown upon his head is too substantial, and he bucks his hips, relishing how your nose drags along his swelling bud. Your tongue explores at first, adagio to measure just where he might need you to be, but you find yourself indulging your thirst too quickly. It’s necessary, requisite, to feel his juices bead the tip of your tongue, his orgasm pooling down your throat essential for you to feel any sense of satisfaction for yourself, slurping and drinking and gulping like a man deprived for too long. Astarion’s body responds in kind; his hands reaching for you in the fray and tangling within your roots unceremoniously. It produces a moan from beneath him, the vibration against him causing a sound so ruined, it reminds you of a wounded sprite, but Astarion has never felt so safe. Even if your jaw practically aches as you attempt to inhale him (you’ll unhinge the damn thing if you have to), the man’s growing sounds spur you further, and Astarion briefly wonders if you’re truly trying to fucking eat him.
“Fuck,” he gasps, one of his hands releasing your hair to hold your forearm as it loops behind him to grip his waist.
Your hold is grounding, scalding, keeping him from getting too lost in himself, and he’s all the more thankful for it the moment your tongue slips further down his wetness to breach his hole, your nose nudging and grinding against his clit. He almost flinches away from the unexpectedness of it, but he gathers, that is what your arm around him is for.
“Fuck!”
Perhaps, Astarion’s eyes roll into his skull, this is the profound ascension Cazador is looking for; this feeling of your tongue splitting him open, lapping him along your tastebuds akin to a thirsting sinner kneeling in front of heaven’s locked gates. To him, this certainly feels no different than ascending to a higher power, and he swears he’s died-again-the moment your hand shifts to use the pad of your thumb to encircle his clit. His hips move on their own, burning from the strain but it feels so good, and rock back and forth, grinding.
You weren’t sure if you'd taken a single breath since he sat down, his thighs tightening on the sides of your face in a vice-like grip, non-verbally screeching at you to move ‘not a goddamn muscle’, not that it matters. Your view from between your lover’s legs, where you conclude your life was always meant to lead you, makes it easy to ignore the still of your chest, a dull scorch fixing around your stuttering heart as it struggles to handle the lack of oxygen. Astarion’s body glistens delectably, shiny from his sweat and arousal, and your eyes study the muscles in his stomach as they tense and twist and jump along with his keens and hisses of pleasure. Your lover’s movements titter the edge of desperate and feral, his hips rocketing along your face as if you were nothing more than an object to bring him to orgasm at this point. ‘I’m not complaining,’ your eyes flutter closed. ‘Gods, I’m not.’
Astarion chases, following the catalytic pressure building in his stomach, tears forming behind his closed eyelids, and it goes up and up and up and-
His eyes fly open at a finger slipping past his entrance, nimble and thrusting and loudly coated in the slick of him. It’s deafening, how wet he is; it’s rich, nasty, and utterly debauched, but neither of you care. The air around you smells like sex and love and animalistic necessity, and the bed frame meets the wall in response to all of the movement. “My darling,” Astarion cries, his voice wholly spent, raspy and sobbing. “My love, my sweet,” and he’s babbling. “Don’t stop, don’t-”
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
“Don’t-”
Astarion, with his vast vocabulary and overall knowledge from both his time as a spawn and original profession as a magistrate, finds himself unable to describe the sensations running through him. Everything is burning, his hips sting from their motions, his stomach feels tight, but there’s also something else; something deeper. It’s ardent, starting from the bottom of his feet and ending in his chest, and it makes him feel like something is going to happen, something powerful. It buzzes, pulsates, makes his body feel heavy, the pleasure coiling in the pit of his stomach like a spring ready to snap. It’s new and a bit scary, but he knows you’ll be here, knows you’ll protect him, so he lets himself fall.
Your lover goes rigid, silent, a moment passing where every muscle and flex of his limbs comes to a complete halt, before he’s moaning, drawn out and in higher pitch. Your eyebrows draw together in concentration, eyes crossing behind your lids as your own pleasure rains down on you, and the lower half of your face is drenched in your lover’s gushing climax. He’s squirting, and by the grace of the Gods is it succulent. It comes in waves, Astarion’s hips thrusting in time with each flood of his orgasm, and your mouth remains wide open to catch it all, guzzling, taking to him like a kitten to milk.
Astarion convulses atop of your face while you work him through, globs of tears sliding down his cheek, glowing under the slowly dying candlelight, and there’s a ringing in his elongated ears. He can feel his mouth moving, words rolling his tongue and testing syllables on his teeth, but his brain can’t quite register what he’s saying.
You certainly don’t understand him.
It takes a while for him to settle, the swirls and drags of your tongue now pulling the spawn into painful territory, and when Astarion full-on dry sobs at the feeling of your mouth, you pull away from him.
Your inhales are hefty, gasping and panting beneath him to regulate the breathing you so kindly cut off for him, your heart working overtime to accommodate, and your eyes open. Astarion’s body rises and falls with your deep lungfuls of air, his head angled down toward you in the perfect picture of ecstasy; a transcendental creature of delight and satisfaction. His eyes are misty, his waterline flushed a pretty pink beneath a new surge of unshed tears, but there’s a watery smile hanging from his lips; dopey and pointed. For a while, you don’t move, only massaging Astarion’s waist to ease his occasional spasm, and he’s thankful for it. Astarion has never felt anything so intense, so vigorous and…good.
He didn’t understand you at first, couldn't deduce why on earth you wanted to get to know him beyond the scope of bodily exploration, but at least then you could grant him the protection he needed, however confusing on his part. His mind, still deep within Cazador’s deeply inflicted hell of torture and transactional sex, had made him approach you in the first place, recognizing you as the impromptu leader of your ragtag group of weirdos, with all of his true weaknesses hidden behind a steel wall of falsehoods perfected after two centuries.
“It was natural. Instinctive.”
But, in this moment with you, as you sit up to carefully lay his body down beside you like he’ll splinter and burst, his arousal gleaming on the lower portion of your face, he infers that he, perhaps, wasn’t meant to understand you. He was only meant to feel, let you chip through his walls with your patience, let you blanket him with your understanding serenity, to separate him from Cazador’s self flagellating sack of exhausted bones, and merely be.
Be with you.
“Are you alright, Astarion?” You hum, observing his face, watching him for any signs of being off in any way.
Finally, the heavy weight on his tongue lifts, and he releases a low scoff, free of malice, “Simply amazing.”
His voice is on par with stone gravel, scratchy and sore, and it makes you reach across him, heedful of jostling him too much, to grab a cup of water off the nightstand. It’s lukewarm when you tilt it against Astarion’s lips, but it helps soothe him immensely, and he clears his throat.
“Do you,” he begins, but there’s something nervous, timidly resigned, about his tone that you instantly pick up on, “do you…want me to-”
Your lips find his, and his question trails off into the roof of your mouth, Astarion moaning softly at the taste of himself on your tongue. His shoulders ease, unaware they drew forward in rigidity to begin with. The air around you starts to clear, calm affection radiating from your heated skin and seeping into Astarion’s dead heart, and he swears upon every God he had no luxury to believe that your love may have the power to revive it.
“No,” your lips part with a wet, muted smack. “No, I don’t want you to.”
“But,” Astarion’s words stumble, finding it hard to gather himself when your lips find his jawline, “you didn’t get to-”
“I did,” you cut him off again, smooching the side of his neck and tucking a damp curl behind his ear, “because you did.” And it’s true, “You feeling good makes me feel good, my love. Don’t worry about me.”
The vampire makes a face.
How can Astarion not when you always put him first?
His safety, his hunger, and now his pleasure, you always make sure he’s attended to first, placing yourself on the backburner more often than not, and while it’s beyond sweet, he’s starting to feel a bit guilty; guilty that he’s not giving you more than you deserve. Admittedly, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, how to have a real relationship far beyond sexual exchange, and it shows.
But, he’s learning, and you never rush him.
Astarion holds one of your hands in his, fingers intertwining around the other’s like straw woven through a basket, a perfect interlace of devotion and comfort; destined.
“I want,” the man’s eyes find yours, his words catching the base of his throat at the warm sentiment on your face whenever you look at him, “you to be happy…with me, with us.”
Your palm raises to cup his cheek, the vampire nuzzling into it almost instantly with a quiet sigh, and brings your forehead to press against his, the smile on your lips wobbling in affection. The man in front of you, scarlet eyes exhausted and abused but so in love and willing to trust you, allowing you to douse the flames of his own personal hell and pull him up and out means more to you than Astarion will ever understand.
Or, Astarion’s lips curl into a sheepish grin, his eyes wrinkling in the corners, maybe he does understand you. In his own way.
He’ll never forget the moment he first felt the sun after escaping the naultaloid, the feeling forgotten after having spent so many decades in the dark, traversing the shadows and hugging close to walls like diseased vermin, and how warm it was, almost as if the beams burned brighter just for him to ease the undead chill rooted within his bones; a reunion gift.
He supposes that being with you feels the same way; the sun embracing his skin to drive away the cold, constant and unfaltering. Just…you, your love that leaves him comfortable and unsuspecting, and Astarion half expects to wake up; to find himself still stuck in Cazador’s dungeon so broken he resorted to hallucinations for some semblance of comfort. But the pair of eyes in front of him, twinkling in passion as they surveyed him, are too expressive to be an illusion. Everything feels too real, too raw, to be a dream.
“You have no idea how happy you make me, Astarion,” and your declaration is conclusive, spoken as if the only truth you know.
For once, he completely believes you.
His psych doesn’t wrestle with his irrational belief that you’re being untrue, that he isn’t enough for you, because you choose him. Even after he deceived you, even after all of the emotional back and forth because he is so fearful, so damaged, you still choose him despite his faults and imperfections. He sees you when he closes his eyes, you worry his days when you’re away from him, and sometimes he just wants to crack open his ribcage to make space for you. There’s no need for his heart; it doesn't fucking work, blood no longer flows through his veins yet it’s the very thing he depends on to satiate this damned bestial hunger, so it has no place inside of him where you should be.
But, you’re here. Holding him, loving him and offering your devotion as it thrums between your fingers, sculpting the shape of your lungs around the phonetics of his name like you need him to live, and it makes Astarion want to cry.
So, he does.
Your face doesn’t show panic, but you do bring him closer, cradling the back of his head as he snuggles into your neck and allows his tears to fall. His back is being rubbed in soothing circles, your touch gentle but solid, and Astarion thinks that right here and right now…
Everything will be okay.
#bg3#bg3 astarion#bg3 x reader#x reader#gender neutral reader#one shot#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate astarion#smut#bg3 smut#astarion x tav#bg3 tav#writing#afab character#gn reader#astarion x reader
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cw: Yandere Themes, Possessive Behavior, Gaslighting / Allusions to Gaslighting, Violence / Violent Imagery, Non-Con / Attempted Non-Con, Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships, Uncomfortable Scenarios, General Dark Themes Not Suitable for Immature Audiences, Gender-Neutral Reader. Read at your own discretion! 18+ Only!
author's note: This is for the second half of anon's request! I had fun playing around with this one, too. I really enjoy writing for Overhaul! This was a prompt from "Yandere Prompts Flower Language" and can be found here . REQUESTS ARE OPEN — READ TAGS. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is strictly fiction! Do not force yourself to read if you're uncomfortable.
PROMPT: Lily (Purity): "I shouldn’t taint you like this. Not when you’re so pure.”
word count: Approximately 1.4k.
You’re terrified.
The bed doesn’t offer an ounce of solace whenever you fall, whenever the back of your knees thump against its edge and it sends you catapulting throughout space and time. You feel heavy and light at the same time, lead in your mouth whenever you try to breathe, the smell of metal hearty and deafening. You bounce softly whenever the mattress catches you, but your body quakes so much that you feel like you keep going and going, and your hands are working a mile a minute to slam behind your frame to drag you back back back back back. Far away, you’re trying to leave this realm, leave the edge of the bed, trying to nestle into the bed frame, to find a way to meld into the wall and never return. But even if you could, there’s that voice whispering in the shell of your ear, reminding you that it’s futile, useless, and you’re clueless, and that it wouldn’t matter anyway because—
Kai steps closer. He stalks like a predator, staring down your frame, visage cloudy and unreadable. You’re never able to see what he’s thinking, the windows to his soul closed with midnight curtains, but there’s something flashing above his face like a halo that produces chills down your arms. He’s going to hurt you, there’s no way he isn’t, but you don’t know how, don’t want to know how. And whenever his knees start to sink on the bed so that he can begin to ascend the trek to your shuddering frame, everything around you begins to home in. Breathing becomes difficult, maybe it was never even a thing, and you’re finding that the world truly is a drain, water in a bowl hurling and vomiting, loose stones in a stomach. You get your fill, and your head hits the wall with a broad thud.
Being here is the worst thing you’ll ever experience, watching Kai draw closer and closer and closer is anything but the cherry on top. More is to come, and that’s what feels like spikes, chains whipping in the wind, the braying of a captured horse, everything knives down your flesh, flaying you alive. Your eyes are frantic whenever you glance around, whenever you try to think about yourself as not yourself, you try to figure out what would help you ground the fluttering nerves, what could let you slink away into the underbrush so that you don’t have to think about whenever Kai pauses in front of your frame and stretches a hand out. Pads of fingers are gossamer spider webs stringing through the trees, breaking in odd splinters and tickling your thigh.
“Why did you back away from me?”
He knows why. He’s tormenting you. He’s trying to find ways to gaslight your silly brain into thinking you’re the one that hurt him, that you’re the one doing something wrong, that you’re the one being a bad little child. A part of you begs to tell the truth, to watch that poised and clear expression melt off of his face into something disgusting and monstrous so that you can sneer and hate him more. You want to fight him, want to tear your head into two slices so that your teeth can shoot out of your mouth, elongate into blades so you can bite down into his temples and never let go. Thick saliva starts to puddle in your mouth whenever you think about how his warm blood would taste undulating across your tongue. Your nails clench into the bedsheets.
You’re too much of a fucking pussy to fight back though.
“I… don’t know.”
Kai’s pretty eyes narrow.
“Can’t trust you to do anything on your own then. Especially whenever you don’t even think about why you’re doing it.”
The hand on your thigh suddenly becomes an iron, instantly hot and searing your flesh, leaving a tattoo of his claim behind whenever it inches up to the juxtaposition of hip and thigh. Those teeth in your mouth grow, harder, and you feel it coming on, feel that you could really kill him if you wanted to. You could sink your fingers deep into his eyes before you pull them out like skewers, before you stick those squishy things into your mouth to taste their creamy middles. You could cough on him, could watch all of those hives appearing on his hand, his arm, his shoulder, his neck, his face grow in frequency, could throw darts onto them to pop him like a carnival balloon.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Frustration settles deep within your belly, along with the weighty sensation of acceptance. Kai seems pleased with your answer, maybe, because his fingers tap tap tap your hip before he’s on you. He’s a blur, you’re a falling leaf, and his hands are pressing down onto your collar bones so that he can shove you flat onto your back. The bed is hard now, no cushioning, and Kai’s hot, and you’re thawing, and his mouth hurts whenever he ensnares you. He’s never known how to kiss. It’s awkward, clunky. He sucks in both lips, strangely melds his mouth around them, and then he tries to find ways to flick at the flakes of pores and teeth with that juvenile tongue. He drools all over you, gross and sticky, and you can’t understand how he handles that filthy mess. He never turns his head the right way either, always too straight or too tilted, and his jaw doesn’t work correctly. It’s too mechanical, not a flow, and you just feel like you’re fulfilling an obligation whenever he kisses you.
Kai’s moaning into you, and then he rolls his hips in between the crux of your legs. He’s stony, and your eyes instantly wrench to the right, closed so tightly that it feels like you’ve pulled every single muscle in your fragile body. He’s writhing on top of you like a virgin, and there’s a part of you that feels victorious among the wreckage whenever you stew over how bad at sex he probably is, how clumsy and stupid he is, but it doesn’t make the tears spearing your eyes any less salty. They’re on fire, white flames that lick the dents in the fruits of your face, and so many of them escape, dropping onto the sheets, rivulets of watery paint, and the choked sob you breathe into Kai breaks his fantasies.
His eyes flit open with yours, only whiskers from yours, and he looks ugly and foul from this angle. It takes a beat for Kai to lean his body away from you so that he can scrutinize you. He stares and stares, and he keeps staring, and then he seems to tremble so sweetly and he almost makes a childish giggle. His shoulders pinch in together whenever he huskily whispers,
“I shouldn’t taint you like this. Not when you’re so pure.”
Nothing. Those are nothing words. But Kai stops, he keeps walking himself backwards, those honeycombs in his eyes are magnifying glasses into an insanity that makes you sick.
“Having sex with you whenever you’re crying wouldn’t do me any good. It wouldn’t make you stay perfect for me.”
Something is beginning to click like rockets in your head.
“If you’re crying and fighting me all of the time, I’m just going to get angry. And then I might accidentally hurt you.”
There are demons hissing into your ears, nasty nasty nasty thoughts that start to make your toes curl. It’s settling in your bones, your organs, and your eyes are widening with more and more and more fresh tears. They’re like thunderstorms down your face, and you’re soggy and gleaming with happiness. He’s so fucking ridiculous and dumb. You’re going to destroy him and manipulate the fuck out of him. You hate him so fucking much. He’s gullible in the strangest of ways and you’ve hooked your line in, and you’re going to exploit his ocean until there’s nothing left.
So you cry harder.
Kai releases more of those airy bubbles, not even chuckles, and his eyes wrinkle at the ends like stuffing paper.
“I’ll wait until you’re ready. I’ll wait until I can’t take it, so don’t make me impatient. I want what we have to be special.”
The tears trickle into your tight mouth, juicy nectar, that stretching grin in your mind tingles, and nothing has ever tasted so sweet.
“Me too.”
#yandere bnha#yandere bnha x reader#yandere mha#yandere mha x reader#overhaul x reader#yandere overhaul#yandere kai chisaki#chisaki kai x reader#kai chisaki x reader#mha overhaul x reader#kai chisaki#overhaul#chisaki kai#chisaki overhaul#mha chisaki#bnha chisaki#my scoville lit.#i take requests for the lov and shie hassaikai
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Hi! First off your blog is such an important resource for me in kimono patterns, thank you for keeping it! Secondly, a question. What patterns are associated with death? I know of spider lilies, and pure black kimono accessories for funeral wear, but otherwise not much else. I suspect that kind of pattern would be more of a novelty item print than an estabilished and used pattern.
Hi and thanks for your kinds words! Off the top of my head, they are several patterns associated with death, mostly linked to Buddhism.
Tbh, mourning attire for women are for me more an affair of colors (black/muted) and discreet not-celebratory patterns (it also depends of ones means). Novelty "death-themed"patterns are more and more present in modern kimono, yet you can also find "traditional" ones - even if they are on the rarer side.
Formal mourning garb, as you note, asks for mofuku (black kimono and obi with a few white accessories). Obi usually have very traditional woven ground patterns - for example ryuusui (running water) which kinda symbolize "the flow of life".
For the Buddhist anniversary of one's death and rememberance services, ladies would (when they can afford it) go from all black to half-mourning dress in muted colors like dull greys or ashen purple. For such occasions, you can find Buddhist patterns like sutra (Heart sutra especially), lotus flowers, gorintô (stylized stupa), etc.
More seasonal items could reference Buddhist Obon (festival of the dead) or Higan (more especially autumn equinox Shûbun), but such patterns for very specific events are on the rarer side, and more a matter of taste and style.
Patterns can include higanbana (spider lilies) for Higan, and for Obon: lanterns, cucumber or eggplant "spirit horse", hozuki (ground cherry), nod to Kyoto’s Daimonji kanji, or memento mori-themed motifs (like skeletons, nozarashi or graveplates).
As a step further into morbid imagery, another pattern which can sometimes be found, especially on men juban or haori lining, are decaying corpses (referencing Buddhist meditation on kusôzu or "nine stages of decay"). This was a subject in Japanese art, you can find an example here (cw: corpse depiction).
Hinting at Buddhist concept of impermanence and search for enlightment, Hell courtesan (jigoku dayû) with uchikake coats depicting hellish torments could also enter the death patterns category. Same goes for Buddhist hell imagery of Hell king Enma, or Hell guardians Gozu and Mezu (I believe I saw them on men juban/haori linings + on netsuke).
Finally, because we are talking of death, have a look at this super unsual and puzzling kimono depicting butsunehan (death of Buddha). Becky Mitsui's article is a wild ride xD
#ask#japanese patterns#kimono#obi#death#death imagery#mourning#obon#higan#buddhism#mofuku#heart sutra#skeleton#skull#nozarashi#graveplates#itatoba#sotoba#lotus#higanbana#spider lily#kusozu#nine stages of decay#jigoku daiyu#hell courtesan#Enma#jigoku#Gozu and Mezu#butsunehan#death of Buddha
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🕸️ masterlist + wip list
mouthwashing—
pretty please? one. two. | curly / reader -> Curly’s doing everything in his power to put space between you and him. Like he can try. There’s no restraining orders in space. And there’s no locks on the sleeping quarters. | cw: noncon. drugging. implied/referenced abuse. baby trapping.
wip untitled | dad!curly / daughter!reader -> It’s so, so wrong. And Curly loves that it is. | cw: father/daughter incest. ddlg. dumbification.
resident evil—
in your arms. | leon / sherry -> No matter what, she’s still his little girl. | cw: pseudo-incest. dubcon.
wip the trade. chapter directory. | jill / ada -> Ada and Jill meet before the Raccoon City outbreak. Their lives intwine through the coming events. | cw: canon-typical violence and gore. smoking. smut.
wip the red lady. chapter directory. | leon / ada -> Leon investigates the murder of a starlet's boyfriend. Only problem is that she's the main culprit. | cw: mentions of gore. referenced noncon. drugs. smut.
wip changing. | dad!leon / daughter!reader -> Leon hasn't done anything to deserve a perfect girl like you. I cw: father/daughter incest. mention of suicidal ideation. dumbification. smut.
wip conniption. | leon / reader -> You might just be an angel, a message sent from God to set him back on the right path. | cw: religious imagery. suicidal ideation. dubcon. smut.
wip untitled. | trans!leon / reader -> He’s such an asshole. You need him. | cw: mild sexual harassment. smut.
wip untitled. | rookie!leon / reader -> It's only fair that the rest of your body gets some love too. I cw: feet. body worship. smut.
wip untitled. | leon / kidnapper!reader -> Note to self: don’t share needles. | cw: dubcon. drugging. vomit. smut.
wip dog days. | krauser / rookie!leon -> Cooling off on a hot day has never felt this good. I cw: piss. gangbang. noncon. smut.
wip untitled. | stars!wesker / reader -> Wesker’s always taken a liking to you, and now you're freshly single. | cw: intoxication. dubcon. smut.
wip untitled. | wesker / experiment!reader -> You are far from perfect. And Wesker desires perfection. | cw: dubcon. hybrids kinda. snuff kinda. smut.
wip proximity. | jill / rookie!reader -> Jill has a stifling addiction to pretty girls. | cw: mentioned drug use/smoking. smut.
wip untitled. | leon / reader + jill / reader -> Leon’s never made you cum before. Jill takes on the challenge. | cw: cucking. smut.
silent hill 2—
in sickness and health. | james / nurse!reader -> James turns the thought of you over in his head, smoothing over the divots and imperfections till you become this monolith of escape, more idea than person. | cw: rape. abuse. smoking. smut.
blurred lines. | james / bimbo!reader -> You’re so lost in whatever’s coming out of his mouth that you don’t see the pill fizzing at the bottom of your drink. | cw: noncon. drugging. thigh fucking. smut.
wip untitled. | dad!james / daughter!reader -> You tried to leave him, when all he ever had was you. | cw: father/daughter incest. rape. somnophilia. referenced bulimia. snuff. attempted suicide. smut.
wip untitled. | james / stripper!reader -> You recognize his brand of customer. The type that clings to the wall, the type that psyched themself up in the car before walking in. | cw: feet. smut.
spider-man noir—
wip chills. | noir / reader -> Peter takes a liking to you, deciding to learn more about you the only way he knows how. | cw: stalking. smut.
wip untitled. | noir / black cat!reader -> His secret is safe with you. Yours isn't. | cw: mentions of violence/abuse. mentions of blood and gore. eventual smut.
revolutionary girl utena—
wip untitled. | akio / reader -> Culled. So expertly culled. You don’t realize the leash around your neck until it’s been pulled tight. | cw: abuse. rape. smut.
wip untitled. | utena / anthy -> She has to protect Utena, or she'll never be saved. I cw: mentions of csa. mentions of noncon. mentions of violence. angst.
#resident evil#revolutionary girl utena#mouthwashing#silent hill#spider man#spider man noir#sorry if the formatting sucks#like half of these are finished i’m just shy#🕸️—writing
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freaky fungi fact : entomopathogenic fungi !!
entomopathogenic fungi are fungi that can kill or seriously disable insects.
this group of fungi lives in the soil & infects insects by penetrating their bodies to feed on them, & eventually kill them. they are sorted into five divisions (ascomycota, zygomycota, deuteromycota, oomycota & chytridiomycota), each with their own properties.
they have a big impact on insect population dynamics in soil.
there are currently over 800 different entomopathogenic fungi that have been identified.
below the cut are some images of insects that have been infected. CW for animal death + bugs / other critters + just general disturbing imagery.
a beetle parasitised by an unnamed entomopathogenic fungus. [source]
a cicada parasitised by the massospora cicadina fungus. [source]
a spider parasitised by an unnamed entomopathogenic fungus. [source]
[the lovely user who asked me to talk about this : source<3]
#thank you to tumblr user copper-sands for suggesting i talk about this<3#i learn so much every day.#|#• finn's freaky fungi fact ^^ •#[massospora cicadina]#||#fungi#fungus#mushroom#mycology#mushrooms#earth#nature#forestcore#cottagecore#foraging#cw animal death#cw bugs#bugs#insects#animal death#parasites#massospora cicadina#entomopathogenic#fungal parasites#insect#critters#science#biology#ecology
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