#feathers & threads soaked in red

[cdragons]

Crass Family Moodboards & Headcanons

These are moodboards and headcanons for the Crass Family in my Snowbaird AU story, "Feathers & Threads Soaked in Red." I also plan to make some for the Snow Family and the Covey in District 12. If you are curious after reading these, please visit this page and read the story!

Icarus Magnus Crass - played by Richard Madden

Icarus Magnus Crass is the Head of the House of Crass. He was an only child and had an extremely strict upbringing.

Before his current position as Secretary of Defense, he was the youngest soldier to quickly rise to the rank of General.

Icarus was groomed to be the next president by his father should the elderly President Ravinstill have an "unfortunate" demise

He lived an extremely isolated childhood - his education consisted of private tutors before attending the Academy & University

His only comforts in his childhood were Sephia Rose & his piano

Had a long-term engagement to an obscenely wealthy heiress before he went public of his relationship with Sephia Rose and was sent to the military

When he married Sephia Rose, in his vows he told her: "I was born to love you."

He would often use the secret tunnels to watch Sephia Rose sleep when she first came to the manor - he had never met anyone so different and pretty.

Icarus is someone who had every opportunity to grab power, but he chose happiness. In choosing love, he lived a fulfilling life with a wife who he loved more than anything and was blessed with children he would give his life for in a heartbeat. He is who Snow could have been if Coryo had just been medicated.

Sephia Rose/Kore Hayes - played by Haley Bennett

To the Capitol's Elite, she is Kore Hayes. But to herself and her family, only then can she be Sephia Rose.

She and Icarus have built a life together in the capitol, where she is the mother of three children with all Covey names.

Sephia was very scared of Icarus when they first met as children - she didn't know if she was safe around Capitol children.

But she and him quickly got along after he would show her his piano and even play a song of an old lullaby.

Before she founded her clothing brand "Lis et Rose", she modeled for some of the most exclusive clothing brands in the Capitol and even found ways to model her own clothes.

When Icarus enlisted in the military, she presented offerings in the garden to pray for his protection

During the war, she would write letters to Icarus every day while he was on the war front, and she always place a kiss at the end of each letter.

SHe made sure that he children knew all her Covery's skills, including how to garden and cook.

Sephia Rose lived an incredibly harrowing life. But her resilience for hope had helped her find light in the darkest of tunnels. She never lost touch with her roots and often told her children stories of her childhood. She is grateful every day for the love that blossomed between her and her husband.

Laurus Orion Crass - played by Josha Stradowski

Laurus Orion Crass, or Laurie, is the firstborn to Icarus and Sephia Rose and heir to the Crass House and fortune.

Because of his position, Laurie always had a lot of pressure placed on him due to society's expectations for him to be a military man like his father.

He knows that he is very fortunate to have such incredible role models for parents who only gave him support and love while teaching him how to exercise caution

He was a premature baby by almost 4 weeks and had to be placed in the ICU due to his lungs not being fully developed and still sometimes has asthma attacks

Before his godmother died, he would often play at her office whenever he visited due to his health issues as a baby, and this inspired him to want to become a surgeon.

He learned the piano from his father, and it would serve as a great way for them to bond when he came home from work.

He is very proud of the name his mother gave him - Laurus, which means victory, and Orion was his dad's favorite constellation.

Laurie is not a fan of Casca Highbottom - he noticed at a very young age that the Dean would always stay too close to his mother whenever they came in for parent-teacher meetings.

Laurie Orion is no stranger to the Capitol's dangers and hypocrisies and makes it his personal goal to fulfill his godmother's wish of establishing clinics in the districts before her "death." He may or may not have a crush on a particular girl he met in District 4. He is Sejanus Plinth if the boy had some goddamn impulse control.

Agalia Iris Crass - played by Annalise Basso

Agalia Iris Crass is the second eldest and only daughter of Icarus and Sephia Rose.

Because of how much she looks like her mom, her father had always been very protective over her

Agalia was born right before the war broke out - just enough time for her father to cry at her birth.

Ambition + Moxie - she has dreams of becoming a principal ballet dancer by her early 20s.

Her endless curiosity and good heart remind Sephia Rose of Kaety Amaryllis - Aggie often wishes she could remember her godmother.

Like her brother, she takes a lot of pride in her name - irises symbolize hope and valor, and Agalia means joy.

She first remembered dancing at five when her mother sang Lavender's Blue to her baby brother.

She designed and made all her costumes since her very first recital and even crocheted all her sweaters and cardigans.

Aggie Iris is the kind of girl who will fool you with her sweet smile and pretty eyes only to tear you apart with her spitfire spirit. While she despises the inhumane nature of the Hunger Games, she still has a little bit of anger towards the rebels since they "killed" her godmother. While she doesn't remember what she looks like, she swears that she can hear her voice every time she plays her music box.

Arcturus 'Arthur' Lucus Crass - played by kid on pinterest

Arcturus Lucus Crass, or Arthur, is the second son and youngest child of Icarus and Sephia Rose.

The sweetest kid you will ever meet in the history of the world - he's also the most likely to accidentally wander off (his parents got him a leash)

Nature kid with the greenest thumb - he will spend hours on hours with his mom in the greenhouse

Out of all the kids, his temperament and behavior most resemble their mother.

Every animal will fight to the death to protect this kid - every single one of Dr. Gaul's mutts loves him.

Speaking of animals, he has a penchant for walking in public like any animal from ages 2-6, and the leash only encouraged him.

Fell in love with crocheting when he did it with Aggie and Sephia Rose - now he has a playground equivalent to the black market for his toys.

His name was in dedication to his birthplace - the grove filled with amaryllis flowers in his family's garden his mother made to honor her Lillycat.

Arthur Lucus may be a bit naive, but he is not stupid. He's his parents' son after all, and although he is young he does know that there are people who want to hurt the people he loves. But he has a heart so big he loves the whole world, and he even has a fairy godmother who tries to help him in a distant wood when she can.

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @valeskafics, @aphroditesmoon, @mitsuki91, @tatumrileyslover, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @agir1ukn0w, @imsofuckingdonewiththisgoddamn, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @musical-theatre-gay

Please like and reblog and/or comment!

[captain-hawks]

Happy Spicy Saturday Dee!!!

Methinks a certain winged hero, the man himself, one Takami Keigo, enjoys the occasional Sexy Phone Call when away on a long mission hehehe 🪽🪽(pretend those are red LMAO and thank you in advance!! 💙💙)

keigo takami x f!reader

c: masturbation, implied p in v

-> spicy sleepover

“So…I liked that dress you were wearing today.”

Keigo Takami may be hundreds of miles away right now, but you can hear the pout in his voice all the same as his feathers rustle noisily on the other end of the phone.

Thumbing at the hem of the soft material sitting gathered along the tops of your thighs as you lie in bed atop the rumpled sheets, you smirk, “I thought you would.”

Admittedly, you did buy the flowy little red dress with every intention of wearing it as a surprise when Keigo arrived home from his mission—he’s a sucker for seeing you in his favorite color, after all. But he’s been away for over a month now, much to your chagrin, so your impatience led you to post a casual photo wearing it instead (knowing just what kind of a response it would pull out of him).

“Did you…take any more pictures?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah?” he asks, voice entering that familiar, husky territory you know all too well. 

“Check your messages.”

You know the exact moment that he clicks the notification, an audible groan punching out of him when he sees the images—

—the fabric of the dress soaked through with water and clinging tightly to your breasts, your hard nipples showing through—

—the straps of the dress lying loose down the sides of your arms, tits spilling out, bottom lip tucked between your teeth—

“Oh fuck, baby,” he exhales, making no effort to hide the distinct sound of his zipper sliding down as he undoubtedly frees his cock from the confines of his pants.

Arousal simmers hot in your gut as you imagine him spread atop his hotel bed, the pupils of his golden eyes blown wide with lust as he tips his head back against the pillow and begins to stroke his erection.

“There’s more.”

The next sound that escapes his lips is a little more feral, caught somewhere between a growl and a whimper when he sees them, and you smile with satisfaction. 

—your ass on full display as you bend over—

—the skirt of the dress rucked up, your legs spread to reveal the slick leaking from your cunt—

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, and you hear him spit into his palm, each heavy stroke of his palm against his cock punctuated with a wet, slippery squelch.

“One more.”

—

Honestly, Keigo’s not sure he can handle any more. 

His cock is painfully hard, flushed red and throbbing, and if the heavy ache of his rapidly tightening balls is anything to go by, he’s worried his cum might end up on the ceiling if he doesn’t snatch the box of tissues on the nightstand in time.

But his finger automatically hits the play button on the video nonetheless, and he fucking chokes as he’s treated to the sight of you teasing your folds with one of his stray feathers, the fluffy red barbs stained dark with your sticky arousal. 

He’s going to fuck you in that dress every night for a week when he gets home.

“This isn’t fair,” he whines, pumping his cock harder in earnest, hips canting upward off of the mattress as he desperately fucks his fist.

Your responding laugh is breathy and innocent, but then you let out a little moan, and he knows you’re touching yourself to the sound of him jerking off.

With each rapid stroke up and down his shaft, he imagines all the ways he’s going to fuck you in that goddamn dress—

—atop the kitchen counter, your hands threaded in his mussed blonde locks, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands shoving up the skirt of the dress and digging into your hips as he buries his cock inside of you—

—his hand clasped over your mouth to muffle your moans as you writhe in his lap on the couch out on your apartment’s balcony, dress fluttering in the warm summer breeze—

—up against the door inside of a restaurant bathroom, his patience drawn thin by the tantalizing swell of your tits across the table all night—

—you on all fours atop the mattress, whining and begging him for more as he pushes up the dress and palms the globes of your ass before burying his face in your cunt—

Keigo comes with a shout, hips stuttering as the pleasure of his climax rolls through his body in a wave of liquid heat, barely grasping a tissue in time to partially catch the flood of cum that sprays from his cock, half of it painting his chest. 

When you’re both sated, breathing heavily in tandem on either side of the phone, he looks at the mess he made and murmurs tiredly, “Send me the link for the dress so I can order you more...can’t promise I’m not going to ruin that one.”

[willyoubemycherryy]

Order➬𝑭𝒊𝒛𝒛𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒎𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑱𝒐𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒛

“Well look at you…”

𝑰𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔: 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑, 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏

.

.

☘︎︎.

It would be so cute when it was done. You just had to trust the process.

Sitting in the middle of Joe’s room covered in all kinds of glitter, patches, thread, and other crafty things. You were adding designs to a jacket you recently bought for him because you thought he’d look so good in it….after you gave it some razzle dazzle.

Now in your defense, it wasn’t gonna take long. It wasn’t supposed to. It was just sewing some cute patches on a cute jacket that you got your more than cute boyfriend. But…you’d never been particularly good at sewing or minding the time, so there’s that.

You can only imagine how you look as the door suddenly opens and Joe walks in, freezing as he looks at you. There’s a mess of supplies all around you and you…

You’re so cute, sitting on your knees in patterned stockings wearing one of those mini skirts you love so much, lovely hair pinned up away from your pretty face as your glossy lips move into a pout as you bat your lashes at him, shooing him with a manicured hand and he’s never been more smitten.

“Ugh! Joeee!! Now it won’t be a surprise! Go! Shoo! Off with you!” You yell, trying to be stern even as your cheeks heat under his love struck gaze.

“Well look at you…”

The soft tone of his low voice makes your heart skip a beat as you look down at your unfinished project. You like him too much to even stay frustrated with him.

“It’s for you…but it’s not done yet so you have to wait even though you wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t back so early”, you catch yourself rambling because he’s closer, kneeling down in front of you as he smiles, still looking at you like you were cloud 9 personified.

Honestly, to him, it doesn’t matter that you’re not finished because the fact that you were thinking of him enough to do something for him means more than you’ll ever know. You’re so sweet on him that it makes him melt as he bends down to kiss you tenderly.

“Thank you, you’re a doll. I love it, really.” You flush entirely, down to your toes as you giggle, soaking up his affection.

“Practice ended early so that’s why I’m back early and I’m glad I am. You look even prettier today”, he’s going to give you heart failure if he keeps sweet talking you like this, you whine.

“You’re trouble today and while I very much enjoy it, it’s also distracting so…” Joe laughs because usually it’s you flustering him, not the other way around.

“Are you kicking me out my room, doll?”

Suppressing a smile, you nod.

“Unfortunately, but not for long. You’ll just have to go play or something in the meantime.” The way he quirks his eyebrow as a slow smirk grows on his face makes you rush to correct yourself.

“Not like that!” He bursts into more laughter and you pull him into a kiss to shut him up.

You separate and he puts a hand up in surrender.

“Alright, I’m gone. Be back in 40?” You nod and he gets up to go.

“Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave!” The immediate shade of red on the tips on his ears has you struggling to compose yourself as you laugh, the door swinging shut behind him as his heart beats faster.

Already looking forward to 40 minutes from now.

(Y’all listen to birds of a feather I’m in love)

♡︎ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ, ᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀ😌

[hazbinshusk]

day twenty of salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober: size difference/monster fucking/thigh fucking (husk x reader) (also featuring minor suggestions of mind control)

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

You’re not sure what wakes you – the sound of the door opening, the floorboards groaning under his new weight, the heat of his breath fanning over you… the shift of the mattress. But you do find yourself drawn out of the sleep you’d reluctantly fallen into after being ushered off to the Overlord’s private quarters halfway through a late-night, high stakes poker game downstairs.

The weight that settles beside you is enough to make the mattress sink; your body sliding slightly into the groove it creates. You blink against the bloody red dim of the room, and a warm ball of lead drops into your stomach as your eyes adjust. A figure looms over you, so massive that you feel the bed groan under its weight. A deep, rusty rumble emanates from it, the sound so loud it reverberates through your chest and sets nerves alight inside you.

Still, something in the warm golden glow above you rings familiar, and you find your voice uncertainly.

“…Sir?”

Husk growls, low in the back of his throat, in response, and the sound of it – a rough, predatory rumble that makes goosebumps rise on your flesh. His body… Husk is huge, his features more lion than housecat, the corded muscles under his fur rippling as he shifts further over you. You can hear the heavy thump of his twitching tail meeting the wall, see the feathers on his wings are easily as long as your forearm. They’ve darkened at the edges, and in the merlot light it’s as though his plumage has been dipped in ink… in blood. His clothes are torn, thin threads of his tailored suit barely wrapped like bandages around his limbs.

You reach up with a shaking hand, touching tentative fingers to the Overlord’s muzzle. The sound he makes is so deep and rusty that you can’t tell if it’s a purr or a growl, but you don’t draw your hand away.

“H-Husk?”

The demon lowers his face to you, the cold wetness of his nose staining against the thin fabric of your negligee. It soaks through to your skin and makes you shudder, a whimper escaping you as you feel him nuzzle his nose into the curve of your waist and inhale deeply.

“I—ohh…” you break off as Husk slides his tongue up over your thigh and stomach. The feeling of it is rough and wet and warm, and it curls around the muscle of your thigh, the edge of it gliding up between your legs. You let out a soft, breathless moan at the feeling of it, fingers finding the fur at the base of his ear and gripping. You could swear he leans into it, but then his tongue slowly lathes up over the length of your torso, and you feel yourself arch up beneath it as the coarse line of it teases over your breasts. Even through the cups of your negligee it makes you gasp, the tip of his tongue flicking over your chin before he repeats the movement. It lingers over your nipples this time, and you whine, both hands bunching in the fur on either side his muzzle. “S-sir…”

Husk pulls back slightly, his eyes unblinking as he regards you with something akin to hunger. He licks the side of your face, the barbs of his tongue catching in your hair for a moment. Then, you feel it, feel the head of his naked cock, thick and hard and leaking precum, press up against your knee.

Your eyes widen even as a thrill goes through you burn directly between your thighs. There’s no way… you reach out to touch the tip of it, circling your fingers around it. Your fingertips don’t come near to meeting, and Husk makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl as your palm smooths over the head of his cock. Precum drips onto your fingers and the sheets, and when your fingers find one of the barbs that line the length of him, now as thick as your thumb, he hisses, pressing his cock up against your thigh.

You shift your hips against him, feel the massive line of his cock press up along the line of your inner thighs. The movement slickens your thighs with his excitement and you part them automatically, breath leaving you shakily as Husk thrusts his cock up between your thighs.

He ruts himself against you, and he’s too large to be considered anything but rough, each slide of his cock teasing against your aching clit.

“Oh, fuck!” you gasp out, and your hips buck up to meet his, and you bend your legs up against his stomach, so the barbs of his cock tease your clit and your ass. Husk bares his teeth for a moment as you bury your fingers in the fur of his throat. His fangs are far sharper, his breath hot against your face as he fucks himself into your thighs. The barbs of his cock pull at and agitate your flesh, the head of his cock reaching your navel with each thrust of his hips. “God…”

Husk pins you down against the mattress, one massive paw pressing down on your chest. His claws curl around your shoulders, digging into the bed beneath you and tearing the sheets. The weight on your chest pushes the breath from your lungs, makes the feeling of his cock sliding up against your cunt, wet with both your arousal and his, all the most intense.

“Mine…”

Husk’s voice fills your senses almost hypnotically, a deep tenor that you feel all the way into your bones. You’re nodding before his voice even stops rumbling through him, desperation building in you, as though you need to prove that you are, in fact, his. You only then notice the blood on the claws pinning you to the bed, but you don’t care, you don’t care, all you care about is the feeling of Husk’s cock pressing down against you, the weight of it, the feeling of it spreading your legs wider… every time he thrusts forward you feel it press up against your entrance, threatening to stretch you open before it slides against your clit and your eyes roll back all over again.

“Mine.”

“Yours,” you moan. “I’m yours.”

Husk growls, long and low and rumbling, the sound vibrating the bed beneath you. He thrusts harder, and you have to reach up with both hands to brace your hands against the headboard so he doesn’t fuck you right into it. The bed groans, and you shriek out your surprise as the legs snap, one end of the frame crashing into the carpet. It does nothing to slow Husk, and all you can do is feel, is to feel the burning gold of his eyes and feel the way he fucks himself into your thighs and the weight of him on top of you and fuck how you can feel tears in your eyes as you cum.

Husk snarls, your thighs aching as he presses down on you, his weight forcing them harder against your chest. The sheets beneath you are soaked, your body is quivering, and your Overlord doesn't stop, his thrusts becoming more aggressive the closer he gets to release. They border on painful and you... you love it, you want more. More of this, more of him, and you find yourself suddenly all the more addicted to the idea of being the gambling Overlord's pet, to be the one that this Husk comes home to, to feeling this fucking good for as long as he'll let you.

“You’re mine.”

[toshidou]

you are a legend for this, and i think everyone should be personally thanking you for this absolutely massive brained, pussy altering, dick twinging idea.

wc // 1.4k

tags // 18+ ONLY, afab reader (no pronouns mentioned), bottom!Ghost, top!reader, strap on, stomach bulge, overstimulation, crying, no aftercare written but i promise simon gets all the kisses and cuddles needed after <33

Harsh sounds of wet skin slapping obscenely together echoes against the pastel painted walls of your bedroom; the low light of a full moon casting a perfect spotlight on the mattress, highlighting every rippling muscle in the back of the man who lies under you. His fingers are gripping onto loose, scrunched sheets, knuckles white and veins popping, as though his tight hold on sullied bed linen is the last frayed thread keeping his sanity together.

"Fucking shit," parted lips practically whine, shining with drool in the dim light of the darkened sky above, painting a picture you commit to memory for a lonely night where your hand is your only solace.

“Feels good to get fucked, doesn’t it baby?” You croon, fingers caressing the scarred skin of his thighs, so hot to the touch, slick with sweat and lube, “Knew you’d like this, fuckin’ knew you’d be a slut for strap.” You don’t get a verbal response, just deep, intoxicating groans that reverberate through the mattress, positively drunk on power as you watch this military enigma, this well-respected, commanding figure fall apart from under you. Because of you.

You slow your hips, leaning back on your knees just to watch the way silicone so deliciously stretches his pink rim. Hungry eyes observing just how easily it swallows every inch given to it so fucking greedily, still fluttering around the base of your strap, as though all ten inches of thick cock buried within his body wasn’t enough, as if he somehow needs more.

Simon Riley looks nothing less than pornographic when he gets fucked, skin burning red, lips parted in the perfect little ‘o’, hips wantonly canting back against yours because he can think of nothing else but how fucking incredible he feels. And it’s not at all fair, because when he leaves you for weeks on end, all you can think about is this. How taut muscle ripples under your fingertips, so sensitive to every touch against his skin, no matter how feather-light. Haunted by the way his usually baritone growl pitches up, wrecked whines replacing low grunts with every forceful thrust.

“Turn over for me baby, want to see how pretty you look when you cum on my strap.”

Solid fingers unfurl from the sheets, leaving indents in their place as he shakily attempts to turn over, the only aid you offer coming in the form of pulling the silicone cock from his abused hole with a satisfying pop, reveling in his responding disgruntled huff.

His back hits the mattress not long after, built thighs automatically spreading, coaxing you like a siren call as you shuffle ever closer, fingernails dragging from his kneecap to his inner thigh, perfect red marks left in their wake. God, he’s a vision like this. Sultry, lidded eyes stare up at you, pupils engulfing his irises, leaving only vacant black in its place, gazing at you as though you are all he’s ever needed, as though he'd kiss the ground if he knew you'd walked on it. Thick, tattooed arms come to hook under his knees, pulling up until they meet rounded pecks, resting just under perked, dusty nipples. The sight alone has you leaking, your inner thighs soaked with arousal under the thick harness straps, clit throbbing with need, unstimulated and wanting. So desperately wanting. But you hardly feel it, no fingers against your sex could even come close to the feeling of lining up a silicone tip with his presented hole, clenching lewdly around air, beckoning you to fill him to the hilt once again.

Nothing, however, could have prepared you for the sight that awaits you as the strap sinks effortlessly into his hole. Flat, muscled skin gives way to plastic, rising in the perfect imprint of your cock, growing ever larger until hips meet flush against his ass. You can’t take your eyes of it, both hands moving down to push against his distended abdomen, desperate to check if your mind is deceiving you, if your strap is actually moulding his body into a perfect fleshlight, just for you.

“Fuckin’ hell, don’t-,” A hitch in his breath as your fingers curl over the bump, ignoring the harsh twitch of his cock as it bobs above your hand, “Don’t do that, don’t wanna cum yet.”

Molten eyes flick up to meet his head on, a challenge set like steel in your mind as you withdraw your hips, palms still pressing down against his now flat stomach. Chestnut brown hair hits the pillow the second you begin to fuck him with earnest, leaning your weight on your hands just to hear the frenzied curses and pleas that fall from his pretty lips, barely able to see past his chin from where his head is thrown back.

“Who said you were only cumming once tonight, Simon?” Your words punctuated with every sharp smack of hips against his ass and inner thighs, the skin stinging red with every brutal slap. With near perfect timing, Simon’s cries pitch up to a decibel you never thought possible from him, watching with nothing less than unconstrained awe as thick streams of white coat his skin all the way up to his sternum, dripping down onto your hands, his cock twitching helplessly as he comes untouched on your strap.

But you don’t relent, not for a second. Your hips don’t falter, fucking him through his climax until he’s shaking from overstimulation, his spent cock weeping pathetically where it rests on his abdomen, cum coated hands leaving his stomach only to play torturously with the dark red head of his dick.

It takes you a moment to realise, so caught up in his pleasure that you don’t notice his chin tilt down, not until you hear it. A sniffle. One glance is all it takes to see that you’ve reduced Simon to tears, wide yearning eyes shine so perfectly in the moonlight, pretty tear tracks running down red blotched cheeks, streaming down his jugular where they pool in indented collarbones. You’ve never wanted to lick something more in your entire life, knowing without doubt that salted tears would melt to saccharine sugar on your tongue, the taste of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

The sight only spurs you on further, thrusts increasing to a near feverish pace, chasing a high that will never come for you, but you don’t care, nothing else matters in this moment more than the man who lays under you, twitching, squirming, and crying, begging for more, sobbing for less, desperate for you. You can’t choose where to look, given an impossible choice of staring at his wrecked face, or the ever-present bulge that raises at every cant of your hips, eventually settling for the latter, eyes near drilling holes into the imprint of your strap from where it’s buried within him.

Pathetic, whimpered babbles drip from Simon’s lips, his eyes unfocused, blurred by tears and blinded by overwhelming pleasure, unable to do anything but lie there and take it, take everything you’re willing to give him with no complaints, just unconditional obedience. And fuck, does it suit him, he wears submission like he’s made for it, crafted so perfectly to give everything that he is over to your trusted hands. It makes you feel like a God.

It only takes a fingertip, dragged from his balls up to his frenulum before he’s pushed over the edge once again, his red, swollen hole spasming around unyielding plastic, sucking your strap in, forcing you to remain still as weak spurts of cum drips down the bloated skin of his abs, joining dried seed from his previous climax, painting the perfect picture of bliss on his skin.

And whilst Simon lies there, chest heaving and eyes painted with pretty stars formed by unshed tears, you can’t help but lean to the side and grab your phone, capturing the moment with shaking hands.

After all, you’ll need this photo for when Simon is away again, to remind yourself that you are the only person on the face of this Earth to ever have earned his submission. To ever reduce him to a mess of his own release and tears.

And as you throw your phone to the side, lowering your chest to lay flush with his, lips meeting in a soft, adoring kiss, you know he’s all you’ll ever need and so, so much more.

[mvlionheart]

#16 things you said with no space between us - Liam/Max

Mini fic / Ficlet prompts (Open & extremely slow)

16. Things you said with no space between us Max/Liam | 905 words | Rating: Explicit Blowjob Therapy

Liam’s spinning the ring on his finger as he swipes through email on his phone. He’s tucked against the line of silver toolboxes at the side of Max’s garage, bathed in the red glow of the neon accent trim. The sound of the machinery and laughing behind him is a comforting blanket. His nerves overexposed to the bludgeoning of media attention. 

He’s hiding. 

Not exactly where he’s supposed to be, but close enough. Music is pumping through the speakers as the team puts in wrench work to get them ready for Friday. 

The sticky Singapore humidity is impossible to escape. He’s got one ankle crossed behind the other, not paying attention to his precarious balance until someone knocks into the back of him. 

He drops his phone and braces himself against the sturdy aluminum counter, palms flat and fingers splayed in surprise. A startled gasp threads his lips as the warmth of a body presses his sweat-soaked polo against his back. 

What the fuck? 

An arm extends past him to set down a can of RedBull, a little extra force pressing his hips against the unforgiving metal.  

“Blow me.” The low voice in Liam’s ear tickles like a feather and he brings a shoulder up defensively, turning until he can’t, pinned in place. He looks up and catches a familiar sliver of stubble-dusted jawline and full lips. The accented words are unmistakable, and even if they weren’t, there was a dick introducing itself to his ass. He can’t misunderstand that. 

“Yeah?” Liam answers, not sure if it’s a statement or a question, agreement or confusion, a mouth-watering mix of both. There’s eyes and mics everywhere. One of them should move away. Neither of them do. 

“Right here?” The whispered question revs Liam’s engine big time. 

“You’d be too loud,” Liam counters, grinding back. Two could play this game.

The pressure of Max’s hips finally relents as he steps away with a camera-ready smile. Like Liam had just said the funniest thing in the world. 

“You’re that good?”

Liam turns and lets his tongue swipe between his lips. A shiny pink invitation.

 “Better.” 

Max’s blue gaze devours him as Liam leans back against the counter and stares.

“Driver’s room. Fifteen minutes.”

*

It feels like he’s on his knees before the door closes, Max sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair and pushing his underwear down his thighs until his hard cock is level with Liam’s hungry mouth. It’s thick and uncut, heavy on his tongue, salt and musk invading his senses as his lips stretch wide. It’s the biggest dick he’s had in his mouth, but he figures Max assumes that whenever he’s staring down at a head between his thighs. 

“Fucking hot mouth,” Max groans. “You look good like this, more relaxed than the last few days.” Max rubs the tension out of his shoulders with a firm grip and it feels amazing.

Liam’s easy pace stutters a bit, but he recovers quickly, pulling back and lapping at the tip while giving Max a confused look. 

Max slides his hand to the back of Liam’s head and urges him back down. 

“You’ve been stressed, I can tell. With everything going on.”

Liam makes a noise of protest but keeps bobbing up and down, tongue swirling and hand pumping. 

“You clearly needed a distraction. Pouting like that in my garage.”

It feels surreal, the levelheaded advice offered as Max tests easing his cock against the back of Liam’s throat. 

“You can take it?” Max asks, and to his credit he waits for an answer. 

An affirmative is muffled around a full mouth, and Liam relaxes eagerly, bracing to have his face fucked. Instead, Max is slow as he pushes forward and holds Liam’s face down, nose buried in his pubes until he chokes. He does it again, and again, just as slowly. Rubbing at the hinge of Liam’s jaw when he pulls away, letting him catch his breath, admiring his spit slick smile. Max isn’t wrong; he’s definitely feeling less stressed out now. 

“Come on my face?” he asks when he feels Max getting close. Feels the way his thighs tense under Liam’s hands and Max rolls his eyes as he groans. Liam’s more than pleased to be able to get that reaction out of him. He watches with rapt attention as Max reaches down to jerk himself off. They wouldn’t have much uninterrupted time, his movements urgent and quick. He paints his climax over Liam’s swollen red lips and smirks as he plays his fingers through blond hair.

“You know, you owe me one.” Liam says as he grins and licks at the salty come dripping from his top lip onto his waiting tongue. 

“This was for your benefit,” Max pants, catching his breath. Smile impossibly wide on his face as he tosses down a wink. 

“What? How’d ya figure?” Liam finishes wiping up his mouth with his index finger and then sucks it clean. 

Max watches and inhales through his teeth. “I took the edge off for you. Free therapy and good practice.” Max pats his cheek.  

Liam rolls his eyes and uses the sturdy handles of Max’s thighs to stand. 

“You’re an asshole.” Liam chuckles as Max puts himself away. 

“But I’m not wrong,” Max answers.

And he wasn’t wrong. “You still owe me one.” 

“Tonight then, hotel, send me your room number.”

[palyena]

ꉂ WHITE WINGED DOVE | johnny sawyer x reader drabble

summary. a bird with wings doesn’t always want to be free, even if it knows where home is. even when the days go by like a feather on the wind, and they begin to blur.

warning(s). gore, blood, graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, cannibalism, stockholm syndrome implied, reader is implied to be religious (rosary), johnny doesn’t talk a lot this is more of a depiction of reader as a character

word count. 1.1k

a/n. first time writing on this blog, hiiii!

There’s a sickening crack – the cold blade slicing through the wrist of what was once a wholly sentient being. Like a fishing line swallowed by a fish, the twine is taught and the barbed hook has sunk into flesh and muscle, blood pooling and floating in the water as a predator catches a scent. No way back. No way forward.

Fingers curl and knuckles crack as the man inflicting this torture tightens his grip on the handle. The sack of bones —and blood and thought— is pulled along with the motion of the forlorn hand that wields the blade. Muscles constricting so tightly that you can nearly hear the creaking of bone.

The girl bound and begging before you, her jaw clenching so tightly, her teeth crack and the white of her eyes burst with red, red, red. Blood vessels flooded with too much as her body can only follow the whim of the hands that hold so much over her head. The will of something other than her nervous system, the impulsion of a horror, or a death worse than at her own hands.

Blood vessels strain as she’s ripped downwards, suspended by barbed wire that cuts up her forearms and leaves valleys of white. This is not right, but there is nothing that can be done. No way she can escape.

No way you can.

The grip on her shoulder tightens, threads of steel creaking as she finally struggles against it. Their barbs digs deeper and she can feel her arteries stay motionless as she flails, as her body thrashes with aching bones and triggered muscles. You can feel them tighten to the point her legs are numb and her fingers curl unnaturally. She might die —she will tonight— there is no escape.

“How’s it feel?” The boy, no man, leans down to get in the girl's face. It’s a sight that makes your insides churn and reef, these violent delights in this basement are nothing more than a violation done by the man you’re bound to since a chance meeting. A hollow face —no more than a mask— devoid of emotion as wide frenzied eyes bore into the eyes of a body that no longer belongs to her own. There’s a sadistic gleam in the pearly top row of teeth that peek out from behind his pink lips.

She can’t speak, nor can she answer. Not when her jaw is held in a gloved iron grip and the pressure building on her teeth releases in a quick shatters. It drips down her chin, rivulets of it soaking the front of her once pristine dress shirt. Shards of them, her teeth, scatter on the floor below her feet.

“No words?” The man’s hands curve, fingers curling into her matted hair. “Lemme help.”

Where would she have been if she hadn’t picked you up on the dirty roadside this morning?

A job interview in the county over? A date with an upstanding man?

Your eyes track from the writhing girl to Johnny. He had been upstanding when you met him. A little rough around the edges and mottled in freckles from the Texan sun. But he had been upstanding. With a beaten up pick-up that had pulled up next to your broke down Chevy. You’d expected some old creep, not a boy your age with the type of charm you’d see on movie star posters. He’d popped your hood and made small chat, asked what model your car was, why such a pretty lady drove such a manly car, where you were from, how you managed to end up on some backwater highway, he’d told you your motor had overheated, asked where you were heading, and why you were, if you’d wanted him to take a proper look, back at his house.

In hindsight, answering all those questions had been something you shouldn’t have done. Let alone saying yes. That one word had led you to an inescapable position in the slaughter shed, his axe poised right at your jugular as he murmured pretty nothings down at your swooned self. You splayed yourself out for the executioner thinking it was genuine care. How wrong you had been.

A year and six months you had been a missing person in Newt. A year and two months you had been an obedient extension of the Family. Nine months you had been both the bait and hook. Eight months you had been a cannibalistic freak, and the worst part? You enjoyed it. You loved the way the blood dripped down your arms as you carved meat from flailing victims. You enjoyed the give of it, the juices. You loved the way you were loved.

Johnny grabs ahold of your wrist, glove slick with blood that clings to your skin and starts drying as soon as his fingers skate up your arm. Something heavy is pressed into your palm and your fingers grip instinctively, curling around the textured handle of the skinner blade Johnny always carries at his hip. You hadn’t noticed it when you’d first met him, hadn’t seen the deadly glint in his eyes or along the blade.

He presses a rough kiss to the curve of your throat, another to your jaw. His bloody hand cradling the side of your face as those eyes bore into yours. Puffs of hot breath blow strands of hair into your face, there’s a stench of death that clings to him that makes your hand shake. Your fingers tighten around the handle to stave it off as you look up at him with all you think you’ve ever felt.

“Youse gonna skin that girl like you did last time, yeah?” It’s throaty, low enough that it feels like a secret between you both. But the girl behind his back jerks, yanking at the barbed wire as if it’ll give. It won’t. You tied it.

His other hand trails up the front of your shirt, blood catching on the pink fabric as his hand finally splays at your collarbone. Gloved fingers hooking beneath the askew chain at your clavicle and dragging it up until a shiny silver metal glints in the lowlights of the basement.

Your rosary, your God. Oh, how long ago you’d since abandoned them.

You nod, a small delicate thing. Prim and proper. Nearly like he’d asked you to cook dinner. He had, this girl was going to be.

“Thatta girl.” Those words stirred something deep in you, a heady type of feeling you once would’ve heaved up at. But now—now— you welcome it like an old friend.

You drag him into a kiss by the hair at the back of his neck, his teeth sink into your lip so harshly, blood pools in your mouths as he moans.

[elegyoftheend]

tw: gore, graphic violence, death, body horror, psychological distress(?). dead dove, do not eat.

Red. It flows like a river, saturating the once pristine white silk with a depth of crimson that seems to have a life of its own. Each thread is now a conduit for anguish, transforming the fabric into a tapestry of sorrow that permeates his very being.

The golden accessories, once adorning him as his people knelt before his divine statue, now lay broken and dull against his fair skin, unblemished other than the stain of crimson which he could not wipe away, by the corruption of chaos surrounding him. Even in his thorned throne, he lies still and beautiful; ethereal even on the verge of death.

Cyan eyes, radiant in sunlight, now bear the weight of dried blood and the droplets of fresh ones that seem never to cease their flow. With each drop that stains his cheeks, leaving a trail of crimson before falling onto the cracks of the marble floor, a macabre symphony echoes through the halls—a melody of death that he was all too familiar with but had never once sung.

Red splatters across the pristine white feathers of his wing, draped over his bloodied corpse. The other torn from his flesh, scorched and broken as it lies to remind him of the desperation of his people, while his feathers, once symbols of grace and beauty, now resemble shredded flesh, tangled in a grotesque dance with blood-soaked strands.

His throat hollowed—both figuratively and literally—a horrifying mess of flesh in place of vocal cords that gifted him a voice unmatched by heaven and earth. The one who sang the most beautiful melodies now lies voiceless, unable to sing his praises to his people; unable to scream in horror at his own fate.

Red, sullied the purity of his soul as they stripped him of his divine title, drawn forcefully from his veins by the very people he swore to protect. Red that covered the hands of those who ripped his wings away from him to fulfill the desires of something much greater than a god—fed with lies that by damning the deity of their nation, they would be saved from the fate that lies ahead for their kind.

Fate is by design, unfortunately, and theirs is to be damned by the color of red that seeped from their veins, drained out of life in a torrent of gore and agony, their bodies strewn across the marble floor like discarded husks, twisted and broken, a curse ignited by the savagery of their deeds.

Oh, how tragic. He could see yet he couldn't move from where they had chained him. He wishes to call for mercy from the greater being that damned him, yet he couldn't even utter his own name. He sits still, burdened by the weight of his kingdom's crumbling walls, surrounded by blood he couldn't distinguish as his or his people's. He could only watch as the sky collapsed into them, burying them under the ruins of the world that had cursed their nation and its god.

It was their own undoing that signed their fate; their palms were riddled with sin and bathed in blood, heads filled with guilt for the fate of their archon and the desperation to save themselves. But there is no way for the children of the wind to be saved, for, right from the beginning, they are damned by Celestia fate to fall with him.

[draphrawrites]

Vigilante DabiHawks AU

Finally posting some of my Twitter threads over here! Hope y'all enjoy 😉

Twitter Threads Pt 1 || Next

Originally posted March 26th, 2021

Okay, new idea. We’ve all seen hero!Hawks and villain!Dabi and vice versa. But imagine them both as vigilantes. Hawks is very much a “I’m faster and more efficient than the heroes” type, whereas Dabi is a “I’m more ruthless against assholes than the heroes are” vigilante.

They both think heroes are overrated, though, and they end up bonding via an accidental assist and street takoyaki. Cue a vigilante team-up that has the villains running scared and the heroes sweating bullets. Really though, it’s just two powerful 20yos cleaning up the city while not-so-subtly showing off to each other 😂

Hello yes, I’m still here for friends to teammates to power couple dynamics 😂

Continued in a separate thread, same day

Some toukei / dabihawks vigilante au thoughts Keigo’s first act of vigilanteism is the same that would have made him a hero in another world.

He saves six people from a four-car pile up, but since no cameras catch it this time, he passes under the radar. Slipping through the cracks, like his feathers slip through locks when starvation becomes imminent. 

He’s not proud of it. Stealing to stay alive. And he vows, as soon as he can stand on his own, he’ll pay society back in spades. 

Five years later, he makes good on his promise by toppling a terrifying drug ring. 

People from all over the city find money repaid that they hadn’t thought about in years, accompanied by a single red feather. Meanwhile, the authorities scratch their heads, wondering where all the drug money went.

Touya’s first vigilante act is somewhat closer to home, and occurs when he meets a man who calls himself Stain. Of all things, they get into an argument. Touya is 12, and still wants his father’s approval more than anything. Stain points out Endeavor’s motives for heroism are rotten at their core. Touya challenges him, quoting stats for Endeavor’s villain capture rate. Stain bites back with Endeavor’s civilian injury rates. It isn’t until Stain offers to show Touya the other side of heroism that the preteen reluctantly agrees, thinking he’ll prove the creepy sword-freak wrong. 

Instead, he’s treated to the aftermath of one of Endeavor’s more violent fights. One that leaves buildings aflame and firefighters struggling to assist. 

Touya watches his old man throw barrage after barrage, and listens as Stain points out how so much of the damage could have been avoided. Shifted angles, less power, planning ahead to herd the villain into a less populated area. Touya listens, and for the first time, he sees his dad for what he truly is: a flawed human. Not the pillar of righteousness he presented to the world. 

It rattles him deeply. But not as much as when he hears a scream from one of the burning buildings. 

His feet move before he can think, and that day he performs his first rescue.

Years later, when Keigo has fought his way up to a sustainable lifestyle that no longer relies on crime, he dedicates himself to helping where he can. Even in small ways. Like when he finds a white-haired fire user getting doused in a back alley, for instance.

“Rain wasn’t on the forecast today!” He calls, yanking the water dude off the ground to hold him at eye level. Fifty feet in the air. 

Keigo recognizes him as a member of a local gang. 

“Oh hey!” He says as the guy thrashes in panic. “How bout you stop trying to drown people and I don’t let my feathers slip up here? That sound okay?” 

The guy nods frantically, and Keigo beams before sending his feathers to drop the guy off on the most inconvenient roof they can find. Following that, he drops to the ground, where the fire user is still spitting up water. 

“Need a hand?” Keigo asks, offering one to the man while taking in his soaked appearance, his white hair, and his bright blue eyes, scrunched up with annoyance. 

“Didn’t need any help,” he grumbles, though he still takes Keigo’s hand and allows himself to be pulled up.

Keigo grins. “In the elemental game of rock, paper, scissors, I’m pretty sure water beats fire.” 

The guy snorts. “And fire beats air,” he returns, eyeing Keigo’s wings. The blond lifts a bushy eyebrow. 

“Not wrong about that. I hate fire quirks, no offense.”

The guy shakes his head, splattering water everywhere. “None taken. Feel the same about guys like that,” he says, nodding in the direction the thug had been whisked away. 

Keigo hums. “Why pick a fight, then? You two know each other?”

The guy eyes him. “I don’t associate with scum like that.” 

My kind of guy, Keigo thinks, grin widening. 

“Ya know, I’d drink to that. Right now, if you’re free?” 

The guy’s eyebrows raise. “You don’t even know my name.” 

Keigo shrugs. “So, what’s your name?”

“... Touya,” the guy - Touya - says. 

Keigo sticks out a hand once more, and Touya takes it with a mix of interest and reluctance. 

“Keigo,” the vigilante offers. “Now how bout that drink?”

Twitter Threads Pt 1 || Next

[cdragons]

Masterlist/Welcome Post

Hello To All! I am very slow updater, but I write for or am willing/open to write for characters for characters of fandoms listed below.

If you have a request, please keep in mind that I am a very slow writer and may not want to accept it or want to write it out. I will have a list of topics/characters I will not write for at a later date. I also will be prioritizing my current works before any requests or asks.

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon Universe

Like a Wave She Broke, But Like the Sea She Persevered

Stannis x Yi Ti! Second Wife w/ eventual Robb Stark x OC (maybe)

House Stark & Spicy Food

Imagine Being Luwin's Apprentice & Childhood Friends with Robb, Jon, and Theon

More Robb, Jon, and Theon with Luwin's Apprentice Headcanons

MCU Eternals

Our Love is Eternal

Persephone!Eternal Reader & Hecate!Eternal Reader

HOTD

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Fic

Warmth & Stories - Aemond Targaryen x Wildling!Reader

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

Feathers & Threads Soaked In Red

Saltburn 2023

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

[hegoeshardasfuck]

Feathers and Thread

wordcount: 0.9K

tags: shibari, bloodletting, knifeplay, consensual but not safe or sane, horn stimulation

synopsis: Schlatt and Phil try two things in bed: blood, and shibari, both of which are new to Schlatt, neither are new to Phil

note: god I fucking love schlattza, it's so aesthetically pleasing to me for some god awful reason. two dilfs getting it on? sign me the fuck up. hope ya'll enjoy and if you did consider dropping a like or checkin the Ao3 port

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48459538

"C'mon idiot," Schlatt urged as he watched Phil tug off his robe.

"Ever heard of patience?" Phil chided in response as he flared out jet black wings, back to his partner. He glanced over his shoulder, "It'd do you some good."

Schlatt rolled his eyes, "Yeah, yeah, just get over here and fuck me."

Phil found himself inching closer to Schlatt a little slower, "So needy," He glided onto the cushions with ease, running a finger across the red rope that held Schlatts body. The twine ran between contours of muscle, framing every inch like one would with a piece of art, "Isn't there a rule about touching master pieces?"

Schlatt whined, "Break the rule, now."

Phil gave a hum of amusement, he trailed a finger across the knots, smirk on his face predatory. He lowered his mouth to Schlatts throat, running sharpened fangs and giving teasing nibbles along the way. From the crux of where neck and shoulder met to the cusp of his jawline small indentations of Phil's fangs lay. The ram shuddered when Phil brought a hand to grasp at a curved horn, digging fingers between grooved enamel.

Phil stretched out his wings again, muscles achingly stiff, in the same way cords held Schlatt on display. Pretty red strands holding wrists together, the same color as the blood that pulsed just under his skin. The blood that was one wound away from spilling out, the warmth that Phil craved to coat his form once more. The wet that often meant violence but could be shed under the light of loyalty and desire. He pushed his nail (sharp like talons), against the underside of Schlatts pectoral, sliding until a waterfall of red gushed forth. Schlatt keened at the unrelenting pressure morphing to a clean slice across his chest, the rope soaked up an uncanny amount.

"So calm," Phil purred, taking a blood slathered hand across the vermilion painted expanse of skin. He rested his hand on Schlatts cock, slowly dragging from the base to the tip, "So perfect."

Schlatt shuddered out a moan, he couldn't help the slight buck into the touch. Phil gladly teased the back of a nail along the underside and it made Schlatt tense entirely, pray for the twitch he couldn't help.

It garnered a hum of laughter from the demigod, "You know I wouldn't kill you Schlatt, don't you?"

Schlatt nodded, "Yeah."

Phil brought a wing prod between Schlatts shoulder blade, forcing him to puff out his chest a bit more. A lithe hand curled around a horn again, squeezing, a throaty groan spilled from Schlatt at the touch. The hand resting on his cock stroked once more, and then again, pre mixed with blood easily. Schlatt tensed as Phil circled a claw at the base of his horn, unfiltered moans bubbled up despite the fear. Phil leaned in once more, mouth dangerously close to Schlatts ear, the ram could hear each breath echoing his own.

"Then how come you're so scared?" The voice is cold compared to the warmth resting heavily between his fingers. The heat on his words and the ardor suddenly on his actions, giving a faint tug to the horn.

"Fuck! Fucking shit," The words tear through Schlatt like a seam ripper, he comes undone at frayed edges like denim, "Phil," There's a catch in his voice. He gives a sharp inhale, "Phil!"

Phil musters a heady laugh at the neediness his partner displays, the lust on his laugh is venomous, "C'mon, cumming so soon?"

Schlatt whines, he squirms in his constraints. The blood soaked rope caresses him just right, shimmering ever so faintly in the low light. His mouth cracks open in a silent moan as Phil brings a hand to caress his horns, arch of a wing forcing his back curved. A sense of lightheadedness floods him as the slits open a little more, more of that delicious crimson seeping out.

"So impatient and for this? I'm disappointed," Phil chided as he gave the final strokes, urging his partner to orgasm through each step of the way.

Schlatt gave a drawn out moan, a high pitched call of Phils name as he climaxed. And the demigod kept up the simple motions across the entire span, red mixed with white into a sickly pink. He brought his hand, slathered in blood and cum past his wrist, to his mouth and licked. Forked tongue sliding between digits and Schlatt watched, tried too at least, he was a bit too lightheaded to fully focus.

"Phil," Schlatt keened, leaning heavily against Phils wing, he retracted it letting Schlatt slump back into the cushions. He absently reached for his mate, "Phil…"

"Yes darling?" Phil asked softly, littering Schlatts form with kisses.

Schlatt groaned, arching into the gentlest touch, "Was I good?"

Phil nodded, "Amazing, I haven't had a chance to make someone bleed in bed for years," He smudged the blood along the wounds.

"Do we have any potions?" Schlatt asked, he gave a weak chuckle, "I think I might die if I just stay like this."

"I already have plenty," Phil said as he opened his inventory and pulled out a potion, he popped the cork and brought the rim to Schlatts lips.

He eagerly drank the liquid, it didn't mend his flesh instantly, but it cleared the fog in his head. He gave a couple bleary blinks, "Phil."

"Yeah darling?" Phil asked gently as he sat down beside Schlatt.

"I love you," Schlatt said, "I know you just cut me open and gave me a handjob but I love you."

Phil gave a soft smile, he leaned down and nuzzled into Schlatt, "I love you too."

Schlatt hummed appreciatively, he motioned vaguely and Phil laid down beside him. He buried his head into the crook of Phils neck, "Can we have pancakes tomorrow."

"Of course dear," Phil said, running a hand through tangled brunette locks.

[astarab1aze]

➥ The Orangerie

( def. a greenhouse where orange trees are grown )

Pathways made from terracotta and seaglass 

White-painted iron framing and one large stained glass window

White-painted iron seating with fern and salmon cushions

Floral witchlights hanging overhead come evening time 

All sizes and types of flower pots, extras and those full of flowers and herbs

Porcelain wash basin with little red flowers painted into its surface

Hides a bottle of rum in one of the orange tree branches--

He can be found napping here at least thrice a week, curled up in a sunny patch of grass with an afghan, whether in cat form or otherwise

He has a neat and organized compost bin he tosses the orange peels and other food waste

A good handful of enchanted tools to pick up the slack, all adorned in appropriately red gripping

He has only blood oranges growing inside, and only 5 of them

It is deceptively roomy inside, and the space is used well besides - Faith is nothing if not efficient with limited resources, especially given that he'd learned a spacial charm or two; It still only sounds bigger than it is

Only one other person is allowed inside for any reason; He's highly protective of this space

Faith spends a great deal of time in the orangerie, tending to each and all of his plants day-to-day as well as coveting to himself some peace and quiet; He's a sensitive soul, who, even after some time, is still somewhat prone to getting overwhelmed and has remained a fair bit uncomfortable talking with or even admitting to Howl ( @gyofukuki ) the story and unsavory details of his life before they met, happy to pretend as if it had well and truly begun then and not a day earlier. The significance of the orangerie is- it was a gift from Howl for such purposes, a space for Faith to have for himself, a space made in effect proving his belonging in and connection to the castle with him. This is where Faith is free to be himself, where the sleepy, playful, lost kitten of his soul is able to soak in the most sun, dance and sing and purr without fear of judgment from himself or others, safe and insulated from outside influence or harm. At first bare but thoughtful bones, then decorated and altered and settled into, such that even his dearest Audrey III had thrived, large and shuddering where the light was best.

It is his home away from home, an escape into new warmth and familiarity that won't hurt him, won't sting when he's frightened or overwhelmed, a place for him to keep himself out of the way while still being close by, not separate but- simply in another room, or in his case, out in the greenhouse orangerie. Though it serves in part as a semi-protective shell (window) regarding his self, it is also where he feels most confident practicing and using his magic, from herbalism to conjuration, something he's not necessarily insecure about but recognizes could use work. He even does all his best tailoring and embroidery here, ever and always struck with inspiration when the sun begins to set and the light shines through the windows just right. The rosy atmosphere, the lush hue of the world around him, as if prismatically amplified, as if the rainbow following a late afternoon rain.

It's a space he makes entirely his own, as any cat ought to, the bits and pieces of himself on clear and full display in his aesthetic choices, as well as his own brand of clutter separate from Howl's - hints of a certain kind of simplicity, a coastal life, peace and warmth. The orangerie in part becomes a sort of...workshop, or rather a small section of it does, and it is littered with all manners of buttons, spools of thread, yarn, needles, pearl strands, half empty jars of little shells and feathers and plenty, plenty more, measuring tape, charcoal, parchment, ink, thimbles, wefts of loose fabric and forgotten shreds, trimmings, felted birds and crystal broaches - all left cluttered about on both his table and a cabinet, plans for a number of designs pinned above. Dirty pots, more jars of particular seeds, special potting mixes, garden tools haphazardly shoved into little piles of composted soil-- The stained glass window reflects an important aspect of himself in turn, such being not just his love of flowers but a connection to faith itself, both personal and not, straightforward or not.

Fun fact: Faith is much older than Howl, deceptively youthful as any shifter, especially feline (avian and vulpine) - and long-lived, if given the chance.

He pours every bit of himself into it, treasuring it beyond a mere gift, but a confirmation that he exists and he belongs and he is loved. Loving deeply, in turn, down to the cut of the terracotta and little details reminiscent of Cat Town, fish patterns in the sea glass slowly moving as a school down the path - fun little illusion that, a new one too. So many of his own eccentricities peeking through the veneer of gentle and composed, where butterflies (and perhaps the odd spider or two) had a home if they but came in through the window - though he's secretly hoping for a Ti Fe or two to show instead (he even has a suitable tree picked out and a little house built for them to live comfortably in!).

The point is, the orangerie becomes Faith's haven, reflective of both the thorny and gentler, more whimsical sides of him, at last relaxing into the kindness and affection of another in a way that doesn't take from him, empty him out; Reflective, also, of a particular and entirely unique sense of trust in Howl, genuine and extensive effort put into keeping all that lived inside healthy, alive, and thriving, including himself.

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

Red

for day 15 of @owlcatober, healing, as well as day 27, blood. i took a different angle for mura, using the endless potential of the 'healing spells that channel positive energy hurt dhampirs' lore. self analysis here

warning for graphic descriptions of blood, injury's violence and death, even if it is mostly described in an abstracted and poetic way.

one of muras earlier kills results in her running through the dangerous parts of the city, trying to flee the guilt that plagues her in the form of blood, eventually tripping into a healer, an unfortunate event for both of them.

Cloth irritated the skin on the back of her calves, snapping against the soft skin as she ran through the labyrinthine alleyways of the lower city. 

Damp soaked the little cloth under the rough-spun cloak, the metallic smell something she breathed through her mouth to avoid, lest it overwhelm her.

It had already hardened under her fingernails, red flakes falling to the uneven stones, leaving a trail of guilt that blazed in her mind.

Something wet sliding down her brow and cheek, a welling of red that threatened to blind her.

The same rough cloth slipping down with her cycles of movement and swallowing the wet- just to burst open the wound again. 

Wall of noise meets her ears- eyes open at the many movements, the intricacy of the moving parts. The cloth spares her pain.

Drip goes the red on her brow, shut goes her eye, twist goes her ankle, and down does she go.

Fingertips meet soft cloth, angel feathers to her calluses, and as a hand reaches down, the falling red stains the hem, consuming the pure dress and drowning her world.

Soft murmurings soothe her ears, light shining bright on her, leading her eyes up.

The hood slips to one side as smooth digits cup her jaw, blinding her seeing eye. Light burns through the cloth still, radiance unsmothered by the red crusted rags.

Light burns her, and as it pulses down the arms of her angel, something inside her screams, and the red is diluted with salt.

Pain follows, the light hitting her skin as a supernova, eclipsing her flawed vision, surrounding her in its entirety and then some, with her eye at the center of the exploding body of light.

Red scorches her inside and out, the carrier for the damaging force, paper skin peeling back from the white gleaming shell underneath, ropes of pain withering in violent wails.

Her hands reach up, nails turn claws, biting into the soft flesh that caused her pain, mouth forced open in a desperate wail.

Bruises on cheeks blooming in red again, welling up and bursting forth, exposing the dolls threads, salt entering and stinging the wounds that covered her face, the cracks in the porcelain revealing themselves under the paint.

A look of revulsion turned regret is formed through the snippets of light that enter her eye.

Threads twitch through the pain, claws grow, something molten is cooled with salt and red and pity.

With a final effort, bones snap and snap again and red, red is everywhere, again.

Drowning out the white, again

More white bones, these built for damage, reach towards the collection of ropes and threads and red all hidden under paper, the shell on top thrown back with the force of pain returned.

Red bursts through, a violent flower bloom, its short lived petals wrapping her in warm embrace, its vitality pouring into her, withering her own flowers, red turning into blues and greens and browns and it shrivels back to its proper state, petals hugging the shell and threads, porcelain fixing itself, pouring another layer of paint to hold together the shattered piece

Falling onto the slowly draining warmth, a soft cushion between her and the cold hard stone, red spilling to the crevices between them, red filling her world, filling her up. 

Darkness descends as threads grow slack, the only burning bisecting her face over here eye, the cool darkness spreading through her as her jaw unclenches, something pleasant in her gut calming as footfall avoids her, just a new rock in the stream of moving parts that floods through the lower city, just another drop of red lost in the city.

[ferinehuntress]

◈　 ⇢  @faerunscursed　 ⋯　 blood, blood, gallons of the stuff! ♡ 　　⸻　sender stitches up receiver's wound (isobel/Aylin)

The room in Elfsong had such a subtle sandalwood scent, soothing to the mind as a clatter of iron hit the ground. Flittering wings rustled as she stretched them out, a few feathers floating down to the ground as Aylin tugged wearily at the breastplate on her chest. The light of eventide soaked the room with a dim orange hue mixed with purples and pinks. It would be a weary night for Shar, with the full moon on the rise and the destruction of her conclave. The cloister would no longer exist in Baldur’s Gate, at least for now.

Honey sweet hues of brown and gold glistened in the room, saturated with red velvet blankets and cherry wood post that she dropped down onto. Barely a creak could be heard as Aylin finally relieved herself of the breastplate and removed her gauntlets and dragon scale chain mail. A deep breath filled her with aromatic musky incense, that of sage that gave such a pleasant warmth to the room.

Finally, the last bit of her armor fell to the ground, leaving her in a sweaty white tunic clinging to her skin and some dark black trousers. Her feet were bare as she took another breath, only to lead to an ache in her side. Relief often allow pain to surface and she noticed the dark gray spot on her tunic ripped through. It didn’t even take a few seconds and Isobel had settled next to Aylin. “My healing is spent, but I still have a steady hand,” Isobel responded, and Aylin could only smile down toward her young lover. Blood seeped from her wound but Aylin didn’t seem concerned by the fact, and could only sit there and watched as Isobel prepared for the needle and thread.

“My love, ever the watchful protector,” Aylin opened up her wing and wrapped it around Isobel’s body and silenced her voice as the cleric started to stitch the wound. Silver blood coated her fingers with each needle prick and the pull of thread. Yet, Aylin did not cry out nor ask her to stop; in comparison to the torture she had had before, this pain proved to be child’s play for the aasimar. Steady hands finished the stitching as her shirt lowered down and Isobel cleaned up her little kit. Before she had a chance to move, though, Aylin pulled the tray down and dragged Isobel into her lap. “My darling,” she whispered as she pressed her hand up against her cheek and pulled her into a tender kiss.

“It reminds me of the olden days, when I would return to you after a hard won battle, gloriously beaming in sweat and blood, and you tend to my every wound despite my boisterous words of invulnerability,” Aylin teased but allowed her lips to soften. "Your gentle touch and healing hands have my eternal gratitude. Selune graces me with the most generous of loves.” Her fingers brushed through her silver hair and then leaned forward to kiss her once more.

“My heart yearns for you, my Moon Lily.”

[asentienthaze]

This was a post that actually inspired me to pick back up writing recreationally. Also I realise that it's not exactly like the dream but,,,,close enough I guess?

Host

The stone pillars around me tapped into infinity, trying to reach a height, a place, a realm that it could never hope to even touch.

The blackness around my periphery faded out as the dilapidated church came into view. My arms felt like puppets on a string, connected by invisible threads to an entity I would never understand. The old, rotting wood on the church walls creaked and shrieked and wailed, almost as if with each breath it took it would gasp in agonising pain. It had been abandoned, for as long as I could remember, and for good reason.

My legs, my arms, every inch of me felt rooted to the floor, lost from my command. As they started to move, my muscles felt as rickety and unused as the church I was running in. My skeleton had raised a mutiny, and I was but a slave to its movements. The windows, the stained glass carrying a slight yellow discolouration from the wounds of time, stared at me with eyes of a deep anger, eyes that knew the fresh emotions they were feeling. But of course, they had every reason to be.

Black liquid surrounded me in an unholy circle. My memory stirred back to that night—I had worked

for years, choosing and collecting it over uncountable full moons. The candle flickered mockingly at me, taunting me with its luminescence—asking me when I would shine just as bright.

A dark shadow passed behind me. Its form felt spherical, yet it seemed like I would ever only be able to see but a shadow, a compromise of its true form. My legs were dragged further into the church, past its pews and up a flight of stairs, each step crying out with my every footstep. A hum stopped me dead in my tracks. The silhouette of a man, each of his limbs attached to the torso only by a thin thread of sinew, cast his shadow on me.

He ran towards me, and as his legs held steady as they fell with wet thuds on the floor, his arms and body flailed, rotating freely as they wished, like a ragdoll. They would bend at right angles and more, as the figure screamed in pain. It was not a form he had been in for a very long time.

I switched on my flashlight. The deep red of his blood shone back. He stopped, dead in his tracks, floating like a dead puppet before me. His ragged robes, once a pure white, now soaked, matted, dripping in a wine-dark crimson, are the only thing keeping his disjointed body together. His guts hang from under his clothes, a grim reminder of his death—hung, drawn and quartered.

I knew, however horrific the punishment the saint before me had endured, that a worse one would befall me, for He would refuse to give me the mercy to die.

Heaven, the ultimate salvation. From the moment I embarked on this, I knew my chance of reaching there through pure means was over. This was my last resort, one borne of desperation. An ascension ritual was going to be difficult, but I knew that this was my final chance to be saved.

The first thing I should have known is that God is only benevolent to mortals, to those beneath him. He is not kind to those who encroach on His realm, and He will treat them as He sees fit.

My legs pounded on weak wooden floors; my mind flooded with the horror of what I had witnessed. His eyes were filled with an indescribable horror, like his soul itself was screaming out. The floor beneath me creaked—and soon the walls followed suit. Cries and screeches rang through the rooms, always just out of sight, but always just around the corner. My legs burned from exertion, but I had no hope of stopping.

Whatever owls that had made this wretched place their home, flew away, their flapping heard around every corner. I should have started getting suspicious when the flaps grew slower, larger, and louder than any bird should have been able to produce. Or, perhaps, when the long, glowing feathers appeared all across the floors. But the being that appeared before me, with its million eyes and mouths shining and covering every inch of its body, a body that filled the room, a body both formless and yet very, very real—that could no longer be denied.

The eyes cast light on the walls around them. As their eyes blinked, the light danced across the room like fire reflected off of a broken mirror. My legs, now feeling much less like they belonged to me than they ever did, were once more rooted to the floor, the weight of my body crushing down on them, begging for them to give way.

Each of those numerous mouths grinned as it boomed, “Well. You know well what price you are to pay, don’t you?”

It flashed its teeth, and each mouth opened wide as a black abyss appeared from the centre of the being. It grew wider, engulfing the room, and plunging me into a deep darkness.

The ascension failed. I never held a lot of hope for it, but this was my final chance at leaving my mark on the universe. In the end, I simply was not powerful enough to withstand existing in the celestial plane. God, however, still knew I came. He knew why, and He knew what I had planned to do. And He grew furious, territorial, and rightly so. My fate was in His hands, and His alone.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” I cried, as the townsfolk all turned against me. They knew of my involvements with dark arcana—the second my ritual began, they all did. But even the priest refused to let me in the church. With one last cry, I ran into this church—old, abandoned, forgotten.

I was falling. I was in some place that was no place at all. For the first time that day, I felt my autonomy over my body slowly returning. Moving, however, was starting to become increasingly difficult. Thin wispy threads, like a spider web, started slowly wrapping around my hands, my feet, my legs, my waist. As they weaved into a fine tapestry and began to trap me, my fall began to slow.

“What business did you have with me?” a divine voice boomed.

“I- I didn’t- "

“ANSWER ME! WHY DID YOU ATTEMPT TO TAKE MY PLACE?”

“I’m sorry! I- I just thought- ”

“Hubris, the fall of many men. You spent so many years learning, and training, and never stopped. You never stopped to think. Like those before you who thought themselves powerful beyond me, you have to pay the price.

“You desire to be remembered, yes? The tale of the abandoned church will live on for eons to come. You wished for a domain? You may wander in these church hallways for eternity—you may never see the full depth of it. Immortality? Every day, you will wander these halls. Die, bleed out, or lose consciousness, and the day will start again for you.

“Like Prometheus, you will be doomed to repeat your fate each day, but unlike him, you bring down only a curse unto yourself. The only fires you bring will burn deep inside you.

“I will be kind, and I will give you what you desired, and you will suffer for it.”

The church still stands by the road. No one has driven by in a very long time, but yet I stand. All know to stay clear. My stone pillars tap into infinity, trying to reach a height, a place, a realm that I never could reach. However, reader, caution to those who try to enter within my realm.

The first thing you should know is that I am not a benevolent being. I am not kind to those who encroach on my realm, and I will treat you as I see fit.

thinking about the time i had a dream i was trapped in an indie horror game set in an old church being hunted by creatures made of stained glass and bloody feathers and tormented by the half-alive statues of suffering saints and also the building itself which was alive and wanted to eat me and in the end i failed to escape and became a lure to draw other people in. the game was called 'host' and i think about it constantly.

[cdragons]

Feathers & Threads Soaked in Red - Masterlist

Read from beginning on AO3! (DO NOT INTERACT IF UNDER 18)

Idea that started this fic

Moodboards & Headcanons for Crass Family

Moodboards & Headcanons for Snow Family

Moodboards & Headcanons for Drake Family

Moodboards & Headcanons for District 12 Covey

Moodboard & Headcanons for Capitol People